The Bold Acting Podcast

27. How To Be A Person — A Second Intention

The kids were dressed-up. The parents were sweaty. 14 was graduating from his tiny middle school  — population 58 students — at 1:30PM on a Wednesday in June. The ceremony was held in the gym at Shirley Street P.S. in the Portuguese neighbourhood of Brockton Village.

Beside the school is 75 St. Clarens. The very first house we lived in all those years ago when we moved as a young family to Toronto. Coming back here triggers feelings of nostalgia and memories of that house: a wall-hanging of large lips made of hair, no A/C in our first Ontario summer (35 degrees/84% humidity), doors that wouldn’t close, creaky steps to wake your three month-old at nap time. And worse of all, the oppressive sound of other people’s children screaming during lunch break.

Four students got up and sang a song accompanied by a tentative guitar that ended with the refrain, “Maybe I’m the problem” sung over and over again. Wow. And on their graduation day. A cry for help? Or one last shot over the bow. You adults have not done your job.

Then two of the students singing held up a cue card each that read “Sing Along”. And so the sweaty parents sheepishly joined in. Now we were the problem. A second intention. Touché. We the quarry, unwitting then embarrassed. None could argue their complicity.

The principal deployed the requisite effusiveness, gratitudes and the expected quote from MLK. A prodigy played the theme from Dawson’s Creek. Generation X looked up from their withered haunches. A town of prairie dogs smelling something coming in on the breeze.

Big forehead. What was his name? James? Michelle Williams. What a career.

The kids came up one-by-one to receive their certificates.

-A young woman struggling in her mother’s platforms.

-Raoul Julia shook hands like he was royalty. Expert in Myrmecology apparently.

-A stylish 2020’s version of Susie Myerson with cane, mask and po’boy.

-A charming rogue in an officer’s coat and an el bandito taped to his upper lip.

-My sweet, sweet 14 with his big brain in his pressed shirt and a mouth full of metal.

Live performance isn’t so much about whether it’s good or bad. It’s how you’re affected. The sound of other people’s children on this day was nothing short of thrilling.

It was still 35 degrees on this day, our last day in Brockton Village. We were meant to mingle and eat cake but like father, the son wanted to go as quickly as possible. We rode our bikes to an ice cream shop on Dundas and toasted his commencement.

Onto the Design School at Western Technical-Commercial School in September. A school the size of an airport with a student population of 1200. Good luck my dear.

Have expectation. Prepare to be enlightened. Allez!

Goodbye.

Give that rare person in your life a gift commensurate with your feelings for them. The How To Be a Person Newsletter I snot only short, it has nothing to do with taxes, doomscrolling or comparing yourself to others fake lives on instagram.

When I type the title of this newsletter there is always a grammatical negotiation that goes on in my head. Title case isn’t, as previously thought, capitalizing the first letter of every word. It is capitalizing just the major words — which suggests there are minor words. These are articles and pronouns. (Even in 2024 grammar doesn’t really care all that much about your pronouns.) But what of ‘be’? Isn’t the word ‘be’ major? It’s the subject of pretty much everything from Hamlet’s relentless monologuing re. his existence to all of the latest new age self-helpy be-here-now books, ‘Be’ is major.

I’m at the airport. I sweated through this shirt by the time I got to the train that took me to the airport. I like an airport just like I like a hospital. The comings and goings, hellos and goodbyes. People of all different shapes and sizes and outfits (zipper pants) and economic classes. Except for those flying private or First Class. Ever notice you’ve never seen First Class? You’ve seen Business Class. You’ve called Business Class First Class. But it’s not. Where is First Class? I bet they have a separate entrance.

It’s the planes I don’t like. It’s traveling I can’t take anymore. I don’t fit anywhere. I can’t afford the seat I so richly deserve. I’m too tall for economy. Even the exit row doesn’t provide enough girth for my thoroughbred-size hips.

