5 Things You Oughtta Know about Preachers' kids.

I Google-Imaged Preacher's Kid and got this. Guess I  better watch it. 

I’ve never met a preacher’s kid I didn’t like. 

This occurred to me earlier this week after spending a few days and evenings with a long-time chum named Jan De Pater whose late dad was a Dutch Christian Reform Minister. 

Besides Jan, I can recall six others: Jeremy Mahood, Mac Swackhammer, Sheila Stewart, Steve Burgess, David Dorazio, and, most recently, an unpredictable and extremely good-hearted public defender named Rob I met last summer in Nevada. (If anybody reading this knows me and is a preacher's kid and I forgot to name you, I'm sorry but not worried because near as I can tell, PK's are big on forgiveness.)

THEE-OR-ET-IC-ALLY, Roman Catholics don’t have preacher’s kids. If they do, they don't talk about them. Except Tom Day, a priest in Toronto’s infamous housing project known as  Regent Park. He adopted a couple of Vietnamese refugee children kids back in the '70s because nobody told him he couldn’t. He died--and if ever there was a person who got to heaven it was Tom Day--in 2010. Then there was Catholic Father Ted Silaj, in Elliot Lake, Ontario, where my first newspaper job was. He was a Catholic priest with count'em seven PKs. He was also married for 40 years. The catch with Fr. Silaj was, he got ordained a year after his wife passed away.

But back to the Protestants.

There’s been a ton of research conducted on PKs. And I've not read a word of it.

And since I was raised Catholic, there’s probably nobody on the planet LESS qualified than me to prepare, off the top of his head, a list of 5 things you should know about PKs.

But lack of knowledge has never stopped me from tackling a subject before, so here goes:

* They’re really funny. Wikipedia calls Steve Burgess the “Garrison Keillor of the Prairies” A few years ago he published a loving and hilarious memoir about growing up a PK surrounded by loving brothers and sisters and called it “Who Killed Mom?” One review deemed it “A Delinquent Son's Meditation on Family, Mortality, and Very Tacky Candles” He’s a gifted writer, good looking, he's making a living by writing funny stories and he's younger than me. I hate  him.

* PKs all border on something like sleazy. I mean that in the most noble of senses. A few years ago,  I was in the room when one of them--who in his teens played in his dad’s church orchestra--was asked, “Is it easy to get dates with the girls in the church?” The young PK’s answer: “Like shootin’ fish in a barrel.”

* They’re probably too honest for their own good. I’d trust any of them with my P.I.N. or car keys. They also seem be attracted to jobs where the money isn’t.

* Take my neighbor Sheila for instance. She has a house with a hedge; she has two beautiful smart daughters and a tall quiet spouse Richard who walks the dog.  In other words, Sheila presents as normal; she has a PhD in something. Her profession? Poet. She—like her PK colleague Burgess—is also a published writer. Macbeth Swackhammer curated museums.

*  They treat life like an experiment. Remember Nevada Rob from the first paragraph? I met him at that hallucinogenic arts orgy in the desert called Burning Man and seconds after making his acquaintance, surrounded by partying hordes who were far less-clad and far less-high than I was, Rob and I got right into the big issues: goodness, badness, the meaning of life. They're all like that.  PKs simply do  not do small talk. Small walk neither. Earlier this week, the aforementioned Jan De Pater told me he is sometimes glad he’s not a kid anymore.

“If I did the stuff I used to do,” he said, “I’d probably be in jail.”

I’ll leave it to him to explain that to his mate Elizabeth and their four kids.

I just realized something.

Church attendance ain’t what it used to be. 

I think I'll call Greenpeace. PKs belong on the endangered-species list. The world needs more of them, not less.

Where you Winsome and lose some. But mostly win.

See that smiling lady in the photo? She's Winsome.

Google tells us winsome means "attractive or appealing in appearance or character." And Google uses, as an example, "a winsome smile."

I took the picture about two hours ago. But it was more like 10 years ago that I first spoke to Winsome and told her she had the perfect name.

