smug bastard

By now I think we all know that celebrity interviews are complete horseshit.  They exist mostly to help the celebrity promote their latest movie/tell-all memoir/Playboy spread/prison release. Illumination is not a part of the design.

Personally, I’ve been party to the most craven of celebrity interviews – the movie press junket.  Studios will spend millions flying journalists in from Wichita or Reykjavik, put them up at a four-star hotel, and grant them a five-minute audience with the stars of the flick being promoted. In exchange for their largesse, the studios insist the discussion be limited to the movie, and that discussion be rather positive.

Suffice to say, the deepest insight you’re likely to get is how much the celebrity enjoyed working with their co-stars, be they human, penguin or Muppet (spoiler alert: they enjoyed it a LOT!).   The biggest revelations I ever had on a junket were that Jay Mohr does a killer Christopher Walken impersonation and Jennifer Aniston’s nipples are even perkier in real life – not exactly the Nixon Interviews.  Bad as they are, junkets interviews are only slightly worse than the stage-managed candor you see on 60 Minutes, or read about in Vanity Fair.   All of which is kind of sad, because I believe there’s something instructive in the lives of famous people, even if it’s just a cautionary tale.

That’s why I like the regular section in Esquire Magazine called “What I’ve Learned”.  Essentially, it’s a free-form, stream-of-consciousness discussion with famous people about the lessons they’ve gleaned from living unusual lives.  For “What I’ve Learned” Esquire tends choose people who have a few miles on them – which is good, because I don’t give a shit what Justin Bieber or Chris Brown have learned. Guys like Jeff Bridges or Terence Stamp, on the other hand, probably have some bits of wisdom from which we can all benefit.  Unburdened by the need to sell a product or atone for a scandal, these people come across a little more genuine than in other celebrity exposés.  Materially they’ve got less to gain, but a question like “What have you learned?” requires thought, and can really crystallize what it is you believe.  I think that’s the draw – at least, it is for me.

I was reading the most recent issue of Esquire, featuring life lessons from “The Other Guys” – Joe Biden, Gary Oldman, Art Garfunkel, Slash from Guns n‘ Roses, et al -  the kind of people who aren’t famous for being front and centre, who bask in the reflected glory of others.  I can identify with this group, and they inspired me to think about what I may’ve learned in the last few years.  It seems only fitting I should share what I’ve learned with you on this, my forty-first birthday and the second anniversary of this blog.  You may want to think you’ve learned as well – I’d love to see what you come up with.

CHRIS NELSON

Low Rent Blogger/

Occasional TV Producer,

41, Toronto 

I don’t understand why people get down on failure. Few things can motivate me to succeed quite as well.

That said, I’ll always depend on a guy whose failed at least once over a guy with an unbroken string of successes.  The guy who failed is less likely to lose his head in a crisis.

The best advice I’ve ever received from my Muay Thai coach is this: when your opponent hits you, shake it off.  Never let them know they’ve hurt you. It’ll only embolden them.

Waiting for the ideal situation is both brave and highly impractical. I’ll work with what’s available, and take comfort in knowing I can adapt.

I used to get vanity and integrity confused, but not since my daughter was born.

My dad joked that he never knew what true happiness was until he married my mother – by which time it was too late.  I think of that line whenever I consider my career choice.

I wish I could say I’m too enlightened to feel regret, resentment, or envy. The truth is, right now, I’m too busy to squeeze them in.

When someone starts by telling everyone how much experience they have, I start wondering how long it’ll be before they fuck things up.

Arrogant is a word insecure people use.

The best leaders I’ve met don’t exercise authority so much as make people feel like they’re a part of something greater than themselves.

I’ve had bosses that were inspiring, and bosses that behaved like contestants on The Apprentice.  I can work with both.

Sometimes you do a better job on things you’re not passionate about nor particularly care for.  Your thinking is clear and un-emotional. You don’t take things personally.

