I suppose it’s a sign of precisely how new a new father I am, but it’s absolutely thrilling to have Ava here, in the world.  I know it’s a cliche even bigger than cops at donut shops, but seriously – every day brings a new miracle.  You want to see real wonder? Watch an infant make a noise like a dolphin, realize she made it, then repeat it over and over.  It kills me. I used to think the lighter I was, the farther I could travel.  I think of that time alone – riding motorbikes, SCUBA-diving with sharks, jumping from airplanes, partying with rock stars, etc.  Well okay…that stuff was a blast.  But it doesn’t compare to hanging with my little girl.  I look at all that other stuff and all I can think is I was just postponing my truest happiness.

Ava’s presence is so wonderfully all-consuming I have to remind myself that one year ago, both Baby Mama and myself were crippled by self doubt.  I can only speak for myself, but I had profound misgivings about my ability to be a father, and a provider.  More than that, I questioned our ability to parent well together.

Today, those fears seem quaint.  Most times I tell people I should’ve done this sooner, but I probably wasn’t ready until now. Really though, that’s bullshit – left to my own devices, I might’ve denied myself this pleasure indefinitely.   Part of me had to get pushed, and it was Baby Mama doing the pushing.

Which is not to say I was forced.  Rather, I was reminded by Baby Mama at crucial moments to set aside the burden of my responsibility (which I felt rather deeply – a prairie boy’s son can feel little else) and embrace the singular joy that comes from bringing a new life into the world.

Therein lies Baby Mama’s gift to me. I’ll worry that we don’t have a contingency plan for – well, for everything – nannies, teething, walking, solid food, solid poos, talking, discipline, daycare, school, extracurricular activities, dating, etc, etc.   Baby Mama is there to remind me stuff has a funny way of working itself out.  You take action when it’s required, try not get anxious or over-think anything, and spend the rest of the time setting an example by the way you lead your life. In this way, Baby Mama is proving to be highly adaptable, and not inflexible in her thinking – a courtesy she extends not only to our child but to me as well.

Seeing her grow into her role as both mother and partner fills me with as much awe as watching our child.   Challenges create character, and a vein has opened up within her, something deep and abiding. Let’s call it grace.  That grace makes her not only a wonderful mother, but a wonderful person to be around.  I’m reminded of this John Cusack monologue in the movie High Fidelity (a never-ending source of manly relationship wisdom), where he talks about what it was like with his girlfriend:  “She didn’t make me miserable, or anxious, or ill at ease. You know, it sounds boring. But it wasn’t.”

I look at my little girl and her mom, and I know I’m exactly where I want to be.  I’d try to say it with long-stem roses, but there’s not enough in the world for that.

About a week ago, I was writing a post called “D-Day plus 10”. Essentially, it was a self-congratulatory note on how prepared I was for the imminent arrival of my first child, and how 10 days after the original due date, the waiting had grown tiresome.  It was perhaps one of my best – witty, poignant, self-effacing, with a life lesson for any Man on the road to Betterment.  I can tell you all of this, of course, because I’ll never publish it.  To do so would be moot, since halfway through writing I was interrupted by the arrival of this lady:

This is Ava, and she took her sweet ass time getting here – 12 days late. We’re in the middle of heat wave, so I can only imagine Baby Mama’s coochie has air conditioning or something.  The labour lived up to its name – 30 hours, ending with a suction on Ava’s head as an obstetrician tried pulling her out like she was a cork in a wine bottle.  I’m sure I’m embellishing, but I can’t shake the image in my head of Ava flying through the air like a human cannonball – arms flailing as she’s released from the confines of her “studio apartment”, landing on her face and sliding a few inches, like a runner stealing home base.

Despite her initial stage fright, Ava has turned out perfectly – she’s healthy, gorgeous, even-tempered, and lets her parents sleep through the night with minimal interruption (for now).   She is prone to what I call “splatterpoops” – from time to time, she’ll have a meaty fart, after which little brown angel’s wings will suddenly appear over her shoulders.  I can only assume that once she learns to stand it will look like a Jackson Pollock.

I’m assured this is quite normal, so about the only problem with Ava is she’s given her daddy writer’s block – not from a lack of things to write, mind you, but too many.  My head’s like a clogged drain, which is why I’m going to take a few days to figure out what it is I want to say.    However, I can share two thoughts right now, the first being I wish my dad was here. His death felt a little like someone leaving halfway through a film without finding out how it ends.  If he’d stayed around long enough, he’d know the third act starts off with a lot of promise.

