Act Your Age... Stopping a Fight

Over the past seven months or so, I’ve developed a theory about life. Personally, I see life as a running narrative. All the little stories (incidents and events in one’s life), sort of come together to tell this grandiose story that sort of makes sense. Today, I tell the story of one evening this month in which I (at least attempt) to stop a bar fight. As one brief incident, it may be nothing. But in the grand scheme of my life, it may turn out to be a crucial part of the story.

It had already been an evening of adventure. I’d gotten free tickets to see a comedy show and then went to a wedding reception to celebrate one of my friend’s nuptials. Eventually, as the night progressed, Becky (one of my friends from school) suggested we go to the local bar to dance.

When we arrived the group included Becky, Amy, Billy, and myself. Not being a particularly proficient dancer (See my experience at Retro Night), I stayed at the bar with Billy while the girls made their way to the dance floor. Billy explained that he would show me how to pick up women. Then he began to point out a woman, follow her briefly, before giving up and pointing out another. Finally I got a text from Becky saying she’d found a spot for the coats and she encouraged us to join them.

We danced for a brief period. Billy remained amazingly drunk and was trying to hook up with what appeared to be a pair of middle-aged lesbians. His tactic was to back up into them until they noticed. At one point, he bummed into a young man, spilling the man’s drink all over the dance floor in the process.

The man (and this is how I heard the story from him as I didn’t see it myself) turned to Billy and said it was okay and that they should continue to have a good time. Billy shrugged it off and told the man that he shouldn’t have to apologize since the man had been the one to spill his drink on him. From there things escalated and the two got into each other’s faces.

It’s at this point, I stepped in. I pulled Billy away and started talking to the gentlemen. He had short, army cut hair, was as tall as me (at 6’2) with broad shoulders and a skinny waist. He could kill me.

I first listened to his side of the story. Then, being a bit of a coward, I instantly turned on Billy in hopes of saving us both.

“Listen,” I told the giant. “Billy isn’t in his right mind now and when he’s drank too much he can be obnoxious. He’s not worth fighting.” The guy protested and again tried to explain why he was the good guy.

“Just dance with the girls you have over there!” I told him. “You could fight Billy, but that won’t prove anything. It won’t be any fun. You’re a big guy. A nice guy. Go dance with girls. That’ll be more fun.” Again the guy protested. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the change I had, and pressed it into his hand.

“It’s not enough for a beer, but its something,” I told him. And finally he smiled and gave in. He stepped forward, took my hand and told me I was a good guy. He was even about to give me the money back. But as he said the words to me, he looked over my shoulder to Billy who had rolled up his sleeves. And the situation exploded again.

He jumped around me and was once again in Billy’s face. Billy stared at him saying nothing, while the man talked about disrespect. Becky jumped in between, while Sarah (who had arrived only minutes before) pulled Billy away. Sarah came back empty handed and said Billy was in the corner of the bar in a separate room. I grabbed our jackets and went to find him.

Billy was in the side room. The bouncers were in front of the room guarding it, while the man tried to talk them into letting him into the room for a confrontation. I slipped in and told Billy we were going to pizza. I peeked out of the room, finding that everyone had seemed to vanish and then brought Billy outside.

Unfortunately, that’s where the bouncers had brought the man.

Now the man was yelling at Billy in the street. Billy just stared at him with his hands in his pockets. The man exclaimed that he’d tried to let it go, but Billy was continually disrespectful. He said he’d punch Billy but didn’t want to go to jail. I continued to try and convince him that we were going to pizza and that he didn’t want to fight Billy.

“There are girl’s in the bar,” I told him. “Getting a girl would be so much funner than getting in a fight.”

Finally, Billy spoke: “If you do punch me, you’re going to have to kill me. Because if I can get up, I’m coming after you.” Then the guy started to shove Billy.

“Don’t touch me,” Billy said.

I thought it was game over for me and that a fight was unavoidable. But to Billy’s credit he finally turned to the guy and said, “We’re going to get pizza.” At this point, the man pushed Billy hard enough that he stumbled back. I swept in, grabbed Billy’s arm, and pulled him to pizza. We ended up eating at Freeman’s. The next weekend, I found out the man was a bouncer at a different pub in town.

I Can Explain... NKOTBSB

Before I launch into this article, I want to make two observations about my subject matter. First, I spend a far larger proportion of my life hearing about NKOTBSB than I feel comfortable disclosing. And second, I write this article far more precariously than any others before. Because if I get anything wrong, I’m going to get flack from an army of loyal NKOTBSB fans (some of whom are uniquely positioned to cause me severe bodily damage if I were to, in any way, mar the name of NKOTBSB). So as I walk this tightrope... I can explain... the New Kids on the Block/Backstreet Boys super boy band group/collaboration (NKOTBSB).

Let’s start by looking at the two bands separately.

New Kids on the Block (a musical staple for preteen girls in the late 80s) were one of the first mega boy bands. They were a highly produced group that started after producer Maurice Starr auditioned 500 boys and discovered 15-year old Donnie Wahlberg (younger brother of actor Mark Wahlberg). While the group’s first album got minimal airplay, their songs soon launched them to mega stardom. Their success took a generation of girls from playing patty cake to playing pop cassettes.

After topping the musical charts for half a decade, the band’s popularity eventually began to wan in the early 90s. But other boy bands were forming and breaking up in their absence. In this musical climate, rose our second band: The Backstreet Boys. Taking advantage of the boy band craze, this group (named after a flea market, randomly enough) started to put out musical hit after hit and remained popular early into the new millennium.

Both bands were touring in 2010 and after many rumours began to circulate, it was finally confirmed that the bands would be joining forces as a new “super band” on a new summer tour. They combined the bands name in one mouthful of an acronym (NKOTBSB) and have begun to tour Canada and the USA hoping to re-launch the boy band fad.

