When you become rich and famous, people write biographies about you. When you become rich, famous and insane, you write your autobiography. Conrad Black wrote an autobiography, enough said. I am not rich in the financial sense. I'm not famous beyond a small circle of friends and family. My small 'f' fame only arises from a handful of utterly stupid acts or witty quips. I'm not crazy yet. That will come in due course. In fact, I'm quite mild mannered, Clark Kentish if you will. I wear glasses and enjoy writing but haven't been near a phone booth in years.

I've never dreamed of winning an Olympic medal and unless they include Scrabble as a sport, my chances are slim. Anorexic really. I've always wanted to win a trophy and I actually did in Grade 8. It wasn't the Stanley Cup by any stretch of the imagination. It was two inches tall and made of plastic. It was awarded for being the best actor in the class. Imagine. I got involved with boxing when in my early twenties. I did a lot of training and sparring but I never actually had an organized fight as part of a tournament. A shame really because both fighters were always awarded trophies. The guy with the big black eye and bleeding ears got the small trophy and the guy with just the nose bleed got the big trophy. I'd take a punch or two just to get my hands on a trophy but I wouldn't put up with any gold toothed galoot biting my ear off. Are you listening Mike Tyson?

I've had some interesting jobs over the years. Nothing as interesting as my current profession, leisurologist. My goal in life is to make it through this 'job', have some fun along the way and become leisurologist emeritus. I once had a summer job with the New Brunswick Department of Agriculture. I spent the summer digging holes all over the province. Between digs I sat in the passenger seat of my boss's car with one eye on the road, one on the wheel and my hands ready to commandeer said wheel before getting intimate with the grills of oncoming traffic. I didn't die that summer but in many ways I died a thousand deaths. All of them vehicular in nature. Another job saw me acting as the personal assistant to a mad genius and his delusional, nose picking business partner. It wasn't easy watching a grown man throwing a tantrum and breaking dirty coffee mugs on the floor of the staff kitchen...but I did...he signed my cheque. Another bout of employment had me catching the board of directors fudging the books so as to give them a favourable return on their personal investments while screwing the honest investors who put their faith and assets under the company's trusty stewardship. A stint as a substitute teacher saw three fires in the classroom in two years. Ouch! Do you understand why I'm a leisurologist yet?

I've had some truly one of a kind life experiences. I had dinner with Prince Charles once and, yes, he has really, really prominent ears. Tyson would have had a field day. I tried not to stare at Charles but imagine a caricature standing before you, chatting. He was quite charming. I was actually one of forty or so that dined with Charles. Protocol dictated that we had to wear tuxedos so I rented one. Every man at the dinner had a tuxedo on, except Chuck. I've had a behind the scenes (read: tourists don't go where I went) tour of the White House during the dying days of the Clinton era. I even played fetch with Clinton's dog Buddy in the Dwight D. Eisenhauser building, next door to the White House. I was pretty disappointed with Buddy, I thought for sure he'd try to hump my leg. Just like daddy. I saw Al Gore leaving the West Wing and getting into a Secret Service vehicle. He looked stiff, his face hard and pinched. Later that evening he would learn that he lost the election to Bush. An inconvenient result. He wasn't the only one who lost. I sat in the West Wing's 'situations room' where months later Dubya, doubtlessly eating pretzels washed down with blood, would meet top officials to plot the invasion of Iraq. I sat in the President's seat with the President's seal looming above my head. Are you comforted to know that someone compassionate, fair and non-combative once sat there?

I married at the young age of twenty-three, the child groom of Wendy Nielsen (nine months my senior). She lovingly robbed the cradle with me. That was 1987. Our son, Julian, was born on February 28, 1992. The greatest day of my life. Nothing compares. Nothing ever will. I'm proud of many things in my life, but nothing so much as my son. He makes me laugh, almost brings me to tears.

There's so much more to say but I don't want this to turn into an autobiography. Remember what that means? Besides, if I write any more I'll need to find a publisher and I'm already exhausted from thinking of the logistics of the ensuing book tour. Imagine going from one Chapters store to another, like a nomadic mall rat, across our lovely but endless country. No thanks.

Ian

Oh yeah, I also enjoy photography and writing.