Ironing Out the Wrinkles.

Fact: most people in their first year of a Bachelors degree in North America were born in 1990.  Okay I lied it’s not actually a fact but I’m sure I got pretty close considering that kids who have recently graduated high school were born in 1991 if my math is correct (it usually isn’t, but don’t write in).  Therefore, save the odd straggler or mature student who is taking a degree “for interest,” most of the bright-eyed, bushy tailed Clearsil spokespeople I saw on the University of British Columbia’s campus today were born in the year Mandela was released from prison and at the dawn of the Gulf War.

It struck me in the way that revelations tend to strike the unsuspecting: I’m getting older.  Alright, it’s not really an epiphany to write home about, but it’s something that one day, for whatever reason will actually occur to everyone.  Oddly enough, I think the primary reason people have such a hard time coming to terms with their own aging is they think irrationally that they are alone in it.  As a result of this bogus mindset, aging isn’t deemed cruel because it’s inevitable, it’s deemed cruel because it’s happening to you and you only.

As I’ve mentioned before, I work as a make-up artist.  I see many different women every day and around the age of 30 nearly all of them begin to have the same skewed self-perception.  They come up to me and list the make-up rules that they’ve given themselves because now they’re “old.”  They really love this particular colour but they can’t wear it because they “have too many wrinkles,” and their “face looks like a crumpled paper bag” etc etc.  I usually just stare at them, suggest something so subtle it’s barely visible and hope that the distinguished woman in her 70’s standing beside them as they have their crisis isn’t getting offended while she tries on a lipstick.

I guess to some degree we all do it.  I see friends of mine whom I’ve grown up with and to me they haven’t changed a bit.  Sure they have careers or are starting families or have different haircuts but somehow they look almost frozen in time: the image of them as a youngster is overlaid on them as a grown-up.  Conversely, I’ll see pictures of myself from only a couple years ago and I can’t believe how completely different I look.  It’s like an entirely different person is staring back at me from the photo.  No, I don’t think I resemble a deflated balloon, but I’ve matured.

Besides the occasional freak-out though I’m actually pretty stoked to get older because truly, I’m getting wiser.  Things that would have tricked me when I was 19 wouldn’t now at 26.  Last night for example I was looking through apartment listings on Craigslist, fantasizing about having an extra 100 square feet in my apartment.  I came across a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment overlooking the water.  It had over 1000 square feet, hardwood floors, balcony, fireplace, giant marble kitchen with stainless steel appliances, in-suite laundry…you get the idea.  It was going for 1500!  That’s ‘Vancouver’ for cheap.  A typical place with those features would probably rent for twice that amount easily.  I was suspicious, but interested.  For a split second I thought that perhaps the owner of the suite just wasn’t as greedy as everyone else in this city and wanted to give renters a fighting chance.  I e-mailed him with a few questions about the place and by the end of the evening I received a message back from this M. Dudzinski informing me that he’d be thrilled to rent me the apartment.  First I’d need to send his wife in Lisbon a cheque for $700.00 to secure the apartment and then she’d send me the keys and additional information.

Idiot.

I promptly flagged the post for removal and patted myself on the back for not falling for something that would have duped me seven years ago.

So okay, it’s not the greatest feeling when you’re on a university campus and you’re older than everyone within a three-kilometer radius and you know who Jim Henson was and who Jem and the Holograms were and what a mushroom cut looks like.  It sucks when you feel like a cantankerous old boot because the “music” blasting from the students union building is too loud and offensive and you’re scandalized by the manner of dress on the young people these days.  But it does feel fantastic when you look around and realize that, because you have almost a decade on these kids and are thus incredibly wise and worldly, you’re living comfortably in an actual apartment and they’re holed up in a hostel, still waiting for a set of $700.00 keys to arrive in the mail from a “landlord” in Lisbon.

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The Volunteer’s Dilemma.

I can say, hand on heart, that I am a pretty generous person.  It’s not the most humble of statements but I feel it’s a necessary assertion in the context of this post.  In most things, I really do try if I can to be an altruistic individual, especially when it comes to my time.  I also think that most people, my peers anyway, are the same way.  My friends are a giving lot and collectively we’ve noticed a disturbing shift in the societal view on munificence: it’s more or less unwanted.

To streamline my ideas a bit here I want to primarily discuss the idea of giving of one’s time, or volunteering.  I believe this is where we have predominantly lost our way because I am sure every organization and individual alive would still welcome a bucket of free money from pretty much anyone.  So financial giving is still a ‘go,’ but try to volunteer and you’ll encounter something entirely different.

