Steve-O in happier times

The best stories are all about the details, the nuances, those additional layers that elevate it from marginally funny anecdote to the stuff of legend.  So it is with Steve Slater, former Jetblue flight attendant.  It wasn’t enough that he told a rude passenger to fuck themselves, he did it on the PA.   It wasn’t enough that he told a rude passenger to fuck themselves on the PA, he realized almost right away that he’d put such a kink in his commercial aviation career (one he obviously didn’t care for) that he may as well turn that kink into a permanent wave: he facetiously thanked no one in particular for his terrible time in the air, grabbed a couple beers from the fridge, pulled the emergency lever, inflated the slide, slid down and walked away from the plane.   Right now, Johnny Paycheck is looking down from heaven and smiling.

But wait! It gets better! As you would expect, sliding down an emergency slide unnecessarily and walking across the tarmac to your car is kind of a big deal in airport security circles.   Mr. Slater had to answer for his crime, but when the police went to his house on Long Island to arrest him a couple hours later, they found him...having sex! Because dropping a load of malt on a partner’s back is how alpha dogs celebrate ill-advised decisions. Hoowah!  I have no doubt that Mr. Slater is about to inspire copycats;  employers all across North America should prepare themselves for a widespread workplace revolt as disgruntled workers everywhere make similarly grand, symbolic, career-ending gestures.

Now, as inspirational as Steve Slater may be, should a Better Man do this?  As tempting as it is to say “fuck YEAH!” I’m going step off that ledge, pussy out and go with a tepid “uh…no.”   Early in my career, I had one job where the circumstances were so bad I felt I had no recourse but to leave immediately.   Now, it would’ve felt great to pee on my boss’ desk, but before I relieved myself I thought it would be good to confer with my dad, a wise man who put up with a lot of shit in his life (I know this because he lived with my mom). I told him what was happening, and what I felt I needed to do. He replied with fateful words: “What would Tarzan do?”

I will admit, I was little confused, but fortunately Dad elaborated on the Tarzan Principle: “Tarzan never let go of the vine he was swinging on until he had another vine in his hand.”   The lesson was clear enough;  don’t leave until I had an exit strategy.    As satisfying as his departure may have been, as much of a folk hero for the next ten minutes he will be, my guess is Mr. Slater made his exit strategy up as he went along.

Once his short-lived notoriety fades, Steve will no doubt find himself somewhat unemployable – unless there’s one employer out there who’s just dying to see what his next act of working class rebellion may be.   In my opinion, about his only salvation will be reality TV…maybe host of the Employees with Poor Impulse Control Club? Producers are always looking for experts. But for those people who want to be like Steve, you should ask yourself: do you want to be a martyr to employee angst?  Maybe the brave thing here isn’t to light yourself on fire, professionally-speaking. Maybe the manly thing to do is to roll with it, and bide your time.  Eat that shit and call it pudding….then just like my dad,  start planning an exit strategy slightly more elaborate than flipping the bird and sliding down an airplane fire escape.   It won’t get you on CNN, it won’t make you the punchline of a joke on every late night talk show in America, but your life is likely to suck a little less.   I just wish I’d written this two days ago in time for Steve to read it.

Of course, if you feel you absolutely must pull a “Slater” then do it, and never look back. Seriously, just keep going.   I hear the kibbutz’s in Israel will take anyone.

I know what you need, boy...

The program Entertainment Tonight has this rage-inducing habit of  teasing the audience with ”explosive new details” on, say, Lindsay Lohan – only to reveal in the last thirty seconds of the show that Lins blew a tire on the way to jail. To be honest, they may’ve stopped doing this years ago, right about the time I summoned the self-restraint to stop watching.  I don’t care how MILF-y Mary Hart is, I cannot watch – that gimmick is as infuriating as it is anticlimactic. That said, it occurred to me as soon I as I hit “Publish” on my last post that I’ may’ve done the same thing.

I was writing about four great men – Leonardo Da Vinci, Benjamin Franklin, Teddy Roosevelt, and Paul Newman – and how they were my travel companions on the rocky footpath to becoming a Better Man.  I suggested their success in life was the result of a balance that comes from learning and understanding many things, a balance that is curiously absent amongst many adult-age males today.   Sure, they may’ve been blessed with unique gifts, but they were also mortal: they had bowel movements, they occasionally wished their spouse/mom/offspring would STOP! TALKING! and they drew on more or less the same blessings of our double helix as you and me.  Nonetheless,  my “cliffhanger” ending suggested I had found the key to finding the same balance in life that they did.  I’ll leave it for you decide if I’m Mary Hart or not.

Leo, Ben, Teddy and Paul (aka the Better Man Fab Four) were all curious men, so much so that they were skeptical about the conventional wisdom of the time, and often questioned it.   They were also humble (in their way), enough to know that they could never know everything, and personal improvement was something that, for them, could never stop.  They were ambitious, in that they aspired to be better, and took steps to bring it about.  But the thing that made them great, that made them strive in a way that turned them into household names? Adversity.

AGAIN, it sounds like I’m afflicted with late-onset awareness of the obvious – of COURSE that which does not kill you makes you stronger, that nothing worth having ever came easy, etc, etc. Such sentiments are so common and pervasive they can’t even make it on a t-shirt.   Here’s the thing, though: no reasonable male wants to learn things the hard way, and these days, you don’t have to. If you are a male in a developed nation you could conceivably live your entire life without ever having your limits tested. Adversity can now be an option, like leather seats and 20′ rims, or cheese on your Quarter Pounder.   A character in the movie Layer Cake put it best: “You’re born, you take shit. You get out in the world, you take more shit. You climb a little higher, you take less shit. Till one day you’re up in the rarefied atmosphere and you’ve forgotten what shit even looks like.”

You don't get where I am by takin' it easy, yo...

That, in a nutshell, is centuries worth of male evolution –  we’re living an increasingly shit-free existence. It’s partly because of our improved quality of life – No one’s going to die of the black lung,  Vikings now limit their raping and pillaging to credit card ads, and we don’t lead wretched tribal lives that demand we invent awful rites of passage just so everything that comes after seems worthwile.  Mostly,though, it’s our attitude – we’ve had it so good for so long that we neither remember nor appreciate the steps taken by previous generations to get us here. Our lives are now a hamburger commercial…we can have it our way, and we don’t have to strive all that much to get it.  Anyone who suspects they may have to work hard to be successful only need watch a Jersey Shore marathon on MTV to have that ambition drained from them.    Who needs a personal code like “earn your keep” when you can have “Gym, Tan, Laundry” instead?

The result?  Well, as amazing author and sex columnist Claudia Dey put it to me the other day:  ”Men are less manly today. Technology has separated them from their caveman selves. Rather than, say, slaying a boar, they tweet. Rather than cutting open their leg with a jackknife and sucking snake venom from it, they watch someone else do it on YouTube. Rather than explore Antarctica, they download the movie. Where has that frontier-exploring manliness gone? Google maps.”

