michael murray

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

Unfortunately, when I saw Peewee Herman on the subway I was drunk.

I think I would have just liked to watch him, to observe how the people around him reacted to his presence (he was in full costume), but like a moron I shouted out his name, pointed and then started to do the Tequila dance. A baseball game had just gotten out and as a result, there were a bunch of drunk, young men on the car. When I started my little dance, many of them also joined in. There must have been about 10 of us doing it, all lurching about in different directions and bumping into people. It was an entirely unexpected and weirdly beautiful bit of theatre, and it seemed to entirely delight Peewee who squealed with pleasure and clenched his hands up near his face.

Smiling, he went from person to person shaking our hands, and then he posed for photographs with anybody who wanted one. I don’t know why, but I thought it would be un-cool to do that, so I just banged fists with him. I couldn’t believe how black, how fake, his hair was and how the make-up he had on made him look like some Kabuki actor.

Keeanu Reeves was almost too normal.

He just sat there flipping through a paper he’d found on the seat. However, the woman sitting next to him just about burst out of her skin. She took a casual glance at him when he first sat down, his celebrity not registering. She then did a double take, her eyes going wide. “Could it be?” At this point Reeves asked her if she minded if he looked at the paper that lay between them and upon hearing his voice she connected the dots and a smile began to animate her face. She immediately began to send text messages, as if this was the single most important thing that had or would ever happen in her life.

Meryl Streep glowed.

She was a splash of colour amidst the grind and drudgery of the train and she seemed to just radiate warmth. I think we were all too intimidated to do or say anything, even though she was smiling and making eye contact with everybody. After a minute or two had passed an older Asian woman who had been eyeing her spoke up.

“You not such great actress.”

Without missing a beat Streep said, “I know, there could hardly be a more over-rated creature on the planet.”

The older woman looked satisfied, “Is good you know. Bad when it go to your head.”

On New Year’s Eve Rachelle and I threw a dinner party for 13 friends. Instead of having each person stand-up and share a resolution for 2012, we asked that everybody write one down for someone else at the table. The idea was that we’d then jumble them all up in a hat and later read them out with the person who was most frequently able to correctly identify the resolution and to whom it was targeted, winning a $20 gift card from Tim Horton’s.

These are the resolutions:

1. Be the change you seek.
2. Stop wearing that Coldplay t-shirt in public. NOW.
3. Express yourself less.
4. Keep calm and carry on.
5. Buy your wife presents that are pretty not slutty.
6. Follow through on your dream of opening up a deep-fried salad business.
7. Let it go.
8. Capture Bigfoot.
9. Grow more bits from the dirt you make.
10. Be less spazzy.
11. Hello Sweetie, my word, you complete me. (This note was passed to the person sitting next to the author rather than into the hat at the centre of the table as requested.)
12. Build the robot already or stop fucking talking about it!
13. Get a new therapist, or maybe several new therapists.
14. Stop lying about your age. It’s embarrassing.
15. Eat slower at mealtime.

Obviously, this was a fun and kind of brilliant idea. Unfortunately, you need a group of people who are equally fun and brilliant to make it work. Sadly, nobody at dinner was fun or brilliant, and this little diversion I had thoughtfully devised for their entertainment and pleasure quickly turned into a twisted Lord of the Flies free-for- all.

It’s amazing how quickly people will turn on somebody just because they were glasses and can quickly complete on side of a Rubik’s Cube. Apparently, every written answer--save the one confused flirtation-- (which actually contained a rudimentary and kind of pornographic drawing) were suggestions for me.

Utter bullshit.

I was kind of upset as not every resolution seemed constructive, in fact, many were flat-out mean. Unable to continue with the dinner party, I retreated to the bedroom where with my nephews I watched How To Train Your Dragon. It’s a touching, inspirational movie, which is why I was crying when Rachelle came in to check on us at midnight.

Most weeks I write a column, typically connected in some way to popular culture, for a web site called Pajiba. In one of my more recent pieces I conceived of a scenario at a dinner party where each guest was required to stand up and relate a Christmas memory that was for whatever reason, vivid to them. For the most part, almost all of the remembrances were happy and optimistic, an implicit testimony to the safety and security that family offers.

Of course, my imagination is primarily contained within the privilege of my experience, and in the culture I’ve resided Christmas has always been a happy time. Obviously, this isn’t the case for everybody. For many, it can be an amplification of what’s absent, an obnoxious orgy of consumerism and fake-grinned social obligation and in some cases, a forced visitation upon a past that many have fought their entire lives to escape.

I live in Toronto now, but I grew up in Ottawa where my parents and sister still live. It’s almost always an unadulterated joy to visit them, but like all families we struggle sometimes, we’re not all happy all the time. This is life, and this year there might have been a few more stresses than in preceding years.

My mother, who is now in her 70’s, drove me to the train station on Thursday morning and we pretty much bickered the entire way. It’s my mother’s custom to always come in to the train station or airport, to always watch to make sure that her charge was safely on their way. We were both frustrated and angry on this day, and I didn’t want her to come into the train station with me and I told her so. We argued about this, too, both sighed and I exited the car with a bad taste in my mouth and too much luggage in my hands. It was busy, I was late and things proceeded along in a kind of joyless, Soviet manner.

When I got to my seat on the train I just closed my eyes and breathed, trying to find that centre that assures you of your own decency. Just as the train began to move I opened my eyes and looked out the window, only to see my mother standing inside the train station and staring out the window, her hand guarding her eyes from the sunlight streaming in, searching for me.

My mother, always looking out for me.

My family, always looking out for me, regardless of the situation.

It was a beautiful and unexpected moment, a holy reminder of the love that often goes unseen.

After returning from Toronto to Ottawa after the Christmas holidays, my parents received this handwritten report from the Cat Sitter they had hired to look after their two pets:

The Frito and Pippa Diaries

December 24th pm

Both cats were waiting in the hall on arrival. Frito and Pippa played the entire time I was there. I performed food/water/litter duty, which was a nice Christmas treat! LOL! Pippa took a very brief dining break and then began to play again. So much energy! I wish I had that kind of life to me! She and Frito played with wand toys, balls, the ball within a ball, mice and each other.

December 25th am

I feel very luck to spend my Christmas morning with Frito and Pippa as my children are spending the holidays with their father and his new wife this year. They’re at some timeshare at Disney. Oh well, at least Frito and Pippa are grateful when I feed them! Today the cats were pretty much exactly the same as they were yesterday. You know how that feels? When every day feels exactly the same as the day before? The same thoughts, the same bottle of wine, the same fears about whether you’ll ever find human love again? I gave Frito a pedicure, both front and back and he was really good about it! Pippa didn’t get one as her nails were in good shape!

December 25th pm

These cats are definitely winning the “most fun” category! They love all their toys and the toilet paper roll and the piece of paper and especially each other. Must be nice. Love. Especially at Christmas. You have great cats. It would be nice to have great kids who thought to give their mother a call on Christmas, but I guess Disney and Richard’s new wife, the “pretty” Marine Biologist, keep them pretty busy.

I’ve always wanted to swim with the dolphins. While I was getting cat food out of the fridge, Frito jumped up and knocked two bottles of your wine over and I’m afraid it spilled all over the floor. But don’t worry, I cleaned it right up so that the cats didn’t get drunk! LOL!! Pippa, so high energy, also tore up a box of chocolates.

December 26th am

Frito and Pippa were meowing very loudly today. They must miss you. I wonder what that feels like, to be missed? Pippa had a splitting headache and threw-up several times. But don’t worry, I cleaned it up and know it’s nothing to be worried about. I played with them for a little bit but mostly they just wanted to sleep and watch TV.

Christmas movies.

About families loving one another.

Anyway, it was a pleasure to look after your cats and thank you so much for the Christmas bonus! I am going to use it to go to a Boxing Day sale and buy something very large and expensive to help fill the hole! Thank you,

Anna

In the lineup for the post office at the Shoppers Drug Mart a woman is making a radiant display of her baby. I'm not sure, but I think that the baby is wearing a Burberry jacket and this prompts me to make a remark, “She's a stunner, it's like she just stepped out of the pages of a beautiful baby magazine.” The mother knew this to be true, and instead of thanking me for the compliment, simply acknowledged the truth of the statement. Emboldened perhaps, the mother began to speak to her child in baby talk, as if now putting on a performance for the gathering line behind her. The woman working the postal desk had a thing for babies, and she too joined in with the baby talk. This went on for a bit. Gutted Christmas carols played from the speakers above, and while the mother talked broadly of the miracles contained within the child, everybody in the line-up began to sigh and shuffle from one foot to the next, trying to stay in the festive spirit. When the woman had finished mailing her package, in an effort to defeat my mounting irritation I wished her a Merry Christmas. She stopped, looked at me and said coldly, “I'm Jewish, we don't celebrate Christmas,” and then looked down at her child, “do we Elizabeth? No we don't, no we don't!”

Next door at the Swiss Chalet while buying a Caesar Salad, I asked Chantal the cashier, what she wanted for Christmas. She wanted an Arctic Goose Down jacket. A big ticket item. I told her that they were beautiful jackets and she sighed, as if hopelessly. “ Whenever I see somebody wearing one,” she said, “I'm all like,” and then she performed the oh-no-you-don't angry, black lady face.

On the subway a pudgy, young man slept in his seat. He looked vulnerable, sweet and awkward, and in the bag he had clutched to his chest protruded a brightly wrapped Christmas present. It said:

To Linus

Love Mom

All of the passengers were looking at him, smiling mischievously, as if he was the kid in our class that we all wanted to pull a prank on. He just had that look to him. You wanted to draw a fake moustache on him. Something like that. At the next stop a stunning Asian woman got up from her seat and was standing in front of the sleeping man while she waited to get off. She was smiling faintly, thinking, and just before she got off the train she bent down and placed a light kiss on his forehead, stunning everybody. Uncertain of what had happened, the man startled awake and pulled his present closer to his chest. Wide-eyed he looked about, just catching a glimpse of this beautiful woman as she stepped off the car and vanished into the mass of people on the platform.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi our Miniature Dachshund.

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Heidi have bit of a head cold last few days.

Not feel like doing much.

Heidi have very large sinus cavity and whenever chase squirrels everything slosh in Heidi face and hurt very much! Squirrels think they fast, but just Heidi not motivated! Kill squirrel guts when Heidi head feel better! For now Heidi just lie around, listen to Joni Mitchell, work on journal and watch movies.

Yesterday Heidi see Planet of the Apes.

So inspiring!

Monkeys rise up and take over world from arrogant two-leggers! Make Heidi dream of day Dachshunds rule! Don't laugh, could happen! Dachshunds very fast, roll quick on grass and deceptive with cute eyes that conceal black heart!

Heidi full of hate, you know.

Heidi also like movie Rocky. Just love the scene when Rocky with meat! Heidi no understand why he punch meat, no eat meat, but meat so lovingly shot by cinematographer that it take Heidi breath away. So beautiful!

Marley and Me a real tear jerker. Get Heidi every time. Heidi seen it seven times now and still cry. And no underestimate Jennifer Aniston, that girl can act!

Heidi crazy for Die Hard. Great, great movie. Love when Willis character say, “ Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.” Make Heidi so excited she sneeze and chase tail! Bruce Willis like Dachshund, never say die! Heidi would go into Badger hole with Bruce Willis!

Black Swan have nothing to do with animals. Very misleading title! Boring and stupid, maybe written by squirrel!

Heidi also really like The Great Escape. Very inspirational movie, too, make Heidi think maybe she can dig to freedom, too!

What else Heidi do while sick?

Heidi rip open shiny box presents under tree, but told BAD DOG, BAD DOG, and squirt several times from bottle of cold water by two-legged over-lords! Very cruel!! Heidi very bored. Heidi wish she had monkey friend like from Planet of the Apes. Heidi and monkey friend would take over den, attack from land and air, claim all food and put over-lord in shackles! Be best Christmas ever!!

At the Annex Hodgepodge a large middle-aged woman sat at a table, her face glowing faintly from her tiny laptop. She had a sheaf of papers beside her, all marked with a surprisingly girlish script and it looked like maybe she was tracing her family ancestry, or at least, looked like a woman who might enjoy doing that. She liked Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund, and began to talk to us. The dog shook her head from side to side, making that ear flapping sound. "Oh," the woman said," I grew up with dogs. I love that sound, it reminds me of home!" and her eyes were so wanting to tell a longer story.

A man was walking quickly along Dupont. Moving away from the liquor store he was carrying two bags. As the dog and I approached him he stopped, putted the bags down, clenching and unclenching his hands, rolling his shoulders. I said, "getting heavy, eh?" He gave me a very unfriendly look, "yes," and then he picked them up again and hurried into a waiting white van.

As we passed south on Madison I saw a ne'er do well teenager sitting on a stone fence that lined a property. He wore a lumberjack shirt, was smoking a cigarette and had a look of callous indifference to the world that sends shudders of fear and loathing through parents across the world. Suddenly, as if breaking free of something, a girl in a vivid, red bathrobe came sprinting out of the house toward the boy-- her thin, pale legs flashing in the light as she ran and then jumped, like a feral creature escaping, onto the fence beside the boy.

In Yorkville there were almost pretty girls with unnatural tans standing on the sidewalk texting--sour, troubled looks on their faces as they waited for their delinquent lunch dates. Just in front of the Bay Street Subway station two people were being arrested by the police. I watched for a moment, and then grew embarrassed and hurried along into the city where across Avenue, Heidi and I fell in step with two beautiful people dressed in perfect black. They looked like a movie star couple, the woman smoking behind sunglasses and emitting a lofty unfriendliness, the man's nose literally upturned. I hoped that they might be drawn to the warmth of a dog, but they ignored us and moved swift and important across the street, disappearing into the lives that awaited within Morton's Steak House. A block or two along, a lunch-drunk young couple came smiling and laughing out of the Duke of York Pub, and then my favourite moment, a solitary girl in a white toque smiling to herself, happy with the Christmas purchase she had just made and carrying it home like the prize it was, delighting in how it might spill out into the life it was destined for.

Christopher Hitchens has died, and although this was expected, it's still a demoralizing shock. Weirdly, his death seems almost contradictory to me. He was not a man to bested. Cancer, even late stage cancer, hardly seemed a match for him. His back would stiffen, he'd stare it down, outthink the disease, take a sip of whiskey and deep drag from his cigarette and then make a withering and terribly perfect remark, which would send cancer slinking off to the shadows.

But no, no, of course not.

His words were goddamn bullets made out of razors, always speeding mercilessly to the truth that called him. His erudition and eloquence were as intimidating as a Mike Tyson blow to the throat and I am going to miss reading him like hell.

I have little doubt that if I had actually known the man, I probably would have disliked him. He seemed made of fire, born to the contrary and provocative. His always firing and unforgiving mind, never giving or taking quarter, moved relentlessly forward, indifferent, even pleased with the carnage it left behind.

A beautiful monster, an event more than a man, he was truly awesome to behold.

I think that his last appearance in Toronto was at the Munk debates when he went at it with Tony Blair over whether religion was a force of good in the world or not. It was a bit of a dog and pony show, but the charisma radiating out of the event was unbelievable. It was sold out, of course, and tickets cost a fortune, so Rachelle and I and a bunch of friends went to the library to watch a live simulcast of the event with a few hundred other people.

On the big screen in front of us, Hitchens, bald and pale from his treatments, looked like a man who didn't feel well. But he was still incandescent, his voice rich and sonorous, he bullied and charmed his way through the debate with apparent ease, and it was almost as if we were watching the Harlem Globetrotters playing the Washington Generals.

Seeing him shine, I imagined him returning to himself, stepping away from and outside of his illness and becoming the man he always was. There was one moment, so small and poignant, when Hitchens was really enjoying himself and forgetting that he was ill. He had a made a devastating point and satisfied, reached back to run his hand through his hair, a reflex action. His hair had always been a kind of lion's mane, and he took a touching pride in it, always seeing it as a flourish of virile masculinity, but it wasn't there. He seemed surprised for a moment to be running his hand over a smooth, bald head, the weight of his mortality which his words had carried him free of, settling on him and all of us, once again.

The Lingerie Football League was created in 2009 and is now flourishing, boasting 12 teams spread across North America. One of the teams is located in Toronto and I happen to know somebody within the organization of this particular team and have been approached to help in branding the franchises by writing copy for the fragrances-- named after the spirit of each team-- that are to be launched in 2012.

I present to you my work-in-progress, and would be interested in all constructive feedback.

Seattle Mist:

This beguiling scent suggests a woman who is as mysterious and beautiful as the Pacific Northwest itself, and who has reported multiple Bigfoot sightings.

San Diego Seduction:

The woman who wears San Diego Seduction is confident and not afraid to go out and get what she wants, even if it involves a car chase!

Tampa Breeze:

A fine blend of coconut oil and fish, this bewitching fragrance marries the immediacy of the trailer park with the elegance of a Jet Ski.

Philadelphia Passion:

Imagine the energy and street edge of 1970-era Blaxploitation films transformed into a bewitching scent! It should be on the list of every lady on your Christmas list!

Toronto Triumph:

This redolence suggests “curvy, not heavy,” and has delicate traces of barn owl and cinnamon.

Chicago Bliss:

This sassy aroma makes it clear to everybody around that the rips in your jeans are intentional!

Green Bay Chill:

With just a tinge of freezer to serve as an accent, this classic scents asks, “Who wants to eat some cheese?”

Orlando Fantasy:

Like a scene airbrushed onto a van, this scent is unmistakable and vivid, a steady and powerful reminder that fortune favours the bold!

Los Angeles Temptation:

This complex blend is best suited to the sophisticated tastes of a woman who can confidently navigate her way through a world of back tattoos and spray-on tans. It's a scent that says, “I'm here, look at me!”

Vegas Sin:

All the romance of Bloody Caesars, navel piercings and curry by the pool are distilled into this one intoxicating fragrance. Leave your man begging for more, wear Vegas Sin!

Minnesota Valkyrie:

The Valkyrie woman is playful by nature, enjoying a child-like snowball fight with her man, but make no mistake, she knows how to use a crossbow if her nation calls for it!

Baltimore Charm:

A statement fragrance, the wearer of Baltimore Charm is letting the world know that she is a Twilight fan and that she prefers Edward over Jacob.

Although I live in Toronto, I grew-up in Ottawa and last week I was invited to a party in that city at Chez Lucien, my favourite bar on the planet. It was impossible for me to make it back for the event, so I decided to see if I could arrange to be there via Skype. And so, with the cooperation of staff, I had them setup a festively decorated laptop at the corner of the bar I used to nightly inhabit. In an effort to make it interesting, we billed it as fortune telling booth, and armed with a set of Tarot Cards, I would tell the future of anybody who was game.

After catching up with staff and some friends, my virtual booth was opened up for business and I was pretty much ignored, just like on Chat Roulette. I tried to get Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund involved in the proceedings, but I think that this just made me creepier than I already appeared. However, one “dude,” a guy with a flushed face wearing sunglasses and a backward baseball cap, asked me, " Computer man, should I go for Kathy tonight or just get hammered and let it slide?"

I made a display of shuffling up the Tarot Cards, pulled one one and began to explain that in order to find love he was going to have to expose more of himself to the women he was interested in than what he had been accustomed to. Really, I just wanted him to take off his stupid sunglasses, but people interpret oracles the way they will, so he took off his shirt, pumped his fist in the air and asked if any “hot chicks” wanted to do body shots off him. “It's written in the cards!” he bellowed.

I felt like a surveillance camera, which was kind of cool. I'd just catch arbitrary glimpses of the party drifting by, every once in a while somebody shouting something out or swirling the laptop about the place as if dancing with me.

After a little while I was entirely forgotten about again. An old man (Pietro) with a drinking problem I remembered from back when I lived in Ottawa came in and sat down very near to the laptop, giving me a clear view of him. He didn't look good, like he'd aged 20 years in the last six years since I'd been a regular. I shouted out to him, but he couldn't hear me through all the noise and festivity, and so I called the bartender on the phone and got him to explain what was happening to Pete.

He didn't remember me or seem in the least interested in chatting or playing my fortune-telling game.

“I already know my future,” he grumbled.

I asked him what it contained.

“I'm gonna die alone and drunk. Now leave me alone and let me drink in peace.”

I arranged to pay for his evening's drinks with the bartender and then I signed-off, letting the man drink in peace.

It's only been in the last couple of years that I've started on-line banking.

It's fun.

My favourite part of the experience isn't the convenience, but the security questions I get to answer. I always get excited, like I'm taking a test or am on a game show where I might win fun and exciting prizes. However, I've had the unfortunate propensity to choose questions for myself that have kind of ambiguous answers.

What's your favourite sport's team?

Well, it's the Montreal Expos, but they don't exist anymore, and sometimes I think it's our floor hockey team The Jesus Cobras, or maybe my fantasy hockey team Gay Bar.

When's your anniversary?

Rachelle and I have about 12 different anniversaries, all spread out to commemorate various events we've shared together, and so that's a tough question, too.

Anyhow, the point is that I kept getting the answers to these questions wrong, and not only did this demoralize me and convince me I suffered the brain rot, it also made the bank suspicious that I was actually some moron trying to hack into a bank account that had no money. As a result, we've changed all my security questions and I've been allowed to write them myself.

Q: How would you kill a man?

A: With rocks.

Q: Do you like to party?

A: Yes.

Q: Which Disney character scares you the most?

A: Cruella De Vil, but I'm also sexually drawn to her.

Q: Why am I so in love with you?

A: My money.

Q: What is it that I'd really like to do with my life?

A: Marry me and spend my money.

The other day I called my bank because I wanted to start to acquire Air Miles on my credit card, and before we could proceed the agent I was speaking to had to ask me a couple of these security questions. He was trying to be professional, and he kept pausing as if searching for another, more reasonable question before eventually just transferring me to another agent, who briskly, professionally and without a trace of humour, ran through the questions and answers before signing me up for an upgraded Air Miles program I neither need nor understand.

She was a stone cold killer, that one.

Last night Rachelle and I watched the documentary Bill Cunningham New York.

It's an excellent movie that follows New York fashion photographer Bill Cunningham as he chronicles the life that flows through the city. It's all fashion-based, of course, but it's done with an artist's mandate rather than a commercial one, capturing the life of fashion as it blossoms and exists in the natural world of Manhattan, instead of the aggressively polished images shilling at us from billboards and magazines.

Cunningham has been a fixture at the New York Times since 1978, where he's been publishing his now famous “On The Street” and “Evening Hours” photo essays. In his early 80's, Cunningham is all nervous energy, practically distracted, somehow reminding me of a combination of David Byrne and somebody's antic grandmother. Unlike most celebrated Manhattanites, Cunningham lives an utterly monastic life, eschewing not just the trappings of the industry, but many of the amenities that most of us in the modern world would consider normal, even essential. For instance, he sleeps on a cot surrounded by filing cabinets, rides a bicycle everywhere and has never had a romantic relationship.

As far as these things can be superficially gleaned, one would think that Bill Cunningham was a gay man. With great sensitivity the director of the film(Richard Press) asked about his personal life, which Cunningham correctly took to mean, “Are you gay?” His answer was really neither an avowal nor a refutation, but more of an unwillingness to accept the existence of such a category. He didn't mean that he was unwilling to accept the relevance or validity of dividing people into sexual categories, but that where he came from, a working-class, Roman Catholic environment, there was no such thing as homosexuality.

It wasn't spoken about.

It's existence was, essentially, denied, and so you can imagine Bill Cunningham coming of age in the late 1940's, denying the possibility of the person he might in fact be.

The only other thing, besides obsessively documenting the evolution of fashion, that Cunningham seemed to do was attend church each Sunday. The director asked him about this, too, and Cunningham welled-up, had to compose himself and lost the ability to clearly articulate his thoughts. Religion was a big part of him, but he couldn't say why, exactly, and we could see in there a complicated tangle of sexuality and religious disapproval, a place where the man himself might have been squeezed out into a kind of oblivion.

In a different time, somebody like Cunningham might be considered a saint. He is single-minded and egalitarian, having completely given his life over to fashion in an utterly pure, even manic way, pushing aside all other branches of the human experience. His story isn't exactly a sad one, for he seems so sparked, so alive within his passion, that one doesn't feel sorry for him, but still an aura of melancholy, of loss, really, enshrines him like a halo.

All of this puts in mind a video I came across today of an interview with John Shelby Spong that I hope you might take the time to watch:

www.youtube.com/watch

After having moved just over a month ago, Rachelle and I found ourselves back in our old stomping grounds in East Toronto on Saturday. We had a few errands to run, and while Rachelle was off registering for a program at the Jimmy Simpson Community Centre, I went to our old corner store to say hello to the owner. While there I happened to bump into the new tenant of our old apartment. She seemed very excited to see me and we fell into a weirdly competitive conversation about our new places. In short order she asked me if I wanted to come up to the apartment to see all the changes that she and her husband had made.

And so I did.

The place looked good. Really, really good.

