...While Visions Of Sugarplums

It's a strange Christmas this year, as my wife's parents have flown in from a few provinces away to spend the holidays with my kids. My oldest boy of three absolutely adores his grandparents and the fact that they're here is the greatest gift he ever could have received.

Because of the astronomical cost of catching a plane back home on the 26th, the in-laws decided the best (and most economical) time to go back home would be the morning of Christmas Day - at 6AM.  In order to facilitate their sharing in our Christmas cheer and ample time to see the boys with their new loot from Santa, we're having Christmas tomorrow morning.

As I type this, December 22, it is Christmas Eve at my house.

I've had some trouble getting into the Christmas spirit as of late. A lack of snow on the ground, no employment and a feeling of just being overwhelmed by things all played a factor in it, I suppose. Two "shows" doing my regular Santa gig for local day cares didn't even really do much to inject me with some Yuletide cheer. I felt like - to quote Homer Simpson - "Christmas is canceled. No presents for anyone".
That all changed a couple of night ago.

My oldest's daycare was holding their first annual "Christmas Concert" where happy parents and family members would file in to an overcrowded room to watch their kids sing a holiday ditty that they had been rehearsing for the last 6 weeks. My mood was particularly ornery that night because we couldn't find a parking spot and ended up walking a couple of blocks in sub-zero temperatures with a 3 month old in tow. On top of that, my prediction of the venue being overcrowded was a gross understatement. Imagine your average living room. Now imagine 68 people crammed into your living room.

Ho Ho Oh No.

Cursing under my breath, I managed to grab about 6 inches of real estate along the far wall next to my father in law and read through the program that was handed out to attendees. My son was in Act 4, and he would be singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with the other pre-schoolers. It didn't come as a surprise to us because we got to hear his earnest rehearsing the last few weeks - despite their performance number being kept "a secret".

After the toddler group went through, the makeshift curtain parted and my proud-as-punch three year old stood confidently at the front of the group in his antlers and STUD MUFFIN t-shirt (hey, they requested a brown shirt, and that's all he had. I thought it was awesome). He quickly scanned the mass of humanity and found some friendly faces, beamed ear to ear and got down to the business of entertaining.

I have never been so proud of anyone or anything in my entire life.

With tears in my eyes, chest swelled, I recorded every bit of the performance to my phone but never took my eyes off the little guy. While other kids clammed up, cried or were just plain disinterested, my boy NAILED it. I know it may not sound like a big deal to someone who's never had a kid, but believe me - it was a moment.

My heart grew three sizes that night.

Fast forward to tonight. I cooked a turkey for 6, wrote a letter with the boy for Santa and left out his snack (reindeer treats included), tucked my kid into bed and got to see the excitement in his eyes as he waited for Santa to arrive.

I needed this more that I knew.

Long before life beats you up a little and the cynic in us starts to grow, there was Christmas Eve. The one magical night of the year for a child that nothing else ever seems to measure up to. The only thing on your mind is whether or not Santa is going to find your house and whether or not you had been good enough all year to get that special present you asked for.

I may be on the back side of 30, but I felt like a little kid again tonight zipping my boy into his Lightning McQueen sleeping bag (a Christmas Eve present from Mom and Dad - along with some snazzy Green Lantern PJ's) and kissing him goodnight.

The "spirit" has been found again.

I'm a lucky dude.

I think I hear some sleigh bells up on the roof, so I'd better run.

Whatever you celebrate this time of year, have a Merry one.

Blue Christmas

I'm not quite sure what's wrong.

All I know is that the Christmas Spirit that is normally all-encompassing for me this time of year is nowhere to be found.

I have a great wife, two beautiful kids, a roof over my head and plenty of food in my refrigerator. Hell, I even have a gig as a part-time Santa bringing some Christmas cheer to the kids who I still envy because of their unconditional belief in the iconic man in red.

What I have is what can best be described as the Christmas Blues, and nothing seems to be able to shake them. A prevailing sense of "I think I'll just lay here and sleep some more" has permeated my days and even an unexpected visit from my wife's parents (my son's favorite people in the world) does nothing to lift my spirits.

Good grief.

Suggestions for decking my halls?

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Huxtables.