And then Chuck comes on the blower - ‘cause he’s hands-free — and brags about us being up at 40 000 feet. I wanna say Chuckles, why don’t you put the PA down and quit filling me with fear? Your Hey-isn’t-jet-travel-great is my Bring-on-the-holodeck-tout-suite.

40 000 feet up in the air with nothing between you and certain, protracted death but a couple engines built by Boeing, a company best known for planes that shed parts mid-flight. Why don’t you just put me in an open-air dinghy heading out to the reef for some snorkelling only for the Australian guide to exclaim The water is just frothing with sharks. Thanks Bruce. This is a right rippa.

Both planes and sharks account for far less deaths than cars I hear you say and to that I say Fuck off. I’m not interested in your reason. When has reason ever worked for you? When is reason a reasonable response to someone having emotions? Have you learned nothing from that old battle-axe in the corner you call Honey?

I don’t fly a lot. Not like a I used to. I love that. I love not going places. I love staying home. When the kids leave I’m going to leave too but it’s not to travel. It’s to go to another gigantic city and live there. Deep and narrow, that’s how I like to see a place. Deep and narrow.

I’m trying to think of a That’s what she said joke but nothing’s coming.

Anyway, back to the zipper pants. When are those gonna get stylish? You see all kinds wearing other atrocities like Crocs or fleece or an adult wearing a baseball cap backwards of all things. Often that animal will have paired a pair of wraparound sunglasses perched either on the brim or on the back of their neck (not wanting to block the tattoo on the side of said neck.) The zipper pant hasn’t made the jump from the Tilley crowd to the Cool crowd. Yet.

Whose legs all of a sudden get so hot they have to unzip just the 30% from the knees down?

I just saw a couple devour a couple of foot-longs in total silence. They sat across from each other, between them at least thirty years of marriage. I thought of the beautiful couple in Tampopo passing a raw yolk between their mouths.

Tampopo. I think it might be perfect.

Across from me there’s a tattooed couple from Quebec that favour deep, rich tans, muscle shirts and jarhead haircuts. The one with the thyroid condition cannot leave his phone alone. Oh now he’s taking photos of the crowd in front of the gate desk. Now an Air Canada employee is talking to him, asking him why he’s taking pictures of his co-workers.

The footlong wife just handed her bottle of chocolate milk to her husband to open. That’s sweet. Both the move and the drink. Surprising because she’s got the arms of a linebacker. She’s holding her phone up. I wonder if she’s taking my picture? No one takes my picture anymore. Getting older means becoming invisible. Maybe that’s why we die our hair blue and vote conservative. Everyone just wants to be included.

Chuck can drop dead at the controls for all I care. We all know it’s a computer that flies these birds. I just hope the emergency door I’m sitting beside stays put. I do like being here.

A human being at 40 000 feet above the Earth, praying he makes it to an age where zipper pants are not only expected but make sense.

Be here now. How can I not?

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Everybody knows the polls look terrible for Justin. Everyone knows Pierre Poillievre will be our next Prime Minister. But there are three things that Justy Trews could do differently that would afford him a more elegant exit.

By virtue of Pierre’s runaway popularity I find myself hoping the lengthy run-up to the next election is just enough rope for the Calgarian. And by the way, he IS a Calgarian so the Anglos trying to pronounce Poillievre’s name Frencherly can stop. Thanks. You’re fooling no one.

I can’t stand being in accordance with popular sentiment however the evidence is overwhelming. Watch for Pierre to enjoy a landslide victory come next Spring.

The Top Three Things Justin Can Do so he Loses with Grace

1. Distance yourself from Jagmeet Singh

It’s over. And the NDP are always the bridesmaids. Go out on your own Justin. Start swinging for the fences. It’s Hail Mary time. Do something radical! (That doesn’t mean you should start wearing capes again.)

2. Get a Girlfriend

Halle Berry is single. So talented, so beautiful. Also has three kids.

