I have returned to my new “home”  in Toronto following a drunken  fling with my ex-city Vancouver.  Oh my – Vancouver was gorgeous, the sun warm, the whole town abuzz with the Olympics.  Here in the “Big Toe” (as I like to call it) the snow is flying,  I’m sick with either food poisoning or Norwalk virus, and  I just found out I’ve been turned down for yet another job.  My EX wanted to move here (said it felt most like home) and my friends said if I was serious about my career then moving to Toronto was the only thing to do. Today, though, it feels like the worst decision of my life.  I’m finding it hard to love a city that doesn’t seem love me back, but according to Adam Vaughan, that may be EXACTLY what I need to do if I want to be a model citizen.

Vaughan is my city councillor here in Toronto, and he’s agreed to tell me what I can do to become a better TORONTONIAN.  Now,  that is a word I rarely apply to myself.  Having just done so,  I find it’s making me itchy, as though I’m wearing a wool sweater.   Nonetheless, here I am, staring Vaughan down across his desk in City Hall, looking for answers.  He’s 48, and although his hair is grey,  the stylish clear rims of his glasses and the slightly too-large grey suit make him seem youthful, almost boyish.  His manner is polite but terse, like that of a man with many appointments and not much time for someone with amorphous goals, like me.

“A lot of people hate Toronto” Vaughan starts.  “There are plenty of folks who came here because they felt they had to.   They bring a lot of baggage about Toronto with them, but I have little in common with these people.  I love this place.” It’s right then that I realize I probably  have little in common with Adam Vaughan.

Nonetheless, I need some good ideas on how to be a model citizen, and I figured the man who represents me in civic politics is  the right guy to provide some: he’s lived here his whole life and he grew up in a household devoted to Toronto’s politics – his dad Colin was city councilor in the 60s and 70s who later covered City Hall as a TV reporter. Like his dad,  Vaughan also covered municipal politics as TV reporter, and also chose to seek public office.   He seems to have some natural advantages.  His biggest, though,  may be an excess of civic pride.  If that’s the first prerequisite for being a model citizen, then I’m fucked.

I put that aside for a moment to suggest that the work of a civic politician is not unlike that of a janitor, or building superintendent. He’s says I’m not wrong. “A city has to function.  Roads need to be fixed, garbage needs collecting.  Things need to work.” He calls constituency maintenance, and he admits it’s a big part of his job.  I tell him it sounds a tad boring.

But Vaughan says it’s the price you must pay for having a role in  how the city evolves. .  “I love the idea of city-building.  It captured my imagination as a kid, and it still does.  All that other stuff is my way of earning a right to have a say in the future of Toronto.” Vaughan compares it to the difference between building a house and keeping it clean.  One requires you to be creative, the other does not.  “I can’t believe how creative this job is.”

According to Vaughan, that same practical imagination is present all over his ward; car-free Sundays in Baldwin Village,  or re-development in Alexandra Park.  “There isn’t a corner of my ward that isn’t doing something interesting.”

It’s this chance to be on the ground level of all those innovations that Vaughan says keeps him so engaged..that and his personal connections. “I live in the same 20 blocks I grew up in.  I took some heat recently for suggesting that anyplace outside the 416 is the rest of Canada to me, but it is.”  In a previous life,  I may’ve taken exception to that statement, but Vaughan says it in a congenial, matter-of-fact way.  It doesn’t smack of the customary Toronto-centric arrogance I’ve come to expect from such a declaration.   He loves Toronto, and he doesn’t care if you hate him for it.   It’s probably that gift for stating his preferences so unapologetically that makes a bid for mayor unlikely, not that Vaughan minds.  “This job consumes me.  I’m with it every minute of every day, and I love it. Ribbon cuttings, all that ceremonial stuff – holds no interest. I can only think I’d be less effective if I tried to run the whole thing.”

Much as we realize we may not love the same place, I find myself taking a liking to Adam Vaughan -  He insists he’s not an ideologue, that he has no personal interest in acquiring power, and he says it in a way that makes it hard to doubt.  He seems to have taken on what could be a soul-crushing job motivated by a sheer love of where he lives.  That’s great, but how can I help if I don’t share his enthusiasm?

