How Far Can You Pee?

My friend Pasquale* called me up today under the guise of a regular catch-up chat. This “friend” turned acquaintance, turning nemesis uses each conversation as a platform for his latest and greatest deeds and adventures and has no real interest in talking except to perpetuate his reputation. Each conversation is a commercial for his success. And it’s no obvious statement he makes. Instead each phrase is carefully laced with a boastful note; a sad attempt at subtlety. This almost makes it worse because you can almost picture him straining to fortify each sentence with a juicy accomplishment, while at the same time trying to maintain an undertone of real conversation.

“Yeah bro, I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it to your wedding. I have a photo shoot that day, I think. But I’ll totally let you know. Or my agent will.”

No, ‘congratulations on the wedding,’ just the subtext of self-perceived glory. This guy turns everything into a pissing contest and it’s not like he isn’t successful, it’s just that I don’t give a damn. There was a time when I liked him; when he asked a question about my life and he actually cared about the anwer. That’s what makes it all so sad; that, and the fact that he has to inject each exchange with some steroidal esteem booster. Let the deeds speak for themselves and get the hell over yourself.

*Some names have been altered to protect the individual’s identity. Also, he’s not really my friend. He’s more of a jerk.

I still haven't found what I'm looking for

I heard a story about a bear who went over the mountain to see what he could see. Do you know what he could see: the other side of the mountain. Go figure. I bring this to your attention because it illustrates a problem a certain friend of mine is experiencing. He’s in that classic find-your-place-in-this-world quagmire which often hits us all in our early twenties.

For all those people struggling to get to the top, let me save you some trouble: there’s not much up there but air and other disappointed people. There’s a cavity eating away at the soul’s enamel, possibly a product of post-modernism, possibly because of alien microwaves, definitely because you touch yourself at night, but the point is, it’s there: a void. Where did it come from? How did I get this void? We may have been born with it, I’m not sure, but almost everyone knows what it is. It’s that aching feeling; that classic, something’s-not-rightness within us that we always try to right.

Now there are all kinds of classic ways to fill the void, but I’m talking now about the pitfalls of success. Not that I speak from experience, but I think a successful career, fame, money or combinations thereof are not all they’re cracked up to be, and the illusion is out there that once a modicum of success is attained, it will fill that void.

Now I don’t want to be that annoying armchair psychologist everyone knows, but I feel confident enough to say that I don’t think wide scale depression and unhappiness is around because people aren’t successful enough. After all, this is the apex of capitalist society. Sure, I think financial security helps; I think doing what you love for a living is nothing but good. But when being successful is your be-all, it will end up disappointing you.

Case in point: celebrities. This is the most pathetic demographic in history: a sad collection of naval-gazing, self-important prima donnas. Okay, by many standards, celebrities (be they thespian, musician, politician, something else with an “ian” suffix) have attained success. They’re the top of their field: actors making millions; musicians playing to gigantic, adoring audiences; businesspeople driving their Bentleys to make another deposit, and so on. It’s almost a cliché how unhappy these people often are, despite their bleached-white smiles, and I think they’re unhappy because they’ve climbed the mountain, seen the top and despaired.

I’m not claiming this is the void itself, but we’re always climbing for something; always reaching for the next rung on the ladder in the hopes that, once attained, things will finally be easier. Things will start to get better if I only… The problem is, once we run out of if I only-s we’ve run out of symptoms for our unhappiness. Besides a true spirit of philanthropy, I believe that these people at the top turn to charities and the business of humanity because it represents an insurmountable challenge: a summit that will never be attained. That, and the tax benefits.

Actually, I think it’s highly beneficial to one’s soul to contribute to humanity in this way. Without being so bold as to claim the secret of life, I theorize that the way to get rid of that gaping void inside is counter-intuitive: to give of ourselves. Only by experiencing true charity, giving to humankind and righting life’s wrongs can one get respite from the ache and toil of your inner-void. Or so I think.

I should point out that I think it’s very important to do what you’re good at; to propagate your art or skill, because it’s very cathartic. It’s natural that we do what we were made to do, so let’s do it.

Side note: does anyone else notice I over punctuate my writing? Bothers the crap out of me.

Wax Off

Things have been so busy lately, I haven’t had time to blog. Although there are many things on my mind right now, there’s little for me to say about anything that wouldn’t be obvious or slightly incriminating. So I’ll sound off on a couple of slight issues.

First, Pat Morita. Morita-san , who played Arnold in “Happy Days” and Mr. Myagi in “The Karate Kid” was a very sweet, funny man. Or at least he seemed to be. He had a difficult life and it makes me sad that he passed away. Rest in peace, Myagi-san.

