I’m sitting in a room with all the ambience of a kindergarten class, but without the impressionist finger paintings.  I’m chatting with Al, who looks a lot like an older version of the sailor on the cover of those Zig Zag rolling papers.   He’s eating a cookie with his hands close to his face, giving him the countenance of a squirrel.  “I just hate the HST,” he spits at me, lodging half-digested cookie crumbs in my face.

Zig Zag and I are at  a local community centre for a citizens’ forum. This is my first phase of  Project Model Citizen, and already I can tell it’s  is going to be tougher than I thought, and not because of Zig Zag’s dubious eating habits.   One of my main criticisms of myself is that I  skated through my 30′s on just enough charm, smarts and looks to get by.  So now I have to work at it. That’s why I’m here, at this forum. I read about it on my MP’s website when I was looking for an e-mail where I might send her a note.  I figured a model citizen doesn’t just read the Globe and Mail and watch At Issue on The National. A citizen is involved in his or her own civic pursuits.  A forum for concerned citizens to express their views  – perfect! I will attend.  I will listen.   I may even have my say.  Hell, maybe I will win hearts and minds!

That is, until I heard about the topic: The HST – harmonized sales tax which is a blend of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….huh…whatsit!? Sorry.  This is not a topic that sets my heart on fire.  Nonetheless, I’m here…with Zig Zag. This is obviously not his first rodeo,  apparent from the fact that a) he sat himself at the back of the room, close to the cookies, and b) when my MP Olivia Chow (the organizer of tonight’s HST hoedown) walks into the room, she sees him and says “Al, why don’t you and your friend make room and move up to the front.”  We oblige.

Olivia calls the meeting to order, then invites two women to talk about the impact of the HST on voters. To summarize: its impact will be bad.  At least, that’s what I think they say;  both women have flat, emotionless deliveries, and after a while they both start to sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher.  I’m starting to wonder if this wasn’t a terrible mistake on par with Sunday”s Jehovah’s Witnesses debacle.  I mean, understanding how taxes are implemented is not an issue for amateur activists.   It’s as complicated as organic chemistry and as riveting to observe as the movement of a glacier.   In citizen activist terms, this is the deep end of the pool, and I’m barely treading water.

I forgot to eat before I came, and I start to notice the revolt my stomach is now planning against my brain.   I actually start to hurt all over, kind of an overall dull ache similar to a bad flu, and all I can think about is how I’m missing my nemesis Jake the Bachelor turn out yet another bimbo.

But no!  The memory of my God Project shame is still seared in

my brain.  I will not yield! Instead, I concentrate on our host, Olivia.   She’s dressed rather stylishly in a black jacket, olive pleated skirt and some tasteful but practical winter boots. She acquits herself with the polite, authoritative manner of a school teacher – not someone born to command the spotlight, but has grown accustomed to it over time.   As I gaze at her,  I think  “Damn! She’s a lot hotter in person than in she is in photos“.   Suddenly I’m having a flashback to fourth grade and my crush on Ms. Minter.  Now SHE was a stone fox and….

Dammit Chris! Focus! Now, I’m getting angry, both at myself and politics.  It’s then that Olivia opens the floor to questions or comments. I unclench my sphincter and sit up in my seat thinking, “This might be good. I am about to see real citizens in action.”

I scan the room, looking at my fellow “citizens.”  I am probably the youngest person here (who isn’t a member of Olivia’s staff).  Most of these folks have vested interests,  but not necessarily personal ones.  Some are the head of neighbourhood associations, or realtors worried how the new tax will affect their business, or condo association members trying to figure out how to break it to their owners that their maintenance fees will be going up because of the HST.  Amongst the private citizens, it seems to be mostly people who are either lonely or enjoy heavily processed cookies.

This is democracy, and it isn’t pretty.  If I was at an anti-war rally (perhaps the easiest thing to protest) I might find some nubile co-eds taking their fresh new political legs for a walk.  I suppose there is a direct correlation between the sexiness of an issue and the sexiness of the people who care about it.

A dyspeptic older man starts in with a diatribe on how nefarious this all is. He has a typhoon of white hair that makes him look like Doc Brown from the “Back to the Future” movies.  Olivia seems to know him too, calling him “Bob”.  Judging from his comments, he’s also a disgruntled former civil servant who is partly angry about the issue, but mostly incensed by the audacity of politicians.  Zealous Bob offers an impractical suggestion that everyone concerned about the issue should flood the Prime Ministers office with tens of thousands of letter that say “To be opened only by Stephen Harper”  Olivia points out helpfully that they might think the letters contain Anthrax.

Afterwards a woman with a pinched face named Janet wants to know more about the possibility of rebates.  She’s a realtor, and is concerned about how the new tax will affect her commissions.  I look to gauge my new crush’s reaction, but I’m blocked by a black woman with hair teased so wide that it must be three times the size of her head.  She is like a nubian Peg Bundy.  I have to change seats just to get a better look.

