Splashdown

  Everyone belongs to a statistical club.

  Of course, the statistic is never the full measure of a person - I still consider most math and numbers part of the Axis of Evil - but if I were a statistician, I'd almost like to think a person's numbers is like a membership in one exclusive club or another.  Sorta like the Yacht Club. Or the Stonecutters.

  For instance, I'm part of the "Young Author" club, very exclusive, as only one in ten people will ever write a book in their lives, let alone two.  I'm part of the "Divorced by 30" club, a little more populous, as four in ten first marriages will end in divorce in Canada.  You can also throw me in for the Canadians of Trinidadian and Tobagonian ancestry, 50,000 people and counting, representing 0.15 of the Canadian population.  Of that, I'm one of only two authors in this group - Neil Bissoondath being the other - and may in fact be the next Ian Hanomansing if my acting and TV work progresses well. 

  And, within a few months, I'll be joining another growing club, one which includes 41% of the population aged 18 to 36 in its membership: the Boomerang Club. 

   Friends, Romans, Countrymen...I am moving home.

   (And yes, I'm aware I didn't provide accurate citation format for those numbers.  Citations are for Democrats.)
  
   This is a tough decision, but it's a necessary next step to accomplish some of my bigger life goals. 

   Normally, this is the point that I spend a ton of time and wordspace justifying my decision.  Strangely, I could give a crap what people think about this today.  My one year lease is up at the end of February, and while I could leave it alone and go "month to month" on my apartment, there is a window of opportunity to walk away.  And walking away is what I'm going to do.

   I've been living away from home for a decade now.  I moved out to live on residence in 2000, moving back home for the summer of 2001 only to head back out to my apartment with my ex for our third year at McMaster.  I've been away from home ever since. And, of course, for the past year, I've been living completely on my own. 

   It was all time well spent, and with a few tiny exceptions, I have no regrets about my independent living.  At this point in my personal development, it's hard to go back and say it was for nothing.  It all served a purpose, and just like other parts of life that have fulfilled what they were meant to fulfill, it's time to let it go....

  Okay, I can see this won't get much further than flowery New Age affirmations without some more concrete explanations.  And there are two: I need more spending cash now on things other than renting a place where I spend most of my time sleeping; and freeing up my apartment enables me to not feel like I'm held hostage by my current day job.  Now to explain the explanations.

   The advantages are clear: more money means debts paid, savings boosted, vacations - the type of travel I spent all my twenties fantasizing about but never actually got to do - and more of the material "stuff" that I've gone too long without. 

   Moving home with the 'rents and my sisters isn't a permanent thing. Frankly, our egos are all too big and our lifestyles too different for that to be sustainable for too long. It will also involve some commuting to work for a while. The disadvantages are clear. But whether I go home for four months and return to a cheaper rent, or whether I stay there a year, I'm still going to have to take this first step regardless. This simply happens to be the time that the opportunity has presented itself.

   Then there's the matter of my work anxiety.

 I suppose this is mostly my fault.  After all, I've been trying to find my niche in the economy for the past five years, ever since I got my first full time job.  Each time, I found something to complain about, and in two such cases, it was enough for me to leave the position altogether.  However, just as the Boy Who Cried Wolf learned to his regret, I'm now being serious when I tell you that this position is starting to undermine my self-confidence.  I simply am not a "fit" where I am, and everyone senses it. It really is only a matter of time before my bosses turn their full attention to replacing me.  The wolf is gonna get me sooner or later. Serious this time.

  Moving home provides immunity against my fear of losing everything in the event that they go for the "sooner" option. It gives me flexibility and a sense of freedom that I'm not risking everything by speaking up and speaking out. It will remove the feeling that I must stay put in a job, give me the feeling of freedom to pursue other opportunities.  There's nothing worse than feeling trapped.

   Moving home also lets me interact with more people in my day-to-day who aren't work colleagues.  Much of the time, the only people I interact with are the ones who are busting my butt.  I get chewed up, spat out, and made to feel like an idiot all day, and then I go home to an empty apartment, stressed out with no one to talk to.  Hanging out with friends helps, but it's not enough.

   My family, for our differences, is my tribe, my community.  I can at least go home and interact with a group of people who I know love me unconditionally, who believe in me, who appreciate my abilities, and who have much the same living conditions I do: very clean, no big parties, no drugs or alcohol floating around, no debauchery.  Some guys can feel at home in a party house: I'm not one of them. 

   And yes, moving home gives me the freedom to quit, if it comes to it, and still have a place to sleep. Some of my former in-laws and friends somehow managed to take the two instances in my otherwise uninterrupted 14 year work history where I quit jobs that were making me unhappy and declared me "unable to hold a job".  As such, I've had an axe to grind in putting up with the crap in my current workplace.  But it's making me miserable and the concerns of former in-laws and former friends are pretty low down on my priority list.  Moving home opens up the possibility of a rest period while I pursue other opportunities.

  Of course, my apartment is lovely.  It's in a great neighbourhood that I love, with good, friendly neighbours, and I do love where I currently live.  Most importantly, it is mine.  But I get the sense that this place has served its purpose in the greater scheme of my own life.

   Had I decided to move home a year ago, when my marriage ended, I would have felt all the more the failure.  I had another axe to grind: I had to show to myself that I could survive completely on my own.  Now that axe is pretty sharp, and I don't need to worry about proving my ability to live independently to others, or myself.  I can go home knowing that I'm able to come back out here again when I choose to.

  Had I not moved here, I doubt my book would have been finished, or turned out the way that it did. Burlington is a nexus of prosperity and a high quality of living, and the downtown around Brant and Lakeshore provided me with prime inspiration for my protagonist's own life, even if it's not by name.  An artist needs a vibe of prosperity, and that's what I got while I was here.

 Had I not moved here, I never would have taken that walk through the vendors at Ribfest and gotten involved with Film/Comm Talent, starting this new journey.  Had I not moved here, I never would have dated that girl who lived around the corner, and had that kiss that really renewed my own feeling of worth as a good partner. 

  Make no mistake.  This place helped manifest the best case scenario in a transformative year.

  But now, I am here, and the things I want to accomplish require me to say goodbye to Burlington, with thanks.  This will be the first time I'm leaving a place that I'm still in love with, heart and soul.  As I said, one of the toughest decisions I've made in recent years, and those years have had their moments, that's for sure.

  Too often, we hold onto things that served us in the past when they're well beyond their expiration date.  That doesn't invalidate their previous benefits: just means you need to get a new carton of milk is all.  

  Ironically, by choosing to pack it in for a while and go home, I feel even more empowered than I thought I would be, because it's a clear choice that I am making for myself.  In so doing, I avoid joining other statistical clubs: the Society of Working Poor; the I've Never Seen Europe Support Group; not to mention the Ancient Mystic Society of Unhappy Office Workers. 

  This isn't a failure to launch.  This is a deliberate de-orbit, a time to come back to earth for a while for a refit, so that I can land among the stars the next time I head up there.  And reach them I will.

  Splashdown's in two months.  Time to get ready.

Soul Mates, Stunt Doubles, and Other Realities....

  Watched Will Smith's Hancock the other day for the first time.  I enjoyed it. Grittier than I expected, and Jason Bateman's performance inspired me to push Michael to become a PR guy: I think he'd be spectacular at it, personally.  Michael and Bateman's character Ray share that quality: they can persuade you to do good, functional things simply by talking to you, not by raising their voices or pushing you around, just talking.  Theirs is a subtle power, one that's far more effective on me than "C'mon! Go do it!  Do eeet!".  But that's neither here nor there.

