michael murray

January 26th, 2012

Women’s Hockey Skills Class at Downsview Arena in Toronto

Perhaps 15 women have signed-up for this course that teaches basic hockey skills. Most of the women are in their 40s, the sort of people who grew up being taught figure skating, something feminine, while all the boys headed off to hockey, the sport that defined a nation. Well, now that women’s hockey is a celebrated part of the cultural landscape, these women, curious to know what they’ve missed, are now exploring the sport that both their sons and daughters play. Some of the women wear old figure skates, while others don the over-sized equipment of their husbandsor borrowed bits from their children. It’s a beautiful and sweet hodge-podge. Late on a Thursday night, in a quiet, unattended rink in an inconvenient corner of the city, people are following their curiosity, discovering something that could become a great love in their life.

After the practice, the instructor, a confident young woman, asks each person to tell the other players something about herself.

Karen McIntyre 41: All I want to do is learn to raise the damn puck!

Helene Francis 46: I haven’t had a drink in 14 years.
(Everybody nodes their heads in a supportive but still kind of awkward fashion.)

Marilyn Kim 29: My grandmother survived being hit by lightning twice.
(The room took on an astonished quality, with people shouting out, “No way!”)

Amanda Reasoner 34: I absolutely adore Dachshunds.

Erin Almond 44: This is my New Year’s Resolution, to play hockey. If my sons can do it, so can I! I can do more than just drive them around, you know!

Freddie Cruz 53: I’ve been with my partner Pauline for 17 years now.

Christine Poole 37: I’ve been with my partner Paul for 6 years now!
(Freddie and Christine high-fived after this.)

Julie Pitre 26: I think Yoga is completely over-rated and boring so I’m doing this.

Melissa Smith 40: I’m actually a very accomplished French horn player.
(Melissa did a courtesy after this announcement.)

Anastasia Trylowsky 41: I hate my job. I want to quit it and become something different.
(There were murmurs of sympathy and agreement throughout the locker room.)

Barbara Kendricks 44: I once lived in a haunted house. When the ghost was present you could smell lilacs.

Tanya Jackson 33: I love this. I love it all. You guys are awesome.
(Cheers and touched hearts flowed out of all the women.)

Amala Gupta 24: My lucky number is 7, so if whoever has 7 wants to trade jerseys I would be more than happy!
(One of the women peeled off her jersey and traded it with Amala.)

Helene Stoyan 44: My mother died three years ago today. I’m doing this because I think it would make her proud. She loved hockey.
(Everybody sighed.)

As this was the last person to speak, everybody in the room got up and gave one another a big, group hug.

Most of you probably don’t know this but I’ve been going through an intensive interview process for a job at Google. The company, known as one of the most desirable on planet to work for, gets over one million applicants a year. It has a five-interview hiring process and is famous for the surreal, unpredictable nature of the questions they ask of their applicants.

I am currently in interview stage number three and I will share with you a partial transcript of my latest interview:

Google: You’re in a car with a helium balloon tied to the floor. When you accelerate, what happens to the balloon?

Me: I don’t drive.

Google: You’re not the driver. You’re a passenger. You’re holding the balloon. In fact, you’re guarding the balloon and being paid $20 an hour to monitor its behaviour.

Me: That’s a very special balloon. What colour is it?

Google: It’s black.

Me: Would it be fair to say that the balloon was imprisoned?

Google: It might be.

Me: I would love the balloon enough to set it free, and if it came back it was mine and if not, it never was mine.

Google: Okay, Mister Murray. You are shrunk to the height of a nickel and thrown into a blender. Your mass is reduced so that your density is the same as usual. The blades start moving in 60 seconds. What do you do?

Me: I’m going to presume that I’m living in a supernatural world and that the blender has also been shrunk. If that’s the case then any effort to throw me into the blender would have failed and I’d be free to crush the blender without mercy, which is exactly what I would do. With a bat. One I conjured from this supernatural world.

Google: Okay.

Me: Aced it, didn’t I?

Google: What comes next in this sequence? 10, 9, 60, 90, 70, 66…”

Me: Superman.

Google: Why?

Me: You’d have to ask him, wouldn’t you?