There’s plenty to do, he says.  He rattles off the name of at least a half dozen organizations in my district that he says are in “desperate need” of volunteers.   All that’s required on my part is a willingness to “accommodate difference,” to  “leave isolation and get engaged.”   Toronto is one of the most diverse cities in the world, he points out.   It’s very existence depends on people’s acceptance of their neighbour’s differences. So, I don’t necessarily have to love my city, just try to love my neighbour? “More or less,” he says. “But they’re sort of one in the same, don’t you think?”

Love thy neighbour.  It’s such a simple idea, so  pervasive and common that it’s become little more than a slogan on a t-shirt to most people.  

When it is spoken, it’s usually done so ironically,  the punchline to some lurid joke.    Yet it stands at the heart of one of the world’s most powerful religions (whether we remember that fact or not),  it is probably the simplest rule for anyone to follow if they want to be better, and I think Adam Vaughan is trying to tell me it’s a guiding prinicple in how he represents his ward.   I’ve heard “love my neighbour” my whole life, yet this may be first time I  see how the sentiment can be applied so practically.

One of Vaughan’s assistants enters his office to tell him his next appointment has arrived. Unlike when we started, he now seems unconcerned about his waiting guest.   He smiles easily now, and appears almost reluctant to stop talking about what must be his favourite subject. I get up to leave,  promising him that I will make it a point to reach out to some of the organizations he mentioned.  As we shake hands, he says “If you have time on your hands, you should work on my re-election campaign.”   It’s an intriguing idea.  The cynic in me is saying perhaps he’s in desperate need of volunteers. On the other hand,  maybe he’s leading by example; sure, I don’t love his hometown – not YET – but he’s not holding it against me.

Cities are a little like girlfriends – no matter beautiful they are,  you eventually get sick of their bullshit.   Vancouver was no different.  I lived there for 12 years, and as much I enjoyed it,  the novelty was gone; the cumulative effect of its less-than-charming idiosyncracies had worn me down.    So as wistful as I was when my girlfriend (now Ex) and I moved away,  a part of me was kinda ready to go. And I certainly wasn’t charmed by  the city getting the Olympics.  I thought of it as a remote and ill-defined concept,  made manifest mostly through constant road blocks on Cambie Street as I struggled to cross town.

But as I watched the opening ceremonies in my NOW bachelor pad in Toronto with my  NOW ex-girlfriend, featuring my EX-home looking better than she’s ever been,  I suddenly felt like I was missing something.  Someone was throwing a party at my house while I was out of town.   Just as I decided that it’d be worth it to show up, an old MuchMusic coworker called.  He told me he was going to direct a kind of “We Are the World” (minus the sequined glove) type music video for Haitian relief,  featuring Canadian artists.    It was shooting in Vancouver, since any up-and-coming young Canadian artist worth caring about is currently there.    He wanted my help and the only catch is I’d have to fly out the next day.  I think the word operative word here is “serendipity” and it never felt so, well, dipity.

So here I am, walking the streets of my old hometown.   British reporters can shit all over this event as much as they want – I have never seen the city this alive and it’s thrilling to be here.   I’m well aware of the crises behind these games – the glitches, the Stalinesque security,  the desperate effort to hide the prominent homeless situation – as cold as this sounds,  I don’t care.   As exes go,  Vancouver seems hotter and happier than she ever was when I was around; she’s been to the gym, she’s dressing better and everybody is making a big fuss over her.   As always when this happens, it’s a bittersweet moment;  it makes me proud to have truly loved Vancouver, but at the same time  I’m sad I haven’t been part of her new life.