The other thought, I must confess, isn’t really mine, but the Coen Brothers.  Just tonight I was watching No Country for Old Men – a movie I had trouble suspending my disbelief over, since I doubt Texans could be that thoughtful or contemplative.  One of the minor characters has a great bit of dialogue late in the movie: “All the time ya spend trying to get back what’s been took from ya, more is going out the door. After a while you just have to try to get a tourniquet on it.”

So many times, our attention is on the wrong thing.   For the first time, though, I feel I know where I should be looking.  I’ve got my daughter to thank for that.

 

If you go through the blog, you’ll find I’ve spent more time  writing about my dad than my mom. Now, for anyone who knows me that well that would seem odd, since Mom figures way more prominently in my upbringing and subsequent neuroses.

My preoccupation with Dad has mostly to do with how removed he felt – not that he was absent, he just wasn’t fully there. All those words I’ve written exist to fill in the vacuum. My mom, on the other hand, is ever-present – someone I can’t seem to get away from, in fact. Sure, we had some good times, but by and large my memories of growing up with her aren’t all that fond. Not because she was a monster, mind you (although she could be monstrous on occasion) –  I just remember her being shrill and disappointed, both with me and herself.   It took me a while, but I finally learned there was little I could do to please her, so I abandoned the effort, choosing instead to find ways to satisfy myself.   My MO growing up was to avoid her as much as I can, something I probably still do to this day, if only subliminally.

So I was somewhat unsure as to what to do when my older brother approached me last month, asking me to write a few words about our mom.  He’d asked all our siblings to write something, as he was putting our comments in a book he was making for Mom’s 79th birthday.  These things usually call for kind words, and I confessed to him that I wasn’t sure I had that many.   He offered up a sage piece of advice: as a minister, he’s been called on to preside over the funerals of people he knew were less than saintly in life, and he still had to find some good in their shitty existences.   “So maybe try to imagine Mom’s dead, and see if that works” he said.   He didn’t realize he was asking me to indulge in one of my favorite fantasies as a teenager.

It took some time, but I finally managed to come up with something:

I think Dad was aware of an unspoken truth amongst fathers – compared to mothers, the standard for being a good dad is really kind of low.   Not to diminish his contribution, but I suspect he knew his role in the parental equation was what Michael Chabon describes as “that of someone who pulls into a parking space with a nickel in his pocket to find an hours worth of quarters in the meter.”   Mom was already ahead of him, integrated completely into our lives.  She’s spent most of her adult life knee deep in our vomit and unwashed clothes. Her presence was as crucial and abstract to us as the functioning of our own organs.

That’s the probably the biggest difference between Mom and Dad – all of us can point to a specific memory of Dad, something he said, something he did for us.    They linger with us like old friends,  mostly because Mom – ever the publicist – helps perpetuate them.   The measure of Mom, on the other hand, isn’t found in a single instant.   It’s constant, perennial, and it would be unfair to judge her worthiness based on a snapshot, especially when the picture was taken through the narrow prism of a child’s memory.

Imagine waking up to this every day of your childhood...

 

 

 

A nephew once asked me what it was like growing up with Grandma.  I compared her to F. Lee. Ermey, the drill instructor in the war film Full Metal Jacket – tough, demanding, bordering on occasional lunacy.  At the time I was being glib to get a laugh, of course, but there was more than a modicum of truth to it.  I knew she held me to a higher standard than other moms might, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t resent it.

Thankfully, I can see the larger plan, the blessing in what she was doing – in expecting more from me, I grew to expect more from myself.  Whether it’s what she intended or not, she pushed me to want more from my life – to see more, do more, learn more.   The result is I’ve done some pretty amazing and often unusual things. More importantly, though, I can look at myself critically, without sentiment, and discard those ideas I believe are at right angles to common sense, while holding onto the ones that matter: reserve judgment until you have all the facts;  heed the advice of those who know, but keep your own counsel;  keep your humour and don’t give into cynicism when times are bad; work hard as you can, even if no one’s looking; do the right thing, no matter how hard.