Considering that attractive, intelligent women like Claudia are men’s target demographic and can see this supreme shortcoming, it behooves us to pay attention. Adversity is a wonderful teacher, and by consciously (or unconsciously) avoiding it males are missing out on invaluable lessons, the kind they could use to actually expand their consciousness in a manner that leads to balance.   Certainly,  my Fab Four were paying attention when Hardship showed up to class:  Da Vinci was born a bastard into pre-Renaissance Europe,  where people thought everything that was knowable was known, the Catholic Church had a monopoly on “answers” and to question it often led to persecution.  Despite this, his brave willingness to challenge authority with radical new ideas transformed the world. Franklin was born into a poor family,  had only two years of formal schooling, and was forced to leave his hometown of Boston to avoid the persecution of his own brother.  What did he become? Oh yeah – he helped found  the most influential country on earth, and discovered electricity on a day off.   Roosevelt was a studious but sickly child, and inspired by the disappointment of his father remade himself into one of the toughest, most vigorous men who ever lived.  Newman knew adversity less by what he faced personally than by what he was lucky enough to avoid – as a gunner/mechanic in WWII, his pilot had an earache and as result both of them were grounded for a mission that would kill every single one of his crewmates. He felt honorbound to share the good fortune with as many as he could -If it weren’t for WWII, Paul Newman might’ve become Cleveland’s most handsome, unhappily-married sporting goods salesman, instead of a matinee idol and philanthropist who gave hundreds of millions to charity.

Hardship turned those four into men, just as it’s been doing to men for  millennia…just as it did for my dad; born on a dust bowl prairie farm at the start of the Depression,  the first thing he learned was frugality.  His family could barely afford anything, so whatever needed doing had to be done by either him or his older brother.  By the time he was thirteen, it was World War II, and my dad left school to become a farm labourer in place of those boys who’d left to face their own adversity.  My dad was forced to pick up a bunch of different skills;  he was a carpenter, a plumber, a farm worker, a millwright, an electrician, and a pipe fitter. He was also curious and intelligent, and like my patron saints desired more for himself.  He read voraciously, attended Toastmaster’s seminars to help overcome his congenital shyness, and most curiously he consumed crossword puzzles…as many as ten in a day.   My dad went on to become respected executive, a devoted (if distant) husband and father, blessed with a wry wit.  He was a self-made, self-reliant man by virtue of his adversity.  In fact, his adversity may’ve been my curse.  His inability to share himself with his sons, combined with his ability to do just about anything meant I faced no hardship whatsoever – every material need I had was taken care of by virtue of his manly competence, but he never showed me how to do it for myself.

Whether it’s uncommunciative fathers, or technology, or shifting gender roles,  most males these days are softer than a down comforter (The Situation included), and about as balanced and evolved as rhesus monkeys.  Moreover, I think a lot males are subconsciously aware of it, that when called upon to do the things my Fab Four could do, that ANY man should be able to do, they’re pretty much fucked.   These things include (but are not limited to) the following: protecting a woman’s honour (or persuading her to let you besmirch it);  successfully planning and executing a camping trip (so besmirching can be done in the wild); laying carpet and grouting tile in the home (where you and your mate have decided to make besmirching a regular thing); explaining to the infant by-product of said besmirching why Mr. Finger and Mr. Light Socket can’t be friends…or, when the infant has grown into an inquisitive child, explaining why grass is green, why everybody floats in space, or why boys want to besmirch the honour of girls in the first place.

I don't waste my time in the company of guys, and neither should you.

This intuitive sense that fucking up is a real possibility has lead to a grand-mal aversion to failure.   Modern males know that at any minute they could  be exposed,  that they stand to lose something (status, comfort, dignity, etc) by inviting the potential mistakes that come with manly responsibility. So most males stay on the side where the path is least resistant, and there’s a sale on Ed Hardy t-shirts.  But for men like Da Vinci, or Franklin, or Roosevelt, or Newman, risk was reward.  It helped them find balance.  As Teddy said:  ” Far better it is to dare mighty things to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much because they live in a grey twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.”

The poster that started all this nonsense.

As part of this little improvement odyssey,  I’ve taken to reading biographies of all the great men…Alexander the Great,  Hannibal, Larry Flynt, etc.   My hope was that by metaphyscially rifling through their pockets like a thief on a corpse I’d find  patterns, habits, philosophies…anything I might blatantly steal from their rich, fulfilling lives and apply to my miserable own.  For my sins, it’s been a torturous experience, but not because these men aren’t fascinating.  Mostly, I’m vexed by the dubious talents of the authors writing about them -  just because you have a keen interest in one man doesn’t mean you possess either the writing or analytical skills to reveal their lives.

I’d grow impatient as the author piled on the minutiae – their sister died in a horrible laundry accident, they had a sled named Rosebud, blah, blah, blah.  I’d drop one biography and pick up another, only to find the same thing – they grew up down the block from the guy who invented gunpowder, or Post-it notes.   I wasn’t getting to any of the good stuff, but I didn’t want to skip ahead for fear I’d miss something.  In this way, I’ve been dancing between as many as 20 biographies, all of them frustrating me equally.

"oh yeah...I'm the man."

However, there are about four men whose lives I keep circling back to, men whose lives seem immune to terrible prose.  So far, my patron-saints in Better-Man-Ness are Leonardo Da Vinci,  Benjamin Franklin, Theodore Roosevelt, and Paul Newman (an odd choice, but he stars in one of my favorite films and it’s my list, so suck it.)

Now, what do these men have in common, besides being dead? Well, to be honest, it wasn’t immediately apparent to me either, until a fateful event a few nights ago.  I’d dozed off reading a biography on Paul Newman. As it so happens,  a huge print of the poster for the movie Cool Hand Luke hangs in my living room. It’s an occasional reminder that as much as we say we admire individualists, our usual inclination is to oppress and kill them.  I could see a lot of meaning in that poster – so much so that I was blinded to the top right corner of the frame where the wood had started to separate, a fact that made itself pants-crappingly apparent when the frame gave and both the print and the glass that covered it slipped off the wall and onto the floor.

I raced downstairs to see Newman’s profile on the polished concrete, bathed in shattered glass, looking away from me as though embarrassed to be found like this.    Not that I was out trolling for new metaphors, but I couldn’t help but think the fate of that poster was not unlike the fate of the character Luke himself: at some point his life came apart, and the weight of his nature meant  it was only a matter of time before things came crashing down.  Unlike the the man who played him,  Luke lacked any balance in his life. And suddenly, there it was, a newly born epiphany (well, new to me anyway) – what Paul Newman had, as well as my three other saints -  balance.

As epiphanies go,  it’s not exactly the apple hitting Newton on the head, or even the sex scene from The Crying Game.   We all understand the idea of a life out of balance – too much emphasis on one thing, the rest invariably suffers.  We understand this intuitively, because that’s what’s happened to many men today.   They pursue their job with a single-minded devotion, or one interest, or one aspect of manliness, and ignore the rest.  The result is they’re less like a man than a caricature of one, a chronic short-sightedness that’s led to such classic stereotypes as the dumb jock, or the lady-slaying douchebag, or the computer nerd, or greedy master-of-the-universe. Sure, as clichés go, they’re crude and un-nuanced, but just like the myth of cops at doughnut shops, they exist in large part because they are true.

no doubt laughing because he could kick our ass if he wanted to.