That type of missing out is a bittersweet feeling which used to cast a pall over me most times;  I hear friends talk about the things they’ve done, and my experience would  seem hollow by comparison.   I always felt like I was missing the right parties, the right jobs, the right dates.   That feeling is partly why I decided to leave Vancouver when I did (because Toronto was supposed to be where it’s at) and that longing is also why I decided to come here and celebrate her make-over. Thankfully, it doesn’t consume like it used to – I’ve come to  realize that things are rarely as good as you imagine them  and the best moments are usually the ones you don’t anticipate.    The most you can hope for is that memories you create for yourself are as good in reality as they are when you describe them to others.

I can project ahead to the day after the Games – the reasons why I can’t stay in Vancouver haven’t gone away and they will hit me like a hangover, once the party ends.   I don’t know if it’s the sign of  me becoming a Better Man, but as glad as I am to be here right now,  I also know this is just a fling… for old time’s sake. When I leave this time though,  I shall wish her well.

The last post provoked some feedback, mostly from people who think that it’s highly impractical for me to NOT follow the Brad Pitt Rule with regards to Goddess.  I will concede that that there is a lot of common sense in their point, but I hope they will allow me to counter with four examples of men who defied the BPR and nonetheless managed to win their lady’s hand.  This by no means a comprehensive list – I encourage you to add your own examples, whether they be famous or personal.    Obviously, stories of successful defiance of the Brad Pitt Rule are preferred, but cautionary tales are also welcome.

Johnny Cash.   The man was a wreck when June Carter met him, but he couldn’t help himself – he says he loved her the first time he saw her.  Despite his wretched shape, Johnny repeatedly asked June to marry him, and repeatedly she had the good sense to say  no.    Perhaps it was the sheer force of his will, or his genius, or the fact that no amount of mistakes can the hide the goodness inside someone, June finally said yes (in Canada, no less).  They were married a week later, and stayed married for 35 years.

George Burns.  Gracie Allen was actually engaged to someone else when she first met George, but that didn’t stop Georgie from asking for her hand several times (“to share business expenses” he said).   Eventually, she relented.  They were married for 37 years until Gracie’s death in the mid-60s.

Odysseus.  Of all the guys who’ve had a tough time persuading a woman to love them, few guys had it as tough as Odysseus.  He had been separated from his wife Penelope for twenty years while he’s off fighting the Trojan War.  He nearly loses his life on the way back, and when he finally gets home, Penelope doesn’t recognize him. Now, because a) she was something of a looke and had to fight off potential suitors the whole time he was gone, and b) she knew her husband was a pretty remarkable dude, Penelope puts him through a bunch of tests.  First she has him compete with a bunch of other suitors to see who can string and shoot his own bow (only he does, of course).  Then, she makes him kill the other suitors (no easy task, even for Odysseus) THEN he has to answer a skill-testing question.  C’mon girl! He’s been fighting Trojans for two decades! Give the man a hug already!

Florentino Ariza (The male protagonist of the Marquez novel “Love in the Time of Cholera”).   Based on his behaviour, I doubt Florentino had ever heard of the Brad Pitt Rule.   Most of us spend our whole lives looking for someone who’ll captivate our imagination,  but the poor lovesick poet was lucky enough to find Fermina Daza very early in his life, and then unlucky enough to have her reject him for another guy.   Fermina made Florentino wait 51 years, 9 months, and four days before she relented and agreed to marry him.   Now THAT is what I call persistence.

So that a lot of lovin’ going on despite the Pitt Rule and other incredible odds. And it seems to me, these men have proven that overcoming the obstacles to achieve the hard won favour of a good woman, makes it all the more worth it.

Writing new blog posts lately is like crapping a pineapple.   Thoughtful points, clever turns-of-phrase -  I have to dislodge them from my brain with a pneumatic drill.    So when the muse visits, I have to capitalize on that brief moment of inspiration, because you never know when she’ll visit again or what form she’ll take.  Well, the muse is here RIGHT! FUCKING! NOW! and this time she looks  a lot like a dude named Peter.