Most of those values I got to on my own, but I needed mom to point me in the right direction.  That, to me, is good mothering, even if things were never perfect. How can they be? There’s simply too much going on, too many moving parts for perfection to be possible. I suspect that’s partly why a lot of moms feel like they may’ve let their kids down, as my mom confessed to feeling.  A few years ago, she apologized to me, saying   “I know I may have made mistakes as a mother with you, but I did the best I could.”

I know in my bones this is the truth.  I try to honor her every day by doing the same.

I think the measure of being a Better Man is finding the grace to accept that your mom is fallible (just as you are), and simply letting go of all the stuff that happened between you.

 

A few posts ago I told you about my plans to practice WWMD (What Would McQueen Do?) for a while.  I was going to see if I could use the power of hubris to improve my life – I would discover if behaving like a gaping asshole with a deep, abiding sense of unwarranted entitlement would help me get all the things I want.

So far, it’s not going great, but not for a lack of will – I simply haven’t seen that many people.   Just as a mugger requires a victim, hubristic assholery cannot exist in a vacuum – it requires the presence of people to be manifest.    Without ears to hear, feelings to hurt, or sensibilities to offend, a jagoff trying to get his way without the benefit of an audience is little more than a tree falling in the forest.

Moreover, premeditated hubris requires a transaction of some sort – party y wants you to provide them with x,  which you’ll give so long as they meet your unrealistic demands.   So far, not a single person has needed something from me – not clients, not friends…no one.   In fact, this month has made it apparent that were I to die tomorrow, it would be several days before anyone noticed, and only because the smell reached the hallway.

The closest I’ve come to using hubris involves a tiff I’m having with Air Canada’s loyalt program, Aeroplan, and currently I think I’m on the losing end of the exchange.  It involves my efforts to redeem travel points for a trip to see my mom on her birthday –  booking the flight was so excruciating that I thought of sending a Flaming Bag of Shit to the staffers at Aeroplan.  Instead, I thought a well-worded letter would be appropriate – I figured telling someone in the politest terms possible to go fuck themselves would provoke a more meaningful reaction then flying off the handle and going full-Osbourne-Family on them. However, I’m now wondering if I shouldn’t have turned up the McQueen and unleashed the full, four-letter-worded force of my hubris.   Read below and and tell me what you think:

 

Dear Aeroplan:

This is probably the first time I’ve written a letter to complain about a service provider, but my experience using Aeroplan in the last few days has been so singularly infuriating,  I felt it behooved me to write.   I hope I can take some comfort in knowing this letter will be read, and lessons or corrections may be applied from it.

Starting this past Sunday, I attempted to book a flight using my Aeroplan points.   This round trip was to proceed from Toronto to Calgary in mid-March.   I chose two particular flights,  for which I would have required 45,000 points.

However, when I tried to reserve those flights,  I could not – the site would either time out and I’d be forced to log in again, or I would get an error message reading “due to an error on our part, we cannot process your request.” I may’ve attempted to do this at least 5 times before I received a final error message that said your site was down for maintenance.  I then tried to call your contact centre, only to find it closed – perhaps for the best, since I wasn’t sure if I would be able to exclude expletives from my conversation with any of your operators.

This pattern continued for the next several days, the only exception being that I made more attempts to call your contact centre, only to wait for periods of up to an hour.  Oftentimes life would intervene, as in I would actually have to live – go to appointments, visit the bathroom, sleep, feed myself, etc – and I’d be compelled to hang up.  At the end of one those interminable waits, I finally reached an operator, who either couldn’t hear me or felt I’d failed to respond quickly enough, as she said hello then disconnected our call before I’d said a word.  Additional efforts to reach an operator proved fruitless, so in desperation I returned to the website, where I was finally able to make a reservation.  In all, the process took five days, by which time the points required to book the flight had more than doubled to 95 000.

This is the first instance in my life as a consumer where substandard service has ended up costing me more than simply time and aggravation.   It’s been enough for me to reconsider my flight choices when making future travel plans – whereas before I would make Air Canada one of my primary carriers (ed: writer’s embellishment), based on this experience I believe I’ll consider others first in the future.

Perhaps Aeroplan recognizes that people have few options when it comes to traveling domestically, and from a cost benefit perspective there’s little point in providing better service.   Personally, I think it’s not enough to simply offer travelers a rewards incentive program – it should also feel rewarding to use it, if only a little bit.   That Aeroplan clients must feel grateful for even that little bit is a sad reflection on the quality of your service.  I hope the irony of a loyalty program that inspires disloyalty serves to give you pause, and motivates you to make some highly necessary changes.