I believe those men, with their singular pursuits, are the result of a world in which you only need know how to do one thing well.  These days, we specialize, we create niches.   It’s not enough to be a doctor, you have to specialize in hooded penis syndrome in males between the ages of 6 and 9.   You’re not just a lawyer, you’re a wills & trusts lawyer specializing in properties belonging to people who died between 1 and 4 on a Thursday afternoon.  You don’t just work at a coffee shop anymore, you’re a barista.   The fact is, for the all the specific knowledge we have in one specific area, there’s a lot of basic stuff that we don’t know.  Moreover, there’s little need to know – the upside of  a world of specialists is that for those problems you know nothing about, you just outsource the solution to another specialist, leaving you free to pursue your own speciality. And we all applaud ourselves for our focus.

Yet here’s the thing – have you spoken with, say,  a professional hockey player or rock star whose devoted his entire life to the pursuit of one goal to the exclusion of everything else, including such basic things like taste or good manners?  I have, and they’re fucking boring. Once the conversation deviates from the subject that possesses all their interest, they have nothing to say, or worse, they revert to a state of nature where all they want to do is rut like pigs.   It’s an extreme example, but its more or less the same for lawyers, bond traders, accountants, and just about anyone whose has little room in their life for anything except for one thing. Our single-minded devotion to work or one interest has spawned a generation of men with no dimension.  We’ve taken the “men” out of “dimension.”

Franklin, I recognize. The cherubs - no clue.

The same cannot be said for Da Vinci, a man who became not just a painter, but an inventor, a sculptor, a scientist, an advisor to royalty.  Da Vinci biographer Michael Gelb attributes this to a curiosity that “fueled the wellspring of his genius throughout his entire life.”   Nor can it be said of Franklin – author, inventor, scientest, father of a nation.  Despite his accomplishments, Franklin was always trying to improve himself, to the extent that Franklin biographer Walter Isaacson suggests “the most interesting thing Franklin invented, and continually re-invented, was himself”.

Newman is one of the most compelling public figures of the 20th century, but despite his success as an actor and sex symbol, biographer Shawn Levy writes “he had a need to assert himself in other, more physical areas of his life in order to pass muster with himself.”  Fortune favoured Newman, and he could’ve coasted on his gifts,  but instead he became a philanthropist, a devoted father and husband who was uncomfortable with fame save for how he could use it to help others.  As Levy points out “he claimed only that bit he felt reasonably due him, and he gave back more, by far, than he ever took.”

But perhaps the man whose life view best describes what all four these men have in common is Teddy Roosevelt.  An acquaintence of Roosevelt who met him as a young man described that view as follows:

the upbuilding of a colossal pyramid whose apex was the sky. The eternal stability of this pyramid would be insured only through honest, intelligent, interworking and cooperation, to the common end of all the elements comprised in its structure. Individual elements might strive to build intensively and even high, but never well.  Never well, because lacking an adequate base – the united stabilizing support of the other elements – they might never attain to the zenith.

In other words, Teddy believed in a balanced life, one devoted to and supported by a wide variety of interests and skills that informed each other. They all believed it – the more they tried, the more they mastered, the more they understood, and in so doing they pursued (and achieved) a kind of transcendent personal excellence.    You could argue that they were blessed with unique gifts, or were lucky enough to be born at a time when those gifts could stand out, and indeed they can seem like the ancient heroes written about by Plutarch – men whose quest of greater things for themselves were intertwined with the progress of humanity.

But I don’t believe that what these men achieved, and how they achieved it,  is impossible for the rest of us. In the next post, I will tell you why….

This past week marks the halfway point on my betterment safari, and it would seem appropriate to take stock of what I’ve done so far. Honestly,  I’m dreading this –  while there’s been lots of useful self-reflection, I’ve made less progress in the area of meaningful action.  In my defense, my path to betterment was obstructed by that 3-month stint in the US, working on a TV show about cops busting college co-eds for making bad choices.   As I recorded one poor topless girl vomiting into a dumpster, I tried to work back through the life choices that had gotten me to that unique moment, as I’m sure she was too.  Any differences between us could be reduced to this –  she had neither a shirt nor her dignity, whereas I, at least, had a shirt.

I digress.  As one great philosopher once said “Do, or do not. There is no try”, so I will dispense with excuses.  I’ve dusted off the Better MAN-ifesto, in which I laid out the steps I’d take to be better, and now we’ll see how many of them I’ve taken.

PROJECT “MY BAD”

• I will retrace my steps and re-visit my mistakes (there are a few), fix what I can, and own what I can’t.

GRADE: PASS – I have no job, I’ve sold my house,  I cashed in RSPs to pay bills, and my ex-girlfriend has taken every cent I have.  Mistakes are just about the only things I own these days.

• I will be harsh and unsentimental in my self-assessment.

GRADE: PASS – as a villian in the movie “3:10 to Yuma” said “It takes a big man to see how small he is”

• I will seek counsel from people I KNOW have an opinion on how I could be better.

GRADE: PASS – Reaching out to people to have them tell me what they think of me – check.  Reaching out to people to have them tell me what they think of me without clothes on? Check.  A pass if there ever was one.

PROJECT “DO ME A SOLID”

• I’ll do a bit of everything, as long as my good deeds can have a DIRECT impact, starting with volunteering

GRADE: PASS – So I stole an idea Jonathan Fields and started my day by sending out a tweet, asking if people need help.   The results have been small in scale (helping a friend find a job) but nonetheless gratifying.

• I’ll go wherever where my help is needed – down the street, or around the globe, mowing a lawn or working with relief efforts in a disaster zone.

GRADE: FAIL – Toronto City Counsellor Adam Vaughan suggested many novel ways in which I could help in my community.  So far I’ve acted on exactly none of his suggestions.

PROJECT RENAISSANCE MAN

• I’ll learn to fix my own motorcycle.

GRADE: FAIL – although there are good repair classes starting in fall,  so I can still turn this one around.

• I’ll become handy, like learning carpentry. Jesus was a carpenter. So was Harrison Ford (and that dude became Indiana Jones).

GRADE: FAIL – Being chronically underemployed means my resources are finite – when it comes to classes, it’ll have to be either bikes or carpentry, or find an expert oblivious to how patience-taxing and pointedly unhelpful a needy apprentice can be.

• Since I’ve spent the last decade devoted to music and living vicariously through its creators, now I’ll take the stage.  I’ll sing in a band (I’m pretty good at karoake) and maybe even write and record a song.

GRADE: FAIL – I should perhaps leave music to the professionals.

• I will read. Not just what I like, but books that are actually good for me (ones with fewer pictures) and challenge my ideas.

GRADE: PASS –  Chronic underemployment does have an upside….plenty of time to catch up on your reading.

PROJECT IRON FIST/velvet glove

• I will learn to fight and I will compete in a mixed martial arts bout before the year is out.  Knowing you can doesn’t mean you must – but it helps.

GRADE: FAIL – I did start Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu classes and then left for the US,  and have yet to pick them up.   Then again,  I find that Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu doesn’t necessarily blow my skirt up (which is more than I can say of my freeballing training partners).  I will go back to them for now, although I will need to consult an expert to see if there’s another martial art out there that’s made for me.

• I will seek out experts to the learn fine arts of negotiation and persuasion, to have my way, and my way with people.

GRADE: PASS – but only because I’ve sought them out, not because I’ve applied their lessons.

• I will discover how to prevail in the psychological mind-fucking that women seem so good at and I usually get shredded by.

GRADE: FAIL – my MO continues to be to let women THINK I’m giving them their way, and then…give them their way.  A FAIL on par with the Greek economy.

PROJECT MODEL CITIZEN

• if there’s a federal or provincial election called in the next calendar year, I will run as the candidate I’d want to vote for.