3. Learn How to Talk.

What is with the hushed drama-voice? Justin, you’re not narrating a nature documentary. You’re not David Attenborough sneaking-up on an Ibex giving birth. What’s with all the stilted and breathy emotion? No one is buying it.

Check out this cringe-worthy Christmas video for example:

One YouTube comment said “Only Trudeau would manage to turn a Christmas message into a lecture.”

How does he do it? He still wants to be an actor, that’s how. But when we add a thick layer of mustard to our communications we lead the witness. Audiences don’t need to be told how to feel. The less editorializing the better. Politicians are the worst at this. Leave room for the audience. When we’re watching a performance we don’t want it handed to us on a silver platter. We want to be a part of the alchemy.

Prime Minister, the minute you quit acting is the minute people will stop rolling their eyes at you. Tighten the cap on your bottle of effervescence. Watch the great performances. Take your cues from Frances McDormand, Gene Hackman or Michael Stuhlbarg. They don’t spell it out for you, they don’t hammer you on the head with it. Put thine eyebrows down, Justin. We get it. You’re a feeler.

And put the cape down too. Dress-up time starts again summer 2025.

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What stories are you telling yourself?

Victimhood is the neighbourhood I used to live in (but I’m not talking about trauma. I’m just talking about how the ego hijacks.)

A favourite story I used to tell myself was the one where I absolve myself of all responsibility for bad things happening. It was in 1993 and a friend of mine accused me of hitting on his girl. I would never have done such a thing. He was way stronger than me, older than me, I looked-up to him. I remember mooning about Banff (I don’t know why we were in Banff) horrified at the charges. Why was this happening to me? I had done nothing wrong. I would never consider such a thing. Even though it was right around this time I was hooking-up with Shawna … who had a boyfriend named John.

Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill. I wasted so much time feeling sorry for myself.

Some Other Stories We Like To Tell Ourselves:

- We’re dehydrated and we need to carry around water bottles the size of pony kegs or we will turn into dust and blow away. The truth is the human thirst mechanism is alive and well. You’re not dehydrated, you’re just thirsty. Dehydration is a serious medical condition. As a rule of thumb, try not to take health advice from the Nestle Corporation.

- We still threaten our children that Santa won’t come if they’re bad. Idle threats, much? My children have gotten everything they asked for no matter the behaviour.

- Recycling. Absolute horseshit. And deep down you know it.

How To Accept An Apology

He apologized to me. He was drunk. I still couldn’t believe the injustice of it all. But I was young. When someone apologizes to you and you accept it that should be the end of it. If accepted the apology wipes the slate clean. Apologizing is the most self-full thing you can do. It gives you your life back. And life is short. Apologies are a fast track to the present moment. They are a French Exit, an Irish Goodbye. Hank Snow movin’ on.

Hank Snow. You can tell he’s a hoser by the size of his cherry.

If it’s our fault then we have agency to change the way we respond to things. Apropos of a disappointing exchange with a stranger my ex-mother-in-law once said “The things people say to me.” Identifying the common denominator in that statement is a highly underrated way to remind oneself we have far more control over how we feel about things.

John had a ponytail. Shawna had the cutest moustache. It’s funny the things you remember.

Martyrdom

It’s my fault is a tool for freedom. It’s not said with a heavy sigh as we go back into the kitchen to scrub the floors, Cinderella. It’s more like a — Well that didn’t work out the way I was hoping. How can I come at this from a different angle. It’s lighter. It’s less work. And I’m always interested in the path of least resistance. Besides, have you noticed no one ever asks for a martyr? They are foisted upon us.

I want more recourse, not less. I want all the recourse. I don’t want to be defeated by something or someone. I want to win.

Life As A Game

A couple weeks ago I got nervous about having to volunteer at the ACTRA Toronto Awards. There are people on council that I disagree with. They disagree with me. Some of us want change faster than others. Also, I don’t like crowds.