As a guy, I have been socialized to scoff at the whole genre of boy band music. But for a moment, I’ll overlook things like the irony of a highly-produced band that was created based on an already proven formula asking, “Am I original?” and look at the merits of this super group. Admittedly, the music isn’t horrible. It’s catchy. And watching nine grown men cram onto a stage and dance in sync without falling off has its entertaining elements. But more importantly, where I give credit to money-grabbing pop culture productions like this is in the happiness they bring. Their music brings a generation of young women back to a time when it was okay to dance like there was no one watching; when it was cool to wear suspenders and long socks; and when a musical group falling apart was the closest thing to heartbreak they’d ever experienced.

So if NKOTBSB wants to continue to produce new material like “Don't Turn Out the Lights,” while frequently singing old favourites, power to them. I won’t be listening, but I can’t deny the smiles they bring and the cheers they entice.

I Can Explain... Everything Else

Personally, it’s been one hell of a week. On Monday, March 9, I was offered a job in Toronto as a Coordinator for the MS Society, which starts Wednesday, March 18. So this entire week has been a jumble of goodbyes, talks, and preparations. It’s been a roller coaster ride to say the least. To save some time, and to put everything into perspective, this week’s I Can Explain is a little different. Usually I choose one topic and delve into its history and significance. But this week, I’ve selected several quotes from my Facebook wall in which... I can explain... everything else:

¨ On Success: You’re not locked out unless you’re trying to get in.

¨ On Glee: The band on Glee is called New Directions... is it supposed to sound like Nude Erections?

¨ On his relationships: I did a four year BA and dated a girl for 4 years. Then I did a one year MA and saw a girl for 10 months... based on this pattern, if I ever want to get married, I may have to become a professor!

¨ On Casablanca: People often debate why Ingrid Bergman chose Paul Henreid over Humphry Bogart. I kind of felt like Ingrid played a wishy washy jerk that leads both men on and they deserved better. So I liked the ending. Bogart puts her on the plane and then hangs out with his buddy.

¨ On nudists: Can nudists be strippers? These are the things I think about...

¨ On hobbies: In an interview with Esquire, Robert Duvall said: "A young actor once asked me, ‘What do you do between jobs?’ I said, Hobbies, hobbies, and more hobbies. It keeps you off dope." I think we all have those days where we just need to keep going.

¨ On teeth whitener: I tried teeth whitening strips today and I can only assume they taste about the same as the drain in a male locker room... funky.

¨ On passion: It’s kind of like love. It has no purpose. It has no reason. It can not be explained. You can not tell what it is or describe it in detail. All you know is the fact that without it your life would be a little emptier and that with it your life is complete.

¨ On difficulties: Life’s crap comes in piles.

¨ On blood donation: I donated a pint of blood in less than 6 minutes. I think if I was shot, I’d squirt like I was in a Quintin Tarintino movie.

¨ On the election: On election day, I was running a polling station. My favourite elector was a little old woman in a wheelchair. She took her ballot, shrugged, and said, “I guess its time to go with ‘eeiney meeny miney mo!’”

¨ On palm reading: I had my palm read yesterday and was told my love line is very short, my wealth line is very faint, and my friendship line was wide and shallow (suggesting I’d have a lot of friends, but would never really let them in). Let’s hope palm reading is wrong.

¨ On relaxation: I may be a child, but I’m going to spend my Tuesday evening with a rootbeer float in a bubble bath while listening to raunchy Kevin smith humour.

Check back in two weeks for more I Can Explain!

I Can Explain... Coco’s Beard

We had quite a couple of weeks: Prince William, the likely-future king of Britain and its Commonwealth, married Catherine Middleton; Osama Bin Laden was caught, shot, and buried at sea; Canadians voted into power a majority Conservative government; and the Philadelphia Flyers and Montreal Canadians were both eliminated from the Stanley Cup playoffs disappointing all the women in my life. Yet I have nothing to say... no wisdom to impart or original viewpoints to unveil... on any of these subjects. So today, I’ve decided that... I can explain... Conan O’Brien’s beard.

Conan O’Brien is the old host of The Tonight Show. This ginger man, who is on occasion affectionately known as Coco, grew his wiry, red face-cover during the 2007 writer’s strike as a sign of solidarity with the Writer’s Guild. He shaved it soon after the strike ended, but let it grow out during off season. Then the Leno/O’Brien drama happened and Conan lost his show and the spotlight on January 22, 2010. As a way to sort of reclaim his identity, he re-grew the beard and started his comedic The Legally Prohibited from Being Funny on Television Tour.

During a 60 Minutes appearance, he joked, “Okay. So I lost The Tonight Show, but I'll show them -- I'll stop shaving.”

Conan had the beard for nearly 15 months. Even after being picked up to host his own show called Conan on TBS, he kept the beard and it became one of his staples. That is, until Will Farrell got involved. Farrell, in partnership with the show, started to send in video clips in which he angrily describes the beard as a “big red mistake.” He threatened to rectify this mistake by coming onto the show and shaving off. While it was all a big marketing ploy, it became quite an amusing beard versus Farrell rivalry.

On the May 2, 2011 show, Conan pre-empted the Farrell shaving by describing his children’s reaction to their father’s forthcoming shaved appearance. He told them, “The man from Elf is coming to take daddy’s beard.” Their reactions were divided.

Conan’s son simply replied, “Things come, things go.”

His daughter, on the other hand, began to cry and hugged him tightly. “Your beard is part of you. If you take away part of you, you won’t be you anymore,” she explained through her tears. (I can relate. My father, who has had a beard for nearly my entire life, shaved his one summer when I was a toddler. I cried for hours because there was a strange man in our house.)

