You won’t be hearing from me over the next ten days. I’m headed to Burning Man. I won’t have access to the internet, phone or even electricity. I will however have access to games, religious worship, rare and exotic creatures, sporting events and overall some very down-to-earth people. Hmmm, come to think of it, even if I did have access to the internet, you would still not be hearing from me.

I’ve just returned from the hair dresser. I had my hair dyed. I’ve never dyed my hair before, but I figured, “I’m going to Burning Man. Everybody’s going to be in costume. It has to be done.” I was thinking of dying my hair silver but got talked into blue — except only on the top. What do you think of it? The sides are gray and brown, the top is blue. Personally, I think it looks like somebody dumped a bowl of blueberries on my head. Even my hairdresser seemed to deflate when he saw the final result. I would be a lot sadder if not for the fact that judging from the pictures I’ve seen of Burning Man— even with this friggin’ hairdo — I’ll still be the equivalent of a nerdy accountant.

Until my departure, I’ll also be busy polishing up an article. I finally got a bite from a magazine I queried. The American Scholar wants to see “My Fact is my Fiction.” It’s great news for me. These guys are extremely well respected, having published the likes of Albert Einstein, Robert Frost and John Updike. Publishing with them would be a real feather in my cap. The only problem is that in my query letter, I wrote that my article is 3,000 words — their minimum stipulated size. The article is actually 2,100 words long. It also doesn’t flow as well as I would like. So in between prepping for Burning Man, I need to tighten it up and come up with another 900 words. This will occupy a lot of time over the next few days leaving me no time to blog. (more…)

Last night, I performed at Yuk Yuk’s comedy club, as part of Amateur Night. I’ll let the video speak for itself, but on the whole I was happy with the result — particularly since it was my first time doing stand up. My biggest setback was that they cut me off before I finished my routine. I had gone well over the six-minute time limit. I was surprised that I’d gone over. I’d timed myself before I went on and thought I had exactly six minutes of material. But I’d forgotten to leave time for laughter. I guess at a subconscious level, I wasn’t overly ambitious.

I was extremely well prepared for the act. Not so much in terms of my material — or haven’t you seen my rehearsal video? No. I was prepared in terms of supplies. I had all sorts of nifty things in my man bag, just in case:

• A banana: If I got hungry — which I did. I ate it right before I went on. It helped absorb the three rum and cokes I’d drunk before my set.
• An extra pair of contact lenses: In case my eyes dried out and I lost a lens before I went on stage.
• Hair pomade: In case my hair suddenly went ‘bad” before I went on stage. Now that I’ve seen the video I’m wondering if I should have brought a stylist. Or a plastic surgeon; is my nose really that big?
• A small hand towel: I have no idea why.
• A fresh shirt: Just in case my nerves overcame my sweat glands. I didn’t want to go on stage with sweat patches under my armpits. That’s also the reason I chose to wear a vest on stage. Wool has great absorbent qualities.
• Two hundred bookmarks: To hand out after the show — which I did, with the kind help of my friends.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s to be prepared. I grew up in a loving but overprotective household — always expecting the worst. Whether it was driving a bicycle on the sidewalk or ensuring that nobody slipped drugs into my hamburger at lunch, there was so much danger to be avoided. I think many of the unconventional choices I’ve made in my life were attempts to conquer my fears.

I’ve always had tremendous respect for stand-up comedians. I actually surprised myself by deciding to try it for myself. I didn’t overly dwell on the decision. I pulled the material for my routine out of one of my book chapters: “Too Big or not Too Big — That is the Question.” The chapter as a whole — at 2,500 words — would have easily run over twelve minutes — without laughter. I cut it to 1,200 for the routine. I practiced it for a few hours the day of the show.

I didn’t want to memorize my bit. I thought it would sound too rehearsed. But I also didn’t want to risk panicking and forgetting my material during my set. So I employed a standard memory trick I learned back in college — word association. You take words that you would normally easily remember and associate them with words that you are trying to remember. The more ridiculous the association the more likely you are to remember it. For instance, let ’s say you are trying to remember the word dolphin. You might take a familiar place — such as your apartment —and imagine yourself walking through it. You might then imagine suddenly seeing a dolphin in the toilet. It’s that simple. For each word you want to remember, all you need do is remember the path that you “walked” through the apartment. This memory tool has always worked beautifully for me. But it’s not working so beautifully for me right now. You’ll understand it after you watch my routine, but as I walk around my apartment, all I can see are penises.

If anybody wants to know how to lose weight fast, I’ve figured out a surefire method. I haven’t been able to eat a thing today. As promised, I’ve signed up for Amateur Night at Yuk Yuk’s this evening. I’ve got six minutes of material which I’ve adopted from my “Too Big or not too Big” chapter.

I decided to sign up this morning on the spur of the moment. I didn’t want to give myself too much advance notice. I’m nervous enough as it is. With more notice, I would only have been nervous for a longer period of time. I also figure, the less time I have to practice, the more authentic my final product will sound.

