Friar Tuck Lives Downtown Now

Packing over. Move done. Work stressful. Home awesome. Nap needed.

I Hope This Isn't Narcisisstic

Hi Friends,

As you know, I have occasionally used the service of a dating agency. Approximately eight weeks ago I asked the agency to list me as inactive while I sorted out my own thoughts and feelings around the latest tragic-comedy that is my so-called romantic life. As I was talking about this with a friend of mine this week he suggested I write out a new introduction for my profile. It was an intriguing idea and so I did.

Would you read what I wrote below and tell me if you think it's accurate? Is this a good description of me or am I lying to myself? I'm trying to understand on the one hand what I offer to someone that would make me an attractive partner and what on the other hand are some patterns in my relationships that put up barriers. 

Friar Tuck

I am reserved. I am generally a modest and private person. I try to be thoughtful and careful before making decisions and offering opinions. I have a number of good friends and I greatly enjoy spending time with them. But even with my friends I tend not to be terribly outgoing; I open up, but slowly, and share myself, but in a careful way. For me quality is much more important than quantity. When it comes to my social life I am more comfortable with deeper, well-nurtured friendships.

I prefer quiet conversations with a friend or a small group to finding a new party to go to every week. I like having enough time to think and reflect. I find that life has a better rhythm for me when there is enough quiet time to deliberate on my own so that I am refreshed for my next encounter with friends and colleagues. I have come to understand that if I don't take good care of myself, eventually I will be no good to anyone.

Those who live in their emotions may feel I tend to "live in my head" while those who go through life as an emotional rock may feel that I am a bit too "touchy feely". So there have undoubtedly been those times when I have misread cues and stayed in my head with someone who hoped for a more open emotional approach and I may have opened up emotionally with someone who keeps their emotions bottled up.

I am focused. This is a weakness as much as a strength. One of my best friends said, "Just once I wish you'd be late to something, or wear the wrong clothes, or trip over your own feet. You seem so tightly put together that, just once, I'd like to see you explode, in laughter or anger or . . . anything."

Trust me, I wear the wrong clothes and trip over myself, metaphorically and literally, all the time. I am more than capable of laughing at myself. Well, usually.

But it may also be that sometimes others sense beneath what appears to be a single-minded and orderly demeanour is a complex and sometimes complicated person. I am looking for someone who would like to share our perplexed complexities together. Sometimes I wish I were less cautious, and therefore, more accessible to friendship.

I Bought a New Home

A thousand apologies for not posting.  Life since starting the new job in October has been so busy I haven't really had the time to write anything.  This is a good thing.  

The new job is chaotic and stressful.  It's also exciting, creative, rewarding, meaningful, fun, challenging and stimulating.  There is no shortage of opportunity for me grow as a leader in this new role.  It was worth a year of patient waiting to find such a good fit.  I finally feel like I have a job again that meets or exceeds my capability.  I really like that.  It's been six months and I'm still on a honeymoon.

So I'm happy to announce that six months into the job I have purchased a new home.  I'm going to rent out my current place and move downtown to a penthouse.  I have an unobstructed view of the downtown core and will live six blocks from my office.  Just call me Donald Trump.

P.S. If anybody wants to live in a charming one-bedroom condo in the middle of suburbia let me know. 

Reflections on the New Job

I haven’t written much because I’ve been so busy with the new job. I have a concert tonight so rather than going home and coming back I chose to stay. And so I find myself with a rare moment to do some personal writing and I wanted to let you all know, because many of you has asked, subtly and not so subtly, for a detailed update.

The new job is good, possibly even great but I don’t want to appear drunk on optimism here. I come from Scottish blood after all. My first week, in my most private moments, usually lying in my bed in the dark, I wondered if I had made a mistake. But now, on my four-week anniversary to the day, I am convinced that moving to this job was both wise and good.

It stretches me beyond my capacity. It’s forcing me to grow in good ways. It’s so much more challenging than the job I left and for that I am thankful. That is not a criticism of my previous employer. Five years ago when I was fired as a chaplain I was broken and had very little to offer anybody. I’m profoundly thankful for the people I got to work with and the ability to acquire some new skills. I would not have been able to do this job now without it. But over that time I healed and surpassed what was required of me. This job demands my musicality, my business knowledge, and my people skills. All three parts of my identity are integrated in my new role. And my boss is someone I respect and want to learn from. Something like that is not to be underestimated.

