A 9-Year-Old’s Guide to Love

Could a 9-year-old boy from Colorado have all the answers about how to get a girl? Alec Greven thinks he does.

After watching how boys and girls interacted at recess, he wrote a brochure entitled How To Talk to Girls, aiming to help some of those inexperienced third-graders get some play. His suggestions are much more innocent that a dating manual like The Game, but are they valid in an adult world? Well, let’s just say I’ve field-tested a few in my lifetime.

(All quotes have been taken from Zosia Bielski's article the Globe and Mail.)


“Class clowns: Turn normal. Less jokes, no jokes during class. Then you might get a girl.”

FALSE. This is the best way to get a girl. Make her laugh and you’re 38% cuter. A friend of mine was into this really cute boy, but then she got to know him and her jokes fell flat on him and he had no comebacks. Boring.

“The shy guy? They probably want to copy someone that they think is cool except it can't be a class clown or somebody that's power hungry.”

FALSE. We can spot a fake a mile off. We usually refer to them as “slimy” or “trying too hard.” A friend of mine, who I dated for, like, a minute, is like this. He has an idea of how he wants the world to see him. If he’d just relax into himself, he’d be fabulous.

"You also have to be aware that girls win most of the arguments and have most of the power. If you know that now, things might be easier."

FALSE. I may be alone on this one, but I think the age-old assumption by brow-beaten men that there’s no point in arguing with a woman and cow-towing to whatever she says (“Yes, dear”) is slightly misogynistic. It implies that there is no need to enter into a dialogue and listen to her reasoning. It’s just easier to shut her out and do what she says, because what she actually thinks doesn’t matter. I want my actions and motives questioned and I want to arrive at a mutually desirable conclusion.

"If you like a girl, comb your hair and don't wear sweats. You don't have to try too hard, but just try to look kind of clean."

TRUE and FALSE. You have to look good for the first date or two, true. And you should shower on a daily basis. But then it just doesn’t matter after that if she likes you. One guy I dated spent 90% of his time with me in sweats and once arrived at my house after the gym sans shower.

“[Pretty girls are mean because they] think they're all important and proud and they're worth more than other girls.”

TRUE. Unfortunately. We are a society obsessed with beauty – a society made up of biologically driven individuals out to get the best genes for our offspring. Pretty girls are treated differently by people and some come to act like they’re worth more than other girls.

Sorry, Alec. Despite a publishing deal and a movie deal, it looks like your advice doesn’t quite cross to those of us able to vote. But hey – this kid’s got another 25 – 30 years before he achieves male maturity. We’ll see how well his theories apply then.

A PARLIAMENTARY CAROL

With thanks to Gary Mason and apologies to Charles Dickens.

STAVE ONE

Parliament was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The prorogation order was signed by Ms. Jean, who was a little put out at being called home early from her European trip, after a lengthy discussion in her oak-panelled study. Stephen’s name was on it, too. Parliament was as dead as a door-nail. Until January 26th.

Stephen was curled up in bed, awaiting Laureen to finish in the ensuite. This was going to be the first night in a very long time that he would be able to sleep without worrying about the economy, about slips of the tongue (addressing someone else as Prime Minister, why? Why’d he do that?), or about that nasty coalition forming like a pay equity case, across the floor from him.

Stephen drifted into sweet slumber, not even noticing Laureen as she crawled in beside him without a thought to possible suspension of her right to legal recourse for pay equity issues.

But alas, his sleep did not last long and he awoke in the middle of the night, thirsty and slightly peckish. Swinging his legs out of bed, he shuffled to his bedroom door. Reaching out his hand for the handle, he immediately pulled back. He no longer saw a door handle, but Stephane Dion’s face.

Closing his eyes and shaking his head, Stephen thought he must be dreaming. He opened his eyes and looked again at the handle. It was just a handle. He trudged downstairs and peered in the fridge, hoping that some of those PC Wild Pacific Salmon Mini Wellingtons that Galen Weston had sent over were still in the fridge.

“Monsieur Har-per.”

Stephen spun around to see Stephane Dion standing before him, clutching the parliamentary mace, completely transparent.

“Mercy!” said Stephen, his hand at his chest. “What are you doing troubling me at this hour?”

“You will be haunted by three spirits,” said M. Dion, without any attempt at anger or passion.

“Oh no!” said Stephen. “You, Layton and Duceppe!”

Dion smiled. “I am on my way out. Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun the path I follow.”

And with that, Dion was gone. Stephen popped a salmon wellington in his mouth and headed for the couch. He was soon fast asleep.