Being a parent of two small kids does strange things to a person.
Your brain doesn't function the way it used to, your mouth doesn't say the things you want it to say, and your body just doesn't co-operate 99% of the time. 

My funny, erudite and intelligent wife seems to be on the receiving end of parenthood's mental ravages on a slightly more frequent basis as of late. Long before I was a parent, I said and did stupid things on a minute-by-minute basis, so it's no big deal when I say something ridiculous.  When my wife makes a gaffe, however, it fuels my laughter for days on end because it's always been a rare occurrence around these parts.

A couple of weeks ago we had some family pictures done. It was repeatedly remarked how grown up and handsome my 3 year old son looked by friends and acquaintances. The phrases "future heart breaker" and "model" were being thrown around, and as a parent whose genetic makeup is responsible for said child, I'd be a liar in saying it doesn't make me feel pretty good.

On our way to an appointment for our youngest, I brought up all the comments that the oldest boy's picture was garnering on Facebook. Our exchange was as follows, with my wife in italics.

"So (the boy) is getting a lot of comments on his photo shoot. Maybe we should get him into modeling! Oooh la la."

"Absolutely not. The last thing we need is another Lisa Bonet"

My mind raced through everything I knew about Bonet and couldn't make the connection that my wife was alluding to. I couldn't possibly figure out what my wife had against one of the Cosby kids.

"Why Lisa Bonet?"

"The little girl who was modeling and in the pageants and stuff... She was murdered."

"Lisa Bonet? (wildly laughing) You mean Jonbenet Ramsay?"

"(somewhat sheepishly) Yeah, close enough."

"Oh, but it isn't close enough. You see, one was a kid who was molested and brutally murdered after being exploited by her mother through beauty pageants and talent shows. The other one played Theo Huxtable's sister. You see where the two aren't even close?"

"Okay, stop. I'm tired."

"If you had said Rudy Huxtable, I could see it - same age range and all. But Denise? The worst she did was marry that guy on the show whose name nobody could remember?"

"Okay, you're beating a dead horse now."

"...And she had that spin-off with Dwayne Wayne."

This grilling went on for about 15 minutes before my wife threatened to push me out of the van on an overpass. Feeling confident that I had milked the joke for all it was worth, I moved on to a non-Cosby kid matter.

Later that night, I looked up Lisa Bonet on Google and found out a few important pieces of info.

1. Her husband's name on The Cosby Show was Martin. That was driving me nuts.
2. She legally changed her name to Lilakoi Moon.
3. She named her kid Nakoa-Wolf Manakauapo Namakaeha Momoa and got married to the guy who played Conan the Barbarian in that shitty new movie.
4. She was addicted to drugs and alcohol for several years and won't talk to anyone from The Cosby Show.

Maybe my wife wasn't far off target. I certainly don't want any grand kids named Nokia-Wolf something or other or my son marrying someone named Martin.

My wife is a wise woman. She did marry me, after all.

Internet Famous

My friend wrote THIS on local buy/sell site, Kijiji.

Do you like shoveling snow? Then stop reading this and go back to your pushups and granola because you are not someone that I want to talk to.

Let’s face it, we live in a place that attracts snow like Magnetic Hill attracts cars, only that ain’t an illusion out there. That’s 12 inches of snow piling up and, oh, what’s that sound? Why it’s the snow plow and it’s here to let you know that it hates you and all the time you spent to shovel your driveway. Did you want to get out of your house today? Were you expecting to get to work on time? Or even this week?

You gave it your best shot. You tried to shovel by yourself and I respect you for that. I did it, my parents did it, some of my best friends did it. But deep down inside, we all wanted to murder that neighbor with the snowblower who was finished and on his second beer while you were still trying to throw snow over a snowbank taller than you are.

So, here we are. You could murder your neighbour, which could ensure that you won’t need to shovel a driveway for 25 to life, but there are downsides to that too. What to do?

Here’s the deal. I have a snow blower and I want you to own it. I can tell you’re serious about this. It’s like I can almost see you: sitting there, your legs are probably crossed and your left hand is on your chin. Am I right? How’d I do that? The same way that I know that YOU ARE GOING TO BUY THIS SNOWBLOWER.

I want you to experience the rush that comes with smashing through a snowdrift and blowing that mother trucker out of the way. The elation of seeing the snow plow come back down your street and watching the look of despair as your OTHER neighbour gets his shovel out once more while you kick back with a hot cup of joe (you don’t have a drinking problem like that other guy).