After Janet Pinched Face is Pink Hat. Pink Hat is a shrivelled lady who rolled in on an Able Walker and took a spot right in front of Olivia.  Now that Olivia has called on her to speak, she’s not going to waste the chance.  “ The HST is just for business, and so many multinationals come in here, and take all the money, and leave none here, and it only hurts us, and….”

The combination of boredom and low blood sugar is now making my head swim.  The numbers being discussed are either so big or so small as to be abstractions, and I start to think only of the cookies at the back of the room.  I’m wishing I’d had the presence of mind to bring some of them to my seat with me…like Zig Zag, that wily vet.  I look over, and he smiles at me. There are bits of cookie in his teeth. I’m jealous.

But then it occurs to me…as boring as it is for me, I can only imagine what it’s like for Olivia.  She must summon the energy to discuss ALL the issues that affect her constituents, even the ones that bore her to death.  She can’t pick her issues al a carte like we the public do. They choose her. Despite this, she is obviously informed, and has informed opinions.   I don’t know if I could do that.  And as I ponder this, I begin to develop a new respect for what she does – she has to be here, no matter what.  Moreover, I think she WANTS to be here. If all she REALLY wants to do is watch the Bachelor (probably PVR’ed it) she doesn’t let it show.  That level of engagement, that kind of interest in civil service – it’s almost heroic.  In fact, because I am so bored and need a bit of drama in the scene, I start to see her as Wonder-Woman-esque. I want some of that…that drive, I mean. My hope is that Olivia can tell me how she does it.

Pink Hat’s paused to breathe, and Olivia capitalizes on the brief silence to shut the meeting down. She thanks the tiny crowd for attending, and moves to the door to shake their hands as they leave.  Right away she’s cornered by Zealous Bob, who wants to vent a little more.  I perch myself just over Bob’s shoulder and look at her.  Ever the politician, she responds to my cue like a professional (or maybe takes it as a opportunity to gracefully conclude the conversation) “I could talk like this with you all day, Bob, but I should probably meet everybody.”  She side-steps Bob and approaches me “You’re new. What’s your name?”

“Chris”, I say, mindful of Bob, who obviously hadn’t finished his thought and continues to hover nearby.  “I actually sent you a note a couple of days ago. I wanted to talk to you for my blog.”

“I didn’t see that e-mail,” she replies, casting a sidelong glance to the Aide waiting on her shoulder.  The Aide replies “I put that e-mail in your folder.”

“Well I will have to look at it.  What do you need, Chris?”

“Oh, just a few minutes to talk about what it means to be a good citizen.”

Olivia looks me up and down like she’s an East German border guard, making sure my papers are in order.   Satisfied that I’m not trying to defect, she smiles sweetly and says “For you, I will make the time.”

So I’ve got a date with Olivia Chow. I’m pretty excited.   She’s seems…admirable. I can’t say it’s necessarily her views, or her stance. Rather,  it’s the sincere engagement it takes to be a politician, (that is if you’re still engaging…right Steve?) I can’t say tonight was a thrill-ride on the roller coaster of democracy…not even close.   However, I take some comfort in  seeing my elected representative, doing some grunt work and hashing out decidedly non-sexy issues when she could be busy “re-calibrating” (aka watching The Bachelor).

I thank her and as I leave,  I catch a  look at my reflection in the glass of the building and realize – my hair looks fantastic.  I am not quite the Model Citizen, but not a bad start.

A blog that’s really blowing my skirt up these days is The Art of Manliness – a practical guide to doing manly stuff  that has fewer boobie pictures but more heart than most men’s sites (yes, Maxim and AskMen I’m looking at YOU).   AoM presumes that men want to know something about character, as opposed to the 10 best ways to nail a woman in a nightclub bathroom.

Last June, AoM came up with something called “30 Days to a Better Man.” Each day, they challenged readers to undertake a task that will  help them improve. On Day 5, the challenge was to, “Cultivate Your Gratitude.” They wrote many excellent reasons for doing so, but this one line jumps out at me:

“The grateful man is a humble man. He has no illusions of his grandeur. He knows that bad things happen to good people. He knows how easily a rally can turn into a slump. He knows how much worse off many others are than he is. He understands the sacrifices others make on his behalf. And he deeply, deeply appreciates them.”

Within minutes of posting my desperate note on Friday, I received a message from a woman I’ve never met, who offered me money.   A few moments later, I received a comment from a friend I haven’t spoken to in a while. She said that if she could, she would love to help out.  She told of a co-worker who helped her in a time of need and how she vowed to not only pay it back, but pay it forward.  They were small gestures, but I felt far less bleak about my circumstances after that.

I want those people who read my entry and thought of doing something for me, or for anyone, to know that I deeply appreciate it.  What you did is the act of a grateful person and I can only hope that I have the chance to respond in kind. I don’t know if this is what AoM had in mind, but it’s a start.

