Category: Editorials

Outside a bar in Kensington, I ask you for a cigarette. I can see that you aren’t exactly thrilled about parting with one, especially to a strange man, so after I light up, I try to explain that I normally smoke only when I drink, and I hadn’t counted on drinking tonight but a friend twisted my rubber arm and yatta yatta yatta…

“So don’t smoke then.” You say, quietly, slipping some hair behind your ear.
“How do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, it bothers when someone asks me for a cigarette and then afterwards they tell me that they’re trying to quit, you know. Just don’t smoke.”

Wow. Chin in palm, you say this with poised feline practice. I’m impressed. As middle-aged male, I was never close to being this smooth and comfortable in my twenties. Looking back, there was always something a little off about me. Either my fly would be open, or my haircut would be crooked, or I’d be wearing a shirt with a stain that I hadn’t noticed before leaving the house. As for my demeanour, there was just too much effort and earnestness and not enough ease and refinement, and what could have come across as innocent and endearing came across as slightly undercooked, if not entirely raw. My ego was always bursting through the seams. Don’t get me wrong, I had many friends, though I envied them because everything about them appeared to fit nicely: accessories matched their identities that gave smooth birth to comments that complimented both. They were all from different social circles and many, in fact couldn’t stand one another. A curious predicament then, but it is evident now that though I could connect with people on individual levels, I hadn’t the social coordination to be granted acceptance to any one of their particular groups. The hippy crowd though of me as bourgeoisie, rockers found me arrogant and uppity, jocks and martial artists scorned me, Goths were repelled by my cheerfulness, activists didn’t trust me, and poets, scholars and artists thought of me as ignorant, inept or inauthentic. On the brighter side, it was great for a one-on-one coffee on Tuesday afternoon. However if I didn’t make that call on Saturday night, I wasn’t going to get the party invite.

This isn’t a pity parade. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m in my mid-thirties and despite the fact that on a good day, I leave my house with one armpit sans deodorant and a hairy spot on my cheek where the razor missed, wearing my wife’s tiny backpack, a ten-year-old sweater and carrying a cracked and scratched cell phone that I had to buy to replace the one which was run over by a car six months ago, I like who I am. If I had a nickel for every time in the last year that I forgot the point I was trying to make; if I had a quarter for every time in the last month I fumbled through a witty response, I would probably get myself a pair of boots that wouldn’t make squelching noises when I walk. Not much has changed since the aesthetic and social blunderings of my twenties. Be it artistic, political, societal or career-wise, I have yet to develop a polished persona for any one particular circle or cause. Groups and cliques still reluctantly open themselves to me, which means that all of my accomplishments have been through relentlessness effort and thick-skinned determination. I am stronger for this and I appreciate everything that comes my way, or try to at least.

But still, I feel a teen-envy when I look at you. So complete and matching in your persona, I can identify you as a hipster in seconds. Not a great feat in Kensington Market, but I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to be part of one group, wholly and entirely, perhaps with shared brands of beer and cigarettes. I can only imagine it as a second family, bonded together not through blood and obligation, but through a mixture of both trivial and profound elements.

It’s been only seconds since your comment, and for first time in a long time, I make a response with a minimal amount of stumbling and a good amount of swarthiness. I remark that occasionally temptation overrides decorum, and not to flatter you, but you have great taste
in cigarettes. For it I’m rewarded with a brief smile as you walk back in the bar, where your group of friends awaits.

A fellow poet once said that every poem is a failure. Am I the only person who feels this way about my twenties? Alone and all at once comfortable, I inhale what you reluctantly gave me, and consider that in my piecemeal, imperfect, and unfinished world, cigarettes are doled out in twos and threes, with a smile and never a complaint.

5. A child named Adolph Hitler Campbell will spend another year developing into a social outcast.

As New Jersey News reports, he’s already having problems with bakeries, in that many have refused to put his name on their birthday cakes. His father’s explanation for giving his son such a moniker is that people “need to accept a name. A name’s a name. The kid isn’t going to grow up and do what (Hitler) did.” Well thank God. I’ve heard of people trying to act out their political views through their children (vegan babies, for example), but what kind of social life can they expect for him? (Hitler’s here! Let’s get this party started!) Poor Adolph won’t be alone in his misery because he also has a sister named JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell. You’d think their father, Heath Campbell, could be a little more subtle. Though neighbours needn’t worry about having a Klan family next door because while Heath often wears jackboots around his New Jersey ‘hood, he says he’s fine with his kids hanging out with black people. Das Jew den, on the other hand…
 

4. Pandas will continue their valiant struggle against existence.

Here is an animal that refuses to eat anything but one type of bamboo. Not bamboo in general, but only one kind of bamboo. As well, this animal is currently uninterested in sex. Of course if a male and female, after much wining, dining and dirty videos, decide to please the thousands of animal rights activists and tear one off, it has to be at the right time of year for any positive results. If all the stars align and the female gets pregnant, she will have twins and promptly throw one of them away. Excuse the pun, but isn’t this called whipping a dead horse? Pandas have quickly become the Terri Schiavos of the animal world. If situations like this teach us anything, it’s to know when to stop meddling in the natural fate of others.