After a commercial break, Will Farrell arrived with particularly short hair himself. He told Conan that he wanted to attack his face, and sported a razor blade which he stared at longingly for the majority of the interview.

“There is nothing going on in this country other than the fervour... to shave that beard,” he exclaimed at one point in the interview.

After another commercial, they rolled out a platform with what appeared to be a barber’s salon, complete with 1970’s Playboys and combs in blue water. Farrell pulled out his shaver named Excali-beard, which he said “ran on pure righteousness.” The shaving itself was incredibly awkward and looked quite painful. Afterwards, Farrell observed, “I made a terrible mistake.”

Personally, I grew a full goatee by the time I was 16 years old and had a full beard by 17. And that beard has stayed on my face (other than two brief stints of bald-facedness so the girls I was dating could see what I looked like without it) more or less ever since. My beard, like Coco’s daughter said, has become a part of who I am. It has been grown to cover flaws, to express individuality and a sense of identity, and (at least partially) out of not wanting to shave my entire face every morning.

As for Conan’s beard, I think he looked better with it. But each beards has its symbolic value and Conan’s beard’s value was in the number of viewers he could get while I comedian shaved it off.

Act Your Age... Moving to a New Home

When you’ve lived nomadically as long as I have, the idea of “home” becomes a far more abstract concept.

Technically the last place I rented and could call my own was in 2009. It was a sweet little three bedroom apartment that I shared with the girl I was dating at the time and another couple. With its hardwood floors, distinct white Greek pillar, and mirrored liquor cabinet, it was a place that I could call home.

But I’ve been bouncing around ever since. I moved to Ontario for a year to take my MA and lived between my Aunt’s house (which always felt like her home that she was generously sharing as opposed to a place I had dominion over) and my new Quebec girlfriend’s apartment (which she made very clear was her domain). I lived on a futon in August 2010, then various apartments and hostels in Europe in September, and then rented a room in my sister’s flat as I waited to hear back from job applications.

This sort of lack of place affects a person. You adapt and “home,” as I said above, becomes a more abstract thing. It becomes a feeling... a sense of place in the world. I’ve said for some time now, that arguably the last place I really felt at “home” was in Vatican City. I went with Andrew (my best friend), Natasha (a friend since elementary school), and Emily (the Quebecer I’d dated for around 9 months). We’d set aside a whole day for the Vatican, so when we arrived at noon to a line that literally spanned the courtyard, I was content to just stand and wait patiently.

And as I waited, I felt truly at home. It was a feeling I’d never felt before and haven’t really felt since. Reflecting on my history, I was content knowing that everything I’d done had led me to this spot. Projecting into the future, I was hopeful knowing that there was still so much more to see and once the trip was over the fulfilling challenge of finding a job and making my relationship work would be ahead of me. And in the moment, three of the people I loved the most in the world and I were waiting in line to see a place I’d wanted to visit my entire life. There wasn’t anywhere else I wanted to be.

That’s the thing about home. When it stops being a building, it starts being something else. Something internal. Something we create in our minds. Maybe it’s an event, a moment... a person. My home stopped being a building a long time before I visited the Vatican. It started to be a grad office as people entered and exited like whispering ghosts... barely seen and only noticed when they so chose. It started to be a girl in my arms, favourite movies shared between friends, or a nightly trip to 7/11 for soda-based Slurpees. It became the smell of Emily’s coconut body lotion.

Of course, circumstances change.

For the past six months, I’ve lived what I call a transitional life (a life of waiting... knowing that during any particular week I may get a job and move across the country). I feared setting roots knowing that I’d likely have to rip them up upon finding full-time employment. At the same time, everything that I may have considered “home” sort of stripped away. It was six months of break ups, unemployment, and job applications; I’ve felt for a long time that I wasn’t yet home.

Because of this, I find myself sitting in my boxers in an empty apartment with a dim light bulb in the corner, my mattress on the floor, and an otherwise empty abode and yet it does not upset me that I’ll be leaving this place for an unknown future. Instead, what I sit contemplating is the friends I’ll be leaving behind if I do move away. Because despite not being able to set roots, one does without any real conscious effort. Whether it’s watching girls belt out Hanson lyrics with obnoxiously catchy glee in the front seat of a maroon Civic, a weekly tradition that persists even when it seems to have run its course, or preparations for a wedding that’s been a long time coming; one finds him or herself in moments where home stops being a house and starts being all the little intricacies that make up our lives.

Maybe I’m getting sentimental given this new transition. Come April 30, I’ll officially be moving out of the flat, which has already been emptied of furniture. I’ll be moving into a friend’s basement for a few days while I fulfill my role as Deputy Returning Officer on Election Day. From there, it’s a mystery. I’ve interviewed for six jobs in the past two weeks, all but one of which will be out of province. So I continue to wait and in the mean time, I’ll live on couches or go to my family’s house in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. Whatever the case, I’ll be building a new home soon enough.

I relate back to you, my audience, as you too may be venturing into a new unit or a retirement home. The building that you’ve lived in for a portion of your life... a building filled with memories... with nicks and scratches that make it yours and yours alone... may be sold and all your possessions packed and moved to a one bedroom dorm-like facility.

But I remind you, as I’ve learned over this past two years of nomadic living, that a “home” isn’t a building. It can be something so much more. Sometimes it’s your family who are there when you need them. Sometimes it’s a girl in your arms that makes you feel like yourself more than anyone else.

And sometimes, home is just a car full of friends uncontrollably singing “MMM Bop.”