Google: It’s true, Superman would be a very good job candidate. Okay, you and your neighbour are holding yard sales on the same day. Both of you plan to sell the exact same item. You plan to put your item on sale for $100. The neighbour has informed you that he’s going to put his on sale for $40. The items are in identical condition. What do you do, assuming you’re not on especially friendly terms with this neighbour?

Me: That is exactly the sort of thing my neighbours would do! They’ve been stealing my New Yorker magazine because they think that my wife and I throw too many parties. They’re assholes. They think we smoke too much weed and are always drunk, which simply isn’t true. Anyway, I would get my friend Steve to go and buy Don’s stupid, fucking table hockey set with my money, bargaining him down to $30, and then I would put that newly purchased table hockey set up for sale with mine, selling them each for $80 or two for $150. And then I would throw a big, fucking party.

Google: Thank you for your responses, Mister Murray, we’ll be in touch.

The Altar boys, all up earlier than they wanted to be on a Saturday, almost looked like they had hangovers. They were getting close to that age, and they all stood lifeless and uncommitted to the solemnity that was trying to unfold around them. Beneath their surplices they wore mismatched jeans and sneakers, the accidental finds of a rushed morning, and as the priest called forth to his Father in heaven, the eyes of the boys lost focus. They stood blankly, their posture falling away as if they were now slumped on the back of the school bus given to far off horizons.

The priest, as dramatic as an extra seeking stardom, had a conversation with God while the rest of us wondered where the deceased was, wondered if the priest might for a moment bring her back to us through his words. But no, he offered Communion to the assembly, and as they took it and passed by I looked in their faces, too, hoping to see some remembrance of the life that had just passed.

What was the woman with the churchy frown thinking?
The man with the drinker’s nose?
The person in a bomber jacket with the getaway tan?

It was all a mystery, one made rigid by ceremony.

The Altar boys, zoned-out by repetitions, forgot to stifle their yawns.

And then the granddaughter of the deceased began to sing.

Her voice was revelation.

The church was still and then full.

All the stained glass windows suddenly made sense and the young woman's voice, in an ancient and unfamiliar tongue, was rising beautifully. As if propelled and animated by the life of her grandmother, the woman was thusly returned to the congregation. The song of voice a distillate of all that had come before, now ascending through the church like incense, like light, to all that was to follow.

One of the most prevalent Internet memes going is “The Shit People Say” ones. The first one I saw was Shit Girls Say, which simply exploded, and soon enough the floodgates were open and all manner of variants were making their rounds. There must be dozens out by now, including, Shit Black Girls Say, Shit Asian Girls Say, Shit Spanish Girls Say, Shit Guys Say, Shit Gay Guys Say, Shit Black Gay Guys Say, Shit Yogis Say, Shit New Yorkers Say, etcetera, etcetera. It has probably run it’s course, but no matter, this is a wave I want to surf and am presently scripting my very own video, Shit Michael Murray Says.

This is how it will read:

That bitch is all hat no cattle.

Yes, I guess that I’m technically still between jobs.

The Lord is a panther who beats in your heart. Feel him and then set him free.

Go sit in a tree!

No, Heidi! No! Quiet! No, no barking! NO!!

Have you seen my breathe-rite strips?

This? It’s a Goodwill find.

Do I have toothpaste on my shirt? On my shoes?

I don’t know, I kind of feel like having steak for dinner.

I don’t like the way that squirrel is looking at me.

I believe that children are the future.

Man, I’m really congested today!

Whoever smelt it dealt it.

I used to be quite the athlete back in school.

If I was on that 9/11 plane that crashed into the Trade Towers, it wouldn’t have went down like it did. There would have been a lot of blood in that first-class cabin and then me saying, ‘OK, we’re going to land somewhere safely, don’t worry.’

No, I never read that book.

No, no, I’m not drunk, not even close.

The Neti Pot changed my life.

I kind of fell through the rabbit hole the other day.

A variety of things that were having a direct impact on my life, all events that I had very little, if any ability to influence, were taking place. Primary amongst them was a landlord imposed home renovation that was very loudly not going well. The work was going to take longer than expected, stretching over a week, and had eliminated access to the kitchen and our one washroom, and since I work from home, have a dog and pee a lot, I was feeling very irritable and put upon.