GRADE: FAIL – No federal or provincial election so far. There is a municipal election in October but my city counsellor Adam Vaughan is a noble, highly qualified individual who deserves a better opponent than me.

• In the meantime, I’ll get active; watch for me at the public meetings, the law courts, and maybe some protests.

GRADE: FAIL –  MP Olivia Chow did challenge me to organize my neighbours.  I responded by moving out my building and her riding.  I was at the G20 protests, but mostly as a tourist.

• I’ll voice my opinion by writing letters to the editor, posting in forums, being a pundit on panels.

GRADE: FAIL – can you believe no cares to hear what I have to say?

• I’ll attempt to right some wrongs, like a superhero but without the cape.

GRADE: FAIL – not that there aren’t wrongs worth righting, only that I haven’t gotten around to them.

THE GOD PROJECT

• On Sundays I will make some time for the BIG GUY. Perhaps I’ll go to churches, mosques, and synagogues (and not only because I dig the Shebrews).

GRADE: FAIL – Again, my recent American escapade prevented me from attending regular services, and if you’re looking for motivation for going to church, reading Richard Dawkins (as I am right now) is not exactly your first, best source.

PROJECT PRAVDA

• I will scribble on our family’s picture of harmony by exploring all the dark secrets hidden in the recesses of our history

GRADE: PASS – Actually, this was easy, since we’re not exactly the Kennedys when it comes to dark secrets.

• I will confess to all of the shit I’ve done in my life (they can read it here, actually)

GRADE: PASS – Oh wow,  I confessed to so much and you know what? My family still isn’t scandalized! I should’ve mentioned it years ago, I could’ve shed years worth of recursive guilt.

• At the very least, I will remember their birthdays and send everyone a card, on time. We’ll see how it goes from there.

GRADE: FAIL – I’m pretty certain I’ve missed at least two siblings birthdays already.  Fuck.

PROJECT RUNWAY

• I suspect this could only be achieved by trying to nail as many of those models as I can, and for that I will consult the biggest douchebags around for tips. The way I see it now, (granted, I am not better yet, just trying) only by making peace with their hotness can I make peace with myself.

GRADE: FAIL – No matter what those douchebag self-help books tell you, being a player takes time, and money, and good looks, and…fuck it.  I’m too busy (finding work) and broke (from not having it) to put in the effort right now.  It probably helps that I’m dating someone and things seem to be going well.

• I will become the ultimate sexual servant. I will check with the ex’s in a potentially emasculating evaluation to discover my areas in need of improvement.  I think I am pretty good right now,  but I am willing to practice. (Kidding. Kinda. Uh…not really.)

GRADE: FAIL – I haven’t dusted off the Kama Sutra yet, although my date isn’t complaining.  I tried to reach out to the ex’s but most of them refuse to speak with me.

• I will watch Oprah. Can it hurt?

GRADE: FAIL – Having watched, I now believe it can.

PROJECT DRAPER

• I’ve always admired those people who start something of their own. NOW I join them… starting with this blog.

GRADE: PASS –  but just because I’ve started something doesn’t mean anything’s come of it.

• I will own the room, pitch MY ideas, and go with my gut because I’ve got nothing to lose.

GRADE: FAIL – all of my projects I’ve undertaken with my partner The Producer, who doesn’t trust me to pitch anything in a room of executives, and with good reason.

• I will study from the greats – great successes and even greater failures (failure stalks every successful enterprise, and there is something to be learned from a loser – that’s the whole point of this blog, really)

GRADE: PASS – my reading list reads like a who’s who of the great failures of history.  Ever heard of that loser Winston Churchill? How about that other deadbeat Theodore Roosevelt?

• I’ll put in long hours schmoozing and drink whiskey while looking amazing, if necessary.

GRADE: FAIL – the whisky drinking I can do.  The schmoozing while looking amazing, not so much.

• And IF, in the process, lucrative job offers are tendered, book deals are signed, David Mamet casts me in his next thriller, and parades are thrown in my honour…well, so be it.

GRADE: FAIL – David Mamet remains ignorant of my existence.

PROJECT ARI GOLD

• I will consult with unapologetic assholes and and learn their principals.

GRADE: PASS – Stephen Harper still doesn’t reply though.

• I’ll put those lessons into practice (AFTER learning to fight, just in case).

GRADE: FAIL – I’ve been planning a project where I am an Asshole for a Day.  If that turns out, maybe I’ll try an Asshole for a Week.  With enough effort, perhaps I will become Asshole for Life (although some folks might argue I’m already there).

• I will read more Ayn Rand, the patron saint of assholes.

GRADE: FAIL – Sorry, but have you read Atlas Shrugged lately? Terrible Prose.

I suppose I  could argue that I’ve achieved almost half of the things I set out to with half the year left, but that would be a tad disingenuous.  The fact is, of the 30 or more goals I set out for myself, I am failing at two-thirds of them, and I will need to get my knees up and start applying myself if I am to be a Better Man by the end of year.  Mind you,  one could ask a simple question – do I at least feel Better?  Strangely, I would have to say yes, but that has little do with any conscious effort on my part.   If I’m less anxious and more peaceful today, it’s mostly by virtue of the unusual grace  that comes from growing accustomed to failure as a lifestyle.

Notice how my eyes are dead like a shark's....

Happy Canada Day, Steve!

Maybe you remember me – I sent you a letter back in January, asking if you’d show me what it takes to be a proper asshole.  You see, it had occurred to me that trying to treat others as decently as I can wasn’t necessarily getting me anywhere, so perhaps being a Better Man involved chasing naked self-interest no matter how much it hurt and/or infuriated other people…in other words, the kind of things you do.   I suspect you didn’t read that letter – although your bearing occasionally reminds me of Dwight Schrute (with less guile)  you can still be a polarizing public figure when you want to be.  I’m sure you’re inundated with more letters/death threats than 10 prime ministers could read in all their lifetimes combined, so it might be easy to overlook mine.   Mind you, a part of me likes to think you did read it and haven’t replied because….well, that’s what an asshole would do.

Regardless of whether you got back to me or not, I figured I could at least learn from your example, but you’ve maintained a barometric control on your inherent douche-ness…you laid low during the Olympics,  kept both your cool and a tight lid on the whole Afghanistan detainee thing.  I was starting to feel a little cheated, that I wasn’t going to see the kind of assholery I’ve come to enjoy from you…that is, until the G20 last weekend.

I have to ask...doesn't it get hot wearing that thing?

Now, we both know that many hands have been wrung over the money you spent on security…a billion dollars, almost 51 times the cost of G20 security in Pittsburgh last year, and more than all security costs for previous G8/G20s combined.  With that much cheese one could be excused for thinking you created a clone army of riot police, or perhaps hired the A-Team.  One has to wonder how much of it actually went to security as opposed to, say,  pork barrel projects in federal ridings that could prove crucial in the next election, but I’m just talking out my ass there – although if that did happen, then good for you!  Supreme dick move/quasi abuse of power! (Oh wait, wasn’t that exactly the sort of thing you hammered the Liberals for during when the sponsorship scandal? Never mind.)

Well, this isn't going well...