Here’s what you do. You go to the bank. You collect $900. You get your buddy with a truck and you drive over here. You give me some cold hard cash and I give you a machine that will mess up a snowbank sumthin’ fierce. I’ve even got the manual for it, on account of I bought it brand new and I don’t throw that kind of thing away. Don't want to pay me $900? Convince me. Send me an offer and I'll either laugh at you and you'll never hear back from me or I'll counter.

You want a snow blower. You need a snow blower.

This isn’t some entry level snow blower that is just gonna move the snow two feet away. This is an 11 HP Briggs and Stratton machine of snow doom that will cut a 29 inch path of pure ecstasy. And it’s only 4 years old. I dare you to find a harder working 4 year old. My niece is five and she gets tired and cranky after just a few minutes of shoveling. This guy just goes and goes and goes.

You know what else? I greased it every year to help keep the water off it and the body in as good as shape as possible. It's greasier than me when I was 13, and that's saying something.

You know how many speeds it has? Six forward and two in reverse. It goes from “leisurely” slow up to “light speed”. Seriously, I’ve never gone further than five because it terrifies me. I kid you not, you could probably commute to work with it dragging you.

You know what else is crappy about clearing snow in the morning? That you have to do it in the dark. Well, not anymore! It has a halogen headlight that will light your way like some kind of moveable lighthouse (only better, because lighthouses won’t clear your driveway).

Oh, and since it’s the 21st century, this snow blower comes with an electric starter. Just plug that sucker in, push the button, and get ready to punch snow in the throat. If you want to experience what life was like in olden days, it comes with a back-up cord you could pull to start it, but forget that. The reason you’re getting this fearsome warrior was for the convenience, so why make it harder on yourself?

By this point, you’re probably wondering why I would sell my snowblower since the first snowpocalypse is upon us today. I’ll tell you why: because I heard it was time for you to man up and harness some mighty teeth and claws and chew your way to freedom, that’s why.

This is my snow blower. Make it your snow blower.

As of this writing, it's been 24 hours since the original ad was posted. It has almost 130,000 hits. He's made several local and national news outlets and I can't open my Facebook feed without seeing his ad posted again. He has received e-mails from as far away as Europe about his ad, and his knack for writing has gained him a modicum of worldwide fame.

He reached that audience by simply doing something creative, smart and funny, and he is fast on his way to becoming "internet famous"(in his words). It couldn't happen to a nicer guy and it's an inspiration to struggling writers everywhere. It's proof positive that you just never know where and how that one piece you write is going to reach that elusive "big time audience".

Kudos to you, my friend.

Now someone please buy the guy's snow blower.

In the meantime, visit him HERE

Goddamn You, Christmas (lights)

Every year around this time my grandfather would head to the basement and pull out the cardboard boxes stuffed to the gunnels with Christmas decorations.

He'd test every strand of lights to see that they worked and would put aside every set that didn't for replacement bulbs he would pick up, hassle free, from the local hardware store.

He'd then go through the boxes of tree ornaments to see which ones had survived the year's storage. He would make a list of the fragile casualties that didn't come out of their eleven month slumber and, once again, it was no problem to head to a local store to find matching pieces.

Fast forward to the 21st century.

Now I'm grown with a family of my own. Where my Grandad was a little more understated with his Christmas decorating, I come a little more from the Clark Griswold school of festive lighting.

I'd like to be able to see my house from space.

I try to be understanding of my wife's wishes to keep my yearly lighting project a little low key, but I have been successful for the last 6 years in slipping a few extra pieces into the yard when she's not paying attention.

It had built to the point where I had constructed an elaborate lighted runway path for Santa in our driveway, colored floodlights, a series of twinkling candy canes around the perimeter of our large flower bed in the front yard, a labyrinth of rope lighting, an inflatable Santa in a helicopter, and a sound activated box that makes everything dance to the tune of Jingle Bell Rock. The front of our happy home is also lined with over 2000 gold LED Christmas lights.

Last year, we had the winter from hell. Record amounts of snow were dumped on our little hamlet starting on December 27th and there wasn't a time where there was less than two feet of the bastardly white stuff on the ground. When it all finally started to melt, I was able to survey the damage left by Old Man Winter.