“I am a writer, writer of fictions; I am the heart that you call home.” – The Engine Driver by The Decemberists

Act Your Age... Getting a Massage

First appeared in the April 29 issue of Retirement News Weekly

I’ve never really been great at relaxing. Sure I’ll often put on a movie or watch television, but I’ll also likely be puttering around my computer, looking up jobs, or organizing documents at the same time. My multitasking is so frequent and distracting that if I want to read a book, I’ll go have a bath so I feel like (well I may be just reading) I’m also getting relatively cleaner and accomplishing more than one thing.

It’s with this in mind that I’ve started on my road to self-improvement... top of the list: learn to relax. My friend recently got a massage and highly suggested it. So while the idea of a stranger touching me (the idea of anyone touching me and not being able to reciprocate) freaked me out slightly, I booked an appointment at the local massage school for the next afternoon.

I arrived at the Canadian College of Massage & Hydrotherapy (CCMH) with a few minutes to spare. I paid in advance (which seemed a little fishy) and then sat in the lobby with a clipboard and a questionnaire. They wanted to know if I had any major health problems or skin conditions, assumably so: a) the masseuse wouldn’t end up with some form of leprosy or b) to prevent a patient from keeling over mid-massage and scarring a masseuse for life. I suppose it could also have been: c) to adjust the massage to accommodate, and perhaps even treat in someway, a medical condition... but I digress.

Sitting in the lobby, I started to obsess about what the masseuse would think of my back. This quickly became an awareness of how sweaty I was. I took off my jacket, mopped my forehead, and took a deep breath. Then, into the lobby walked Kimberly. She was a young woman; blond with a black CCMH polo shirt and plain looking greyish blue shoes with a white trim (how quickly I would become familiar with those shoes).

Kimberly greeted me and led me into the main massage room. It resembled a refugee camp... if refugee camps were created solely with massage equipment (and I’m sure refugees wish they were). Two rows of eight tables ran the center and length of the room with four students clustered at the end talking massage strategy (I assume). Running down both sides of the room, were curtained off sections. Kimberly lead me to the third section to the right (valuable information, I know).

In the “room” were two chairs and a table. At first, I sat on the table. Then, seeing her take a chair, I casually removed myself from this perch and sat across from her. To start, Kimberly conducted an “assessment.” She went over the health questionnaire and noted my high blood pressure.

“My doctor says it’s pretty normal, but whenever I donate blood it’s high,” I explained, “so I just keep an eye on it.” She nodded her approval and took note on the chart. She told me to stand straight up and face her so she could check my posture. She poked me in the ankle, hip, and arm. Then she had me face left and right and she repeated her prodding. Next she had me repeat her movements as she tested my flexibility. Again, she expressed her approval with a nod and an impressed mumble.

After all the tests, she finally asked, “So where do you want me to focus?” I kind of thought she would tell me the answer to that question. And all I could go off of was television.

“My back?” I guessed.

“I’m going to leave for a few minutes,” she replied. “You can get comfortable. For your back, make sure to take off your shirt.” Then she left.

Here I was now: in a curtained-off room with a bed before me, wondering if I should take off my pants. And it felt awkward. I decided to keep everything on, but my shirt and then climbed into the tiny bed. I giggled with amusement (the utmost manliest giggle possible, of course) as I got under the sheets and then rolled over onto my stomach. I pulled the sheet as high as possible onto my back.

Should I put my head into the hole like in the movies, I wondered. But before I could decide, Kimberly came back.

“Just get comfortable,” she told me. “There is no right way.”

That’s when the massage started. She pulled the sheet back and tucked it into my pants. The lotion was warm and she began on my lower back, working her way up. It tickled when she was doing my sides. And it became slightly awkward once again as she used her forearm to push into my shoulders and I knew that her breasts hung just above my head (Hey, nice shoes!).

Mentally, it took a while to appreciate what was going on. At first, I tried to reason out why this wasn’t akin to prostitution. Certainly, if I had a problem and was going to get a massage as treatment, that would be acceptable. But given I had no real complaints, it kind of felt like offering someone money to touch me.

It was only until I thought of Barney Stinson, a character on the sitcom How I Met Your Mother, that I grew more comfortable. Picturing the womanizing lush, I felt like it just may be okay to not always be doing and pleasing and it would be acceptable to enjoy myself for two seconds. Then Neil Young started playing over the speakers and I really relaxed.

There were two interruptions during the massage. The first came when Kimberly’s supervisor stopped by and asked how she was doing. She explained that I didn’t have any major problems and she was just doing a relaxation massage. He encouraged her to continue to ask me if everything was okay (which I mentally disagreed with... I didn’t need the questioning) and then he went on his way.

The second interruption was my own fault. Forty-five minutes into the massage, my cell phone alarm started to go off and continued to ring until Kimberly brought me the phone. I apologized profusely, but she didn’t seem fazed.

Before I knew it, the massage was over. I thanked Kimberly, left my tip at the receptionist’s desk, and went on my way. My back felt... a bit sore. But for some reason, I felt... gleeful. I felt like everything was okay. For a brief period, I felt like things were going good. And that’s the joy in a guiltless selfish act every now and again. A reminder that sometimes, it’s not about other people or what’s going on. Sometimes it can just be about you, a quiet hour, and a back rub.

I Can Explain... Charlie Sheen

You know Charlie Sheen.

You may know him from his early movie successes like Wall Street, Major League, and (my personal favourite) Hot Shots. Or perhaps you know him from his more recent success as Charlie Harper on the hit TV show Two and a Half Men. Maybe you only know his father, Martin Sheen, who starred as President Jed Bartlett on the West Wing. Whatever the case, you should know Charlie Sheen since he’s been a staple of our popular culture since the mid-80’s; which is likely why his very public break from reality has captured our imaginations as much as it has. If you want to know what’s up with the man with the tiger blood... I can explain.