That was also the first time I went through the take-out lane at the McDonald's where Winsome works. And that visit didn't come long after I started working in this office where I am today; where I'm spending  this final  day, in fact. Come Monday, I'll be working  from home full time.

Over the years I likely visited Winsome's McD's a few times a month. But  I should add this: I've heard  that when a doctor asks a Canadian guy how much he drinks, the doctor usually listens to the answer and then doubles it to get a nearer-to-the-truth amount. It's probably the same when you ask a guy how often he eats at a McDonald's.

I'd like to tell you more about Winsome but when somebody's working the McDonald's pickup window, they're seldom in a position to converse, per se (Get it? Converse? Per se? Never mind.)

There  always seemed to be somebody behind me in line and McD's staffers don't get a lot of free time. Indeed, it's maddening that the rest of  the world fails to run on my schedule. But I'm pretty sure Winsome doesn't know my name and that I think about her more than she does me.

But something very nice happened between me and Winsome today.

Like I said. Today's my last day here. I spent a good deal of time cleaning up. I didn't want to take a long lunch so at about 1:00, I hopped into my Malibu, drove six minutes to McD's for something to go. (That always makes me think of my cousin Joe MacDonald. He told me that the guy working in the  kitchen at Gus's Restaurant near our house must have been named Tugo, because the order taker at the cash register out front would yell "two cheeseburgers Tugo!" But I digress.)

Cleaning up  before taking my leave

I got to the order window and told the order taker I'd like a Greek salad. Tugo. McDonald's salads are quite tasty and I'll never forget the first time I had one. Yes, it was at Winsome's; in fact, the day I ordered it, I pulled up to the takeout window, you know who opened it, handed me the bag but said "Hey! Look at you! Having a healthy salad! Good for you!"

Yup. I'd be lying if Winsome's heartfelt cheer of enthusiasm didn't affect my McDonald's buying habits from then on. I've eaten healthier since. And newsflash: McDonald's salads are just as palate-friendly as anything else they make.

You never can tell, can you?

So, after all those years, today finally arrived. I took my final trip to the drive-thru. I ordered a Greek salad, paid at the cash booth, then drove slowly up to the pickup window.

The sliding glass door opened, and yeessss!  Winsome!!

She greeted me like a long-lost cousin, albeit one that I was meeting in jail. We were separated by glass, after all.

I asked if I could take her picture. She asked why. I said I was moving on; that this might be the last time I visit her and I'd like to write about it.

She probably thought I was nuts but she said okay, then stood back and grinned a smile that I can state categorically was good for my health.

That is what I call winsome.

The Biggest Story I Never Wrote

A GIANT OF A MAN: Me, I mean. The guy who  didn't make the obvious joke.    

The only time I've been in a recording studio--the kind you see in movies--was about 27 years ago. I was on staff at a magazine called Influence and researching a story about jazz pianist Hagood Hardy. Hardy--best known at the time for an AM-radio hit called "The Homecoming"-- invited me in to watch him record a track on his new jazz album.

I remember thinking, "Wow I'm in the studio! This is like writing for Rolling Stone."

Hardy--a very generous and interesting guy by the way--was at his piano surrounded by a handful of other musicians. I, on the other side of the glass, sat  on a comfortable leather couch. Beside me was a gentleman about my dad's age.

I asked why he was there.

He pointed to the bass player and said it was his son Richard. I asked if Richard might have been on any records I'd heard. The man said he didn't know but then added, "You've likely heard me."

He said his name. "Bob Homme." It sounded familiar, but he then quickly did me the favour of not making me guess.

"I was," he said extending his hand, "the Friendly Giant."

I was awestruck.

I had just shaken hands with The Friendly Freaking Giant.

On the off chance you have no idea what I'm talking about, I'd have to think an American equivalent would be finding yourself on a couch talking to Captain Kangaroo, in civvies. Or Big Bird.

Friendly--star of the children's tv show "The Friendly Giant" was that big. And of course he wasn't. He was shorter than me. But never mind that.

I just wish they'd invented Selfies. I would love to have had a record of this event.