  What most caught my attention was Charlize Theron, and who could blame me? Oh, Charlize....

I thought her role in this movie was especially poignant.  The only other "superhero" in the world, Hancock's wife for over three thousand years.  Built, like he was, to have her superpowers diminish and immortality fade when she chose a mate, so that they could live and die together, as normal people, if they so chose.  The only way they can be "superheroes" is to be apart. 

  What powers do we lose when we're in love? 

  It's coming up on a year that I've been single.  I've had the privilege of meeting so many others, some in my boat, others paddling alongside me in their own, who were in wonderful relationships, and are now out of them, floating along this unexpected river. 

  Some I've only known as single men and women, others I met when they were just out of a relationship and in the "crazy" stage.  A few are still "recovering", years later, from what happened to them. A few of them went the other way and are now in relationships whereas before they were single.

  For some, life lessons need to be taken internally.  No matter how much people will give you advice on relationships, early on and well after you've fallen out of love and gone back on your own, you have to learn numerous things completely through your own experience.  The old "I'll believe it when I see it" adage applies to some people more than others.

  From a year's worth of owning the whole bed to myself, I can say two things for sure: I know who I am, and I know who I'm waiting for.

  But first, one random point:

Stunt Doubles

 Lining up for Harry Potter  a few weeks ago with Michael and Aaron, we were talking about the new "See Friendship" function on Facebook.  I off-handedly remarked that Alice had said that our "friendship" was so epic that you'd swear we were dating.  "Aren't you?" teased Michael.  "Yeah, she's like a part-time girlfriend for you," said Aaron.  "You need to consider getting an actual girlfriend and not just a female friend."

  Checking this with Alice through our preferred medium of BlackBerry Messenger afterwards, she concurred:

"Yeah,you should get a full-time girlfriend soon. As much as I enjoy our friendship, it'll be a lot more fun for you ;)"

 The next day, I met Pam for coffee at the Indigo bookstore in Stoney Creek.  When we were walking to our cars afterwards, I mentioned the conversation of the previous night.

   "Oh, you mean stunt doubles," she said.

   "What?"

   "Well, it's like an opposite-sexed substitute for either an existing partner or none at all.  You know how sometimes if a boyfriend wants to go somewhere that his actual girlfriend doesn't like, he'll sometimes get a female friend to go with him?"

    "Yeah?"  Pam nodded.

    "Yep. Stunt double.  A fill in for an actual partner."

    Not a new concept for me, for sure. One of my favourite movies, Elizabethtown, featured the idea prominently.  As Kirsten Dunst's character Claire says of her friendship with Orlando Bloom's Drew Baylor:

"We're the substitute people."

 

   Being a stunt double or sub for an actual partner's supposed to be something of an insult, but that usually presumes that one of the people involved wants to be more than that.  This is what my ex's current boyfriend used to be: in the end, he got his wish, rightly or wrongly. 

   But for myself, the (re)discovery of the concept made me realize something new: most of the female friends I'm closest to serve as substitute people for my ex.  They're part-time girlfriends, totally platonic, but serving the same functions. And we're all cool with this arrangement.

    Pam and Alice are the two primary stunt doubles I have, I think. Even my ex herself at times...well, the new version of her, anyway.  Each serves different purposes.  Pam's like a big sister who thinks much the same way I do and who really *gets* it; Alice shares many of the same interests and quirks that I do and has a knack for kicking my ass in a good way without meaning to, very effectively; and whenever I need historical perspective, I go to my ex, because after all we've shared, she remains the one human being outside my family who knows me best and longest - fourteen years now and counting.  And, of course, my guy friends provide buddy time and act as a rational, more social contrast for me to measure up my crazy introverted ideas. 

   Again, it is what it is, but I find it remarkable that I had to find at least six substitute people to provide the emotional satisfaction I used to get from just one. 

   It goes to show that none of us are truly functioning under our own power.  We all need those social connections, and those emotional ones in particular, wherever we can get them.  And though we'll occasionally burn our friends out with our whining, complaining, and venting, they'll be back for more, because that's what good friends do. 

   There's more I want to say on the subject of stunt doubles, but I want to touch on something else first, so we'll return to this later.

  Who I'm Looking For....

   Personal value and self worth are often the first casualties of a breakup or divorce, provided you didn't lose them already in the time leading up to the split. Thus, you might feel inclined, as I did for about seven months, to look for a new relationship way before you've managed to put yourself back together again.

  They'll tell you "you're not ready to date", and sheer ego will keep you from listening.  But you aren't, you really aren't, until you know you can be on your own.  It's old news, it's what everyone tells everyone else who is suddenly single.  And yet, as I said earlier, you've got to learn this from your own experience to really believe it.  As Ke$ha says, love is indeed a drug, and when you're jonesing for a hit after you're stash has run out, you'll say anything to get it.  That's what desperation does. 

  Hell, they may even have to tie you to a tree.

   So then, how do you know you're ready?  Same way you've got to prove to the bank that you don't need the loan in order to get it.  Same way that you need work experience before you can get that first job.

   You're ready for a relationship when you can feel the same love for yourself as you would if you had a partner to love you. 

   I thought I was ready in April.  Then again in June.  And in August, I was actually dating a girl for a bit, and I though I feel this is when I became emotionally ready, I had a ton of career-related challenges - namely French classes and studies that I needed for a job-saving bilingual test - that would have interfered with any new relationship for at least a month and a half.  

   Those may have indeed been self-deceptions, false Buddhas on the road to Enlightenment, but if you'd asked me then if I was ready to fall in love again, I would have said yes.  Not that it would have been a giant lie, but I wasn't as ready as I am now. 

   Because now, when I think of meeting someone, I'm willing to wait for the right person.  I have a surprisingly clear and ever-evolving idea of who she is, and anyone less than that would always be second rate.  That wasn't the case before, when I was willing to date every kind of girl just for the validation. 

   Love costs you your superhero powers, if not applied correctly.  That subplot in Hancock is a great metaphor for what it does to some people, and what it would do to me if I fell in love with anyone less than the right girl. 

   That's who I'm looking for.  Her and only her. 

   Most women out there don't interest me.  My buddies tell me I have to approach them, say hello, and I'm really good at doing this now, but I choose not to most of the time because there's only one kind of experience I'm looking for, and it's not a casual lay.  Most women don't interest me because I'm not interested in most women. Just one.

   Right now, I'm functioning at an overall peak performance in many aspects of life.  I've improved so much and I'm working on elevating the other parts, career in particular.  I'm as sure of myself as a self-reflective ENFP lone wolf author can be.  My ideal mate is someone who would not cause me to revert back to who I was before, and thus undo this evolution in progress.

   I'm uniquely positioned among other men in my social circle to be able to declare this.  For starters, my sex drive is not nearly as elevated as most guys, meaning I'm not going to go skirt-chasing at bars because I can wait for someone special to share that experience with.  I love myself more now than I ever have, not conceit, but a healthy love of self.  I'm more willing to define social boundaries and not give up my time, attention, or beliefs just to get people to like me.  Most of all, I'm living for things that are bigger than me, primarily art and storytelling in the form of writing, and acting when that gets off the ground. 

   As such, the only dance partner I'm willing to take for a spin will be the so-called "One".  Soul mate. Twin flame.  Whatever you want to call her, she's the only one I'm willing to go and get.  I'll know her when I see her.  And since I'm waiting for only one particular girl to show up, I don't need to waste my time chasing other ones around the ballroom.