As a Torontonian,  I just hoped that a billion dollars would make itself apparent in the lack of strife on Toronto’s streets while you and your world leader buddies had a hoedown. Of course, it didn’t really go that way…folks rioted, cars got burned, windows got smashed, buildings were defaced, civil liberties were thrown out the window and innocent folks were arrested and treated like minor detainees at Gitmo…it was, as social anthropologists like to say, a pig fuck.  Now, here comes the brilliant part -  when asked for your opinion on the protests,  you said the unrest on the streets justified the huge price tag.  Whoa! It’s not often that I get to use the word “bravura” in a sentence, but your comments about the protests will go down in the annals of hosebaggery as a genuine bravura performance.  In fact, I’m going to pause right now so I can give you the slow prison hand clap like the one from the movie Brubaker….okay, done.

That's gotta wreck your day.

Really, only a gaping asshole could do what you did – you took what would look to most people like an egregious failure in light of the money spent and you turned it all around and used it as a win for G20 and your draconian security measures. A rational person may think that for a billion dollars, a “win” would be a) police quickly apprehend those bullshit protesters causing damage before it gets out of hand, and b) police arrest ONLY those bullshit protesters, leaving the other ones alone to protest freely and peacefully. Instead, the rioters ran amok, largely unmolested by the overwhelming police presence.  Only after the worst had been done did it seem to occur to the cops that maybe they should protect the public and start arresting some hooligans.  Unfortunately, most of those hooligans had made their point and blown town, leaving only peaceful protesters, who were no doubt agitated to find themselves getting gassed and clipped as opposed to the ones who actually deserved it.    And there you are, safe behind the high fences of Fortress G20 saying “Was I right or was I right?”

everyone in canada saw this happen...except for the cops at G20.

Critics may say that only someone disconnected from reality could use the failure to protect the peace in downtown Toronto as proof of how necessary it was to spend a fortune to protect the peace in downtown Toronto.   However, you and I aren’t so naive –  things could not have gone better than if you’d set those police cars on fire yourself (Wait! Did you?!  It’s not like there was a whole lot going on at the Summit, and everyone knows how much you like to take care of business on your own).    You see, a little panic on the streets of TDot is an excellent way to distract from the non-event all this violence inspired….at the end of the summit, what was there, really? Meaningful action on climate change? Nope. Something tangible to help folks like me who are still digging out from the recession? Uh-uh. Poor old Barack did have a crazy notion that maybe it was time to stop giving money to one of the richest industries in the world (oil) and maybe start taxing the other (banks), but since Canada fared the recession a lot better than other nations, you could stand on a bully pulpit and shout him down.  About the only thing you did was get everybody to agree to the idea that it’s good for governments to be fiscally prudent, an ironic accomplishment in light of how much you spent on the party.   You dawdled while Toronto burned – good work!

It makes sense now why you were so quiet all spring – you were getting ready for this shining asshole moment.  You wanted it to go off perfectly, and I suspect it surpassed even your expectations.  It certainly surpassed mine.     I realize how inadequate my previous asshole role models were – Gordon Gekko, Ari Gold,  the preppy James Spader character in Pretty in Pink.   They unleashed their prickishness on a modest scale. You, on the other hand – you’ve managed to flip the bird to a city whose citizens never wanted the G20 in the first place but also never voted for you (so who cares what they want), a nation wanting accountability on a host of issues (besides the billion bucks), and a world looking for hope and leadership through a tail end of a tough economic crisis. Really, it’s an asshole trifecta – they should build schools for assholes simply so they can name them after you.

So, as you sip your iced tea and listen to your vintage AC/DC vinyl on our national holiday, I want to let you know that you shouldn’t worry about replying to my first letter, or even this one.  It’s all good.  When it comes to being an asshole, you obviously go big, and I can see what you’re doing from here.  I’m taking notes, Steve, I’m taking notes.

Chris

Can't I just have the bar mitzvah instead?

A friend asked me about the blog the other day.  ”How are ‘The Adventures of Man-Child’ coming?” he said.

All credit to my friend, it was a perfect comment – funny, insulting, and dead-on accurate all at the same time since, really,  I am a man-child.   Men used to have mid-life crises because they were over-burdened by their manly responsibilities and felt deprived of choice.  In the new bizarro world in which I (and many of my peers) live,  the crisis is precisely the opposite – I have carefully avoided any adult responsibilities, I’ve kept my options open, and I’m every bit as miserable.

Mandan Indian male just hanging out.

This whole blog has been about tracing the source of the problem, and more and more I’m coming back to a single conclusion – I had no rite of passage.   I’m not talking about some ridiculous party where I get to wear a yamulka and people carry me around in a chair. I’m talking about that definitive moment in a male’s life where by virtue of his actions he leaves behind boyhood and embraces manhood.  Just about every patriarchal culture has some way to mark a man’s coming of age; in ancient Sparta, boys were sent out of the city and told not to return until they’d killed several helots (a kind of warrior slave).  The Satere-Mawe tribe of Brazil makes their boys wear gloves filled with hundreds of bullet ants, so named presumably because their sting is said to feel as painful as a gunshot.  The venom enters their system, leaving their hands useless and their bodies shaking for days…and they don’t just do it once, but 20 times. Mandan Indian males had to be suspended in the air from hooks put into their skin, and after they passed out from loss of blood they would be taken down and one of their little fingers was cut off.   I won’t even tell you what the Mardudjara Aborigines of Australia did, except to say this: they didn’t just take your “turtle neck” and give you a “crew neck”, they put in a zipper as well.

If it sounds like most rites-of-passage suck, it’s likely because they were ingeniously designed that way.   If you think about the life of a tribal male, it kinda blew – the survival of the tribe depended on your ability to go out and kill wild animals,  who were not exactly predisposed to dying simply for your benefit.  They were hard to find, hard to kill, and there was a good chance they may injure or kill you in the process.   The potential for failure was incredibly high, and the cost of failure was that everyone in the tribe suffered, not just you.

So if you’re a rational male presented with that option, you’d probably tell whomever offered it to go piss up a rope.  Yet the role I’m describing was integral to the survival of the tribe, so what did the tribes do to persuade their young males to willingly accept a job no one in their right mind would want?  They created a ritual, one so incredibly awful that any terrible thing a man might face afterwards would seem easy by comparison. They also went one step further and said that unless the young males participated in the ritual, they would be ostracized from the rest of the group. Basically, they had no choice but to man up.

before they were yelling at you to get the hell off their lawns, these guys were hanging their asses out to get shot at.

It sounds like a shitty deal on its face, but those rites of passage were more or less good for everybody, particularly the male forced to go through it.  It gave him the confidence to know that he could take a lot of punishment and still keep going.  Blessed with that confidence,  they could honour their manly responsibilities, which necessarily involved things like providing food for the tribe and protecting it in times of crises. Naturally, the men who did their job the best enjoyed the most respect and privilege – women wanted them and men wanted to be them. Of course, as we became more agrarian, then more industrialized, and then more civilized, the need for rites of passage diminished to the point where they’re practically non-existent today. These days, guys think they’re a man if they buy their first car, or get a job, or get laid,  which of course excludes a whole segment of males who don’t drive, are unemployed, or entered the priesthood (okay, that’s maybe a bad example).  An argument can be made for fatherhood being the first big stop on the manhood safari, but a lot of men are putting off fatherhood until later in their lives, and the ones doing it early – well, keep in mind my data is highly subjective and largely anecdotal, but the ones becoming fathers early in life are not exactly blessed with all the requisite skills  to shape a young mind in a focussed world view. By that,  I mean they’re horny twerps who put the condom on wrong.  The point is there are lots of males out there who aren’t boys but aren’t fully men, either. I’m not the only man-child walking the streets.