I was raised with the notion that volunteering is a good thing to do, both for your community and for your own sense of self.  My parents are and have always been avid volunteers and proponents of the practice of giving away your time to something you believe in.  Growing up, my entire family would get signed up to serve meals to the homeless on various holidays throughout the year.  My brother and I would groan and probably complain but in the end the experience was rewarding and necessary.  Our high school encouraged the same conduct in its students, setting up a plethora of programs for us to easily work with each other at school and in our city to foster humanitarianism.  Most of the students surprisingly took to the concept and I believe we were better off for it.

Volunteering has become bastardized though and I’m starting to think that there’s little point in bothering to do it.  I can say this because I am an active volunteer; the unpaid service portion of my resume rivals the actual remunerated part.  I thought that volunteering was something that you did for someone or something else in order to help them or their organization and to get yourself some experience in the mean time.  But now volunteering has essentially become another hurdle in the competitive job market.

I recently contacted my old alma mater, The Blanche MacDonald Institute, to see about doing some volunteer teaching.  I figured that I’d simply call them up, ask to come in to assist with some instructional make-up classes, get college students excited about a career that can be very exciting and get myself some teaching experience.  I had also figured that the school would be happy to A) have free labor and B) help a former student.  Hah!  I was so wrong.

The director, we’ll call her Big K, avoided my messages and e-mails and calls about providing the school with an extra set of hands.   Big K was always “in a meeting” or Big K was “eating lunch” (it’s 4p.m!  C’mon woman!) or Big K was “gettin’ her hair did at the student salon for cheap.”

Big K was being a big time waster.

I eventually left word with the receptionist to tell the director to message me (I used my stern, professional voice) and the next day I received a response, misspelled and with numerous grammatical errors, saying that the school didn’t require volunteers.  Really?  Seriously?

It’s volunteering!  Look around; I’m sure there’s something that a volunteer could do.  In this economy if there’s someone willing to work for free, take their offer!  Find them something!  Saying that there aren’t any positions available just makes you look lazy.

It seems that the volunteer market has become just as competitive as the job market.  If you want to volunteer you better have an extensive resume and education background.  I’ve even found a few volunteering positions posted online that require the volunteers to pay a fee.  Uh, are you kidding?  You want someone to pay to work at an organization?  That’s backwards.

Maybe it’s just that organizations have become spoiled by having people be so interested in volunteering.  Maybe they think that if someone is willing to work without pay then they’re not really worth the work they’re willing to do.  Why buy the cow right?

Oh well.  Despite my threats, I’m not actually going to boycott volunteering because at the end of the day I still think that it’s worthwhile.  I might just have to start charging for my services though.

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Namesake

You know, I really hate to admit it but I’m not a very good gay.  Despite my saying this I hope I won’t come off as one of those gay writers (well, bloggers) who can only talk about their gayness, gay things, gay interests, Madonna and PFLAG.  I swear I’ll try to limit it in my entries, but for now it’s really all I have to talk about.  So no, I’m really not very good at being a gay man, and though you might think this is something you can be neither good nor bad at, it’s actually a lot of work.  Well, it’s a lot of work if you’re doing it right.  And believe me, there is a “right.”  I must also let you know that I’m not great at being a real guy’s guy either (excuse the pun please, we’re more mature than that).  One would think that if you’re not one, then you must be the other.  Not so unfortunately.  I can’t talk sports nor can I wax on about cars or jet engines or construction.  I’m not kidding; the last time I watched hockey I fell asleep.

I think that I’ve figured it out though, the whole social limbo situation I’ve found myself in.  It’s in fact my name that made me what I am and I blame it for my grim lack of faction.  There’s a lot of power in a name and quite frankly I think it can easily shape who you are as a person.  Is it numerology?  Maybe.  Or possibly it’s just that every name is so loaded with history that we come to embody it.

Some names are tied to athleticism in both its conventional and extreme incarnations.  If you happen to have one of these names, you’ll be sporty. Before you roll your eyes and dismiss the idea, take off your cleats and hear me out.  For example, if your name is Buck, Chip, or Dwight you’re going to be a sportscaster, or a football coach, or a gym teacher or an athlete. It’s a given.  The parents that take that first look at their newborn boy as say, “Yep, that there is one hell of a Buck,” are also imagining a lit up stadium surrounding him while scoreboards flash with his teams winning play.  They then dreamily turn to each other and give a high five or a thumbs-up and commence entering their small son into hockey boot camp.  A jock is born.

There are of course other very macho names that aren’t so sporty.  Don, Al and Jim, you guys definitely know your way around a car engine.  You have quads and dirt bikes in the back of your trucks (the bigger the better) and you work jobs where you use your hands or heavy machinery.  You drink Canadian or AGD or Bud and you have a girlfriend named Rhonda.  You probably wear plaid and you vote Conservative.