Peter is a new reader (who probably discovered me through that AMAZING blog The Art of Manliness – thanks for the shout out Brett!) who was commenting on my text correspondence with Goddess, the woman who is partial inspiration for this blog.  Peter writes:

I’m sorry dude, but you’re not going to get this girl. Really. She doesn’t see you like that and she won’t. Apply the Brad Pitt Rule…(it) basically says that if G liked Chris, she would simply drop her “off the market” plan and just go on a date with him. If Brad Pitt would have asked her on a date, she would have said yes.

The logic of The Brad Pitt Rule (or Hugh Jackman Rule, or George Clooney Rule, depending on your taste) has proven to be as irrefutable as gravity,  which is why I was a strict observer of it in the past.  If I was fortunate enough to date a smart, beautiful woman,  it’s not because I was irresistibly suave or devilishly handsome.   Most times, I could never tell if a woman liked me or not unless she was being glaringly obvious.     On those occasions when I did go ahead and confess my affections, I was usually shooting blind, and it usually turned into a festival of pain.  That’s  why I gave up pursuing women altogether.

Now, I’m not ugly, but I’m no Brad Pitt. I’m not humourless, but I’m no Jack Black. I can’t bend it like Beckham, although I can bend it somewhat when bending is required.

  To be honest, I’ve been more than a little surprised by my luck.  I can only hope  my lovelife is evidence that there are natural orbital fields in dating, wherein everyone just gravitates to those most likely to love them.

I DO believe all the women I’ve dated to be inherently lovable. If they had one major flaw, it was  being unlucky enough to want me.   The miracle of predisposition and biochemistry had done most of the heavy lifting for us. You know that adage “nothing worth having comes easy”? Well,  with those relationships I had something worth having, and screwed it up precisely because they came easy.  I thought I risked nothing so I got bored quickly, and my thoughts would drift to the next woman.   It got to be  so that when the end  came, I felt bad but not that bad.  Oh sure, I may’ve pulled a Brian Wilson a few times, or tried to listen to “Blood on the Tracks” from start to finish, but I wasn’t really miserable so much as playing a miserable person for the sake of others.  After a while, I was glad they were gone. I had no idea how unworthy I was.

Even now, I can think of exactly one woman before Goddess (let’s call her pre-Goddess) that has inspired me to put in an effort, and the result is I think of her to this day as “the one that got away”.    It’s very likely she would’ve added little to my life except for misery, but I can’t help it.   I will unpack the baggage from that relationship in another post.  For now, it’s enough for you to know that pre-Goddess made me work for it, and that has made all the difference.

So essentially, I’m living proof that The Rules CAN work – the harder you make it, the more invested I seem to be.  To put it another way,  I tend to cherish the things I earn more than the things that simply fall in my lap, and that extends to women.   Mind you, these days we have a curious mindset about the effort required to start a relationship.  A lot of people treat love like economics -  trying to create scarcity around their “product”, even if their product sucks. 

They want other people to come to them, despite finding the ones who do  a little contemptible.   I have yet to resolve this paradox,  mostly because I’m endlessly charmed by stories from old couples like the ones in “When Harry Met Sally” – the husband meets his wife at the kosher deli and is consumed by a sense of destiny and she isn’t but through charming persistence she sees his quality and falls in love with him.   I dig those stories way more than the ones where two people meet and just KNOW.

Could that happen with G?  Frankly, Peter is right – all early indications are it is highly unlikely. But the same intuition that tells me tells me my chances for success are non-existent also tells me that Goddess is a person of character, and if there was ever anyone worthy of an effort, it’s her. I remember reading an essay by Vaclav Havel about hope.  Essentially, he said that hope is a state of mind, not of the world.  It’s not the same as joy that things are going well, or willingness to invest in enterprises that are obviously heading for success, but rather an ability to work for something because it is good. Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.

So you might say I have hope for Goddess – the idea of being with her makes sense to me, no matter how it ends.   I suppose a smart man would let G save herself for BP.  I’m not completely impractical, and perhaps at some point I will heed Peter’s advice and move on.  For the time being, though, I prefer to think G might be charmed by someone as dumb as me.