3. Poets will continue to be lousy and little.

2008 showed us just how puerile, cliquey and fractious the community of Canadian poets can be. If we’re not complaining under our breaths about the old, grant-hogging dinosaurs awarding themselves what little prize money there is for the art form, then we’re openly protesting against the juvenile and unseasoned poet talented enough to garner something like the Governor General’s Award. At its climax, this protest devolved into online, tabloid-style mudslinging against poet Jacob Scheier whose only fault was that he lacked the clout which usually keeps such pettiness to a mere murmur. At our best, Canadian poets are something to be seen and heard. At our worst, as we have seen this year, we are nothing more than a flock of seagulls fighting over the same French Fries in the back of a MacDonald’s.

2. Further integration with the US will solve all of Canada’s abstract problems.

Bush isn’t out of office yet, but Canadian integrationalists have already started writing their articles advocating their one continent, one currency, one culture agenda. Over the last eight years such a concept wasn’t at all palatable to Canadians, but with media-friendly Obama soon to be president, these dreams of unification are beginning to resurface. Frank Graves, in today’s Globe and Mail, rehashes an age-old argument that Americans already see us as one of them and Canadians are just being narcissistic in thinking that we any different. In 2009, more arguments like this will be made: Europeans can’t tell us apart anyway; Canada is nationally rudderless; Canadians don’t have much of a culture or history; our economies are already joined at the hip. So, why not unify? Well, to begin with, we ARE different, even if we don’t take Quebec into account. And secondly there is no need for an irreversible, real-world solution to a problem that is both abstract and trivial.
 

1. There will be unrest in the Middle East.

I know it’s a stretch, but like many of today’s Evangelicals, I’ve got this funny, prophetic feeling about that part of the world…so send me money. Lots and lots of money.

From a right-wing, chainsaw-wielding, white evangelical country bumpkin, to a left-wing, black statesman with a Muslim-sounding name and a smoking habit: America, do you really have to be this dramatic?

I mean for entertainment value, it’s tops, but how do you manage to get anything done?

If you were an amusement park ride, you’d be the Viking boat swinging from one extreme to the other to the other, the people on board shrieking, arms raised like evangelicals, prior to every descent. Of course, in such desperate and exciting circumstances, who wouldn’t be looking for a hero, a saviour?

I suppose your large Christian base perpetuates this. With 40 percent of your current population believing in the myth of Noah’s Ark, is it such a stretch, to imagine that these same people believe that we are in the End of Days, those dark and dangerous times that precipitate Christ’s return?

Imagine God himself, on a white horse no less, streaking from the clouds, spear in hand to pierce the hide of the Anti-Christ and send him back the black depths from whence he came. (I am not exaggerating, this how it’s supposed to end). With that kind of shock and awe belief system in the hearts of many of your citizens, no wonder you have an innate need for heroics.

You have Obama now, president-elect, who flew to victory on the wings of hope. It’s my greatest fear that this hope devolves into bitter disappointment when it’s discovered that Obama cannot walk on water and crap ice-cream. Let’s face it, to say that Dubuya will leave him a few challenges to overcome is an understatement. Even in the short time he has left, Bush is still trying to deregulate and bomb as much as he can, in order to leave, as Bill Mayar put it, “the white house smouldering in flames behind him.” (So very visual and so very Hollywood, is it not?).

I suppose this could be a little bit of leader-envy on my part. In my lifetime, I can’t remember the last Canadian Prime Minister that really inspired me in the same way Obama has done. Trudeau springs to mind, but I know that he also could be divisive and petty. I’ll never forget the image of him leaning over the benches of parliament mouthing the words “fuck off” to his detractors. Where I’m from, I must concede our leaders are all too human.

Then I think, “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

Heroes and saviours, like fireman and police officers, are there to rescue us from desperate situations. Would it not be a smart just to ensure that such desperate situations don’t arise in the first place? In other words that you create an environment stable and secure enough that heroics are no longer necessary?

You’re America, of course, so my next question would have to be: would you be happy in such a stable environment?

A place of harmony, order and status quo?

A place where the expression “yippie kay yay, motherf**cker” would seem uncouth?

A place where you’d never again need a plan so crazy, it just might work?

Somehow I think you be pacing the floor within a week.

And within a month you’d discover that the people next door are evil anarchists who’ve set a nuclear device to go off under city hall!!

No, America, I think you just fine the way you are: ever the cowboy, ever the mad scientist.

As for me, despite my complaints, I liken you to a wild and crazy uncle who sleeps on the couch from time to time. In other words, it’s always an adventure having you around.

Dear reader, I need your advice. Unless you’re a man, you have no idea the pain it causes me to admit this. I have quite literally exposed my throat to you. I am so vulnerable at this moment. Please be gentle.

Actually, it doesn’t bother me in the least to approach you for help. Unlike a lot of guys out there – and bear in mind that I hate to set myself up as a “maverick”, especially these days – asking for advice has never been much of a problem for me.