It’s been a huge change and I’m glad I did it.

The Whereabouts of Friar Tuck

After the drug-test, police background check, and vetting by a Senate committee of humorless bureaucrats, I was convinced I would be fired within my first week of work.

On Wednesday I was training with a senior administrator. The Boss approached with some papers in his hands, and I looked up nervously. Come to my office, he's going to say. And then he's going to ask me why I wasted their time. Crap.

"Here's some info for you, your email address and login and password and all that." He handed me the papers.

"Thanks!" I said shakily.

On Wednesday, The Accountant Queen came down the hall and wandered toward my desk. I looked up and smiled a little, screaming inside. Don't look at her, keep your eyes on your computer... Because... uh, not looking up means she won't come over here and fire me? Right...

The Accountant Queen sauntered past and talked to someone in the office past mine. I felt bad for not actually saying hello to the woman who was probably not plotting my demise.

On Friday, I figured it was my last day to worry. I was optimistic, having made it past two whole days without a dreadful meeting in The Boss’ office. Or worse, an on-the-spot firing at my desk in front of everyone. I pushed those fears to the back of my mind and presented my direct deposit form to The Account Queen with a flourish.

Later that afternoon, she came up to my desk and I felt a little queasy as she approached. She looked friendly but I still wondered how deep her smiles really go. She came over, I tried to type extra-fast and look concentrated before she pulled me away from my work.

"Here’s your long distance calling code." She said with her usual heart-chilling smile."

Oh, great! Thanks so much," I chattered like a cokehead, then laughed uncomfortably. "See you."

By Friday afternoon I felt pretty much safe. But then, I thought I remembered hearing somewhere that Fridays are the most favored days for management to fire people. Around 4:30, however, I found out that The Boss (who would probably have done the firing) had left for the day before lunch.

It seems that success is mine! For the mere price of a tiny ulcer, a few gray hairs, and a $12 cleansing drink glass of Merlot. Whew.

New Job

Sorry I haven't been writing much lately. My reasons for this are two-fold. First, I have a new job starting October 1. Second, I'm happy. The two are related.

It seems when I'm happy and content I don't write. Of course the fact that I've been putting in some 12- to 14-hour days at work as we wrap things up before the transition has a lot to do with it.

Some highlights from the last week:

• We celebrated MicBane's birthday last Saturday down by the creek. I estimate there must have been almost 30 people there. I loved that it was an inter-generational mix of family and friends.
• I went shopping for new clothes on Sunday. I didn't mean to, it just sort of happened. I went into Moores to buy a new dress shirt and an hour later I came out with a whole new wardrobe, a completely new ensemble for every day of the week, including two suits.
• My credit card company called me on Monday to thank me personally for re-stimulating the Canadian economy out of recession. Many thanks to Peter, my wardrobe consultant. I told him I was starting a new job, gave him my credit card, and said "Make the magic happen, baby." He's straight, I'm gay. How ironic is that?
• I have mutant feet. They're short and wide. Kind of like the rest of me. My new pair of Dockers, designed for men with feet like mine, that is genetic abhorations, are the most comfortable pair of shoes I've ever owned. I bought two pairs.
• I organized dinner for 200 at the Sheraton Eau Claire on Tuesday.
• The company president took me out for lunch yesterday to say thanks for all my years of service. They gave me a cheap pen and a paperweight. I think it was a stone his kid found in the driveway.
• Three of my staff cried when I told them I had resigned and was starting a new job elsewhere. I think I may have underestimated my relationship with them.
• I met with my doctor yesterday and went over my lab results. I'm in shockingly good health.
• So You Think You Can Dance Canada is my new favourite TV show.

Thank you. That is all for now.

Born Gay?

Robert Burton has written what I think is a fascinating article in Salon magazine about whether or not being gay is genetic. Burton is the former chief of neurology at Mount Zion-UCSF Hospital and he interviews Jerome Goldstein who has very strong opinions about recent neurological studies that suggest homosexuality is biological.

Did I choose to be gay, like I chose what pair of socks to wear this morning? Was it pre-determined by chemistry in the womb like being right-handed? Or is it a combination of DNA and life experience co-mingling together in an inseparable dance of cosmic mystery?

Oh those mysterious cosmic dances. They can bitch-slap the scientist and the theologian equally.