   That way, when I do fall in love, I won't be giving up any of my power. The love-drug makes you do so many stupid things. Given the right circumstances, you can fall in love with just about anyone: it's how you explain the "why is he with that bitch?" or "why is she with that asshole?" scenario. When you're with the wrong person, you can damage yourself for life, lose your abilities, sometimes forever. Love isn't enough.

   In a relationship with my soul partner, however, we can only add our powers together, because she's the optimal match for me. She doesn't have to be a complete copy of me - she'll have her differences, obviously - but we need to be in the same wavelength in life, giving off the same type of vibration, for this to work right.  Call me picky if you wish, but why the hell would I settle for anything less than the best for me?

   There's a girl out there right now who's everything I'm looking for, and for whom I'm everything she wants to have.  In a way, we're already together, we just haven't caught up to the reality.  And if we're already destined to meet, then in the meantime, I'm going to enjoy today as much as I can, do my utmost to maintain positive energy as work does its thing and the holiday stresses mount and the cold closes in. 

   Who is this girl, though? My equal and complementary spirit? What does she look like?  What is her story?  Does she enjoy Babylon 5 reruns as much as I do? (Scratch that question: of course she does!). 

   I have no answers to the detail questions yet, but however, wherever, and whenever we meet, I'll owe Serendipity a drink at the bar for all of her hard work. 

  Can't buy it now though: Serendipity's busy working as I write this, and there's no drinking on the job.

  Until then, read this.  I thought it was rather sweet.  A page from Serendipity's portfolio right there.

Confidence without Douchebaggery

  The following is a recounting of something Jody witnessed, and may not have happened exactly as depicted, though that's totally okay, because this version's been sexified by Jody's awesome imagination.

 The Phidelts had Wing Night this past Sunday in Westdale.

 After gorging on the delightful parts of some hapless, mass-produced chickens, me and the younger guys chill for about ten minutes before they head off to another pub. 

   During that time, two lovely young ladies emerge from the restaurant, walk past the bunch of us, and get into a car to light a cigarette.  Long story short, one of our entourage - driven by courage, apathy, and a deeper fortitude located somewhere in his pants - walks over to the driver's side.  I have no idea what he says - I'd later find out he opened with "I'd like to see some ID" - but the girls seem to enjoy it and the rest of us are quite entertained.

  "I love the way he sauntered over there," I say aloud.  "It's such a balls-out approach."

  At that point, a brother - who I shall deem "The Moustache" until he gives me formal permission to reprint his name publicly - responds with a cool point. 

"The trick is not giving a shit if people think you're a douchebag". 

  Think about it.  How many "nice guys" worry about looking like anything but "nice guys" when it comes to impressing the ladies?  That's why nice guys fail so frequently and so hard when they try to be less "nice" at bars and at parties: they're aware that they're putting on an act.  They're too afraid of saying something wrong that will make them look like complete assholes to the women.  Their fears become their focus, and thus become their experience.  There's nothing as confidence sapping, as emasculating, as the feeling that you have to choose between being a dick and being the Pillsbury doughboy to succeed at dating, and life.

  The trick is to lose yourself in the part.  And also to eliminate the word "douchebag" from your self description.  All you're doing is just walking your confidence. 

  Much like Jack the Clawless Tabby did in 2006.

  Call it a biological Napoleon complex all you want, this cat is one mean pussy.  Never once did it occur to him that the bear cub could easily take him out with the slightest of swipes, or that he was about five times smaller. The cat had his turf to protect. 

   Jack the Clawless Tabby never dwelled on his shortcomings: instead, he pushed his natural strengths to the max and harnessed them behind a single goal: telling a wandering bear to get the fuck off his property.

 Issues of confidence are rampant in my daily existence, mostly in the assertion department. Assertiveness remains a challenge for me, especially in the presence of stronger, go-getter personalities who are way more cock and balls than I'll ever be.  They give me little room to maneuver: if you push, I'll either dig in my heels or I'll just walk away, start some lone wolf time. 

  Or, if you're really being direct, I'll push back a little more out of proportion to what's called for, but that's a last resort.  I don't much care for pissing matches with people, but if you're on my territory - my home, my office, my arena - I will do what's necessary to protect my sovereignty.

 And yet, in situations where I'm not forced to beat my chest, I'm damned good at the confidence game.  I've landed a couple of jobs where I only barely met the requirements, based mostly on the interview.  Aaron pointed this out a couple of times when I've had moments of doubt: he's one person who sees that strength, and he's one of the most confident guys I've ever met. 

  We have an archetype in Western culture of the disgruntled office clerk.  That person who occupies a lower station in a greater organization who is so much more capable than what he's getting, if only he had the guts to just speak up for himself.  Frequently, the place where he paralyzes himself is one concept, this all-too-familiar fear:

"I don't want to be an asshole."

  Nor is it just guys.  Alice remarked to me today, in a somewhat related discussion, her own qualms with self-assertion.  After showing her the story on Jack the Orange Tabby, she said this:

   I'm always afraid that I'll look like a bitch if I assert myself like that.

    Back to the Moustache for a moment.

    "You know," I say to him, back at the parking lot of the restaurant after Wing Night, "I've always struggled with issues of authenticity, especially when it comes to meeting girls, but you know..."

     I steal another look over at Mr. Ballsy, chatting up the two girls.

    "It's nothing new.  I've summoned that kind of confidence at job interviews, why not here?"

    The Moustache agrees.  "Real douchebags don't care what people think.  That confidence is attractive and they know it.  You can be a good confident person without being a dick."

    Plus, as much as pretty girls can't initially tell the difference between an asshole and a confident good guy at a bar, I'm willing to bet they enjoy the process of sorting them out.

    Simple concept, right?  And yet, so many people fret over it.

   Losing yourself in the role doesn't mean putting on a show.  It's the acquisition and continued accumulation of a genuine feeling, and then just running with it.  It's like summoning a comic book superpower and then swaggering around. 

  Easiest way to summon this power?  Do what Ben Affleck's character talks about in Boiler Room - which Michael is watching over at his place as I type this:

"Act as if". 

   Assume you're a superstar, then lose yourself in the part.  I do this a lot lately as part of my visualization for acting.  Since I started, not gonna lie, my swagger's gotten more attention from all the right places (and a few of the wrong ones).

   As that superstar, walk up to someone today and strike up a conversation like it was nothing.  Unless the other person has some malfunction in that moment, I promise it'll go smoothly.

  If anything, that other person should feel anxious talking to you.  Be polite, kind, say whatever comes to mind, thank them, shake their hands if the chat was meaningful, then make your way out. 

   As you leave, notice that feeling - high, energized, certain - and carry it with you as long as it lasts. 

  And remember it the next time you see that cute girl you've been dying to talk to.

  To the naturally confident, extroverted A-types, this seems so basic, but to guys like me, it's always a new revelation, like a monolith from 2001.  Some people need to have this literally beaten into our skulls with a proto-human femur bone to make sure we never forget.

  And yes, lately I've been following my own advice and doing this with women.  More on that in a later entry.  Back to the novel, in the meantime.

Whiting Out The Scarlet "D"

  In the previous incarnation of this blog, I talked a lot about divorce.  As I've said numerous times, this blog wouldn't be around were it not for the end of my marriage.  I've had numerous people approach me to say what an eye-opener it's been for them to read about my divorce experience, and how I've navigated through it.