Everybody my age in Canada--and I'd wager this is one of the few times where "everybody" means everybody--can recall with great detail the measured camera pan of  The Friendly Giant show's molasses-paced opening sequence, during which the castle doors swung open, his huge hand reached down out of the top of the TV screen and set out the furniture for his visitors.

"One little chair for one of you, and a bigger chair for two more to curl up in, and for someone who likes to rock, a rocking chair in the middle."

That's the hand I shook!  The one that put all the little furniture in place.

I could go into any bar, retirement home or AA meeting from St. John's to Tofino and find most people in the room of a certain vintage will know Friendly's theme music, the names of the main characters including Rusty the Rooster who lived in a bag hanging off the castle wall and Jerome the genial but goofy giraffe.

After the opening sequence, the next 13 minutes were taken up by Friendly telling stories and then jamming with Rusty, Jerome or whatever little critters dropped by. Rusty also had the ability to find huge instruments in his bag that had no right to fit. I don't know how they got in there. In fact, if I didn't know better I'd think this story was about an acid trip.

Here's something Friendly  told me. The musical sequences? The ones with the guitar-playing squirrel and other talented critters-- were performed by some of Canada's top jazz musicians, including Moe Koffman--who were at the beginning of their careers and looking for quick gigs.

I'm telling you all this now because as recently as two days ago,  I found myself in the position of explaining the Friendly phenomenon to my daughters Ev and Ria, my son Michel and his fiancee Zoe and listening in was Michel and Zoe's son Mateus, who's eight months but mature enough I think to hear this important information.

The older four--all in their early 20s--hadn't known about Friendly but seemed eager to learn.

After I whistled the theme song for them and explained the opening sequence,  Ev asked, "why would a giant's castle have tiny chairs? Wouldn't it make sense for them to be big?"

I thought a moment. She had me. I told her she was right. Sort of shook my world but I didn't let on.

Later in the day, I put the same question to my older brother Eddie who was on the Sudbury High School Reach for the Top team and holds a degree in philosophy from Laurentian University.

I believe he's a specialist in Kant--and if you knew Eddie you'd realize that his being a Kant expert is such a terrific play on words it qualifies for a blog all its own.

To the small-furniture-in-the-giant's-house conundrum, Eddie stood by Friendly. "It made sense to have small furniture because Friendly was having little people in to visit!" All that Laurentian tuition paid off.

And these are the kinds of discussions we have in our house.  .

I must also report that when I realized who I was sitting beside, I did not--repeat not--make a joke about expecting him to be much taller.

In fact I think I might put that on my epitaph. "Here lies Peter Carter who, when he met The Friendly Giant, refrained from making the most obvious joke ever."

And that's the kind of thing we are proud of in our house.

What I'm not so proud of is I waited until today to report this important story.

My Hagood Hardy profile turned out fine, but the real story, which I failed to report until now, was my close encounter with the big guy.

Reminds me of the young reporter sent out to cover a new soprano's operatic debut but when he returned to the newsroom after the show, he told the boss: "There's no story here. The show didn't happen. Singer committed suicide just before showtime."

For the record, I've yet to be called by Rolling Stone.

Why 2016 Was Such A Great Year. (A.K.A. My Very Last Burning Man Blog Cross My Heart And Hope To Die)

Ria and I give hitchhiking two thumbs up!

My daughter Ria and I spent an unforgettable week in the Black Rock Desert in Nevada in August at the arts-culture-alternative lifestyle-mud-orgy called Burning Man and we hitchhiked out, heading to Reno, where we would; A) get a shower and B) catch the first of three flights home.

We were tired, dustier than Pig Pen from Peanuts and got picked up by a very generous and affable Tina, who had also been at Burning Man. I rode shotgun in Tina's Yukon while Ria sat in the back.

It was easily the most comfortable environment either of us had been in since leaving home a week earlier. The car was air conditioned, it had leather seats and Tina offered us cold bottled water.

She was also a delightful conversationalist.

Tina worked for a software startup that was offering online doctors' appointments. She said the technology was particularly attractive for patients who were infirm or simply couldn't or didn't want to leave their homes.

Imagine the Catch-22. How does some poor guy suffering from agoraphobia get help if he's too anxious to leave the house?

