03/11/2008: "Esquire---Roiding!"

Hi All,

Well, I was going to link to it, and I will if and when it shows up online, but if you want to head to your nearest newstand, pick up the April 2008 ESQUIRE (George Clooney cover), you can read my piece on steroid abuse. The last draft I saw it was called: BITCH TITS, RAISIN BALLS, AND THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING STRONGMAN. That title, based on some emails I have received, may now be: LOOK AT ME! I'M A BIG, STRONG BOY! I have not yet seen a copy of the magazine way out here in the wilds of Calgary. It may soon be up on the Esquire site, but it may or may not come with photos, and really, the photos make for some interesting viewing, providing you equate 'interesting viewing' with 'wacky redheaded writer plunging needles into his fat ass.' If so, then really, you shall be riveted.

Thank you to my editor, Ryan D'Agostino, who plucked my essay off the slushpile and ran with it. To Esquire, for printing it. And paying me. To Liz the fact-checker, who fact-checked the article into the dirt. As her job requires.

And for anyone now popping by having read the article and wanting the nitty-gritty about the nutjob who wrote the article ... two of the three photos in the article show me shirtless. This, for anyone who knows me, is a massive rarity. I am the anti-McConaughey in shirt-removal terms. It's not that I'm embarrassed but that there only seems like one or two instances where it's necessary to doff your shirt. 1. Taking a shower and swimming, or 2. Making pasta. Okay, really only one. If you were to look through the Davidson family album, you'd have to go back to when I was a toddler to find a photo of me shirtless. In fact, I was recently flipping through the ole Davidson family album and did indeed find the only photo of me, totally naked as a 2-year-old, wearing one of my mother's old sunhats. It no doubt explains alot about my history.

Anyway, so yes, two shirtless photos. One taken in my brother's house awhile back when I was fat as a suckling pig on roids; my brother was deeply saddened to take it, I think, because up until that point I'd been a pretty sensible person and it probably wrecked him to see me doing such a thing. The second was taken directly after my boxing match with Jonathan Ames and I'm sure I look rather dopey but I was deeply glad to have it over with and so that's ditzy post-fight euphoria on my face. The third one, where I'm thankfully shirted, was taken in my folks' house. In it, I'd been asked to look 'tough.'

A little about me and photographs. I'm sure that, over the past few years, I've been asked to 'look tough' more than any other writer. This is because there was a movement, futile as it was, to have my photos mirror my subject matter. This was as silly as asking Nora Roberts to look tough. But the photogs pressed into service on this fool's errand always told me "try to look tough." What was I supposed to do---growl? It's like being asked: "try to look intelligent." What should I do---smoke a pipe? Stare off into the indeterminate middle distance?

But the thing was, they always say: "Try to look tough." It made me think. If they were photographing a truly tough person like Chuck Liddell or Kimbo Slice, they wouldn't say anything. Or they might say, "Be yourself" if they were tasked with capturing them looking tough, as they're naturally tough. Then there are those people, certain actors like Thomas Jane or Hugh Jackman, where a photog could say: "Look tough" if that was the shot they were after; these guys may not naturally be tough but they hover in the vincinity of toughness and can pull it off in a pinch.

Then there's me, who is always told: "Try to look tough." This is where the photog realizes, immediately, that there's not a snowball's chance in hell I am tough, or can probably even fake it, but still, s/he's a professional so let's give it the ole college try. This usually ends in a series of photos wherein I look vaguely constipated trying to look tough and the photographer's off weeping behind the rubber tree at the back of the studio. Really, it's pitifully true, as anyone who's seen any of my author photos can attest to.

Anyway, so the last photo is me "trying to look tough." As I said, it was taken at my folks' house and in it you can once again see how all attempts to be tough are scuttled: if you look in the bottom right corner you will see, on a chair, some of my mother's stuffed teddy bears. This is not ironic positioning, I'm afraid.

Now, if you sort of liked the article, you can, if you wish---and this would be doing me a 'solid' as they say---write here:

editor@esquire.com

and give your thoughts. I think it's really the only way they can tell, at the magazine, if a piece was well-met or had any sort of impact. And if the feedback is strong, well, maybe Esquire will assign me another piece and send me out into the world to get myself into more mischief.

Also, I got a very odd email from Corn Refiners Association. In the article I make some comments about high fructose corn syrup, "a compound that inhibits the hormone leptin, which signals to the brain that the stomach is full." The Corn Refiners Association sent me a stern email saying: "We would like to provide you with science-based information on this safe, natural nutritive sweetener." So, at the risk of the CRA sending out its goons to beat me about the knees and torso with shellacked corn stalks, I would like to declare, here, publicly, that the scientific community is divided on its opinion of high fructose corn syrup.

All best, Craig.