  And yet, I don't particularly relish leading off with my marital status all the time - who would, really? - which is why for the last while on this blog, I've focused strictly on other aspects of my life experience. 

  I even have one or two readers and Facebook friends who only ever seem to comment whenever I talk about divorce.  I appreciate the words of sympathy and support, I really do, but I'm light years past where I was this past winter.  I know it's not the intention, but the commentary has this almost condescending "That's it, Jody, way to go!" feel, like what you say to a six year old when he finally goes a week without wetting the bed.

  The other part was that up until last month, I was heavily involved in online dating. 

 That's a tricky endeavour when you're divorced because the medium sends the wrong message to would-be companions.  You can meet someone in person, see what they're really like, interact with them, fall in love, and maybe a few weeks into it learn about their previous marriage.  And if there's clear charisma between you, if neither of you have any particular religious or personal issues with it, you'll move past it.  Or, you'll end the relationship, but at least you had those weeks of experience.

  But when all you have to go on is what the person's written on a dating profile, you look for any red flag.  And that's when you walk into the Catch 22 of divorcee online dating disclosure. 

  If you don't disclose your marital status, the person may find out later and determine you're a lying scumbag or "not over your ex".  If you do disclose your martial status, the person may determine that they appreciate your honesty,but that they're looking for someone with a little less baggage and that you're "not over your ex". 

  You can thus understand why I abandoned online dating in favour of the harder, much more satisfying route of meeting actual girls in the real world.

   So....yeah, talking about divorce for me is touchy, but not for the conventional reasons you might think.

  Nevertheless, every now and then, I come across something that lights up my synapses and motivates me to put fingers to keyboard and make divorce the front and centre of my attention.  Here's one such instance.

 Doing Divorce Differently

  The Huffington Post recently created an entire section to Divorce.  In the words of founder Arianna Huffington:

  "I've always thought that, as a country, we do a lousy job of addressing how we can do divorce differently -- and better."

  Only a few days old, the section already features numerous opinion pieces from various commentators and writers that essentially outline the points I've been trying to make in my much more limited writings. 

   Articles I'd like to suggest include the following, which closely parallel what I've written on the subject:

     - Why Divorcees Make The Best Dates and The Case for the Starter Marriage by Sascha Rothchild, author of How To Get Divorced By 30. 
     - The Scarlet "D", by Joel Dovev, Comedian
     - The Stigma of Divorce, by Jennifer Cullen, Blogger

 Friends and neighbours, I strongly suggest you read these articles.  Especially considering how little my own writings on the subject have been able to convince some of you that my approach to this experience has been beneficial.  

  That really bugs me, by the way.  By the reactions and input I've observed from a few particular individuals, I've been made to feel that they think I've somehow been permanently compromised by the experience. That I have no perspective whatsoever on what's happening to me, that everything I say is just part of the transition phase.

  And because I dared to defy some of the established conventions of divorce - forgiving and building a new friendship with my ex, choosing not to become Barney Stinson, pursuing reconstruction instead of self-destruction, deciding to express my feelings rather than addling them in booze and drugs and false machismo - some people have declared - and I ain't namin' names or anything - "See? Jody's not better!  He needs to man up! He's not following the rules!".  (Well, sentiments to that effect, anyway).

   Anyway, venting complete.

Throwing Out the Standard Rulebook 
  
  I didn't follow the rules of divorce because, right from the beginning, I had no rulebook to follow for this experience. My parents are still together: for much of my reality, divorce was something that happened to other people.  Hence, no rulebook.

  When colleagues started citing at me from the Standard Rulebook for Divorce, I looked at the consequences - litigation fees, months of hostility, self righteous chest-beating in and out of court over who was more in the wrong, who's going to hell; substance abuse, porn addiction, stress, general recrimination - and decided, "nope, not for me".  I needed to be able to at least feel neutral waking up each morning in the new alternate reality I was suddenly living in.  I couldn't do that if I was waking up just to fight the same skirmish each and every day, over and over again.  Divorce as a war of attrition didn't appeal to me.

  As it happens, making this up as I go along has been the most optimal approach I could have taken, and while I'm not as bubbly about my divorce as Sascha Rothchild is about hers, I definitely prefer this to the Standard Rulebook for Divorce that has lawyers and counsellors reaping millions from people's suffering.

  The Huffington Post has really done well to open up this topic to enlightened discussion past the expected orthodoxy of divorce as an exclusively negative experience. North American society has had decades to trace and re-trace the "Scarlet 'D'" onto the page, and I don't presume to be able to white it out with a single stroke.

  But I will continue to try.  And now I can provide citations that prove to the hardest skeptics that I'm not alone in that pursuit.

My Nervous Breakdown, Pt 2

(cue pre-intro theme from "Battlestar Galactica")

Previously, on Dispatches from the Alternate Universe:

"I sit up in bed in a state of pure awareness, not completely sure what I am hearing. Then my brain reconciles the sound. Heavy breathing. Two people. My neighbours are having sex at 5:43am on the other side of that wall.....This is the last straw."

"I had asked my boss to leave an hour early on Wednesday. Typical arrangement requires me to make up the time I take. Tuesday, I showed up an hour early...Boss... that this arrangement wasn't what I thought it was, and that I likely came in early for nothing."

"This was a thirtysomething Wednesday, my first, and it was boring and sad. The kind when you only think about lost baseball games and Fs on report cards and missed opportunities....was this all there was?"



"5:54am. They haven't stopped at all. And I'm angry. Determined....I get out of bed and start my day, determined to stop letting life kick my ass. Determined to make a change...."



***

Thursday

Thursday begins well. 

Spurred by the late night sexcapades of my nympho neighbour, I am set to get back in the vibe and be a productive individual. Today is the begininng of a special project that I am not allowed to talk about in detail, save that it's something that my boss has given me ownership of.  I am ready to kick ass.  And asses are kicked today.

I'm also excited for two other reasons. After work, I'm going shopping for clothes for a photo shoot I am doing on Saturday for my upcoming work in advertising and commercials.  I am getting professional head shots done and this could be the start of a whole unexpected chapter in my life. 

I'm also due to meet with my BFF - let's call him Dom to prevent undue and inadvertent libel, though I may have mentioned his real name here somewhere - for coffee afterwards.  He has been travelling through Europe for the past three weeks, and I want to hear about how his trip went.


 
As I do my shopping, I can sense a manic energy running through my system.  This isn't necesssarily a good thing, because I've felt this before, and it usually precedes a huge crash.  No matter, I'm getting new shoes, new pants, a new blazer....all things I've needed to complete my wardrobe.  They won't all get used, I know this, but at least it's done, and I'll be equipped for any type of event. Shopping can be a temporary salve during a state of life crisis. 

I come home, head into my bedroom and drop off the stuff in my closet.

And I hear them again!  It's 6:34pm.  This time, she's really raunchy, and sort of a turn-on.  My female BFF Alice suggests that I ask to join them, but that's not in the cards for me.  I barely have enough courage to talk to a girl one on one for just me: a three-way (and a devil's three-way, at that) is out of the question.

Still, it's like a determination refresher that motivates me to go to the gym and experience the mother of all workouts (which I do).

I return, shower, change, and head out to meet Dom. 

Dom's been there for me pretty much forever, but especially since the drama started with my breakup and divorce from my ex.  As single men, we formed part of an endangered demographic in our circle of married and long-term-partnered friends, and as "nice guys", both of us are accustomed to the pitfalls and vicissitudes of post-school dating while not being a douchebag.