Me at the Cats

Today, the Large Hadron Collider at CERN will be switched on. The scientists are building up the particle beam in stages before it is finally shot around the 27 kilometre accelerator, built deep underground somewhere between France and Switzerland.

They are attempting to smash exotic particles together to see what bits are left over. They claim that it will imitate events moments after The Big Bang at the formation of the universe. Some are worried that a mini black hole will form and swallow up the Earth. So, no pressure then…

I haven’t made any plans for today, just in case. Well let’s face it, would you want your last moments on Earth to be spent cleaning toilets and bathrooms? No, I’m gonna put my feet up, put on my tin foil hat, and wait it out with a nice cup of tea.

I wonder what will happen. What if we open a doorway to another universe? It could be like opening the Ark of the Covenant at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, where spirits come forth and devour our faces.

Or, what if everybody else disappears and it’s just me and the neighbour's cats?

Hello?

......anybody?

I probably dislike you if…

You refer to your pets as children.



You’ve ever seen an episode of Dr. Phil.



You have a ringtone. Any ringtone. If your cellphone does anything other than just ring, you deserve to be shot. In the neck. And as the blood gurgles in your throat, and bubbles out the bullethole, you should be conscious enough to know that you are drowning in your own blood and about to burn in the special hell reserved for people with ringtones.



You still wear acid-wash jeans from 1985.



You think all Canadians are farmers.



You pencil-in extra "quotation marks" on greeting cards.



You dropped my favourite book in the pool, and then returned it to me swollen, mouldy, and back broken as if nothing had happened.



You've rammed your grocery cart into the backs of my heels.



You drive a PT Cruiser or an Aztek.





You work retail but can't make change.



You talk about yourself in the third person.



You've ever worn socks with sandals.

Be Myself

Someone once told me before a big job interview to relax and be myself. (I neither confirm nor deny that I've had a big job interview recently). I said that, all things being equal, the truest incarnation of myself would be lying nude in a vat of butterscotch pudding, watching old videotapes of Mork and Mindy, listening to Nirvana bootlegs on endless loops. When you boil it all down, that's probably the closest I can come to self-actualization.

My friend didn't want me to be myself. My friend wanted me to lie. And why wouldn't she? If everyone actually listened when people told them to just be themselves, society would crumble. Except maybe France. France might survive.

Fact is, 95 percent of every conversation I have is bullshit. I doubt you're much different. From a staff meeting at work to conversations with a boyfriend to intellectual discourses on whether or not Foucault was a Pisces, it's all almost entirely bogus. This is not to say that I am constantly lying. I am not. It's just to say that we keep most of what we're really thinking to ourselves and limit our actions to what other people will find acceptable. Every conversation has an agenda, whether it's to appease your partner, to order a steak, or just not to get fired. We are only talking to get us through the conversation so that we get can back to being lost inside our own head.

More accurate: We are talking so that people will see us the way we would like to be seen. That image above, the one with me covered in butterscotch pudding... that's not the way I'd like to be known. Frankly, it might have been a mistake to even mention it. No, no, I'd much rather you see me as the dopey small-town boy in the big city, the one who means well, the one who remembers your birthday, the one who jumps around all wacky when he sees you, the one who wants you to remember him fondly, what a good guy, that Friar. I'm constantly playing the role of Friar, and depending on whom I'm talking to, the role is played by a different actor.

If I'm at work, I'm the quiet, affable, hard-working gent just trying to do his job and be left alone. With a boyfriend, I'm the loyal, funny, sweet guy who wants him to be happy. With my friends, I'm just another guy, listening to what’s going on in your life, sharing about mine and making fun of everyone we know. With my family, I'm the stable kid they don't have to worry about. Am I really all of those people? Sure. In little sections, small parts of my personality, I'm a segment here, a segment there. It's not like I'm lying to them. I'm just giving them each a part that's appropriate for the situation. You do the same thing. It's like a bookshelf you prominently display in your apartment; it's not like you've actually read all those books. You just want people to see your books and think something about you without you telling them. Oscar Wilde next to Gary Larson ... he's so eccentric. I'm whatever I need to be at that moment. I'm whatever I want you to want me to be.