Enter psychiatry via Skype! Great idea, right? (Burning Man was lousy with California brainiacs like Tina. Every conversation I entered yanked me back to first-year university when I kept finding myself surrounded by people who knew so much more than I did about everything.)

But that's not my point.

Because of her line of work, Tina was keenly interested in learning about the Canadian health care system.

But for her purposes, I was the wrong guy to ask. Because the conversation went something like this:

Tina: "There's long wait lines at your hospitals, right?"

Me: "Never been a problem for me. I've always gotten the care I needed."

Tina: "You can't get a family doctor very easily, right?"

Me: "Can't say. I don't know of anybody who  doesn't have one at the moment.

"In fact," I told her, "my stock answer about how the Canadian health care system works is that I come from a huge family. We go back years. We have young people old people dead people and live ones. And I'm pretty sure that not once has the Canadian health care system itself ever let us down."

Holy! Family! Meet Zoe, Mateus and Michel.

I kinda think I let Tina down.

When I started this blog a few minutes ago, I titled it the 10 Best Things that Happened in 2016, but in fact, the list was so long--starting with the arrival on earth of my grandson Mateus--I realized I wouldn't be able to keep it to 10.

Of course tons of sad stuff went down since Jan 1, 2016,--it always does--but mostly? The people I hang with know how to find joy--and by that I mean true happiness--on a minute-by-minute and hourly basis.

And added up, that means, well, for example: Via Facebook Messenger about an hour ago, I was able to share one of the best motorcycle songs ever--Richard Thompson's 1952 Vincent Black Shadow--with my daughter Eva, two days after signing over the ownership of a 2004 BMW bike to her. The thought of her enjoying the bike makes me use one of the best words ever: Verklempt!

Then my whacky sister Norma phoned me to say she and her husband Paul are in town and will be attending the annual Bravissimo! New Year's concert at Roy Thomson Hall. My good friend the violist Douglas Perry is performing at said event and Norma wanted his number so she could invite him to supper with them afterwards.

Through  the course of the seven-minute call Norma and I managed to psychoanalyze, diagnose and prescribe long-term and short-term mental-health treatment for every other certifiable member of our family and we laughed so hard I had to hang up and quickly move from the living room where the phone is to a much-smaller furnished-with-porcelain-things room.

 My well-balanced daughter Ev  

Point being, a few years ago, I realized that I never ever lie awake in bed fretting about the huge problems.

What keeps me awake is the small stuff: How will Helena react to the news that her VW won't be ready at the garage? (She bought a Beetle this summer. My pal Nigel Simms said it gives her the right to punch me daily. Get it? A punch buggie)

Or this. We have two cats and the littler of the them--Kiwi--has the trots and sometimes doesn't make it to the litter box.

I worry that I will be wiping up after Kiwi from now until they pack me off on the ice floe.

Or this: Will I get that story about the mining woman done on deadline or will I be forced to come up with some transparent excuse and ask for an extension?

I hate knowing people are mad at me. Or sad because of something I said or did.

Such are the things that really keep me up at night.

There must be people out there flip flopping round on their Simmons Beautyrests sweating global warming and international currency-exchange rates.

But not me. I'm boring. I just stew about people.

So the good news is, even though off the top of my head I can name a couple of people who aren't doing so well and I hope my brother Tom gets a doctor's appointment soon, the vast majority of the folks I deal with are far better off now than they were this time last year. Go figure.

Happy New Year.

The Pickering Christmas Miracle That Saved Pete's Bacon

Woke up this morning to the following email: “You’re not here.” The words made my tummy go all empty inside. This was bad news.  

The “here” was a Toronto restaurant not far from my house. The email had arrived just about suppertime, yesterday.

I had missed one of the most important events of my year. As I read the message, my writing and editing life sort of passed before my eyes. Because that’s what happens just before you die, right?  

   

Here’s why. The email came from a friend and colleague named Sara Graham. In 2017, Sara will be launching a new magazine called The Fine Line. You will I hope hear more about The Fine Line over the next few months. Sara has been preparing since last January and from the start, has told me she would like me to be involved as a writer and maybe an editor.