I go to the cafe a little early, and find out that my other friend - again, let's call him Rick for anonymity's sake - is working that night down the street and will come over to meet us when he's done.  He's also recently left a relationship, but was starting something up with a girl at his job that was going somewhere.  Rick, too, has been a loyal ally in this dangerous world of singledom, and though at the time, I simply treat this as a casual coffee with buddies with no overarching symbolism, it occurs to me afterwards that these are my wingmen.

Dom shows up, and it's good to see him again.  His trip to Europe was kick-ass, and he's got an energy about him that's basically vintage Dom, except ramped up 15%. 

And I rapidly find out why.  He's now got a girlfriend that he met on the tour.

My face must have lit up like a Christmas tree! Awesome news!  I mean, Dom's probably the greatest guy ever, and if there's anyone who deserves excellent karma for years of being true to himself, putting in his best all the time with the people around him, and looking for a relationship where he can be authentic in all ways, it's him.  I am very excited for him, and wish him all the best!

Rick shows up, and we talk for a bit . Turns out, he too, is now off the market (well, at the time, sort of) and was deliberating on what to do next.  We shoot the shit for a while and I go home at midnight. 

Though it occurs to me at the meeting, it doesn't really hit me until I go to bed (now wary of ANY sound coming from the other room).

I am probably the only single man in my group of friends.



Still, as I drift off to sleep, I do fall back on my own New Age philosophical leanings.  Things that happen in your life also have symbolic meaning, as well as literal. 

 My apartment, for example, is either clean or cluttered depending purely on my mental state.  I'm quite direct in my symbolism - for others, a clean apartment is a sign they're avoiding dealing with other issues, whereas for me it's a sign that I am bringing my surroundings into alignment with my calm and organized mindset at the time - and so I realize something that, in my lingering mania, gives me hope.

  Sex is happening three feet away from me.  My best friends are now experiencing either the start of new love or are seeing opportunities for love right before them.  The universe is surrounding me with the very experiences I wish to have, have been looking to have again for many long months now.  It's only a matter of time before it's my turn.  Not much longer to wait.



  On that thought, I fall asleep.  And yet, outside, in the dark, my apartment is a complete mess.

  Friday

  If I'd known how the day was going to end, I would have probably slept in a little later.  For the first time in two days, no sex from the other side of the wall.  Good.

  I get to work, and today's the day that I am to finish up my project and get the arrangements made.  Part of this project involves collating a significantly large number of documents that, in turn, require organizing.  I figure I can get all of this done myself, impress my boss, and be a champion.

  I don't count on the involvement of the other middle manager in the office.  Let's call her MM.

   MM is hyper organized.  It's her thing.  And she's a nice lady, personally (aren't all the evil bosses nice people outside of work matters?).  But she is organized to a fault, way past the border of OCD.  And I'm about to feel her wrath.

   Leaving my project for lunch, I return to find that she has taken over my collating piles, reorganized them, and is now telling me what to do down to the last detail.  I can't go to my boss for advice because she isn't back until Monday.  Nor can I protest, partly because it's insubordination and I have two weeks left on my technical probation, and because she is offering me critical help.

    The workforce has this phenomenon that I can't quite name, in which there's no practical reason why you should be unhappy for some policy, someone's help, someone's directives, but where there's something wrong where you can't put your finger on what it is.  And for me, I realize that MM has taken away my bragging rights for getting the project done myself. 

   More than that, I also know that if there are any discrepancies, my boss will blame me for it. 

   Worse yet, MM is altering my original directives given to me by my boss, and I am working on complete faith that this is what my boss really wants. 

    MM issues one last reorganizing directive that, if I am to complete, requires me to stay late to ensure completion of the project, then leaves.  By this point, I am demotivated, stressed, and despairing, because my boss already has me on the hook for schedule issues.



   I am damned if I do, damned if I don't.  If I leave on time, the project will not be finished, and I will hear about it Monday.  If I stay late, I will hear about it on Monday.  I decide to stay late, sending Boss an email explaining the situation. 

   As I finish the set-up though, it dawns on me: nothing I ever do will impress my boss.  Her management style is the old school one in which the only feedback you receive is when you do something wrong.

   I am an intelligent human being doing peon work, and being treated accordingly.  I have no upward momentum, and nowhere else to go.  But I'm forced to stay because I need money.

   In the stressed out, demoralized atmosphere of my mind, the usual levvies that allow me to separate home issues from work start to crack. As I finish up my email and start for home, the leaks get bigger.  More chunks fall out from the levvies and the fluids begin to gush and mix together.

   I am single and divorced and alone and lonely.  Everyone is in a relationship but me.

  I am an intelligent, university-educated Arts major doing work that I am overqualified for and bored by, but that I need in order to pay my bills.

  I am trying to please a boss for whom nothing will be good enough.

  Everyone else is living what I want to have: love, and sex and babies and houses and success.

  And I am 30 years old and one week and nowhere near where I thought I would be in life.

  These elements swirl together, gathering momentum, and create a perfect storm in my mind that only breaks when I get home. 

  The manic energy spikes....then, ultimately....CRASH!

 I get into my apartment and just lose it.  When Jody has a nervous breakdown, it becomes rather epic.  Status updates abound.  Text messages fly.  I call everyone to vent.  I allow myself to cry, a behaviour which I've internalized as not being "manly", which I don't even do on my own half the time, but which is just too much to repress any longer.  I lose my typical cheer and optimism and become all about the cloud, not the lining.

For about two hours on Friday night, I alternate my time between venting out the strain, scaring the shit out of my friends and family who mistake the venting for my imminent demise, and just completely losing my shit.  Like most violent storms, though, it's over with quickly, but while it's falling, it's intense and dramatic and scary.

  But then, it's over.

 The comparison between the end of a nervous breakdown and a storm is apt.  The stillness and sheer awareness is the same, the feeling of energies dissipated, of a mess that's left behind now requiring clean-up.  Silence. 

  I get up from the couch, now in the dark.  I look around.  The place is a mess.  But I feel better, if not a little puffy and stuffed up.  I make a few phone calls, talk to a few people who have seen my updates and are worried about me.  The first glimmerings of gratitude and light appear: I am lucky to have the people that I do, people who care about me.  Who love me, even when I can't understand why they do.

  I sit for a while, idly browsing the web, start to put a few things away here and there, but otherwise, not doing much else.  The storm's passed.



  Flashforward: The Weekend

  I feel relieved to have these feelings out.  The weekend is here.

   Saturday, I pack up half my closet, clean myself up and head to Toronto for pictures.  There, I'll visit an actual celebrity photographer in a real artsy loft, the kind I've only seen on TV.  He is friendly and delightful and makes me feel right at home.  I'll chat with a make-up artist who's worked with the big stars all over the world as he gets me ready for my head shots.  He'll tell me that he's been doing work for over twelve years, and that he has confidence that I will get lots of work.  As I leave, he wishes me well and says, "See you on TV." 



  I drive home through Toronto's busy Distillery and then through the Entertainment District.  I feel the energy of a city I have always loved to visit, and may be seeing more of soon.

  Afterwards,  I'll have a belated birthday party afterwards with some of the people I care about most in the world willing to buy me drinks and laugh with me. 