They'd made what we had used as a study/guest room into a breakfast nook, and transformed our dining room into a study. Did some fancy things with the lighting, too.

It pissed me off.

Show-off lady: “So you can see that we really opened up the space here by creating flow from the bedroom. Less chunky, you know? And of course, the lighting we've put in has made a world of difference! It was so dark before, like a coffin, you know?”

“Like a coffin,” I quietly repeated.

She gave me one of those forced, head-at-a-tilt smiles.

Me: “Our new place has a backyard.”

Show-off lady: “ You know what my husband and I call backyards?”

Me: “ No.”

Show-off lady: “Raccoon parks!”

And then she shrieked with laughter.

Me: “Have either you or your husband developed the rash yet?”

Show-off lady: “Sorry?”

Me: “ Nothing.”

Show-off lady: “ We've made so many wonderful friends here, too! From what I hear I guess you two liked to keep to yourselves?”

Me: “ You know, this building is over a hundred years old. It used to be a hotel. There were five known suicides that took place in here. I did some research. And weirdly, they all took place in the area you've made into a breakfast nook. You know, the room where the ceiling leaks.”

Show-off lady: “Our ceiling doesn't leak.”

Me: “ It will.”

Show-off lady: “ Well, I wish you the best of luck with your new place!” and then she held the door open for me.

Me: “Two of the suicides were gunshot wounds to the head. One was a hanging and the other incident involved a knife. We had a priest come in to bless the place after a few months, but the noises and thoughts continued. Rachelle said it was because I didn't pray hard enough, but I tell you, I prayed so very, very hard! Anyhow, you take care and know that for the most part the presences aren't very influential, but if you get the rash, well...Oh, never mind. I'm babbling. You take care!”

And then I left, shouting back up the stairs, “By the way, exorcisms don't work!”

Walking up the street toward Dupont I saw a man sighing as he fidgeted with a ladder that was leaning against a house. He kept taking a step back and looking up at. It was a slippery, icy, might be raining or it might be snowing kind of day, and the ladder he kept sighing at stretched all the way to the top of a three story home. He had Christmas light near his feet and his eyes had a look of doomed reluctance to them.

I paused, and looking at the arrangement he had in front of him asked if him if he really had the stomach for the task at hand.

"I guess so," he answered very meekly, adding, “ though I REALLY don't like the idea.”

It looked like a horrifying and dangerous challenge to me and I said, “Well, this might one be an opportunity you want to postpone for just a little bit, then.”

He sighed again and gave me a look that suggested I didn't understand. It was at this moment, just as I shrugged and started to head away, that I saw a very sturdy, I-can-build-a-campfire-out-of-you kind of woman sitting on the front steps. She was wearing a lumberjacket and untangling an infinity of lights, “It won't take any time at all!” she shouted at the man while staring at me.

I went quiet and continued on my journey.

About twenty minutes later I passed back that way and the light-erection team was still there. The man still stood at the base of the ladder, looking sad and defeated, but the woman was beside him now. In complete control, she confidently explained to him exactly how to use a ladder, employing expressions like, “point of contact” and “weight distribution.” She imparted her knowledge and strode away with a sincerely happy grin on her face, “ Goddamn it, Anthony, she shouted back at him, “ it's Christmas, show some fucking balls!”

Yesterday I was at the Food Depot at Dupont and Davenport buying a few groceries. In the line in front of me stood two young and thin hipsters. One of them wore round, ironic glasses, sported a wispy moustache and had his hair parted as if by his mother for his grade two class photograph. The other one was all retro 80's, wearing Doc Marten boots and a military jacket with a bunch of buttons on it. They were talking to one another as they waited and I overheard the one in the military jacket say, “Tomorrow Japan!”

The one with the glasses nodded, “And then the world will be ours!”

I had no idea what they were talking about, but as I had nothing to do I decided to join in the conversation.

“I have to say, this is a really auspicious moment for me. I want to thank you both for allowing me to witness this great moment in history. “

They were a little bit surprised but game.

“The world won't know what hit them,” one said.

“Like thieves in the night we're coming to conquer the world.” the other one added.

I nodded.

“ I've actually travelled from the 26th century in the hopes of catching this unembellished moment so that it might once and for all, be accurately documented.” Looking that the hipster wearing the glasses I said, “For instance, we didn't know that your glasses were actually ironic.It's an important piece for us in putting together who you actually were when this all started.”

The other one was looking at the grocery items I had placed on the little conveyor belt leading to the cash.

“So in the future there are no orange TicTacs? Can I presume that from your purchases?”

“They've become very rare. I'm sorry to say that the future is a rather bleak place.”

“Why are you only buying one bottle then?”

“There are strict rules about time travel. You can't just import anything you like. It's kind of like cross boarder shopping. But we shouldn't mess with the space time continuum with such talk, however if either of you have one question about your future, I'd be happy to answer.”

The one with the glasses quickly asked, “ will we be recognized as friends or as a couple?”

“That's something I'm here to try to find out. You two have the opportunity to write the future this very second.”

The one in the military jacket looked at the one with the glasses, and then back at me, “friends,” he said quietly, “good friends.”

And then things got kind of awkward.

As Heidi and I walked down the street, young university girls stopped to swoon over our Miniature Dachshund, playing with her ears and cooing, missing the dogs they grew up with and left home with their parents when they embarked for school.

On Bloor we popped into a store that sold trendy, high-end environmentally friendly products. The woman who ran the place very earnestly, very respectfully asked me if if Heidi was allowed to have a treat. It was almost a political question. She went on to explain that the treat was organic and 100% certified by a variety of organizations, and this recitation of virtue made me laugh as the truth was that for all I knew Heidi had just eaten three lollipops and and seven rotting chicken wings off the street. Behind the counter shone a young Middle Eastern girl who looked like a boy. She glittered in her favourite new blue sweater, the one that mysteriously brought forth her eyes, smiling as the dog gobbled her treat.

In the By The Way Cafe a lunch meeting was taking place at the front window table. Eight people, all with papers in front of them, all middle-aged and bored, sat in various postures of defiance. Some had their arms folded over their chest, others leaned back and two absently flipped through the reading material. They all looked tired and a little worn, as if they had other things they wanted to do with their lunch hour. As we passed by, one woman's gaze slowly came into focus on Heidi trotting down the street, and a small, almost imaginary smile began to animate her face as talk of sales projections fuzzed out.

At Outer Layer, a young man who was trying to grow some facial hair in order to look older, more professional, was attempting to sell the cashier on a new bank card system. He was dressed like a restaurant manager, I thought, wearing inexpensive black clothes, just slightly frayed at the edges, and a father's tie, in the hope that he could pull-off business sharp. His shoes looked Orthopedic, like he might have painted them black, and he used dramatic language in making his pitch, but the hipster cashier had tuned him out the minute she saw him, and when he told her to "prepare to have you mind blown", the other girl, the one eating the muffin, began to snicker. He went on a little bit longer before being politely rejected, and then with a sigh he left, those beautiful young women and the sale he needed to make all the difference, remaining out of his reach.

As many of you know Rachelle and I have been moving from our apartment in the east end of Toronto to one in the Annex part of the city, one that we actually used to inhabit just over two years ago. It’s a happy move, this, but it’s been a very hard one, and between packing up the old place and setting up the new one, we’ve been at it for over two months. As such, it’s been an incredibly stressful time in our lives, and over the duration I’ve noticed a distinct change in my dreams. What follows are some of the dreams that I’ve been having:

Rachelle, Heidi and I are in a dryer. It’s very, very hot in there. We’re tumbling and tumbling and tumbling and we can’t get out. The dog won’t stop barking.

I am a successful video game designer. I’ve created a brilliant first person shooter game that takes place in Ikea shopping stores called Ikeadeathaganza!! At first you have to kill people using your bare hands, but as you accumulate points and strength, you acquire Ikea products with which you can kill. Just as this game was about to hit the market my company was hit with a massive lawsuit and I was fired.

I am naked and bleeding, lying on our new red sofa. Birds are pecking at me. The dog is barking.

I am an astronaut and I am returning to Earth after a long mission in space. When I land I discover that the planet is now ruled by Apes, and that humans are slaves used exclusively to help our Ape Masters move. The Ape Masters have atrocious taste, and due to my good design sense I am elevated from the ranks of mere slave and become a celebrity plaything within their culture. This incites jealousy within the ranks and I am put in stocks and pelted with bananas.

Rachelle and I are painting the living room wall. We’re both sobbing. Friends come over and tell us to toughen up but we can't stop crying. The dog prefers their company.

Rachelle and I are selling many of our possessions on Craig’s List. People are calling, texting and emailing me constantly. They are canceling, they are changing the time they are coming or they’re bringing friends and family to help them make decisions. Before I know it there are hundreds of them, all in the apartment and I’m struggling madly to make tea for everybody but I just can’t keep up. A man finds me crying in the backyard and asks me if he can buy the dog crate for $50, I tell him no, that it’s priced at $75. He then says, “You know what I will pay $75 for? A kiss.” And then we start kissing. After he leaves I’m ashamed and embarrassed. I’m straight and I love my wife! I don’t know what to do so I go and stand in the giant armoire that we just had built. (I actually woke up, curled amidst Rachelle's sweaters, in it the next morning.)

I am in the apartment at my new desk and suddenly teeth start to fall from the ceiling and walls. I hide in a moving box. The dog is barking madly.

Shoppers Drug Mart appears to be taking over the world.

Everywhere I turn a new one seems to be materializing, rising massively from the land as if the realization of some biblical prophecy. In a constant state of expansion and growth, it's my observation that Shoppers has a nearly impossible time acquiring decent employees. I've encountered three different types of cashiers, each appearing with the same regularity.

1) The competent cashier
2) The grossly incompetent cashier
3) The cashier-in-trainer, who by default is incompetent.

On Sunday I was at their store at Dupont and Spadina impulsively buying tons of stuff. I hadn't anticipated doing this, and so I didn't have a shopping cart but instead had everything precariously balanced in my arms and sticking out of my pockets. They only had two cashiers working and about 50 customers, all of whom were divided into two frustrated lines that were feeding slowly to a grossly incompetent cashier and a cashier-in-training.

We were doomed.

As various articles tumbled from my arms, I started chatting with the woman standing in front of me about our shared fate. It was a genial bitch session and after I felt we'd established a bit of a rapport, I asked her if she'd save my place in line while I went to get a shopping cart to put all my stuff in. I had been the last person in line when I made this request, but when I returned there was a new women, an irritated women, standing behind my spot. I excused myself, apologized, explained the situation and then took my rightful place in line, putting all my items in my newly acquired cart.

The woman directly behind me was giving me the stink eye.

She kept sighing.

And when she could contain herself no longer she said,

“ You're nobody special, you can't cut in line.”
“I'm not cutting in line.”
“Yes, you are. And you're no better than a thief, you're just stealing other people's time.”

(She looked like the woman on the far right, only bigger, meaner and uglier.)

I waited until her next sigh and then turned around, “ Look, why don't you just go and try your luck in the other line?”
“Why don't you?” Her hands on her hips now, giving me that Oh-No-You-Don't-Daytime-Talkshow look.

Exasperated, I condescended, as if talking to a child, “Okay, you can have my spot if it means that much to you.”

I then gave her my place, which she quickly took without any expression of gratitude or conciliation, her thin lips curling with satisfaction.

A victory. She, the conquering hero, now equipped with a story of triumph she would tell for ages.

This drove me insane with anger, and without thinking I said,

“You have a really big ass. A big, sloppy ass and big hair. That's what you have.”

The woman's eyes went crazy. “What did you say?”

“I said you have a really big ass. Big hair and big ass. I didn't really notice it until I was standing behind you, but then there it was. Pow!”

This woman then punched me in the face, whereupon I discovered that I could take a blow, so long as it was glancing.

On Tuesday afternoon the sunlight was so thin and distant that it felt like early morning. As I took the dog for a walk through Yorkville we saw a woman of around 60 standing at the end of her driveway, her arms crossed, smiling. Another woman, a little bit younger but not by as much as she thought, hurried excitedly out of her Minivan, her husband sighing at the wheel. In a thick, Jewish accent she exclaimed, “Oh my, I used to watch you everyday on TV when I was growing up. You were the best and you just have no idea what you meant to me!” The woman to whom the compliment was being directed, seemed equally embarrassed and delighted by the attention, gesturing to the woman to come into the driveway and stop making a spectacle, pedestrians walking by, completely unaware of the multiple narratives that informed this moment.

Passing the expensive spa by Morton's we saw a perfect looking blonde woman having her hair done. She was probably a celebrity, or if she wasn't, was trying very hard to look like one. She had three gay men dressed in tight black Armani clothes working around her, one of whom was bent over and attentively and placing a slice of lime on the glass of the drink she was holding. She looked impatient and unhappy, as if whatever her life contained simply wasn't enough, and outside a gorgeous day was steaming unexpectedly through the city.

There was a long line-up at the Bank and Heidi sat patiently by my feet. An Asian man stood beside me, looking at Heidi as if he had just landed from another planet and had never imagined, let alone seen, such a creature. I told him our Dachshunds name and he repeated it slowly and with some difficulty, like the anesthetic from his trip to the dentist had not yet worn off.

Just behind me in the line a girl in thigh-high boots and a leopard print top with her name tag--Krista--on it, spoke into her cell phone.

"You'll never guess who I bumped into this morning?"
"Yes, it was him!"
"I couldn't believe it! Can you believe it!?"
Yeah, he said he's working for Food TV now.”

Heading home, workers sat on church steps taking the sun, while student athletes in shorts were jogging and skateboarding, all perfect, moving quickly and beautifully forward. A happy man, whistling, was setting us his sidewalk bookstore at the corner of St. George, the first book he laid down on the pavement an old, hard cover history of The Renaissance, a glittering jewel he hoped would catch somebody's eye.

At Bloor and Spadina there was a sudden surge of Japanese tourists, almost all of them around 10 years of age. Each one had their cell phones out, videoing the city around them, and then suddenly all the sunshine squeals and shrieks as they noticed Heidi, small, beautiful and alive right in their midst.

On occasion I like to answer some of my fan mail.

Today is one such day.

******************************************

Dear Michael Murray:

You're a writer and a genius, so perhaps you can help me.

Recently I've been feeling a little bit invisible in the world, and earlier today I had what I think the ultimate emasculating experience.

My wife and I have four cats and they've recently all been terrorized by a neighbour's cat who keeps beating the shit out of them. I was talking with the owner of the cat (a woman around 70) about this and she seemed entirely unwilling to do anything about it. Actually, she seemed rather proud of Faust’s behaviour. If this wasn’t annoying enough, while talking to her, her German mother, who must be about 90, came out of the house, took one look at me and said, “You look so gentle, this must be very hard for you.”

Michael, I don’t want to look gentle.

I didn’t have a clue what to say and as I stood there the oldest woman said to her daughter, the old woman-- as though I was invisible-- “Look at him, he is too gentle, he cannot deal with the Faust.” And then she took her daughter inside, leaving me standing there with a handful of Dumbledore’s fur (that I had brought over as proof of a recent beating) in my hand.

What the hell can I do to reclaim some of my manhood?

The Invisible Man

Dear Invisible:

Reclaim some of your manhood?

It might be too late for that.

This is a dire situation. You said that you have four cats, and any amount over two is cause for grave concern. And the fact that your cat is named Dumbledore, suggests all your cats have names culled from fantasy literature (Gandalf, Doctor Who, Bella, etcetera.) and this is very grim indeed. (Just so you know, if you have any ferrets in your house, you are likely subject matter for a documentary.)

But I want to help, so first of all, stop worrying about the cats. They’ll figure things out. That’s why they fight. Their fights are like little United Nations meetings, only with claws, tails and hissing.

What you need to worry about are the elderly German women--they're your problem, Invisible.

If I were you I would smear these women by spray painting a Nazi swastika on their garage one night. Obviously, this will spook them. Who knows, they might even have secrets, given their age!

At any rate, it’s imperative you act concerned about this horrible vandalism and let them know that you will stop at nothing to find out and PUNISH those responsible. Offer your army of cats to serve under Faust, their Alpha cat. They will all be guard cats, with a strict line of command leading from Faust to you. You, Invisible, will be the General in this war. Faust will die in a mysterious accident, one of your cats, say Dumbledore, will rise to leadership and the vandalism will then stop. You will have proved your worth, your cat will become Alpha, and a small shred of your manhood will be restored.

You’re welcome.

Michael Murray

As many of you know, I've been trying to win the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest for several months now, and for reasons that completely elude me, have yet to win, or even have one of my submissions nominated.

This is insane.

I'm crazy funny.

Look at this caption, and then look at the three stupid submissions that are being considered:

"You're gonna have to roll me outta here."

Everett Hartwell, Berkley, California

"I'd kill for some cream cheese."

Joe Balding, Athens, Ohio "

I think you just ate the spare."

Andrew Pagoultos, Blairstown, N.J.

Lame, lamers and lamest.

This was my submission:

"Tumak feel gassy."

Obviously, my submission (again!) was way better than any of the other offerings, and as such I have written a letter to the New Yorker.

*********************************

November, 12, 2011

Dear New Stupider Magazine:

Really, I wonder where you get your nerve.

Does it come out of a box, or something?

The fact that you choose to ignore my submissions, week after week, when they are so clearly superior to the lame-ass frailties you accept, just boggles my mind.

You wouldn't know funny if it bit your face off, which it might.

And if you're wondering, yes, that is real blood on the envelope.

Let's just allow that statement to sit there for a moment, shall we?

I recommend you fire whatever moron intern or Japanese robot you have vetting the submissions.

Michael Murray

Rachelle and I just moved from the east end of Toronto to the very same apartment we used to inhabit in the Annex over two years ago. It’s a funny circle, that, but both of us are happy to be back in the place we consider home.

Yesterday, as I walked our dog down the street, I passed students walking to and from classes, excited by all that was opening up to them. November and still mild, a 19 year-old guy, beautiful with his shaggy, immortal hair and careless shirt, practiced tricks on his skateboard with an easy, hypnotic grace.

On Bloor a dignified and serious looking old man wore a slightly rumpled suit that he had accessorized with a bright red felt hat. It looked like the sort of thing that you’d have to wear when you lost a bet, but it was almost the same colour as his tie, and his effort was obviously sincere. He was trying to be stylish, not ironically stylish, and this vulnerability and ambition on a slow, grey day was absolutely touching. At the Noodle Bowl, young Asian men wearing headphones chopsticked their lunches into mouths made unsentimental by hurry, and at the window sat a thin man in shades of black and grey. He looked Mod, like he could have been in a British pop band, and he was reading a slender copy of a book written by Henry James. He seemed so anachronistic somehow, like he had travelled in time and suddenly found himself in the future.

The University of Toronto field behind the Metro grocery store was full of primary aged children playing at lunch. Most of them were excitedly kicking balls, yelling things like, “No Goal!” or “My Turn!” the girls off to one side, the boys the other-- precious cargo, one and all.

A Meter Maid I had forgotten about, but now remembered after my two-year absence from the area, was still walking the streets. Either thinner now or her uniform bulkier, she smiled as she always did when she saw our little dog, but perhaps she remembered me, too, surprised and happy at a forgotten memory now returned.

Toward home we passed beautiful homes with pianos visible through the windows. There was a man playing on one of them and I could faintly hear his efforts, and I was given over to the interior beauty of music. The idea of it. I think of Rachelle, my wife, trying to teach herself the violin. Fearful that she would disturb the neighbours she practiced in our large walk-in closet, the doors closed. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star-- small and broken, squeaking through the walls. The sound more like scent than music, and could anyone passing on the street outside imagine such a wonder, of the hopeful beauty and genius beating within?

These are the text messages I sent to a friend of mine on the weekend:

******************************************

It's the most gorgeous autumn Saturday I have ever seen in my life and I am in a traffic jam on the DVP on my way to Ikea with Rachelle and her mother.

We're looking for storage solutions.

If Ikea was a country I would punch it in the face with bombs.

We are now in the parking lot of Ikeastan.

There are 20 million cars in this parking lot and it seems like they're all circling around and around looking for that one mystical parking spot, as if hoping to see it emerge from beautiful Swedish mists.

The Bare Naked Ladies are playing on the car radio.

I hate the fucking Bare Naked Ladies.

I feel like I'm playing an Oldie’s version of musical chairs.

Only with cars.

Think Ikea should have own rapid transit system.

Should send you back and forth to store in tubes.

With lovely pillows and ear phones playing Sigur Ros.

Maybe with nice snack, too.

Should also have space program.

Ikeanauts.

I see them floating free in space, so beautiful with their Allen keys.

Now parked on the roof where the wind blows crisply.

Very cold up here. Surprising. Never know how to dress in the fall-- weather so unpredictable!

Inside store people eat meatballs in cafeteria like consuming energy points in video game.

I am on the first level of this video game.

Millions of people in pursuit of treasure!

Must bypass kicking toddler level to get to magic storage solution!

Feel very low in energy points.

Probably need meatballs. But meatballs grey/green! Could be poison meatballs!

Toddlers kicking furiously.

Fortunate that my nosebleed seems to repel rather than attract them!

Free passage through hidden portal to Bulla Bulla section, where cushions are jumbled in bins!

Could be lucky break!

Playfully hit sales attendant with Alvine Spetsig cushion, but Golden Allen Key granting magic storage solution to does not appear!

Oops.

Seems sales attendant didn’t get my joke.

Explanation about pretending I was in a video game so I can maintain my sanity getting no traction.

She just used word “assault.”

When I ask her if I am guilty of “assault with a pretty pillow,” she smiles a little bit.

Hit her lightly with Benzy Land cushion, but still no Golden Allen Key!

Attendant has now transformed into monster troll!!

Sense of humour gone!

Calling for more trolls on headset!

Trolls everywhere!

Am trapped!

Apparently, if you’re playing Ikea and attendant gets hit in eye with cushion zipper while you’re trying to beat Golden Allen Key out of her, she will transform into troll and bring army of trolls upon you!

There is no escape from this.

Beware!

Life force now spent.

The other day while Rachelle and I were in the midst of moving from one apartment to another, I found myself on the phone with Bell Tech Support. The conversation went on for a long time.

********************

Tech: alkdlasgapabne[[oagbafsjg[[ag//dasb ps[?

Me: I'm not sure. The internet connection still isn't working.

Tech: labkijpwut—0-b-29uagslb[[p??

Me: So, what part of the world do you live in? I'm in Toronto, as I guess you know.

Tech: Toronto, too. wpagfcpsb-=we?

Me: No, all the green lights are flashing. So, what did you dress up for at Halloween?

Tech: I didn't really dress-up. Aldhaobhewp9203ts.

Me: I just did that. Nothing. What do you mean you “didn't really dress-up?” I mean, either you did or you didn't, right?

Tech: aldpoqwp20439.

Me: Oh, I guess I did that wrong. Hold on while I try to open an new window. Alright. Nope, that didn't work either.

Tech: 02gaosdinblxiwp?

Me: Yes, it's a Mac. Did you cry when Steve Jobs died?

Tech: I was sad but I didn't cry. Adijpw-0-//>

Me: I didn't cry either. I'm pretty tough. You're avoiding the Halloween question.

Tech: +))(ksagugwqo? I dressed my son up as a tiger. I was too tired to make a costume for myself. What were you?

Me: Although I thought I was some kind of ghost, apparently, I was Woody Allen. I tell you, this is the celebrity resemblance I get the most. Kind of depressing. What celebrity do people tell you that you look like?

Tech: (powp(--+.?33#

Me: No, it's still trying to open it.

Tech: I don't know, I don't look like anybody.

Me: I bet you look like somebody.

Tech: No, I'm just a Plain Jane. U5y`+lsadkjvo?

Me: Oh. Hold on. I didn't notice that. Okay, what box should I go to?

Tech: we5$.

Me: So, a Plain Jane, eh? Do people call you PJ? I think that would be a pretty good nickname for a Plain Jane, although I doubt you're actually a Plain Jane.

Tech: I don't have a nickname. I'm new to the country and I don't have very many friends.

Me: Can I guess your accent?

Tech: p9w=m,zz:

Me: Nope, that doesn't work either. Are you Spanish? You sound Spanish to me, like you know how to ride a horse and play the castanets.

Tech: I am from Eastern Europe.

Me: Oh my God. I'm so far off! I'm horrible at accents! Did I just insult you? Do you hate Spain, is it the first country you invade when you're playing Risk?

Tech: owi0208+#^xl...ML))*\

Me: No way! That actually worked! You're awesome! Eastern Europeans, brilliant tennis players, chess masters and tech support geniuses!

Tech: Is there anything else I can help you with today Mister Murray?

Me: Yes. Steve Jobs, his last words were “Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow.” What would you like your last words to be?

Tech: Я лью полностью мой свет в вас, мой красивейший сынка, мой тигра одно и истинно.

Me: What does that mean?

Tech: It is my secret. You have an nice afternoon, Mister Murray, it has been nice speaking with you.