STAVE TWO

Stephen awoke with a start to find Belinda Stronach kneeling beside him on the couch. Her hair was soft and blonde, her skin dewy and glowing in the dark Ottawa night. She wore a blue pantsuit and fire engine red lipstick.

“Hello, Stephen,” she whispered.

“Belinda! What are you doing here?”

“I’m the Ghost of Parliament Past.”

“Long Past? Like back in 1926 when Mackenzie King asked Lord Byng to prorogue Parliament to avoid a motion of censure?”

“No. Your past. Walk with me.”

Belinda offered Stephen her hand and led him out the door of 24 Sussex Dr., down the road and along Wellington towards the Parliament buildings. They climbed the stairs to the public gallery. Stephen looked to his chair in the House, but instead of him sitting there, it was Paul Martin. He looked across the floor to where his party sat and watched a parliamentary session that was all too familiar to Stephen.

“I remember this,” whispered Stephen. “It was right around the time of the Gomery Commission so I knew I had more of the public on my side. I think the Liberals were presenting the federal budget?”

“That’s right,” purred Belinda.

“We were going to vote against an amendment the Liberals had made in order to….” Stephen’s voice trailed off.

“…bring down the government.” Belinda finished his thought.

“Didn’t you…”

“..cross the floor? I did. I didn’t agree with you forcing an early election. And I’d come to my senses about that Peter MacKay fellow. Come. We have a press conference to see.”

Belinda led Stephen out of the public gallery and down to where a woman had cameras and microphones surrounding her. She was talking about national unity and how it was being jeopardized by an alliance between “him” and the Bloc Quebecois, only because “he” wanted to bring down the current government.

“Is that you?” asked Stephen.

“Yes,” replied Belinda. “And do you know who I’m talking about?”

Stephen hung his head as he remembered how fervently had had railed against the coalition for courting Bloc Quebecois support.

“But it’s just politics,” he said.

“I must go now,” said Belinda. “Sweet dreams.”

Stephen watched as Belinda melted into the background of the press conference that was still going on. He sat down on the stairs and leant his head against the banister. Soon, he was fast asleep again.

STAVE THREE

Stephen awoke in an uncomfortable position inside the parliament buildings. Still feeling quite peckish, he headed down to the cafeteria to see if it was open. Arriving at the entrance, he was shocked to find Jean Chretien lounging in an easy chair, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand.

“Bonsoir,” he said smiling.

“What are you doing here?” asked Stephen.

Jean leaned forward in his chair, cupping the whiskey glass in both his hands. “I am the Ghost of Parliament Present, “ he smiled, arching an eyebrow.

“But you left office five years ago!” exclaimed Stephen.

“I’m back consulting,” said Jean, rising and heading into the cafeteria. “Follow me.”

They entered the cafeteria and stopped beside a table of men and women, their faces downcast.

“I can’t believe it’s finally happened,” said one of the women, swirling around the coffee in her mug. “I always knew AbitibiBowater was in a bit of trouble, but I didn’t think it would actually close its doors. I guess my kids are getting a helluva lot less from Santa this year.”

“Keep moving,” said Jean, guiding Stephen towards another table of people.

“They’re temporary only because they think the government’s going to step in,” said one of the men, a GM baseball cap atop his head.

“At least we’ll get through Christmas,” said a woman, eyes downcast.

“Yeah, but all the bills from Christmas come in early January, right when we’re scheduled to be temporarily laid off!” chimed in a grey-haired man with a chubby face.

“You think the government will give us a bailout?” asked the woman.

“What government?” answered another woman. “They’ve taken a seven week holiday during the economic crisis, leaving us with no stimulus package. All the other countries are busy trying to figure out how to get their citizens out of financial trouble and ours is on holiday!”

“Bloody Conservatives,” mumbled the man with the GM hat.

“Bloody Harper,” mumbled the first woman.

“But…I…” Stephen stumbled over his words, “It’s just politics.”

“I must go,” said Jean, swigging the last of his whiskey.

Stephen followed Jean out of the cafeteria and watched him fade into the background. He sat down on the chair that Jean had been sitting on and let his head fall to the side.

“I wanted to cut the political party subsidies,” he said to himself, “That would have saved some money.” And with that, he fell into a deep sleep.

STAVE FOUR

Stephen was awoken by the sound of wind. He opened one eye and saw a phantom approaching him. It was shrouded in a dark robe and did not speak as it stood before him.

“Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Parliament Yet To Come?” he asked.

The spectre did not answer, but beckoned with its hand. Stephen rose and followed the ghost through the halls of parliament.