   Sunday's sunny and warm: perfect hangover weather for walking and doing nothing, enjoying the sun and breeze.  That morning, Rick will have crashed at my place and I'll drive him to work at the bookstore where I've applied for seasonal work.  After browsing some books, I'll decide to take a ballroom dance class starting in January. The school is within walking distance of home, and they say partners are not necessary for the group lessons. 



   I'll spend much of the day giving my brain a rest, nursing a slight hangover, indulging in just sitting under a tree, walking through grass, looking at clouds that remind us of the infinite vastness of sky and the wind-chopped waters of an inland sea that leads to the ocean. 

  I'll meet with my baseball team for our last beer call together.  I don't know it on Friday, but I'll win Rookie of the Year from my coach Julius, another good friend I'm lucky to have.   Tuesday, I start floor hockey again.

  At that same gathering, I'll buy a stag and doe ticket for November, another opportunity to have fun and meet new people, possibly someone who'll be special.  Another whim decision, unexpected, and new, like my decision to work in talent.  A psychic told me this summer that the next special girl I meet would be at an unexpected party in the winter.  Could this be it?  We'll see. I tend not to believe most self-proclaimed psychics, so I'm not going to expect anything.  But I can hope.

  The day will end with this blog entry.  Tomorrow I return to work, and whatever trouble I may find myself getting in, if at all, despite my best efforts.  But I'm not going to spin my wheels anymore for no reward.  I will do what's required, focus with all my best, and then walk at the bell.  Become what we all expect of a typical government worker.

  I'll be living with my 30s for the next ten years, so I'll have to get used to it.  It'll take time, but what else can you do?  30's typically a difficult year for most people in those unexpected ways. This is just my time to deal with it.

   And as my friend Rick has been telling me for a while, I just have to be patient that I'll find someone, and find something to do to enjoy my time in the meantime. If I'm in the flow of experiences I enjoy, I won't need to worry about the interpersonal dynamics of approaching girls or not approaching them: we'll meet each other halfway.  And it won't feel like work.



 Nervous breakdowns happen to everyone, even me. Not often, but this one was a long time coming, and now that it's passed, I still feel that calm that follows.  It won't last, of course - nothing lasts - but at least for now, I can just sleep the sleep of the tired and the lucky.

   It's unrealistic to feel grateful and joyous all the time, but at least I can be conscious of the stormy days, be aware of things as they happen, and try to get through them with a minimum of damage to self, surroundings, and reputation.  The contrast of pleasure and pain makes life.

  This breakdown cleared the air.  Eventually, I'll be grateful for it, but in the meantime, I'm happy with just not being ashamed of it.

   9:40pm as I write this sentence.

  I now go to bed and sleep, turning out the lights on an apartment that's clean once again.

  Let's see what the neighbour chick's got in store tonight.

My Nervous Breakdown, Pt 1

(Preface: this is very closely related to Allie Brosh's the Sneaky Hate Spiral.  Click here to read before continuing if you haven't already.  If not, I bid you continue)

5:43am.

That's what the BlackBerry screen says.  5:43am.  My alarm's not set to go off for another hour or so.  I was dreaming deeply, of markets and sunsets in faraway places. 

So why am I up? 

Then I hear it.  Muffled, intermittent, human.  Heavy, from behind the concrete wall that my bed backs onto. 

I sit up in bed in a state of pure awareness, not completely sure what I am hearing.  Then my brain reconciles the sound.  Heavy breathing.  Two people.

My neighbours are having sex at 5:43am on the other side of that wall. 

Three feet of concrete separates me from their hot and heavy, yet somehow I can hear it. 

This is the last straw.

Flashback to Tuesday

The first work day back from the Thanksgiving weekend began poorly.

The preceding week, I had asked my boss to leave an hour early on Wednesday, before my two day vacation, then Thanksgiving weekend..  Typical arrangement requires me to make up the time I take.  I had offered to make up the time before Wednesday, but my boss advised me that she prefers I "do it afterwards".  I interpreted this to mean that my very next shift I am to show up early.  This has been the process at other workplaces I've been at.  Of course, this thinking made an ass out of you and me (mostly me)....

Tuesday, I showed up an hour early, only to find that my government building was still closed, business hours having not begun.  Fortunately, I found an unlocked door and made my way in.  However, the elevators are also locked until 8:00am, meaning that unless I have a special base pass, I can't actually access my floor.  Again, fortunately, some kind souls working extra - like me! - showed up and took me to a floor three stories above mine. 

That's okay, I thought, I'll just take the stairs down to my floor.  And I made it to the stairwell.  And I descended to my floor.  Only to find that the door to my floor was, in fact, locked.  I tried other doors on other floors, only to discover a rather unfortunate truth: I was stuck in the stairwell. 

I checked the time.  7:36am.  Not bad, boss isn't usually in for a while yet.  I suddenly remembered the phone number for security, called the guard, identified myself, and asked him to come up and unlock the door.  He did so, and I gained access to my office.

Boss was not in, so to give her some proof that I did my best to be in an hour early, I sent her an email (those are time-stamped, right?).  45 minutes made up, will make up the other 15 somehow later.

Boss never came in.  In meetings out of the office all week.  But she was checking her email.  Two hours later, I got a reply.  Essentially said that this arrangement wasn't what I thought it was, and that I likely came in early for nothing.  I sighed heavily, rubbed my eyes, went on with my day, mostly conscious.

Nine hours later, I headed home.  Around the afternoon, I developed a headache.  Intense, like little lightning storms striking my skull.  It developed for no reason whatsoever, as the rest of the day had gone well, but then it was followed by stomach queasiness and a general feeling of "what the fuck" flowing through my veins and nerve endings.

I'd had plans to go play floor hockey that night, but instead I came home and lay down, napped for a good two hours.  Though I would eventually get up and get the wherewithall to go to the gym and do mild cardio, my evening, for all intents and purposes, was shot.  The headache and stomach sick vanished just as quickly as it appeared.  I had no idea why.

Wednesday

Wednesday dawned, and the day was slow, so I blogged. Coming home, I decided to go to the Second Cup and write for a few hours.

Outside, an autumn rain, the equal and opposite of spring rain, fell in torrents, cold and bone chilling and dreary.  It was the dreariness that got to me, the type of weather that not only soaks your clothes but gets into your heart and pools, weighing it down.  My friends a city away from me, most of them, no girlfriend or wife to go home to, I felt sad.  True to my bilingual status, all I could think was "le sigh". 

This was a thirtysomething Wednesday, my first, and it was boring and sad.  The kind when you only think about lost baseball games and Fs on report cards and missed opportunities.  Where you dwell on wrong turns taken in the road that led you here.

Was this all there was?  We go through childhood and school dreaming about what we would be when we grew up, and I was none of the things I had dreamed about.  Not an astronaut, not a fighter pilot, not a police detective, not a cartoonist, nor a professor. An author, sure, but not successful in the financial and commercial sense, not yet.  A career in limbo then, working at a low level minion job where I am viewed as a peon - essential to operations, but not someone to be appreciated or thanked - to pay the bills until that success happens. 

The mood didn't get much better as I talked to Mom on the phone, laying out all the reasons for why my life wasn't going the way I wanted to.  "I like what you wrote in your blog," she said, "but I also know what you say to me when we talk about the same things.  You're trying to convince yourself as much as you are others when you do your motivational entries."

Mom's where I derive much of my crazy, I think, my different way of thinking about things.  And she hit the nail on the head, though I answered that even if I am doing this to convince myself of what I should be thinking, if it helps someone else deal with their shit, it benefits both of us.