(BTW… this could be in no way connected…OR maybe the universe is listening because my karma seems to be turning around;  shortly after I hit publish on this highly-distressed post,  I was offered  nine weeks of work shooting a TV series. Thanks cosmic forces.  You really turned that mother out….peace.)

I’m driving down the street, and as I get closer to my destination, my chest gets increasingly tight.  My hands are so sweaty I can barely grip the wheel.  Knowing what I’m about to do fills me with deep, intense dread.

I’m not going to the dentist.  I’m not going to prison. I’m not going to talk about feelings with an ex-girlfriend who won’t sleep with me no matter what I say.

I’m going to church.

I made a promise to you that as part of the God Project, I would attend a different worship service every weekend.  To be honest, it seemed like an easy promise to fulfill.  I spent much of my early life in the Pentecostal Church and despite my current ambivalence over faith, (Mom was a cranky Christian, Dad an affable Agnostic) being in a church hasn’t been a major issue.  That’s  not to say I like going -  I actively dislike church and not because of the parochialism, or the rigid attachment to faith that occasionally precludes compassion or common sense. I…don’t like the way churches smell.  I hate the plodding tempo of all the hymns. Those home-made banners, quilted in cheerful colours. There’s always one old lady in the congregation who sings loud and off key.  In my opinion, organs belong only in funk songs. Call me shallow, but there you go.

However, that’s not why I’m so anxious.  I’ve been to plenty of churches like that and they’ve never induced the same fear.  No, it’s the church I’ve decided to attend  that scares the Bjesus of me.

The Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses.

You see, I grew up under the impression JW’s are crazy.  In hindsight,  that seems odd, since I went to a church where the believers thought that when the Holy Spirit fills them, they can speak in a language that nobody can understand – which, if God had something THAT important to tell us, seems a little impractical.  I suppose I get my antipathy towards Jehovah’s Witnesses from my mother, whose judgment of the religion was swift and unequivocal: “They are a cult.”

I had no reason to disagree. After all,  Jehovah’s Witnesses are the followers who cried wolf.  Like many Christian faiths, they believe that we are living in the end times and that Armageddon is just around the corner.  However, most faiths hedge their bets and say end times are “near.”  Not the JWs – they hung their ass out over a ledge and committed to a date — to several dates, actually.

Since 1877, the JWs have issued dire warnings about the end of the world SIXTEEN times, and so far (unless Stephen Harper and Lady Ga Ga are post-apocolyptic nightmares) we all be still here.  The  last due date was 1975, and the Watchtower Society (JWs HQ) actually commended those believers who quit their jobs, sold their homes and liquidated their assets in anticipation of the return of Christ.   The one time we should’ve been forewarned was when that terrible Michael Bay flick “Armageddon” came out, but Jehovah’s Witnesses apparently missed the call on that one, too.  The  last “serious” public announcement  on Armageddon was in 1984, by which time they’d wised up and simply said “it’s close” rather than give a specific date. I guess they realized there are only so many times you can throw your hands up in spiritual whoops and say, “My Bad.”

As a child, my only contact with the JW’s were the  friendly visits to my house again and again and again and again and again and again…to tell me about the “good word.”  They seemed polite, just persistent and misguided.  And then I discovered the real deal breaker… they DON’T. CELEBRATE. CHRISTMAS. I mean, no presents? For the rest of us greedy Christians, that’s just … nuts. From then on, I saw their efforts as senseless and futile, like the vacuum cleaner salesman joyfully trying to promote a model that is WORSE than the one you already have.

Like most religion in my life, my fear turned to apathy and over time the JWs gradually receded from my view.   I hadn’t given them any thought whatsoever, until yesterday, when I decided I would attend a service.

Given our history, I don’t know why I chose the Kingdom Hall as my first “whazzup?” with the Big Guy. Maybe it’s symbolic of me giving the whole deal another chance.  After all, you can tell a lot from a Church based on how they accept strangers into their midst.  And it wasn’t as if I  thought I would be beaten and gang-raped by Jehovah’s Witnesses.  But I’ve spent my entire life thinking they’re “different” and in the fundamentalist terms that I grew up in, “different” means “bad.”  Now I’m looking for answers — maybe it’s the Malcolm Gladwell books, but I’m applying some counter-intuitive thinking by looking in the last place I’d expect to find them.

So there I am, standing in front of the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses.  And I’m standing.  And…standing.  I stand in the cold for 20 minutes.  I have the same feeling standing outside that church that I did when I was 14, and stood on the 10 metre hightower of my local pool, debating whether or not to jump off.   I sucked it up and leaped to what could have been my death because the alternative was to be branded a coward by my “friend” Rick Fleck.  As I stand there freezing my balls off (you can say that outside the church) and not wanting to go in, I realize I have another Rick Fleck to consider…that is you, dear readers (if there are any except Curt).