Sadly, when it comes to rites of passage nowadays, this seems to be the best we can do

Relatively speaking, modern day “rites of passage” are easy, even a little fun. But rites of passage aren’t supposed to be fun –  they’re supposed to be transformative, a vivid reminder of the value of and need for manly virtues.  The pride of manhood comes from knowing you did the hardest thing of your life and you made it through, a concept at odds with a culture that want’s everything simpler, easier, and as fast as possible.   The only thing approaching a proper rite of passage these days is war  - they’re scary, dangerous, and fought primarily by young men.  While a lot of the ones who survive oftentimes come away traumatized, there’s probably as many who are left with an intuitive understanding of virtues like courage, duty, sacrifice, honor, and resilience.  It’s telling that the generation that fought WWII is commonly referred to as “The Greatest Generation.”

Am I suggesting that for me to be a Better Man, for any male to be a Better Man, we have to join the army, or something equally as life-threatening?  Not necessarily, but more and more I’m starting to think it behooves all men (and women) to have to face some challenge, something difficult that tests their nerve, will, and resolve, something that scares the shit out of them.   Perhaps this year is my belated rite of passage, I can’t really say.   If it is, though, I’m going to have to do everything I set out to do, which a lot more than I have been doing of late – although I think I may stop before getting around to pulling a “Mardudjara” and having my penis filleted like a hot dog.

father and sons

Considering this is my year to get better, it would have been apropos that I at least try to be a better son to my dead father and acknowledge Father’s Day. The fact is,  it slipped my mind.   I haven’t given much thought to Father’s Day since dad died – which is no excuse really, since I’m not sure I gave that much thought to it while he was still alive.

I suppose we both share the blame for that.   As I’ve mentioned before, my dad was cursed with a crippling inability to express his feelings, an affliction made no easier by the fact that he was in 40s with five kids and a monumentally bitchy wife when I came along.   By that time, his principal desire in life was for peace, and he often found it at the expense of teaching his sons to be men.  I mistook this as a sign of ambivalence, and simply responded in kind.

However, that’s not to say that my dad wasn’t a good man.  Gerald Nelson may not have been perfect but he possessed many manly virtues, among them being…

1. …He was ambitious. My dad had no schooling past grade 9.  At 14, he went to work, first as an itinerant farm worker, then a pipe fitter, then a gas salesman, a manager, general manager,  and eventually vice-president of a company he co-owned.  Not only that, he was also a voracious reader with a photographic memory, and was always taking Toastmaster courses to overcome his congenital shyness.  My dad never stopped trying to improve himself his entire life.
2. …He was self-reliant.  Like most former farm boys dad was blessed with a preternatural gift for building or fixing anything.  I can’t think of a single carpenter or plumber who darkened our doorway and I don’t recall ever seeing my dad pick up his car from the garage. Dad made his own lawn look perfect, cleared whole forests off our property…I bet if you asked  he could build a fighter jet or figure out the mystery of cold fusion, provided you didn’t ask him to teach you.
3. …He was dependable.   I can only imagine what kind of sadness must tinge a father’s heart when he realizes his son sucks at a sport he himself loves.  Despite this, dad always took me to hockey practice, and never once did he hang his head in shame as he watched me struggle through drills that could never undo my essential awfulness.   On those occasions when I wasn’t too frightened to ask for money he would grill me like a detainee at Gitmo as to what I planned to do with it, but he rarely failed to give it if it was for a good purpose.  I always knew that when it came to the basics, dad would provide, no matter what.  Now, if only he’d been that forthcoming with his advice…
4. …He took his responsibilities seriously.   My dad used to be the GM of the only propane gas company in Northern Manitoba, a job which, during the cold unforgiving winters of the Canadian Shield, was not unlike being the only guy at a frat party with beer – everybody wanted what you had, and they weren’t exactly in a position to make unreasonable demands. I remember walking home from school one exceptionally brutal winter day and saw my dad in his expensive fur-lined parka and galoshes,  filling a propane tank at a house along the way .   He explained to me that one of his employees had been snowed in and couldn’t come into work.   Considering how cold it was, he couldn’t bring himself to ask one of his other workers to stay on longer and do it, but he couldn’t let his customers to go without either.  After he finished his paperwork that day, he went out and ran that employee’s route himself.    Needless to say, the man inspired loyalty.
5. …He did was what needed, no matter how unpleasant. One time the company accountant approached my dad to tell him he’d discovered that one of my dad’s branch managers (and best friend) was stealing from the company.   The parent company wanted my dad’s friend fired,  but my dad fought to keep the man’s job, his loyalty trumping his innate disdain for deceit.  My dad’s bosses were unmoved and offered to do the firing, but dad insisted he do it himself.  As far as I know, my dad lost that man’s friendship. I doubt that he lost his respect, though.
6. …you always felt like he had shit handled, even when he didn’t. During a RV vacation in California when I was ten, my parents decided to take my siblings and me to Knott’s Berry Farm.  Rather than try to find parking for the RV, my dad put us all on a transit bus instead – the wrong bus, as it turned out, one that drove us straight into Compton.  Imagine – a conspicuously caucasian family in matching Toronto Blue Jays outfits, one that had never seen black people except on TV and now we’re with a busload of them,  ALL staring at us with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns.  I remember sensing intuitively that we were not welcome, but it never occurred to me that my dad had no fucking idea what he was doing.  Instead, he just said rather  nonchalantly “oh look, this is our stop.”  We got off in the middle of nowhere and walked 20 minutes along an interstate to a gas station where he called a cab that took us to Knott’s (in the opposite direction). The man fronted so well it only occurred to me years later he may have been shitting his pants.
7. …He was elegant and supremely witty. My sister tells a story of how my dad took her to a company party when my mom was sick.  My mother never drank, so dad took advantage of her absence to get his drink on.  According to my sister, the man turned into Fred Astaire and danced with every woman at the party, and when it was over he went to the wedding party next door and danced with bride.   The bride thing is where it goes off the rails for me but  my dad liked to dance and did it well, so there’s a hint of truth in it.   What I know for a fact is that dad’s wit was razor sharp and he possessed an intuitive sense of comic timing.  On the occasion of his 35th wedding anniversary he told me “Chris, I never knew what true happiness was until I got married – by which time, it was too late.” Oh wait! that reminds me…
8. …He had otherworldly patience. As I mentioned earlier, Dad was married to Attilla the Mom, a condition in no way improved by the addition of seven kids.  Any reasonable man might’ve lost his composure, but dad rarely shouted or lost his temper with us, or with my mom in our presence.
9. …He was modest. I think I get my combination of self-aggrandizing/self-deprecating humour from my dad.  He might  joke to us about how great he was, but in truth he never demanded undue attention or took credit for other people’s accomplishments, even when others might take credit for his.
10. …He found joy in simple pleasures. For my dad, bliss was sitting down after dinner to watch Hockey Night in Canada with a crossword and a slice of bread with jam on it.   What could be simpler?