It’s hard for me to overstate how exciting this is. My writing ego is as big as this house. A new Canadian magazine!  I love being published. Seeing my work in print is as exciting to me today as it was when I started.  

Also, for the past year I’ve helped and cheerlead (cheerleaded?) while Sara tended to the details that go into a magazine startup, investing her money, time and energy. 

  

Last night, Sara hosted her first publishing event. A supper I’d been anticipating for more than a month. A couple of very prominent Canadian journalists I’ve longed to meet were there; plus a few older friends, and I figured anybody involved with Sara was bound to be intriguing.

I was so up about the event I had gone so far as to—I hope you’re sitting down—plan what I was going to wear. I haven’t done that since I got married.

But for some reason that I’ll never understand, the little aide-de-camp inside my head who is charged with keeping track of my schedule took last night off. The supper completely slipped my mind.

I should add this: Sara lives in Grande Prairie, Alberta, and she drove to Toronto for this get-together. That she was paying for.  And that I’d missed.

My first assignment as a journalist with The Fine Line? Show up for supper. And I blew it.   

I’ve been married a long time.  I’m fifth-generation Canadian. I know a thing or two about apologies.

But this morning? If I wanted to continue as part of The Fine Line, I was going to have to pull off some Old-Testament-level atoning. I wouldn’t be surprised if blood were involved.

I knew I had to contact Sara but wondered what I should say after I said “I’m sorry.”

So I wussed out. I texted. And she texted back: “Why not just phone me?”

I did. And explained that my brain had gone on a wildcat strike. Then continued with, “Can I buy you lunch?”

“Sure,” says she.

Sara suggested I pick a place. I found a British-style pub, in Pickering, Ontario—not too dear but not too cheap—about  40 minutes east of my place.

Heading over, I rehearsed various scenarios. I really wanted to be part of The Fine Line. But after missing the big do, even I would have fired me.

Sara and I got to the parking lot at the very same time. We exchanged hellos, entered and found a table.

The menus arrived, we ordered coffee.

Sara told the server she’d have calamari and I chose a ploughman’s lunch.

The server, who looked to be in her early 20s, apologized and said they didn’t have any cheese on hand so the ploughman’s lunch was out. I asked if she could suggest a substitute for the cheese but she said it wouldn’t work.

I asked for another moment with the menu. The server tended to another table and then returned. I was just about to tell her my second choice and she looked at Sara, “the chef says we’re sorry but we’re out of calamari.”

With a laugh, Sara picked up the menu again.

I told the server “I’ll have the small fish and chips.”

The server--but not before kinda screwing up her mouth and looking to the side a bit--says: “Er..” and we could see it coming…“we have no fish.”

Sara laughing: “Do you have any food back there at all?”

Me: “What is this, a Monty Python sketch?”

Eventually, Sara walked over to the kitchen. And even though Sara was laughing, the poor chef—clearly neither the owner nor the individual responsible for the dearth of what one might describe as, say, “food”—was almost bent over apologizing.

The server looked like she was going to cry.

We tipped her and told her to not take it personally if we left to go to a restaurant that did, in fact, have, on the premises, something to eat. Which is what we did. Laughing all the while.

And I’m not going to tell you the name of the foodless joint, by the way, for a number of reasons.

One is, I don’t dine and diss.

But more importantly, I’m thinking  the restaurant isn’t even there anymore.

I think the entire debacle was nothing short of a Christmas miracle, sent to Pickering by You Know Who who—employing laughter and other people’s klutziness—distracted Sara from her thoughts of kicking me off The Fine Line team.  As far as I know, Sara and I are still on terms.

Not having any food saved my bacon. I think He knows how much I want the work.

Magazines, You, and Career Tips from Rompin Ronnie

Off and on over the years, I've acted (and I use the word with care) as a part-time journalism instructor. But since I know squat about what you might call actual teaching, what I end up doing amounts to jumping up and down and yelling like a cheerleader about how rewarding journalism can be. For one class, though, I managed to calm down long enough to come up with this 26-point magazine-production tip sheet.

