Full Circle.

Seems my 2009 is going to be characterized by symmetry. If you’ve been following along, you’ll recall: just short of two months in, I was laid off from my glamorous Associate Creative Director job in Pittsburgh. Now, just short of two months before the end of the year, I start a new glamorous Associate Creative Director job in Toronto. Nice how that worked out.

Securing this new job was indeed the plan and the goal, although I had no control over the timings. Regular readers will remember all the adventures in between; how I’d returned to Canada and eventually re-established myself in Toronto with freelance work -- which is another full circle, to the life I had before Pittsburgh.

You’ll also remember how I had other opportunities to take a job this year. I turned each one down. None were what I was looking for, and I was determined not to compromise. I just had faith that I would manage and eventually connect with the right gig. And so.

So I guess that’s really two full circles this year. Well, I like this latest one better.

Note to self.

Phrases not to use during job interviews or when providing a list of character references:
"...shooting rampage..."
"...out to get me..."
"...like they would miss it..."
"...unrealistic drug policy..."
"...sleeping in..."
"...as if anyone would consider that pornographic..."
"...I thought turkeys could fly..."
Anything preceding "...not that there's anything wrong with that..."
The word "strippers" in the same sentence as "expense account."

Deadly apartment of death.

You’d think I would know kids. After all, as president and CEO of the sprawling evil monolith that is TransMegaCorp, I “employ” thousands of them in our teeming maximum security sweatsh—uh, in our modern, well-ventilated manufacturing facilities. But as any major running shoe maker will tell you, just because you have kids working in your operation, that doesn’t mean you think of everything.

This past weekend I received my first visitors to the condo: Fave Girl and her 1-year-old son, Poopie McGiggles. And it occurred to me, from two feet off the ground, my place is a freaking death trap. Observe: Sharp edges.More sharp edges.Sharp edges with dirt.Plugs.Stuff that could fall over any second.However, there was one unexpected bright spot: this, my friends, is not merely a couch. When you're two feet tall, it’s a vast bouncing diving and jumping station, source of ultimate happiness and absorber of drool (it's also a machine-washable cover, I'm happy to say).

Of course, while natural cotton might be nothing special to you and me, to a one-year-old face it’s more like sand paper. Let’s just say our young hero is going to feel it when the sugar-high wears off. And how many kids do you know whose first words turn out to be “couch burn?” (and here I did my best to teach him “get your stinking paws off me you damn dirty ape").

Anyway, nothing was broken and finger smudges come off a TV screen easily enough, so I’d say the visit was a success. And hey, I think we all learned something.

Amazing Grace.

The other day I was leaving my bank after concluding some shadowy TransMegaCorp business, when suddenly I stopped and realized: there in the teller line stood Grace Park, casually leaning against the railing in a stunningly gorgeous girl-next-door-who-is-really-a-killer-Cylon kind of way.

Oh yes, friends, you’re darn right I went up and spoke to her. Our whole exchange lasted maybe 60 seconds, and included my saying, among other things: “I love your work,” “Battlestar Galactica – I’m a big fan,” and “welcome to Toronto.” She smiled at me with the same stunningly gorgeous smile from TV and said “thanks, I appreciate it.” By the way, did I mention Grace Park is stunningly gorgeous?

This brings to four the number of movie stars I’ve met and had conversations with in the past year or so. (Viggo Mortensen, Kevin Smith and Jonathan “call me Johnny” Rhys-Meyers in Pittsburgh, and Grace Park here). Only one of those stars has made my knees weak. And it wasn’t Kevin Smith.

Anyway, speaking of cute girls, I’ve noticed I’ve been getting a lot more smiles from Toronto’s cute girl community ever since I returned from the States. Yeah, back a few years ago, no matter whether I was asking for spare change on the subway system, rooting around a garbage bin for discarded cans, covering myself with old newspapers on a park bench or simply crawling out of an alleyway after a night of malt liquor consumption, I always made a point of smiling at passing girls. But I never got a smile returned; in fact most people just looked right through me.

But now, ever since I got back from seeking my fortune in Pittsburgh, whether I’m climbing out of my classic Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, attending a gala black-tie event at the AGO, leaving a $95 tip at Canoe after lunching with some hedge fund managers or simply walking around Yorkville in my supple new leather coat and gleaming Omega watch, it seems the smiles just never stop coming.

Weird right? It’s like people have suddenly become… warmer, maybe. Well, something about the city's changed, that’s for sure. Whatever it is, cute girls of Toronto, it’s nice to see you too.

Homing Beacon.

A number of people have asked how my new place is coming along (and that number would, in fact, be zero). Nonetheless, I’m pleased to say that all the big stuff is done, and it’s starting to feel like home. Here’s a peek.My trusty bike is in a stand behind the couch. The framed photos on the wall are from this series. On the far wall is a print from Bill Reid (I have three), a Haida artist whose work is also on our $20 bill (I have none). Is it my imagination or is the number of home cable devices increasing exponentially?Meanwhile, our hallway now has a carpet. Or as I like to think of it, a 40 metre long door mat. But more importantly, my hoard of exotic spices and rare elixirs is starting to take shape. Hey, give it time. In the other room, not shown: Medieval weapons collection, pile of looted Soviet-era gold bricks, giant stuffed platypus, canister of plutonium (it’s a souvenir), piranha tank with South American piranhas, Angelina Jolie's pants, keys to Aston Martin Vanquish, lost Elvis recordings and a life-size replica of the Devil’s Mountain sculpture Richard Dreyfus built in his kitchen from the Close Encounters movie.

You like surf internet, yes?

That guy.

The freelance work has been coming in steadily lately, which means I’ve been spending a lot of time in coffee shops generating ideas with various ad agency people. And looking suave and debonair while doing it, of course. That’s important. Over the past while I’ve created scripts for sports videos, ads for shaving razors, product descriptions for the web site of a large coffee chain whose name you’d recognize, a campaign to help an ad agency promote itself and ideas to launch a new kind of pet food (something about ‘soylent green for animals,’ they said at the briefing before I tuned out). Such is the glamorous and variety-filled life of the self-employed creative director and copywriter.

One thing about self-employment is that you’re always hustling for the next job. Every so often I’ll run into a colleague who got in to a place I didn’t even know was looking, and there’ll be that “how did that guy get in” feeling running through the back of my mind. The point is to be the guy who gets the calls, instead of the one knocking on doors.

Well, my friends, it seems these past couple weeks my wish has been granted and ad agencies – ones I hadn’t previously contacted – are calling me. Referrals, sometimes, and the happy fact that my name seems to be bouncing around out there. The moral of the story is, when you take off to exotic faraway places like Pittsburgh for a while, stay in touch with your network and hand out lots of cards when you return.

I could quote Hal Holbrook in Wall Street here (“enjoy it while it lasts kid, ‘cause it never does”) but I’m hardly one to burst my own bubble. Thanks all the same Hal.