 

Sincerely,

 

Chris Nelson

 

So…too nice? Not enough McQueen in there? Lemme know what you think…

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.

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1. The pimple on my forehead.

2. My current bank balance.

3. The irrational pleasure I get from seeing a fridge stocked with beer.

4. The flop sweat I unleash when I get in an argument.

5. My collection of T-shirts w/inappropriate sayings on them (Best/Worst: “This Dick Won’t Suck Itself”)

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

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

PROJECT “MY BAD”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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It took a friend I play hockey with to point out the metaphysical piece of toilet paper trailing on my shoe:  in some circumstances, I have the capacity to be a petulant bully.  I honestly had no idea, and it got me thinking: perhaps I’m perpetrating a whole bunch of anti-social behaviours I don’t know about that demand correction.

So I reached out to some of  my closest friends, asking them to share one bad thing about me. Being my friends and knowing me well, I figured they would have informed opinions based on long experience as well as personal judgment. I assured them they could be honest and forthright knowing I wouldn’t get offended, but to make it easier for them to share (and for me to hear it) I also asked them to say one good thing.  Here’s how they responded:

Chris is a man who boasts many interests, and chief among them is himself. I have oft been regaled long into the night as he holds forth lustily and at length on the subject of said self, regardless of the level of interest exhibited by his captive audience. That said, his is a condition common to many men of a certain age who have yet to meet the sacrifices required by fatherhood. The good news is that he’s an exellent sport and I know he will take this on the chin.

That’s from Guy, a friend who backs up his loyalty with action.  He’s also blunt and preternaturally critical, so I knew I could count on him to give me something truly cutting.  Guy did not disappoint. I’ve always thought I’ve been somewhat circumspect when it comes to discussing the topic of me, but I can admit I’m wrong…either that, or Guy is just sick of hanging out with me.  Either way, it was excellent criticism, and exactly the kind for which I’m looking.

Good thing: Seemingly unfiltered. Like, you always show yourself to be exactly who you are, which makes you fun to be around because it comes from such an honest place that is so sincere & genuine, it feels special to be a part of it – we always know a visit with Chris will be one of our favorites of the year.

Bad thing: You don’t always listen, including to yourself.

That’s from my friends Katie and Colby, a married couple so cute you just want to throw them both off the roof of a skyscraper.  They need to give themselves more credit for making me feel safe enough to be myself.  As for their criticism…I think perhaps an inability to listen goes hand-in-hand with a penchant for talking about oneself at length, as Guy suggests I do.   The most charismatic people on earth are great listeners (it’s been said that Bill Clinton listened so well he could make you feel like the only person in the room), so this is sage advice.  I’m not sure if by suggesting that I don’t listen to myself that I’m talking bullshit (“Just listen to yourself!”) but Katie and Colby would be neither so mean nor so obtuse, so it’s probably something else…I hope.

Good thing: You are a totally non-judgmental person.

Bad Thing: You try too hard. You get a little pretentious, or you name drop or put on a show, and it comes across as phoney. Stop being afraid to just be yourself.

That last one was courtesy of my friend Catherine. It seems to contradict what Katie and Colby are saying, although its perhaps more a matter of me “putting on the dog” for someone with whom I want to either work or date.  It’s troublesome to think I’m giving the exact opposite impression of what I want them to have, but at least now I know why I’m still single at my age and can barely find work.

Good thing: Amazing speaker/story teller. You always hold the attention of the people you’re talking to and deliver so well. One of the most thoughtful, entertaining people I know.

Bad thing: Overly intense on first impressions. You outshine too quickly with your character and delivery and it turns off some people. Perhaps slow it down and allow the meek to open up a bit before going full tilt. Ease them into a full Nelson.

Yikes! Intense on first impressions…suddenly I think I’m coming across as Ted Bundy after he’s drank a case of Red Bull.  However,  I love my friend Peter’s ability to soften his criticism, as though I’m so interesting it’s just…TOO!…MUCH!!  Nonetheless he’s right.  I’m prone to filling the gaps left in conversations by others, gaps that perhaps should be filled by someone else.