Dalton, Darien, Desmond, Lawrence and Leyton, you are the moneymakers.  You wear tailored suits and have IPhones.  You went to private school and then to Harvard, Queens, McGill, or Yale.  You talk specs and figures with your colleagues and have “portfolios.”  When you work out (squash, tennis) you do so at a club that prides itself on exclusivity.  Your car is a Lexus or an Audi, which you use to drive around your girlfriend who resembles a young Barbara Bush.  You too, vote conservative.

A good gay name is different though and as a result, many gays will alter their names early to better suit their lifestyle.  If they’re not born a Bruce or Brynn or Tristan or Trenton or Tyson or Hamish or Hunter then they do a modest amount of revision on their moniker.  Robert becomes Robby or Bobbi (the ‘I’ adds a little something special don’t you think?), William is Willy or Billy, Mike is Mikey and so forth.  The name becomes a very important accessory like a pair of butt-hugging jeans or a tight tee shirt.  My name, Blair, nevertheless does not lend itself to good gayness and can’t be altered without difficulty.  Blairey?  I think not.

An ad for a H.I.M fundraiser I was asked to do for pride. Fun. Something to keep for when I'm old and grey (gay).

I come back to my main point that both proper gayness and proper machismo elude me.  It’s even more confusing now with the advent of social groups who blur their respective characteristics and have found names to suit.  There are now mobs of (apparently) very straight men that are cultural and clean with an affinity for fashion and wine pairings (Corey, Avery, Johan).  There are also the straight guys who ride Harleys and have shaved heads and full sleeve tattoos that work as hair stylists (not barbers) and make-up artists and sommeliers.  Crazy.  The homosexuals have also jumped on this bandwagon forming powerful sororities of robust, andric super gays.  These steroidal men get in fights, work at high-powered professional careers and drive BMWs.  They have names like Xander, Ben, Beau, Clint and Andrew and to the untrained eye they look like Clive Owen with a better haircut: a gay James Bond if you will.  It’s all very confusing.

Ultimately, the name ‘Blair’ sticks and I’ve come to like it.  It means ‘Plain’ and lands in between Blaine (Irish: Thin. Lean. Of willowy stature or build) and Blaise (Latin: Of or like a flame.  Fire) in baby name books.  I feel that despite it disallowing me to fit into many of the pre-formed mingle groups, Blair suits me to a ‘T’. It’s pretty original without being ostentatious (though writing about one’s name might suggest otherwise) and it’s strong without being brutishly obvious.  Maybe we do become our names or maybe our names just become us.

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Foodication

I sincerely hope, like really and truly hope for both my and my partner’s sake that since I had a fat stage as a kid I’ll be somewhat safe as an adult and won’t end up fat again.  The reason I mention this is because, though I consider myself a considerably healthy individual, I really love food and it’s the motivation behind most of the things that I do.  It’s why I work out the insane amount that I do and it’s why I am seeking a job where I make enough to buy the organic produce and meat I want from the places I like (c’mon Bachelors of Fine Arts don’t fail me now).  I also think of most fun activities as involving food in some way.  Everything ends up back at the same question: what should we eat?

Now before you think of me as just another gluttonous Westerner I’d like to provide you with a small case for my defense:

I was once having a discussion with a very intelligent woman whom I work with at M.A.C.  This was a few weeks ago and naturally (well, naturally for me) the topic somehow came around to food, both the cooking and consuming of it.  I think we may have been discussing chocolate at some point (she can handle a square of 99% cocoa solids…hardcore) and I said something ridiculous about how dessert is one of my happy thoughts.  She threw her head back and laughed a full, hearty yogic laugh.  I asked her what was so hilarious and she informed me that obviously, food is how I relate to people.

Food is how I relate to people…

It was an incredibly astute observation and after a little consideration, I have to agree with her.  When I got to thinking about it, I have brought cooking and food to some degree into most of my major relationships (romantic, fraternal and familial).  To be perfectly honest, I don’t get along with people who aren’t foodies at least on some level because I look at them and though they may be decent individuals, I think that they’re a little boring and that we can’t have much in common.

The Ingred's

My friend Megan once lived with a man who was a fitness nut.  Now, I must be clear that I have nothing against fitness and in fact, I am a bit of an enthusiast myself, but this guy took his body so seriously that the food he put into it was more a relative of drywall and pool cleaner than steak and potatoes.  You have to understand that Megan is an extremely good cook and like myself, takes food somewhat seriously.  She told me that one evening this guy stood in her kitchen (anyone who lives with Megan must understand that the kitchen is her turf) and mentioned that he doesn’t care what food tastes like, it just has to do his body good.  When Megan told me this we killed ourselves laughing and then proceeded to make brie and prosciutto grilled cheese sandwiches.

I mean seriously everyone, what good can seven pounds of unseasoned chicken breast and Nutrisweet do for someone’s body?  I can imagine it might allow you to see your abs but it’ll probably make you go blind as well.  I suddenly thought that this man was not just dull and misinformed about what “healthy” is, but also deeply unattractive.  You can have the body of a Roman God but if you think Aspartame counts as dessert then you best move along.