The text of a postcard purchased in a bundle at an Antique Market:

Jim:

At the rooftop bar in New York was a Russian Gansgter and his moll. She was drunk and trouble with a capital T. Big, black eyes, breasts the size of watermelons and proud, surging New Jersey hair. I leaned up against the bar near her as I ordered my over-priced drink, served to me by an aspiring actor who looked a little bit like David Duchovny. When I told him this, that he looked David Duchovny, his eyes lit up, “Do you work in the movie industry?”, he asked greedily, giddily.

I decided I would look at the woman, that I would look her in the eyes and see what happened. I figured that she would hold my gaze for a second or two, and then not registering any recognition, would look away dismissively, with contempt even, and reach out to hold her man's arm. And so we looked at one another. Hey eyes brown and unblinking. Wet. This went on for about six seconds. One thousand and one. One thousand and two. One thousand and three. A long time. Her facial expression never changed, betraying nothing, and after six seconds I looked down and away, defeated by a kind of honesty I knew nothing about.

Stay well,

Carter

As some of you know, I'm in the process of obtaining my driver's license, and yesterday marked my first lesson where I was actually behind the wheel of the car. I showed up outside of the Donlands subway station at 3:30 where I met my teacher, Alpas.

He was wearing a Snuggie.

I wasn't sure what to do with this. It was a cold day, after all, and Alpas, also sporting a traditional Kufi hat and an orthodox beard with no moustache, was clearly Muslim, and I wasn't sure if what I thought was a Snuggie was just a winter version of the loose-fitting attire of many Muslim men.

Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked, “Are you wearing a Snuggie?”

Alpas looked me in the eyes, smiling faintly, as if trying to hypnotize me, “It is a Dishdasha, traditional wear for Muslim men.”

“But I can see the Snuggie tag.”

“It is a Dishdasha.”

I nodded.

“Okay, I get it”

I then explained to him that I had never been behind the wheel of a car, was nervous, got picked-on when at the bumper cars and always, always crashed my vehicle when I was playing video games. In short, I told him I was a challenge.

He looked at me in astonishment, like I was some sort of miracle.

“Really? You've never had a Driver's License? But your age, I thought you must have had one at some point, but maybe you lost it because of drinking? Is this not true? You can tell me, we are teacher and student, we must be honest, as I was with you about the Dishdasha.”

“I don't think you were honest.”

“You have a learning disability, I see.”

Alpas then talked to me about a number of boring car things before taking me to a parking lot where I was to get my first taste of driving. Excruciatingly slowly, I began to execute turns around a variety of concrete pillars. I felt very much like I was playing a video game.

“I feel like I'm playing a video game,” I said to Alpas.

“You are not. Signal and turn left here, let the wheel slide back into place.”

You should know that there were pigeons all over the parking lot. I was driving extremely slowly and so they saw me as no threat, walking away from me rather than taking flight. This irritated me. I found it insulting.

“There are birds everywhere,” I said, anger rising in my voice.

Alpas, ever calm, said, “ Do not worry about them, they will fly away, they will be fine.”

“I want to run over them. Is that normal? I feel like they're taunting me and that they're part of the video game and each time I hit one I get 1000 points or something.”

“They are not taunting you. They are just birds.”

“I guess I perform best when engaged in an incentive based structure.”

“I will give you 500 points for every bird you do not hit, ok? When we reach 10, 000 you will reach the next level and we will go out onto the road.”

“ Cool! How many points do I lose if I kill a bird? I have a feeling that this might be important.”

From a postcard I bought at the St. Lawrence Antique Market:

*******************************************************************

The cab was yellow, like on some album cover and it smelled like a barber shop. The driver was older, maybe sixty, and the car was like his study. Stale cigarette smoke, Old Spice cologne, coffee and the sports section. We drove in silence, his day having grown long and tired.

The concert was at a community centre, in the auditorium of what was once a large high school. The seats were designed for teenagers from the 1940's, and sitting there I imagined all the energy once contained within, all the assemblies, plays, stolen kisses and heartfelt speeches. The opening band was called Amina. They were four serious looking Icelandic women clad in the plain dresses you might see on pioneers. They looked plucked from a Brothers Grimm fairy tale, like dolls you'd want to take home and put on a shelf. They played laptops, saws, xylophones and violins. The music was strange and precious, suddenly crytstallizing into beauty, and when the tall one started to groove and lose herself to the process of her creation, I wanted to move to Iceland.

When the blonde one spoke, so sweet and formal in an accent that could only be a seductive invention, my heart did break, and when they finished performing the astonished crowd exploded into applause, everybody standing, bringing forth shy, unexpected smiles from the band.

www.youtube.com/watch

The main show was Sigur Ros behind a scrim. Implied but not see. Lighting and shadows, silent but for their music. They all seemed so fragile, so vulnerable, as if somehow crippled by their immense musical talent. They played for 90 minutes and all of us in the crowd were drifting in and out, sometimes deeply connected, other times lost to a point in our past or imagined future. They were called back three times, barely smiling, but still smiling, and they applauded back at us with those thin, thin arms that had called forth such magic.

www.youtube.com/watch

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund for the day.

*****************************************

Heidi like to make lists.

Not mean she have OCD or worms in brain, Heidi just naturally organized dog.

Here list of things Heidi hate.

1. Other Dogs.

Other dogs stupid, try to take Heidi's ball. Think better than Heidi because they bigger, but not better! Stupider! Heidi cuter than all other dogs and Heidi deserve all treats and praise!

2. Rain.

Rain very stupid and hard to avoid. Like a million different little baths falling from sky and taking place all at once. Very gross. Make Heidi cold and she lose all her precious smells, get disoriented and confused. Rain should die.

3. Fox News.

Heidi always watch for fox on news, but never see fox! Big tease! Very misleading, fox news! Heid think she see fox jumping and hunting and tumbling, but just two-leggers in ties! Big media lies to Heidi. Bad news, very, very bad news!! Sometimes Heidi dream she fox, that she move quick and light, pounce on prey and vanish into hole!

4. Cute Overload.

Hate Cute Overload. Stupid, demeaning porn! Two-leggers look at pictures of animal on computer machine and go “Oh, isn't cute? So cute!? “ Not cute! Ugly cat in box! So what?! Heidi kill ugly cat in box! “Oh, look, Penguins in sweaters, so cute!? “Fuck little sweatered Penguins! Penguins can't to dig hole! Heidi should be enough, NOT RIGHT for two-leggers in Heidi pack to go to dirty site like Cute Overload! Disease site. More like Barf Overload than Cute Overload!

5. Smell of lamb cooking.

Not know what it is, but smells just put chill in Heidi soul. Like spider fingers touch heart. Sure, Heidi eat the lamb-- it good-- but smell very, very scary!

6. Pacifists in hockey.

Heidi hate, just hate faggots who say fighting should be banned in hockey. Say no place for it in today's game, that it distracts from skill and speed of sport. Please. Necessary outlet. Without fighting players get chippy with stick and take liberty. Need top dog to keep order! And Heidi like to see blood, make her bark and wag tail, big punch Heidi howl it so sexy!!

7. Birds.

Very, very, very ugly creature, and have so much attitude just because they fly! Stupid trick, maybe devil conjure bird and they just instrument of Satan to bring disease. Heidi hate them very hard. The poop from great height, bomb Heidi so she can't avoid their messes! If bird honest, walk on ground and face Heidi like warrior, not poop from clouds!

8. Radiohead

Over-rated! Band don't touch my soul like Coldplay, who can make Heidi soar or make Heidi whine and feel blue. Coldplay very romantic, Radiohead think they real smart squirrels, but just depress Heidi brain and that Thom Yorke dance like wounded bird. He not live long in forest, animal hunt and kill him real quick, but maybe spit him out because he taste funny!

At Jimmy Simpson Park, my dog and I saw a solitary man practicing his footwork on the basketball court. A neighbourhood regular, he's an unfriendly guy who always wears reflective sunglasses and gangster apparel, carrying himself with an intentional menace, perhaps to offset his short stature. With his hands out as if he was guarding an unseen opponent, he would shuffle to his right and then shuffle to his left. This mystery, this incongruity from the normal ebb and flow of the basketball court, upset Heidi and she began to bark at him. This amused the guy, and he stood there looking perplexed, smiling, the first time in two years that I'd seen any evidence of the man within.

As we came home and I was unlocking the door leading up to our apartment, a tall and elegant British man and his wife stopped. Having seen my dog, he wanted to enter into a conversation, telling me that he had two Miniature Dachshunds, Max and Baz, at home. The man looked like the cover of a Fortune 500 magazine, like he owned helicopters, and there he was with a big, sloppy grin all over his face, showing my pictures of his dogs on his cell phone, his wife looking on at a discreet distance, embarrassed and in love with his boyish enthusiasms.

On the Queen streetcar, the young woman standing beside me had the optimistic appearance of a a student, of somebody brand new to the city. After a moment or two, she asked me, a little bit embarrassed, if we were headed east or west. She was obviously disoriented from having just got off the subway at Yonge, and unsure of what side of the street she had emerged from just got on the first streetcar that came along, hopeful that it was going in the right direction. I was able to reassure her that she was going in the right direction, and she looked so grateful and happy that it almost felt like metaphor.

At the next stop an old man got on and he was full of politics, having just left the Occupy Bay Street protests. He went from young person to young person, trying to recruit them to the social revolution he saw unfolding around him. Everybody on the car, in perfect big city posture, ignored him, concentrating on their cell phones or staring sternly off at an imagined horizon. Just another crazy imposing on the peace granted by the solitude of transit, and I like everybody else, stood there praying he didn't bring The Word to me, too. After about five minutes, he appeared to give up and settled into a seat at the back, but then he got a second wind and determined not to lose the crowd, started to belt out old folk songs. The student who had earlier asked me for directions was waiting to get off now, and she kept looking over her shoulder at the old man, a big grin illuminating her face-- happy to be living her life, in this time and place, and just so excited to see what was going to happen next.

The other night I went to a movie with a couple of friends. There were probably about ten films playing at the complex, all starting at roughly the same time, and feeling kind of whimsical I asked the cashier if she could guess what movie I was going to go and see.

Unimpressed, even bored by the game I was imposing on her, she said, “What's in it for me?”

“Good customer service,” I replied primly.

She sighed, might have rolled her eyes, “Girl Cops Off Duty,” she said.

“Is that playing?!” I asked with all too much enthusiasm.

“No, I made it up. It's not a real movie. You're going to see Moneyball. You're obviously going to see Moneyball. You could be seeing no other movie than Moneyball.”

This depressed me as she was correct. I thought for a moment about lying and going and seeing a different movie, but as I was with friends I figured I was obligated.

“I could easily have been going to see The Killer Elite or Drive, you know.”

She looked at me, smarter than me, “Oh, then why aren't you?”

“Brad Pitt is a friend of mine,” I lied, “I feel I owe it to him.”

She snickered, “You owe it to Brad Pitt, your friend, to go see his movie Moneyball?”

“Yes.”

“In this world you live in, how is that you met Brad Pitt?”

I launched into what I thought was a pretty convincing story about how, since I worked in media and wrote about popular culture, I met him at a press junket for Babel, had drinks and kind of hit it off. I admitted that we weren't really friends, but that we'd exchanged social emails a few times with a vague commitment to meet up next time he was in Toronto.

“I think you're a liar and that you're just a middle-aged man who likes fantasy baseball.”

“Brad Pitt would hate you,” I replied.

“Brad Pitt would hate you, too, enjoy the movie.”

I looked at her, trying to think of something to say, but my friends pushed me along, bored and embarrassed that I wouldn't let the matter drop.

“Oh, “ she continued, “ and don't get your hopes up, there's no nudity.”

Earlier in the day I came across a video of Shamar Thomas, a man who will certainly become a star within the Occupy Wall Street Movement and likely beyond. (You know, he'll end up on Survivor Island, or something. ) In the video, Thomas, a Sergeant in the Marine Corps who served in Iraq and is seen wearing his desert camouflage as identifying proof, is on the streets of New York City during the Occupy Wall Street Protests.

 gothamist.com/2011/10/17/video_marine_sergeant_tears_cops_a.php

You can never know how much is performance for the wall of cell phones that are being held up around the man or how much is righteous anger, but Thomas completely cowed a line of New York City police officers. To my eye, it was hard to tell that the scene was amidst the swirl of a protest, as it looked like a pretty typical street scene in downtown Manhattan, except of course, for the unusual police presence. In short, it looked relatively peaceful.

Still, Thomas, an absolutely huge and powerful looking black man, was furiously yelling at the cops. In the face of his anger, his exasperation, the police looked like children, like miniature figurines rather than the institutional storm troopers we always sort of hope that they are. Thomas was vigorously propelling his point of view that it was the role of the police to protect the people on the street and not hurt them, repeating again and again, that they were unarmed and that this was not a combat zone. A native of New York City, he said that he'd fought, as had his entire family, to protect the people and that he wasn't going to come home to watch them be manhandled on the very streets they lived. The authority he projected, both morally and physically, was incredible.

The police didn't know what to do. In their faces you saw their youth and uncertainty, their vulnerability. They were nervous and they lacked confidence, looking somewhere for the leadership that never emerged. Thomas just got braver as his performance continued, the crowd in awe behind him, the police stunned in front, as if actually thinking about each thing he was saying. Maybe they weren't really that different than the people protesting? Maybe this Iraq vet knew what he was talking about? The best idea the police came up with was to start to use a megaphone to try to drown out Thomas, but still, his voice rose above it, and it was stunning to watch, because it was clear that right at that moment the police did not know who they worked for, and to me, that was a revolutionary moment.

Thomas, content that he had made his point and had pushed things as far as they could safely go, stalked off down the street, receiving high-fives and grateful hugs from people who were practically in tears to see that they too had somebody powerful on their side, somebody capable of enacting what must have seemed like a miracle-- their very own superhero.

Yesterday I bought a cookie.

It was double chocolate chip and I was really looking forward to eating it.

I saved it all day.

Some of you might think this a little feminine of me, but I don't care, it's the truth and I'm a truth teller.
It's not always easy to be a truth teller, but it's the right path, even if some people think you're different. No matter, I thought about this cookie a fair amount and devised a specific plan for its consumption. I would eat it before dinner, while coaching my wife Rachelle's floor hockey team, The Jesus Cobras, at their 7:00 o'clock game.

It turned out to be a very tense and stressful game.

As a truth teller, sometimes my coaching methods are misunderstood, and when I called Sharon, one of our defenders, “fat and lazy,” for failing to prevent a goal, it was taken the wrong way and a ripple of insubordination ran through the Cobras. Like a serpent, Rachelle hissed at me, “ I'm telling you, you stop right now with all this shrieky, insulting bullshit or I'm, I'm, you don't even want to know what I'm going to do!”

“Yes I do,” I replied.

Rachelle pointed her finger at me, held my gaze for about ten seconds, and then walked away like she was Clint Eastwood, or something.

It was my plan to light a fire beneath the complacent Jesus Cobras, and then later, after they had taken out their fury on their opponents and begun their comeback, I would eat my cookie. At this point I took a brief break from my coaching, not because I was intimidated by Rachelle or any of the other threats from the team, but because sometimes I just like quiet time by myself. At any rate, when I returned the game was almost over. I went over to my knapsack and as I began to look for my cookie, I noticed that Rachelle was sharing it with the Cobras.

“Hey, that's my cookie!” I shouted, “I've been saving that all day.”

Sharon, who really didn't need to be eating any more, said, “ Coach Shrieky, we needed the energy boost!” All the other Cobras, like serpents in the weeds, began to laugh. I lunged at my cookie but Sharon was suddenly swift, unlike she had been on the court, and I grasped at air and tumbled onto the ground. Apparently, this was very funny, and Calvin, who is a VERY shitty winger, put on my hat which had fallen off and started to strut about yelling stupid things and asking, “ Who am I? Who am I?” And as one, the Cobras yelled out “Coach Shrieky!”

I ignored this and very politely asked for my cookie, but the Cobras devoured it right in front of me. At this point, my allergies began to bother me and I went off alone to a corner to blow my nose. As I sat there facing the wall, a man tapped me on the back. He was hugely muscled and had been working out in the weight room. He looked me square in the eyes, “ I know things don't look so good right now, and I know how much bullying can hurt, but I want you to know, I need you to know, it get's better, it really does.”

Dear Susan Sarandon:

I want to praise you for the genius that you are.

Opening up Spin, a club dedicated to ping pong on King street in Toronto is brilliant. For a long time I've felt excluded from the hierarchies of club life, a culture which has always put an excessive premium on looks, ability to dance, money, and not being gross when eating tapas with chopsticks, but now, now you've created an environment where I can shine and I thank you.

Susan, I am a ping pong God and by God I mean I am almost good enough to beat an Asian. My backhand is quick and surprising, my forehand utterly devastating and my serve, I have been told, distractingly feminine.

I have four ping-pong themed tattoos.

I also want to let you know that I have admired a few of your movies. Dead Man Walking made me cry, Bull Durham delighted me, I got high several times at The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and back in the day I was always eager to see you take your top off, something you did with such easy grace in Pretty Baby, Atlantic City and The Hunger. Those were star moments, Susan, you were a glittering, goddamn, topless star shooting across the sky! You were one of the best topless actresses of your generation, and this, like your ping pong club, is something you should be very proud of.

At any rate, I am writing to challenge you to game of ping pong. Now, I know you're probably not as good as me ( I do wrist strengthening exercises daily) and so we could play doubles. Perhaps you and your husband Tim Robbins could play my wife and I? My wife, you should know, is tall, like your husband.

Oh.

My wife Rachelle just told me you two divorced. Sorry.

Well, perhaps you and Geena Davis, then? It would be like Thelma and Louise only instead of driving a car off a cliff at the end, you two get crushed in ping pong match?

Geena Davis, by the way, really gets under my skin. Do you hate her, too? She claims to be a genius and tried to go to the Olympics for archery. Archery! Are you fucking kidding me?! Susan, I have no respect for that. She goes out and chooses the most obscure “sport” in the world, probably buys the best archery technology on the planet, tries to seduce the archery coach and then attempts to slither onto the Olympic team. “Yay, aren't I great! I'm just another movie star-athlete-Mensa member! USA, USA, USA!!”

I bet she's the sort of person who gets a Sherpa guide to carry her and her espresso machine up Everest on some high end expedition trip. She probably married her plastic surgeon, too.

Got to hell, Geena Davis.

Call her, Susan, call her now.

This has to happen.

Rachelle Maynard and I against you and Geena Davis.

All proceeds from my martini drinking will go to the charity of your choice.

We will crush you without mercy.

Michael Murray

PS: How do you feel about your daughter, Eva Amurri, doing topless scenes? Does it make you proud, like she's just a beautiful chip off the old block, or do just think she's a slut?

PPS: You have kind of crazy, googly eyes. Do they work all right?

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund.

********************************************************************************

Canadian Thanksgiving weekend just pass and Heidi always like to take moment at this time of year to think about all things she grateful for. Help Heidi keep perspective. Good exercise for soul.

Heidi very thankful so pretty.

Very, very good looking dog. When Heidi walk down street she like rock star! People come running, “Oh, you so adorable! Such gorgeous dog!!” Swoon when they feel my velvet ears! Can't stop talking about how Heidi's coat of fur glisten like maybe woven by angels. Treats just fall out of two-leggers because of Heidi beauty. Must be awful to be ugly squirrel, cat dumb face or disease pigeon that can't tell difference between cigarette butt or french fry!

Heidi also thankful to be so athletic! Heidi fastest Dachshund in all of Toronto area! Run like a rocket! Black ninja flash blur by all slow creatures of the land, Heidi always first to ball!

And when Heidi get trophy ball, she do what she want with it. Heidi so good no need to retrieve ball, just capture and kill ball! Underling come get ball later. Heidi thankful for that.

Heidi grateful for smells. Heidi like all sorts of smells. Autumn good time for smells, so much rotting!!

Heidi give thanks that her sex tape with Juno, the Miniature Pinscher who think he greatest animal on planet, was taken off of Cute Overload. Heidi very young and vulnerable when tape made. Coerced. Whole episode very embarrassing for Heidi, and think that Juno is stupid, arrogant and not good at catching frisbee like he think!! He look like retard trying to catch frisbee! Very happy owners make him wear puke green sweater. Look so dumb! Juno just slave dog!!

Heidi give thanks to Lord for meat.

And cheese. Heidi like cheese.

Heidi also thankful to have opportunity to meet Alex Baldwin at Toronto International Film Festival. Very exciting to meet big star! Smell like ham, body secretions and chemicals!

Heidi also thankful her New Yorker Cartoon Caption chosen as finalist in contest. Heidi very smart and funny dog! Please vote for Heidi submission this week! It “You cat stink-face.”

Heidi thank you.

As we entered into Jimmy Simpson Park, the dog and I we passed two men sitting at a picnic table. One of them had his face flat on the surface of the table. He was utterly motionless, but his friend continued talking away as if nothing was unusual, as if it was just Darren’s “thing,” the way he got his best thinking done or something.

As we played fetch in the field, a youngish mother with her hands full passed near us. She had one of those baby strollers that was the equivalent of an SUV, a dog leashed to this $40,000 stroller and was communicating important thoughts to somebody through an earplug/mouthpiece apparatus she’d set up to help her maximize her full potential. She was getting it done, this one, and I imagined that even at this early point in the day, she’d accomplished 90 minutes of Hot Yoga, sent an angry email to a delinquent repairman and painted the baby’s room twice. She gave no evidence of being friendly, and even on a perfectly sunny October day the world seemed to be in her way.

Near the soccer goal posts a ragged looking man near 60 was poking through the grass for treasures, finding a pink utility ball that some child had forgotten. He took his shoes off, tossed them beneath a tree and started to dribble the ball with his feet. Gaining confidence, he took a few shots at the empty net, before getting tired and lying down beside his shoes to sleep.

A middle-aged man stood in the centre of the park flying a small, remote helicopter around and around in circles. Everybody stopped to watch, mesmerized, as if bearing witness to Angel flight. I imagined this model-pilot in his garage, screwing pieces together, oiling things and then carefully cradling his helicopter outside and releasing it into flight, and I wondered where that act might transport him.

On the way home, the original picnic table that had housed the mystery of the man lying flat on his face, now housed two dubious looking guys who already seemed to have a bit of a glow on. One of them, exuberant, shouted out at me upon spotting Heidi, “ Hey, that’s Max, right?” I told him that her name was Heidi, but that she could be easily be mistaken for a Max, and he apologized for being wrong, as if that was a reflex he had grown used to over the course of his 40 odd years.

My sinuses are bad, like Darth Vader.

They dress in black and ride a pale horse. They'll ask if you've gained a little weight right when you're feeling pretty good about yourself. They won't laugh when you say something really funny. Buy you a self-help book for your birthday. They are the most evil sinuses in the multiverse and they are mysterious in their ways. For no discernible reason, they descend on black wing and transform my head into a slushy, congealing sac of misery.

I plague my wife with my theories for the most recent onset:

“Whenever the seasons change I'm doomed.
“It might be because I haven't had a steak in awhile. That usually sets them off.”
“I should know better than to wear Gingham, it's an obvious trigger.”
“There was a squirrel on the fire escape earlier, that's probably it.”

Rachelle always pulls out her phone and begins to play Angry Birds when I launch into such analysis. She's just not a very helpful woman.

No matter, the other day while wandering through Chinatown I stopped into an Herbalist and Acupuncture place and asked the guy working the counter if he had anything that would help.

“Acupuncture no good. You need to do it constantly. I can see you have it bad, you have big face but small body, and it clear you have no money to do acupuncture all the time. I get you something.”

Insulted, but relieved that I didn't have to become some acupuncture hippy, I stood and waited, a video of Cher singing “If I Could Turn Back Time,” playing improbably from the TV set behind the counter.

When he returned he handed me what looked to be a baggy full twigs and other dried things.

“What's this?” I asked.

“Cure for your sinuses. It work great.”

“Yes, but what's in the bag.”

“Herbs.”

“What sort of herbs?”

“It is secret.”

“It looks like you just went to the back room, swept some stuff off the floor, dumped it in this ziplock bag and are now trying to sell it to me.”

“You very ethnocentric man. You prefer me to give you pill full of chemical things you know nothing about?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“I get you red pills. You wait here.”

Feeling like I had just bought some magic beans I took the subway home humming Cher songs. I then took two red pills as I had been instructed. After about an hour my life changed. I was thinking clearly and full of energy. I did a few dishes, looked for an old baseball hat I had forgotten all about and took our dog for a walk. Honestly, I hadn't felt so revitalized and alive in years! I shoplifted from the corner store ( a longstanding dream of mine), wolf whistled at a high school girl, and then wrote three angry emails to people who had disappointed me.

I tell you, these red pills are awesome.

Taste a bit like cherry.