But that night, I just felt generally stuck.  Making enough money at my job for food and shelter, but not enough for plane tickets, night school classes, or dance lessons: places and experiences where I could potentially meet Miss Right and thus restore my life to the normal function it had for over a decade.  I am no good single.  No one appreciates me at work, and I have no one at home to give validation that I matter as a human being, that I matter to someone else.

I'm also far more intelligent than the work I do, having passed up management jobs here and there throughout my twenties because, well, I've never seen any industry, any economic activity that I could devote 100% of my passion to.  Nothing about the management lifestyle lights me up except for the cash, which I'd gladly accept if I didn't have any responsibility.  I hadn't, however, factored in the hit that my self esteem would take by doing minion work when I'm way more evolved than most minions. 

And, of course, the 30 thing, which I realized was wishful thinking on my part to regard it as just another day. 

This was the mindset I was in on Wednesday night.  I went to the gym, came back, washed up, and went to bed, alone...again. 

As I tried to sleep through the mania that was keeping me up, I wondered why it was so hard to meet women my age. 

Myth#1 of all frustrated single "nice" guys like me is that there aren't women around.  Not true, I see them everywhere.  The thing is just approaching them.

Do women really like being approached by guys?  I can't get a satisfactory, absolute answer to this question.  I've always thought it was borderline creepy to just walk up to a random girl and say "Hi".  But apparently, that's the way to go.  I meditated on the paradoxes of dating: that girls will claim to want "nice guys" but will be turned on by assholes who will hurt them later; that if you go up to a girl with a plan, she'll deride your "agenda", but if you just flat out tell her you're interested with no games, she'll find you boring.

More excerpts from a book I've quoted here before by Lori Gottlieb called Marry Him in which all the fortysomething singles increasingly pine for the "nice guys" they weren't attracted to in their quarter life years, guys who are now married to the women who were saavy enough to lock them down when the getting was good.  Meditated on where those women were at this moment.

More contemplation: why is it so easy for almost every other guy I know to just approach a girl?  Why is it I can give speeches to crowds of dozens, raise the roof, flirt with cashiers and baristas, make friends with strangers, but I freeze when I see a girl at a bar I'm interested in seeing romantically?  This comes naturally to almost 90% of men out there.  I'm having to learn it from books. 

I contemplate entering the priesthood to simply remove the dating option from Jody's palette of options.  Not Roman Catholic.  Maybe Shaolin. I'll know kung fu.

Oh, and the fact that I've been an Aberdonian version of what Barney Stinson calls "The Sexless Innkeeper" for nearly a year, after having lived a decade of my prime years where access to sex wasn't in question. That was about the last thought I had before finally drifting off.

Around 1:45am or so, I finally fell asleep. 

Thursday

I'd only seen the girl next door once. 

Blonde, twenty five or twenty six, decent shape, somewhat nice, but like all other quarter-lifers, not terribly sociable, no small talk kind of thing.  Small talk and walking up to people to say hi is the domain of the older generation.  We said awkward hellos, took the elevator down to the parking garage, said goodbye, and that's it.  No other communication.

Until I hear her having loud sex on the other side of my bedroom wall with a boyfriend she had acquired.  And that communication is not only one-way, but unintentional.

5:54am.  They haven't stopped at all.  And I'm angry.  Determined. 

This is the closest I have physically been to that kind of energy in a long time.  It seems that the good things in life that I'm looking for are happening all around me, but not to me directly.  The universe is determined to screw with my life with its pernacious sense of humour.

Sexless Inkeeper my ass.

Time to stop feeling pathetic and alone.  Time to man up and head out there, stop being sad,and be awesome instead.  If life isn't going to give me what I want, then it's time to go out and take it!

I get out of bed and start my day, determined to stop letting life kick my ass.  Determined to make a change....

(To Be Continued....)

Unnameable Randoms - July 14 2010

Happy Bastille Day!

Two centuries, three decades, and one year since the birth of the French Republic, and scholars still argue over the merits and detriments of the Revolution itself. 

Regardless of the typically anglophonic stereotypes surrounding the French people, institutions, and culture, we all owe much of Western civilization's heritage to la belle France, so here's a tip of the hat to mes amis francais.

"Vive la France....Vive la Liberté"

What It Takes

What's the timeline for success, anyway?

It took me ten years of hemming and hawing to find myself on my path, and you know, even I wonder if that time was still wasted.  Even still, despite previous entries and, frankly, just flat-out knowing better, I sometimes feel that I'm behind the 8 ball to get this life started.

As I mentioned last time, living in this city is tough sometimes.  Surrounded by all of this success, and I'm still not good enough, for my own standards, that is.  I guess nothing's ever good enough for anyone in our society, and given that Burlington is a city given to symbolic wealth as well as the real deal, I shouldn't be surprised that I'm feeling the pressure. It isn't necessarily a bad thing, getting a kick in the ass on a daily basis to get your life in order, though it stings afterwards and makes sitting down rather uncomfortable.

I'm starting to get what Jack Shephard goes through on LOST.  My actual parents are overwhelming supportive of me, always have been, but imagine having a dad who looks for any excuse to tell you that you don't have what it takes. 

That's basically Burlington, Christian Shepherd in city form.  It's tough on you.  It sacrifices your ability to really develop a relationship with it.  It causes some collateral damage and makes you "walk among them, but not be one of them".  But in the end, it turns you into the hero.  It's an instrument of destiny, this city.  And on a basic level, I love it like a father.  Twisted, I know.

It wasn't like this when I was in Westdale. Hamilton doesn't have daddy issues.  Hamilton's more like a divorced fiftysomething that's seen better days trying to figure itself out, and is just starting to make some brilliant progress.  Until it cleans up some of its own mess and goes through a few more years of therapy, you'll never see Hamilton giving you a lecture on success.  Hamilton is no hypocrite.  Then again, Hamilton won't expect you to do better, either.

Enough with the anthropomorphic city metaphors.  You get the picture. 

I keep adjusting and re-adjusting my constructs to suit my moods and emotions.  Truth is, I've been in a crisis/opportunity mode for a while now, and not just because I got a divorce at 29.  This is my quarter-life opportunity, as yet unresolved, in fact having moved two steps backwards in the past six months because I'm now single on top of everything.  Make no mistake, though: the crisis/opportunity was there before.

I've written about that already a lot, but the new revelation is simple: I have to do better at what I love doing.  That means making it make money.  That means recognizing the one simple truth of my life in 2010:

The only thing that truly matters is the book.  It's the key to everything that I'm missing out on.

Without a completed MS, there's nothing to pitch to an agent.  Without the agent, there's no credible solicitation to a publisher for the rights, and thus no advance. Without the advance, there is no success in my chosen career.  Without this success, I am worthless, just another cog chugging along in the public service machine.  An overly sensitive, original and creative dreamer with nothing of value to give outside of being exceptionally personable, quirky, and sometimes funny, telling new stories, and pushing paper behind a desk. An overeducated peon. 

People skills are good, spiritual values are sound, intellect matters, creativity is God in the pen, but if this city's taught me anything, they're all meaningless if you can't translate that into material success, to demonstrate that you're a man and can be a provider and a king. 

Drew Baylor says it best in Elizabethtown: "Success, not greatness, [is] the only god the entire world worship[s]."  Then again, maybe I'm learning the wrong lesson?

