I worked at MuchMusic for almost a decade, and unquestionably my biggest contribution to music that whole time was being producer/cameraman/bodyguard to Nardwuar the Human Serviette.  I love Nardwuar like an annoying brother – which is to say I appreciate his merits while admitting that few people on earth can frustrate me as much.  Anyone who has watched (or been a subject of) his interviews probably knows what I’m getting at.

In Nardwuar’s defense, the man has no guile. He’s not Sasha Baren-Cohen, playing a polarizing character for laughs.  He’s not malicious, or calculating, or daring.  Nardwuar is just…Nardwuar.  He can’t help the way he is.

When asked what Nardwuar was like, I would tell people he was a litmus test for the entire human race.  You could really discover a lot about a person based on their reaction to Nardwuar. The ones who were insecure or took themselves too seriously tended to react negatively.  The ones who were most comfortable with themselves were the ones who dug him the most. Essentially, they were like Nardwuar in that they too had no pretense – they were just simply themselves.

In this way I can tell you that Beck is a big fucking baby, Dave Rowntree of Blur is a self-absorbed dick who could use either a hug or anger management therapy, and Peter Murphy of the band Bauhaus knows his contribution to pop culture is marginal at best, and is rather dismayed about it.   On the other hand, you’d be hard-pressed to find a single fake bone in the bodies of Snoop Dogg, Josh Homme, or the Flaming Lips’ Wayne Coyne.  Oh yeah – and Jack Layton too.

Jack was on the campaign trail in 2004 when Nardwuar and I bumped into him.   Nardwuar was in the habit of making politicians….well, maybe just watch the clip:

Personally, a lot of what you need to know about Jack is right there: he was gracious enough to talk with the autistic-savant of celebrity interviewers, he possessed life experience broad enough to impress even Nardwuar, and he had the good sense not to answer the doobie question.  I particularly like that he respected Nardwuar enough to actually prep for the interview – the harmonica and chanting “Doot doola doot doo” in unison are giveaways.  Most importantly, though, the man was genuine  – he did the Hip Flip, then made a mildly blue joke about one day playing it home with his wife. I certainly hope that moment wasn’t the start of his hip trouble.

So there you go – gracious, knowledgable, too smart to pander, blessed with a self-deprecating humour, treating everyone the way he’d want to be treated – even someone dressed head-to-toe in plaid who speaks in a mild screech that agitates forest creatures.   Combine that with his sense of principle, his willingness to tussle with the Harper cyborg (whilst being flexible enough to work with the guy if he thought things may improve as a result), plus the élan with which he handled his various illnesses, and I think it’s pretty apparent –  Jack Layton was a Better Man in Full.  I may have described him in a previous post as having the countenance of an insurance salesman, but I confess that was mostly envy over his marriage to one of the least self-serving politicians I’ve ever met.  That a woman with as much clarity as Olivia Chow would stay married to him is a testament to the man’s character.

Everybody knows there are lots of phonies, blowhards and sycophants in politics. Jack Layton was none of those things – the Nardwuar Hip Flip Poll proves it. You may not have agreed with him, but theres no reason you couldn’t aspire to be like him.

 

A friend of mine was complaining the other day about how ambivalent he felt concerning Monday’s Canadian federal election.  When I asked why,  he said it’s because the leaders in Canadian politics are so sad and uninspiring.  Now, in the past, I may’ve agreed with him – I like a charismatic leader who makes me feel good about voting for him as much as anyone.

It’s only recently, however, that I’ve realized how wrong I was – not about about our leaders being sad and uninspiring, mind you.  I was wrong in thinking their lack of any kind of charm or charisma was somehow bad.  Now, I’m almost convinced that Canada is prosperous today precisely because we don’t have a single captivating leader to choose from, and will continue to be so long as our current choices NEVER try to be Better Men.

Consider Stephen Harper for a moment.  Now, in previous posts I may have implied that Stephen Harper is an asshole, but that’s only partly true.   I will admit Mr. Harper is smart, and has what the Globe and Mail calls “managerial competence” (the political equivalent of describing a date as having a “nice personality”).    Maybe the blow of the recession was softened thanks to policies implemented by Liberal governments prior to Harper taking office – at least he hasn’t fucked things up since.  That’s managerial competence.