Charlie was always a little outspoken and a little off-kilter. Take, for example, his very vocal views on 9/11. He suggested that it looked like the “buildings came down in a controlled demolition” and he was one of the primary spokespeople for the 9/11 Truth Movement, which suggested the government may have been involved in the 9/11 attacks. However, I hate to even begin to make the comparison to the crazy he’s been saying more recently.

It started in February 2010, when Charlie Sheen took a break from his show to enter rehab. By March, he was out and by May he had signed on to do the show for another two years at $1.8 million per episode. Things seemed like they were going okay. By October, however, he was removed by police from his hotel after drinking, using cocaine, and causing $7,000 in damage to his suite. In January 2011, less than a year after leaving rehab, Sheen was taken to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center by paramedics while suffering from “severe abdominal pains” and a day later began rehab in his home.

While in this house-arrest/rehab, the real crazy started. He phoned the Alex Jones radio show and called Two and a Half Men creator Chuck Lorre a turd and a clown. He also said that he had embarrassed Lorre by “healing at a pace that his un-evolved mind cannot process.” Two and a Half Men still had four episodes to film in the season, but after these remarks the episodes were cancelled.

That’s when the fun really started. On February 28, 2011, Sheen did an interview on ABC News in which he was very open about his past drug use. He said he was proud of the parties he had, but was now bored with it and wasn’t afraid he was going to relapse. He also made comments like:

§ “It [my brain] fires in a way that’s... umm... I don’t know. Maybe not from this particular terrestrial realm.”

§ “I’m not bi-polar. I’m bi-winning... I win here and I win there.”

§ “I have tiger blood, man.”

§ “I blinked and I cured my mind [of addiction].”

§ “I am on a drug. It’s called Charlie Sheen. It’s not available because if you try it once you’ll die. Your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body.”

This crazy caught the imagination of the public. In later interviews he said he had “fire breathing fists” and that he was a “high priest” and “Vatican assassin warlock.”

Now, here’s the thing. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Does he sound crazy? Of course. Is he living in his own world? Very likely. But while living in his world, he kind of was winning in ours. He was dating two incredibly attractive women, while living in a mansion and being paid more than any other TV actor ever. Plus, he seems happy... crazy, but happy. Arguably, he was winning. He’d likely eventually die of an overdose, but he was, at the time, winning.

To make matters stranger, as Charlie sunk deeper and deeper into his own world, he began marketing this world to sell within our own. He joined Twitter and had a million followers within 25 hours and 17 minutes. He started producing drinks called “Tiger Blood” and shirts with his various sayings. He created an online show where he talked to his camera and began to document all of his conversations. He starred in a short comedy sketch seeming to mock himself then launched a sold-out tour called the “Violent Torpedo of Truth.”

So the question remains. Is Charlie on drugs? Is he just burnt out from all the drugs he’s done to the point that he’s never really sober? Or maybe, just maybe, Sheen was bored with his success and is trying something new. Maybe he’s selling us a new character, not unlike Joaquin Phoenix portrayal of his drugged out self in the mockumentary I’m Still Here. Only time will tell what Charlie has in store next.

And if you want to know what a Vatican assassin warlock is... well... I can explain.

Act Your Age... Going to Bed Early

First appeared in the April 15, 2011 issue of Retirement News Weekly

I am an evening and night person. I always have been.

My mom likes to tell the story of the time a high school friend called me in the early morning (and by early morning I mean 9 am-ish). She woke me up, gave me the phone, and I had a five minute conversation of grunts and one-syllable responses. When I woke up with the phone in my bed moaning out its dial tone an hour later, I couldn’t recall the conversation or ever receiving the phone.

My ex revealed her distaste for my morning persona when she let me know that she tended to try to avoid me until around noon because I seemed distant and generally unresponsive.

But there’s something about evenings that I adore. It could be that bite in the evening air, the stars dotting the sky to remind us how small we are in this universe, the sound of cricket’s chirping their song, or a day of productivity behind me; but whatever it is, I feel at my most motivated and most pleasant between 8 pm and 2 am.

It’s with this in mind that I embarked on this week’s Act Your Age. Stereotypically, people of a certain age begin to go to bed earlier and earlier. I don’t know if this stereotype is true, but I felt like it would be an interesting retirement activity for me to attempt. Considering I’d had a particularly long week with six evenings of plans and a persistent cold, the idea seemed to have many perks.

Now to make things just a little trickier, I’ve had problems sleeping of late. It started post-break up. I’d lie in bed for hours, lost in thought, and eventually I’d make myself so upset that I’d give up on sleep. After a couple of weeks, I started getting into the habit of lying in bed until around 3 am watching TV until I eventually would pass out and avoid the whole lying and thinking situation. While I now lie and think all the time without problem, the habit stuck.

So there I was, climbing into my queen-sized bed with new light blue sheets and my old tan comforter, at 9 pm. While I wasn’t particularly tired, I assumed the position. I laid down on my stomach with my right foot hanging off the end of the bed, my left leg propped up on a pillow, my right arm under my pillow, and my left arm over it. Then I closed my eyes and started breathing through my mouth.

As I lay there, I started to think about all the things I could be doing: There are jobs to apply for, stories to write, and movies to watch. Maybe I should write this all down, I thought. I reach to my desk for paper and pen. But no, I’m going to bed early. So I laid back down.

Before long my mind was wandering again: This is a new sheet. My last sheet had a huge hole ripped in it so large a person could crawl through. This new sheet is comfortable enough, but it looks a bit ridiculous with my tan comforter. Once I get a full time job, I could buy new sheets and maybe even a new comforter. I read in Esquire, my favourite magazine, that women are impressed by sheets with a 400 to a 600 thread count. I wonder how much of a thread count this sheet has. Probably not high. And a high thread count probably can’t compensate for a low income anyway.