I showed my sister Mary. She suggested people outside journalism might enjoy it, and because I always do what my older sisters tell me to, I present: Peter's Slightly Updated A-to-Z Guide to Magazine Journalism.

CAREER COUNSELOR HAWKINS 

ADHD: Assume readers are poster children for attention-deficit-hyperactivity disorder. If they don't read your story; it's not their fault. Every keystroke you make must work hard to hold the reader’s attention.

BUSINESS: The more a journalist knows about how the business world works, the happier she or he will be. Learn how to read stock quotes. Buy shares in a company and then follow that company's progress or lack of same. You'll be surprised at what you learn.

CAREER: Measure it by your own standards. Don’t be deceived by outward signs or glamour. Your story in the community newspaper can reach a soul and change a life just as effectively as your feature in a mass-circulation magazine; and there’s often more freedom and fun where there’s less money.

DEADLINES: People do everything at the last minute. Don’t even think about expecting anything else. But also never ask a writer to work without one.

ERRORS: They’re all bad, but some are worse than others. Errors in judgment can be far more harmful than errors in fact. Typos are easier to repair than reputations. You have a great responsibility as a reporter. Don’t forget that if you print that somebody has been merely charged with an offence, in many people’s eyes that person is automatically guilty.  (That reminds me of a joke I made up. "What type of blood do lazy editors have?" "Type-o.")

FAMILY: Stuck for an opening question in an interview? Ask about family. Even the Dalai Lama has siblings, and you can bet he sometimes lays awake at night wondering why all they're all screwy, just like yours and mine.

GOD: He or She is “In the Details.” Here’s what separates real writers from hacks. Don’t tell me that somebody smoked cigarettes. Tell me she chainsmokes du Maurier Extra Milds. (Hacks. Get it?)

HELL: You will also find that hell—surprise surprise—is in the details. A small mistake or hasty edit can ruin an otherwise near-perfect project. As one of my favourite journalists, the late Gordon Donaldson, once told me,  “I wrote that comma.”

I, AS IN YOU:  Don’t be afraid of the first person singular. You have a unique perspective. Exploit it. Boring tired and sexless reporters go to the predictable sources. What's stopping you from citing, say, something somebody said to you in a dream?

JOURNALISM: You’re going to face people who say the press distorts; that they can’t trust reporters or that newspapers are full of lies. They’re all wrong. Every journalist I’ve met strives for accuracy and truth and wants to make the world a better place. Few grow out of it even though they might pretend to be jaded. Whether you’re writing for your association’s blog or the New York Times or anything in between, communication is a calling. Some might even consider it the Highest. The Book of John, in the Bible, starts the Old Testament “In the Beginning Was the Word; and The Word was with God; and The Word was God.” Good enough for me.

KIDS: See “FAMILY.” Everybody is somebody’s kid. Find out as much as you can about the kid inside the person and you’ll see deeply into that soul’s soul. I’ve never met a person who wasn’t preoccupied with her or himself. Birth order is also very revealing.

LANGUAGE: Many people think more about what clothes they’re going to wear than which words they’re going to use.  Many people take more time selecting food from a fast-food menu than how they’re going to phrase their next sentences. Words are more powerful than bombs yet we too often choose them with little or no care. Stop it right this instant. Select your next words carefully. And the ones after that. In print; in speaking; in emails—check back with the entry for the letter J and get back to me if you still have a problem with this.

MAGAZINES: If you get nothing else from this course, try to employ magazine-editing techniques in your day-to-day lives. Treat the people you meet as friends; shower them with compliments, offer hints for subtle improvements; celebrate their values with them; never be boring; look them in the eye when you talk to them; be as good looking and as well dressed as you can; never make people feel bad after spending time with you; turn them on; share their adversaries; suggest music, books, food, looks and activities you know they will like; be reliable, trustworthy; funny and informative and serious when need be; smart; not smarty-pants, fun, and make them proud to leave you out on their coffee table.

NOTES: Take’em. Reporters and police officers take notes and you won’t remember much if you don’t write stuff down. What part of being a writer doesn’t involve writing? Post it notes, notebooks, computer files, take notes. Keep emails. Some of your most brilliant insights will disappear if you don’t keep them somewhere .