While trying to work in the shuddering, cacophonic mess that was our apartment, my phone rang. It was a robot voice calling on behalf of the Toronto Dominion Bank. The robot told me that the call was urgent and that suspicious activity had been detected in my account and to stay on the line for instructions. The robot voice then put me on hold.

You know the music.

It’s the music that makes you want to kill things.

Considering all the disastrous things that might have happened to our fragile savings, I waited for about ten minutes before an agent spoke to me. The issue was quickly resolved, but I was mad nonetheless. The bank had “protected” my debit card, which means they suspended it, due to what they thought was suspicious activity. I had done nothing out of the ordinary and wanted to know what it was that had sound the alarms. They wouldn’t tell me, as they want to safeguard their detection strategies, although they wouldn’t come out and say this, lest it might seem they were more concerned with protecting their interests than mine.

I was tenacious. If they refused to tell me exactly why they had frozen my ability to access my own money, I wanted them to give me the contact information of a senior employee so that I could write and express my dissatisfaction. Amidst a swirl of Orwellian Double-Speak, I was on the phone for two hours, put on hold 14 times, disconnected once and likely ruined the working day of at least three people, and of course, got not one inch closer to my objectives.

What difference can a finite life make in an infinite universe, right?

Last I heard, Ed Clark, the CEO of the Toronto Dominion Bank was making 10 million dollars a year and had more than 35 million worth of TD stock. In one week he makes more than I’ve managed to accrue in my entire life. I think that this bank has grown too large and self-interested, existing as little more than a grand and ever-expanding institute of profit. I think it’s unfair, even immoral, for customers to have such little authority over their own funds and to be "handled" by robots and script-readers without any access to those who work the levers of power. Couldn’t "The Bank" just decide that their profits need not be unlimited and scale back their search for more money so that they might actually provide a more intimate and honest relationship with the constituents who propel them to such dizzying financial heights?

Is that really such a crazy idea?

Last night was the Golden Globes awards ceremony and as usual I’ve been asked to provide some of famously biting commentary on the red carpet fashions.

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As far as I’m concerned Madonna has never looked better! This is the best she’s looked in 25 years! Her outfit is refined, sophisticated and sexy, exactly the sort of complex ensemble you’d expect from a daring and confident icon! When I look into her eyes I see pride and courage. I see an eagle, a woman who is not afraid to soar or use her mighty talons or her cowering prey! Congratulations Madonna on your lifetime achievement award!!

Boo! Boo! Boo, Natalie Portman!!

I know you just had a baby and everything, but you look like the drapes in my grandmother’s bungalow! You’re a boring swan, Natalie, a very boring swan! And what is that black thing lying on the carpet in front of you? It looks like there might be some dental floss attached to it. A spider? My wife Rachelle thinks it’s a burst balloon, but I think there might be something more ominous to it, something foreshadowing the demise of your career.

This photograph of that Spanish actress from that show about a family is very curvy. As you can see, she has decided to wear blue, the national colour of Spain, which is a very classy homage to her native land and the birthplace of the inquisition. I think she looks a little bit artificial in this picture, that her breasts might be too big for her dress, her mouth too big for her face and that her hair would really hurt if she whipped it around in a Latin fury and caught you in the eye.

7 out of 10

Looking at him, it’s hard to believe that Colin Firth is in his 50’s. He still has that movie star glow and his self-deprecating wit never gets old! I also love the commitment he dedicates to his roles! Eschewing the conventional tux and dressing up in character as Gary Smith the goaltender-detective, for awards night was brilliant publicity for his new film and added a burst of vibrancy and hilarity to an event that was threatening to become predictable!

As always, Imelda Swinton dressed in a vivacious, shocking and ultimately stunning fashion! This lady, who owns more than 10, 000 pairs of shoes, is not just a major talent, but is a species unto herself! Tall, thin and blessed with alien eyes, she’s a sturdy reminder of what angels with disabilities might look like. When The Rapture comes, I want to be carried home by her!

I found this letter folded into the pages of a used book I bought at a garage sale on the weekend:

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December 17, 2003

The Andersons' 2003 Christmas Praise Letter

Praises for our Precious Savior as we reflect on His birth!

Psalm 37:25 – “I was young and now I am old, yet I have never seen the righteous forsaken or their children begging bread.”