Good Thing: One of your most compelling characteristics is an unbridled ability to ooze WARMTH. There’s a genuine glow that you radiate when conversing with others; an interest in what someone has to say, excitement for another persons stories & experience. You laugh easily and envelope people with a feeling of utter ease & comfort. Back in the day, I introduced you to an older actor I knew, a terrific BORE of a man. I tried to communicate my embarrassment with pleading looks of apology everytime something radically stupid came out of his mouth. But no matter! You had filed away any inkling of judgement for this person, and embraced everything he said with an open mind & heart. My respect for you soared! You were so warm, so genuinely interested and so good natured about the whole experience that I vowed to try to be as graceful & kind as you are; to be as open & good natured when I found myself in similar circumstances.

Bad Thing: I believe that you may fall prey to putting too much emphasis on outward appearences, and if you stopped scanning rooms for the most outwardly beautiful woman in the room, you’d have a better shot at an enduring worthwhile relationship.

This is from my amiga Shannon, and her good comment directly contradicts what Guy, Katie and Colby just said.  I haven’t seen Shannon as recently as I’ve seen the others, so perhaps I used to listen to others well but over time I’ve gotten WORSE!  As for her bad comment…guilty as charged.  Mind you, EVERY guy does this, whether they cop to it or not.  In my defense I have little in common with the most beautiful women in the room, which is why I’ve cultivated relationships with the most interesting ones instead. Then again, none of those interesting relationships have worked out, so perhaps I need to date more vapid hotties.

Good thing: You are genuinely curious and eager to learn, and I have never once seen you treat people differently based on their connections or status. You make people feel welcome and like you are interested in their life, regardless of who they are.

Bad thing: You use self-deprecation as a means of hiding or avoiding. Sometimes it reads as someone not confident enough to put themselves out there and apply 100 per cent effort, and other times it reads as possibly false modesty, like you know you’re good at something but don’t want to seem like a douche for saying so. I’m not saying this is the truth, it’s just how it reads.

Once again, a note from a friend I haven’t seen in a while whose good comments make me think I’m worse today than I was  a few years ago.  Could it be that as my life becomes increasingly more lacklustre,  I’m getting more self-absorbed and thoughtless? The tragedy of my life could be the less interesting I become, the more I talk about myself.  As for the bad thing – well, I used to tell people that self-deprecation is something ego-maniacs use to hide their vanity. By the way, did I mention I hate myself?

This is from my friend Piers:

Good thing: very well-spoken.

Bad Thing: occasionally glib.

What I say: Points for brevity.

You act without first considering how others might feel about what you’re doing.

That’s from the woman I’m currently seeing.  She’s absolutely right.  What’s worse? I take actions that I know might affect others, but I don’t want them to prevent me from doing what I want.    I always believed in the adage  ”it’s easier to apologize than to ask permission”, but maybe it’s time to let my unilateralism go.

Soooo…..I’d had many responses to my request, and if there is a trend emerging from my friend’s comments, it’s this: I have a great capacity for warmth and charity of spirit, but I am more self-aborbsed and less considerate today than I have been in the past.   This is bittersweet news, as it means that friends have had to put up with my douchey behavour of the past few months  (years?), but also that they’ve seen enough good stuff in me that they’re prepared to tolerate it…for now, at least.  If there’s one message in all of this is, I think it’s this:  if I want to be a Better Man I have to re-learn how to add more to the lives of others than I take away.

There are few occasions these days where it’s okay to express unbridled enthusiasm; at sporting events, during sex, if you’re a game show participant – definitely if you’re doing all three at the same time.  For the most part though, expressions of unqualified joy are considered signs of weakness and are generally a cause for mild social discomfort.  I know this because I date women and play poker.

It is okay to lose your composure and be unequivocally joyful when you’re ON television, but when you’re IN television (that is, in the business of making it) being happy without reservation about something is your tell, and there are people who are not above using it against you.   I don’t feel like I’m being cynical here – it’s simply a state of the world, not limited to the TV biz.  Again, I cite the example of dating; the men and women who play it cool are much more interesting than the ones who openly express their preference for you.   By revealing their feelings, the excitable ones have made it easy and somehow less interesting.

I’m thinking about all of this because a show I hosted for Discovery Channel is premiering tonight.  It’s called I Could Do That and basically what we do on the program is take people out of their regular life and let them do something they’ve always wanted to try but never had the chance.   Now, the participants on ICDT had no qualms about getting excited from being on the show, and we welcomed their enthusiasm.  The audience will get to live vicariously through the participants, and while it may never have been a viewer’s dream to pilot a freighter or drive a tank they will no doubt identify with the emotions of those people on our show.