Only the brilliant and the persuasive are allowed to be assholes, which is why I’m obliged to be nice.

Real inspiration visits occasionally.  The rest of the time, I’m creating.

If I walk away from what I’m working on and come back later,  I find it’s actually better than I thought it was.

Right now, I’m making a good living writing jokes about entitled women.  I would do that for free.  I’ve got no business complaining about anything.

I never had a career plan – I just tried things that interested me.  Sometimes it worked out, sometimes it didn’t, but at least I wasn’t bored.

My best work is still ahead of me, and I’m glad I still feel that way.

There’s a few people who wish I felt worse about the way I treated them.  All I can say is everybody got the exact amount of contrition they deserved, which may’ve been less than they wanted.

Before, when dads told me how great it was to be a dad, I thought they were saying that to make themselves feel better.   I realize now only some of them were.

Louis Armstrong was right: some people if they don’t know, you can’t tell ‘em.

I know it’s a work of fiction, but To Kill a Mockingbird is hands down the best parenting guide I’ve read so far.

A lot of dads look at their kids and see the things they’ll never get to do. I may not turn out to be the best father, but at least I can look at my daughter and know I haven’t missed a thing.

I rarely cry at sad things, but happy things make me weep all the time.  Since my daughter was born, I haven’t cried so much in my life.

When you find something you like, buy two.

I can’t bring myself to get something unless I get rid of something.  It’s the only way to keep things uncluttered.

Next to my daughter, few things make me as happy as swimming at night in a freshwater lake. Preferably on mushrooms.

You may think it’s just a wristwatch, but really it’s an indicator of how seriously you think you should be taken.

I have serious misgivings about anyone who doesn’t like dogs or cheese.

I keep a running list of Baby Mama’s shoe size, cup size, dress size, favorite colors, designers, etc.   Love is paying attention to the details.

Motorcycles are not the defining passion of my life because I look cool and enjoy going fast – although that’s part of it.

Seriously though – we spend so much time limiting our exposure to things.  You can’t do that on a motorcycle.

If I tell the truth today, it’s mostly because I’m getting too lazy to lie.

I feel like I have a book in me.  I may never write it, but it’s nice to know it’s there.

When I look at my face in the mirror, it’s hard to see how moisturizing has helped.  But I’ll keep doing it.  Just in case.

When it comes to women, I’m a little like a gambler on a hot streak who thinks he’s winning with skill and not luck.  Fact is I haven’t punched my weight for years.

It’s not flirting if you mean it.

I used to think I knew what I needed from relationships, and then I met the woman I’m with today.

When they gave our daughter to me for the first time, I looked at her, turned to Baby Mama and said “I’m in love with another woman.” She seems okay with that.

Life is good. Why spoil it with expectations?

I’m amazed I still have it – a dog-eared copy of Esquire magazine from October 1993. It was a 60th Anniversary edition, titled “60 Things Every Man Should Know”, filled with essays from big thinkers like Norman Mailer and Ice-T, ruminating on such pressing subjects as boxing and sex doggy-style.  It sits in a tin box in my storage unit, along with a stack of somewhat less-distinguished publications, like my signed copy of Playboy with Katarina Witt on the cover, or the low-rent trade journal featuring the first article I ever got paid to write.

To be honest, I don’t know why I’ve kept that Esquire so long, since there’s only one essay in it I really care about, and I can practically recite it from memory.   It’s an essay on hope by then-Czech president Vaclav Havel, who died today.

At the time, I was only vaguely aware of who Vaclav Havel was.  I knew him as something of an Eastern European Nelson Mandela, but since I was neither Czech nor Slovak nor cared that much for velvet,  I paid little attention to his exploits.

Havel’s essay brought him into sharp focus for me. After reading it, I started to learn more about him. I realized Havel was the kind of Better Man I wished to be: brave, principled, idealistic, decent, but above all…hopeful, in precisely the sense he describes below.

