Fifty Shades of Black (2 page)

 

 

 

Fan Mail Welcome; Clipping, Not So Much

T
here are three cardinal rules I try to follow in life:

 

1. Never argue with airport security staff. (You won't win and you might miss your flight.)

2. Always answer “No” to the question “Do these slacks make my hips look big?”

3. Always answer your fan mail promptly.

 

Okay, the last one's easy. When it comes to fan mail I ain't exactly Lady Gaga. It's not like I have to hire a fleet of secretaries to deal with the cataracts of emails and letters flooding in, but I do get some. And I do my very best to answer it the same day. Why, you ask? Well, I'm Canadian, eh? It's the polite thing to do. Recently, however, I learned an even more compelling reason for responding quickly to fan mail.

Justin Bieber.

Not long ago, police in New Mexico announced that Dana Martin, a three-time loser and convicted killer, had arranged—from his jail cell—to pay associates to castrate Justin Bieber with hedge clippers.

Interestingly, it was not the quality of Mr. Bieber's musical offerings that Mr. Martin objected to, nor was it the pop star's goofy hairstyle.

It was the fact that Mr. Martin's many fan letters to the pop star had gone unanswered.

Because of the perceived snub, Mr. Martin was reportedly prepared to pay three hit men five thousand dollars for delivery of “the Bieber package.” Specifically, twenty-five hundred dollars per testicle.

When it comes to answering fan mail, you can't be too careful. Or too prompt.

I worked in radio for many years and for some of those years my fan mail reached me with a curious time delay built in. I noticed that the envelopes (this was in pre-email times) all bore the inscription “Forwarded.” Turns out there was a gentleman in my neighbourhood who bore the exceedingly vulnerable moniker of Athol Black. Fans (friendly and otherwise) would call Directory Assistance to get my mailing address, the operator would say, “I have a Mr. Athol Black listed,” and the fan would say “Yeah—that's the one I want! The ath-hole who talks onna radio alla time.”

Which raises the question: what to do with crank mail?

For me it depends on the virulence level. If someone writes to tell me that I'm an inconsiderate, illiterate lazy slob who's ignorant, opinionated and about as funny as a root canal, I write back acknowledging that my next-door neighbours, my grade six teacher, my children and my wife wholeheartedly concur. If, however, they write that I'm a treasonous, illegitimate fascist who ought to be castrated with hedge clippers, I write back to say the RCMP have asked for a home address so they can come over for a chat.

Happily, most fan mail is not so sulphurous or mean-spirited. We are Canadians after all, which means (outside of hockey arenas and Normandy beaches) most of us are friendly, generous and polite to a fault. That's why when people write to me, even to disagree with something I've written, they usually do so in a genteel and civilized manner. I appreciate that. Over the years, many lively correspondences and more than a few friendships have blossomed because I faithfully answer my fan mail.

As a matter of fact, this afternoon I'm off to have coffee with someone I've never met who contacted me by mail. We've arranged to meet at a coffee shop downtown.

Mind you, if a stranger shows up lugging a pair of hedge clippers, I'm going out the back door.

 

 

'
Tis the Season of the Chrome-Dome

A
llow me to introduce myself: I am a bald male.

Not bald as in “bald eagle.” (The bird got a bad rap.
Balde
is an antique word meaning “white”; so-called bald eagles actually get to spend their entire lives with a fine, full head of handsome . . . well, feathers.)

I digress.

I am, as I say, a mature male
Homo sapiens
whose upper deck is shorn of shrubbery, devoid of pelt, a filament-free zone. I did not arrive at this state overnight but rather gradually, like a mighty oak shedding its leaves. And not in one season: over several years.

I have to confess, going bald wasn't much fun. I grew up in the Elvis Era, when any young buck worth a dab of Brylcreem sported a poofy ducktail and a greasy pompadour imposing enough to qualify as a traffic hazard. To a man, we dreamed of owning a car, being a rock star and getting laid. We did not entertain the notion of going bald.

So actually going bald was somewhat traumatic. Ah, but BEING bald? That's been a piece of cake. Let me enumerate a few of the advantages:

Economy: I don't spend a dime on shampoos, conditioners, revitalizers, tints, dyes, mousse or gels. You won't find electric hair dryers or straighteners or epilators in my bathroom. Which of course means . . .

Less Bathroom Time: Know how I comb my hair for an important event? With a damp washcloth. One pass and phhhhht!—I'm cleared for takeoff.

The BS Factor: Here are two truisms.

Number One: There are, in fact, attractive-looking people out there who actually care whether their partners have “great hair” or not.

Number Two: You don't want to know them.

Think for a moment about the intellectual depth of anyone who judges anyone else on the basis of what's growing north of their eyebrows.

That's not how you judge a person; that's how you judge a lawn.

Being bald frees you from the time-consuming process of buying drinks or dinner for someone and wasting an evening discovering through conversation how vapid and superficial he or she is.