I'm sick of being told by others that I have potential, that I'm going places.  That's something you tell doe-eyed university grads, not 29 year olds starting to show gray in their hair.  I want to start manifesting my potential.  I want to actually go places instead of talking about it all the time.  This is the realization I should have had ten years ago.  I have to recover a decade.

That means getting my shit done.  And I'm doing it.  1,300 words added today to my story. Current word count as of when I started this entry: 109,403.  More to go.  Way way more.

I'm gonna do it my fucking way, without being a banker or an accountant or other suited clone of some evil corporation.  Without becoming one of those snot-nosed WASPish country club members in preppie scarves and polo shirts. 

I'll show you, Burlington. I've got what it takes.

"Girls don't like boys; girls like cars and money."

I dunno, maybe I'm becoming cynical, but this seems to be the rule rather than the exception when it comes to twentysomething Canadian girls.  Then again, once again, maybe it's just where I live. 

I can't completely fault girls who affirm this Good Charlotte lyric.  Who wants to date someone who has no job and no ambition?  No energy?  No creativity?  He'd better have either a great personality or a very big penis, 'cause really, chicky, that's all you're going to get out of that relationship. 

On the other hand, those girls are gonna spend an awful lot of their time alone at night with Haagen Daas containers and Sleepless in Seattle reruns....

There are exceptions, of course, and some are very exceptional exceptions, but it seems that if you don't have the toys, you ain't got shit as far as the vast majority of high value single ladies are concerned.  This is a very old discussion, I know.  It seems guys have been bitching about this one for years, but it's new to me, and I'm running into it more and more each day, mostly regarding online dating.  Putting "Writer/Government" as your job in your profile seems to be as effective a deterrent as saying you're the "D" word (divorced).  And I have both.  I might as well beat myself with an ugly stick and stop bathing.

Then again, am I wrong?  No bullshit here, single ladies: are you for real?  Are you independent or aren't you, because, really, I'm having trouble figuring out just what it is you want out of life?  Because if you want to be treated like a princess, then that's fine: I'll work my way up and spoil you rotten.  But if you want to be independent, then what the hell does it matter to you what I do for a living?  Maybe you haven't quite figured yourselves out yet?

Hmm...re-reading that now, it looks bitter, and I guess there's some venting here (it's my blog and I'll cry if I want to), but this is some serious discussion material.  It's frustrating both on a personal level and one of sheer intellectual curiosity, so I'd really like to know.

Where do we draw the line between realistic expectations and wanting what we want?  Discuss.

***

Be Castle

***

Downtown Burlington in the summer feels like walking into a living, breathing Old Navy commercial. 

All these attractive, well-groomed, well-dressed, well-heeled and sandaled kids of rich parents, walking around the Second Cup or Spencer Park.  I've already had a few conversations now with some local friends about the pressure - subtle, somewhat insidious - that this environment puts on you, that makes you feel that you're not quite good enough, that you need to better yourself.  And yet, the living standard here is immensely greater than anywhere I've lived before, and I'm only renting.  Ooorah....

But I keep seeing the young couples, the ones who look like they could be perfect Old Navy or American Eagle Outfitter poster children.  Blonde, blue-eyed, tall and slim, wearing the new clothes, great features, and looking at each other like they're in love, because, well, they are.  The sight of young couples used to inform my model for the experience I was looking for, and it used to make me sad, thinking I could never have what they have. 

And yet, I did have that, at 19 years old.  Cross "experience young love" off the bucket list for Jody.  And again, oorah....

I mentioned in my last that I'm throwing out my romantic model.  That's to say, I'm abandoning my desire to actively seek out the Female Me.  That's not what I need as a top priority right now.  In any case, she'll meet me halfway. 

What I need is to become, as Neale Donald Walsch says, the next greatest version of the grandest vision I ever had about myself.  That means embracing the "new".  I can't do that if I'm employing plans, boundaries, paradigms, and ideas about myself that no longer apply to the dude looking back at me from the mirror. I can't attract newness when I'm framing it based on past experiences.

It's time to become a success worthy of my surroundings. It's time to become one of the wealthy denizens of my hometown.  To become someone who contributes to the stature and prestige of where I live. Someone who can bring some authenticity to this living commercial.

In short, it's time to become Richard Castle.

I've already written about how I use Castle as one of my personal avatars.  But I was watching Season One on DVD the other day, and I realized it's time to step up my game.  In the episode "Home is Where the Heart Stops" (not the best episode title, I know), Castle and Detective Kate Beckett attend a charity gala undercover to try to flush out a gang of thieves who use these occasions to case their targets: wealthy socialites with expensive jewelry.  While Castle wanders off to chat with another guest, a woman approaches Beckett and says the words to this effect:

     Rich, famous, handsome, and single.  We call him the white whale.

And when I heard this line, I knew this is where I need to be focusing my energies.  This is who I have to become.  The white whale....not Moby Dick: even Castle was worried about that one when Kate told him about his moniker.

It's the Scarface thing: get the money and the power, you get the women. 

The trick, though, is just focusing on getting the money and the power....

Power kinda sucks, though, I'll take money, especially if it comes in for doing something that I enjoy doing.

Of course, with the MS now at 106,000 or so words - I added a few before starting this blog - I'm closer than ever, but there's tons more work to do. 

But back to being Castle.

He's funny, charming, witty, good looking, and successful.  He isn't used to losing - which he finds out the hard way near the end of Season Two - and has a reputation for being a ladies' man because, let's face it, the honeys ain't no golddiggers, but they ain't messin' with no broke (broke).....

And yet, Rick Castle's also got a daughter whom he loves and looks after very well, and had his mother move into his Westie apartment.  His actual lifestyle is far less racy than his reputation indicates, and he is driven by far higher ethics than he otherwise gets credit for.  He's saved Beckett's life at least twice at significant risk to his own, and he's helped put away real criminals using his lateral thinking skills and finding the story behind the crime that academy-trained cops don't often see in their cases.  In short, contributing to the well being of society, in his own fashion.

This is the type of lifestyle I need to create.  There are a million wannabe writers out there, and though I've written a book and technically published it, it's not with a publishing house.  That's my measure of success.  Self-publication lets you hold your book in your hands, with your name on it, lets you know that you can be an author.  Publication with an agent behind it and the full distribution and promotional machine of a publishing house lets you know that what you've authored is good. 

It's like Bret Maverick in the Mel Gibson movie taking part in the poker tournament: he won't know how good he is until he puts it to the test.  That's my ambition with my novel MS.  I'm going to see how good I truly am.

That's my only real goal as of now.  That's the one thing that justifies the daily mediocrity.  Government work is good, and if I pass my probation at month's end, I will be, for all intents and purposes, bulletproof.  I'll be a permanent government employee backed by one of the most powerful public service unions in Canada: I would have to put poison my office cooler in order to get fired. And yet, as grateful as I am to be employed, the job is mediocre.  The money is good enough to get me significant luxury and pay the bills, but not to the stratospheric heights I'd like to reach in my life.  My job can send me to Florida: my writing could send me to Monaco or Dubai or the South Pacific. And each day not spent adding even a little to that writing puts me one day further back from those adventures.

That's where I'm at.  Castle will be my final avatar, I'm sick of using them. After this, I've got to make Jody Aberdeen the guy that others want to be.  And the only way I'm gonna do that is to keep writing.

Here's a clip from the pilot, if you haven't already seen it.  FYI, my book launch will look very much like this one (with equal to lesser frequency of chest signage....most likely lesser).

P.S. Writer's Block, consider yourself pwned.   See the image on the left.