Imagine being the Prime Minister. Or a surgeon with someone’s life in your hands. I can’t handle two hours of volunteerism. Meanwhile, my friend Dr. Mark goes around replacing people’s hips for a day job. Perhaps it comes with practice. Maybe gaming everything could help. I’ve noticed high functioning people often speak about treating life like a game. They do the things to win the game but more importantly they know if all else fails they’ll probably be alive when the whistle blows. After all, it’s just a game.

If I’m still alive then I’m doing great.

The opposite of victimhood isn’t a British stiff upper lip, it’s going easy on yourself. It’s not thinking so much, it’s not trashing yourself, I say to myself. Over and over.

Volunteering at the awards was fun. I love actors. They dress-up, they love posing for their picture, they love each other. They’re demonstrative and loud and funny in spite of a lockout by Scott Knox and the ICA that has just had its two year anniversary.

I wonder what Shawna’s up to these days.

After my shift at the registration table was over I walked through the ballroom filled with hundreds of fellow performers. I pretended to talk to one person I was introduced to. Then I went outside, got on my bike and rode to Etobicoke as fast as I could. I began breathing again right around the edge of the city.

Maybe I never liked crowds and I just didn’t know it. Or maybe it’s just a story.

How to be a Person, The Bold Interview and What I Learned from Reading … are three streams of content under the Bold Acting umbrella. They are all written, produced and edited by me, Jason Bryden.

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Born in 1970 in Lviv, Ukraine Dmitry Chepovetsky’s family moved to Regina when he was a baby.

He began acting in high school before attending theatre school at Ryerson now known as Toronto Metro University.

Chepovetsky is best known for his recurring role on ReGenesis as Bob Melnikov, the show’s lead biochemist and a person with autism. The role garnered him two Gemini Award nominations for best actor in a dramatic series once in 2005 and once in 2007.

Chepovetsky has also played Nikola Tesla in CBC’s long-running Murdoch Mysteries. Picasso in Steve Martin’s Picasso at the Lapin Agile but these days you can find him as Bo on Kurt Smeaton’s Children Ruin Everything on CTV.

I got a chance to speak to him on Victoria Day 2024 at my house in Toronto.

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Eric Peterson is one of Canada’s most iconic actors. With a career that spans more than 50 years. Best known for his roles in Corner Gas, Street Legal and onstage as the WWI flying ace Billy Bishop in Billy Bishop goes to War which he co-created with writer and composer John Gray.

We talk about how at age 77 he doesn’t have any work lined-up. As well as what makes for great performance and what was his best year.

Peterson lives in Toronto with his wife Annie Kidder, sister to the late Margot Kidder.

He came over to my house and we talked at my dining room table.

You can listen to the Bold Acting Podcast (the Bold Interview, the What I Learned from Reading …, and How to be a Person Newsletter read aloud) wherever the podcasts are for you.

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At my house in West Toronto May 2024.

Thanks to my paid readers. I appreciate you more than you know. I brag about you in social settings. You don’t have to pay for this but you do. The future looks brighter with you in my corner.

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Apples to Oranges

I recently spent an hour on instagram and deleted the app once again from my phone. I would quit the phone altogether if there weren’t such a thing as podcasts and audio books.

Am I doing this right? What of this grind? Is this a good way to spend what’s left of my short, little life?

Dr. Saras Sarasvathy, professor of business at the University of Virginia speaks about effectual entrepreneurship, specifically Affordable Loss. Break down costs: How much will it cost you to start a new venture? 80-90% of start-up costs are human capital. The way to do it is to convince people to help you for deferred payment.

Predicting the future is difficult. Figure out what you are willing to lose rather than what you expect to make. Forget profit projections. Try stuff on the cheap if possible. Call this your business school. You can learn so much by the doing without going into student debt.

“Cultivate opportunities that have a low failure cost that generate more options for the future.”