This is ridiculous! I’m scared to enter a church for Chrissakes” (again, I’m outside)!

“I’ll just slip in the back pew,”  I tell myself, “no one will see me.”  I approach the double doors, dark brown and rather commanding for such a small building.  They look heavy, and not wanting to draw attention by fighting with them and possibly disrupting the service inside, I decide to use a lot of strength to open them up. Turns out, those doors are surprisingly light, because I fling them WIDE OPEN with the vigor and drama one uses to stop a wedding, or  if I were maybe the devil himself.  Before me there is a small sanctuary with about 30 people inside. EVERYONE turns to look back at the door, but I never give them a chance to see who opened it.  I’m already trucking back down to the street to my car. Running. Away from church. Usain Bolt could not have kept up.

So now I’m driving home , excpet now my chest is seizing with laughter at the thought  of me tear-assing down Dundas St. with my coattails flapping then hood jumping my car like T.J. Hooker.  But mirth quickly mutates into  shame (stuff to do with religion always ends up with shame somehow).  This failed experiment is about more than my prejudice against Jehovah’s Witnesses.  This is about my total inability to step outside my comfort zone.   Going to church, talking to people I don’t necessarily agree with, possibly getting into an argument with someone about what they believe, or I believe…these things make me feel wildly uncomfortable.  But these are exactly the things I need to do if I’m going to get better acquainted with faith. This will not be the last time I will put myself in an uncomfortable position, and my performance today is as illuminating as it is discouraging.

Still, crashing the party over at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses has proven to be a good lesson in tactics. Henceforth, I will take the journalist’s approach to things and hide behind being a professional inquisitor.   If you call ahead, talk to someone, let them know you’re coming, it feels less daunting.  Not exactly the bravest move outside my comfort zone, I know.   But I think I’ll walk (into a church) before I run (away from another one.)

ADDENDUM: Thanks to the current and former JWs who took issue with the dates on which the Jdubs announced the end of the world.    Just because sixteen dire warnings were issued does not mean the Watchtower Society settled on sixteen different dates.   It was more like 3 or 4…allthough personally, I think claiming the end of the world ONCE and getting it wrong is enough to give one pause.

480 dollars is all it took.  480 dollars made me realize I need to be a better friend, starting today.

It’s 3am and I’ve been lying in bed for hours with what feels like a tumor growing in  my stomach, as well as the strong impression that my world is collapsing. What’s worse,  no one knows about it.   Normally it’s a constant, low-level feeling that I manage with a lot of humor and the sense of purpose that writing (like this) is providing.  Right now though, that feeling is kicking my ass.  And all because of 480 dollars.

When my ex-girlfriend and I split it was easy and rather amicable, as we had little shared property — except for our car.  We both paid an equal amount for it, although I have paid for almost all of the maintenance.  This was a sensible deal, since at the time we bought it I made twice as much as she did.  When she moved out, she was unemployed and we agreed that it made sense for us to continue to co-own it, since she needed a car to get around but couldn’t afford to keep one on her own.

Now, she is working.  I am not.  My resources are dwindling.  So when I woke up Christmas morning and saw that all four of  tires had been slashed, I knew it was going to be a financial blow that I really did not need (not that ANYONE needs a financial blow).  We have to reconsider our arrangement with the car, I thought, and this might as well be the place to start.   So I asked her to pay for half the cost of replacing the tires.  480 Dollars.  And she balked.

The source of her hesitation is the source of all our troubles; she finds me withholding and untrustworthy, and her instinct is protect herself.    She’s not wrong to feel that way, and that’s something we will have to unpack for a while.  But in this situation, my trustworthiness is beside the point.  Tires were slashed.  Cars needs tires to work.   I’ve rarely asked for help unless I absolutely need it.  I’m asking for it now.  These are incontrovertible facts.

Her reluctance underscored a growing sense that I am largely abandoned.   I’m in the biggest city in the country,  most of my friends here live within a fifteen minute drive …and I don’t know if I can reach out to any of them.   Most of the friends who could help me seem to have no inclination.   One or two have given me help, but not necessarily the kind I need.   And there are many friends who I believe would help me if they could, but are powerless to do so.

In fact, the most meaningful help I’ve received in this past year from hell was from strangers; I got two job contracts from men I’d never met before and when I had my motorcycle accident, I was helped by two Hell’s Angels — of all people.

Sure, this is all refracted through the subjective prism of my own mind and I am not in a good place, but still.  I feel like I’m fading from view, as if  I’m drowning, and the most any of my loved ones can do is watch me go under.

I look at this situation and think what did I do to get here?  Was I a bad friend at one point? I know I’ve hurt people, let some of them down, but  I just want to  work and add something to the world.   Have I been so terrible to others that I’m no longer worthy of assistance?  Has one of my friends been in the same position in the past and I’ve missed it?  I always thought of myself as generous in spirit,  but at some point did I refuse someone in need and this is karmic retribution?