Do not think for a moment that my acceptance to Amateur Night is evidence of any innate talent I have for comedy. There was no interview process. Just about anybody who wants to get up on stage at Yuk Yuk’s can get up. What happens, happens. I’ve been to Amateur Night a couple of times over the last few weeks and I’ve seen some terrific crash and burns.

Why am I doing this? I figure I need exposure and one way or the other it’ll give me something to blog about. It’ll also give me a outlet to get rid of some bookmarks. I’ve got a couple of friends coming who don’t yet know they’ll be handing them out post-show.

Oh — and check out this video of me practicing. (more…)

In six weeks I turn forty. I’m not leaving my thirties without a fight. I’m meeting some friends in Los Angeles next week and we’re driving ten hours to Burning Man. Burning Man takes place in the Black Rock Desert in Nevada and runs for seven days each summer. I’ve never been, but judging from the website, I’d say its Survivor meets Woodstock meets Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas meets Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome meets the Museum of Modern Art. When I say it takes place in the desert, I mean it takes place in the desert. There’s nothing there when it starts and nothing there when it ends. Everything you need to survive you must bring with you. I’m bringing condoms and Honeycombs cereal.

Until recently, I hadn’t thought too much about turning forty. Thirty was a much bigger deal for me. When I was nine years old I saw the movie Logan’s Run. In this post-apocalyptic, futuristic sci-fi flick, all inhabitants are “renewed” on their 30th birthday. For some reason, this movie struck a chord with me, and over the years, images from it have occasionally flashed before my eyes. As my thirtieth birthday party approached, I had a flashback and remembered as a young boy thinking to myself, “executed at thirty - what’s the big deal? Who the hell wants to live past thirty?” Let’s just say that this particular movie memory dampened my party mood on the big day itself.

So here I am ten years later, still having somehow dodged the Sandman. Now, partying with my best friends at Burning Man may be a lot of fun, but the event takes place several weeks ahead of my birthday. Any residual good —uhhh — “feelings” will have already left my system by the time my fortieth birthday rolls around. Which leaves me in a quandary. (more…)

I recently ended things with my lady. I kept it going longer than I should have, hoping that she was “the one.” But in the end I accepted there was no future. Since my divorce, I’ve recognized that in a healthy relationship, you both grow, basking in each other’s radiance. It can’t be a one-way street. But with her it was. I’m not saying there was anything wrong with her. “Nikki” was my perfect woman, but I was just “another guy” as far as she was concerned.

I can’t help but notice as I write this blog that I’m sitting in the exact same seat where we first met. I begin each day at the Starbucks across from my condo, with a coffee — grande mild. I putter away on my laptop, periodically lifting my eyes to check out the attractive girls buying Venti soymilk lattes. Nikki noticed me before I noticed her — or should I say, she noticed my laptop. She approached me and said, “I’m thinking of getting a MacBook too, do you like it?”

I looked up. My dream girl — right in front of me.

She was five foot six inches tall with bright green eyes, accentuated by too much eyeliner. She looked like a porcelain doll, her perfect Japanese Anime features made even more attractive by slightly crooked, white teeth. Her hair was cut in the angular style of Milla Jovovich in The Fifth Element — Ruby Rush R68 by L’Oreal with a dash of Platinum Crystal 120 perhaps? Her naturally pale skin — while freckled and sunburned — still retained much of the effervescent quality of her youth; she was at least a year away from exhibiting the effects of too much sun exposure. She was wearing tight cropped white pants and a green v-neck sweater — the edge of a tattoo just visible in the gap between sweater and pants. And when she turned away, I saw a perfect apple-shaped ass just ripe for the picking, lifted in my honor by the highest heels I’ve ever seen — outside of a strip club that is.

She was so wrong for me. But oh … she was so right.

I answered her enthusiastically, gushing on the greatness of the Mac. By the time I was finished, Steve Jobs could have fathered my first-born. But I had little else to say to her; I was spent. As the last words dribbled out, she turned away, collected her Venti, and clip-clopped away to the streetcar.

The second time I saw her was two days later. I was sitting in my usual spot, the comfy chair near the window. I looked up and noticed her — just as she was leaving. I felt something in my chest ache. I was thunderstruck — without a doubt. I looked out the window and watched (more…)

I finally saw the movie Sicko, the Michael Moore documentary that unfavorably compares the US health system with other countries. I liked the movie but found the Cuba segment misleading. Walking out of the theater, one might almost believe Cuba is a utopian paradise — a retirement haven superior to Florida. But I know better. Why would anybody move to Cuba when there’s no Disney World — let alone Parrot Jungle Island?