All six of my floodlights had been crushed by the weight of the snow. My lighted runway had 3 of the 6 sections destroyed, 1/3 of my candy canes had been put through the wringer and Santa and his helicopter were permanently grounded. You would think it would be as simple as heading back to a store and repurchasing this stuff, right?

You would think wrong, dear reader.

You see, it appears that the Christmas decoration industry has grown in malice one hundred fold since the days of my Grandad. Each year they release new and wonderful items for your holiday displays, but apparently send them off to Siberia - never to be seen again - once the holiday is over. The following year, they bring out all new crap for you to spend your hard earned money on.

Unless you bought a whole bunch of extra matching stuff in the past, once something goes down for the count you're up that oft-referenced Feces Creek with no paddle to be found.

Case in point is my floodlights. The sockets and casings survived Jack Frost's fury, but the red and green bulbs were burst. Ridiculously thinking it was as simply as buying $10 replacement bulbs, I toddled off to Home Depot with my bank card in hand.

"Where can I find red and green flood lamp replacement bulbs?" I asked the slack-jawed attendant in the seasonal section.

"We ain't got any. We don't sell them no more. You gotta buy the whole kit for $22."

Eff.

"Alright, I need to buy 3 sets of clear and 2 sets of candy cane rope lighting to replace ones that got ruined last winter."

"Are they hookin' up to anything else? If they are, they changed the hookups 2 years ago and they ain't compatible anymore. You have to replace your sets."

Double Eff.

"So there was a Santa Claus in a helicopter..."

"Discontinued."

Mother Effer.

I didn't dare ask about my precious twinkling candy canes.

A quick 10 minute stop that should have cost about $50 turned into 80 minutes and $282.

Tomorrow, I will take my new found spoils and try to reconstruct the suburban magic in my front yard that I built the last five years. My much lighter wallet is going to dampen my spirits just a bit, but I will also have a very eager three year old helping Daddy out for the first time - so that should balance things out.

Even after spending all that money, I'm still looking for one more item. A large, inflatable and illuminated Santa choking the shit out of a Home Depot employee would make a great new centerpiece for the front lawn.

Family First?

I have been unemployed for precisely 45 days - not that I'm counting. I've had a handful of interviews for spots that I haven't been a fit for, been overqualified to do or where I was offered a salary in the range of what I was making 15 years ago

As I rack up experience answering the same 8 questions I'm always asked about myself, the conversation is always steered toward what would be expected of me as a manager - most notably, my scheduled work hours.

I have concluded two things from this round of unemployment:

1. A University degree isn't worth the paper it's printed on. I have two, so that makes them twice as useless.

2. The days of the 40 hour work week are dead like disco.

I don't think I have interviewed with a company that has expected anything less than "50 hours a week - at minimum" from me. With two very small boys at home who like having their father around, this is a bit of a pickle.

At my old job, I worked 44 hour weeks, and that was manageable. An increase of 6 hours per week doesn't seem like a whole lot until you do the math:

6 hours X 52 weeks = 312 hours a year. That's almost the equivalent of working 8 more 40 hour work weeks a year. 312 hours of not seeing my sons, of time missed with my wife and valuable hours not being spent the way I would like... All for the sake of your job.

Did I mention these were salaried positions with no extra compensation for the extra time worked? No matter how you slice it, there's something wrong.

It's no wonder I'm enjoying this down time with my kids so much.

Where's that lottery when I need it?

Late Night Snack

2AM.

As I make myself comfortable in my downstairs recliner for a late-night movie viewing, I hear the familiar thump and pitter patter of feet that signifies that my oldest son has stirred from his sleep. At three years old, he's already developed a pattern of sleepwalking - much like his father.

I listen for him to make a beeline toward our bedroom, but the footsteps slap down the hardwood floor of the hallway and come to an abrupt and jarring stop. I dash upstairs to make sure he hasn't managed to hurt himself in the dimly lit obstacle course that is our house at night, and I see the outline of his little body standing ever so still by the edge of the living room love seat.

I come around the corner and put my arm on his shoulders; careful not to stir him too much in case he's in a deep sleep strolling mood.

