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First, a few words about death, which, like birth, comes out of nowhere and catches most of us unawares. You’re not there, then you are, then you’re not again. It’s hard to keep up. But there’s no blame or shame in this. Existing is confusing. Not existing? Probably worse. Who can say? We're born alone, and we die alone, except for those circled around us, many of whom are just collecting a paycheck.

Does that make sense? Of course not.

“I was thinking of very old times,” wrote Joseph Conrad back in 1899, “when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago—the other day.... Light came out of this river since—you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker—may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday.”

“Life is a fleeting moment,” said ChatGPT just a few seconds ago, “a brief spark in the vast darkness. We stumble through, trying to make sense of it all, grasping at connections and meaning. In the end, it’s the memories we leave behind and the lives we touch that echo in the silence after we’re gone.”

Ignore such authorities. Pay heed instead to the example of my son and me. We each have sisters; in fact, we each have two sisters, but that’s a coincidence. Right? And insignificant. Or, at least, irrelevant. But there are other parallels. And differences. I’m the youngest of four; he’s the eldest of three. I was born in 1961, at the tail end of the baby boom. He was born in 1998, just a couple of months short of Gen Z. So, sure. We see things differently. Always will. But not just because of our ages. He’s a half-foot taller and has better eyesight. What’s more, he’s French and Canadian, while I’m only Canadian. And neither of us are French-Canadian.

Only Canadian. Only? That smarts. This whole identity thing keeps us up at night. It makes us act “nice” and say “aboot” and write “pay cheque” and stick maple leafs on our luggage and correct people when they call us American, even though, technically, being from the continent commonly referred to as America, that’s precisely what we are. But that’s not what people mean when they call someone American, is it? And that is what drives us completely insane.

Not to belabour the point but my son grew up in the “système français” and I grew up in the so-called Canadian system, so-called because, let’s be frank, the Canadian system is just the American system minus all the Americans — which, like that whole life/death divide mentioned above — is entirely based on what it isn’t.

Isn’t it?

That’s perhaps a better topic for another day. Today’s topic is, apparently, my son, who’s a better athlete than I am and smarter and healthier and more confident, probably because he’s top-loaded with his mother’s Han Chinese O-M122s genes, while I’m 100% cholesterol-clogged Pontic steppe, Neolithic farmer and Western Hunter-Gatherer.

Plus, he plays the drums. And lives in New York.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s no doubt encountered resistance unlike anything I’ve ever had to face. But vice-versa, too. Right? Slough off those likenesses and differences like the so-much-existential-dead skin that they are, and what’s left? Two men trying to make sense of their lives. Two human beings. Two Homo sapiens, distinguished from other animals by superior mental development, power of articulate speech, and upright stance.

Two sacks of shit, some of those reading are probably saying, or at least one sack of shit and a random 25-year-old who’s been dragged into these nonsensical paragraphs without being asked and, if asked, would probably say thanks but no thanks.

Others still — I see you — are waving their arms and legs in tight little circles and snapping their heads out of their beige turtle necks and saying, smh and whoa, dude, careful, that’s your son you’re talking about. Go easy!

The point I’m trying to make? Identity is a bitch. And, I guess, stupid is as stupid does. But the bottom line is we both wear the pants, use the word “pants” and put them on one leg at a time. Is that enough? Isn’t that enough? Why fret the small stuff? The last time I checked, those folks in the turtlenecks weren’t the bosses of us. We didn’t vote for them. They weren’t even on the ticket.

Just saying.

The thing about being alive right now? There’s just so many ways to do it. And all of them are viable. Viable. Is that a French word? I think so. Though it sounds mealy-mouthed. But maybe that’s just in English.

1 Qui peut vivre. Ce nouveau-né est viable. 2 Qu’on peut mener à bien, qui peut aboutir. Le projet est-il viable?

Advice? Hell, no. When was the last time you read an inspirational quote that wasn’t as obvious as Cornflakes? Be kind, how’s that? Be kind, rewind. That doesn’t even apply anymore; my son never had to rewind a fucking thing in his life, except by clicking on a virtual button. But no doubt he’s seen the damn movie. Which, by the way, was made by a Frenchman.

You want advice? How about this: see things in the wider arc. Think in geological time. Be a rock.

Or this, from that friend you met last week downstairs in the kitchen watching a game that was already over, that he knew the final score and winner of but was watching anyway — not the highlights, the whole bloody game, which ended 1-0, and the lone goal was scored in the first 15 minutes. And he watched the rest of it anyway!

Guess what? He’s Canadian, and he hasn’t been sleeping well, and right now, he’s driving another friend to the train station and, get this, earlier this week, he told me that when he dies, he'd like to go quietly in his sleep, like his grandfather. Not screaming like the passengers in his grandfather’s car.

Have a great week. Be nice. Get some sleep. Hug a Canuck.