Being bald is like having a social Get Out of Jail Free card.

And this just in (literally): a study conducted by researchers at the University of Pennsylvania's Wharton School concludes that bald men are actually perceived as more powerful, more manly and even taller than men with hair.

Well, correction—not men who are merely bald—men who actually shave their heads. “The basic finding is that people view the shaved head as a powerful look,” says the study author, Albert Mannes.

Uh-huh. And what about guys on their way to going bald, with wisps and tufts and hair horseshoes around their head?

Uh-uh.

“Men with thinning hair were viewed as least favourable,” says Mannes.

So there you have it, my little studlings. You can have a polished pate like Patrick Stewart or a hirsute noggin like Justin Trudeau—but nothing in between.

Personally, and speaking as a guy who has occupied both pedestals, I'd get out the BIC disposable if I were you. Being bald is easier, more hygienic, cheaper and, if the Pennsylvania University study is correct, the more virile way to go.

Nobody said it better than the British writer Logan Pearsall Smith: “There is more felicity on the far side of baldness than young men can possibly imagine.”

Amen to that. Eat your heart out, hairballs.

 

 

Aging Jubilantly

I
am not a coot.

Neither am I a geezer, a buzzard, gramps or old-timer—and woe betide the wet-behind-the-ears johnny-come-lately who tries to brand me with the repugnant “senior citizen” or worse yet “golden ager.”

Curmudgeon? Sometimes, for sure. Elder? I suppose, though it sounds a little priggish and highfalutin to my ear.

To tell you the truth, I don't much like any of the terms customarily draped over Those of Us Who Have Attained a Certain Measure of Maturity.

Except for one. I think I could handle being labelled a
jubilado
.

It's pronounced “hoo-bee-LAH-dough” and it's what Spaniards call their retirees. In English it means pretty much what it looks like—“jubilant one.”

Oh—and heads up. It's defiantly sex specific. Guys are
jubilados
; girls are
jubiladas
. Deal with it.

And truly, why not “jubilant ones”? Most of us who get to this age bracket are bedecked and festooned with reasons to celebrate. We are less encumbered than we've ever been in our lives. The kids are grown and unleashed; the mortgage, if not paid off, is under control. We wear what we choose, get up when we please and no longer give a fig about rush hour commutes, layoffs, pro- or demotions or the emotional ups and downs of the psycho boss in the corner office. We can choose to watch the sunrise or plump the pillow over our head; walk the dog or slurp margaritas in a hammock; spend the afternoon with a good book or catch a baseball game on the tube.

What's not to be jubilant about? Alas, our society discourages jubilation in its jubilados. We're treated more like hockey players past their prime. There's a sense we've been put out to pasture, sent home with a gold Timex and a permanent time out. We've done our stretch and nothing further is expected of us. We can sit back, relax and fade into the wallpaper.

Well, screw that.

I choose to be a jubilado. I'm going to make noise, dance up a storm, kick up some dust, raise a little hell and generally make some whoopie. Why not? It feels good to be a jubilado.

Anybody can get older. Hell, boulders do that. The trick is to age in style. Some choose to do it by diversion—two weeks in Maui, a few rounds of golf, tickets to see the Jets or Leonard Cohen, a shopping spree through Holt Renfrew or Lululemon—they all make you feel good, if only for a little while.

Others turn their focus outward, embracing volunteerism, philanthropy or the simple care and nurturing of friends and family.

Still others go out and buy themselves a flamboyant red hat. Aging well doesn't have to be a 180-degree U-turn. It can be a simple shift in your colour spectrum. Jenny Joseph showed us that when she wrote a hit poem entitled “Warning, When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple.”

Take your choice and fill your boots. But do it joyously, jubilantly.

And me? You can colour me purple. In a cherry-red Stetson.

 

 

And I Mean That Sincerely

N
umber one on my bucket list this week: to track down whoever it is who runs the US website CareerCast.com. Purpose: to corner the doofus and give his or her head a good shake.

CareerCast has just published its list of the best and worst jobs of 2012. I had to read it twice to be sure I wasn't having an acid flashback from the '60s.

According to CareerCast, two of the best jobs you can have are “actuary” or “financial planner.”

Actuary? Best job??? Do you think the folks at CareerCast actuary know what an actuary does? My dictionary defines “actuary” as a person who compiles and analyzes statistics and uses them to calculate insurance risks and premiums.

That's a best job, huh?

Perhaps it's because I'm still carrying grade 10 algebra, but I would rather be trapped in a stalled elevator with a case of the trots than spend a nanosecond sitting at a desk toiling as an actuary.

As for being a financial planner, let's see now . . . would that be like filling out your income tax form FOREVER?

CareerCast's list of worst jobs is equally exasperating. The absolute worst job, they say is “lumberjack”—what Western Canadians call “logger.”