"Everything okay, buddy?", I ask him quietly. His eyes dart to my face and struggle to adjust to the lack of light.

"Daddy? I was so sad because nobody was here. My tummy is gurgly."

Tummy gurgliness in my household can be caused by many things. More often than not, it is caused when little boys decide not to eat their supper as protest for not being served something more suited to their discerning palate. This was one of those instances.

"Can I have a snack, Dad?"

Instead of lecturing him on the importance of listening to what his Mommy and Daddy tell him to do regarding all matters of supper time, I picked up the little man and headed toward the kitchen.

"How's some cheese and crackers sound, big guy?"

The nod and gentle tightening of the arms around my neck indicated agreement.

I grabbed a snack pack and freed the crackers from their tiny plastic prison. As I spread the cheese across them with the primitive red stick provided for the task, I took a good look at my boy who sat sleepy-eyed at the table.

My wife and I are the proud parents of two boys, aged three years and two months. Parenthood didn't come easy to us as we suffered through the heartbreak of two miscarried pregnancies. The fact that we have two beautiful children is something we never take for granted, as there was a time where we felt parenthood may be an endeavor we'd never get to undertake.
My wife came from a very nuclear family where Mom and Dad looked after the kids and provided them with all the opportunity the world had to offer. I came from a teenage mother and a father who skipped out before I was even born. I spent a very large part of my childhood trying to convince myself that I was as good as everyone around me, and not doing a very good job for the most part.

It is important to my wife and I that we are great parents to our children.

For me, it's the fear of failing at this task that keeps me up at night.

My children are amazing little people. Their existence has added direction to my life and has seen me finding more love in myself than I ever thought I was capable of possessing. I try very hard to be a positive role model in their lives and my number one priority is producing happy and well adjusted people that will go out and do some good in this world someday.

I only have a few years experience in filling the role of "Dad", and I'm not sure I've quite nailed down the job description as of yet. For as much as I don't know, there's a few things I have figured out.

Being a good father means being honest with your kids. When my son asks me a question, I owe it to him to provide the best answer possible; regardless of how uncomfortable the subject matter may be. It is this rule that enables my son to show his Mom a rudimentary mock-up of a vagina using his hands - complete with "the crack where the pee comes out".

Being a  Dad means never undermining your child's feelings when they have something to say that's important to them. If their life hinges on the fact that there's a dump truck in front of you on the highway and they NEED you to know about it right now, listen - and thank them for the heads-up.

Fatherhood is instilling your kids with values and respect for themselves and others. Building self-confidence and pride in them and letting them know that they matter in your world is the best gift you can give a child. You can't go wrong buying them a big radio controlled monster truck too. Kids dig those.

Hug and kiss your kids every chance you get. Don't be afraid to show them affection, and never let a day go by without telling them you love them.

Being a Dad is being the guy they can count on when life gets too difficult for them to handle on their own. Sometimes it's only a Dad who can spread the cheese on the crackers in the midle of the night.

As I tucked my boy back in to bed, he made sure I was paid handsomely for my services by providing a kiss, three hugs and an "I love you, Dad" for good measure. I crept across the hall and crawled into bed next to my wife just in time to hear our littlest son start to stir. With heavy eyes and dragging feet, I shuffled my way to the kitchen to grab baby's late night feeding.

Falling asleep with little one in the rocking chair an hour later, only one thought came to mind:

Only 18 more years of this...

I'd better enjoy every minute.

Lest We Forget... To buy Christmas decorations

Every year on November 11th, we as a country take the time to show respect to our military Veterans who have fought for the freedoms we enjoy today as Canadians.

In the weeks leading up to Remembrance Day, you will see proud Canadians from coast to coast wearing a poppy close to their heart as a token of reverence for our fighting men and women who - in many cases - gave the ultimate sacrifice to protect the liberties of our country and its citizens.

Realities being what they are, many sectors of the retail industry have decided that Christmas merchandise and displays be presented to the public as early as possible in order to maximize holiday revenue for their stores. This occurs as early as November 1st; so you could be looking at discounted Halloween costumes while you listen to Bing Crosby crooning about that White Christmas he's been pining over for what seems like a hundred years.

For some time now there has been a vocal segment of the population that has made it quite clear that they find the ability to buy a dancing snowman before November 12th quite unacceptable, and that we should all "show some respect" for the people who died to make our country what it is today.