They came upon a scene of Brent Butt, cellphone in hand.

“Yeah. Yeah. No – we just don’t think he’s topical right now,” he paused. “Yeah, I know he did a great job last time he was on. Well, I wouldn’t say natural ability, but he got a few laughs. Yeah, no – I think I’m going to pass.”

The ghost beckoned again for Stephen to follow him to another scene, this time of Rick Mercer on a cellphone.

“No, he says he won’t do the skinny-dipping again. He says his new post is much too serious to resort to humourous nudity. Yeah, I told him that, but the man’s got quite a bit on his plate, undoing all the damage, you know. Maybe we can get Harper to do the Polar Bear swim. Make a joke about losing his cahones. I don’t know – we’ll give it to the writers. Yeah – let me know. Okay. Okay. Bye.”

“Spirit! What is he talking about?”

The ghost did not answer, but pointed to the Office of the Prime Minister, a place with which Stephen was very familiar. The ghost gestured for Stephen to enter. Slowly, Stephen pushed the heavy door open. The room was empty. He turned to look at the Ghost of Parliament Yet To Come. The ghost floated across the floor, behind the desk and took a seat in the Prime Minister’s chair.

“What are you doing?” whispered Stephen.

Again, the phantom was silent, but slowly moved its hands to its hood and began to draw back the cloak.

Stephen’s eyes filled with terror as the ghost in the chair removed the hood. There he was, smiling with his grey wispy hair slightly askew: Bob Rae.

“No!” shouted Stephen. “No! This cannot happen! I must do something! Something to stop this horrible future! I won’t be vindictive with political party subsidies! I’ll give civil servants back the right to strike! I’ll work with the opposition! I’ll act like I’m in a minority government! Anything!”

STAVE FIVE

Two men sat in an Ottawa pub, enjoying an early February beer. One sported a graying mustache, the other, dark heavy eyebrows. The mood was sombre.

“Well,” said Jack, “the guy’s a weasel, that’s for sure. I can’t believe Canadians were okay with his backtracking. That fiscal update was a huge mistake, but everyone seems to have forgiven him.”

“I can’t believe the political ads over the Christmas season!” said Michael. “I mean, I thought those Galen Weston salmon wellington ads were annoying, but come on!”

“If only Michaelle had denied him, we could have taken over back in December and sorted out this economic mess,” said Jack.

“If only we’d had a better leader back in October, we could have avoided this mess in the first place, “ said Michael.

“I guess he’s got a lot more than just his platform under his sweater,” said Jack.

Michael raised his glass in the air and Jack followed suit.

“Stephen Harper remains as Prime Minister,” said Michael with a sigh. “God help us, everyone.”

Steph’s Guide to the Coalition

You know, my Canada used to include Quebec. But now I’m thinking, let them separate.

Tonight, Stephen Harper (has he coloured his hair in an attempt to avoid the stuffy-sweater-wearing image that hounded him during this past election?) was pretty heavy handed about the Bloc Quebecois’s support of the coalition, trying to scare Canadians with the prospect of Gilles Duceppe and his nefarious plans to separate. I say, who cares? Let them go. Quebec could be like Lesotho, but without the absolute monarch and annual virgin marriages. Or like Azerbaijan, with its little property on the other side of Armenia. We could travel abroad on a 5 hour train ride from Toronto without the hassle of an American boder – how fabulously European.

But to the matter at hand: the coalition (of the willing; ‘cos there’s a hell of a lot of people out west who are certainly not willing – isn’t it fabulous to watch them squirm and shout the word “undemocratic” as they claw to keep their beloved Conservatives in power?). Does Stephane Dion have the cahones? He’s got to have a hell of a lot of politicians propping him up and telling him everything is going to be alright as he steps back into the political limelight he thought he’d left back in October. He’s trying: his speech tonight was an attempt at an impassioned address. And ideologically, I’m with him (as is the constitution – take that, you wimpering righties!) But really, I think Jack Layton and his porn mustache would certainly make a better candidate for prime minister (his desire for that post is palpable, especially in recent months, I've found).

So it is all up to Michaelle Jean, who was probably having a lovely European time in Prague before she was yanked back to this Canadian reality. She meets with Stephen Harper tomorrow when he will request a prorogation of parliament. Will she suspend parliament, or refuse Harper’s request and allow a vote of non-confidence on Monday? Will she allow for an historical change in Canada’s history? Will she comment on Harper’s dye-job?

To quote my brother, who knew Canadian politics could be so sexy?