No matter how strained my time with him was, I can still see how my dad tried his best, acting with as much honour and integrity as he could muster, which is probably why I can forgive  his lapses in parenting.   Maybe he figured he didn’t need to tell us what he was doing, that we were smart enough to just watch and learn from his example.   It’s apparent now that he might’ve been giving me too much credit, but that hasn’t stopped me from trying.

As good as it gets these days.

A friend of mine, upon seeing this picture from a previous post,  said “It’s perfect. You look fat and a little hungover.” This made me sad, since prior to taking that photo I actually got up, lifted some weights, showered, and shaved.  I even sucked my belly in before snapping it. Her comment made me more than sad, actually, because it confirmed what I knew was happening…I’m starting to look old.  It sounds somewhat obvious to say, but it’s hard to gauge the ravages of time when you can only see yourself age in tiny increments every day (as we all do).

Thanks to the rigid borders of my parent’s co-mingled DNA, aging has me in a sleeper hold – in addition to being shaped like Spongebob Squarepants,  I suffer the family curse of  loving rich, fatty food and being unable to metabolize it quickly – I only have to look at a picture of perogies and I put on weight.  Nonetheless, being single and working on television means I cannot afford to admit defeat, so I wage a war of attrition on my body’s genetics, one whose outcome is already predetermined (death) and for which the best I can hope is a few battles won.

Now, up until my friend’s comment, I thought I was doing okay.  I exercise regularly and  I no longer drink until I pass out. I also moisturize, which may be funny for a guy to say, but my industry is not unlike a horny, middle-aged husband – it hates the effects of aging and resents those who show it. However, as I look at the photo, I have to confess she’s not wrong…I  do look kinda bad.  Mind you, I think I always look bad in pictures.  Some friends may object with comments  like, “You look great in that photo!”  but in my opinion that’s always been something you say to a person who 1) normally looks bad, or 2) you want to have sex with.  I know that in my case it must be the former, because I’ve been getting it a lot lately… from my guy friends.

It seems I can’t pick up a men’s magazine without finding an article on how it could be possible in the future to not only extend life but actually reverse the effects of aging….good to know, I suppose, but of little use to me at the moment.  So what do I do until that brand new morning when I can pop one pill and my hair grows back, I instantly shrink down to size 34 pants, my dick lengthens by five inches and I suddenly have the stamina to take five woman as dates to Keith Richard’s funeral because I’ve managed to live that long?  That’s a question on the mind of lots of men, if the the male beauty products aisle at Shopper’s Drug Mart is anything to go by.  The thing is – do I need it? What kind of condition do others see me in?  If substantial improvement is required, what form should it take?  I have a few guy friends my age who host TV shows and I am almost certain they dye their hair,  but how do women feel about that? What about those overly groomed eyebrows all the metro-sexual douche’s on “Jersey Shore” have – should I go under the tweezer? I have a growing bald spot on the back – how do we feel about hair plugs, or maybe just Hair In A Can?  Maybe I should make a Hail Mary pass and try plastic surgery.  I was watching Dr. 90210 once  and a couple on there had their genitals “done” – he, the scrotum, and she, the labia. They said it gave them a second chance at life!  Now THAT is powerful.

I suppose I could just accept that complete physical breakdown on the downslope to death is simply how humans roll.  However,  I’ve been reading a lot about my new BFF Leonardo Da Vinci, and he believed that one of the keys to a first rate mind was to be in top flight physical condition. Perhaps a little advanced “temple maintenance” is what’s needed in order to be a Better Man, so here’s what I’m going to do: I will assemble an advisory team and I am going to stand before them NAKED — no clothes, no shower, no shave — and let them see the real Chris, critiquing me right down to the wrinkles (everywhere). I’ll come back to you with a full report and then decide what measures I’ll take to pimp my ride.

Naturally, I’ll be using a rigorous, time-honoured method for assembling my team. It looks something like this:  who wants to see me naked?

Don't you wish your uncle was cool like me?

I took my 15-year-old nephew Jake to see the band The National the other night, thus confirming my place in the great pantheon of Jake’s Extended Relatives as “The Cool Uncle”.  Mind you (and with all due respect to my brothers and brothers-in-law), the standard for cool uncles in my family is pitifully low.  Despite this, I still manage to clip my knees on the low bar that has been set for me. I’m partially redeemed by my penchant for skinny jeans and vintage t-shirts with ironic sayings on them, but knowing all the words to I’m on a Boat! cannot atone for an egregious lack of character, and Jake is too smart to be fooled.

The fact is I’m not that cool, something that should come as no surprise to anyone who reads this blog.  As they reach adulthood and start to make informed judgments, my nephews and nieces will no doubt come to realize what you already know.   Is the window on their adulation closing for me?  Perhaps not, if I can stop being a poser and instead become a real cool uncle….like my mom’s younger brother, Don.

They say families teach you to appreciate people you would otherwise have nothing to do with, and so it is with my uncle Don and me -  our differences are so pronounced we could inspire the plot of a buddy cop movie. On politics, we agree on nothing:  I liken Canada to a really amazing country club, and our taxes are simply the dues we pay for the privilege of being a member.  When I say this, Don will eye me with a combination of pity and suspicion, like I have tuberculosis and is afraid I might infect both him and his family.  If the Tea Party opened a Canadian chapter, Don would want to be their president.   When he talks in mildly conspiratorial tones about “that Obama” I’m reminded of Mike Myers playing his own dad in So I Married An Axe Murderer, talking about how Colonel Sanders secretly controls everything in the world.

It doesn’t end with politics. Don is unapologetically blunt where I’m exceedingly polite.  He’s a devout Christian, and says God has been a constant presence in his life, whereas I have rarely felt God’s presence anywhere save for the guilt I feel when I masturbate.   Don is lean and compact like an athlete, despite saying he never hits the gym.  By contrast,  I am cursed with my dad’s “barrel chest” – I can work out as much as Michael Phelps and I’ll never have Don’s perfect “V” shape which he proudly declares he put no effort into creating.

Despite this, I can think of no uncle I love or respect as much as Don.  Admittedly, we share a life-consuming passion for motorbikes, but that’s not the source of my admiration.   I have learned a lot from Don, whether he intended to teach me or not. Thanks to him,  I’m always trying to do the following:

1. Count my blessings.  Don loves his wife, loves his seven kids…loves his life, really. That’s not to say that he doesn’t put up with his fair amount of shit. Rather, he just knows to focus on the things that matter, and because of it he can weather the other stuff with humour and grace.
2. Practice enlightened self-interest. Don doesn’t believe in free rides…doesn’t believe in free anything, really,  except maybe a free market.   As far as he’s concerned, everyone pays their own way, but he’s not oblivious to the fact that some people have more advantages than others.  That’s why for years Don’s been trying to level the playing field by working with youth groups and in some cases getting those youths to work on his home development projects.  He gets cheap labour,  they learn character and the value of hard work. Everybody wins.
3. Feel good about myself. Don is not exactly as tall as Shaq – he’d probably have to stand on his toes Just to see eye-to-eye with Muggsy Bogues.  The hair on the top of Don’s head looks as freshly planted as an Iowa corn crop, and he’s often the butt of his children’s jokes (“I know it says in the Old Testament that I can execute my insolent children, but they’re just so funny”). However, if you were to ask he’d tell you there’s no one smarter, more charming or more handsome than himself.  Don is just tickled to be Don.  I asked him how he manages to feel this way, and he said “I don’t know.  I just kept reminding myself to feel good about who I am until I actually did.”  It seems so simple, you feel stupid for not thinking of it first.
4. Work hard, play hard. Don is in his early 60s, and people half his age have trouble keeping up. I know this because I am half his age and can barely keep up with him. Whether it’s snowboarding, motorbiking…even just walking…Don moves with the pace of someone acutely aware of how fleeting and precious our time on earth is. If you read number 5, you’ll understand why.
5. Suck it up. Back in the 70s, Don was involved in a terrible accident on his motorcycle that almost killed him. He survived, but his face was horribly disfigured.  It required several painful surgeries to correct the damage.   During one of those surgeries Don was given a tranfusion of tainted blood from the Canadian Red Cross (one of many victims of a scandal that dominated Canadian headlines in the 90s).  As a result, Don contracted hepatitis C, and his liver started to fail about 5 years ago, although he showed no signs.  He and I once rode to Grand Coullee, Washington from Vancouver the day after doctors told him that his condition makes no sense, that he should be bedridden.  Don would hear none of it.  He felt great, and he wasn’t about to let something as simple as life-threatening hepatitis wreck his weekend.