I call bullshit.

The fighting men and women who went to war in the name of Canada were fighting for something very specific- our freedom. They fought for our freedom to exercise democracy, to live peacefully without suffering under a reign of tyranny and hate, and to buy a goddamned Charlie Brown Nativity scene on November 3rd if we so choose. I've got a nutbar on my street who put his Christmas tree up two days after Halloween. Who are we to tell him that he can't, as ridiculous as we may all think it is?

This country is in bad enough shape because of people telling us what we can and can't do because it might "offend somebody" and their delicate sensibilities. It's bad enough we can't even call it Christmas anymore , and now you're expecting me to take someone else's cue as to when and how I can start to celebrate it? I don't think so.

By the way, it is MERRY CHRISTMAS; not "Merry X-Mas" or "Happy Holidays" - and this is coming from an Atheist. See what would happen if you tried calling Ramadan "Rama-Lama Ding Dong" because the religious connotation offended you. You'd find a Jihad under your Holiday Tree.

Anyway, I have my own thoughts on retailer responsibility on Remembrance Day, and I personally think any non-essential services should be shut down as a show of respect for the occasion. The fact of the matter is that many establishments are still open and I exercise my personal freedom and right to choose by not patronizing them. The difference between my stance and the "NO HO HO UNTIL THE POPPIES GO" movement is that my choice is just something that I do - not a production that I feel I have to gain a groundswell of support for to show how much reverence I have for the occasion.

What can you do to show respect for our Veterans? Thank them and shake their hand when you meet one. Proudly wear a poppy on your jacket to show that you remember the sacrifice our troops made so we can live the lives we do today. Attend a Remembrance Day service and listen to the stories of our men and women who fought for our country. Value your freedom not just on November 11th, but every day of the year.

Feel free to get ready for Christmas whenever you like, gentle reader, and don't feel that pang of guilt when you find yourself tapping your toes to "Santa Bring My Baby Back To Me" on November 10th. Remember, if it weren't for our Veterans fighting for us, we might be waiting for Shanto Claus or Swastika Klauss to come down our chimneys on Christmas Eve.

In closing, I want to share a response from a neighbor of mine who served in WWII when I asked him what he thought of stores that put out their Christmas stock before Remembrance Day is over:

"I think it's great. This way I can replace all these fuckin' lights that burnt out last year before we get a foot of snow on the ground".

Doesn't that say it all?

In Flander's Fields

Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead: Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved: and now we lie
In Flanders fields!

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields



'Tis The Season

Wal-Mart has anything you could ever want for Christmas... And a lot of things you don't.

Remember, Remember The 'Stache of Movember

It's that time of year again here in the Great White North. The time when many men with previously naked upper lips grow out their facial hair in the name of the mighty cause of Movember.

For the uninitiated, Movember is a charity initiative that sees men grow often ridiculous and unsightly moustaches for the purpose of raising funds for men's health causes - specifically prostate cancer.

It's a cool way to raise money and it's as simple as registering on the website, growing a moustache and collecting donations that are usually directly proportional to how ridiculous you look as the days of November whiz past.

As simple as the concept may be, there's just some people that don't seem to get it.

Every day I see some fellah proudly sporting his under-nose growth and trumpeting to the world how he's "doing it for prostate cancer".  When I ask where I can donate a few bucks to his cause, I usually get that look from them like Bruce Willis had at the end of the Sixth Sense when he realized he was dead for the whole flick *spoiler alert*.

"Huh? Donate? What do you mean?!? This moustache is doing all I need to do, man!"

Listen, I'm all for raising awareness of a cause - especially something as awful as prostate cancer - but if you're going to do it, do it right. You growing a moustache for a month is doing no more to help cancer research than my taking a dump is doing to help the homeless unless you're actually collecting donations.

Register, collect, and actually do something for the cause instead of walking around with your new Hulk Hogan 'stache and acting like you're Dr. Jonas Salk.

Your heart may be in the right place, but your head is in your ass.

We All Die Screaming

Who would have thought that listening to a guy who was Silent Bob would change my life?