The fact is Harper is not so much an asshole as he is a typical geek – he has a feel for systems, but not for people.  That’s why he runs the government like an autocrat, with an open contempt for Parliament, regular voters, and even most of the MPs in his own party. He reminds me of that hall monitor/Dungeons n’ Dragons club president in school, ratting on the cool kids for cutting class and smoking in the parking lot – or maybe the head of an IT department who got promoted because he knew which managers were watching porn on their work computers.  Harper is a  a less-cool Mark Zuckerberg who knows he’s smarter than everyone else, even if everyone else doesn’t realize it.  His efforts to be just a regular guy by untucking his shirt and playing AC/DC covers on the organ only serves to reinforce his geekiness.

That such a charmless man should lead a developed, democratic nation would be virtually impossible if we didn’t live in a parliamentary democracy, and therein lies the best/worst part of voting in Canada.   In a republic like America, everybody votes for president, making it essentially a nationwide popularity contest. Sure, lots of people vote for ideological reasons, but ultimately it’s the cool kid who gets elected. Most voters figure he’ll hire the former Dungeon n’ Dragons president anyway (Bush and Karl Rove, anyone?).

Pages: 1 2

In the first year of his presidency, Ronald Reagan spent countless hours trying to persuade congressmen to approve a crucial sale of military planes to Saudi Arabia.  By all accounts, it was a grueling effort that a took a personal toll, so when Congress voted (by a narrow margin) to approve the deal, Reagan turned to an aide and said “I feel like I’ve just crapped a pineapple.”

That’s pretty much describes my feelings all year with this blog.  And just like anything you might expel from your bowels (pineapples or otherwise) I’m not sure if I’m proud of the results so much as glad that the year is over.

To recap: 365 days ago I vowed to become a Better Man by today.  In my first post, I wrote about waking up Christmas morning to find the tires on my car slashed.  It was the final insult in a year’s worth of indignities, and the parallels weren’t lost on me: my easy ride on the wheels of good fortune had been suddenly deflated by the ugly vicissitudes of life.

And so this blog was born, a chronicle of my efforts not only to reverse my fortunes, but to change for the better – to find the wisdom and fortitude to overcome my crises. I’d resolved to do this by taking on several laudable, hare-brained and occasionally dangerous projects, all designed to improve the quality of my character.    In the process,  I learned a few lessons:

LESSON #1: It’s Okay To Make Wildly Unrealistic Plans That You Fail to Achieve.

When Joseph Stalin ruled the Soviet Union, he laid out several Five Year Plans that came with virtually impossible economic targets the workers had to achieve.  We’re talking crazy goals, like wheat production that required more farmland than physically existed in the entire country.  When the workers failed to achieve their targets, Stalin made sure heads rolled…literally. That’s too bad, because in spite of the “failure” the Soviet Union still achieved phenomenal economic growth, outpacing even some capitalist countries.  Cranky, homicidal Joe was so focussed on what didn’t happen that he couldn’t see the progress his country had made.

In my Better Man-ifesto, I came up with nine very ambitious projects, ones with high numbers for both artistic merit and technical difficulty.  I did not stick the landing on most of them.  Project “Do Me a Solid” was all about volunteering, yet the most  I ever volunteered for was seconds at dinner. The God Project was another disaster – although I must admit my heart wasn’t in it. Having grown up going to church, suddenly going back felt a little like going to the fridge for the milk, finding it had gone stale, then putting it back thinking if I return later it might be good again.  In all, I failed to complete ANY of the projects in their entirety,  including the seemingly easy goal of being a Better Asshole (Project Ari Gold).

Now, it’d be easy to pull a Stalin and dwell my failures, but that would mean overlooking the unanticipated successes of this year.  Take Project Renaissance Man (self-reliance and technical aptitude) – I didn’t pick up ANY of the skills I’d set out to learning.  However,  I’ve since compensated for it by discovering my inner Boy Scout – for example, I may not know how to fix my motorcycle, but now wherever I ride I carry a space blanket, canteen, and a survival knife in my saddle bags.  That way if I break down on the highway, at least I won’t die of exposure, dehydration, or bear attacks.  In fact, my house is now littered with how-to guides, and wherever I go I carry tools for most crises, even if I don’t know how to use them.