Next, I’d like to point out how difficult the authorities make it for a person to do things legitimately in this world. “Things” is a broad category, but let’s just say that if one were trying to operate fully within the law, the law goes out of its way to make it difficult for one to do said activity legally.

One quick example: setting up your own business. If I were to build a company, I would certainly register it as a business and pay taxes and do everything in my power to do things right because it’s the right thing to do. But there are so many obstacles to this, and many other legal enterprises, that it’s very enticing to go the illegitimate way; a bend in the law here, a slight deceit here. The evils of bureaucracy are made clear to me now as I try to dance the wicked dance of the civil service and it seems another cruel way to keep a good man down, while creating all kinds of opportunity for cheaters and lawbreakers. Way to go.

My beautiful bride-to-be has picked out a dress and I’m sure she looks lovely in it. The countdown is on until I see her.

My family is adapting to Toronto life. As much as my parents are foreign to the culture of cosmopolitan Toronto, I think it’s good for them to be in such a different neighbourhood than they were before. Toronto is so much different than small-town Barrie, and it will be interesting to see where they are in a year. Perhaps they’ll become beatnik poet/painters with a penchant for swinging and, dare I say, liberalism. Or perhaps not. All the same, I wish them the best and I think about them all the time.

I saw Chicken Little today. It was a great film, story wise, with some very clever bits and a smartly written script. Even so, it fell a little short of the mark. Disney’s first real foray into digital animation was a clumsy one, with the backgrounds and some characters looking like third-rate TV advertisements. I kept expecting a rousing chorus of “let’s all go to the lobby….” Besides the animation, the characters were a mixed bag with Chicken Little (played by the always wonderful Zack Braff) in fine form, while the other characters were limp and uninteresting. I think Disney had a good story on their hands; they could have had people out in Shrek-like numbers if they could only realize that adults watch these movies, too. On the other hand, my niece Emma sat through her first full movie and that can only be a good sign. Two out of five chickens for “Chicken Little.”

As I write this, I’m coming to you from my new laptop, which I’m very excited about. All in all, a good day.

Goodnight kiss

It was a week heralded by painful goodbyes and the difficult task of pairing down all your belongings into two bags. It was a week of moving, of cleaning, of packing and unpacking; of hugs and kisses and 5¢ slot machines. It was a week of the 19th-story view, a goodbye kiss from the city that loved me. It was a week of trains and long moments staring out into the desert countryside; of watching the hills turn to shadows, the light disappearing behind them as my face appears, reflected in the window.

It is a day of hello tugs and hugs and tiny-lipped kisses. It is a day of wrestling and calzones, and then a yielding mattress waiting for me. It is a day of tender sunshine; a day of light wind and then soft, settling darkness; a hello kiss from the city that will grow to love me.

I’ll Miss you at 7:00 and 7:19

“It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.” Gibran, The Prophet.

Before I collapse under the weight of grief at your departure, a sobbing waif of a creature wandering the world in search of you and shaking my head in dismay at the choices I made to take you away from me, I want to tell you what you are to me:

You are the finest of the macaroni makers, and the quickest to eat it. You’re the untidiest of tidy people. You are the runt of the litter, but you’re strongest person I know. Your hands are tiny, wrinkled displays of God’s craftsmanship, disappearing into my own, and yet you beat me at thumb wars every single time. Never rested, forever at rest, you are my delightful space-hog and ruler of the remote control. The force of your bark is beaten only by the tenderness of your whisper.

And I know that tenderness surrounds you. Your cheeks, like knitted pockets of cashmere, are the target of my kisses. You know me, and yet you love me and allow me to know you too. Morning-time baby-talker, my Grommit, my comic genius, my dancing queen, we represent the three stages of love: we love with the passion of the untried, we are familiar with years behind us and we fight like grumpy septuagenarians. You are the runt of the litter, but you carry me often. Farewell Miss Golden; I will miss you.

“Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering? And shall it be said that my eve was truly my dawn?”

The Death Penalty: A minor tackle of a big issue.

This post is in response to a series of comments made here on an interesting post. The subject in the commentary deals more specifically with the death penalty. Like abortion, this issue is not one where I could simply win over people to my side with a passionate line of reasoning, however persuasive. Still, I’d like to further draw out the boundaries of my viewpoint, partly for my benefit and partly because I think the idea of the death penalty as draconian and cruel needs some defense (it’s two-against-one in the commentary section).