On November 7th, we packed up a car and drove to Halifax, Nova Scotia to see writer/director/personal idol of mine, Kevin Smith. Known for his sophomoric and self-deprecating sense of humor, Smith is the everyman who made it big in Hollywood after parlaying a $30,000 credit card debt into his first film, Clerks. He has gone on to write and direct a score of films, written comic books, published memoirs, started a podcast empire, and done just about everything that's worth doing in today's entertainment landscape.

One of his many talents is a flair for public speaking, and his Q&A events are usually sellout affairs where his fans can ask him anything they wish and he'll respond in frank (and often hilarious) fashion. It's always to be expected that there are a few great questions and the inevitable dumb ones, but I don't think that even Smith was prepared for what unfolded this past Monday night.

As I stood in line waiting to ask what I thought was a kick-ass question about Degrassi Junior High (one of Smith's obsessions), the first gentleman in line on the other side of the auditorium asked a seemingly innocent question about comic books. What followed were 60 minutes that I will never forget.

Smith talked about the success he's had in Hollywood despite being "nobody special" and a "real idiot". He talked about his adversarial relationship with critics and his initial feelings of being hurt when some of his projects were received with less than glowing praise (they were shit on). He explained how he started as a wide-eyed kid looking to make art when he first wrote and directed Clerks, but somewhere along the line he got involved in a co-dependent relationship with the critics who hated him and began to judge his own worth as an artist on what they thought of him.

He then deftly segued into talking about his father and how he was an upstanding man who wanted nothing more out of life than to get married and have kids. He was, by all accounts, a wonderful human being (who never fucked a kid - a measuring stick in today's society) who lived a good and decent life and wanted nothing more than to have a happy family.

Smith then told us how, on the night of his death, his father sat bolt upright in his hospital bed and started screaming that he was on fire and needed water before eventually falling back and dying before Smith's brother's eyes.

"If a man that good and decent dies screaming that he's being consumed by flames, what's in store for the rest of us?", Smith asked.

It was there that Smith got into the meat of his monologue.

"We all die screaming", Smith asserted. He questioned why, if that's the case, would we ever be afraid of putting ourselves out there and just doing what we want to do without fear of being judged? Why wouldn't we try every cool thing that we ever dreamed of instead of being held back by the words and judgments of others? Why do we care what other people think?

"Follow your whimsy", Smith implored. The words hit me like a sledgehammer.

As cliched as it sounds, I felt as though Smith had a direct line to me with every word that spilled from his mouth.

Several years ago, I was a relatively successful blogger who had a readership of several thousand people a week. Around the point where I became a father for the first time, I stopped writing almost entirely and I told myself that I just got to a point where I didn't feel like sharing my life with the world anymore. It was a good excuse, and one that I believed for a long time.

As I stood and listened to Smith speak, I realized that I had stopped writing for myself at some point and that the words I committed to the electronic page became more about me trying to make others happy instead of keeping my creative passions alive. I constantly worried about offending someone or too often using language that might fall on the salty side of things. Were my topics too risque? What if someone's kid reads this? What if it's boring? What if nobody but me finds it funny?

What if people just plain don't like it?

Several times over the last three years, I have tried to blog again with little to no success. The problem was that I always went in with the thought of, "What will people like to read? What do they want me to say? " dancing in the back of my head. I would write for a couple of weeks with some frequency and then give up because I didn't care about what I was producing. I was writing pablum prose that was easy to digest, but lacked any real flavor and certainly didn't represent who or what I was. I was scared that people weren't going to like what I put out there, so I just stopped putting out anything.

That's not going to happen again.

Mr. Smith, you have lit a fire under my ass the likes of which I haven't felt in a long time; if ever. Your urging to "go out and create something without worrying about its success" resonated with me to my core. I've had so many things I wanted to try in the past, but didn't because I was scared they would fail.

Now I just don't give a fuck.

The coming months will find me trying my hand at several different projects; podcasting, YouTubing, running a pop culture website, writing the half dozen children's books I know I have somewhere inside me and maybe even learning how to play the banjo, who knows?

Even I know all this can't be done at once, though, so like Bill Murray in What About Bob? I'm just gonna take baby steps and start with something I know: blogging.

I'm not going to lie; I really missed it.

I'm creating again, and I'm creating for me. If you'd like to follow along, you're more than welcome to do so; but be aware that while you follow me, I'm following something else.

I'm following my whimsy.