I envy both the participants and the viewers, because they’ve got nothing to lose from a gratuitous display of happiness.   I would like to show that more often, but I’m not sufficiently removed from the outcome to situations that pertain to me.   For example, I could tell Goddess I think she’s immutably great,  in a way that is not contingent on her thinking the same of me.  However, my intuition tells me that kind of unsolicited comment would be met with suspicion, and right now I like her company too much to risk it.  I could tell the producers of my show how it has  added to my life and how I think it adds to the world, and I’m proud to be a part of it.  Of course, were I to do that, I can’t help but wonder if the producers might use that as a bargaining chip in our next contract negotiation.   Mind you, that conversation depends on Discovery green-lighting a second season, and THAT depends on viewers showing unbridled enthusiasm for our show by watching in vast numbers.  I’ve definitely got nothing to lose from their open display of enthusiasm.

Maybe I’m managing my expectations, but for me, I Could Do That will be a reminder of how much good will we sometimes have to keep to ourselves in order to get what we want.   At the same time, I’m grateful to have worked on a show where people get to be wantonly happy with no regard for the consequences.  It’s for these reasons I’ll probably find it bittersweet to watch.

Of course, you should feel free to openly enjoy it as much as you want.

Travel and work have conspired to keep me from jiu-jitsu class of late.  It’s just as well, since I’ve yet to find my killer instinct.   Without it,  I am lunch meat for  James (aka Angry McTwerpface),  a guy in my class who can choke me into near-unconsciousness based on his ability to channel the angst of past humiliations at the hands of his nemeses.   If I’m to fight off this little man and his weaponized self-esteem issues,  I must summon my inner agro-douche.  I looked up “nemesis” in the dictionary:  a) an opponent or rival whom a person cannot best or overcome; b) an agent of retribution.    There were several definitions, and I would have continued to read all of them, but really, there was no need.   I know I’ve said Jake Pavelka is my nemesis, but by any definition, that distinction really belongs to Rick, my “best friend”  in high school.

Rick was  a classic tennis club preppy with a penchant for polo shirts, boat shoes and Levi’s,  a uniform he wore with little variation the entire time I knew him.  He had jet black hair that was styled into vaguely unfashionable haircut which I found odd until I realized both his older brother and dad had the very same one, making me wonder if his family had been hatched from pods.  Rick was tall, sinewy, blandly handsome – a Ken doll with testicles.   A fixture at both my high school and my church,  I would see my  friend pretty much everyday. For the most part, it was torture.

I call Rick a friend because he wasn’t a violent bully, or  a misanthrope.  We had many friends in common, a lot of whom liked us more or less equally. Rick never made specific efforts to ostracize me.   Rather, he was more like Stifler in American Pie,  taking malignant glee in singling out and mocking other people’s shortcomings.  Unfortunately for me,  I gave Rick plenty of material to work with – perhaps I had no more than the usual supply  every awkward high school kid has, but by virtue of our proximity I would hear about them from Rick ALL. THE. TIME. Maybe it’s the cruelty of memory but I don’t think there was ever a social humiliation in my teen years that Rick wasn’t present for, and happy to exploit for his own amusement and the amusement of those around him.

There were my quaint efforts at joining the rugby team,  which I tried to keep quiet in the event of the very real possibility that I did NOT make the team.  Nonetheless I told Rick of my plans, perhaps in a vain attempt to impress him.  What he did was  try out for the team as well, despite little to no interest in rugby.   The last day of tryouts there were only three spots remaining and four guys vying for them,  Rick and I among them.     We had to run 100 metres flat out.  Blessed with natural athleticism, Rick came in first.    Cursed with a body akin to Spongebob Squarepants, I pulled in dead last.   For three weeks Rick would recount how with virtually no effort or desire on his part he’d managed to make a team that for all my passion and hard work I could not manage to get on myself.   Perhaps to add insult to injury,  Rick then proceeded to play with half-hearted interest.  Eventually he stopped going to practices or games altogether .

Then there was Hope.   She was in our youth group at church.    She had blond hair, blue eyes, an arrow for a chin and a sweet demure manner that was so proper it bordered on regal.  She was an inter-varsity Grace Kelly, and I was convinced Jesus had sent her to earth personally, an angel walking among us as a reminder of his everlasting grace.  Naturally I had a crush on her.   I found Hope’s company a welcome respite as she was the antithesis of Rick in every way.   Once again I confessed my crush to Rick,  whereupon he said that monkeys would fly out of my butt before she’d ever date me.