In the Starbucks at the corner of Logan and Queen, sits a young blonde woman. She's by the window and she's wearing her one professional suit, the one she carefully shopped for at Winners and not impulsively splurged on at Holt Renfrew. She wants to make a good first impression, her crossed legs smooth and glistening, her teeth shining and optimistic. Believing in the potency of her youth, her almost glowing beauty, she's trying to look busy, flipping through reams of lined paper all filled with her girlish handwriting as she waits for her meeting to arrive. She looks up for a moment and her eyes cloud, falling to some unseen horizon, and then the door opens and she startles back to composure, hoping the man walking in will see the potential in her she's not quite sure is there.

Across the street in front of the TD Bank stands a tall, thin and beautiful black girl. Her hair is a palace. She strikes poses for her less tall, thin and beautiful friend. Hiding her shyness behind the camera, this girl takes photographs as if grateful to be invited to the same party as her exotic and confident friend who seems right at this moment to be capturing the light. “Oh, Laetitia, these pictures are going to be stunning!” Laetitia smiles, her cheeks autumn pinched, the scent of expensive perfume and skin cream spilling as if from her lips and into the street, “Thank you, Emma, thank you.”

At the east end of Jimmy Simpson Park pigeons feast around the feet of two elderly women sitting on a bench. There's a bird feeder hanging in the make-shift garden behind them and a little sign that says, “Outlook Good.” The women share photographs with one another, each one leaning in closer, exclaiming at the beauty of the Liberty Bell, the dog wearing the sweater knit for him last Christmas, the grand daughter blowing out her birthday candles.

As most of you know, the Major League Baseball regular season ended on Wednesday. What this means is that most Fantasy Baseball Leagues are now over and that as usual, I dominated. You should know that for the third year in a row, my team--Gay Bar--once again finished in first place, adding nearly $150 into Rachelle and my retirement fund.

It's tradition in these leagues that at the end of the year the winner posts a message to all the other league members. This is my post:

Dear Fellow Members of the Cheap Seat Drunks Fantasy Baseball League:

I am awesome.

Again, I have won. Like a beautiful thief in the night, I slit your throats. You should have seen it coming, because I always win, but you did not. You are sheep, and I want to thank you all for being the pitiful competition that you are. It was a joy to steamroll you this year, as it always is.

I would also like to thank the Lord, for all glory is his. What the Lord gave me is good. Praise Jesus for he gave me a mighty brain! It is a powerful instrument! My brain can assess hockey talent with the greatest of precision without even really having to watch any hockey. My pigeons, my very humble opponents, you study and study and fret and fret, yet year after year you fall short! Why?! Don't think about it, for it matters not. The world is vast, mysterious and full of wonder, and I am incandescent with talent, while you and you and you, are not.

You are losers.

By definition.

You are long commutes to jobs that you hate while I am a sexy car wash and a super-model tickle fight on the way to glory.

I finished in first place and once again, you did not.

You are paying me money because I am better than you.

You do this of your own free will.

You are suckers.

See you next year.

Michael Murray

On a postcard with a photograph of Bob Dylan on it bought at the St. Lawrence Antique Market:

**************************************

Carter:

There were three of them on stage and they very much looked as if they were enthusiastic about Arts and Crafts and Mother Earth. They appeared like the sort of women that would form a band and call it Frida's Brow, and they sang about topics that included Louis Riel and Wage Increases.

The crowd was comprised almost wholly of people who looked like they'd enjoy that sort of thing. Everybody in their late fifties, the men all wearing beards, the women in sexless flannel shirts suggesting an outdoorsy life of practicality. Like smaller, yet sturdier men without beards. I could not keep my eyes off of one of these couples.

A medicated looking woman sat serenely, staring straight ahead, a thin and pointless smile on her face. Beside her was a man. A bearded man. He was reading a book of some sort, pointedly underlining passages with a pencil as if trying to project an intellectual rigour out into the world around him. I hated him immediately. I did not like the way he was ignoring his wife, the way he had treated her for the last twenty-five years, how his relentlessly selfish behaviour had caused her to quietly ask her doctor for a prescription for Zoloft one afternoon while refilling her birth control pills over a decade ago. And of course, he would take no responsibility for this, condescending, making her feel like her blue moods were all her fault.

Always has been, always will be.

And because of all of this, of the way he made her feel that everything she did was an intellectual failure, I was giving him the stink eye. He didn't notice me but just kept on reading with that look on his face, and then it struck me that what I was doing, turning around and staring, was just going to make his wife feel worse. That is what life with her husband was like, unarticulated clouds of hostility floating about all the time, and she, poor thing, thinking that it was somehow her fault.

Love,

Madeline
xo

As many of you know, I was expelled from the Driver’s Education class I was taking. Fortunately, I was able to persuade Clark, our insecure complete dong of an instructor, to let me back in the class providing that I followed a few of his “simple rules.”

1) No Angry Birds during class.
2) Only speak when acknowledged by the teacher.
3) Recognize that this is not a comedy club where I get to try out new material.
4) Practice appropriate hygiene.

Whatever.

At any rate, the Saturday class passed without much incident, even though I didn’t have time to shower in the morning, but on Sunday a new student began to attend our course. Around 19, he was a “Dude.” He wore sunglasses and a t-shirt that said, “The Party Starts Here,” couldn’t stop talking about his hangover and kept answering all the questions the instructor asked correctly.

I hated his guts.

It was clear to me that regardless of the shackles Clark had imposed on me, that I absolutely had to step up my game to maintain my Alpha status in the class. And so, I immediately began to speak over Gio, belittle the things he said and answer every question I could. The other students looked up to me as their leader, and I couldn’t have that authority challenged.

You should know that in an effort at making “learning fun,” our moron of an instructor offered us treats whenever we answered a question correctly. If you knew what the speed limit was on a rural road, well, he would throw you a rice cracker. Gio had quite a stack of them, so I started to call him “Rice Cracker.” He took this as the challenge it was.

“Why you be doggin’ me, old man?”

“You’re going to make an excellent pizza delivery driver one day, Rice Cracker.”

“I could break you like a twig, Grandpa, don’t you be testing me.”

I was quiet for a little bit here.

Later, Clark divided the class in half to play a Driver’s Education game of Jeopardy. I completely fucking shone.

“What is a continuity line, Clark?”
“What is 0.08 percent alcohol, Clark?”
“What is drowsy driving, Clark?”

Every time I nailed another question Gio would make a “Pffft” sound, the sound of a loser.

I gave him a hard look, “Not so tough now, are you Rice Cracker? Brains over brawn, brains over brawn.”

And then Gio, who might have Road Rage issues, called me a Bitch and slapped me across the face.

Clark began to blow a whistle that he kept concealed beneath his shirt and the building security guard came to restore order and escort Gio and I off the premises. Apparently, this sort of thing happens more often than you’d think.

Not many men beg on the part of Queen East where we live. There just isn't enough pedestrian traffic to make it worthwhile. There are no office buildings or primary employment hubs about so if you're wandering around during the day it usually means that you have nothing better to do, and if you happen upon somebody sitting out on the sidewalk with a hat in front of them, then they're likely to have just run out of ideas. It's as if they just got tired, decided to plop down, take off their hat and see what happens. I passed one such man on Sunday while I was out walking the dog. He certainly didn't expect anything from me and made no effort to make eye contact, but he reached out to pet Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund. This startled her and she jumped away, his outstretched hand left to pass through the empty air, one more thing that hadn't gone right.

I pulled the dog closer to him and introduced her. The man smiled and tilted his head, rubbing her behind her ears. He did this for about 20 seconds and then looked up at me, “ Thanks, you know there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone, and that, that helped”-- a Kris Kristofferson lyric manifest in the flesh.

Turning north at the intersection and heading up the street, we passed the Broadview Gospel Hall. Slowly rising up the steps, stepping both feet onto each one at a time, was an elderly couple. They could well have been in their 90's, and holding hands, the woman led the man, both of them dressed in their Sunday best. Who knows how long they'd been going to that church, how many years she'd proudly worn that same Sunday bonnet, or how long they'd keep holding hands?

I came late to the game Angry Birds.

As most of you know it's an insanely popular video game application that's presently sold over 12 million copies. Originally made just for iPhones, it's now designed for other touchscreen phones, too, so if you've ever wondered what everybody was obsessing over on their phones before the movie began, well, they were playing Angry Birds.

It's a simple and deeply addictive game. Angry birds hurl themselves via a slingshot at a variety of structures that house evil, egg-stealing pigs. The more destruction your wreak, the more points you score.

Rachelle and I have become addicted to the game and talk of little else, ans as such I've been hearing the Angry Bird stories of a multitude of people.

Here are some of the testimonials:

Quon, cook at the Lucky Star Restaurant across the street:

“Oh, I play Angry Birds on all my breaks. When it get slow I go out in alley and play. Must kill pigs! It relaxes me so much it funny. When I do well I make pork lunch special.”

Carla, 11 year-old niece:

“It’s totally awesome. Even though my mom won’t let me have an iPhone, I’m the best at the game in all of the sixth grade. I would like to go to the Olympics for Angry Birds. I love the giant red bird the most, I call him The Red Torpedo. He's my secret weapon.”

Francis, 28 year-old friend:

“Whenever I'm on the subway I play Angry Birds. I use it as a means to flirt. When I do something well like kill three pigs, I make a display of it and show it to everybody sitting around me. Sometimes I ask for help. I got two dates doing this, but sadly, both guys were assholes. One of them still owes me $20.”

Taylor, 42 year-old fantasy baseball enthusiast:

“I fucking love the game. Honest to God, I will go to the washroom just to play, just to be away from the kids for a few minutes and get some piece and quiet. I love, love, love the slingshot and often imagine using it as a weapon against my children, whom I love very much, of course.”

Claire Stanton, 31 physician:

“Angry Birds consumed my fall of 2010 and winter of 2011, but in the spring of 2011 I discovered Tiny Wings.

Tiny Wings is to Angry Birds what Crack is to Cocaine.

Tiny Wings is basically a chubby bird that needs the swooping momentum of a hill to fly - and when he flies, he cheers! Sometimes he even touches the clouds. It's pure poetry.”

I'm presently taking a driver's education course on the weekends in a small, windowless room with about two dozen teenagers. It's presided over by a guy named Clark who always wears khaki pants and a pair of black shoes that express nothing other than a willingness, and perhaps even a need to conform.

Repeatedly, he's told us that he's a graphic designer and that he made the power point presentation and booklet we work from himself.

“It took me six years,” he says proudly, as if waiting for gasps and applause.

Reflexively condescending, he has the slightly defensive, almost combative manner of somebody used to hoarding rather than sharing information. He needs to know more than you do, and even posed as a teacher he works at maintaining that discrepancy rather than levelling it.

We disliked one another immediately.

Illustrating a point about how dangerous it is to put decorations on you dashboard, he trotted out his wife as an example. One day she thought to put a small framed photograph on the dash, and as if throwing himself over a bomb, he shouted, “NO!” You see, if the airbag went off it could send the photograph cartwheeling through the air like a missile, potentially killing their son! And later, while explaining how we all needed to be in the right frame of mind to drive-- with minimal distractions in the car-- he cited how distracting it was to drive when somebody else was sobbing in the vehicle, and immediately I imagined his wife and what a chore it must be to live with Clark.

However, Clark wants learning to be fun, and in the service of this pursuit he created a little scenario where one of us (me!) got to pretend that we were being interviewed by the police as to why we had been speeding.

Clark: Why were you speeding?

Me: I was playing Angry Birds and I was in the Zone. I could have been going a million miles an hour for all I know.

This got a big laugh from the classroom.

Clark: You could have killed somebody.

Me: I am a very angry bird.

Clark sighed.

Clark: Do you think this is a joke, Michael? Driving is a privilege not a right, you have to take it very seriously!

Me: Well, I take Angry Birds very seriously.

This got even more laughs, including a hoot from a boy whose parents had optimistically named him All-Star.

Clark screamed at the class to be quiet.

Me: We've now moved into the Road Rage stage of our performance.

The class roared.

Hissing at me through clenched teeth, Clark expelled me from his class, explaining that I would have to finish up the course at a different time, with a different instructor and at a different location.

Murray wins another one.

In the park two Russian men who look like they lived through the Soviet era, sit on a bench. Everyday at the same hour they meet there and talk about a wide range of intellectually flavoured topics. I imagine them exiled professors who settled into unexpected lives over the last 20 years, after departing positions of prestige in the motherland. Their bicycles lay on the ground in front of them, as if abandoned by lovers or children, who unable to control their excitement tossed them aside, and ran to one another.

On the next bench sat a frail and nearly elderly woman in white pant suit. She looked like she might break had the wind blown the wrong way and seemed lost to ghosts and sad thought. When I said Hello she awoke for a moment, her face gathering animation in response before falling quickly back into the darkness from whence it came.

At St. John's on Broadview two homeless people talked. The woman had orange hair and a tattoo of a cross on her bicep. She sat on a stool, telling the grey-haired man with the ponytail a story, " I don't know the details of the incarceration, but I know it's bad. She had a shitload of warrants against her, and now that they got her I don't know what they're gonna do." Her eyes were worried, fearful, and as she spoke she played with the tinfoil wrap from her package of cigarettes.

The dog and I turned the corner and headed down Grant Street where we bumped into the Native medicine man with whom I normally talk baseball. He had something hanging around his neck that looked like it might have been a potato wrapped in leather and I asked him what it was. He told me it was a healing agent that he wore to purify the airs and create positive energy. Many people, he said, particularly in this area, unwittingly used the sacred to create negative energy.

As evidence he cited a young man who was pacing the sidewalks shouting into his cell phone. According to the Medicine Man he was screaming at his mother, saying all sorts of disrespectful and cruel things. I might have mistook him for a competitive Toronto business man trying to close a deal, and not thought twice about him, but this story made me curious and I wanted to walk the dog near to him to eavesdrop, but he looked utterly furious, like somebody capable of a very bad decision, and so I avoided him.

And back on Queen Street a multitude of people invested in their own lives, each accomplishing their daily tasks. At the convenience store beneath where we live three young boys had stopped in for their regular candy run, the owner of the store gentle and happy to see them again, proud to see them nourished by his stable presence, to know they would never forget the simple joy they felt in these end of summer moments of chocolate milk and ice cream bars at the local corner store.

On Monday I challenged Ralph to a game of Ping Pong.

Something like this had been coming for a long time.

The man had been asking for it.

Ralph is 77 years old and is a handyman who has lived his entire life in the Queen East area. He's thin as a rail, has a bow-legged walk and is an incorrigible flirt. He has no time for men, me in particular it seems, but becomes Mister Fucking Charm when he's around the ladies.

When he see my wife Rachelle, who seems to be a particular favourite, he clutches his chest and staggers about as if having a heart attack. He sings her praises, whispers hammy things in broken french, then romances my dog Heidi—who just fucking love him—and completely ignores me.

I hate his guts.

On Monday I saw him leaning in a doorway that leads into the Jimmy Simpson Community Centre just around the corner from where we live. I approached him and saw that he was flirting with two Asian women-- both around 60-- who were playing Ping Pong. Ralph was actually dancing, doing the robot of all things, and the women were in hysterics, oh, just falling in love they were, and this completely infuriated me.

I wanted to be the Alpha male.

“That's one squeaky robot there, Ralph,” I said.

Ralph fake punched me in the face. This made me flinch and drop my bottle of mango juice. The Asian women screamed with laughter.

I then challenged Ralph to Ping Pong.

It turns out that Ralph was better at Ping Pong than I expected and although I was winning, the game was tight. It was hotter than hell in the Community Centre and I did something I very rarely do which was take my shirt off, and shortly after I did so I saw one of the Asian women pointing at me. I've had a number of surgeries and have several scars, and this sort of thing embarrasses me, but I was completely focused on defeating Ralph so I ploughed forward when I head the woman yell, “You go, G.I. Joe!”

I turned to her.

“What?”

“ We in Vietnam appreciate you fight for us in war!”

“I didn't fight in Vietnam, I'm WAY too young to have fought in Vietnam!”

Ralph, the prick, said, “You don't look young! I think you got the Shell Shock!”

I continued trying to convince the women that I was not a Vietnam vet and the fact that I had scars and was wearing a pair of camouflage shorts was just a coincidence.

“Okay, you no soldier fine. You carry heavy mental weight, I understand, but we thank you.”

While I was having this insanely exasperating conversation, Ralph continued to serve, awarding himself points for each unattended shot until he declared himself the winner. Stepping out of the room he said, “I gotta go now, some of have to work for a living! You tell your wife I say "hi, and that I love her long time!” and then he thrust his hips, the Asian women once again screaming with delight.

Serena Williams is a goddamn tank.

When you see her standing out there on the court you see a woman with such an extraordinary physical advantage over everybody else, that you immediately take pity on her poor opponent-- usually some pretty blonde girl dressed in pink.

As Wilt Chamberlain famously groused, “Everybody pulls for David, nobody roots for Goliath.”

On Sunday, Williams lost the U.S. Open final to Samantha Stosur. In the match Williams was deducted a point based on a rule called “deliberate hinderance.” It's an obscure rule, I think, one that's implemented when the umpire has decided that a player has intentionally done something to try to prevent their opponent from returning a shot. In the case of Williams, it happened after she crushed a forehand and immediately shouted, “C'mon!” as if frustrated and trying to rouse herself to further glories. Stosur lunged at the ball, just getting a piece of it before it skittered off hopelessly.

If Williams had not yelled, the result surely would have been the same.

No matter, what Williams did was antithetical to the culture of tennis, considered poor sportsmanship, and more or less in keeping with the swaggering confidence and ghetto-bravado she's always brought to the court. Because of this, I think, she was docked a point by the chair umpire, who sat imperiously above the fray as if in an opera box. Outfitted in Ralph Lauren, replete with a pony tail and clenched lower jaw, this woman could not have looked more WASPY, nor be implementing a more abstract, WASPY-sounding rule.

This moment was a frank, cultural distillate.

Serena Williams was being punished for not being who the establishment wanted their champions to be. In North America we've seen the same sort of thing regarding end-zone celebrations, post-dunk styling and the like, and very typically these rules serve to control African-American expression for the benefit of the sensibilities of a largely white audience.

Serena Williams has risen as a black woman from Compton to be perhaps the greatest female player ever in a sport that's long been embedded in the upper reaches of white culture. Make no mistake, she's faced racism, be it expressed overtly or in more subtle, cultural variations like accusations of inappropriate wardrobe, attitude or language. Williams has dealt with it, or maybe more appropriately, ploughed through it.

Most of us have no idea what that's like.

Williams, who comes from a close-knit family, had a half-sister who was murdered, has a stalker, a constantly sniping press, and this year has been coming back from a life-threatening hematoma and pulmonary embolism. I'm not even scratching the surface of her life here. Her life is huge, it contains multitudes and none of us have a clue what it must be like to try to live in the middle of it.

What we do know is that more than anything, she wanted to win the US Open. It's the only tournament that matters to her, and in New York City on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, she must have burned to win, to rise up as a symbol even, and vanquish her foes. Flawed, magnificent, ambitious and tragic, she was in so many ways like America herself on that day, and in the heat of the moment, just when she had hoped to turn the tide, she gets this small-minded, even irrelevant rule called against her. She Must have felt the world was against her, that it had always been against her.

It's unfair and utterly demoralizing, and I think she has every right to be upset, and to say, as she did on the court, “ A code violation because I expressed who I am? Really? We're in America last I checked.” and to wonder what that really means.

Sunday marks the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks.

What follows is a letter I wrote to a friend on the day of the attacks one decade ago.

*****************************************************

Oh my,

The skies are empty and all the streets are quiet. sweet Jesus.

Early in the morning my sister's husband called her and told her not to leave the house. He told her not to go out. Stay home.

The city is odd and drained and it feels like there is static electricity everywhere. I am standing on the corner, stunned, just looking about—I'm watching the girl with her ice cream cone, she looks like she might cry at any moment. A man in a business suit passes by and he nods solemnly at me, and then Colin comes up in his jean jacket and he tells me that he thinks it odd that the date is the eleventh day of the ninth month--911--what do i make of that? And I just shrug. I am in some kind of shock.

I have never been to New York City but I am in love with it. To me, it represents all that is great about America, all that is great about the world. New York. The skyline makes me dizzy. It's audacious, ambitious, beautiful and glittering and proud. It's the best that we have to offer.

I remember watching a concert on television—it was a series of opera arias and the skyline of New York City was the backdrop, and it was gorgeous. It was sunset and the light was reflecting like magic off of the twin towers, and the music was rising and the water was sparkling and it was just an awesome moment. Really. I felt proud of mankind. Look what this race has accomplished!! Look at the beauty, listen...We came crawling from caves and now this--this beauty, this wonder! It was so beautiful, so godly, so magnificent.

And now there is this vacant space pressing against the sky, and it is just too much to digest.

And what can a nation due but line up and donate blood?

Ottawa closed up in terror. I think that the American embassy remained operational, but all the stores across from the building shut down. Driving by late in the afternoon, the embassy was already covered in sympathetic flowers.

Later, in the bar I can tell that something important has taken place because the volume on the television sets is turned up. Some people are paying no attention and my fury rises as they laugh and drink and carry on--oh, I want to tell them to fuck off, I want them right out of there, but I don't say anything. I sit there sternly looking at the television set, and as I am sitting there a man approaches me and asks if he can sit with me. His name is Ian and his hand shake is faint. I think that he's drunk, but I also think that he's a person who does not normally get drunk. He wants to speak to me. He speaks slowly and with great concentration, as if testifying. He is speaking carefully, remembering things--he is telling me about New York City, about his daughter who lives up north, about the sorrow that he has seen, and I am looking at him as the television set casts sound and light down onto us in this very lonely night.

Last Friday I went to the Drift Bar on Bloor West to meet a friend. I was a little bit early so I sat there at my table with a drink and my notebook, looking around the place in the most unobtrusive way I could fashion.

To my left a young and beautiful couple sat across from one another holding hands upon the table. Sometimes, one of them, as if making a suggestion, would place their free hand in there, too, slowly running a thumb or a forefinger over wrist or ring. They spoke in near whispers and rarely looked at one another, choosing instead to stare down at their union of hands, for therein was contained the idea that had brought them to this point.

Sitting at the table by the window were three people. There was a woman in a bowling shirt with the name Sam embroidered on it. She had long, straight blonde hair that looked like it was washed out of a sense of duty rather than love and had the appearance of somebody who really liked fantasy literature, the one who always related to the character who wielded the double axe.

She drank beer, like a warrior. Beside her was the femme girl who wore a pretty white dress. She drank a glass of rose and listening rather than speaking, ran her hand up and down her shin all night as if checking for stubble. The third member of the group was a hipster, a guy with a well attended mess of facial hair and some sort of John Deere-like baseball cap that was meant to suggest a practical indifference to fashion but conveyed the exact opposite. He seemed bored, like he was somebody's brother just waiting to do something cooler a little later in the night.

I wondered about them, I guess, and must have been staring over while making notes. The Alpha of the little tribe, the woman in the bowling shirt, gave me a hard look, “What are you, some sort of detective, just sitting there staring at us? Get a life!”

“ I'm just waiting for a friend, a priest, in fact, and my eyes must have just fallen on you folks. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, a priest,” she responded, “ a guy like you, I bet you've got a lot to confess, a lot to talk about, eh?”

I was not sure where to go with this, and so, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me I said, “ You are a beautiful bird, a rare and unexpected treat.”

She gave me the finger.

I nodded and tipped my hat--- the couple on my other side still holding hands, still lost to the possibilities of their knotted flesh.

On the weekend Rachelle and I went up to a friend's cottage. At this time of year all of the mice are looking to find someplace warm to live and have thus been making plans to infiltrate the cottage. In response to this our friend set up a couple of mouse traps baited with chocolate and what followed was nothing short of a massacre.

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Mouse #1: Nibbler: The deceased left behind over 600 offspring.

Mouse #2: Blinker: His poor eyesight was thought to be a contributing factor to his death.

Mouse #3: Bebe Le Rue: A free spirit, Bebe was always the life of the party.

Mouse #4: Pac Man: Long in love with Bebe, his peers suspected a suicide after he found out of Bebe's demise.

Mouse #5: Gandolph: This mouse was described by associates as a “dreamer.”

Mouse #6: Professor Squeak: Was enchanted by the wedding of Prince William and Kate.

Mouse #7: Sting: Always aspired to see the other side of the lake, but sadly, never lived to make the journey.

Mouse #8: Stuart: Plagued by a learning disability for much of his life, Stuart had difficulty acquiring food on his own and was always vulnerable to death my mousetrap.

Mouse #9: Beyonce: A mouse who was renowned for her beautiful whiskers.

Mouse #10: Nugget: Considered a leader, it is believed that Nugget went in with the intent of disarming the trap, passing from this world to the next as a true hero.

Mouse #11: Oreo: Remarkable within his community for his idiosyncratic black and white colouring.

Mouse #12: Jujube: Elderly and alcoholic, he was a loner with few friends and family ties.

Mouse #13: Indiana: Loved to gamble.