Stick with me here. You have to know what I'm talking about. Surely, the conversations you have with your parents are dramatically different than the ones you have with your significant other, just like those are different than the ones you have with your close friends, just like those are different than the ones you have with your co-workers, and on and on. You're shifting on the fly. You know when you get a phone call at work from someone who wants to talk about something personal that you're not comfortable discussing next to the big-haired lady in accounting? That's two worlds colliding, right there. Which one is the real you? The easy answer is to say the personal one, but which role do you spend more hours a day playing? At what point does the performer become the individual? Does it even matter?

You know what we are? How about those little Russian dolls, the one that have a one that fits in a bigger one, that fits in a bigger one, that fits in a bigger one? That'll work. The smallest doll is the one who you are, and the rest are just the layers used to disguise that fact. But to any observer, the larger dolls are all there is to see. So isn't that doll the real one? Does having something underneath that's "real" but no one ever sees allow it to be "real"? Aren't we just what people see?

I found out the other day that a friend of mine has used heroin. Now, I'm not being judgmental here; though heroin doesn't necessarily seem like my cup of tea — what, with the shitting yourself, tendency toward self-mutilation and willingness to suck a dog's dick if it'll lead to another hit — I'm not gonna tell you what's right and what's wrong. (I once sucked down half a tank of Coca-Cola at the Doktor’s before finding out I was diabetic and spun around in a circle until I was convinced I had calculated Pi using Roman numerals; I have lost all moral and intellectual high ground, I assure you.)

My friend is the type of guy who can name all 22 prime ministers— there have been 22, right? — wears ties to work and is probably seen as legit middle-management material at his cozy suburban corporate complex. And he's done heroin. I cannot square this with the person I know; I can't even conjure a mental picture of him drinking scotch. But he has.

Does that mean the person I know is a fake? I would argue not. I would argue that he's just as real as the one who did heroin; he's real to me. I'm sure the people he did heroin with have never heard him defend the Mulroney government. I have. That's as real as anything. That's worse than doing heroin, actually.

But who is he to himself? Can he make peace with the disparity? Deep down, at the end of the day, when someone tells him to "be himself," what does he think of? Does it make a difference?

I don't think so. I think the public face we attach to ourselves is far more real than any layers or shading that we convince ourselves we have. The part of Friar Tuck will be played today by the wacky guy, until it's the serious contemplative guy, until it's the loving boyfriend guy, until it's the quiet employee. We'll be whatever makes it easier to get through the day, to make it to the next day, and to the next day. And at the end of the night, in the quiet, we are alone with ourselves, wondering what role we play now. The prospect is so terrifying that a Higher Entity was merciful enough to require us to sleep. If that's not a persuasive definition of what it means to be alive, I'm not sure what is.

Bottle Shock and Fish Heads

I went for dinner and movie with my friend Cameron, aka Mr. Bojangles, on the weekend. I gave him a choice of three films and he opted for Bottle Shock. Dinner was great. Good food, good conversation, good wine. Oh, and when they say the sausage on their Sicilian pizza at Earl's downtown is a little spicey they ain't joking. Too bad the movie didn't live up to the same standards. Alan Rickman is note perfect as the snooty wine coniseur from France. He has perfect, comic timing. But the story's constant shift in focus made it hard for me to care through most of it, unfortunately.

Golf Boy and I had a big fight on Monday. When we were done I curled up into the fetal position, sucked my thumb and nearly cried. Any chance at that relationship developing into something more has finally died. I will not lie, my heart is aching. Sure I could rationalize all the reasons why he`s a stupid dummy fish head, but when it was good it was really good. Why is it the men I really want to work through issues with and dig deeper always seem unwilling to be honest and engage in healthy conflict? In the eternal words of rock and roll, love hurts, love scars, love wounds, and marks. Oh Nazareth, how true. How true.

Stupid dummy fish head. I'll miss you.

Someone to come home to

What advice might you have for a shy, 36-year-old man in Calgary who is having trouble meeting eligible men? I've tried all the usual places -- church, the Internet, even a professional dating service -- and haven't met anyone yet. Am I doing something wrong?

I don't know about you, but the Internet is full of odd guys you wouldn't want to meet -- right-wing paranoids, various obsessive personalities, mouth breathers, guys living in their mothers' basements, outright sociopaths --- and church is overrated as a social beehive. Maybe it's different for holy rollers or Hasidim but among the pallid Protestants I know, church is not what turns a young man's fancy toward romance. Church tends to make him beat his breast for having such thoughts. You look for love and only find a lot of self-flagellating men. (Don't even get me going on the topic of trying to find a church in Calgary that doesn't make me want to run out screaming in glossolalia. Why does it feel like my choices are always been fluffy and stuffy?)