STILL NUTTY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

OH HENRY!: They’ve been around since 1920 and remain delicious. Just because something is new doesn’t mean it’s an improvement.

PETER: As in peter_carter@rogers.com.  The vast majority of jobs are obtained because of who you know. Stay in touch with people; don’t ever give anyone a reason to withhold a job recommendation and as Rompin’ Ronnie Hawkins once said “Be nice to the people you meet on your way up because you’re going to meet them again on your way down.”

QUOTATION MARKS: “Gimme a g’dam break!,” Carter says. “Any good writer knows the carefully crafted quote is a reader magnet. If you quote somebody cleverly, even if you don’t name him, you can get away with lively devices like colloquialisms, grammatical goofs, even swear words and readers won’t be thinking it’s your words. Cool eh?”  

READ: Everything. You will get inspiration from surprising sources. And don’t be afraid to use those obscure sources as citations in your stories. Readers for some reason feel compelled to believe offbeat sources such as, say, The Tibetan Book of the Dead  or  The Low Down to Hull & Back News.  (A real newspaper, btw.)

GETTING THE LOW-DOWN 

SHOW, DON’T TELL: Make pictures with words.  If I told you I knew a girl in university who got drunk once you’ll forget it but if I show you—in words—the story of how she came out of the Brunswick House with a date after drinking way too much draft beer and she felt she was going to puke but didn’t want her date to know so she discretely turned around and barfed into a Canada Post box, you will NEVER forget about her.

TWO DRINKS: This is the Patrick MacFadden theory, named for the Carleton  journalism professor who was acutely aware of the buzzkilling powers of boring stories. At all times during social events carry two drinks so if you meet somebody and they start telling you the plot of a movie they’ve just seen you can nod towards one of the drinks and say “Excuse me I’d love to hear more but I have to deliver this.” (This one, you’ll remember.)

UNEXPECTED: Do it. You’ll be happier, you’ll have less stress in your life and you’ll be a better writer and global citizen.

VANITY: Exploit people’s inherent desire to look good. Even my 99-year-old grandma had her hair done.   Compliments are free and among the most powerful weapons in your war-chest.  Make them detailed, sincere, and well chosen. If you tell somebody you think they have nicely shaped eyes, they’ll remember you a long time. If you tell them that the sweater they’re wearing complements their eyes, you’re also applauding their thought processes; their wardrobe and their eyes and they will remember you for, oh, ever. Just don't ever fake it, okay?

WRITE YOUR OWN WORDS: Hacks and computer software programs use other people’s words.  Real writers choose every letter, every punctuation mark, every rhythmic device. Invent your own axioms; coin your own clever phrases. Never default to trite phrases or inaccuracies.  Remember. Skunks don’t get drunk. If somebody falls on the floor laughing, call 9-1-1.

X-FILES: According to Wikipedia, when writer Chris Carter presented the ideas for the pilot for this hugely successful program, network executives wanted Scully to be a slightly off-kilter blonde woman with a love interest.  X-Files fans like yours truly were happy Carter persuaded them otherwise. Lesson being: Trust your creative instincts; others might not share them and you will frequently have to be able to defend them; plus if a person named Carter suggests something, go with it.

POWER OF POSITIVE SINGING: "YESterday, all my.. "

YES: John Lennon met Yoko Ono when he was at an art gallery and peered through a lens and on the other side, she held a little card with the word “YES” on it. Yes, it sealed the Beatles’ fate but it also signaled J&Y’s future together. Magazines are all about yes. Magazines leave readers feeling like every dilemma has a solution. Magazines are full of hope. Abandon hopelessness all ye who enter the world of magazines. 

ZED It’s a Canadian word. Stick with your own language. As one writer whose name escapes me said, “I write Ontario English. Anything else would be pretentious.” Be yourself.

7 lessons learned the hard(ware) way

This past Sunday, I made $150 (American) for 90 minutes of talking. Between 2:00 and 3:30 p.m. two extremely articulate and charming women from a New York City-based market-research firm interviewed me on location in a hardware store in Toronto. The topic? What goes through a guy's head when he's in a hardware store with his spouse trying to make decisions about a kitchen-renovation project.  