But what was I doing? I wasn’t going to fall asleep with my mind rambling on. So I tried to clear my head of everything. Once again I closed my eyes and tried to lie in peace.

Blank. Yes, blank. This is good. Blankness. Thinking nothing. Black. But black is something. It’s a color. I’m picturing a color. Even thinking of blankness is something. ‘Cause I’m thinking of this word: blank. Blank, blank, blank. Bank. I need to go cash that check tomorrow from temping. Where had I worked again? Oh, yeah I was binding books. And I told that story about when I got an MRI. My co-workers thought that was funny.

Clearly I was having trouble with this whole exercise. I went to the fridge and pulled out the milk. Movie characters who can’t sleep always drink a glass of warm milk. I poured some into a mug and heated it in the microwave for a minute before taking a sip. It was... weird. Not necessarily bad. The flavour was actually pretty good. But it just seemed wrong. Plus, doesn’t warm milk curdle? So I poured the rest down the sink and went back to my bed.

I didn’t feel comfortable anymore. Forcing myself to rest was just making me restless. I tossed and turned. I flipped back and forth... left to right. I tried counting sheep, but again it devolved.

One sheep. Two sheep. Three sheep. Is it racist that I’m imagining all white sheep? Let’s throw in a black sheep. Four sheep. Why did I watch that Youtube video of a rhinoceros pooping? I bet sheep pooping is equally gross and entertaining.

I got up again. Then I lied back down. After an hour, I started to worry I’d never get to sleep. Time dragged on and on. Eventually it was past midnight. But I still lied there. The thing about sleep is that it’s kind of like love. When you really pursue it and seek it out, it starts to elude you. But when you just stop chasing it... when you let yourself be in the moment and let the chips fall where they may... it’s then that you find it. So after hours of lying in bed trying to sleep, I gave up. And then I fell asleep.

I Can Explain... Rebecca Black

First appeared in the April 8, 2011 issue of Retirement News Weekly

If you have the internet and/or a TV, you’ve likely heard of Rebecca Black and her song “Friday.” The song and video are horrible and people are talking about it. The most common complaint about the song is the ridiculous lyrics, which follow Rebecca through her daily Friday morning activities and then devolve into proclamations about how she plans to “Get down on Friday” and then nonsensically repeats “Partyin’” and “Fun” over and over and over. While the production value seems high, Rebecca’s nasally and heavily auto-tuned voice (A technology which corrects a singer’s pitch, while often distorting the voice to sound mechanical) does little to raise the song into anything more than sub-par. So what is this song and why have we been watching the video... I can explain.

Rebecca is a thirteen-year-old girl, who wanted to be a famous singer. Her somewhat-wealthy parents hired ARK Music to write and produce a song for her. They were given two options written by the company’s co-owner Patrice Wilson: one was about love and the other was about Friday. Given that Rebecca is only thirteen, she chose to sing about something she actually knew about (Good for you, Rebecca!). Unfortunately, the song had ridiculous lyrics that are easily mocked. In one verse, Rebecca can’t decide which seat to sit in: Kickin’ in the front seat. Sittin’ in the back seat. Gotta make my mind up, which seat can I take? Later in the song, she explains the days of the week: Yesterday was Thursday, Today it is Friday, Tomorrow is Saturday, And Sunday comes afterwards!

The video was put on Youtube on February 10, 2011 and went relatively unnoticed (only 4,000 views). But on March 10, comedian Daniel Tosh posted the video on his blog under the title “Song Writing Isn’t For Everyone” and the video became a viral sensation. Between then and now, the song has been viewed 84.4 million times and has received 1.6 million comments.

The fact that even the best comedians and singers are doing covers of the song and are unable to save it reveals how atrocious it really is. Stephen Colbert, a news satirist on Comedy Central and a personal hero of mine, sung a cover of the song on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon after fans donated over $26,000 to Donors Choose. Conan O’Brian spoofed the song on his show with his version “Thursday,” which he claimed Rebecca Black has ripped off. (The cover that’s made to sound like Bob Dylan sings “Friday” is actually pretty good.)

The response has been vile. Comedians have mocked it. Rolling Stones called it an “unintentional parody of modern pop.” Many have dubbed it the “worst song in history.” Viewers have sent hate mail to Rebecca, while making the nastiest of comments on Twitter and blogs. In her appearance on Good Morning America, the interviewer sat Rebecca down and read off the worst of the comments, which is atrocious in and of itself. (A reporter reading “Her song Friday is the worst song I’ve ever heard in my entire life... even deaf people are complaining” to garner a reaction from a 13-year-old is disgusting journalism. Her upbeat and positive spin of each of the comments reveals a side of Rebecca that shows she in no way deserves this much hate.)

Now I’ll be the first to admit that when I first heard this song, I got upset. (How dare this bad singer push this horrible song on us! How dare she claim to be good!) And I was early to point the finger and mock it. But the fact is, Rebecca in no way claims to be the best. And no one’s really claiming that the song is good. People are upset, but why? It’s just another bad song by an amateur singer. What upsets us is the fame and notoriety that Rebecca now has, but we’re the ones who did that. We made her popular. We watched the video and we pulled her out of the rabbit hole only to bash her until she climbs back in. So really it’s one of two things: either we love to hate Rebecca Black or we really hate ourselves for not being able to look away. Either way, we’re going to hell.

In any case, Rebecca’s fame and incredible sales (the song reached #19 for top sales on itunes) is likely going to lead to a CD. We’ll see if the world has what it takes to let a young woman, with a little talent in need of a lot of practice, disappear back into anonymity.