I think it’s because I’m Jean Luc Picard fan. You know, Star Trek: The Next Generation. Remember? One of the few bald and famous men that most women my age want to “get with”. Being a Picard fan automatically makes me NOT a James T. Kirk fan. These two Starship captains are diametrically apposed archetypes of the human male. If you are unsure of the distinction between the two, have a look at the comparisons linked here and here. Go ahead, check them out, I’ll wait.

Now, it should only take a brief reading of either list to learn that Picard is the archetypal modern western male: educated, diplomatic, and team-oriented. On the other hand, Kirk is a traditional man’s man; sort of a shoot-from-the-hip-Marlboro-man-of-yesterday’s-tomorrow type of guy. While each has their fan-base in the Trekky world, I believe that most guys out there, regardless if they even watch Star Trek, are Kirk fans.

Why’s that? Well, take, for instance, Kirk’s method of decision making: he doesn’t have one. Whatever his gut tells him to do, he does. He rarely defers to crew members for their opinions about the crisis at hand. Oh sure, he may quietly approach Spock or Bones, but that’s simply to solidify the choice he has already made. As one online comparison states: “Kirk was a leader of followers. That’s the only reason he (almost) got away with it.” I’m not entirely sure what Kirk was supposed to have gotten away with, but that’s beside the point.

On the other hand, Picard, when it comes to making decisions, takes a much different road. At a crises point, he sits all the senior officers around the table and asks their opinion. Only after hearing from each officer does he make his decision. I’ve always admired this method of decision making. And that’s why I have never shied away from asking people for advice; the exception of course, being to stop for directions. On that matter, I enjoy nothing more than getting a little lost on a Sunday afternoon.

In fact, these days, I have friends that I go to for advice on specific topics. I have a friend for advice on construction and home improvement. I have a friend for business etiquette advice. I have several friends I go to for advice on writing and poetry. I have a friend who I can always count on for solutions to my computer woes. Finally, I have a friend who can give me the best ideas on things like cutting a deal with my tenants or how to get free cable. This not to mention my membership at Pay Per Law, which for a monthly fee gives me unlimited access to a lawyer on anything from copyright issues to credit card contracts. As anyone can see, I don’t consider it a blow to my ego to ask for advice. Moreover, I may very well be a bit of an advice slut. My question is: why not go to the people who know?

For other guys, however, asking for advice is a humbling exercise, second only to crying. Captain James T. Kirk would NEVER ask for help. In fact he’d rather destroy the ship and its crew before emasculating himself in such a way. For men, it is not only a blow to their ego, it’s as if they are revealing a weakness, a chink in there armour. When guys hug one another, there has to be some added punching and hitting, just to demonstrate that they are still men. And when guys ask for advice, I’ve learned that a jibe or a barb has to be thrown in to let the advice-giver know that he/she isn’t dealing with a eunuch (apologies to any eunuchs reading this).

Take for example, my steady weight loss over the previous year. Anyone who has seen me in the last three months can’t deny the difference in my appearance. This may sound like bragging, but fifty pounds is fifty pounds. In the last three months, no matter what social setting, I have been asked repeatedly how I shed the weight. This has happened so often, in fact, I was tempted to make up little business cards with dietary instructions listed on them. Out of the countless people who’ve asked me for advice on how to lose weight, only three of them were men. Funny thing about the most recent male query: it wasn’t until a couple of hours after he approached me that I realize had actually asked me for advice. While all the women have been clear and direct with their questions such as “How did you lose so much weight?” or “Could you write down for me what you eat?”, this gentleman posed his question as follows: “So, how much did it cost you for your makeover?” Wherefore I told him that food prices aren’t so dear if one shops at No Frills and in Chinatown. Only after I got home did it come to me that this guy wanted to know exactly what women had been asking me, but having to ask it directly would have been too much of a blow to his pride, without the backhanded slant. And who knows? Perhaps if he’d asked me a question directly, he would have benefited from the proper advice.

Even more exasperating, is that there has been one or two occasions where I, minus fifty pounds, have had to sit and listen to dietary advice from male friends who have been struggling with their weight for years. Really though, this shouldn’t be much of a surprise because Captain James T. Kirk doesn’t take advice, he only gives orders and kills or screws anything green.

And herein lays the problem: to ask for advice is to admit that you are not Kirk, but Picard. And face it, deep down inside, all men, even myself at moments of weakness, admire Captain James T. Kirk as the man they’d like to be: strong, independent, virile, and fear Jean Luc Picard as the man they actually are: bald, book-smart, and fond of Earl Grey Tea.

In conclusion, my advice on asking for advice, if you’ll allow it, is to treat your query like a compliment. Yes, a compliment. People love to talk about what they know. As men, you should already be aware of this. Giving compliments might seem a bit weird to you, but since you all insist on being the swashbuckling Captain of the Enterprise, I will go one step further and advise you to imagine the person you are approaching as a little green female alien. Little green female aliens are by and large harmless, and as every manly Captain knows, love receiving compliments.