I write our Christmas letter this year as we ride along in our van. Around me are God’s majestic mountains of Tennessee. The sun is shinning brightly, the sky is blue and the beautiful carols of the season make for a holy background. The children’s voices are happy and excited as we anticipate our arrival at home in Michigan later tonight.

What an exciting year we have had! From God’s call to career missions on February 23rd till now, The Lord has been blessing, encouraging, and working in us all to change us into His image and prepare us for service in Australia.

Bobby has completed his certification to be a car salesman and hopes to soon be selling for a company in Kalamazoo or Paw Paw. He enjoyed several months of work for a game reserve and quickly adjusted to sleeping at night and being awake during the day.

We knew Jeremiah would likely be involved in a conflict in Iraq or Korea this year. We eventually received a call from him saying he was on his way to Kuwait and then on to Iraq. On November 23rd, Jeremiah’s 20th birthday, he would no longer be able to send or receive mail and would soon be moving across the border into Iraq.

We pray for him every day and trust him to The Lord’s care.

Jesse is now 16 and looking forward to getting his driver’s license. He is improving every week on his guitar and enjoys reading USA Today, as we travel. He is out throwing the football with the boys at rest stops.

Lois is doing a nice job on both the piano and violin. She seems to carry her gift of hospitality on the road and helps me so much by making beds, loading people’s dishwashers and just helping keep things picked up.

Timothy is a quiet traveler. He enjoys taking violin lessons and learning guitar chords. He has set up tents in the back of the van, played lots of tic-tae-toe and hangman and is becoming a nice young man.

Andy is really doing a great job of learning geography both in America and around the globe. He loves to stop at roadside rests and be rowdy!

Andrea has adjusted nicely and seems to like the adventure of meeting new people. She loves to eat Pepperidge Farm Goldfish.

We can never say enough about our Savior and His goodness to us. We praise Him for reaching down and touching our hearts and leading us to salvation. We praise Him for the sacrifice of His only Son. We praise Him for His love and watch care over our lives. We praise Him for revealing Himself to us more and more through creation, fellowship, prayer and His Word. May our Wonderful Heavenly Father bless and encourage you and please send our Jeremiah home safely into our arms.

For His Glory,

The Anderson Family

The other day while walking the dog down the street I paused to take a sip of water. As I did so, a squirrel fell from the tree and landed dead, directly at my feet. It was an utterly shocking moment and I immediately began to text my wife, Rachelle.

These are the text messages I received back from her:

The Apocalypse?
It’s happening right now?
I don’t think so. It’s just unseasonably mild.
Oh, I see, squirrels are raining from the sky.

It tried to die on your head?
And it was huge?
A sort of monster squirrel.
I see.
Calm down.
Calm down, sweetie.
Have a sip of water.
Did you eat any of those brownies that were in the freezer?
Are you sure?
There’s pot in those brownies, you know?
Well, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to eat them all, that’s why!
Michael, squirrels die.
It’s part of God’s plan.
And the reason it was so big was because it’s mild out and they can’t hibernate so they just keep eating.
He probably fell into a diabetic coma and fell from his branch.
Or had a heart attack.
No.
NO!
NO!! Do not try to resuscitate him! Do not try CPR!
It was his time!!!
He’s with Jesus now!!
They’re eating acorns together!
It’s beautiful, they’re bathed in light and everything smells like flowers.
You’re poking it with a stick?
Is he moving?
Well, that means he’d dead.
Yes, that’s true.
You do have many enemies.
I know you think somebody is stealing your New Yorker from the mailbox.
I know.
I know.
Yes.
You are powerful and many are out to get you.
Yes, likely by dropping dead squirrels at you from the sky.
That makes sense.
You think you need to learn to protect yourself?
Well, I would suggest buying a gun.
Yes.
And you could wear a cape and shoot all the squirrels your enemies throw at you out of the sky.
It would probably get optioned into a movie.
Tom Hardy could play you.
You two are dead ringers, it's true.

Will you pick-up the dry cleaning please?
I don’t think you’ll be haunted by a ghost squirrel.
No.
No.
Look, if there is a ghost squirrel it will just make the movie better.
The ghost squirrel will be like a side-kick.
Tom Hardy and the ghost squirrel bring justice to the world and defeat their magazine-stealing enemies.
When do you see your therapist again?
It feels like it’s been a long time.
Okay.
Gotta go.
Good luck avoiding the squirrels.
You're a very brave, little man!
Love you, xxoo Rachelle.