But like I said…refracted through the prism.

This feeling, this sense of crushing aloneness,  is the tip of the knife.  Once it slides into you,  a whole bunch of other, far more cancerous things come with it…resentment, cynicism, and eventually hate.    I’m using everything I got right now to fight it off.   The very act of writing this is a start.  But it has to go further.  So it’s a cliché, but I’m thinking that if I want a better friend,  then I have to be a better friend. Clichés have a funny way of being true.

Jonathan Fields is very  a successful blogger, and he starts every day on Twitter with “Good morning, how can I help today?” I don’t know how many people reply, or with what requests,  but it seems like a good idea. So I will be a servant of humanity and  every morning, I will ask all of you the same question and you should feel okay to reply with anything you want.  I promise to do what I can.    It may seem like I’m trying to help you, but really it’s the other way around.

Oh well. I guess that’s to be expected…probably off to a rest home to yell at seniors, or maybe over to Stornoway so he can leave a flaming bag of shit on Iggy’s door.   I’m sure of one thing though, whatever jagoff thing he’s doing, he’s doing it well.  As rogues go, he’s no amateur. He is all pro rogue (cue rim shot).

But after writing my letter to Steve, I feel so…EXERCISED now!  I mean,  reaching out to a major political figure like that has put me in a frothy-mouthed, political frenzy.  The only thing is…I’m completely out of the loop as to what’s going on.  A combination of  low-level contempt for politicians and intense self-absorption has left me somewhat ill-informed on the issues affecting my community.  By “somewhat ill-informed” I mean “utterly clueless.”

So I’ve got to put Project MODEL CITIZEN into play.

I’m going to do like Steve is and get myself re-calibrated. But instead of ignoring the rest of the democratically-elected,  I’m going to MEET with my political representatives.

Federally, that would be Olivia Chow (married to an insurance salesman that looks a lot like NDP leader Jack Layton).  Provincially, I’ll be getting up in-the-grille of Rosario Marchese, a 20 year veteran of Ontario politics who probably knows where lots of bodies are buried.  And then there’s  my City Councillor, Adam Vaughan, son of the late Colin Vaughan, a political titan in this town.

If they’re willing, I will take measure of their character  and  ask them about the biggest issues affecting my community, plus what (if anything) I might do to help out.   I will forewarn them that in the event an election is called at any level of government in the next calendar year, (unlikely for Marchese, possible for Chow, sure thing for Vaughan), I might consider running against them. And if I do, I will be coming at them with BOTH HANDS!  Unless they can talk me out of it…

I admit, this probably seems like the eating-your-peas part of being a Better Man; it’s not sexy, but it is important. I do believe revolutionaries are sexy and get all the ladies because they stir passions for change, but implementing that change is a long, labour-intensive process that involves hours of frustration and compromise which could result in something other than what you’d hoped.  Kinda like real life.

For years I’ve been bitching about those people whose ignorance of politics is so deep they think Parliament is  a funk band.  At the same time I’ve gleefully mocked those geekwads who LOVE politics.  Any way you look at it I’m a hypocrite and a flake, qualities that I suspect you’re unlikely to find in a Better Man.

So here’s where it begins.   Project MODEL CITIZEN is a GO! If nothing else, maybe I’ll get a free cup of coffee and some funny things to tell you about afterwards.

Hi Steve! (Can I call you Steve?)

My name is Chris, and I’m working on being a Better Man for the next year.  I’ve lined up a few projects for myself to tackle, and I realize you’d be the perfect man to help with one of them. Basically, I think I might need to be a bigger asshole in order to be a better man.

You see, it occurred to me that I’ve spent a good portion of my life being more or less honest, trying with my limited gifts to be as decent as I can.  I can’t say I’ve always succeeded, but I’ve tried:  I’ve been polite, courteous, followed the rules, not just in letter but in spirit.  Whenever I said I believed in something, I tried to stick to it.  Sounds so…Canadian, doesn’t it?

Anyway, it’s gotten me nowhere.  I’m unemployed (thanks for the cheques, BTW, they’re coming in handy),  I’m single,  I’m broke and I have zero prospects.  So it occurred to me that I shouldn’t limit my definition of what a better man is – I mean, what if a Better Man isn’t someone who is honest, forthright, and sticks to principle? What if a Better Man is fiendishly clever, amoral, and never lets his principles get in the way of pursuing naked self-interest in order to get what he wants?  What I’m saying, Steve, is that you may be proving the argument that says to be a better man, you have to be an complete dick.