Sarasvathy cites Richard Branson starting an airline with planes leased from Boeing instead of buying his own. He didn’t seek investors, didn’t give away his company to venture capital. He kept costs low. James Dyson built his cyclonic vacuum prototype  5,127 times in a shed and lived on bank loans for more than 15 years. Don’t buy an office before you have to. Don’t get a partner before absolutely necessary.

Be kind to yourself. Remember that when you have to do it all on your own it’ll take longer but you’ll learn more.

The first Dysons were made from cardboard.

You can fail in business. You can’t fail when you’re making art (Even Chris Gaines sold two million records). Bad art is still art. You try something then you evaluate it. You have to listen back to that song or podcast. You have to re-read the thing you wrote. And not with love in your heart but with the cold, sober eye of the editor or critic. Ask yourself, did I fully get what was inside my head out into the world? Could I make it better?

Satisfactionism

Is it not strange that perfectionism is a word but satisfactionism is not? There is a line somewhere between the two, between making something great and beating it to death. When is a child fully whelped?

Apple launches their products before they’re ready and then comes out with fixes.

Google beta-tests projects, gets feedback, quits things (Google Glass, Google Plus, Google Trips, etc.)

I left home at 18 then came back at 19, then left home again at 21 and then came back at 26. This went on a couple more times. Anyway, my parents were (are) incredibly generous.

With my latest venture (a new podcast with personal finance expert Preet Banarjee) we are excited to pair complementary skillsets. Preet likes to dot the ’i’s and cross all the ’t’s. My preference for a premature birth means that together we’re hoping his mature chocolate and my juvenile peanut butter might add up to just right.

Analogies have never been my strong suit.

Comparing my Navel orange to someone else’s Granny Smith is just par for the course. The trick is to not be too hard on yourself. Sticking your neck out there is exhausting. Here’s hoping that equals a better sleep tonight.

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Getting advice from comedians is like getting advice from a funny person that has managed to survive one of the most difficult vocations around. I don’t have to tell you that comedians come out on stage, into what is historically a hostile environment their only weapons a mic and their words. Who better to give survival tips?

Jimmy Carr is a British stand-up comedian known for his offensive one-liners and deadpan delivery.

“I could have phoned in a showbiz book of 60,000 words, stuck a couple of pictures in, cash the cheque, great. But I didn’t want to shortchange anybody and in the end it became a labour of love.” - Jimmy Carr.

Carr turns out to be a huge fan of self-help books. He read lots when he was in his early 20s, trudging to his marketing job at Shell each day, dissatisfied with his life and longing for some excitement. “Self-help opened my eyes a little bit to the idea that the rules that affect our lives aren’t written. — The Guardian’s Tim Jones, September 2021.

I too love self-help books. I don’t care if they say the same thing over and over. I need the reminding. I’m not especially prone to joining cults so there’s no danger of me sending a charismatic all of my money.

I’ve taken 12 pages of notes and recorded them here but I can recommend this book as a great listen. I got it on Audible.

I hope you like it too.

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"What I Learned ..." is one of three different streams of podcasts you’ll find under the hospices of The Bold Acting Podcast. The other two are the Bold Interview (upcoming talks include Eric Peterson) and this newsletter. Find all the episodes wherever the podcasts are for you.

Friday, May 3rd, 2024

Advice from a stand-up doesn’t seem so wrong. British comic Jimmy Carr had a boring life, he didn’t want it anymore so he stopped working for Shell Oil and started doing stand-up instead.

Now he has an interesting life.

What is your path? If you want to be a doctor the path is clear. But what if you wanted to be a comic or an actor? The path is less clear. It might take longer. There might be crashes along the way. There might be detours. Some people take the scenic route and then get lost altogether.

What road are you on now? Bumpy or boring? Heading in the right direction or have you thrown the map out the window. Who is in the car with you? Are they helpful? Are they good navigators? Or are they complainey backseat drivers?