Today I have give the blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund for the day:

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Dear Stupid World:

Heidi very unhappy with you! You BAD DOG, BAD DOG WORLD! You slink off to corner and shiver, never be certain if get dinner again! Heidi hate your guts and want to rip them out and eat fast!

First, Heidi very mad at stupid New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest! Never accept Heidi submission! Heidi no understand, her captions best by far! Heidi think New Yorker full of classist snobs who wouldn’t know how to chase car if life depended on it! Stupid four-eyed nerd people couldn’t survive hour in forest! Nerd versus squirrel? Even retard squirrel win! Heidi could live in forest and become Queen, eat any animal that look at her wrong! Blood, dirt and fur everywhere, Heidi wear it like crown! When apocalypse comes, New Yorker nerdlingers first eaten by Queen Heid pack!!

Look at this one:

Heidi submission “You stupid squirrel fart!” is gold.

Why not take it? No sense.

And here Heidi submit, “Why chicken cross road? So Heidi destroy and eat!!”

Another winner, but again reject!

World so dumb, Heidi hate world!.

Heidi also submit picture to Cute Overload. Maybe not the best picture of Heidi, bad side, I guess. Picture of Heidi sleeping with paw over kill toy. See all of Heidi body, which is awesome turn-on body for any dog. Heidi sexy hot! But Cute Overload say no. What the fuck?!! Heidi not cute enough!!?? Heidi way too cute! Heidi think New Yorker own Cute Overload and they scared of real quality! Just chickens.

Look at moron posts!

This dog looks sick. Cute Overload think sick dogs look cute? Scared of healthy dogs? Heidi think so. Only post pictures of weak, subordinate animals that answer to slave names.Dog look very weak, like he have no pack, no look like cowboy that control horse and gun!!

Heidi kind of like this post. Not cute, but terror in pretentious cat face very good, very compelling! Heidi like idea of torture cats, of keeping them in pit of water and bark, bark, bark, bark at them! Be fun. Maybe Heidi start own web site. Very exclusive.

Yesterday I took my first yoga class in the history of my non-flexible life.

I was in over my head, and after an hour of being improperly attired, gasping, wobbling dangerously and lurching about as if blindfolded, existing wholly out of synch with the rest of the class, two other students actually approached me to offer me some consolation. They wanted me to know that it took them years to reach the levels they had achieved, and that given time, I might, too. The instructor, who was kind and helpful, as I am led to believe all yoga instructors are, told me that she did not want me to hurt myself and that perhaps I should try a less challenging branch of yoga.

I couldn't have agreed more.

I had of course imagined this day many times, picturing myself as the funny, if slightly creepy, older guy in the back row. I would make friends and surprise everybody with what a quick study I was. However, instead of being securely positioned in the back, slacker row, I was placed in the front row by the attentive and concerned instructor, and wasn’t able to prove myself funny to my peers as I was always out of breath, in pain or struggling in some other manner. To everybody else in the room, I probably appeared kind of sad and a little bit distracting. It wasn’t that everybody was looking at me it was more that everybody wasn’t looking at me, as if they couldn’t bear to watch, as I was a grim reminder of human mortality. I felt like a salesman nobody wanted to make eye contact with, like a person with a dry, hacking cough, or even a completely different species, some doomed sea creature that washed up on the beach and was covered in oil. I was conspicuously “the other.”

From various angles, as I looked up and into the mirror in front of the class, I saw spread out behind me rows upon rows of beautiful, graceful people moving in perfect, almost effortless harmony. It was as if, dying in battle, I saw fleets of angels waiting behind me to carry me home.

No matter, I am going to keep trying, just a much tamer version. Clearly POWER YOGA is not for me, but even so, it was a fun and worthwhile experience, however it was obvious that even within the apparent inclusion of such an enterprise, a person such as me, so out of place and asymmetrical, really would have been a continued disruption. My incompetence, even my spirit of incompetence, was ruining the vibe and rendering the holy sanctuary muddy, and I felt like I’d just done a cannonball into the cool, tranquil pool from which all had come to drink after their hard days work.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMC1_RH_b3k