A: I can't believe I was dumb enough to tell them

.

B: While I won’t go into every boring detail, I’ve decided to share a few highlights. After all, the process was as much marriage counselling as it was consumer marketing.

1)    At the start of the interview, one of the researchers, Malinda, asked me to describe our neighbourhood. I said most of the homes were built a century ago and there are lots of semi-detached houses. To

CHANNELLING ARCHIE: I can't believe I faked it.

demonstrate what a worldly guy I am, I tossed in a Big Apple reference. “It’s kinda like where Archie Bunker’s used to live. In Queen’s,” Then added, “you know who that is, right?” 

Ali, the researcher holding the video camera, shook her head. She’d never heard the name before. Malinda—slightly closer to my age but nowhere near—laughed and then surprised Ali and me by launching into “Boy, the way Glenn Miller played…Songs that made the hit parade..” 

She paused, glanced my way, as if to send me my cue, I opened my mouth to sing and I FORGOT THE WORDS. The next line is so stinking obvious--“Guys like us we had it made”--that our developmentally delayed cat Kiwi could have guessed it but not me. I sat there, mouth open, as if I’d gone into shock and then—I can’t believe I did this—I faked it!  What psychosexual Darwinian impulse in my excuse for a brain made me want to cover the fact that I don’t know a 45-year-old TV theme-song lyric?  

2)      Probably the same one that made me pronounce the name of the very expensive counter-top material that my friend John O’Callaghan used to install and that is pronounced “Cory-On”—as “Korean.” Ali and Malinda were wondering how much of my purchasing was influenced by labels and brand names. “None,” I bragged. Then, in an attempt to let them know that I knew a thing or two, I admitted I would consider—even though it was more costly-- a “Korean” countertop.  Korean. Sheesh. Two years ago, a very very new Canadian asked me if I was on something called “Link-It-Deen”. He meant LinkedIn. He

GEOGRAPHY TEST: Could be south Corian; could be north.

was a very new English speaker and no he was not Corian.

2)  Early on in the interviewing process,the very charming and--okay okay--attractive researcher named Malinda--the one who know all the words to the All in The Family song--asked if her equally delightful colleague Ali could video the process. It would save her taking notes, she said. Then about 50 minutes in, Malinda looked me in the eye and asked a very personal question about our shopping habits. But first, she reassured me that "nobody, not Helena, not Jimmy, will ever get to see this." Helena is of course my wife. Jimmy is our go-to contractor. I'd mentioned both of them quite a few times up to that point in the interview. So I fessed up. "Malinda? Once in a while I get the distinct feeling that if we're in a hardware store and Helena gets advice from a clerk, she'll be far more receptive if he happens to be good looking and sincere. He doesn't have to be Barbie & Ken handsome," I said, but if he's a good listener and has "nice eyes," he's going to have an easier time convincing her. Frankly, I told Malinda, who was a pretty fair listener herself, "it drives me nuts." I added that a mild accent is actually a plus. I hadn't noticed until that moment that my new New York friend to whom I'd just spilled my guts had herself a barely detectable NYC twang.

 4) I also told her I think a certain Canadian chain store known for its tires and red-shirted clerks should launch its own line of perfume because Canadians really like the way that store smells. Malinda politely disagreed.

 5) Some jokes are better said than read. When we were looking at wood finishings, I mentioned something about Mennonite furniture. I asked if they knew about Mennonites, and Malinda responded with, "I'm a Mennonite." Which of course meant off fell the one kind of filter they didn't sell in that hardware store. I looked at Ali and asked "What do you call a guy with a five-o'clock shadow who lives really close to the Pennsylvania border? Ahm-ish." I can't believe they have this on film. 

6) Or this. Early on and while the video was rolling, Malinda asked how home-decor decisions were arrived at in our house. After a roundabout discussion, I suddenly thought of and blurted out a line I'd heard a standup comic use recently: "Somebody should open up a restaurant called 'You Decide.' It'd be a hit, especially with couples who've been married a long time." 

7) I bet next time, they're going to ask Helena.