Jimmy Carr loves a good crisis. Crisis has a bad name. Crisis needs some crisis management. Crisis is just change. We should look forward to it because change is the only guarantee.

True education is not what to think but how to think. What nobody teaches you at university is how to be a person (my words). Why do you do, Jimmy asks? Not what but why do you do the thing you do? Do you know?

Ever wondered why trust-fund kids are such fuck-ups? They don’t have any purpose. That and nobody likes a white person with dreadlocks.

Find your purpose and then pursue it. That’s how you do it according to Jimmy Carr. But Jimmy is a millionaire with a career and possible name recognition. I don’t think he’s saying do as Jimmy does and you’ll be happy. He’s saying he changed everything and he’s just an average bloke. It’s not easy but it’s not rocket science either.

I’m saying, me, JB, I’m saying make art. Big, small, doesn’t matter. Make the art. Remember why you wanted to perform in the first place. Go back to that feeling. Don’t wait, don’t ask for permission, start small and for God’s sake don’t think about it too much. Just paint. Or Tell jokes. Or act. Do it with others. And I guess I’m saying this, all of this, every time, because I want to hear it. I just get scared or complacent or tired or overwhelmed.

Why am I so adamant the world needs more artists? Because if a million people begin bucking the trend  towards the bottom-line within a capitalist society we might think about consumption less. I think we’ll fill those holes in our souls with creativity and community instead of stuff and likes. I think others will see us doing it and they’ll want in. What if we stopped doing so much? What if we made stuff without expectation?

I’m just talking about art. Whatever that means to you. For me it’s performance. I was wired up for it. And when I’m not doing it, it’s a much more boring life.

That’s how I talk into cell phones.

Thank you to the paying customers, you golden few that have upgraded to paid. I really appreciate you. Do you pay for other newsletters? If so what makes it worth it? I’ve included a poll here for paid subscribers. I’d love to know what you think and how I can make BOLD better.

This is an excerpt from my upcoming book: Be Bold ‘Cause You’re Going to Die. (When it comes out you have only one choice: buy in bulk. I have your email address. I’ll know if you only buy one. I’m dying okay? So you better heed me.)

In Ian MacEwan’s novel Amsterdam one man takes his terminally ill frenemy to progressive Amsterdam to have him euthanized.

In the Denis Arcand film The Barbarian Invasions Remy, the cancer-ridden protagonist retreats to the countryside with his friends before getting Marie-Josée Croze to inject him with heroin until he is dead.

In The Last Doctor a man in chronic pain sits in his SRO hoping for Death but he has no friends or family to help him. Until a rebellious MAID doctor (Medical Assistance in Dying) comes along and saves his death.

Everyone wants to know how to have a good life. This should include a good death.

I think the answer is: Swing for the fences ‘cause life is short. Swing every day. Don’t get angry with yourself if you strikeout. Home-run hitters strike out a lot. Just keep aiming for that fence.

This book is really just a post-it note to myself. Keep trying stuff, Jason. Don’t go and get a job. You weren’t meant for that and besides, you’d be a terrible employee.

I have died 52 years. That’s 52 years I’ll never see again. Those 52 years are gone. What have I done with them? Enter: Rampant Rationalization. No, no J.B. you’ve done a lot, I hear you say. You’ve helped whelp two functioning children. You’ve managed to maintain a much leveraged position within the lower-middle class. You haven’t killed the cat yet.

These are true facts and it would add up to accomplishment but for the relativism (everyone around me has also not killed their cat) that reminds me the real yardstick is elsewhere.

In Margaret Drabble’s short story The Merry Widow a woman goes on a vacation her domineering husband had planned. He had done her the immeasurable kindness of dying prior to take-off. At her B&B she sees an old man cutting the grass next door with a scythe and thinks it must be Death calling for her. But it turns out to be Father Time. Death shows up as a skeleton. This was “only Time, Time friendly, Time continuing, Time healing… And when he had finished cutting the grass he had gone harmlessly away, leaving her in possession of herself, of her place, of her life.”