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I’m cinched tightly between the thighs of a man named James,  in an embrace that might seem tender if I wasn’t  trying to, “pass his guard” by getting over his legs. James is trying to prevent that by squirming away.   Occasionally,  James will initiate a throw where he tries to put me over his shoulder and take top position, but he doesn’t always get it right, and ends up inadvertently dropping his testicles on the top of my head (thankfully, they’re covered). I’ve taken exactly eight hours of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu so far, and much of the training has been like this….two men, on the floor, seemingly groping each other like horny teenagers.  This is phase one of  PROJECT: IRON FIST, and as I burrow my head into James’ chest to avoid another tea-bagging,  I consider the Larry-David-like-life-choice that got me here.

For the past several years now, I’ve been practicing something called Bikram yoga, or “hot” yoga. It’s done in a room heated such that some people have

been known to pass out, or vomit.  I started Bikram’s Yoga for two reasons; 1) I believe running is only  for people in danger, and 2) a beautiful woman I wanted to sleep with took it.  Sadly, I slept with that woman just once, but the thought that other beautiful women taking Bikram yoga may be similarly inclined has kept me returning.  It is reinforced by the fact that Bikram classes are littered with healthy, gorgeous women – in fact, one of them teaches my class.

This teacher looks like Megan Fox with a gap tooth, although unlike the famous Ms. Fox,  this doppleganger is rather pleasant.  Given her fondness for scandalous yoga costumes and demonstrating postures in a manner that makes most of the men in class light-headed, I believe she’s acutely aware of the impact of her beauty on others.

Bikram’s classes are strict on talking – only the instructor is permitted to speak.  What you’re left with is a room of people grunting and groaning as they contort themselves into vaguely suggestive postures.  It’s in the midst of this that one day Ms. Fox saunters over to me and pauses.  She  regards me with a quizzical look, then asks quite loudly, “Are you an ultimate fighter?”

ME: Excuse me?

FOX: An ultimate fighter? One of those martial arts guys.

ME:  Uh…why do you ask?

FOX: Well, you’re big and muscular (YES! SHE NOTICED!!) , but you’ve got a great practice.  Most guys I know like that are into martial arts.  Are you?

Now, I’ve watched mixed martial arts. I’ve even produced a mixed martial arts TV show.  But I have never, EVER, tried it before.  I’ve never so much as lifted my hand in anger to anyone, with the exception of my little brother, which is an older sibling’s birthright and responsibility. After a while, even that got tiresome.   I’m quite sure I could be mugged and pistol-whipped by a ten-year old girl.

But here I am, in a deathly quiet room with forty sweaty people and one impossibly beautiful instructor, all of them are waiting for an answer.   I suppose I could have said no, but at this point hope is trumping common sense, seducing me into thinking  ”she could be flirting”. Answering no could squelch whatever chance I may have to see the tiny remainder of Ms. Fox still covered by her skimpy yoga outfit.

So I improvise, and squeak out, “Jiu-Jitsu”. It actually comes out more like a question (“jiu-jitsu????”), as if to see whether or not she finds it believable.    She starts nodding her head.  “I knew it!” she exclaims, proud of her misguided powers of deduction.   I’ve just fathered a daft notion of one day seeing Ms. Fox naked,  one that Ms. Fox will no doubt murder in its crib when she finds out I’ve told her a very public lie. A better man would not do this.  It leads me to only one conclusion:  I must put the truth to my lie.

That’s why I  now find myself pulling James to the mat, struggling to avoid having to once again wear his balls for a hat.  He’s about 5’6″, slight, in his early 30s, with a hairline that’s slowly retreating to a far shore at the back of his head. James has been taking classes longer than I have, and there’s a single-mindedness  in the way he trains. He’s not a generous training partner  – he’s seems unconcerned about giving me a chance to practice some of the moves. Instead, I play the foil  as he perfects his own technique.  When James does lets me try, he  interupts often and explains what I did wrong with the barely subdued impatience of a child who knows he can do better.

I must admit my heart aches for James a little.  There’s something wounded about him. He seems hobbled by shyness but forced to engage the world by virtue of having his ass handed to him by a bully or two.  I suspect his path to this class has involved more formative indignities than most.   Judging from his know-it-all manner, some of them were probably deserved.