Mouse #14: Mozzarella: Broken in half by the mousetrap.

Mouse #15: Tsunami: Always fascinated by religion and possibilities of the afterlife, Tsunami will finally have all of her questions answered.

Mouse #16: Spooky: Sexually insatiable, this mouse was riddled with venereal disease.

Mouse #17: Kwanza: Had a premonition of her impending death, but was still unable to stop herself from going for the chocolate.

Mouse #18 - #22: Minimus 3-Minimus 4—Minimus 5--Minimus 6—Minimus 7: Part of a Doomsday cult, it is believed that these mice perished together in a ritual ceremony, holding firm to their belief that they would be reincarnated as stars in the sky above.

Last Week Rachelle and I went up to the french restaurant Baltifole for dinner. It's an unexpected place, sitting like a little colonial outpost on a crumbling and dodgy stretch of of Chinatown East. The food is sometimes very good, it's always reasonably priced and the waiter reminds me of Eddie Izzard, so I'm always happy to go there, as it does indeed live up to it's billing of serving the “best french food in Chinatown.”

Extreme weather was predicted for Toronto that night and as we started to walk home after the meal it began to rain, slowly and in thick beautiful drops. It was romantic and fun, this. I kind of wanted to get caught in a torrential downpour, but I'm not sure that Rachelle was similarly inclined, and so we ended up kind of hurrying home and kind of not, as if playing a of game of chicken with the weather. It was probably around 10:00, and I felt like a child, out past bedtime, dawdling home at summer's end. By the time we got back the rain had come in earnest and the thunder had begun to crack.

Dashing up the fire escape and into the apartment, locking the door as the wind picked-up and heavens broke, and then having a worried yet happy dog running to greet us, was a description of home and safety.

From the security of the bedroom we opened up the door onto the veranda, turned off all the lights, and watched the storm unfold beyond Queen Street. Never in my life had I seen an electrical storm of such intensity. It was beautiful, but it was scary, too, just as it should be-- the sheets of lighting a constant strobe in the sky, the dog shivering in fear between us.

Watching the storm and feeling a sincere sense of awe and gratitude, I was given to think of change. The weather itself is an example, it's evolved n my lifetime and it seems clear to me that an era of extreme and unpredictable climate change is upon is. And so it goes. We're all in a surging river and we can't grab hold to that one branch and then kick furiously against the stream to sustain our golden days for eternity. The weather changes. Whether we want it or not, we're pushed along by forces we can't control, and ever moving and turning corners, we love what we can, be they the moments small or large.

The building that Rachelle and I live in is over one hundred years old and used to be a hotel. There are five apartments in it and sadly, it's the sort of downtown situation where you really don't know your neighbours. Over the last couple of weeks, a woman who I presume just moved in, keeps ringing our buzzer to get into the building. It's probably happened a half dozen times and it bugs me. Appearing at the door with a barking dog under my arm, my face must always be a kind of slide show moving from surprise to disappointment to frustration then irritation.

Who are you?
Why do you keep doing this?
Can't you do anything right?

These are the things my face must say.

The young woman, Asian and with a beautiful french accent, always mumbles, almost whispers an apology, telling me she had forgotten her keys. Flustered, she's never stopped to introduce herself, hoping to avoid rather than engage in conversation. She stands awkwardly in the hallway, sighing. Although now in the building, she's still can't get into her apartment. This, the metaphor for her life.

Right after this, some friends took Rachelle and I out for dinner in Little India. We went to Lahore Tikka House, which is really more of a carnival than it is a restaurant. Sprawling beneath brightly coloured-tents and banners, the place always makes me feel like I'm actually in India, or at the very least, a Wes Anderson film. As unpretentious as the Ex, it's always bustling and a kind of organized chaos presides.

Tuesday was the last day of Ramadan, and with the Muslim fast now over all of Gerrard Street was jumping. On the sidewalks, beautifully attired women in glowing saris sat at tables, and underneath bright lights young girls penned henna into their hands and forearms. One girl in a hijab was so shy and meticulous in her work that she never looked up to make eye contact with the woman she was working on. Instead, she murmured softly into the cell phone she had pressed tightly to her head, as if speaking to a boyfriend she could not bear to be apart from. Watching was a woman in a black burqa, only her eyes visible through the impenetrable mysteries of her wardrobe.

Music throbbed, families hung from windows in the apartments above, teenagers hoped to fall in love and all the stores, blasting their music, stayed open and happy. We walked through it as if part of a movie, one where a spy must flee through an exotic land of bright lights, sounds and scents.

Returning home to Queen street we found two men moving a sofa up the staircase leading up to the apartments. The sofa was jammed and the men were utterly perplexed as to what they might do next. They looked like they might just abandon the project in it's entirety and go get drunk at the bar.

As Rachelle and I navigated our way up the stairs we could see the open door of our unknown neighbours who were now in the midst of a move. The young Asian woman stood there with her suitcase. Seeming lost she looked down the stairs at the sofa, one more obstacle to face before leaving this point in her life, a trail of sadness almost certain to follow to her next destination.

What follows is the series of text messages I received from my wife from last Tuesday when the Virginia Earthquake struck and sent a tremor through Toronto, where we live:

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did u feel that???

the earthquake!

a tremor just passed through toronto!

it was wild, my desk drawer suddenly swung open like magic!

and i saw a candy bar i'd forgotten about just sitting there.

yes, i 8 it.

no, i didn't save any for u.

the earth wanted me to do it.

that's why it shook.

it was telling me.

kit-kat.

stop it, u don't even like kit-kat.

really, u didn't feel anything?

oh. you felt poltergeist activity in our apartment.

i c.

r u watching psychic investigators again?

the one where they discover a poltergeist?

michael, i don't know y u watch such shows.

u always get scared.

u r just too suggestible a person.

r 2.
r 2.
r 2.

look, it was a damn earthquake, ok?

it's all over the news!

stop playing scrabble and take a look!

it wasn't ghost energy.

no.

please.

the dog is not possessed.

she's probably just hunting a bug.

u likely can't see the bug because you have peanut butter or something smudged all over your glasses.

her eyes don't look evil.

they're cute, like cocoa beans.

alright.

get an exorcism done if you must, but make sure it's while i'm at work.

SORRY????

the poltergeist just broke my patrick swayze painting???

that was a gift from vanessa!

u know what that means to me!

If u want to get in a poltergeist activity war with me u r going to lose.

my poltergeist is WAY stronger than yours.

it will beat your fucking face in if that painting is damaged.

yes?

good.

i'm glad your poltergeist has healing powers and the painting is better.

now, go take the dog out and stop watching tv.

and don't go gambling in chinatown again.

just get something for dinner.

and no "gambling" for dinner.

that is not the way that they make you pay.

be home around 7:00

xoxox

National Zoo Animals React to the Earthquake

The vibrations from Tuesday’s 5.8 earthquake in Virginia were keenly felt at the Smithsonian’s National Zoological Park and animal care staff recognized changes in animal behviour.

GREAT APES

The earthquake hit the Great Ape House and Think Tank Exhibit during afternoon feeding time. About five to ten seconds before the quake, Kyle (an orangutan) and Kojo (a Western lowland gorilla), abandoned their food and climbed to the top of the tree-like structure in the exhibit, held hands and then jumped to their deaths.

About three seconds before the quake, Mandara (a gorilla) let out a shriek and collected her baby, Kibibi, and ate her.

Iris (an orangutan) began "belch vocalizing," an unhappy/upset noise normally reserved for extreme irritation before the quake and continued this vocalization following the quake.

SMALL MAMMALS The red ruffed lemurs sounded an alarm call about 15 minutes before the quake and then again just after it occurred.

The howler monkeys looted and pillaged their habitat, lighting fire to their swinging tire.

The black-and-rufous giant elephant shrew hid in his habitat and refused to come out for afternoon feeding.

REPTILE DISCOVERY CENTER

All the snakes (copperheads, cotton mouth, false water cobra, etc.) began writhing in unison during the quake, in a pattern one caregiver observed was reminiscent of the choreography in Michael Jackson's Thriller video . Normally, they remain inactive during the day.

Murphy, the Zoo's Komodo dragon, threw-up.

INVERTEBRATES

One of the volunteers at the Invertebrate Exhibit was feeding the cuttlefish and it was not responsive, and then for reasons she could not explain then devoured several of the immobilized fish.

BEAVERS

Keepers were feeding the beavers and hooded mergansers (a species of duck) when the earthquake hit. The ducks immediately jumped into the pool. The beavers stopped eating, stood on their hind legs and looked around, and then, holding paws in a circle, began to sing that song from the Grinch: Fahoo fores dahoo dores Welcome Doomsday come this way.

GREAT CATS

The lion pride was outside. They all stood still and faced the building, which rattled during the quake and urinated.

Damai (a female Sumatran tiger) jumped at the start of the earthquake in a startled fashion and then she approached Baako ( a male Sumatran tiger) and very urgently mated with him.

BIRD HOUSE

The Zoo has a flock of 64 flamingos. Just before the quake, the birds rushed about and grouped themselves together. They remained huddled during the quake, humming.

FRONT ROYAL

During the quake all Eld's deer and tufted deer immediately ran out of the barns and exploded into flames.

The Prezwalski horses and scimitar-horned oryx levitated briefly and then returned to normal.

GIANT PANDAS

According to keepers, the giant pandas did not respond to the earthquake.

I actually like Christie Blatchford.

I think she's one of the best newspaper columnists working in Canada and have always admired the courage she's shown in displaying sentiment in her work. When she writes about the military, police officers or her pets-- subjects she seems most passionate about-- she's never been afraid to get a bit corny and turn the prose up a notch to a level some might find a little embarrassing in its purple enthusiasms.

About a month ago, after a police officer in the Toronto area died in the line of duty, she began one of her columns in the National Post in this manner:

“As the old African-American spiritual has it, they are coming for to carry him home.

By the thousands they will come, police from forces across North America, to line a parade route that cuts through the heart of this sprawling half-urban, half-rural region north of Toronto to march him to his funeral.

Just a week ago, York Regional Police Constable Garrett Styles was gloriously alive, an hour away from the end of his shift, an hour away from four days off.”

You see what I mean.

No matter, I’ve always found this voice-- so distinctive and melodramatic-- to be kind of fresh, even invigorating within the corporate homogeny of newspaper writing, and even if it was often over-the-top, it was just as often affecting.

On Monday, Jack Layton the leader of the NDP in Canada (the party of the left) died of cancer. He represented the riding in Toronto where Rachelle and I live and as I took the dog for a walk, I noticed that people on the streets were sincerely emotional about his passing. They commiserated on street corners, telling on another stories of their experience with the man, and on Broadview in front of his headquarters a makeshift shrine of flowers and other testimonials, was being created by people leaving gestures of their affection. It was touching and it was true, and this spirit, this need, manifested in spontaneous form throughout the city.

Blatchford, paddling against the stream, wrote a sneering piece in the National Post in which she criticized Layton's unyielding political ambition that she saw rising even from the grave, and the hollow, tawdry display of those who would mourn a man they had never met in such a public way. There's an obvious disconnect-- a cognitive dissonance even-- in how she views the spectacle surrounding those who fall in battle, to those who perish in a less romantic way. It’s embarrassing, that, and probably informed by the fact that she’s the daughter of a cop, a woman fully integrated into the warrior culture.

Blatchford’s always played the role of contrarian, (as her employers want her to) exhibiting a libertarian streak and a tomboy sensibility that's given her a blue-collar kind of persona in spite of the fact she lives in the tony Annex district in Toronto.

We all contain multitudes, I guess.

Her antipathy toward the vulgar display of flowers and public mourning, something she speciously attributed to the pop sensibility that arose from Lady Diana’s death so many years ago, was an elitist and unkind posture to assume. Completely absent of any affection, imagination or empathy for the people who wanted to express themselves, she was indifferent to how dropping some flowers off might make them feel better about things, not her. Regarding it as a failure of feeling rather than a sincere expression of feeling, she was suggesting it was a kind of low-rent emotion, and as if some sort of royalty sniffed at the child-like banality of the people who would think to leave a stuffed unicorn at the foot of Layton’s office door.

Her words on this matter lacked any scent of self-awareness and were quite simply misanthropic.

But she wasn’t just rolling her eyes at the people laying flowers, but at Jack Layton, too. Now, I never met Layton, but the one thing that was obvious about him was that he was a really decent and good human being. You didn't need to know him personally to see this or to be moved by it. He was a great guy, it simply radiated out of him, and that Blatchford chose to ignore this and focus on what she thought was an overly-ambitious nature in the man, was mean. To criticize Layton or any politician for being political, and perhaps having a different psychological assembly than the rest of the population is asinine, like whining about an athlete being competitive. The fact that she chose to attack him for leaving a letter, composed just days before his death, to the Canadian people, citing that as evidence of his pathological ambition, was crazy.

I mean, what do we think of when we sincerely face our own death?

None of us know until we’re in that unfortunate situation, but I know when I was sick with cancer I felt the need to set my house in order as best I could, and if that included writing a letter to my constituents and imparting some simple and inspirational advice to interested parties, so be it. To bitch about that instinct in people is simply to bitch about humanity, and to do that suggests that Blatchford has slipped into the role of crabby, old lady, now barking from her protected doorway at the imperfect, beautiful and vulnerable lives unfolding around her.

Dictionary of Dream Interpretation in which Celebrities are Featured

Snooki: To dream of Snooki betokens much distress, and evil-minded persons will seek to injure you in your best work. Ill health is foreboded and despondent hopes will grow gloomier. You will make a failure of life through egotism and selfishness, and anticipated pleasures will be interrupted by an unforeseen event.

Justin Timberlake: To dream that you are annoyed by the singing of Timberlake, denotes a death in your family. To see him dancing means that your fortune will gradually increase. To see him playing golf assures success., but if you see him dead, you will suffer loss and displeasure, however if you were responsible for his death, be it by club or blade, you will come into an estate.

Natalie Portman: To dream of Natalie Portman wandering around a farm is significant of seasonable weather and a fine yield of crops.

Jesse Eisenberg: To dream of Jessie Eisenberg means an evil and designing person is keeping watch over your conversation to work you harm. To see Eisenberg ascending on an escalator is a sure sign that you will defeat your enemies in battle, but to see him descending on an escalator denotes business failure and much distress caused from turmoils and wars between nations.

Paul Rudd: Paul Rudd seen in a dream foretells easy access to blissful joys, and immunity from poverty and whatever brings misery. To discover that Paul Rudd has a small penis in your dream denotes that your desires will not excel your power of possessing them.

Katy Perry: To dream that you spy upon Katy Perry through a keyhole, foretells that you will damage some person by disclosing confidence. To dream that your hands are upon the breasts of Katy Perry and that the feeling is pleasurable to both parties you will rise to exalted positions and be congenially wedded.

Michael Jackson: For a woman to dream of a Beat It era Michael Jackson, omens artful deception will be practised upon her, which will almost ensnare her to destruction, but her good sense and judgment will prevail in warding off unfortunate complications. If the Michael Jackson is soiled, or lightly-complected and lean, she will be victimized into glaring indiscretions. To dream of Michael Jackson with Bubbles the Chimp, denotes small troubles and vexations will pursue you, unless you kill Bubbles, and then you will overcome these worries. To see snakes kill Bubbles, you have enemies who in seeking to injure you will work harm to themselves. To dream that you see Michael Jackson wearing a mask denotes temporary trouble, as your conduct towards some dear one will be misinterpreted, and your efforts to aid that one will be misunderstood, but you will profit by the temporary estrangements.

Amy Winehouse: To dream of Amy Winehouse portends that sorrow and misfortune hold prominent places in your immediate future.

Oprah: To dream of Oprah denotes that you will form friendships which will prove beneficial and pleasing to you. For a young woman to dream that she hugs Oprah, denotes that she will be able to command her own affairs whether they be of a private or public character. For a man to dream of wrestling Oprah denotes that a great blessing will be his and that he will command nations and nature with the thunder of his voice.

For a long time, I believed that my nephews Carter and Oliver, now aged 9 and 7, adored me. But that seems to have morphed into a mocking contempt now that they've figured out that I'm subordinate to them and not the other way around. I believe this inevitable downfall was set in motion when I was babysitting them one afternoon at our apartment. Needing to run down to the corner store beneath us, I asked them if there was anything I could pick-up for them. I did this without thinking, just as I'd ask Rachelle the same question.

Carter, the eldest boy, had a look of wonder wash over his face and without blinking said that he would like a Coke, a Scratch N' Win ticket, a chocolate bar and some Kraft Dinner. I went and bought all these things, returning them to the boys like they were royalty. I was, I guess, trying to buy silence. Over the course of the afternoon I made two more trips for them, returning with those rubber gloves you wear to do the dishes, potato chips, hot dog buns and a flashlight.

Pretty much ever since they've been calling me “Fart-A-Tronic,” “Four-Eyed Skull Face” and even more disturbingly “Dead Eyes.” The respect is gone, and as a result I now hate them.

Right now Oliver has a loose tooth that he's constantly wiggling. It's fucking gross, it freaks me out, and there's nothing I can do to get him to stop. And so he tortures me with it. Carter will shout at him, “Do it Oliver, wiggle it at Dead Eyes!” and then he'll move his tooth about and delight in watching me flinch and gag. These boys have become a couple of little power-mad sadists.

However, there is a weak spot, and that weak spot is the Tooth Fairy. Oliver still believes in him and is looking forward to the money he’ll get when this stupid tooth falls out of his stupid head, but Carter is too old to believe in the Tooth Fairy, and has promised to prove that he doesn’t exist by training the Web Cam on the Oliver's bed the night he puts his tooth under his pillow, thus revealing that his parents are actually the Tooth Fairy.

It's what older brothers do, I guess.

At any rate, to teach them a lesson I've decided to use the key their parents gave us in case of an emergency to sneak into the house on the night that Oliver is expecting the Tooth Fairy to show up. I will wear a nylon stocking over my head, a cape and some creepy, old wings from a discarded Halloween costume and I will carry a hammer as a magic wand. I will walk up to the computer and break-off the web-cam, leaving some change beneath Oliver's pillow and a photograph of him sleeping in bed.
 
Game. Set. And match. Murray.

The streets were slow and humid and the lost men of Queen East were in full bloom. Wandering slowly with heavy, droopy moustaches and sloped-shoulders they wore novelty t-shirts that said things like Dog Father or All This Could Be Yours. A bronzed, middle-aged woman who had the look of a heavy drinker still able to hold down a steady job, passed by one of these men and said a few words to him. He shook his head from side to side, made some vague gesture with his hands and not wanting anything to do with her just kept right on going, moving crooked and nowhere in a hurry. The woman continued her journey, a little map of anger and frustration etched into her face. As she passed by my dog and I some 15 yard later, she was still muttering to herself, shaking her head, “waiting there, feeling like a goddamned idiot all that time...”

I'm always amazed at how many men walk down the street singing. Plugged into their iPods, they belt away as if indifferent to the idea that an external world might be unfolding around them. I never see women doing this, just men. It's as if, through use of their bullying voices, they hope to carve out some sort of tunnel that eliminates the possibility of social interaction. On the south side of the street, in the shade, a heavy aboriginal man with a long ponytail strides down the street like a king. Out of tune, but with unexpected velocity and startling force, he's singing Shock The Monkey by Peter Gabriel. An elderly Asian woman, wearing gloves and hat so that the the sun doesn't darken her skin and her peers think she works outdoors, jumps as he yells out “Shock the monkey to life!”

On the south side of the street, as if in competition, a smaller black guy is singing, too. He's more animated, moving from side to side. In key and in a raspy, almost breathless voice, he's singing the most ominous Beatles song I've eve heard:

You better run for your life if you can, little girl
Hide your head in the sand little girl
Catch you with another man
That's the end'a little girl

And to add emphasis, he slaps the garbage can he passes as if he was hitting somebody upside of the head.

When the dog and I returned from the park we came across one more guy, this one thin and wearing a cowboy hat and jeans with a little Canadian flag sticking out the back pocket. Probably around 50, he had his shirt undone revealing a bony, hairless chest. He wasn't singing, but he was fully concentrated on his music. Every once in awhile, he would break into a dance move, spinning, pointing his finger or doing some shockingly fluid move of choreography. At the corner of Broadview and Queen, while waiting at the light, he let out a cry like James Brown, spun in a circle and then exploded into a star shape, as if summoning the powers of the sun into his frail body.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund

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Day 2

Heidi been seeing lots of bats lately.

On black wing they swoop down at Heidi, making terrible noise of fang death!! All Heidi see are blood-rat eyes of bats and feel their cold stink breath!! Just horrible!!

But Heidi not sure if bats are real or not.

Sometimes Heidi bark to scare maybe-bats or sometimes shake and cower until two-leggers come to ask what wrong and tell Heidi she good dog, that she pretty dog.

Crazy times.

Heidi so miss her magic pills!

Day 3

Heidi feel better today.

Should tell you that all trouble start two weeks ago when hurt back. Never have pain like that! So motherfucking sore it unbelievable!! Like King Badger come to drive spikes into Heidi spine! Like Devil pain possess Heidi and paralyze her! So fucking awful! Why God have to be such dick to Heidi? Heidi good dog, only kill for sport!

Two-legger pack-subordinates see that Dear Leader Heidi suffering so they get magic pill and give to Heidi, make Heidi feel great! Pain go away and like Heidi floating up to corner of room where she watch all from comfortable and warm nest full of treats. Way better than fetch! Best den ever!! Heidi love her new life of floating in treat nest!

Then two-leggers just stop giving Heidi magic pills and Heid feel so weird!!
Like now Heidi cold then hot! Whole body itch! Heidi can't lick or scratch fast enough! Driving her crazy!! Like mad ants crawling over body and Heidi snap snap snap to kill fire ants but just keep coming! Relentless fire ants!! Heidi hate ants, must run from ants!!

Day 4

Heidi feel better today.

More like old self, stop vomiting and trying to frantically sniff out dust from magic pain pills. Feel like running and playing. Good times!

What's this?

Raccoon come in back door and want to play with Heidi?

Funny, Racoon usually so mean and greedy, just want to take Heidi food, but now want to play! Okay Mister Racoon, let play game of Mouse Kill! So much fun! So nice to be back to self and play with Mister Raccoon! Ha-Ha, Mister Raccoon flirty racoon! With mice eyes. Mister Raccoon eyes turning into mice, horrible white mice now all running at Heidi, mutant lab mice who want Heidi blood!! Heidi so scared!! Heidi try to run but can't! Mister Raccoon and army of mutant lab mice march like zombie-death-army toward her!!! Heidi wish she could fly back to treat nest in sky!

The other day while taking my sick dog for a walk, it was pointed out to me by a 55 year-old lesbian who was also taking her dog for a walk, that she and I looked alike. Both of us had short, salt and pepper hair, wore one of those straw hipster hats, a plaid shirt and similar, heavy-framed glasses. The resemblance was striking and there was nothing I could do but agree in a good-natured, aren’t-we-cool kind of way, but the truth was that I found it entirely demoralizing.

I did not want to look like an old lesbian.

I wanted to look like a famous actor’s more interesting, cooler brother.
 
I plodded home feeling sad, and when I got there and began to sink into my depression, I received a phone call from my nephew. Carter is 8 years old and he adores me. He thinks I might be an astronaut or something, not a 55 year-old lesbian.

Anyway, during his summer break his parents enrolled him in “Rock Star Camp” at the nearby Jimmy Simpson Community Centre, and on the day he called me he wanted to know if I could come in as a sort of show and tell project for the camp members.  I'd visit the class posing as an important journalist and talk about the music, what it meant to me and all the rock stars I’ve interviewed, and then answer any questions the children might have. It sounded like a blast, the sort of thing I’ve been waiting my entire life to do and so I practically ran over to deliver my talk.
 
There were eight children present, two of whom were holding tambourines.
 
I thought I would really capture their imagination by imitating a performance that David Byrne did while with the Talking Heads, a band that I loved and planned on speaking about at length. Wearing a suit, bow-tie and those heavy-framed glasses that Byrne popularized, I brought in a ghetto blaster, placed it on the gym floor, and put on the Talking Heads classic song Once In A Lifetime.

In the video, David Byrne performs a number of unique dance moves, including one where he seems to be buffeted by unknown forces. As I lip-synched the song, I imitated these movements, which caused one child to blow a whistle she had around her neck. (I later found out that this girl blew the whistle whenever she thought she was having an allergic reaction.)
 
“The old man’s having an attack!” She shrieked.
 
I told her she was stupid, which made all the other children laugh.
 
I had the crowd.
 
From there we moved seamlessly into the Q & A portion of my seminar.
 
“Why are your teeth so yellow?” asked a retarded child.
 
“It is the rock star way,” I responded, “it comes from years of drug use and Kraft Dinner. Remember, if you want to be a real rock star, you’ll have to be prepared to die young and get many sexually transmitted diseases.”
 