And you didn’t come by your prick-ish-ness naturally.   You’ve been hard at over the last few years. I remember when you were just starting out in politics, and you always bleated about how  Canadians needed better representation in government.  You said they’d never get it so long as we had those dusty old rules that technically still make us a constitutional monarchy.  Yet, proroguing Parliament on a whim and shutting down democracy for two months is something that could never happen if those rules didn’t exist.  You have managed to stifle democracy in a democratic country, and you’ve done it by using the same antiquated parliamentary system you vowed to fix.   You took the enemies of your conscience and made them …frenemies! Nice.

Take the Senate, for example… first, you were all pissy about an unelected Senate, and what a travesty it was.  Then, you were contrite about how you haven’t done anything about the Senate (by blaming the Liberals). But now that you’ve called a two month timeout, you’ll APPOINT the shit out of that senate house so you may use it to work on…wait for it… SENATE REFORM. Up is down. Black is white. Masterful!

Oh, I just remembered something else!  You know how you went on and on  about the Liberal sponsorship scandal costing Canadians $250 million dollars? Well, cost-wise, this extended snow day may end up costing just as much.   The time and money that have gone into the parliamentary committees, the work that went into proposed legislation..all wasted. When Parliament resumes, you’ll have to start all those new bills from scratch.  Now, when the sponsorship  scandal was still an open sore on our body politic, you had plenty of indignant opinions about it.  Here? Not a whisper, but as you told Mansbridge , you already got the bills passed that your party wanted, so who cares? Brilliant!

Speaking of scandals,  there’s your pirouette on the “alleged” torture of Afghan detainees. THAT was a thing of beauty, the way you dismissed the moral imperative of looking into the abuse of human beings on the grounds that the issue doesn’t poll well.  Here you are, a “champion” of Canadians’ need to be more involved in the affairs of their country, now banking on their apathy.  Total dick move, man! Assholes don’t “DO inquiries” – those are for suckers, like Liberals.

So let’s add it up; you’re stacking the deck in the Senate, sweeping the torture scandal under the rug,  wasting millions of taxpayer dollars in time and money on plans for the country that will die on the vine,  and no one can stop you because hey! YOU’RE PLAYING BY THE RULES! And you achieved all this because you were unafraid to eat your principles in the same way a dingo eats babies.  You blow off anyone who questions you (or even fire them, like some of your independent watchdogs), you treat Canadians as  ignoramuses (not to mention some of your ministers, what with you barring them from speaking to the media)….excuse the gushing but what a ruthless, free-wheeling, unapologetic asshole you’ve become! You’ve climbed Everest in nothing but a Jock Strap.  Bravo, Steve-O, BRAV-O!!!

What’s truly ballsy is you’ve managed to do all this with a MINORITY government, the political equivalent of a three-seven offsuit.  I must confess… I always thought you were scary, but I figured that with a minority you could go off your meds and not cause much damage.  But then there was all those speeches about government accountability, transparency, and fiscal conservatism at a time when we needed it, and I SO! BOUGHT! IT! You totally got me!!!  That, my friend, is the greatest gift of any asshole – to be able to convince people that you’re something you’re not, then have your way with them.  Some jerkwads do that to their girlfriends, but you did it to an ENTIRE COUNTRY!  You’re like the Yoda of assholes!

I won’t even get into the LAST time you shut down Parliament because you were afraid you’d lose your job, and then said it was because the opposition was trying to hijack democracy  (even though what they were prepared to do was totally allowed under the rules of parliamentary democracy)! All I will say is…well… you’re an inspiration!  I feel I MUST know what it takes to be Prime Douchebag such as you are now. It’s not like you’re busy right now (and you’re still getting paid – SHOW ME how to do that!!) so hook a brutha up!

I admit, I do feel weird asking for your help since I never voted for you but give it some thought, okay?  I’ve called this Project “ARI GOLD” but if it helps things,  I’d consider changing it to “Project: STEPHEN HARPER”. How’s THAT for a carrot?

Alright…break on 3! 1! 2! 3! BREAK!

Chris.

p.s. Oh yeah, I was going to mention this other project called MODEL CITIZEN. It’s all about trying to get politically engaged, taking active interest and get involved in the decisions that shape the country…actually, come to think of it, you probably don’t care about that one.  Forget it.

p.p.s  Check out these jugheads on Facebook! The obviously don’t appreciate your brilliance the same way I do.

In an effort to start my year of betterment right,  I went to a yoga class.   I immediately felt sluggish and fat..very girl of me, I know.  Looking at yourself in a yoga studio mirror for an hour and a half when feeling this way is like waterboarding your own self esteem. But as I would discover throughout the day, sometimes you  have to poke the bear (the “bear” in this case being my profound ambivalence about myself) because it’s the only way to get better.

I’ve been doing this better man thing for just a week now. I haven’t even really started much, outside of developing a plan that, when I read it, delivers a hot punch of self doubt straight to the throat.   As if this weren’t enough,  I have met the man who will be my nemesis. Every hero needs one (and I have my share of male rivalries going because everytime a friend of mine succeeds I die a little inside) but now I have one person to direct all my energies towards –this guy.