I think my shy, introverted nature is getting in the way. I have tried to just concentrate on friendship with the men I’ve met through the dating agency. But so far that hasn’t worked out too well. Too often I think I leap from shyness to infatuation, a dangerous leap because you skip learning some basic skills you need to sustain any relationship, such as conversing, listening, negotiating, patience. Shy persons are prone to intense romantic fantasy, and it's good to bank those fires while catching up on the basics. Shyness is common, but severe shyness is a prison that one must conspire to escape from. I know some of you wouldn’t think of me as shy but believe me I have my moments. The other half of the guys I've met through the agency were so needy, narcissistic or obsessed with money and success I've begun to wonder how the people at the dating service perceive me. Yikes.

I’m trying to acquire some male friends and slip into easygoing relationships with no big romantic overtones. I’m looking for men who make me laugh, who I can talk to and pal around with and poke when they take themselves too seriously. I’m looking for situations where this is possible, where men and women mix easily without coupling up. I think I need to join a political campaign, or groups of people passionate about the Arts, or people who are out to teach reading to inner-city school kids or clean up the parks or tend to the sick or achieve some other noble good.

The point is not to find A Man but to be among people I like, including men, and to learn how to speak to a stranger and introduce yourself, how to demonstrate affection in simple non-erotic ways, how to be a good conversational partner in large and small groups, how to read people's moods, how to deal with their disappointment, how to be a friend and keep my independence -- all the basic stuff that makes for a mature adult life. I’m not completely socially inept. I do this to a large degree with my current friends. But they’re busy with their spouse and their career and changing diapers and taking kids to soccer practice. I am in a new season of life and my friends – for the next twenty years as far as I can tell – are living in worlds that have telescoped dramatically. I am unsure how to build a bridge into that world. It seems to look differently for each individual and couple. Mostly, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to come home alone and have no one with whom to share my day, to process what happened and how I’m feeling. Or to be there for someone else to reciprocate.

I Should Have Been Black

Sometimes I really love being a musicologist.

In just over a week I start teaching a new course on world music.  This is only the second time I've taught this course and I've completely re-designed it since last year.  I have spent much of my summer holidays doing research, preparing musical samples and writing new tutorials.  It is a labour of love.  In the olden days, when scholars used to go to a building we affectionately called a library, housed by mousey but deceptively sharp, middle-aged women and occasionally by disillusioned, existentially-lost middle aged men, some of my happiest memories were just wandering the stacks looking for one thing but discovering hidden treasures on the spaces and shelves around the object of my enquiry.  O happy day when I discovered Tovey's essays on symphonic style and composition when really I was just looking for a little light reading on Brahms.  But with the internet, and online journals, and Amazon.com very rarely do I ever go to the 9th floor anymore.  I can order everything I want and have it delivered directly to me, either electronically or materially.

So it is with great delight that as I was preparing for this semester's course on world music I stumbled across something I didn't even know I was looking for.  Deep in the heart of Panola County, Mississippi lies Como, a small rural town where children and grown folks alike have been living and breathing gospel for as long as they can remember. In the summer of 2006, a producer placed a small ad in local papers and on the radio inviting singers to come down to Mt. Mariah Church to record their songs. The result is Como Now, a stirring collection of traditional and original a cappella gospel from the voices of Panola County's own families.

It may seem like a leap for Daptone Records to be releasing an album of a cappella gospel music. Daptone has earned a reputation for creating and proliferating soul and funk music. Why gospel? And why without any instrumentation? If you put aside the analytical categories of the music critic for a moment, and just listen to the record, the answer becomes simple and clear: this is soulful music.

I am a black man trapped in the body of pudgy white nerd. Hear me sing.

Globalfest 2008

I went to Globalfest this past weekend.  This year, I went with my friend Todd.

Sorry ladies.  He already has a girlfriend.  

The OneWorld Music Festival, which is part of Globalfest, was moved to Elliston Park.  I liked the location but there didn't seem to be as many music groups as last year.


However, theymade up for it with one of these.


Followed by some of these.

And ending with a whole lot of these.