Pages: 1 2 3

About four months ago, I was forced to move from my old apartment.  I wish I could tell you it was for something exciting, like staging a ritual pagan sacrifice in the living room or being caught base-jumping from the balcony.  Sadly, the landlord just sold it to someone who wanted to live there.

I regretted leaving that place – I’d grown to like it, as well as my neighborhood, and especially the people who represented me in government.   My federal MP Olivia Chow was a charming pragmatist, a Humphrey-Bogart-esque antihero in amazing boots.  Her world-weary idealism was nicely complemented by the nerdish übercompetence of my city councillor, Adam Vaughan.    They are both urban progressives representing a progressive urban neighbourhood,  quietly going about the drudgery of being a politician.  They say nothing outlandish nor make cynical promises they intend to break.   With the exception of Olivia’s dubious choice in spouses, there is hardly a whiff of scandal between them.   Unless Olivia decides to come out against abortion, or Adam confesses a jones for kiddie porn, their electorate will probably keep returning them to office.

And therein lies the problem of competent elected officials.  Chow and Vaughan are kind of like NASA astronauts – so good at their jobs that they’ve managed to make what could be intensely exciting seem mind-numbingly boring.   They don’t stir up any intense passions in people (although I do find Olivia rather MILF-y).  Perhaps if they were screw-ups like Toronto’s new mayor Rob Ford,  people would might get more emotional.

It’s a funny quirk of Canadian politics that more votes get cast for the mayor of Toronto than our country’s Prime Minister, and this week more Canadians voted for an amateur Chris Farley impersonator than any elected official in the land.   There was lots of hand-wringing in Hogtown over Ford’s candidacy; that he is an artless, scandalous, homophobic bigot, prone to public drunkeness and outrageous promises. Oh, and his head looks like a blood blister.

Pages: 1 2

Some of you might remember that recent flashpoint of American conservative angst, the dreaded Ground Zero Mosque.  Perhaps you don’t, and in no way is that a bad thing. In fact, if you can’t remember, then stop reading right now – it’s not my place to remind you. Go back to checking Facebook or watching squirrel porn.

Are they gone? Alright.  Let’s proceed.

To me, the mosque fracas was a hollow story, a paper giant intended to frighten Americans by the size of the shadow it cast, even though it posed no threat.  Despite this, the issue tied everyone up in knots, including Barack Obama.  On a Friday, the US president reminded everyone that in America, people are free to practice their religion however and wherever they want.  Then the very next day, Barack walked it back and said his fierce defense of religious freedom should in no way be construed as rendering an opinion on the location of the mosque.  It was flip-flopping at its flip-floppiest.  About the only person who probably struck the right tone in this whole mess was Jon Stewart.  The subtext of his comments, in cased you missed it, was simple: the people who started this story are fuckheads, and you are a fuckhead for getting upset about it.

What made this story especially pernicious was just when you thought it was over, when you thought pundits had found some new way to make Americans shit their pants, or some fact exposed the controversy as a farce (that the mosque is actually several blocks away from Ground Zero, that there’s a mosque even closer to Ground Zero that has operated for years, that the principal investor in the mosque was also a principal investor in Fox News, that the mosque isn’t even a mosque) something happened or got said to keep it alive;  a xenophobic rally in downtown Manhattan, a fringe pastor decides to burn Korans, “revelations” about plans for activities in the mosque, or a new blogger late to the story writes about it (oops). The Ground Zero Mosque frenzy survived well past its sell-by date and promised to continue indefinitely, a festering boil on the ass of public discourse – not life threatening per se, but really fucking ugly, and uncomfortable for anyone who tried to sit on it.

Pages: 1 2

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.

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.

As much as I admire the commitment to principle that protesting shows, I always thought of it as impractical.  Marching against tuition hikes or tax increases may be noble, but to me, it seems as productive as marching against the Metric system, or the color blue.   Moreover, the protests I’ve seen personally are rarely of the WTO/Battle of Seattle variety – if more than thirty people and a newspaper photographer showed up, the organizers felt they dealt a blow to The Man.  Part of me appreciates their unwarranted optimism, their ability to delude themselves  on the success or impact of their efforts such that it must be an involuntary response, like blinking.   Personally, though,  I couldn’t help but feel bad for those kinds of protesters, in the same way you might from witnessing some minor social indignity  - perhaps an unzipped fly,  or toilet paper stuck to a shoe.