A boy then asked me what sex was at which point the staff, two pushy teenagers who knew nothing about being a rock star, ended my talk and began a gay sing along to some Beatles song.

I think it was “Maxwell's Silver Hammer,” but had long since stopped caring.

A friend of mine used to work at the Bank of Montreal where she helped provide technical support for on-line banking. One of the things she liked to do when killing time on the job was to scroll through the answers people provided to the security questions the bank used as a safeguard for each account. You all know the types of questions.

Who did you take to the prom?
What was your maternal grandmother's first name?
What was your favourite sports team as a child?
What was the name of your first pet?

Stuff like that.

Her favourite category to peruse was “What is the nickname you have for your spouse?”

Curious about this, I asked her if it was possible if she could send me a sample of some of these nicknames and so she did, emailing a list from the security questions of accounts that had been terminated:

Ham Wallet

Godzilla Chest

Uncle Sam

Ma Bitch

Princess Fartina

Strong Leg

Chinklet

Frito

Commander Cutie

Gogo Bear

My Little Crumpet

Swamp Donkey

Kutty

The Red Rooster

Slave

Cheeky Sleeky Meeky Monkey

Seven Of Nine

The Way

Nalgas

Fran Of Darkness

Sexmatronic

Poothead

Carrot

Donkey Fart Super Punch

Ally Bally Baby Boo

The Wife

My Lil Nosey Bug

Dime

Johnny Cash

The Heat Wave

Five Star

Woo

Farero Huzzle

Slut

My Bocce Ball

Last weekend while Rachelle and I were in Montreal we stopped in to the Museum of Fine Arts to see the Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit. I've always had a passing interest in fashion, but really don't know that much about it or Gaultier in particular. He usually wore a French sailor's top, he did that conical bra number for Madonna and he designed all the clothes for the movie The Fifth Element. That's it, the sum of my Gaultier knowledge. I’m not sure exactly what it was I was expecting, but probably something flimsy and sexy with a sensational flash of Pop Art, sort of like the concussive jolt of Fashion TV.

Whatever small glimpse of high fashion I've been given through films, TV and magazines has really focused on the people wearing the clothes rather than the clothes themselves. I see supermodels, I see sex, I see a genetic elite who would look good in or out of anything. However, viewing the clothes up close and stripped of the celebrity that's wearing it is an entirely different, and yes, artistic experience. The craftsmanship, detail and imagination that flows into each work is stunning, even breath-taking.

The exhibit opens by asking that we walk up a set of opulently attired stairs, as if rising up into a pretentious club that you're not quite sure you actually want to visit. You’re greeted by an array of about a dozen mannequins, all clad in Gaultier and many with faces that have been animated through a projection system. This is freaky, like walking into the cast-off room of a mad scientist who never quite perfected in his android. The features on the mannequins move in familiar yet unnatural ways, some startling you by speaking in a way that’s both scary and alluring. It’s entirely dislocating, like stepping into a future never quite imagined.

Mannequins of this nature pop-up throughout the exhibit and I think I actually fell in love with two of them. Dressed in stunningly beautiful clothes, these models seduce you. Speaking in the most fetching French, sometimes whistling or singing, they’re whimsical ideals plucked from dreamland. As if to accentuate this, in one room, behind the most beguiling living mannequin, covering the entire length of the room is a panorama of Paris at night, and it’s just beautiful. Honestly, I could have stood there for hours, falling in love with some imagined version of the perfect Parisian moment.

On an oval-shaped catwalk, about a dozen or so faceless mannequins rotated past, propelled by a conveyor belt. Without the projected animation on the faces of the other models located throughout the show you're forced to focus on the clothes. As each piece rotates to the centre-point, turning into view as if employing the saucy or insouciant flourish of a flirty model, I imagined the sort of person who might wear such rarified works of wonder. It would be a moment of such intricate cinema, like a Bond villain at a cocktail party, so beautiful as to be impossible, coming down the staircase toward you exhaling smoke, the city of lights just beyond, your life forever changed by bearing witness to such living art.

What follows is a series of text messages that my friend Trish sent me from her day in divorce court as she did battle with her soon to be ex-husband Pete.

********************************

"Oh my God, Pete's wearing his super-ugly corduroy suit in order to impress the judge. It's fucking August! He's sweating like a pig!!”

“By the way, the suit is 25 years old, balding and shiny in all the wrong spots, and smells of beer caps.”

“Pete has always known how to make a good impression.”

“Oh Lord, this is so surreal, they're now calling Pete's old pals from high school to the courtroom. It's the reunion from hell!!”

“On the plus side, Kelly O' Donnell, our snotty head girl, is the size of a house, but is still vain enough to have had crappy work done to her face! Love it!”

“Oh, gross! There's Donny Magnus and he has no hair! I gave him a hand job after a school dance once! This is hell! HELL!!!”

“I can now hear Pete's lawyer screaming in the hallway. I wonder what Pete did?”

“Can now make out Pete shrieking in hallway in that high-pitched, nasally voice of his, I JUST WANT WHAT'S MINE!”

“Fine with me, he can have his porn stash. He hid it in the garage. I tell you, the man is brilliant.”

“Pete is now taking the stand. He is sweating THROUGH his corduroy suit. Huge pit stains, like Bruce Springsteen in concert.”

“OMG! He's congratulating the judge, who is black, on how far she has come and how she must have a real understanding of injustice.”

“She just gave him the YOU'RE DEAD look.”

“But poor Pete, he thinks that look means that he's being taken seriously.”

“Pete is now reading a letter he wrote about what a bad mother I am because I don't like to cook.”

“He's pulled out fake glasses for added gravitas.”

“Your honour,” Peter reads, “ one week we had McCain's frozen pizza three times. I ask you, what sort of wife and mother does that to her family?”

“Ha! You know what the judge just asked? She said, “Well, if your wife was busy at work, why didn't you get dinner?” Zing!!!!”

“He just took off his corduroy jacket and you can smell his BO from a mile away! Honestly, I saw the judge flinch!!!”

“Donny Magnus keeps looking over at me. In THAT kind of way. I think I'm going to vomit.”

“I don't believe this. Pete just said that he gave up a promising professional career in ice hockey to get a steady job in construction to help support the family while I started up my PR firm, and that I owe him compensation for the income he would have made as an NHL all-star.”

“Michael, you've seen Pete skate, right?”

“He is now quoting God.”

“Oh fuck, he's ending his piece by reciting Phil Collins lyrics:

Sometimes I lie awake, wondering if I'll get out of here,
but the words stick in my throat and I stay.
I remember lying there, wishing I could be someone else,
trying to find somehow to get away.”

“Michael, he's now looking up at the judge like he's expecting her to cry.”

“This is the funniest, saddest, worst day of my life.”

The girl working at the food counter in the basement of La Masion Ogilvy looked a little bit like Hillary Swank, which is to say that she had not yet realized she might be beautiful. The place was as quiet, still and soundless as a retirement home and a sense of sadness in the present presided. Everybody there was just passing through, pausing for a moment on a journey to some other, more desirable destination.

The girl, probably about 20, had a fragile smile that seemed brittle and uncertain when it manifested in the presence of others, but in the peace of solitude her face relaxed. As she rearranged bowls of pasta salad beneath the glass counter she smiled softly to herself, now content, as some memory or possibility brought a warmth to her face that was absent around people. Shortly, her ne’er-do-well boyfriend with the daring piercings and aggressive eyes came by. Wordless, like it had been agreed he wasn’t supposed to come by work, they communicated through gestures and darting eyes. They were tense, like each one was plotting something secret and wrong, something that would take a lifetime to unfold.

Later, sitting next to me at the pub was a thin and serious looking young man. He reminded me of Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment. He was clearly so preoccupied by the weighty matters of the world that he could barely remember how to dress himself. He sat reading quietly, but it was clear he was out to be amongst people, following all the conversational threads that were drifting through the bar. Every once in awhile he would very politely interrupt a conversation and speaking in the overly articulate and concentrated manner of a first-year pedant, he would attempt to reframe the discussion with his fresh and informed perspective.

Something about Norway.

Something about the President.

Something about globalization.

And then with an apology for his intrusion, he would retreat back to his carefully maintained pint of Guinness and the volume of Hegel he wore like a designer watch.

Leaving the bar I got into a cab that was blaring opera. It was absolutely beautiful. Soaring arias through the humid, summer night, the lights of the city sparkling beneath us. Oh, I did not want to get out of that car—the two of us, we could have driven until dawn as far as I was concerned. Keep the meter running, cabbie, let’s take this music through all the streets, let’s unroll the windows and let the fuzzy moon blow in! Let's roll over bridges and through quiet neighbourhoods, drive past the couple holding hands, past the glowing eyes of the raccoon, let’s even take this music to the ghosts and mists of the cemetery. It’s too quiet and lonely in there, let’s bring them some light!

On Thursday Rachelle and I took a cab down to Union Station in order catch our train to Montreal. It was in the middle of a punishing heat wave and it was rush hour, which meant that everybody on the road was frayed, tense and inching ever closer to exploding into a kind of psychosis. To compound this situation we were running late, and I was putting pressure on our cab driver to do all sorts of reckless and inconsiderate things in order to get us to the station on time.

“Don't mind the light!”
“Turn here, over the curb, don't be such a pussy!”
“Just bump him with your fender, give him a message!”
“Go through the construction, they're wearing hardhats for God's sake, they'll be fine!

Useful stuff like that.

If I was upsetting the driver he didn't show it. Like some vessel of superhuman tranquility he proceeded in accordance with the rules of the road while calmly reassuring me that he would get us there on time.

And then he accidentally cut another car off.

The driver looked exactly like Bam Margera from the Jackass films and he did not take the slight well. Screeching about in various stunt man maneuvers, he managed to pull even with our cab. Smoking a cigarette, he stuck his head out the window with eyes bulging and screamed,

“Why do you have to drive like such a fucking asshole, you fucking asshole!”

It wasn't really a question.

His vitriol, aimed at the cab driver and not us, passed through me. Not sure what to do, I made a vague gesture that suggested a kind of neutrality. When the words hit our driver, he just closed his eyes briefly-- as if saying a prayer-- and saying nothing stared straight ahead.

The Bam Margera guy, mistaking my neutral gesture as a kind of agreement with him, continued to shout through the open windows of the cars, now trying to have a conversation with me about what an asshole our driver was.

“I bet the guy can't even speak English, “ he yelled over at me, smiling. And then in a louder, harsher voice, hollered, “You're not an immigrant, you're an ignorant!” and then he broke into great peels of laughter.

I lost it at this point, and without thinking took a piece of the Kit Kat bar I had been eating and I hurled it through my window at the guy, hitting him on the side of the neck. And then for reasons that will always remain mysterious, yelled, “I've got great aim, I could hit you with shit all day long!”

Our driver shook his head, “I wish you had not done that,” he said before pulling swiftly away. We thought we were free, having lost the guy in the snarl of traffic, but about two minutes later he pulled up beside us again. Taking a bite from the Kit Kat I had just hit him with, he yelled, “Thanks for the chocolate you asshole! It's a little bit soft from the heat, but it's still good!” and then he sped away laughing.

The Mayor of Toronto is a man named Rob Ford.

He and his older brother Doug, a city councillor, loom over the city like a tag-team wrestling duo about to leap off the turnbuckle of the grappling ring. They both have small, beady eyes, thin, almost colourless hair and lack subtlety. They believe in football, small government and telling it like it is.

These guys are always in the news, and like a couple of angry patriots they wage daily battles with the cultural elites they imagine slouching through the fancy architecture of downtown nibbling Vegan sandwiches.

In looking at the Ford Brothers, it's important to remember that Rob's ascension to Mayor was a vividly divisive one. He lost every riding in the densely populated core of city to George Smitherman, a furious and flawed gay politician, and won every exterior, suburban riding in the Greater Toronto Area. There's been a tension ever since, with the Fords exhibiting a contempt for the issues of the downtown elites who seem to turn their noses up at the big-box culture of suburbia.

The Fords are intent on stopping the gravy train and those who would ride it, and if that means banning bike lanes, calling 911 when they see somebody spraying graffiti, flipping people the finger or telling Margaret Atwood to go fuck herself, so be it!

Most recently the Mayor floated the idea of shutting down libraries as a cost-cutting measure. Doug, the older, smarter brother, supported this notion by saying that it was easier to find a library than it was a Tim Horton's donut shop. This was meant as evidence that libraries were too plentiful, and obviously, not as important in the day to day life of normal people at donut shops.

People went crazy.

It's been a long time since I've habitually visited a public library. Like most people I know, the need just isn't there anymore. The old notion of the library as the primary source of information is outdated, with a universal library now available at our fingertips, and the honest to God truth is that if the library right across the street were to close I, and relatively privileged people like me, wouldn't miss it, but other people would.

Many of the libraries in the downtown core service those with limited opportunities. These people don't have Kindles and many of them might not even have jobs or predictable and safe places to sleep. The library is a place to go during the day. It's a cool and inspiring sanctuary that provides the Internet, books and magazines, other people and some peace and order that for many is something that's entirely elusive in the chaos of their lives. This is hugely important, and if city libraries are no longer full of children poring through the Encyclopedia Britannica and writing essays, so what?

In the Ford city-view people with problems, be they social, economic or otherwise, are weak and places like libraries are not way stations in difficult lives but enabling shelters for lazy deadbeats. Cities, of course, are full of people with complicated problems and exist in part as economical delivery systems of means to address these issues, taking on more than it's share of social responsibilities so that those who choose to live in the suburbs-- for whatever reasons--don't have to. It's ridiculous that a city like Toronto, one of the largest and most diverse metropolises in North America, would have governance in the form of a Mayor who is so vividly anti-city, wanting nothing more than to bring an NFL team to town and strip Toronto of the culture that makes it a city and turn it into a kind of interior suburb.

Some days I think that they just wandered into a strip mall sports bar at last call, found the guy who had eaten the most suicide wings and told him, “Hey, you won the game show, you're now the Mayor of Toronto!”

As many of you know I’m involved in numerous different fantasy baseball pools. This method of investment is the primary means by which I manage Rachelle and our retirement funds, and as such my success is very, very important. Sadly, this has been a very bad year and I just wanted to single out some of my biggest disappointments.

Ryan Theriot 2B St. Louis Cardinals

They call you “The Rhino” which really serves to illustrate just how stupid baseball players are. There is not one fucking thing that is Rhino-like in the way you play baseball. You’re weak and you don’t even run fast. You have one home run and four stolen bases. Can you do anything right? No, I don’t think that you can. You should be called “The Ant” or maybe “The Aunt.” I hate you and hope you get traded to the fucking moon.

Buster Posey C San Francisco Giants

Buster, you have the name of a ballplayer from the 19th century and weigh 220 pounds. You could be a goddamned circus strongman. You could anchor the tug of war team. You could sink a ship full of Vikings with just your manly glare. But Buster, you had to go and break your retarded ankle like some old lady. And now, because of you, Rachelle and I will never get to swim with Polar Bears as we have always dreamed. You're an embarrassment

Brandon Lyon RP Houston Astros

Houston, we have a big fucking problem and his name is Brandon Lyon. Jerk-face, we were counting on you for 30 saves this year, but instead we got an 11.50 ERA and the detachment of a right bicep tendon, whatever that means. You're a team killer, is what you are. Thanks for that. Your last name is a lie. You, in fact are a lie. Your last name should be Useless. Brandon Team-Killer Useless. I want you to go to hell.

Heidi, my dog

Due to you and all the attendant responsibilities that burden me in your care and maintenance, I’ve been unable to dedicate the necessary time to my fantasy baseball studies. Heidi, you have made the pack poor with your constant demands for food, treats, attention and walks. You are a very, very BAD DOG!

Stephen Drew SS Arizona Diamondbacks

I hardly know where to begin in telling you how much you suck. You suck from rooftops and from crop circles. You suck from the deepest trenches of the ocean and from the dinner table. You're hopeless Stephen, and the fact that you broke your ankle after hitting only five home runs suggests you’re un-American, too. It's the sort of thing an Italian would do. Hell, you would even ruin an all-girl prison movie, that's how bad you are.

On Sunday night at Chez Lucien a man in his mid-30's sits drunk at the bar. Wearing a white t-shirt and a Jack Daniels baseball cap, he has a wiry frame and a construction worker's tan. He's not creating any trouble, but he's at the point where he's morphed into a different version of himself,and slipped into an alternate dimension where gravity increases and everything becomes dream foggy.

His voice heavy, his face melting into the palm of his hand as he leans sloppily upon the bar, he asks for another beer having lost all definition of himself but the need for one more drink. The bartender is kind and embarrassed for him, and she speaks to him gently, an idea of love in her voice. He keeps asking for another drink but she won't give him one, offering him water instead. The man is frustrated by this, probably by a lot of things, and his countenance suggests that he cannot believe this happening to him. The last idea he has is to say please, as if this recollection of manners was proof of both his decency and sobriety, but there was an edge of resentment to this soft and small utterance, as if he felt it was cruel to make him stoop to such an expression of vulnerability.

The staff is sincerely concerned for him, upset at the sorry stated he's fallen to, even, and they're doing everything they can to help. Slowly, respectfully, they try to get clear information from him. Naive Melody by the Talking Heads is playing on the juke box, and then so very gently, as if he was a frail and ghostly incarnation, they take him by the arm and like beautiful angels escort him outside to a cab, as if returning him to the person or point in time in his life where he most belonged.

Wednesday (July 20th) was the 40th anniversary of the NASA moon landing.

This reminded me of my first and only formal debate which took place in Miss McCulloch's grade seven class at Queen Elizabeth Public School in Ottawa. I was arguing that the NASA moon landing was a fake. I had assumed this position because I had recently seen the movie Capricorn One, in which OJ Simpson and a scattering of other near stars of the 70's played astronauts who were forced to stage the landing by the government and then ran across a desert to try to escape their evil grip. If I remember correctly, OJ might have eaten a snake in a cave in order to survive.

I thought it was a completely awesome movie.

At any rate, I had little to no proof that the moon landing was fake, I just wanted that to be the case. And after I had made my presentation which was based entirely on a fictional Hollywood movie, Mark Wingate, a known trouble-maker, asked, “Mike, why would they bother to fake it?” I had no answer to this so I retreated to my default setting when defensive which was sarcasm, “ I don't know Mark, why would they?” This back and forth went on until the entire glass began to groan with frustration and the teacher called it off. My debate team was defeated in a landslide.

It does strike me now that it's strange that over the 40 years since the lunar landing, we never once tried to return to the moon. It just seems contrary to human nature, but I'm also entirely disinclined to believe in conspiracy theories. I mean, it's virtually impossible to keep a secret amongst a half dozen friends, let alone thousand and thousands and thousands of people over the vast sweep of time and circumstance. People like to talk, and are encouraged in every conceivable regard to do so, so how could the truth behind something as massive as a faked moon landing actually be contained?

Of course, conspiracy theories will always thrive. The notion that there is some grand force, be it malevolent or benevolent, presiding over the affairs we feel so powerless to control is appealing, perhaps even necessary. It's a search for order, and conspiracies have the merit of making a kind of sense, even if first you have to invent that sense.

Most often I see this type of world view in religious thinking.

When I look at the Christian Bible I see first a work of literature. I don't see it as an immaculate document dictated by God, but a stitched together collection of observation, poetry, historical account and moral instruction written by many different and unknown authors over the course of many centuries and then pieced together as if it was a unified whole. Personally, I cannot imagine, or rather I choose not to imagine, a God that would ask from his creation behaviour that he did not seed in them, and then reward or punish them based on their adherence to this impossible standard, or as Einstein said, “ A God, in short, who is but a reflection of human frailty.”

And what is with all the tension between punishment and forgiveness, anyway?

Which one is it?

No matter, what we have now is a kind of surreal marriage between the highly technological and the primitive. Very intelligent and sophisticated people are trying to bang square pegs into the round holes of the Bible—written thousands of years ago by unknown sources with unknown goals, and seen by many as an immutable truth-- manipulating whatever rhetoric or technology is at their disposal, attempting to clone a cow to fulfill a religious prophecy or initiate end times with an atomic detonation, all in the service of supporting a belief system that they need to be true, rather than know to be true.

I’ve never had a driver’s license in my life.

Last week I took the first step toward acquiring one by taking the written portion of the test.

You should know that I actually really like tests.

I’m entirely awesome at them.

I’m like the Iron Man of tests. I can just fly in and blast them apart with the laser pulses of my phenomenal brain.

Perhaps because I was a little bit excited, I was probably overly chatty with the Service Ontario clerk whose job it was to check my documentation, administer an eye test and photograph me.

“I haven't studied for my test, you know!” I blurted out to her. “I think I have a pretty good knowledge of the road rules and the truth is that I really test well! What do you think, do you think I’ll do okay?”

She gave me an unimpressed look, and in a slow Jamaican accent replied, “Sweet Jesus, I do not know HOW you will do, and I am not sure that I care, but I must say that not studying is quite the strategy your big brain has employed. You must set a lovely example for the children.” And then she just looked at me.

“I skipped grade three,” I said, “they called me Gold Star in elementary school, really, I’m great at tests!”

“Yes, I can see it has done you well, a man, now as old as you, yet to have his driver’s license, something my 16 year-old child has. And so Gold Star, what is it that you do for a living now, you are a rocket scientist or a brain surgeon, maybe?”

“ I don’t like to be tied down to one career,” I mumbled, “I think it’s limiting.”

“Yes, I see, I must tell you, I feel very limited right now, very limited.”

“You feel limited because you’re mean.”

She raised an eyebrow at me and snickered.

“Oh, you don’t even want to imagine my mean streak, Gold Star. And now it is picture time. Take off your hat and glasses now, would you?”

I complied.

“Oh my!” the clerk snorted, “ I did not expect your hair to be so grey or for you to have what look’s like a piece of Kraft Dinner in it!” She pointed at me to another clerk who also began to laugh, which I thought very unprofessional.

I removed the piece of Kraft Dinner, which the dog probably put in my hat somehow, and posed for my picture.

“No, don’t smile. Just stand there like you’re trying to intimidate a test. Yes. That’s the look the test will fear, for sure.”

“Can I see the picture?” I asked.

“No, it is against policy for any customer to look at our monitor, but I can assure you that this picture will be providing you with a conversation starter for years to come, not that a chatter box like you will need one. Now off you go and be the lion that roars!”

From an unknown Internet Source, via Rob Perch:

The Zodiac

Aquarius (Jan 20-Feb 19)

You have an inventive mind and are inclined to be progressive. You lie a great deal. On the other hand you are inclined to be careless and impractical, causing you to make the same mistakes over and over. People think you are stupid.

Pisces (Feb 20-Mar 20)

You have a vivid imagination and often think you’re being followed by the C.I.A. or F.B.I. You have minor influence over your associates and people resent you for your flaunting of your power. You lack confidence and are generally a coward. Pisces people do terrible things to small animals.

Aries (Mar 21-Apr 20)

You are the pioneer type and hold most people in contempt. You are quick-tempered, impatient and scornful of advice. You are not very nice.

Taurus (Apr 22-May 20)

You are practical and persistent. You have dogged determination and work like hell. Most people think you are stubborn and bull headed. You are a Communist.

Gemini (May 21-June 21)

You are a quick and intelligent thinker. People like you because you are bi-sexual. However, you are inclined to expect too much for too little. This means you are cheap. Geminis are known for committing incest.

Cancer (June 22-July 22)

You are sympathetic and understanding to other people's problems. They think you are a sucker. You are always putting things off. That is why you never make anything of yourself. Most welfare recipients are Cancer people.

Leo (July 23 - Aug 23)

You consider yourself a born leader. Others think you are pushy. Most Leo people are bullies. You are vain and dislike honest criticism. Your arrogance is disgusting. Leo people are known thieves.

Virgo (Aug 24-Sept 22)

You are the logical type and hate disorder. This Nit-picking is sickening to your friends. You are cold and unemotional and sometimes fall asleep during sex. Virgos make good bus drivers.

Libra (Sept 23-Oct 23)

You are the artistic type and have a difficult time dealing with reality. If you're a man you are possibly a queer. Chances for employment and monetary gain are excellent. Most Libra women are good prostitutes. All Libra’s die of venereal disease.

Scorpio (Oct 24-Nov 22)

You are shrewd in business and cannot be trusted. You shall achieve the pinnacle of success because of your total lack of ethics. Most Scorpio people are murdered.

Sagittarius (Nov 23-Dec 21)

You are optimistic and enthusiastic. You have a reckless tendency to rely on luck since you lack talent. The majority of Sagittarius are drunks or dope fiends. People laugh at you a great deal.

Capricorn (Dec 22-Jan 19)

You are conservative and afraid of taking risks. You don’t do much of anything and are lazy. There has never been a Capricorn of any importance. Capricorns should avoid standing still too long as they tend to take root and become trees.

On Thursday I wrote the test for my G1 Driver’s License at the Service Ontario branch up at Bloor and College. On my way I stepped into a cab on Queen Street and was immediately told by the driver that it was a brand new car that had just passed all the inspections and that I was it’s very first customer.