And if you want to know whether or not I could have sung it any better... I’ll let you guys figure that one out on your own!

Act Your Age... Getting an MRI

First appeared in the April 1, 2011 issue of Retirement News Weekly

When I saw the advertisement on Kijiji looking for people willing to get an MRI, there were many things that went through my mind. What if I had a “special” brain and this MRI revealed how unique I really am? What if I had a brain tumour and this MRI saved my life? Wouldn’t a picture of my brain make a cool Facebook profile? What never crossed my mind was the need for concern.

It was without concern that I signed up for the research study which promised to pay $90 and provide a set of pictures of my brain. Without concern, I visited the lab for the first time for various cognitive tests and word games. And it was without concern that I was led by a young German woman to the Neuroimaging Lab on my second visit to have my MRI.

However, when I was sat down in the viewing room and a man began to go over my medical history, it finally donned on me that perhaps I should have been more concerned. The man focused on questions that would help determine if there was any possibility that metal could be inside my body. He explained that the magnetic resonance imaging machine (MRI) worked with giant magnets and if there was any metal on or in me it would be pulled into the machine. However, to get to the machine, the metal would likely travel through my brain in the process and kill me on the spot.

“I’d hate to be the next guy getting an MRI,” I joked uncomfortably.

We determined that I was metal free and I finally entered the room with the MRI. The machine was enormous and seemed to take up half the room. If you’ve never seen an MRI machine, imagine a giant, long marshmallow made of plastic lying on its side. In the middle of the marshmallow is a hole and in front of the hole is a table on wheels. At the top of the table is a much smaller tube, slightly larger than a person’s cranium.

I pulled myself onto that table and the German girl taped a Vitamin B tablet to my forehead. Apparently it’s sometimes difficult to determine which side of the brain is left or right and the tablet would shine brightly on the MRI and identify the left side. I then lied down on the table and placed my head into the smaller tube. The technician who would be running the MRI (a man who would be played by Judge Reinhold if my MRI was made into a movie) pressed baseball-sized pillows around my head so I didn’t have to hold it steady by myself. I was then manually slid into the larger tube.

I point out that I was manually slid into the tube because there is a machine that would have slid me into the tube at the push of a button. However, the technician had warned me that sometimes it didn’t work when the patient was too heavy. They requested two additional technicians to help push me into the MRI. Very flattering.

The inside of the tube seemed almost black. My arms could not bend at the elbows without hitting the roof of the tube. And given that my head was lodged firmly where it was with pillows, I wasn’t going anywhere. Yet I was still fairly calm. Looking straight up from my lying position, all I could see was a mirror positioned directly in front of my eyes. This allowed me to see outside of the tube and into the viewing room. A radio in the headphones I was wearing allowed me to keep in contact with the experimenters, while playing a local radio station when we weren’t talking.

“What radio station do you want?” they asked. I’d recently been hanging out with a quirky lady who was a part-time promotions girl at Q104 so I asked for that station. The soft rock music began to play through the set. They let it play for a few moments and then it abruptly cut out, while they warned that the first scan would start soon. The music returned, but was soon drowned out by the whirring of the machine. It sounded like a piece of heavy plastic being flicked every few seconds. It was a grating click, click, click sound.

It was during this first scan that I panicked. I was lying in this tube, unable to move, with the radio playing in my ears. But what got to me was the fear of being bored. I’d spent six months applying to jobs, getting over a horrible break up, and ultimately just trying to keep pushing forward. Trapped in this tube I was suddenly without distraction and faced with the weight of everything I was trying and failing to do. I took a deep breath. I took another. And I forced myself to focus on Neil Young’s Heart of Gold.

Before too long, the clicking stopped and I was calm once again. The experimenters asked if everything was okay and I told them to crank the music. They adjusted the volume, made a few reassuring comments, and then the next scan began. Each scan took 7 to 14 minutes and I would try to lie as still as possible.

Other than this minor panic, the MRI was no problem. During the third scan, I felt my nose start to itch and as carefully as possible, without moving my head, I lifted my right hand to scratch. Around the fourth scan, the rhythmic clicking and soft rock lulled me to sleep. After 80 minutes in the tube, the radio turned off and Judge Reinhold’s look-a-like told me the MRI was over. Four technicians entered my room and pulled me out.

Judge said with a smile, “You looked relaxed.”

“No problem,” I told him. I was debriefed, given another $30 and three days later my Facebook profile was a picture of my tumour-free, typical brain!

Act Your Age... Volunteering for Experiments

First appeared in the March 18, 2011 issue of Retirement News Weekly

You’re not a real writer until you’ve volunteered your body for science experiments to earn money to pay your bills. That’s what us writers, who are volunteering to be experimented on, tell ourselves anyway.

The first experiment I volunteered for was a couple summers back. It was a beer sampling study. I (i.e. the guinea pig) went through a variety of cognitive tests and then was asked to taste three different types of beer. At the same time, I listened to what was effectively elevator music. I was told that the study was set up to determine if music would affect my taste buds. However, after the study was complete, the experimenters revealed that they were actually measuring how much free beer I would drink during an experiment. Tricky, generous scientists.

As I’ve recently been on the job hunt, I’ve returned to volunteering for these random experiments. Free beer and a handful of cash immediately after? Sign me up! This past week, I participated in a couple cash-earning experiments that I’d like to share.

The first was held at Dalhousie University in the psychology department. Being unfamiliar with the university’s layout, I arranged to meet the experimenter at the main entrance. However at the time I was to meet him, he wasn’t there and I realized I was at one of the many side entrances. I wandered the building in search of him and found myself in a sub-basement next to a water cooler. Finally, I gave up searching and called the British man conducting the experiment. He met me in the Oceanography Department and led the way to his office.