Still, as I consider the experiments I might try in my year-long self-improvement lab, it occurred to me that I’ve never marched at a rally.   I covered several protests as a journalist and there was this righteously indignant phase in university, but I never wanted to actively participate in a protest.   Yet, here I am.

I have joined my fellow Canadian citizens in downtown Toronto to march against Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s shutting down of Parliament. I’m not sure what to expect; a smattering of aging hippies looking to be transported to an earlier time when they had more passion (and hair), or perhaps the nascent college crowd trying out this semester’s new identity as, “politically active objectors”  (because  beards and skinny jeans are done).  As I arrive on the scene though, I see that this rally is different.

The protest has been organized by a Facebook group called, “Citizen Against Proroguing Parliament.”  Over the Christmas break when he thought no one would be looking, Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper invoked a little-used rule in the Canadian parliamentary system to shut down or “prorogue” Parliament.

Critics believe he did this to stifle questions around his Government’s responsibilities in the alleged torture of Afghan detainees. He claims it’s  SOP to “shut ‘er down” and says that given the economic work to be done, he needs time to “re-calibrate” and put a budget together.  That’s like calling your boss and telling him you’ll be staying home for the next few months (with pay) to think about how you can be a more effective employee.

I have to admit, part of me admires Harper’s F-U-audacity, but his rationale for doing something as drastic as proroguing Pariliament is flimsy… it’s not unlike pulling the fire alarm at school to avoid a visit to the principal’s office.   At least I understood the logic when he made this same move  just under a year ago. Then, it was likely his government would lose a confidence vote and fall.   That’s like pulling the fire alarm because you think you might be eaten by your classmates.  That, I think you’ll agree, is a slightly bigger deal. Maybe he thought it worked so great the first time that he’d do it again and Canadians would be too preoccupied or apathetic to notice.

If that’s the case, then I think he underestimates how much Canadians hate cocky people.  We harbour a deep animus towards the arrogant, a fervent desire that such people reap the whirlwind of their actions.  I know that’s why I’m here and I suspect that’s probably why there are THOUSANDS in attendance when I arrive at Dundas Square, ground zero for my protest deflowering.

Of course the usual reflexively anti-authoritarian crowd is in attendance, but I’m surprised that there seems to be a LOT of protest virgins like me.  Right beside me is an affluent yuppie couple with an infant, all dressed in matching Canada Goose parkas…presumably purchased just for this march.   I also see a bunch of diffident scenesters who would not seem out of place at an Arcade Fire gig. Oh sure, the CAW jackets are here (Canadian Auto Workers), because really what else have they got to do? Mind you, it occurs to me most of these people would rather be shopping and contributing to the economy than here.   Earlier in the day, Harper said these protests were organized and attended by the, “opposition parties” but looking at the crowd…so many people, so DIFFERENT…the sheer heterogeneity belies a vast difference of opinion on many issues, but not this one.

As befits the curious dynamic and purpose of this crowd, there’s some trouble coming up with the proper chant.  Everyone knows that when it comes to effective protest slogans, you need something short and rhythmic.  There’s very little rhythm to the word “democracy” so imagine how hard it is to find some clever chant with the word “proroguing.” A few chanters try, “NO to proroguing!” and it starts to move through the crowd, but it comes out sounding more like “NO to perogies!” and as a half-Ukrainian, this is a sentiment that  I cannot reasonably endorse. Soon enough, the crowd settles on a chant that I can live with – “No to prorogation, it’s time to face the Nation!”  A little unwieldy, but at least it rhymes.

We move together and chant, wave signs and banners. Coming round Yonge Street, I look back and see how many people are here and I realize,  Harper’s actions have offended people on some deep elemental level. We are not cranks and weirdos fighting conspiratorial corporate hegemony, nor are we out for our bi-monthly opportunity to express outrage over a cute creature’s demise. We are polite Canadian citizens who probably had something better to do today than to have to tell our Government to get their old, white, doughy asses back TO WORK! (sorry – taking my perogy fetish too far there).  It’s feels thrilling and active to be part of this, but it’s also kind of easy.   When everyone agrees, it hardly seems like protesting… maybe that’s the point.