The kind of hope he talks about isn’t diminished by failure, or enhanced by success.  Sometimes you hear people say that hope can be a killer, but Havel’s kind of hope gives comfort, because it comes from a deeper, more elemental place. With this kind of hope, the outcome of events has no bearing on its intrinsic value.  No doubt it’s why I’ve returned to this essay many times over the past few years, and why it will continue to resonate with me as I try to teach my little girl about hope.

Probably the most important thing about Havel’s essay is that he puts the burden of  finding hope on each of us – it’s not something anyone can give to you.  Bear in mind Havel was himself a symbol of hope for Czechoslovakians, yet here he is telling people that the meaning they may find in his struggle is nothing compared to the meaning they may find in their own.  As with all things, the answers lie within us. It’s my hope that I can equip Ava with the tools she needs to find hope within herself, just as Vaclav Havel did.  I suspect she’ll find it in the same place as resilience, and integrity.

There’s little more I can add to his words, except to say that I’m grateful for having discovered them, and I’m sad there won’t be more:

Never Hope Against Hope

by Vaclav Havel

Allow me to tell you a little story about the nature of hope and absurdity. In 1989, only a few months before I was to become, to my bewilderment, an actual head of sate, I survived my own death.

I had arrived in the countryside outside Prague at a place called Okrouhlice to visit artist friends. After a feast by a bonfire, I led a friend who had had too much to drink down a dark path toward a house nearby. In this total darkness, though completely sober, I suddenly fell into a black hole surrounded by a cement wall. The fact is, I had fallen into a sewer, into what can only be called, you’Il excuse me, shit.

My attempt to swim in this fundamental mud, this strange vegetation was in vain, and I began to sink deeper into the ooze. Meanwhile, a tremendous panic broke out above me. Local citizens flashed lights, grasped one another’s arms, legs, offering limbs, articles of clothing to grab; a chaos or rescue techniques followed. This brave fight for my life went on for at least thirty minutes.  I could barely keep my nose about this dreadful effluvium and thought this was the end, what a way to go, when someone had the fine idea of putting down a long ladder.

Who could have known I was to leave this unfortunate sewer only to end up in the president’s office two months later? I was not, after all, to have the distinction of becoming the first playwright to drown in shit in Okrouhlice.

What was striking about the sewer experience was how hope had emerged from hopelessness, from absurdity. I’ve always been deeply affected by the theatre of the absurd because, I believe, it shows the world as it is, in a state of crisis. It shows man having lost his fundamental metaphysical certainty, his relationship to the spiritual, the sensation of meaning – in other words, having lost the ground under his feet.  As I’ve said in my book Disturbing the Peace, this is a man for whom everything is coming apart, whose world is collapsing, who senses he has irrevocably lost something but is unable to admit this to himself and therefore hides from it.

Complete skepticism is an understandable consequence of discovering one’s enthusiasms are based on an illusion. This skepticism leads to a dehumanization of history – a history drifting somewhere above us, taking its own course,  having nothing to do with us, trying to cheat us, destroy us, playing out its cruel jokes.

But history is not something that takes place elsewhere; it takes place here. We all contribute to making it. If bringing back some human dimension to the world depends on anything, it depends on how we acquit ourselves in the here and now.

The kind of hope I often think about (especially in hopeless situations like prison or the sewer) is, I believe, a state of mind, not a state of the world. Either we have hope within us or we don’t.  Hope is not a prognostication – it’s an orientation of the spirit. Each of us must find real, fundamental hope within himself. You can’t delegate that to anyone else.

Hope in this deep and powerful sense is not the same as joy when things are going well, or willingness to invest in enterprises that are obviously headed for early success, but rather an ability to work for something to succeed. Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It’s not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out. It is this hope, above all, that gives us strength to live and continually try new things, even in conditions that seem as hopeless as ours do, here and now. In the face of this absurdity, life is too precious a thing to permits its devaluation by living pointlessly, emptily, without meaning, without love, and, finally, without hope.