The plodding methodical nature of the training (combined with James’ deficit of charity) makes me impatient.  I’m unsure of what I’ve gained from class (other than friction burns on the top of my feet that look a little like AIDS lesions – the result of being dragged along the mat).  I understand the need to get the basics right, but despite this part of me still wants to tumble a little bit just to see how the mechanics of jiu-jitsu work in a real combat.   Then again,  you’ve got to be careful what you wish for.

We’re about to learn our first choke hold,  a move that’s charmingly called the “root canal” .  Essentially, it involves grabbing  the collar of your opponent’s costume by crossing your arms and tightening your grip. This is guaranteed to make your opponent tap out  (or give up),  our instructor says.

In a rare magnanimous gesture,  James invites me to try it first.   I start on James but the generosity is short-lived. Once again I’m not doing it right…either my grip in his costume is too light, or I’m not getting my elbow high enough on his neck.   We switch, which suits me fine – knowing what kind of effect I’m going for will help me perfect it,  right?

James gets on the bottom.    “Ready?” he asks.  “Sure, go ahe…” I have no time to finish the sentence before James has pulled aside my costume with this left hand, shoved his right hand to the top of my collar, shrimped out to the right to get his left elbow against my neck, then pulled back in to tighten the choke.   I can feel my face go red and my blood pressure skyrocket.    My only effective means of communication is to tap against his arm, the equivalent of saying “uncle.” James does not comply.   I tap again, this time harder.   Blackness starts creeping downwards across my eyes like roller blinds.  I can see just enough to know that James has a glassy, triumphant look in his eyes. He’s enjoying this.

I tap a third time and James releases.  “Ooops! Sorry! But it’s just like that,” he says happily.  “Now you try.”

Except I have no desire to try.  I understood jiu-jitsu would necessarily involve someone trying to manipulate me into submission, but  it never really occurred to me that I would be expected to do it back.   James may have just tried to render me unconscious, but I’m strangely sanguine about it.  I am, however, profoundly troubled by the idea of doing the same thing to him.  I find the idea…shocking.

And right then,  I realize James has taught me my first invaluable lessson from jiu-jitsu – I have no killer instinct. None. With the exception of my little brother (and really, that’s a brotherly obligation),  I’m put off by the idea of inflicting pain on another person.

I’ve already imagined why James is so in touch with his inner rage. The entire sum of his youthful angst is channeled into a highly effective root canal. This is sublimated revenge for every time someone tore his Fraggle Rock t-shirt, trashed his Ursula Le Guin books,  stole his prized Dungeon and Dragons game set. There’s something primitive about his need.

I, on the other hand,  have no weaponized self-esteem issues.  Sure, there were the occasional insults, but nothing that escalated to bloodletting.  I was simply too unremarkable to warrant the attention of  the future violent offenders at my school.  I wasn’t too fat or too thin, too small or too big – basically, I slipped under the radar in life. James – he wasn’t so stealthy.

I get on my back and try to execute the maneouvre with increasing dissatisfaction from James. Everything I do is either, “too high” or “too loose.”  Now, “too indifferent” is a criticism that never occurs to him, although it’s probably the most true.

This only serves to prove that I’m a lover, not a fighter.    I suspect, though, that Ms. Fox may love fighters (I believe all women do, whether they cop to it or not).   If I’m to do well with jiu-jitsu,  I’ll need to find my killer instinct, my “inner James” if you will.   I plan to take an inventory of my past nemeses and project their cruelty onto whomever my opponent may be.  It’s either that, or out myself as a blatant liar to Ms. Fox.    Both options are unsavory.  Nonetheless, the better man must win, even if it is against angry geeks…nothing personal, James.