This is Jake, aka, The Bachelor. Now I may not know his last name, but I know his type. I met him last night, watching “The Bachelor” with three female friends – Leah (forty-ish style consultant), Ashley ,(artist manager, 24, very sunny), and another Ashley (22, documentary researcher, willowy and slyly funny).

Judging from how he’s presented on the show,  Jake came to earth on a spaceship from the planet Krypton. The man reads like the “must haves” on every woman’s internet dating profile: single, Man-In-Uniform (airline pilot), no kids, good family (of doctors), honest, Christian-clean, looks great with his shirt off.  He’s handy with power tools, and for just a touch of edge, he rides a motorcycle.  He claims to have no skeletons in his closet, a bold claim in TV land where no celebrity shortcoming or indiscretion is too small to make the cover of In Touch magazine.   As my friend Leah pointed out, he probably never even had a cavity.  I instantly had a man crush on him, along with every woman watching. Hollywood wins again.

As one of the Ashleys pointed out “he’s a good man,I kind of like that he’s got integrity and values, but that would get tired.” And is if they heard Ashley, the producers of the show revealed scenes of Jake crying, and another where he storms out of an interview in disgust.  All the ladies watching with me cooed over these emotional outbursts.  Now, I do shit like that all the time,  but on me it reads more like I’m a crybaby with an anger management problem. On Jake, it looks “passionate”.  I suppose anti-social behaviour is more attractive when it comes with rock hard abs.

Jake is an ideal male archetype. The show drives this point into your head like one of those pneumatic guns used to kill cows.  Jake has ALL the skills I want and that I will spend this entire year trying to acquire. He  is the image of perfection- and I am a mess of realities. I don’t have a job,  I can’t stop bullets with my stomach,  I’ve never built shelters for homeless people or delivered a baby in the back of a cab (I THINK they showed him doing that), and I certainly don’t have women chasing me like he does (at one point in the show, they LITERALLY chase him…like a lone Beatle a la Hard Day’s Night).

However, my jealousy is softened by one thought; it’s unlikely he has any kind of rich examined-life to speak of, whereas all I have is a rich examined-life.  My  flaws may have got me where I am, but I will make them character building steps in my year of betterment. I will never be as good as Jake on paper, but if I work really hard and kick the shit out of myself this year, I could be better than him in real life. As far as I know, real life doesn’t come with a hot tub full of nubile vixens clawing each others eyes out for the chance to marry me, but it could end up being something pretty decent anyway.

So lets THROW DOWN Jake (if that’s your real name)! This messy man is going to scribble ALL OVER your image of perfection.  You’ve got nowhere to go but down. I have nowhere to go but up.  I will meet you in the middle, and I will SMOKE your ass! Beleev’dat!

Like most guys,  I rarely make it a point to watch the Bachelor, albeit for different reasons.  Most guys just simply don’t give a shit.  I , on the other hand, actively resent the program, and not because it trivializes marriage, or the act of courtship -  although they are justifiable reasons not to watch.

No, I’m pissed at the Bachelor because I’m unlikely to get picked TO BE the Bachelor.   Think about it:  twenty five impossibly beautiful women, all in their prime, all hell bent on getting married, and all vying for YOUR attention. Nobody’s cock blocking,  music isn’t blaring so loud you have to use sign language, and everybody thinks your jokes are funny (otherwise they’re GONE!). This is the closest an average male will ever get to life as a rock star. You don’t have to be witty, you don’t have to bathe if you don’t want to – all you just have to do is show up. For someone like me, who has been both incredibly lucky and incredibly lazy when it comes meeting women,  a better scenario could not  be contrived. (there is the downside of no actual intercourse, lest you’re branded a douchebag on national TV, especially if the girl you poked doesn’t get the final rose)

Sadly, I’m too old, too average, too wide, and too broke to get picked, so in protest,  I refuse to watch.   But is that wise?  Maybe, just MAYBE there is some instructional value to the program -  some lesson, some lucid insight that might help me in my quest to become better.    If I watch, could I possibly find illumination in a single red rose?

Probably not, but I’m going to try anyway (perhaps a sign of how low I am).  I have invited some of the shows target audience (females aged 24-49) to help talk me through some of the parts I don’t understand. I will let you know how it goes….

From: Chris Nelson

To: Tiger Woods

Dear Tiger,

Fucking Brit Hume, man -  what an asshole.  Here it is,  the end of the holidays, you’re finally off the front page, and no doubt you figured people were starting to forget about you. Then Buttmunch decides to exploit your misery to put down Buddhism and give Christianity a shout out.  He says he just wants you to take care of your soul.  I, on the other hand, think you already are, and I applaud you.