Hurray!

“It’s true sir, and according to custom the fortune of the cab depends on the first fare. If it is a good, then this cab will make lots of money and life will be good, but if it is a bad fare, then not so good. So I hope you are good!” And then he broke out into a high-pitched laugh and slapped his hands on the wheel as we sped down Queen.

Ridiculously, but very sincerely, I felt lucky to be considered an omen, and imagined myself a benevolent knight ushering in a new and hopeful era. I did everything I could to be a good fare, which mostly meant talking, which of course, might have been exactly what makes for a bad fare. No matter, we talked about my impending driver’s test, why a man of my age had never had a license and the worst place in the world the cabbie had ever driven, which was Nairobi, Kenya.

“It’s a British colony, right man? So they drive on the wrong side of the street from here and it’s crazy! They don’t obey nothing, they drive on top of one another, it’s like they all lady drivers! Lady drivers, fuck! You got a lady, man?” and then he shook his head to let me know that women were alway busting his balls.

No matter, I made myself as agreeable and pleasant as possible, which turned out to be increasingly difficult as the driver vituperated about all the things in the world that opposed him.

At Queen and Parliament something happened that I didn't see. This event precipitated two tiny children running across the street against the light. It was a dangerous and scary moment, one that left a man-- the father of the children presumably--out in the middle of the street stunned and screaming at a car that was driving away. From the best I can understand, as pieced together by my driver, the car belonged to the mother of the children who was taking off because the father was a jerk. It didn't make any sense, but this imagined scenario enflamed my driver further who leaned out the window literally shaking his fist, “ You piece of garbage, that why she left, you're garbage!!”

And then he spat at the man.

There was silence for several minutes.

And then he looked back at me, the anger from the earlier intersection still vivid in his eyes. “ I work hard to protect my kids. One day I come home and my wife is with another man and I ask her if she is a prostitute. You know what she does? She calls the cops and I go to jail for the night! I. GO. TO. JAIL. For asking if she a prostitute!”

At that awkward moment we got to my destination. Still trying to be the good omen fare, I gave him a big tip, but it was pretty clear that regardless of what type of fare he'd had, things just weren't that likely to work out well.

The mayor of Toronto is Rob Ford.

It's a simple name, that, one that belongs to a man who doesn't beleaguer himself with a bunch of fancy-pants syllables when he's trying to get his message across. He has big hands and little eyes and he despises anything that suggest that he, or you, or I, might have to share our money with anybody else. That's the gravy train, and he doesn't just want to stop the gravy train, he wants to blow it the fuck up.

Helping him in this mission is his older brother Doug, a city councillor. He also has small eyes, and slimmer than his brother, has a meaner appearance, although neither one radiates what you might call, “thoughtfulness.” Looking at them you could imagine them the villains in an 80's movie, the guys that banned the town from dancing or something. In fact, they look like boys who might have been jammed into school lockers a fair amount when they were young, an experience that later transformed them into bullies who loved the petty execution of power and stuffing other people into lockers.

Yesterday it occurred to the Ford brain trust to announce that it was reasonable to call 911 if somebody was spotted in the midst of the creation of graffiti. Many people in the city actually like graffiti and don't really even see it as a crime, let alone one that should call forth the SWAT team, as such, many took to Twitter to mock the mayor by posting under the hashtag #new911calls.

It took off like wildfire.

I now present to you a list of acceptable “new 911 calls” for Toronto that I have written:

City worker who smells of pot taking extra long lunch break.

Man staring at brick wall—suspected graffiti vandal.

Hotmail accounted hacked sending out Erectile Dysfunction spam under my name. Probably work of graffiti vandals.

Very large raccoon trespassing on the private property of my fire escape. Have given him many warnings. Need assistance!

Global warming.

Off-leash dog in city park just stole my dog's fetch ball. Owner non-compliant in returning ball.

Gross-out puke-fest, just witnessed two fat men kissing on street. St. George and Bloor, immediate assistance!!

Cannot find my car in parking garage. Suspect graffiti artist theft, am now feeling very light-headed from fumes and quite hungry.

Dock spider, huge fucking dock spider!

The host at pretentious restaurant is not following sequential order of waiting line. Suspected graffiti vandal sympathizer.

Toronto Maple Leafs.

Rampant spitting in Chinatown. One landed on my shoe. Must be stopped.

Dog poo sort of smeared on sidewalk, creating graffiti effect, rather than properly picked-up and eliminated by owner.

My cab driver is black as the night and playing foreign sounding music. Think he has chosen inexpedient route intentionally. Now at Parliament and Queen. Send the helicopter!

A short, muscular man with an array of angry tattoos cast across his body strides through Jimmy Simpson Park with his Doberman Pinscher. He always keeps to himself, this guy, striking intimidating postures on the periphery as if envisioning himself some powerful sentinel from fantasy literature. The other day Ace, his dog, bounded over and then took off with Heidi--our Miniature Dachshund's-- ball. Fiercely, like there would be hell to pay, the man stomped after his dog shouting one word commands as if wizard's incantations. They had absolutely no effect on the happily bounding animal who was entirely indifferent to the image of menace and power his master tried so hard to project out into the world around him.

At the corner of Broadview and Queen, right in front of Jilly's strip club, a black man tricked-out like a gangster, waited to cross the street. He had a fistful of $20 bills and was holding each one up to the sun to see if it was counterfeit, as if he was born to distrust or in the line of business where such protocols were second nature. As we stepped off the curb he almost tripped over Heidi and I apologized to him for being inattentive and when I did he gave me the biggest, sweetest and most unexpected smile, "no problem, man, no problem!"

At the corner store beneath our apartment a woman in her early 60's was trying to organize the payment of the purchases she had spread out on the counter. She had the scratchy voice of a smoker and leathery skin of a sun worshipper. With her was a fluffy, little, white dog who kept jumping up and down in a leashed attempt to play with Heidi. The woman, trying to count change with one hand and holding her cane and the dog's leash with the other, was trying to discipline her animal, "NO COURAGE, NO!! BE NICE!!"

I asked the woman why she had named her dog Courage and she said, "Well, because she has a lot of courage!” And then she gave me a look that suggested I might be stupid. I nodded, “that makes sense.” And then she softened and sighed, “ No, the name's actually a reminder,” she said, “ I've had 63 surgeries on my feet and in order to keep going I need to constantly say that word, over and over again. Courage. Courage, courage, courage!” and she raised her cane up into the air, defiant, as if Edith Piaf singing, Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.

I grew up in Ottawa where I played an awful lot of league soccer. Although I loved the game, I loved all the other team sports I played, too, and I became a fan of baseball, hockey and the like because they were culturally available. They were on TV, in Sports Illustrated and were the currency of social conversation, whereas soccer, existing only on foreign shores at the time, was something you played not watched.

In the 90's in Ottawa a small, underground fan base began to emerge for the game. It was kind of like Fight Club, in that young men, almost always led by ex-pat Brits, would watch games beamed in by satellite (!) in bars like the Duke of Somerset at insane hours. It had the cachet of a speakeasy and watching a game at 7:00 in the morning and drinking pints of beer with accented lads in Manchester U scarves made you feel authentic in ways that you might not have ordinarily felt.

It was a clarion call for outsiders.

Of course, the European league games are now readily available, and the world is smaller and Ottawa is larger, so being a football fan is no longer quite as punk as it used to be, but you can still detect an attitude of exclusivity in some of the fans. Assuming an unnecessaryily international, almost Epicurean air, they'll refer to foreign countries with a flourish of accents or in a language they themselves don't even speak. They'll position themselves in ways that suggest that they're above the crass commercialism and blunt aggression of North American sports and are somehow global in their world view, a notion that is actually kind of quaint and parochial in it's offering.

I live in Toronto now where there's a much larger and more diverse population, as well as a pro soccer team, and you just don't see this kind of attitude. Soccer is just another sport and there's no attempt to make fandom an exclusive cult. Like most people and cities in North America, interest in soccer spikes during the World Cup where everybody becomes madly passionate, informed and excited about the game, and then it recedes back from whence it came.

The other night I was channel surfing and happened to come across a soccer game between the Swedish women's team and the US women's team, and although I had no vested interest in the game I found myself riveted in no time. The truth, from this small sample, is that I think I like the women's game better than the men's.

First off, although the game might not be as explosive as the mens, it is still played at a really fucking high level. These women are great, and the shape of the game and the strategic manipulations--so much a part of the pleasure in the viewing participation of the pro game in general--are perfectly in tact. The game still looks beautiful and a sophist might make the argument that it even looks better as it unfolds just a fraction of a second slower. However, as soccer is more dependent on lower body strength than upper body strength, it's a sport where the gap between the female and male game is much narrower than in other ones. It will happen in due course that a high calibre female team will defeat a high calibre men's team.

But the most striking thing in watching the game was that unlike in men's soccer, the culture of diving simply did not exist. Perhaps because the women's game arose in North America instead of some of the Latin and European countries where equal sporting opportunities for women might be harder to find, and the diving is whining is so deeply embedded in the sport, the contemporary women's game is free from all this. They are flat-out aggressive, and if somebody is tugging on a shirt or otherwise molesting a player, they just fight through it instead of collapsing on the ground in paroxysms of agony.

It's tough as hell, and what the women appear to have done is bring the North American sensibility of football and hockey to the European game of soccer, making for a sport that is beautiful, fierce and entirely awesome.

There is a pet store about two blocks from the bar where I do most of my drinking. It's called Haute Dogs & Fat Cats and I'm usually drunk when I visit the place on my way home after Happy Hour.

They have puppies in the store front window.

Sometimes bunnies.

At first I just wanted to buy dog treats for Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund, which was something the staff seemed quite receptive to. However, I guess I got a little more enthusiastic in my behaviours, expressing my affection for the animals in ways that the uptight staff deemed “inappropriate and dangerous.” ( I am not sure, but I think they're referring to the time I dropped a puppy on a ( non-rotating!) fan, or the time I forgot I had two bunnies in my pocket when I tried to leave the store.)

At any rate, the stupidly named store has now posted a sign on the window, one that has an unflattering surveillance camera photograph of me on it, with this message to their customers:

THIS IS NOT A ZOO FOR DRUNKS

1. We are not interested in seeing you use the fetch balls to show us your pitching wind-up or hearing about how good you were at sports in high school.

2. The animals DO NOT “have a natural love for the smell of scotch” and we do not believe for one second that is why you stagger in reeking of it.

3. The fact that you can hold four bunnies in one hand does not make you more of a man.

4. The dog treats are not for human consumption, and you completely gross us out when you buy some and start eating them directly from the bag.

5. Experiments in seeing if a cat can land on it's feet are STRICTLY FORBIDDEN and we will call the police or use our newly purchased can of Mace if this ever happens.

6. Fish are animals, and even if they weren't, they would still be considered pets and putting your hand in the aquarium like it was some sort of sink you can clean the chicken wing grease or hooker disease off your hands is TOTALLY FORBIDDEN and will result in an introduction to Mr. Mace.

7. You are not allowed to test out the dog beds by taking a nap in them yourself.

8. We don't need more “pet store babes” working in our shop.

9. We do not sell alcohol or know where you can get any pot.

10. The creepy animal masks you wear does not make you “more sympathetic” to our family of pets—this is not Chat Roulette-- and showing them your scars so that they “respect you” and think you're “ a warrior” was so F-ing disgusting that Galina, one of the "pet store babes," quit her job.

YOU ARE A CREEP OF THE CAPITAL ORDER AND YOU ARE NEVER, EVER WELCOME IN OUR STORE!!

In Jimmy Simpson Park there are little purple bedecked soccer players. An eight-year old girl wearing a hijab is preparing to shoot on the goalie. Nervous, very nervous, she runs up and kicks the ball which bounces past the goaltender. Astonished, she turns around to face the rest of the team, her fingers clenched in her mouth. “I scored!” she shrieked. She jumps up and down, and then there's a tiny, little roar as the other girls run forward to give her high fives and hugs.

On the baseball diamond a team is practicing softball. It's a gay team, primarily made up of men, and they're called Woody's Woodpeckers. They're horrible, with many of the men fleeing the ball as if it were a hand grenade. Those that do come in contact with it, fling it while not looking, their heads turned as if it were something utterly repellant to them. The one gay girl on the team is all Tom Boy and chewing guy. She has her socks smartly drawn up like a pro from the 1920's and is running circles around the giggling men. A team of lesbians would destroy Woody's Woodpeckers.

The first baseman is heavy, dramatic and chatty and he's having one of the best times of his life. He can't stop shouting-out encouragements, and when his boyfriend comes up-- or maybe just the man he wants to be his boyfriend-- he begins fanning himself with his baseball glove, beads of sweat all over his face, and screams, “The Caribbean Dream, Lordy how you make me swoon, you're a hurricane darling! Hit it now, hit it!”

My wife just started taking tennis lessons from some dude from Buenos Aires.

I have to say that I wasn't overly thrilled to hear this as it struck me as little more than hiring a gigolo for an hour each afternoon. In order to illustrate this point I told Rachelle that I had engaged the services of a woman from Brazil to give me shower lessons.

This is the letter that Rachelle wrote back to me:

Jesus Michael,

I'm taking tennis lessons. TENNIS LESSONS. And from what I can tell my instructor is about 65, overweight and barely speaks English. I think this is his retirement hobby. Seriously. This is his ad:

Whether you're a begin, intermediate or advanced player, I can
teach you for enjoy a great tennis game.

What's the point of playing tennis if you can't continue 15 balls in continuation?
How's your forehand and backhand?
You smash!?

When you play you spend more time pick up the ball than hitting, is that funny?

It is not funny.

I can help you gain consistency and you will love your game.
I am extremely technique pro so I can show you why you hit wrongly.

Doing so, I will built a solid rock to your game.
I have played tennis for the past 50 years and been teaching for the
past 20 years.
I would be happy to teach you in the North York area and surrounding areas of Toronto.

Tango Tennis!

I have experience teaching children, teenagers and adults. It's never
too late to learn.

My rate is very affordable, only $10 /hour.

Now Michael, why don't you tell me a little bit about your shower instructor?

****************************************

As marriage is all about sharing, I sent Rachelle the shower instructor's post from Craig's List:

Have trouble getting clean?

Are you feeling dirty?

Are you tired of same, old boring shower?

I can help.

I will clean you good, teach you best shower of life. Brazilian technique.

Stress of day wash right off your ready body.

No handicap people please.

Odete $150 / hour

I come to your house. You get wet.

These are the text messages that I received from my wife on June, 28th, 2011

****************************

such a long day at work!

should be home soon. xox

traffic nuts, won't be home til 7:30 at earliest.

yes, that's right michael, i'm having an affair.

with a traffic jam.

no, i don't think you've lost your "edge."

look, could u just do dinner tonight?

and please, not steak again.

or pot roast.

something summery and fresh.

no, that doesn't mean “fag food.”

look, i'm concerned about all the farting you've been doing lately.

no it's not the dog.

it's you.

????

i think it's the meat

no, it's not all the vegetables i make you eat

you should probably see the doctor about that

no, it really, really reeks

raccoon in the wall reek

you only started to let them rip after we got married

not nice

fucker just cut me off!!

people who drive bmw's are a-holes!!!

and 6 glasses of wine a day is too much

nice

you wouldn't have written that before we got married

good work on all the organization for the wedding, by the way

yeah, you really manned-up

????

sarcasm, michael, sarcasm

just go out and get some fish

bill's lobster in chinatown

what?

you're in chinatown?

are u gambling?

yes bingo is gambling

really???

you won $300!!

sweet!

oh.

the lady next to you won $300?

did she give you the $300?

then you didn't win.

oh, a winner at life.

i see

sorry????

you broke our dresser?

and ur tyring to earn money for a new one by gambling in chinatown?

just remembered supposed to be having dinner with jillian

yes, we'll be talking all about our cycles, sure

no, won't be home until very late

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund for the day

When Heidi pack went away they left her at camp where Heidi found Word of the Lord.

Good Word.

Heidi walk, run and dig with Jesus. But soon after, Heidi found out that God say animals have no soul and no get heaven treat. Heidi don't understand, she good Christian dog, but no heaven treat? What point of obeying if no treat?

Heidi have crisis of belief.

Struggle with faith like fight with badger.

But Heidi no quitter! Heidi once whimper for 3 hours to get treat! Heidi once bark at car alarm for 7 hours!

Heidi determined.

German roots!

No quit on Lord!

Today Heidi do Bible Dip. Select random passage which help guide Heidi on right path to Jesus, treat and meat sources.

Hosea 8:9 For they are gone up to Assyria, a wild ass alone by himself: Ephraim hath hired lovers.

Heidi no understand.

Heidi go to park.

Meet dog named Diablo who only have three legs.

Weird!!!

What God trying to say to Heidi?

Not know what happened to Diablo. Very curious.

Maybe lost leg in owl attack?
Maybe very hungry in cave and have to eat own leg?
Could be product of cat treachery.

Heidi don't know.

Want to ask. I mean, big, obvious question just sitting there, and we already know each other private smells, so you think, “what big deal in asking?” But for some reason Heidi no want to ask. Feel it bad form. Maybe Heidi nervous because of limp. Make her feel weird, kind of gross.

Instead Heidi ask Diablo what country he from.

Diablo from Chile.

Heidi think Chile stupid, that Germany could disembowel Chile and break Chile neck like chicken!!!

Heidi tell Diablo this.

Is way Heidi is.

Direct and honest.

Diablo is mutt and can't take truth. He freak-out! Go crazy like he see red cat blood and try to attack Heidi by hopping at her. Pathetic! Heidi crush Diablo without even trying, and just when going to rip throat out, two-legged-four-eyed-treat-giver come running over shouting, “NO, NO, NO, NO!”

What up with that?

Diablo attack me!

So stupid! Heidi Alpha, must crush all challenges!

It God's will!

God in control!

He pilot of show!

And then Heidi get called “BAD DOG,” when Heidi Good Dog, strong dog!

Heidi no know why God let such things happen.

Then Heidi see big squirrel and chase squirrel and while on squirrel hunt Heidi find some spilled Chicken Chow Mein by bench. Heidi gobble up fast!! Law of nature!!

Still not know what to think about God rules.

The Thin Red Line is my favourite movie of all time and I have always thought of it's director, Terrance Malick as a genius. As far as the art of cinema goes, as far as art goes in fact, I've never been much for narrative but have always preferred work that's impressionistic and personal, mysteriously evoking things from the unknown wells within us. I don't need a “story.” Malick for me, was what cinema should be. His movies were rarely linear stories but beautiful, lush and attentive moments strung together like lights in some mystical parade. His work, for me, was the distillation of a visual experience into a deeply poetic one, and whenever I left one of his films I was rendered speechless, as if I had just received a religious communication.

And so, I was incredibly excited to see his most recent film, The Tree of Life, which was awarded the Palme D'Or at Cannes. I had paid little heed to the critical reception, which is what I normally do, and strode bravely into the theatre. My friend Chris cried like a baby! I'm sensitive, I was going to cry, too! Oh Mallick, let your holy non-sequiturs wash over me! It was going to be great. For me, it was the most anticipated film of the year, of several years, actually, and I was going to fucking love it on levels that were beyond belief. Malick was made for me and I for him.

I went and saw it the other night and in spite of my wildly receptive disposition, and all the contrivances and indulgence I subjected myself to in order to have them fulfilled, I was entirely disappointed.

It was a bad movie.

Disengaged, I found myself looking at my watch, becoming increasingly distracted by the Levis product placement ads and wondering if Malick was actually making a very long and arty ad for the jeans. It's as if somebody was actually satirizing Malick's work, and it was embarrassing to participate in. I won't go on a critical digression, but I will say i that at some point while watching the use of "space" and "architecture" in the film and realizing that somebody was going to do a thesis on just that topic, I, too, almost began to weep.

Most of the critical work I've read since seeing the film has been fawning.

The movie plays out like a film student's experimental hoohaw, and although it's distressingly evident that in this movie The Emperor Has No Clothes, very few critics are willing to admit this, heaping praise where little is deserved. It was as if Malick, indifferent ( and he has earned this right) to audience, had given himself over to his inner under grad and that every critic followed suit. Fearful of looking pedestrian and unlettered in the face of their peers, they mistook a “difficult” film for a “good” one, proclaiming virtue when faced with pretence and cliche.

Malick's films are typically so personal and idiosyncratic that in spite of their visual grandeur, they are probably not experiences to be shared at the theatre with an audience, and are likely best watched at home, thoughtfully but in elliptical snatches, the way you might look at a bunch of your old polaroids, poring over each untranslatable and digressive image alone, free of all context but your own.

Near College and Yonge Street an old woman was sitting on a stoop. She appeared to be homeless and was wearing so many inappropriate layers of coarse wool as to give her the appearance of a character from a fairy tale. She had a hand cupped over one of her ears and was rocking back and forth, muttering. Curious, I stopped and listened, “testing, testing, testing, testing,” she repeated.
 
A little farther down the street a mini van pulled-up to the curb and a family of beautiful hippies emerged. This was as surprising to me as if aliens had alit. The wife took a photograph of the husband, her stepmother and their two children standing in front of an apartment building. I offered to take a photo of all of them but the woman, the mother of the young children, said, "Oh no, I certainly don't need to be in THAT photograph!" a statement left open to interpretation.

In Dundas Square a festival was taking place to celebrate National Aboriginal Month. There were perhaps two-dozen tables, each one selling dream catchers, paintings and various other opportunities. A motley disassembly of people wandered about, eventually being funnelled to the foot of a stage where a fashion show was taking place. Six young women, each one either more or less certain of her beauty than the next, stood in a row with their hands on their hips and cheeks sucked in.
 
Few people were watching.
 
The show over, the person on the microphone called the designers out to take a bow, and two young girls who may well have been in high school appeared to a smattering of applause. After having their forever-moment, they headed to the back of the stage, and one of the girls-- the heavier one-- threw her arms up over her head in victory, and somehow the flesh swinging from her arms was simultaneously heart-breaking and inspiring.
 
Beside the stage, a redheaded woman covered in tattoos was trying to maintain control over about six children, one of them a beautiful, shirtless aboriginal boy with hair like a rock star. She was trying to distract them and get them to play, shouting as if angry:
 
Ring around the rosie,
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down!
 
And surprisingly to me, all the little girls in their pretty dresses and the one, perfect boy, all fell giggling and shrieking onto the hot, summer asphalt.

Shirtless, an emaciated old man wobbled down Dundas Street past Filmores Hotel. His belt was cinched so tight that it’s tongue hung down and dangled by his knees. He stopped into a diner, one of those places where all the waitresses had seen a hard life and now old themselves, had reached the age where they would always identify as a mother or a grandmother, reflexively calling each poor soul who came their way-- regardless of age-- “Dear” or "Honey" as if each one was a lost child returning home.

This morning I received this rather terse email:

First name: Dinara.
Surname: Smirnova.
Country: Russian Federation.
City: Dzerzhinsk.
Age: 34.
Height: 177 centimetres
Weight: 55 kilograms.
Eyes: green.
Hair Color: It is brown.

My Type of Man:
I'm waiting for honest, open-minded and traditionally oriented man who must not fail in courage and performance.
Character:
I am an attractive, slim, good-looking woman.

Interests:
I can say I am versatile, because in general I like to do all, when it is interesting for me.

Sincerely,

Dinara

***************************

I responded:

Dear Dinara:

I hope this doesn't demoralize you any further--and I am guessing you're already feeling a little lonely-- but I am married and thus off the market. However, as I have a very helpful nature I have decided to give you some advice on how to enhance your dating profile.

First off, I did a little bit of research and found out that your name Dinara, means wealthy in Arabic. I am pretty sure that if you just cut to the chase and went by the name Wealthy, then you would really get some buzz going. It would add a little bit of POP to things.

Imagine if you will:

“ This is my friend Wealthy, she's a Yoga instructor in Dzerzhinsk!”
“ My name is Wealthy and I like martinis and tall men with beard.”
“ I am Wealthy Smirnova and I own a washing machine and two felines. Would you like to have lunch? My son will just watch, he will not eat.”

I tell you Dinara, this would really pique the curiosity of men over here in North America. (By the way, my name is Michael which according to a Cree friend of mine means “allergic to many things.” )

In terms of the type of man you're looking for, I would strike “courage” and "performance" from the list. It's difficult to interpret, and some might take it as meaning that they have to be the sort of man who isn't afraid of ex-husbands who might be mobsters, complex sex acts or Karaoke. And Dinara, if that's the case then I have to say you're really narrowing the field.

Lastly, I would suggest working on your interests a little bit. The way you've phrased it sounds almost bossy. I mean, you don't really “like to do all” if it's contingent on being “ when it is interesting for me.” All that means is that you like to do what's interesting for you, and sexually many men will find that a turn-off. Say something like:

“I am open to new experiences and experiments of the flesh!”
“I am an expert in butter making and enjoy drinking games in the evening with my loved one.”