The last time MP Olivia Chow saw me, I can’t say I was at my best.   It was at a forum she  was hosting on tax reform – an event of such impossible boredom it required such an intense effort to stay awake I may have taken leave of my body.  The only thing that kept me tethered to reality was the thought of her boots…stylish, black knee-high numbers that complimented the attractive green skirt perched above them.  Well – there was also the fact that she looked better in person than on TV.   I thought I might lead with that when I went up to introduce myself, but that would be kinda creepy as opening volleys go. Besides – people who appear on TV regularly seldom enjoy hearing such news (I know I don’t), and I didn’t want to risk blowing what I hope might become a life-long friendship, ending in a future Senate appointment.

If Olivia noticed my fugue state the first time we spoke, she’s not telling me now.   We’re hidden behind some panels at the back of her bustling constituency office.  I asked that we meet so she might give me ideas on how to be a Model Citizen, and she graciously agreed (or perhaps realized it’s never wise to alienate a voter).  The unimpeachable boots have been replaced by a pair of lovingly worn Doc Martens as she reclines in a big swivel chair.  She slouches into a worn black leather that’s too big for her, giving off the slightly petulant air of a twelve-year-old who’s just discovered The Dead Kennedys, waiting in her dad’s office for him to return.

As if to complete the picture, she says “I am deeply cynical. I was born that way.  I’m not much of an idealist.”   From most politicians, this would be moment of unrehearsed frankness escaping from captivity, but the lack of hesitation and the mild world-weariness with which she says it  makes me think this is SOP.  It has the effect of making her seem a little noble, like one of those anti-heroes Humphrey Bogart would play.  At this moment though, I’m wondering if coming to her for advice on how to get engaged in the issues may not have been a mistake.

Watching the playground melodrama that is politics in Canada has left me a little disillusioned.  When I saw OC at the forum, and how ebullient  she was discussing such minutiae, I figured she must feel she has a calling, and she can show me how to find one too.  Not only that, she is a New Democrat, married to the leader of the New Democratic Party, Jack Layton. I suppose I was expecting something of an evangelist, one who would quote the party bible chapter and verse in hopes of winning a new convert.

Now, as I sit across from her, I realize her engagement on the HST issue was more a matter of professional pride than fervent passion.  Here, in the back of her drab, dollar-store-like office, she’s seems truly jaded.  According to her, that’s how she should be.  “I walk a razor’s edge.  I feel like I could leave this job at anytime.  But if I’m going to be an effective civil servant, I think that’s exactly the feeling I need to have.”

That last comment surprises me at first, but her logic is hard to refute:  idealogues deal in absolutes. Their goals are centered around their idea of the world as it should be and not as it truly is. When they fail, they’re quickly disillusioned and when they succeed, it’s usually at the expense of a lot of people who don’t share the same values. Then there’s the other kind of politician, the ones who love the perks of power and place those above the needs of their constituents.  “Either way, you’re in it for the wrong reasons” she explains.

What are the right reasons then? Her response is all tough-politician-with-a-heart-of-gold, and she says it like she means it; “The thought I might make the life of one person…just ONE…slightly better.  There are no big wins. I rarely expect the outcome I want.  What I do is pursue the one that I can live with.”

So, apparently the first piece of advice from my MP on how to be a model citizen is the same that I give to all potential girlfriends: lower your expectations.  We’re fifteen minutes into the interview and I feel like I may cry.   Mind you, she’s definitely NOT saying whatever is necessary to stay elected.

As it turns out, the OC  is fan of this blog (“loved your letter to your dad’).  Knowing about my year’s mission to become a better man, she’s actually came up with a project for me.   “Where do you live?” she asks.  I tell her about my building, a large condo tower at the corner of one of the busiest streets downtown.  “I know that place very well. Tell me – do you know any of your neighbours?”

I take a mental inventory of the cast of  Chris’ Building : there’s Running Lady, a small Asian woman with a habit of  cranking the speed on the gym’s treadmill then grabbing on tight, lest it launch her across the gym through the far wall;  there’s Mud Flap, a red-headed woman who recently lost lot of weight and insists on exercising in just a sport bra, her flaccid subcutaneous fat waving goodbye as it escapes its spandex prison;  Geriatric Gigolo, a gregarious man in his seventies with a penchant for flirting with every female resident in the building (proving that what sounds creepy and vaguely threatening at 39 somehow sounds ribald and charming at 79) .  Oh, and my neighbour across the hall. I suspect he is either renovating or has Tourettes, judging from the number of times I’ll hear him swearing behind the door of his apartment.