I bring all this up because Don’s liver failed in earnest a few months ago, and he’s been waiting in hospital for a transplant.  He finally received one (from his daughter Rachel) on the same day I took my nephew Jake to see The National. There’s still no word if he’ll make it or not.

After the concert I took Jake home, and as we rode on my motorbike I started thinking about what an interesting person he’s become.  It occurred to me that I don’t need Jake to agree with me on anything, but knowing I might provide him with a principle or two by which he can live his life is incentive enough to try and be a Better Man.  Perhaps one day Jake will actually draw from his uncle’s example,  just as I’ve drawn from mine.

This is all your fault, fucko.

This morning I woke up,  had what felt like a seven-minute pee, made myself some coffee, coughed up a little phlegm, sat down at my desk, looked at my computer and realized -  I’m ready to be a husband and father.

To just about every guy who knows me this radical epiphany will be as shocking as it is absurd. Moreover, most of my married and/or father friends have expressed envy over my freedom to, say,  sleep in until noon, walk around the house in my ratty underpants, or screw any woman I want without guilt (a logical fallacy completely at odds with the reality of my ratty underpants, but never underestimate the lurid imagination of a married male).  By contrast, my male, single, childless friends protect their metaphysical turf more fiercely than a Mexican drug cartel.  Both groups would probably regard my newfound desire as…well, unmanly.  The more I think about it, though, the more I’m thinking there could be no decision more daring or masculine than to restrict yourself to one vagina for the rest of your life whilst setting an example for the progeny that your penis and that one vagina produce.

So what accounts for this seismic shift in thinking? It’s not as though I’ve been dwelling on it, and came to a conclusion after months of serious deliberation.  I wasn’t struck by lightning,  I didn’t visit a hypnotist,  and Goddess recently made it clear that if forced to choose between dating a hobo or me she’d have to think about it.   There is no immediate, rational reason for why I should feel this way…except, perhaps, for one.  That reason’s name is  John. Fucking. Cusack (the “other JC” as I like to call him).

For a long time, I have been in JC’s corner.  I believe in delusional optimism as much as anybody, but a lot of idiots want to be Clooney or Pitt, aspirations which make no sense given those men’s obvious natural advantages.  Cusack, on the other hand, is a modern male role model by virtue of having stretched his limited gifts.  He’s far from the best looking man in the world, or the most charming, or the most manly.  With the exception of Con Air and 2012, Cusack knows enough to avoid looking silly in action pictures, and instead confines himself to movies where he more or less plays himself: slightly smarter and slightly more self-aware than average.  For this, women everywhere LOVE him with a devotion akin to the Branch Davidians.

I suppose I’ve always felt Cusack and I were simpatico, and never more so than in the film High Fidelity (based on a book by Nick Hornby, my other man-crush).    In it, JC plays Rob,  a guy in his 30s not unlike myself in that he’s freshly dumped, perennially broke, largely miserable, and trying to figure out why.    Rob is hurting over a break-up with his girlfriend , and his moment of clarity comes about three quarters of the way through the film:

I can see now that I never really committed to Laura.  I always had one foot out the door, and that prevented me from doing a lot of things, like thinking about my future and…I guess it made more sense to commit to nothing.  Keep my options open. And that’s suicide…by tiny, tiny increments.

I’ve loved this movie for a decade now, and every time I’ve watched that scene I knew it was significant and I’ve nodded in agreement but today…TODAY…I just woke up and knew in my bones that what he describes is exactly what I’ve been doing.   If I’d had this moment when that lady in the minivan knocked me off my motorbike the timing would be more sensible, but what can I say? Different things come to all of us differently.

So basically, in order to be a Better Man,  I think I may need to limit my options.   This seems counterintuitive, since having lots of choice feels like an unmitigated good thing.   I remember talking about this with my dad many years ago.  I was in a rare confrontational mood and I took him to task over his seeming disinterest in my life choices.   He said  that by the time he was my age he was married with two kids and had no choices, so he saw no point in taking away my options by pushing me in one direction over another.    I took his words to heart, perhaps to my detriment.

There’s a concept in economics known as “opportunity costs”.   Basically, an opportunity cost is the price you pay when you choose one option over another – the cost of Betty is Veronica, and vice versa.   For most people these days, there’s more to it – modern social conventions don’t place that many demands on us anymore.   There’s no expectation to get married by a certain age (or to stay married – hello Al and Tipper), no expectation to have kids by a certain age, or to stay in a job for any length of time.   Short of not indulging our desire to riot after the Canadiens lose (okay, bad example), or kill someone for taking a favorite parking spot, we’re pretty much free to do whatever we want, whenever we want, and more so now than at any time in human history.   The problem is in a world filled with all kinds of choices, opportunity costs are everywhere, and by choosing one path over all others a lot of us don’t feel the cost of just one missed opportunity but ALL missed opportunties.   Opportunity costs can feel so pricey nowadays it can be hard to find any joy in a single choice, so a lot of guys (like Rob and me) end up choosing nothing, and lot of times the result is they end up nowhere.   This is the paradox of choice.  In fact, a guy named Barry Schwartz actually wrote a book called The Paradox of Choice:

What could create larger opportunity costs than choosing one mate and losing the chance to enjoy all the attractive features of other potential spouses? People also stay in their jobs less than half as long, on average, as they did a generation ago. Whereas delaying marriage and avoiding commitment to a particular job would seem to promote self-discovery, this freedom and self-exploration seems to leave many people feeling more lost than found.

Everybody is different, but for me the proof is a little incontrovertible –  I have so many options, yet I’ve never felt more left out in my life.  I know my dad wanted me to have as much choice as possible, but when we spoke I don’t know if he realized how his choices shaped him into a man…maybe not the kind of man I want to be, but certainly more of a man than I am now.

Now to be clear, I’m NOT saying that as soon as I’m finished writing this I’m going to run out  and knock up the first woman who agrees to let me….I still believe in falling in love (but you never know – maybe I’ll kick that notion out the door as well).    But for the first time, my mind feels open to a committing to a choice – perhaps a tad too late for some of my ex-girlfriends’ taste, but no matter.  John Cusack, if you’re reading this, don’t be alarmed if one day you’re in Canada and some guy runs up and gives you a hug.  Or a punch in the groin.  Either or.