I will only just touch on the contention that there is a biblical basis justifying national execution, partly because many people have used the bible to justify their argument (one calls to mind the KKK members holding bibles on Jerry Springer) and mostly because I am no theologian. However, it strikes me as anathema to the overwhelming grace Jesus preaches throughout the New Testament, as my detractors have well pointed out. I also think that Jesus’ message was a personal one, not meant for consumption at a government level (“render unto Caesar….”) but as I pointed out, I am no theologian. The problem of using the Bible to justify capital, or even corporal punishment, is that it immediately dissociates other religions and creeds, many of whom would also have to die upon the sword and would find no comfort in Bible readings on their death beds.

What plants me firmly in the abolitionist camp, though, is the heinous record of wrongful convictions. Illinois alone found 13 wrongfully convicted inmates on death row (and subsequently suspended the death penalty). For me the argument stops here. How can you possibly kill a man if you aren’t absolutely sure he committed the crime? In many cases, emotions run high; the defendant can’t afford competent representation, et voila: death sentence. I’m sure that greater good of justice and the alleged deterrent capital punishment provides would hardly comfort a family when a miscarriage of justice occurs.

On that note, I can’t wrap my head around the idea of punitive justice as it relates to deterrence. Everywhere you go in the United States, prisons abound. Reminders of the penalty of one’s crime are everywhere. Certainly the justice system provides a curtain of civility where people understand to the consequences of stepping over to the other side and I don’t argue taking that away. But I can’t see a gang member (and certainly not a suicide bomber) saying to his compatriot, “dude, I can’t go through with this. Did you see what they did to that guy on the news?!”

As I said before, this discussion could consume days of conversation with no movement on either side, but I felt the abolitionist side needed a bit more bolstering. Even one person wrongly executed out of thousands is too many and that is tantamount to government murder.

Prime: a movie review

Here’s your primer: this movie, which was written and directed by Ben Younger, stars Uma Thurman, Meryl Streep and relative newcomer Bryan Greenberg. Prime is a dramedy about a young Jewish man who falls for older Rafi (Thurman). The premise of this farce is that Rafi’s therapist (Streep) is also young Jewish man’s mother. So, while Uma Thurman’s character spells out the fine points of a detailed menu of sexual entrees with her therapist’s son, Meryl’s character winces and pretends to take down notes. I hesitate to call this a twist, though, because it’s not all that clever and not really twist-y. That, and we already know from the trailers about this Freudian triangle.

The movie plays like a Woody Allen cover tune, minus the nebbish male lead. Oh, and minus the humour. Greenberg’s character drops jokes as wooden as the desk I’m writing this on, with no sense of comic timing. There’s subtle, and then there’s non-existent. Meryl Streep’s character grows on you, despite her fidgety twitching, but Uma is not much more than eye candy (quality candy, though she may be).

The title suggests a coming-of-age that doesn’t come. The doomed love story premise is played out with all the precision of a yo-yo. The dialogue isn’t bad but the multiple close-ups of David (Bryan)’s paint-stained hands become obvious, bordering on irritating. The ending isn’t your typical test-audience-pleaser, which is nice, but this band-aid does little to stop the bleeding well into the denouement. The face savers of the evening: the incredible soundtrack, the New York panorama and Uma Thurman’s smile. Oh Uma.

Two Bushes out of Five

(Night Time Is) The Right Time

In the words of genius Ray Charles, “the night time is the right time to be with the ones you love.” Ray, m’boy, you’ve done it again. The significance of this statement is made clear as I prepare to say goodbye to friends and family. Indeed, the procession of goodbye dinners and events has already begun. As I weigh the magnitude of these life changes rushing up at me, it occurs to me that these changes have more weight at night. What I mean is this:

When I get up in the morning, the day is full of promise. I’m enjoying my temporary retirement and my moments of lethargy. Dara and I are having a great time together and I’m in a good mood. But once the sun goes down, the weight of my decisions unravels before me and I get sad. I think about my family and about Dara, both of whom I’m going to miss like crazy. I think about the most efficient way to spend my time here with friends and family, although I ultimately fail at this each day. Put simply, the morning is pregnant with opportunity and promise, by nightfall I’m sad, scared and depressed.

Dara speculates that this may be because at night, I’m left with my own thoughts. I agree that this is part of it. The world is asleep and you’re left to think about those sleeping in it. I think there’s more to it than that, and I leave it upon my faithful readers (all three of you) to comment about why this might happen.

I don’t want to be melodramatic, here. I did that enough in my teens and I groan every time I read old journal entries grasping towards imagined eloquence, dramatizing the most trivial of events. My upcoming move isn’t trivial, certainly, but it needn’t be the guilt-ridden, stressful event that the evening makes it. In conclusion, I’m going to start going to bed at 5:00.