She breathed deeply. The sap began to flow. She felt it flow in her veins.   

All at once the stakes are high and there’s no need to worry. Worrying doesn’t help but it does hurt. I want to be mindful of my impending doom so I can prioritize. Sometimes I can do it. Sometimes not.

Places I’ve Succeeded in Prioritizing in the Face of Death:

- I don’t reply to emails or texts if I don’t have to. I just delete them. I don’t care anymore. If you message me and I don’t reply it is not because I think you’re a terrible person. It’s just because I’m busy walking with death.

- I don’t hang-out with people I don’t like. I used to do it regularly. I’ve wasted a lot of other people’s time over the years being nice. Niceness is a waste of a life.

- I try not to spend a minute on shyness. I try to talk to strangers but being rather introverted I find it stressful. Nothing ever happens to scaredy-cats sitting in the corner.

- I don’t get in my car unless completely unavoidable. I’d rather be scared for my life on my bike than angry and behind the wheel.

- I don’t go to sporting events unless it’s soccer. (A seventh inning stretch? Are you joking? That should be the end of the bloody game!)

- I am a solitary man. This means I don’t have to maintain a romantic relationship with a woman. This has freed-up huge amounts of time, energy and money. I can honestly say I am the freest I’ve ever felt.

Places I’ve Failed in Prioritizing in the Face of Death:

- I got elected to my union council. This means more emails and meetings, more stress and more adult business. Gross. I can’t wait to quit or be removed due to scandal.

- I still have to earn a living. This is a huge failure. What a lot of hustling. I’d much rather be reading and writing.

- I live in an old house. This takes a lot of resources. I meant to have already moved into a rented apartment where I would have to do little in the way of upkeep. I have no interest in gardening, mowing lawns, raking leaves. I don’t even like plants. Somehow I’ve got myself a large backyard with grass and trees not to mention the above-ground lap pool and the hot tub I now have to maintain.

- I have a cat. The cat-litter situation is the worst part of cat ownership. She’s lucky she’s entertaining.

- I am a solitary man. This means I am not in a romantic relationship. Which definitely leaves a bit of a hole.

28 Summers

A walk with Death reminds me it could end at anytime. But if all goes well I might have another 28 good summers left. What kind of fun would I like to have between now and then? I don’t want to get married again. I’d rather my children leave the house in a timely fashion. I should like to move to Stockholm or Copenhagen if I can swing it.

Ingredients for a Good Life

In order to kick it up a notch I think I should:

- Introduce more bad behaviour. Truancy, day-drinking, dogging.

- More pranks. I’ve recently bought a fart machine. I’m on the hunt for googly-eye glasses.

- Risk-taking: Get back into stand-up, start doing drugs again or go to a sex club.

- Self-publish all these books I’ve written. Stop waiting around for someone else to give me the go-ahead.

- Make shows, onstage and in front of the camera with fellow creatives. That’s what it means to be an actor. An actor is not someone that waits around by the phone.

- Get a Maine Coon. But only after Nala is dead. Well dead. I need a break.   

And include my children in as much of this stuff as possible (minus the sex stuff obviously). Show them how to live a life in the face of a horrifying inevitability that is hard to talk about. Besides, it’s not really death that is so bad as much as it is the prospect of dying, all this anticipation of how it may or may not go. And what of suffering? What of pain or forgetting who you are or who anyone else is? No, I’d rather walk with Death than walk with dementia if given the choice.

Death doesn’t sound so bad in the face of losing your marbles. When I’m really old will I look back and think, I’m so glad I played it safe. Or will I be able to honestly say I tried it all. Success doesn’t matter. Nor will it ever come if not for trying. And the only failure is to fail in making the attempt in the first place.

We try, try, try and then we die. Until then, the man with the scythe is a gentle reminder to care for the one thing that is yours and yours alone: a life.