You see, Tiger, you have vividly illustrated Chris Rock’s point when he said “A man is only as faithful as his options.”  You are in complete command of one of the most popular sports in the world, you’re wealthy to the point of abstraction, you’re a history-making racial vanguard, and you happen to be young and reasonably good looking – of COURSE you’re going to see more ass than a toilet seat!  It’s not like you have to persuade a girl to fuck you (like I do). I would like to think you had the best of intentions when you first married Elin.  However, I suspect life for you must feel like a tsunami of tail, targeted directly at you, and there’s only so much one mortal male can turn away.

Those guys (like Brit Hume), tsk-tsking your behaviour last month? Chances are they have WIVES and KIDS, not to mention mini-vans, mortgages, credit card balances they can’t clear, and about 40 extra pounds they need to shed. Not only would it be impolitic for them to say “Right ON, Tiger!” but they have no empathy – there’s NO WAY they’d be in a position to suffer the bras and panties of your outrageous fortune. They simply do not have your options.

Now, I should explain – I don’t pay much attention to golf, or any other sport where the professionals who play it could be 300-pound slobs and still be called “athletes.” That said, I did slavishly play Tiger Woods PGA Tour ‘07  on Playstation for an entire year. Normally I would have no opinion on you, but given my close relationship with your pixelated avatar , I feel I should throw my support behind you.

You’re one of the most publicly private citizens in the world; You offer no opinions, you make no outrageous comments, you don’t get drunk and belligerent in public, or troll major cities looking for a TMZ crew to snap your picture. Your boat is called PRIVACY – how could people not get the hint? But this has made you a cipher, onto which golf fans and avaricious sponsors project their hopes and aspirations. Cha-ching.

And really, it’s all that projection that’s deluding the public into thinking you OWE them some humiliating public act of contrition.   You are the tall grass, my friend, and they are looking to give you a haircut with the Lawn Mower of Misplaced Expectations.  Unlike a lot of celebrities these days, your fame depends primarily on your ability to play golf, and less on people’s willingness to pay attention to you.     You owe them nothing.  You owe me nothing.  The only people to whom you owe anything are your wife and kids.

Not that you need any more cashish, but foregoing millions in sponsorships and walking away from glory and adoration just to step back and refocus your priorities on being a better man, a better husband and father? that’s brave. That’s way braver than some dubious apology formulated by a crack squad of PR people and then soft-balled on some Tiger-friendly non-judgapalooza like Larry King. It’s brave because your wife has far less reason to forgive you than we do, and the chances you’ll succeed in earning her forgiveness and regaining her trust are pretty low.  Yet her forgiveness is what you need the most.

So what you’re doing is pretty revolutionary, and kind of classy, in my opinion.  It shows some character, although not as much as if you hadn’t tapped so many asses (and excuse me, but OMFG! Where did you find the time to actually play golf?).  But it’s a start.    Now get gone, and stay gone. I don’t want to see your face, or hear you speak, unless it’s to tell me how great Gillette razors are.

But Tiger…if you find yourself alone in your 60-room “cottage” and you need someone to bro down with, let me know…just trying to be better over here too.

Sincerely,

Chris

11)    Charlie Sheen – let’s tally; inexplicably popular TV series, gorgeous women (lots), a society that still tolerates you, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT? Dick.

10)    Jon Gosselin – Just…enough. Okay? Enough.

9) Matthew McConnaughey. Actually, I’ve got no quarrel with the man – I approve of anybody who’ll play the bongos whilst both naked and high. But please, buy some shirts or put on 30 pounds -you’re wrecking things for the rest of us.

8)    Steven Harper – “Hi, I’m a calculating , humourless leader of a twice-barely-elected MINORITY government and I am taking over this frozen tundra you call Canada…NOT because I’ve grown tired of the Afghan torture scandal, all this crazy talk about “climate change” , those other parties, or Canadians themselves but simply BECAUSE I CAN, and you ungrateful peasants can do absolutely nothing about it. Suckas. Oh and…vote for me?”

7)    Michael Ignatieff – “huh? What’s going on? Mummy…is it time for tea yet?”

6)    Jack Layton – “I’m outraged…by everything.”

5)    The Prophet Mohammed – Maybe it’s just your followers who think progress is taking us all back to the 12^th century, but Dude! Get thicker skin already! You gotta realize (just like Sean Penn, Axel Rose and Mike Tyson) that when you’re famous, people want to print your picture.

4)    The Toronto Maple Leafs – I’m not even a fan, and I’m embarrassed.

3)    Jay Leno. More proof that power corrupts absolutely (see Steven Harper) but also that it makes you do dumb things, like this show.

2) Michael Bublé.  I have it on good authority that Crooner Boy will fuck just about anything with a hole in it, which was just bad for Emily Blunt (call me!)   But he’s trying to be a better man – he said so on CBC.  Let’s see if he succeeds.

AND THE NUMBER ONE MAN WHO NEEDS TO GET BETTER IN 2010 (BESIDES MYSELF) IS….