I’ll be honest; a love of cooking and food is something I look for in a partner.  Matt is an excellent cook and, though he too is a very healthy and fit man, he loves to eat all sorts of things.  I don’t mean, “eat all sorts of things” in the typical North American, “GET IT IN YA’!” kind of way, but he’s not shy when it comes to food.  Matt is pretty adventurous and will try cooking and eating most food.  This is one of the things I think is so great about him.

A few years ago I dated a guy that wasn’t into food at all.  In fact, I’d say he was mildly food-phobic.  Every evening I’d ask him what he felt like making for dinner and every evening I got the same answer: salad.  I have nothing against salad.  I actually love it and unlike many guys, I do think that salad can stand alone as a meal.  It can’t however stand alone as a meal every day of every week.  Essentially I feel that people who are uninterested in food are themselves, uninteresting.  Period.  Nigella Lawson once stated in an interview that if someone didn’t enjoy food then they would likely be a poor lover.  She’s probably right and I’d have to agree.

I suppose it’s just that I find food to be a really good way to communicate with people.  If you ask someone about their likes and dislikes, you will inevitably get them talking about their family, their childhood and some of their favorite memories.  Food is something we all (or most of us) have in common.  You prefer savory cornbread to sweet?  Grape seed oil to olive?  Tell me about it!  It could start a rather interesting debate.

Jackson's: Meat Mecca

A good example of foodication (new word, food communication, spread it like wildfire) was when I was buying groceries to make ragu last night and, after feeling like a bit of a dork asking the butcher if I could take a picture of his display case, we got to talking.  He said that he has his Masters degree in kinesiology but when he moved out here from the prairies, he found a good fit working with food and he loves it.  Amazing.  It was a good five-minute conversation based entirely around food and cooking.  Some people just understand it.

The Fridge at Jackson's

Perhaps I didn’t make much of a case for my not being a gluttonous North American and maybe you’re sitting there thinking, “Geez, this guy is a porker with narrow interests.”  If you’re saying that though, you probably aren’t much of a foodie and I’ll let you get back to your glass of water.  Sorry, but we’ll never be friends.  However, if this did strike a chord, even a little one (probably the one in your stomach) then you and I will get along just swimmingly and we should definitely arrange a lunch.

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When the Spookiness Has Settled

So it’s the day after Halloween.  Sigh.  Yesterday was spent doing make-up on fourteen and forty year olds who wanted to look “like Megan Fox but sluttier,” and work was more or less a complete zoo (a zoo where the animals refuse to tip and want the zookeepers to apply false lashes).  Last night was fantastic though and on a whim Andrea and I went to my good friend Megan’s house party dressed as rotting zombies.  It got me thinking of Halloweens and holidays in general.

See I actually do like Halloween as I think I’ve mentioned and I’ve liked it for as long as I can remember.  Because of my profession though and the people I see in it, the season has changed for me.  It’s now less about trying to be interesting and frightening and more about wearing as little as possible while maintaining that nudity is “just part of the costume.”

When I was younger I used to love thinking of my costume for months in advance of the big day and I’d plan it out with sketches, magazine tears and probably fabric swatches, although those were harder to come by.  Everything was detailed and calculated and I went all out year after year, often ending up with some great characters.

Remembering the Halloweens of my childhood isn’t without its embarrassments though.  As a kid with a flair for the dramatic I would normally try and pull some “spooky” stunt that just ended up being embarrassing, more for my family than for me.  One instance was when I was in grade 2 and just before we went out trick-or-treating I answered the door for some early trick-or-treaters, older boys who lived on our block.  I was in full character as “The Watcher in the Woods” and decided to try and “scare” the older children.  If you know what the heck a “Watcher in the Woods” looks like then let me know because at the time I felt it involved a flowing wig and gremlin teeth.  Anyway, the older kids said, “Trick-or-Treat.” I growled.  They stared blankly.  It was awkward.  My brother shooed me away and gave the kids the candy they came for and I felt like an idiot: another performance misunderstood by the audience.

Over the years I’ve kept up somewhat with Halloween festivities but for fear of coming off like an idiot I don’t go all out as I once did.  Where once I used to decorate the expanse of my parents’ lawn with gravestones and fog from a fog machine (Yes I bought one.  Yes I was a nerd) now I rarely carve pumpkins.  I used to be giddy for weeks before October 31^st and now I groan thinking about how many slutty nurses or slutty firemen or slutty golden retrievers I’m going to see out gallivanting.  I will still occasionally dress up though and every now and then I actually leave my apartment in costume when that zany, eccentric second grader in a fabulous flowing wig pops into my head and tells me to get over myself.  I guess he has a point.

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