I  realized shortly thereafter that Rick’s opinion was perhaps an informed one, since Rick and Hope started going out.  It was like we were two cold war superpowers and he had unlawfully annexed a neutral country, the last remaining place I might find some relief from him. That Hope could love Rick didn’t just make me seethe with jealousy, it undermined my existence.   I  was forced to think that his  habit for casual cruelty was a ruse to hide some tragic pain that belied an essential goodness.  I had  no wish to acknowledge this, as it would only make it harder for me to vilify him.   Yet it was Rick who was at the hospital when my dad had a near-fatal heart attack.    I was apoplectic, and my mother was unprepared to stabilize the shifting  ground underneath my life as well as her own. She thought it best if I “spend time amongst friends who cared about me.”   So she called Rick (the only friend whose name she could remember), and that fucker came and took me roller skating.    Moreover, he granted me a general amnesty for  a week, about as long as it took for the doctors to confirm that my dad would recover.   I hated Rick for being so uncharacteristically nice, and hated myself for hating him.

Perhaps the only thing more infuriating than the humiliations was the fact that Rick never really singled me out for it.  He was an egalitarian, ridiculing everyone more or less equally.   I suppose if I felt like he was targeting me, it would be for some special reason beyond my social ineptitude.   In a bizarre way I thought it might signal some kind of approval.   He certainly didn’t seem to require mine, or anyone else’s for that matter.  For the most part Rick seemed happy to offend anyone and everyone.   His  sheer lack of consideration seemed like an act of reckless bravery,  and it made him a dashing figure to me and perhaps to Hope as well.

Nonetheless, I owe Rick a debt.  With the exception of the largesse he showed concerning my dad, he was relentless. Every time I would appeal for mercy it would only get worse.   The only option was to sublimate that angst, to soldier on and take it.   So I developed a gift for suppressing rage, for not flinching when he said or did something mean.  I started reading Lenny Bruce, and practicing witty retorts in the privacy of my  bedroom.  It was like Navy SEAL training, and without it I would never have developed the thick skin and sharp wit I needed to defend myself, the same skin and wit that I use today to survive in my contemptible industry.

Moreover, it was Rick’s dubious Christian example that inspired my healthy skepticism.     His investment in religion was less moral than legalistic: follow the rules and you get into Heaven.   As such he ascetically observed such pious ordinances as no smoking, no drinking, and no cursing.   He didn’t dance, as it may have lead to sex.  As far as I know he didn’t have sex standing up as it may have lead to dancing.   I suspect he missed the rule about treating your neighbour the same way you’d want to be treated yourself, although it’s more likely he regarded Christianity as a kind of spiritual alegbra exam – he didn’t have to get everything right in order to pass.   So as I understood it, Rick would inherit to the kingdom of Heaven while it would be denied to someone like my dad- a decent, honest non-believer who lived a life closer to the example set by Christ than Rick ever would.    I couldn’t accept such arbitrariness on the part of God, and over time I grew disenchanted and left church altogether.  Today,  I question everything. I make an effort to understand why the I think the  way that I do,  and I’m open to the possibility of  changing my opinions if new facts come to light.   I can even go so far as to accept that Rick may be a better person than I realized, although such evidence has yet to present itself.

Regardless of my personal feelings for Rick, I am a better man than I would’ve been because of his cruelty and fecklessness.  Not that he would know, mind you – in my senior year, I moved with my family to another city, and I never spoke to Rick again.  I don’t think it would’ve mattered to him anyway.   I’ve found it’s rare for any bully, bad friend and frenemy to have a reflective nature .   Writer Jonathan Goldstein once produced an amazing story on the excellent radio program This American Life , in an episode devoted to “The Allure of Mean Friend”: Is it mean of the ravenous lion to devour the frightened zebra?  As the first terrible bites sink into his legs and stomach, does the zebra look in the lion’s eyes as though to  say “why are doing this to me, friend? and why, by my very nature, have I demanded it?” It occurs to me that only the zebra would do a story (on this subject).  The lion could care less.

Although I haven’t seen him in more than twenty years,  Rick  is still with me, helping me become a better man.  I’ll be thinking of him when I take McTwerpface to the mat.