I look around me at the comfortable crowd and I think about people in other parts of the world who risk injury and death for the chance to do what we’re doing completely unmolested.  It feels vaguely like an insult to them that I haven’t done this sooner and perfectly right that I stepped up today.  As I move with the crowd, shouting my opposition to potato dumplings, I can only hope the government sees Canadians may be blasé about protesting, but they’re not blase about democracy. This crowd senses a basic principle of fair play has been violated and dismissing them as partisan malcontents seems as cynical as it is wishful. Today Canadians said they’ll take a lot of nonsense from the Government, so long as that nonsense involves actually governing.

As a citizen, I’m realizing just how important it is to show up every once in a while.  Plus, I did a little window shopping on Yonge street and I’ll be back tomorrow -  to help the economy, of course.

UPDATE:  An old high school friend reminded me in my comments page that I have actually participated in one other protest prior to this weekend. I regret not remembering, as I struggled with how to start this post, and I could’ve used that experience as a source of inspiration.

In June of 1988, I was attending a Catholic high school run by a draconian principal named Shuett, who had imposed a no-shorts policy (something particular only to our school, not the entire school system). As it so happened, June of that year was incredibly hot, and guys wearing shorts to cope with the weather were being sent home suspended. So, in protest, ALL the guys in our school came in skirts. It was on all three newscasts and in the paper, and the best part is the Catholic School Board ordered Shuett to change the policy immediately (I guess they thought he was as much an asshole as we did).

THAT was the first protest I ever participated in, NOT this most recent one, and it achieved the desired effect. So perhaps I shouldn’t have such a jaundiced view of protests…they seem to work when I’m in them.  I can tell you that it will not be 22 years before I attend my next protest.

Next Thursday at 4pm, I will sit down with MP Olivia Chow to discuss what it means for a citizen to participate in representative democracy. That sounds like a broad subject, so let me narrow it down…the kind, teacherly Ms. Chow will talk about how THIS citizen can participate in his respective democracy.

Like many,  I’ve tuned out of politics…besides being quickly bored by minutiae,  I find my choice of politicians sadly lacking.  At least in the US you can vote for political figures that are caricatures not unlike what you’d find in professional wrestling.   Take Massachusetts,  after 57 years of having one of the most influential US families represent them in the Senate, the legacy ends with a new guy who posed nude for Cosmo and whose biggest political credential seems to be he drives a pick-up to work.   Only in America?  Perhaps.  Never in Canada? Absolutely. Not since Trudeau has Canada fielded a politician who was larger than his circumstances.    Today, most Canadian politicians behave more like professors, or accountants…or if you’re Conservative, accountants working for the Mob.

So there are no cults of personality to be found and the issues can be a tad dry; we haven’t invaded another country in contravention of international law,  our health care is not perfect but at least no one goes bankrupt trying to get it and our legislative process isn’t choked by muscular special interests. In the vacuum created by the lack of absurd and/or baroque political figures like you’ll find in the US,   Parliament can hold about as much real drama as a condo owner’s meeting.

Not that our  current  minority government team hasn’t tried to turn it into a soap opera; they make reality TV contestants look pleasant, with the kind of constant back-biting and dirty opportunism that’s forced most of the country to turn to the Rick Mercer Report for real political issues. But compared to the

US, we can’t even get political malfeasance right – it’s Hamlet as read by Ben Stein (“Bueller? Bueller?”) and it’s failed to engage many  Canadians.  That’s why a  bunch of us now think we’re “peace-keeping” over in Afghanistan, we’re completely confused about the alleged abuse of detainees and are clueless as to why a lot of us (like me) are still out of work and out of options as the economy “bounces back.”  Meanwhile the Government (by a hair) is “recalibrating.”  There’s nothing tasty to feed the public here,  just a big old batch of apathy soup and I’m full up on it.

In this kind of environment, I have to marvel at Olivia’s work and call to public service.  I’m going to ask her what she sees as the big issues facing our community and country. But I also want to tap her passion — how does she keep believing in this in democracy as a noble enterprise when so many of her cohorts are petty and her constituents don’t seem to care? Where does she find the passion do the boring and thankless work that politics can often entail? And how might I summon this passion for the issues so I can truly be a better citizen?  These are some of my questions.  What are yours?

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.