I have only superficial knowledge of the diverse health systems mentioned in the film, but there’s little doubt in my mind that the Canadian medical system is superior to that of the US — at least for the patients. Overall, I’m proud to be a Canadian. I admire the concept of a capitalist system with socialist intentions. Adam Smith’s “invisible hand” may be pretty effective in satisfying our insatiable demand for Playstations, Nikes and injections of Botox. But it hasn’t worked too well when it comes to intangibles like fresh air. Perhaps it’s because fresh air is also “invisible” — until it’s not.

Since I moved back to Canada, I can’t help but notice the smug attitude of many Canadians towards their friends down South. Granted, 49 percent of Americans are righteous morons — the reason George Bush was “elected” back in 2000 — and an even bigger offense: the reason we have to watch his cousin — that tool, Billy Bush — as a host on Access Hollywood.

Still, that’s no reason to look down on Americans. If anything we should feel sorry for them; Canadians have certain advantages they lack. Our kids can get a college education for less than half of what it costs in the US. Our life expectancy is two years longer. Even our minimum wage — what with the strong Canadian dollar — now surpasses the US. We’ve also got Tim Hortons, Harvey’s, Schwartz’s, and best of all: strippers for as little as ten dollars a lap dance — try and get that in the States.

Despite these advantages, we’re far from perfect, we may not have Billy Bush or American Idol but we do have Ben Mulroney and he hosts Canadian Idol. His wooden demeanor makes me nostalgic for The Beachcombers. I am referring to the logs — not Bruno Gerussi.

Still, the average Canadian does have it good. There are a number of reasons: our higher taxes — 37 percent versus 34 percent in the US — give the government more cash to play with. Moreover, there does appear to be a genuinely more compassionate social mindset here. But not everything can be attributed to our eh- xcellence. The other reason for our success can — in my mind — be summed up in five words: The United States Armed Forces. (more…)

Due to (lack of) popular demand, I’ve reset the comment feature on my blog. Previously, one had to fill in a form, choose a password, and await a registration email from my website. I haven’t done too well in the comment department; I’ve had three in total. The first was back in May — which I faked. The second was in June and was spam — I deleted it. The third was just a few days ago, an automatic notice of my shortlisting for “best post” by the editors at www.postoftheweek.com. I was flattered that I was shortlisted for this contest, although I’ll admit I asked two friends to nominate me and wrote the email for one of them. I mistakingly deleted this comment.

I wonder if Pink Floyd was thinking of internet passwords when they wrote that 1979 song:

Hello?
Is there anybody in there?
I’ll need some information first.
Just the basic facts.
Can you show me where it hurts?

Personally, I hate it when websites make me fill in a form and choose a password. I’m too paranoid to use the same password twice so I have dozens of passwords — all slight variations of the one before.

I chose my very first internet password back in 1995. It was a bright, sunny day and almost lunchtime. I was setting up a hotmail account. Hotmail asked me for a password. I chose “hotdog747.” I figured I would remember “hot” because of “hotmail.” And I would remember “dog” because of “hot” and because I was hungry. I chose “747” because that was the first three digits of my phone number at the time.

Eventually, I was on a different site and the next inevitable request for a password came along. So I chose a slightly different password: “hotdogboeing.” “Boeing” was my brain’s logical leap from “747.” I figured I was being clever, since I didn’t want any one entity to potentially have access to all my accounts. But then the next password request came along, and “hotdogboeing” became “hotassboink.” And then one day “hotassboink” became “lickass69.” “Lickass69” eventually became “lickasswhenim” and so on and so on. “Whenim” — by the way — was a mental leap from “69″ and a tribute to that Beatles song, although I realize I’m off by five years. It’s also probably more of a logical leap than a mental leap, because unfortunately it’s highly unlikely that I’ll be licking much ass “when I’m 69″ — or even “whenim 64″ for that matter.

(more…)

If you wanted to get in touch with somebody who was really famous, how would you do it? Conventional methods won’t work. If you send them an email or a letter or a fax, it would just get lumped together with all their other junk mail.

Regular readers of my blog will know that I’ve put together a ninety-second cartoon, which features me as a guest on a famous daytime talk show celebrating the success of my book. The cartoon — which takes place sometime in the indeterminate future — will be integrated with a live-action story and released as a three-minute video.

I asked the animator to make two versions of the cartoon. In one version, the talk show and its host are fictional. They don’t exist in the real world. This may be fitting given that I’m hardly an award-winning author in the real world. In the other version, I’m a guest on Oprah.

I’ve been 90 percent convinced by friends and family not to use the Oprah Winfrey version given the muddle of laws surrounding privacy and “use of likeness.” I grew up in a family of lawyers, so I can be a bit anal when it comes to the law. But part of me still wants to use this version, because it’s a much funnier clip.

I know there’s only a one-in-a trillion chance that Oprah would ever give me permission to use her likeness. But I can’t even get that chance, because I’ve got no idea how to get in touch with Oprah — until a friend showed me how to use Google AdWords. (more…)