This experiment was designed to suss out patterns and predictors in prescription and illegal drug users. In order to conduct a thorough study, they required all levels of users (even non-users) so anyone could qualify for the study and twenty bucks is twenty bucks. I was asked a series of questions about drug use and felt a little inadequate by just how little data I was able to give him. Almost apologetically, I told the experimenter, “I’m sorry this isn’t more interesting data for you. I kind of wish I’d tried drugs to give you something to study.” He laughed and told me he’d interviewed all levels of user and that my data was just fine.

The second experiment I found on Kijiji (Stay tuned for next week’s I Can Explain... in which I explain free online classified ads). In partnership between the local university and hospital, a study was being conducted to determine how the brain’s chemicals may change in patients with psychosis over a year period. The experimenters were looking for healthy brains to compare with their psychosis patients’ brains. In return for nine hours of my time (three 3 hour meetings), I’d get $90 and a picture of my brain. Of course, I volunteered! After some pre-screening interviews to determine if I qualified, I was invited to come in for the first of the three meetings.

I’d never been to this department of the hospital, but after using Google Maps (Wow, I’ve become a self promoter!) I made my way to the hospital. It was a cool spring afternoon and the walk was a pleasant escape from my high-rise apartment. The lobby of the Early Psychosis office was a brilliant white. A sitting area was to my right and a glass reception desk was to my left. I approached the desk hesitantly.

“I’m here for... the experiment,” I managed to stutter.

“Excuse me?” asked the receptionist as she pushed her thick-framed glasses up her nose.

“The experiment?” I responded. She nodded and pointed me to the chairs and I took a seat.

When sitting in a lobby of an Early Psychosis Program, you can’t help but feel a little crazy. I looked at the people sitting around me and wondered why they were here. Were they all guinea pigs? Or did they suffer from some mental disease? Would this hospital help? And was I really here for an experiment or was I one of them? Was I too, suffering from psychosis and waiting for my treatment, while living in the illusion that I had volunteered to come here? I have a writer’s imagination and the apathy of a hypochondriac.

I didn’t have to wait long and soon a young woman greeted me and brought me to her office. This first round was all cognitive testing. They were determining how I thought and how quickly I did so. I was subjected to a variety of tests ranging from defining words to spatial thinking puzzles to computer mazes. It ended with a memory test in which a string of ten grocery items were listed and I was asked to remember as many as possible. Upon completion, they handed me $30 and scheduled my MRI a week from the day.

The next week, I once again arrived early; this time without the help of Google Maps (Though I did Rick Roll my way to the hospital). I was subjected to the same cognitive tests and after 30 minutes, the woman led me to the Neuroimaging Lab for my brain scan. As we made our way, we chatted and I asked her where her accent was from. She told me she was originally from Germany as we passed the lead-lined door and I was faced with a row of technicians and a tube I was about to enter for an hour. Yes, I was about to have my brain scanned by Germans... next week’s article should write itself!

I Can Explain... Free Online Classifieds

First appeared in the March 24, 2011 issue of Retirement News Weekly

Need an apartment? How about a used car? Or two posters of Canadian stamps, which are described as “valuable”? You may pick up your local newspaper and turn to the classifieds, but more often than not people are jumping online to meet their shopping needs. Websites offering free classifieds like Kijiji and Craigslist provide the opportunity to buy, sell and rent at ease. But if you’re not sure where to start or what a reasonable price for a pair of women’s show chaps is... well... I can explain one of those things!

Online Classifieds are websites that allow users to post and/or view classified advertisements for free. If a user wants to create an ad, they just go to the site and click “Post Ad.” After choosing a category that there product falls within (Buy/Sell, Pets, Housing, Services, Vehicles, Jobs, etc.), the person creates their ad. They’ll have to decide if they are offering something or looking to purchase something, the desired price, a title, and a brief description. Then other users can search for their ad or browse within the categories listed above.

Perhaps the most well known online classifieds website is Craigslist. The site, started by Craig Newmark in San Francisco, took over the internet in the mid to late 90s with options to post ads for nearly anything. E-bay, the online auction website, created Kijiji to compete with this free service. While Craigslist is used almost exclusively in the USA, in Canada Kijiji seems to be much more popular and offers more listings in my experience.

My father is somewhat obsessed with this whole process. He’s bought windows, appliances, furniture, and vehicles off of Kijiji. Both of my parents have also been using it to sell off all their unwanted exercise equipment, appliances, and basketballs (Yes, they recently sold three worn-out basketballs from my childhood for $5 each on the site, which just goes to show there’s nothing too big or small for Kijiji). I’ve also used the site. I’ve found numerous apartments on the site and since I’m currently looking for a summer residence, I posted an ad two days ago. Within 12 hours, I had six responses. Kijiji is also where I found my job selling Christmas trees for two weeks this past December.

While my family and I love the site, it’s not for everyone. When responding to ads, one must remember that it is online and that the ads can be posted by anyone. When going to see an apartment found on the website, it may be best to take precautions. Also, shoppers should always see the item being purchased or apartment being rented before making a commitment; pictures and people lie. A close friend once rented an apartment off the site without going to see it and spent a summer with a hole in her bathroom large enough to see her neighbours.

Craigslist also has a bad reputation as a result of their personal section (Kijiji removed their personals). This is where people can look for dates, friends, and sexual encounters. That said, if any ads are inappropriate or offering something illegal, it’s possible for users to flag them and the administrators of the site will take the offending ad down. As a joke, someone recently posted an ad selling children, which was removed within the hour and police investigated the incident.

So if you want to take second-hand shopping to the next level, check out one of the many free online classified websites that the internet has to offer. And if you want to know why someone wants a super ugly couch because it’s free online... well... I can try to explain!