So, in a building of hundreds of people, I know four, and not very well.  That, to the OC, is a problem.  “I want you to throw a party for your neighbours,” she suggests.

What?  My first step in the political fray where I’m trying to get serious and she wants it to be a hoe-down?  “When people get together, they talk. When they talk, they find a common need.  Your goal then, is to talk to your neighbours in a casual way, agree on a common issue and then set about trying to fix it.” She explains that this is exactly what Obama did to create grassroots organizations all over America and it’s too good an idea NOT to steal.

It’s brilliant in its simplicity; not only will I get to actually get to know my neighbours, but I will take effective grassroots action.  Of course, there is the chance I may actually dislike my neigbours, but the OC insists she works well with people she doesn’t agree with.  ”Conservatives are true zealots, which means they have a code, so you can appeal to them on the basis that what you’re doing is morally right – except for Harper.” Power corrupts right?

The Liberals are a different story, according to Chow’s experience. “I don’t mean to typecast, but most Liberals I know only want to be back in power. They will only help if it benefits them and will stop immediately once it doesn’t.  I’ll work with a Conservative over a Liberal any day.”   Miracles and wonders.  Once again, she does singles out Harper, who by her definition is more Liberal (in the above sense meaning, more “power hungry”) than anybody else in Parliament.

I ask if she isn’t better off in the position of Official Opposition  – I figure with  a minority government,  an opposition party can still have some influence over policy without worrying about the corrosive effects of power.   “Oh now, I definitely want to govern.  We can press for, say, more affordable housing, but it’s not the same as actually building more affordable housing.”

Interesting. But if she’s right, and power corrupts, isn’t she worried about succumbing to its seduction?

“Sure,” she replies. “Moreover, it’s hard to self-correct, especially in a position like that.  Lucky for me I have friends who keep my head in proportion to the size of my body.  I was an artist before politics, and my friends will mail me paint brushes when they think I’m getting cocky, as a reminder that I can always be an artist again…if I don’t watch it.”

So to recap –  in order to be a model citizen, to have a positive impact on the political fortunes of my fellow citizens and my country, all I have to do is throw a party for a strangers (like ‘em or not), and while I should hope we can agree on a course of action and actively pursue it, I shouldn’t get all twisted about it if things don’t work out as I’d planned.  Even if it does work out there’s a chance that without good friends I’d develop an ego about it and start making bad choices.  I’ve been doing shit like this for years, so why didn’t I get crowned Head Sherpa of Citizen Mountain long ago?

No matter – I’m now starting to wonder if Olivia Chow isn’t some kind of autistic savant. She has revealed to me that the bar to making a difference politically may be lower than I thought, and  I suspect that’s exactly what she had in mind.   How many people  stay inactive because they think they require true belief,  or grand plans?  According to Olivia, all it takes is a willingness to actively change other people’s lives for the better, even if it’s a teeny bit.    That’s how she  claims to play it – not exactly “I Have A Dream” but perhaps every bit as meaningful.

Just as her choice of footwear has restored my faith in politicians’ taste,  Olivia Chow’s cynicism and lack of idealism may have helped restore my faith in politicians.   “You make tiny incremental improvements and little by little, things get better. That, is what makes it worthwhile. You remember Sisyphus? Well, my hope is that when I push the rock to the top of the hill and it falls down again, it won’t roll as far down as it did before.”

Okay then.  As I thank the OC and leave, I’m wondering if Running Lady and Mud Flap prefer Ex or Canadian.   Hey – maybe I should invite the OC?  She’ll probably be too busy leading a rally or judging a chili cook off or planting the seed of this same idea in someone else’s head.  If she did come, though, I hope she wears those boots.