Well, I'd call it dangerous, for sure, and there's no question that felling trees in the forest is a strenuous way to make a buck. But worst job in the world? Do you think the folks at CareerCast.com ever unclogged a septic field? Dodged a rodeo bull? Crawled on their bellies through a rat-infested attic?

I've never been a logger but I have been a dairy hand and a restaurant waiter—and those jobs also make CareerCast's worst job list.

Balderdash. I've worked at both those occupations and, aside from crummy tippers and the occasional cow tail in the eye, found plenty to enjoy about them.

As somebody once said, anything can be a dead-end job if you're a dead-end guy.

I'd be happy to simply dismiss CareerCast's dismal listings with a shrug if it weren't for the job they've slotted as the tenth worst—“broadcaster.”

Now hold on just a minute.

I worked behind a microphone at CBC Radio for thirty years and I can tell you it was easily one of the best jobs I ever had.

Well, think about it: no heavy lifting, all the tea or coffee you can drink, a roof over your head, a company computer with unlimited Internet access, free review copies from book publishers and the odd complimentary ticket to a hockey game, a movie or a stage show.

No dress code of course—it's radio, nobody can see you. I could read the six o'clock news wearing a Bozo the Clown nose and a purple tutu and no one would be the wiser.

Plus, all the training you really need for the job is usually under your belt by grade four. Can you read? You're hired.

Okay, it's not quite that simple—but close. As my first radio mentor explained to me in a plummy Shakespearian basso profundo: “My boy, the most important quality you can have as a radio broadcaster is sincerity.”

Then he gripped my hand firmly, looked deep into my eyes and added, “Once you can fake that, you've got it made.”

Broadcasting one of the ten worst jobs? Nonsense. It's the best job ever.

And I mean that sincerely.

 

 

Big Bully? Big Deal

Runt: n. 1. A variety of domestic pigeon. 2. The dead stump of a tree. 3. Any animal which is unusually small compared with others of its kind.

I
come from a family of two girls and two boys and I was unquestionably the runt of the litter.

Oh, I wasn't feeble or sickly as an infant, but I was . . . small—and slower to develop than most of my kiddie colleagues. By the time I hit puberty my classmates were already sporting sideburns and breasts (each to his or her own, you understand). Public school was unrelieved misery. I never won any ribbons on Field Day and I stayed on the bench at school dances—mostly because all the girls were at least a head taller than me. Naturally, I sucked at sports. When the captains chose up sides for baseball games I was usually the last pick.

“Okay, you have to take Black,” the opposing captain would say.

I was definitely low man on the totem pole. The skinny pup on the hind teat. The runt of the litter.

It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Being a runt reveals social Darwinism at its most cold-blooded. Runts are automatically at the bottom of the pecking order and they have to think fast if they expect to survive. They have to hone their hearing to stay out of the way of their more robust siblings. They have to sharpen their vision and sense of smell to snatch the scraps before the Big Guys get them. Runts have to develop a kind of radar to be able to analyze situations more quickly.

Otherwise they're toast.

I remember when I was maybe nine or ten years old, rafting in a creek swollen by spring runoff. I was poling along the creek doing fine until Timmy Fermier, a big kid, took a huge leap from the creek bank and jumped on the raft with me. Not good. The raft began to settle ominously in the water, which began to creep up my boots. Inspired, I faked hysteria. “WE'RE SINKING! WE'RE SINKING!” I shrieked. “WE'RE GONNA DROWN!”

It worked. Timmy freaked and leapt into the creek (which was only about three feet deep). Naturally, when he abandoned ship, the raft bobbed up and I poled serenely to shore.

True, he beat me up later—but at least I didn't get wet.

Being a runt made me learn other survival skills. If Timmy Fermier was the bullmastiff in the motley mob of mutts I hung around with, I was the Jack Russell terrier: yappy and annoying but fleet of foot and an artful dodger when the other dogs turned mean.

In
The Brothers Karamazov
, the Russian writer Fyodor Dostoevsky wrote: “Schoolboys are a merciless race, individually they are angels, but together, especially in schools, they are often merciless.”

It's true. And it's a lesson every schoolboy runt learns early and remembers for the rest of his life. Some runts never get past it and go on to live nervous, stunted lives, shrinking from danger, some of it real but most of it imagined. Others learn to play the hand of cards life dealt them.

As Charles Darwin said: “It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change.”

My all-time favourite runt hero? The skinny little guy, who, legend has it, went for a wilderness hike in the Yukon accompanied by a larger, beefy guide. After a few kilometres they come to a clearing and spy a huge male grizzly on the other side. The bear spots the hikers, gives a gut-shivering roar and begins to gallop across the clearing toward them. “Quick! Take off your jacket and wave it at him!” yells the guide. Instead, the runt shrugs off his backpack, opens the flap and pulls out a pair of running shoes. “Are you crazy?” says the guide. “You can't outrun a grizzly!”

“I don't have to,” says the little guy as he sloughs off his heavy boots and slips into the sneakers. “I just have to outrun you.”