PC speak

I had an interesting discussion with two friends about the use of such un-PC words and phrases as “the wife” and “retarded.” The conversation took an interesting turn near the end as to whether it’s effective to actively confront racially/gender/homosexually-insensitive people or whether such confrontation is futile. There were two points in the conversation that caught my interest. The first was how such sanitized, PC language is impinging on modes of expression. The second point was about the oversensitivity of people who, like myself, have very little to be sensitive about. I shall tackle the second point first.

As a middle-class, white, Anglo-Saxon protestant, I have very little to complain about. Demographically speaking, everyone listens to me and, unless you count last week when someone cut in front of me in the McDonald’s line, I have very little to complain about. Contrast that with the slavery in Africa and Brazil, the violence and suppression of women in the Middle East and my picture gets even rosier, if not guilty. But it does no good to get offended on behalf of another group. If someone says something racially insensitive, I don’t need to act like the gatekeeper of political correctness, saying, “listen, mulatto isn’t right; the correct term is bi-racial,” as if somehow I have a right to impose society’s new standards on an unknowing bystander. People love to play this role, like some leftover school hallway monitor and it’s completely ineffective at stunting racism. The only thing this type of confrontation will do is to put up walls. Of course, this doesn’t cover extremes and it doesn’t cover people who belong to the race or category of the offending comment but there are enough things out there to be offended by; we middle-classers don’t all need to be so easily offended. --Side note: Just to be sure, I find racial slurs and those who propogate racism and hate crimes morally reprehensible.

Now, what I do find truly offensive is the sanitation of language. English draws upon many etymological sources, and we still rely on pop culture and the literati to coin new words and phrases for us. It’s a beautiful language and although its ambiguities often frustrate new learners of the language, these ambiguities provide richness and subtext to many stories, poems and song lyrics. That said, we don’t need to dumb our language down by imposing ridiculous standards, by succumbing to robotic language parameters designed not to offend and by constantly second-guessing ourselves. As Steve Carell’s character on The Office learned, we don’t want to ignore racial differences, we want to celebrate diversity.

I could go into detailed examples, but no doubt I’ll offend someone. This is my point: unless you belong to the group being offended, don’t take offence. My second point: unless it helps language in some fundamental way, or unless it actually protects and prevents against the furtherance of prejudice (and we have to be honest with ourselves here), we should curb our PC speech. In it, we find the bastardization of a language I’m just barely getting to know. I could go so much deeper than this, but I’ll leave it at that.

Go NBC!

I can’t say enough good things about NBC’s The Office. It is a fine example of quality writing, good characters and awkwardly funny scenarios. Over the course of its one and a half seasons, Dara and I have followed the show and its cast with great enthusiasm. Despite the genius comedic timing of the show’s leading funny man, Steve Carell (particularly his interaction with Rainn Wilson’s Dwight Schrute character), Dara and I have taken to calling this show simply, Jim & Pam after the show’s burgeoning but not mawkish love story. (lucky for Dara, Pam's Jenna Fischer is already married.)

Rounding out the Tuesday lineup is Law & Order. This show couldn’t be any more different from The Office in tone and content, and yet I love it equally. Unlike the CSI franchise, Dick Wolf’s Law & Order shows don’t exaggerate the cinematographic budget proportionate to the ratings. L&O has stayed focused despite its immense success. With a revolving door of characters (including the late Jerry Orbach), this show is more about the legal process than about who’s playing the lead role. I’m a big fan of the Special Victims Unit variant, but I do love watching Sam Waterston parry and thrust with attorneys and judges in their legal patois. Very interesting show.

And if you enjoy the macabre, check this site out.

C’est L’alloween:

ameson: Yesterday was my last day of work at Jameson and I should feel relieved. I have this piece of advice for anyone who’s given in his/her notice: never leave work on a Monday! Monday is an anticlimactic day to leave your job, especially if you’ve worked there four years. That it was Halloween probably added to the surreal nature of the day.

I started the day in a funk because of personal issues. I don’t know if there’s anything harder to break free from than the momentum of a bad mood. So I suppose it was mostly my fault that my last day was a bad day. I’m not sure what I was expecting in a last day, but it was unceremonious. Friday was great; by Monday, it felt like I had overstayed my welcome. Everything was colourless and unexciting.

When I was finished tying up loose administrative ends, I met Dara at the Keg’s Haunted Mansion. What a relief to see my little lady. She helped expunge the day’s weariness. It was also great to see my friend Derek and by the end of the night, I was forgetting my crappy last day.

When I woke up this morning, I picked up my going-away card and read the messages therein. There were some touching moments, some funny moments, a few erotic moments—it was nice. I prefer to take those nice memories away, rather than the slush that was Monday the 31st of October.