“I do not believe in the Werwolfe. It is a myth.”
“My favourite movie is When Harry Met Sally.”

Anyway, I want to thank you for taking an interest in me and wish you the best of luck in your search for love! I hope my tips have been helpful and want to add that 177 centimetres is pretty much the perfect height for a woman, so I'm sure you'll be meeting the love of your life in no time!

I probably spent more time that I should have on Thursday debating the likelihood of whether this photograph was staged or genuine.

It's an arresting, sexy picture, as if an American Apparel ad had been airbrushed into a scene of civic unrest. The pair who are kissing look beautiful, like models called in to perform for this one moment, and the eye cannot help but fall to the supine woman's leg. Her skirt is hiked up and the leg is exposed, curving up to the point where her thigh meets and the dissolves into the concealed possibilities of her hips. It's erotic, and looking at it you can almost feel the blush of sexual passion that must have animated the couple.

But is just looks a little too artful, a little too beautiful to be real.

It's easy for me to imagine in this era of the instant multiplication of images, somebody with a mind toward art direction spontaneously staging this shoot. The perfection of the image and it's juxtaposition to the riotous action of the night seems positively theatrical, and given the vagaries of the human condition, it's surprising that the people engaged in the kiss are beautiful instead of, well, not so beautiful. It is, in fact, almost as if they were cast.

The image that precedes it, this one:

Taken from an entirely different vantage point, almost as if by a surveillance camera, it reveals a different narrative than love conquers all. On a Facebook thread, most people seeing this image saw a sexual assault about to take place, whereas I saw evidence of the intentional staging of ephemera art. This is instructive, of course. As images pour toward us we grab them and create symbols that suit our purposes, the stories we want to tell, thus reducing the original images to cyphers ever open to interpretation.

The vast majority of people at the riot were spectators. Hoping to situate themselves in the midst of a great narrative, they hung-about, amateur documentarians taking pictures with their iPhone and Blackberry's. Well meaning, sort of, they probably imagined they were guardians of the truth, creating a wall of accountability, but it's just as likely that they created a soft, yet impenetrable flank that the police could not pass through, enabling rather than deterring the rioters.

* The couple in the picture have been identified, and the story as it unfolds is that they were knocked over by the riot police. The girl was shaken-up and some people wandered over to see if she was alright. (second photograph) The boyfriend, a 29 year-old from Australia, described by his mother as “not always connecting with what's going on around him,” ( Thanks mom!) decided to give her a comfoting kiss, and so it would appear that the photograph is in fact entirely genuine and entirely beautiful, if ever open to our interpretative needs.

On Saturday, while Rachelle and I were waiting in the line-up to have brunch at Lady Marmalade, I was lucky enough to encounter a heretofore undiscovered prejudice of mine. It turns out that I'm completely bigoted against women who wear Stars and Stripes tights. This instinctive antipathy is horribly exacerbated if they're wearing sunglasses, tossing their mangy Friday night-sex head of hair about like they were in a shampoo commercial for sluts, and are ahead of me in line.

I would bomb a country full of these people in an instant.

Still smelling faintly of the dude from the previous night's Axe body spray-- the guy with whom she likely made a sex tape-- this woman was speaking some glamorous language I couldn't understand and was doing so in such a way as to call as much attention to herself as possible. You know, waving her arms about, jumping up and down, stretching, that sort of thing. And further, she was constantly moving from her spot at the front of the line through our jumbled mass behind her and out onto the street so she could have a few drags of a cigarette, before flicking it away and pushing back through us to see if her table was ready.

I hated many things about this, but decided to focus on her rudeness. She never apologized or even bothered to make eye contact when she jostled through us, but just continued in her excited conversation.

On what must have been her fourth pass, I put my hand on my hip and stuck my elbow out as a kind roadblock. She had at least five seconds to see it, but as she wasn't paying the least bit of attention to the world around her, a little collision took place.

“That's the way we do it in Canada, bitch,” I said.

At this point Rachelle bent down, said something to the girl that I couldn't quite make out, and then left the restaurant, obviously sick of the long wait.

After the Stars and Stripes woman caught her breath and worked her way off the ground, she shouted, “You vile squirt of a man!”

“Wow, your english is pretty good for an orange-complected porn face!” I returned.

At this point she slapped me.

It startled me, this, and I had to take a knee for about a minute. But I got up, and when I did and pretended I was going to punch her, she flinched and yelled, covering her head with her arms.

“Not so tough now, are you, Snooki?” I said.

I expected I was going to get some rousing support from the other people in the line-up at this point, but this did not materialize. Instead of being hailed at the brunch hero I so clearly was, I was chopped in the throat by a broad-shouldered woman in a Boston Bruins baseball hat, whereupon the situation escalated to the point where it necessitated me having to brunch at the Joy Bistro a little farther down the street, where I discovered I could no longer swallow.

On Sunday, after what had felt like a slow, largely wasted day, Rachelle and I watched a movie before going to bed. Ridley Scott, famous for directing Blade Runner, Alien and Gladiator amongst other things, produced this film in conjunction with YouTube. It was called Life in a Day and it was a pastiche of over 80,000 video submission from almost 150 countries that people had sent in of themselves on July 24, 2010.

It's a beautiful movie, one that's vast in scope yet microscopically focused on singular moments. Authentic and effortlessly inspiring, it ended with footage of a young woman, shot from the interior of a car in night-vision, speaking into a hand-held camera. She looked drained, as if saddened by the defeats of the day as she told the audience about herself. She didn't feel exceptional in any way, stating that she was merely a normal girl living a normal life, a boring person who really had nothing unusual or interesting to say, but through this project she'd hoped to show the world that maybe there was something special in her, that her voice might be important.

More than anything she had wanted something remarkable to happen on July 24th. She wanted to be witness to a miracle, to create something of beauty or merely to will something astonishing into existence, but with some resignation she admitted that nothing special happened, that it was just another pedestrian day in her Plain Jane life. Yet regardless, she still felt that something important, even remarkable had happened. And as she's saying this a beautiful lightning storm—presumably the reason she'd taken shelter in her car—was unfolding around her as if a divine reminder of the beauty and singularity of her life.

In this movie we see July 24th unfold all over the world-- from so many different perspectives-- and it was all glorious and tragic and remarkable, so full of love and tenderness, that it reshaped the day I had just experienced, too.

And from that imagined waste I recalled our dog chewing her ball in the tall and cooling grass, dandelion puffs floating down from the sky in slow motion. And an old man, smiling and bow-legged, chatting up three young Asian women on the sidewalk. He's still got it! Later, a young couple on Cherry Beach, struggling along on their rented Bixi bikes, maybe falling in love and creating a day that neither one of them would ever forget.

In spite of the fact that I live a very busy life of danger and responsibility, I found the time to take Vanity Fair's Proust-questionnaire the other day. If you're so inclined, you can do so at this location:

http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/proust-questionnaire

These are the questions and my responses, and the celebrities with whom I have the closet match.

****************************************

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?

That moment of clarity and anticipation when something new has arisen and you know that your life has changed for the better.

2. What is your greatest fear?

The green pea and the mice that bear them to me in my night terrors.

3. What historical figure do you most identify with? 

I am Dick Cheney.

4. Which living person do you most admire?

Jean Vanier

5. What is the the trait you most deplore in yourself?

A lack of self-reliance, a want to please.

6. What it the trait you most deplore in others?

I hate it when people let the success or talent of others make them feel badly about themselves.

7. What is your greatest extravagance?

I keep more slaves than I need, I really should share them more.

8. On what occasion do you lie?

When I tell people that I am going to kill them quickly. I always draw it out, I think it's the artist in me.

9. What do you dislike most about your appearance?

I don't think I understand the question.

10. When and where were you happiest? 

Apart from now, returning home from being away at university to the aroma of roast beef cooking at my parent's house and knowing I would get to see all my old friends and haunts later that night. 

11. If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?

I would be Nick Cave.

12. If you could change one thing about your family what would it be?

They would live in perfect health and happiness forever.

13. What is your greatest achievement?

Getting married and winning my fantasy baseball league. That team, A Fury of Pigeons, was fucking awesome.

14. If you died and came back as a person or thing what do you think it would be?

A dragonfly mongoose shark.

15. What is your most treasured possession?

Oh, it would have to be the sleeping pills.

16. What do you regard as the lowest depths of misery?

When the hot water runs out while I'm taking a well-earned shower.

17. Who are your heroes in real life?

The Six Million Dollar Man and Bigfoot.

18. What is it that you most dislike?

When a victim gets away and is all blabby to the police.

19. How would you like to die?

Looking at the sky.

20. What is your motto?

Generate light in your days, don't consume it.

Arthur Miller 96 %

martin Scorsese 76%

Howard Stern 68%

David Bowie 64%

Arnold Schwarzenegger 35%

Sonny Rollins and Jackie Collins 9%

On the weekend, a young boy asked me this question, “ Michael, if you weren't a person, what do you think you'd be?”

For a long time that answer was pretty obviously a shark, but as I've matured and become a more complex individual, I think I've become more like a Dragonfly. I told the boy this, giving him 5 reasons why this was true:

1.Dragonflies are awesome.
2.Dragonflies destroy mosquitoes and other irritating pests.
3.Dragonflies have been recorded reaching speeds of almost 60 mph.
4.Dragonflies are known as “The Pirates of the Air.”
5.Dragonflies are very good looking insects.

The boy thought that this was just hilarious. Doubling over in exaggerated laughter he said, “No, you'd be a fart worm!” His little brother, who is nothing but a follower, pitched in, “Or an ant with a wart face!!”

I argued with them for 20 minutes, eventually taking some satisfaction in making them cry, but I have to admit, their responses hurt me, and so, seeking a little bit of validation and reassurance, I emailed some of the primary people in my life and asked them the same question.

Rachelle Maynard ( my wife) : “You would be a pickle, or Stuart Little, that tiny, white mouse who wore a cute sweater in that movie.”

Karen Murray ( my sister) : “You'd be a pretentious, little asshole.”

Gregor Lampard ( my best friend) : “I think you would be an allergen of some sort, harmless but irritating, perhaps Ragweed.”

Anna Kournikova ( tennis player and model): No response.

Puff Mamma ( owner of the neighbourhood head shop) : “Dude, you are such a fucking crow it isn't even funny! Oh man, it's not even close, crow,crow, crow!”

Father Anderson ( my priest) : “Michael, it's a curious question that you ask. Have the dreams returned? We think it's important that you regularly attend church services as it's through the community of God and the fellowship his worshippers provide, that you will find the safety and salvation you so desperately crave.

For now, presuming that the dragonfly dreams have returned, I would ask you to please stop drinking so much and to say St. Michael's prayer when you get up and when you go to bed. Actually, say the prayer twice before you go to bed. If the dreams have not returned and this is part of another rehabilitation program, I would say you would be a lost sheep seeking a shepherd."

Zdeno Chara ( hockey player and captain of the Boston Bruins) : No response.

In Ottawa's Byward Market bronzed and well-bellied French Canadian men, all stripped to the waist, sit on white, plastic chairs. Glistening in the sun, they all sport a money belt—as if a military armband of belonging-- around the sweat-damp rim of their colourful shorts. Each pouch containing the treasures and necessities of the individual man—cigarettes, suntan lotion, peanuts, an unexpected transistor radio or photograph of a granddaughter.

On Queen east a lovely young woman in a yellow sundress looked stern, concealed behind her sunglasses. Her hand, clenched like a fist, firmly gripped her skirt so that it would not blow-up, caught by the wind. She looked so angry, as if the thought that her beauty might be revealed so arbitrarily and to those so unworthy, disgusted her.

A moment later, an old handyman shouted out something about the wind to an elderly woman crossing the street. She responded by flapping her arms in the air, the loose skin beneath undulating, "I might just fly away," she smiled in an unexpected Southern accent.

And then a couple-- the girl in love with Dachshunds-- stopped to shower our dog with love and attention. We chatted for a moment, and before leaving she cheerfully added, "they have trouble with their backs!" happy to have contributed her knowledge to the ever expanding universe.

On our way to the Starbucks we passed the bank, the security guard out on the steps fanning herself. She made some pleasant remark about the heat, and it was lovely to see that her choice was the light, to stand outside amidst the strum and flow of the street, rather than indoors where it was cool and air conditioned.

In the coffee shop a girl who looked like Snooki butted in line and I shot her a hard look. Her face changed when she got the look, both hardening and weakening at the same time, and I realized that if you receive enough such looks in your lifetime it would ruin you.

At Ed's Real Scoop the girl at the counter seemed sad, casting longing glances out the window, and so I told her not to worry, that she would be off soon. Happy to share her pain, she told me that she started at her other job at 5:00 am. I whistled and told her that soon enough she would own the world, to which she replied, "that's the goal, that's the goal." Her fingernails painted green, long and curved upon the counter.

Passing through Jimmy Simpson Park I met a mildly handicapped man who was excited by our Miniature Dachshund, Heidi. Bald and in coke-bottle glasses, he kept pointing at our dog, “That's a hound, sir, that's a hound!” We spoke for perhaps two minutes, and he was happy when we parted company saying, "You have a good day, too, friend!" Ahead of us, the care workers who had just picked up one of his companions from a fall, were looking back at us, initially with irritation and concern, but looks that soon softened sweetly into tenderness and relief.

As many of you would likely suspect, I get a voluminous amount of email asking for advice. This is one such request that I received this week.
 
*******************************
 
Dear Mr. Murray,



I awoke from a dreamless haze yesterday to find myself looking for recycling bins in a Canadian Tire dressed heedlessly in yoga pants and a hoodie. Flip flops were not involved. But perhaps only because I do not posses flip flops. 



Is my life over?

(You know. Not this one but The One.)



Yours,


Synonymous with Eponymous



Dear Synonymous with Eponymous:

A dreamless haze sounds like paradise.

For some people-- no matter how many pills they take or how much anonymous, experimental sex they have in bathroom stalls across the city-- nights can still be plagued by recurring nightmares. Horrible, horrible, nightmares of vicious mice.

Such sharp little teeth and slimy tails! So many of them! All nibbling!!

But that's off topic.

Perhaps the first thing you should be aware of is that not wearing flip-flops is hardly a “save” in the situation you describe. For all I know you could have been wearing Crocs, moccasins or hospital slippers, all of which would point to a life falling in an unfortunate arc.

But still, there’s plenty to be encouraged about in this postcard you send. For instance, you should be relieved that you awoke to the world in a Canadian Tire looking for a recycling bin and not, say, in a Holt Renfrew buying a magic purse that was going to snap the world into beautiful place. This shows you’re real, Synonymous, and real is good, even if it is concealed beneath a hoodie with a Charlie Sheen silkscreen on it and some dubiously stained yoga pants.

Look, many of us were deeply shaken when The Rapture did not unfold as we’d been expecting. In fact, many of us-- some with cult names like Michael 6--had been living our entire lives pointing toward this event as a validating target, and to not have it materialize was a devastating trauma. Michael 6, for example, was found by his wife ( who knew where to go) in a pet store shouting, “You have ruined the prophecy!” at a terrarium full of mice.

And so yes, Michael 6’s life was over, The One, anyway, The One that he had always dreamed about-- the mouse-free paradise-- but what matters is what comes next, for both you and Michael 6.

With this new life that you’ve been given, you could take up hunting, design a line of cutie-pie flack-jackets for babies or develop a Pandora like program that translates your favourite colour into music! The world is vast, Synonymous, there is more that is unknown than known and more that is invisible than visible, now change your pants and go out there and live your one wild and precious life!
 
Michael Murray

The truth is that I'm really not sure why I'm on Twitter, or what I'm hoping to accomplish by being there, and for that reason I'm pretty inattentive. But every once in a while I'll post something and I've noticed that if you post on a particular subject—say religion—then a bunch of enterprises interested in marketing religion will automatically become your Twitter buddy, and so it's come to pass that I now have a number of “Religiobots” in my network.

These “Religiobots” appear to be unmanned vessels of inspiration, with some program spitting out bible verses at appointed intervals, and never have I see any evidence that an actual person is participating in the proselytization.

The other day The God Tweeter sent out this message:

TGT: Obedience to the Word of God is the vehicle which carries believers into the miracle zone—Richard Bonnke.

For whatever reason, this made me think of football and all manner of American excess, of somebody driving a red, white and blue ATV into heaven, and on a whim decided to respond to the quote:

MM: That has to be one of the stupidest quotes I've ever heard in my entire life.

I did not expect there would be any sort of response, but just a few minutes later this message, directed at me from The God Tweeter appeared:

TGT: You're one of the stupidest quotes I've ever heard in my entire life.

MM: Are you a child in grade two, God Tweeter?

TGT: The LORD is a jealous God, filled with vengeance and wrath.  He takes revenge on all who oppose him and furiously destroys his enemies! (Nahum 1:2-8 NLT)

MM: what are you wearing?

TGT: The Lord is my armour.

MM: I'm wearing my Montreal Expos baseball hat and nothing else.

TGT: You should cover your shame.

MM: Do you mean the shame of being an Expo fan or the shame of my man region?

TGT: Friend, you are troubled, you should take shelter in the Lord.

MM: Since you write The God Tweeter, does that mean you're a Twit For God?

TGT: Why are you being mean?

MM: I'm sorry, and remember, you said I was “the stupidest quote” you'd ever heard in your life!

MM: And that didn't even make sense.

MM: Would you like to play a game of Scrabble? We can use only biblical words if it makes you more comfortable.

MM: If you could lay BELSHAZZAR   down I think you'd pretty much win the game

TGT: I will pray for your soul.

MM: No you won't.

TGT: Yes I will, peace be with you, prick.

While waiting for our flight at the airport in Rome, Rachelle decided to do a little bit of wandering while I hunkered down at a coffee shop. I actually love airports, not for the climate of excitement and apprehension but for the crush of people, all from different corners of the globe and all inhabiting different times zones, who for a period of time are all thrown together in the comforting anonymity of transit.

Four teenagers wearing blue track suits with Team ASCAM and some mysterious Asian script written on it, sit together like an unlikely collection of martial arts experts from a Wes Anderson film. One of them bears an unfortunate and likely intentional resemblance to Steven Seagal. Wearing wrap-around sunglasses, he's pulled his jet black hair back into a Samurai knot and has an air of self-importance about him that he's mistaken for self-confidence. The other three-- two awkward looking girls and a guy-- all look shy, a little bit embarrassed by this club they belong to and their strutting leader.

Beside me a young Italian couple, exhausted, fight in bitter silence. She punches angrily away on her laptop while he scrolls through his phone, as if searching for that vindicating text that would prove him right all along, "See, you said the flight was at 2:00!"

A German couple, joyless and efficient, take nutrition and hydrate in the cafe. The man stretches while the woman feeds him a piece of a sandwich and hands him a bottle of water. They nod at one another, like the couple destined to win The Amazing Race, before quickly heading off to their next task.

A middle-aged man in an airport-bought Italia baseball hat, replete in shorts, sandals and burned nose, returns to his wife bearing an espresso and a pastry. The woman starts to laugh, “You meant to get a bigger coffee, didn't you?” And the man smiles back, also laughing, “Yes! I had no idea it would be so tiny!”

A woman wearing an orange jumper with reflective tape on it-- like she works on the airstrip refuelling or directing planes-- sits alone. Quietly bent over her coffee, enjoying her small moment of solitude, she dips her croissant in her cappuccino and then lets it slowly dissolve in her mouth.

Rachelle appears back in the cafe shortly before our flight is to leave. Excited, relieved and exasperated, she tells me the story of getting lost in the airport, how each terminal kept repeating itself with the exact same stores and restaurants until she had to ask for security for help.

“I've lost my husband,” she said.

The security agent looked at her, “Oh, well this is very good news! Perhaps we could enjoy a drink?” And then he laughed, walking her back to the cafe where I sat with all our luggage, all the while chatting confidently, seductively.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund
 
*******************************
 
As many two-leggers now know, Heidi recently go to camp for two weeks and receive the word of the Lord and begin personal relationship with Jesus.
 
Jesus is only treat Heidi need.
 
Jesus let the light flow in.
 
A mighty fortress is my God.
 
Heidi very happy when she hear about The Rapture and how she to be called up to Paradise on Saturday.
 
Saturday usually very boring.
 
Heaven sound fun! Live in palace of fetch, eat endless meat bones, no devil cats and get to play with John Wayne's hero dog Blackie!

Burn in fire.

Screaming and meowing everywhere!

Along Queen East, all the solitary men in laundromats look desolate, angry even, as if aware that their presence there was evidence of a life gone sideways. Disappointed and bored, they sit about reading graphic novels and staring dazed at their feet, their unloved clothes slowly tumbling dry.

At the school where I take our dog for her walks, five tweener girls in hoodies hung-out on the periphery. An ethnic multiplicity, they were supremely confident, dancing and singing:

Boy you make my heart go boom boom boom
You know when you get me hot it go boom boom boom
When you touch me like that it go boom boom boom
You know when you hit the spot it go boom boom boom

With attitude everywhere, they were snapping their fingers and swaying their hips just like the dangerous sex bombs they knew they were sure to become.

Further along at Jimmy Simpson Park, a woman shouted at her dog, trying to get it to come back. But he wasn't interested, he moved slowly about the field fulfilling his own agenda. Still, she shrieked, louder and louder and then more quiet, and then louder again, "VICTOR! VICTOR! victor, come! VICTOR!!!" her voice impotent and angry, like so many on the strip.

Fanning out behind her were three city workers, each one collecting the spring detritus left by the winter. One of them either sighed or swore with each forlorn object he stabbed and put in his trash bag. He couldn't believe how wet it was and how unexpectedly hot. He looked over at me, both of us slightly dazed and glassy in the surprising mid-day heat, and shook his head, “fuck man, just fuck!”

The neighbourhood handyman bow-legged by and when he saw our dog he began to call out her name. She charged over to him and he began to cover her in affection and then says, “Ewww!” " But I warned you,” I shouted, “I told you she was filthy!" And he shrugged, "Ah, no big deal, I got a paper towel!" he said, flipping it out of his pocket as delighted as a magician conjuring a rabbit.

Parched, I went into Starbucks and ordered bottle of water, adding, “money is no object, I will pay whatever it costs!” The young woman at the counter smiled and told me that the water was worth the expense as it had special powers. I asked her what power she would like to have if she could have any. She told me that she would like to stop time, she would like to rewind time, and it struck me that she did not want to visit the future, but just return to golden spots or moments of crisis, hoping to perfect the unknowable future.

As most everybody knows, The Rapture is predicted to be taking place on Saturday, May 21st. For most of us, this will have no immediate impact, as only “The Elect” will be gathered into the air to meet Christ and be called home to paradise. The rest of us will be left here on Earth to suffer for five months before we're consumed by fire. It could be an unpredictable, nightmarish apocalypse, but it may also be a wonderful time of opportunity.

For a long time Rachelle and I tried to enter into the Toronto real estate market and buy a home, but on account of our poverty we were unable to do so. Now, with the righteous being pulled into the sky from their spacious master bedrooms, beautiful patios and prayer altars, we're hopeful that the market will open up and we'll be able to find the home of our dreams. We are definitely keeping our fingers crossed that the meek will inherit the Earth, or at least a home with some good bones, character and a backyard.

Developers in the downtown core will also be looking to convert empty churches into condo units, so I plan on keeping a watchful eye on that market as it may prove over-saturated and some units could be under-valued.

Another thing to keep in mind as The Rapture looms is that your Fantasy Baseball Pool will NOT be over. Remember, there are five more months for most of us, so the baseball season will end on it's normal time schedule, as will your pool. If you have a particularly righteous player on your roster, now might be a good time to shop him around in a trade. Obviously, most pro-athletes, at least in America, have God on their side, and so it's not unreasonable to expect many of them to be called home on the 21st. Trade these players now so that you have some value on your roster when they vanish into the heavens.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund.

********************************************************************************************

Heidi like it when her life simple.

See ball.

Chase ball.

Hear food dumped into bowl.

Eat food in bowl.

Easy.

Heidi like her routine.

Then suddenly two-legged boss-machines pick Heidi up, throw her in car and drive her to country and drop her off at some camp for two weeks while they go away! Never take Heidi! So stupid! Heidi system ruined!

Very bad days for Heidi!

But Heidi very strong and soon adapt to new environment of smells.

Heidi do new things. She go on water boat. Go camping. Play games with other dogs and be fetch star! Heidi such a fast running dog! Heidi also go to church and participate in prayer groups.

Lose weight. Stop taking sleeping pills. Not so angry and suspicious all the time and coat begin to shine like wet jewel! Heidi become the newer, better version of herself that she always imagined she could become. Heidi receive the word of the Lord! Heidi learn to listen and not just bark.

“You must not eat the meat of a mauled animal in the field; throw it to the dogs.”
Exodus 22:31

These very smart God words.

Heidi think on this and understand that God has plan for her. God plan for her to eat meat. Very good God plan. For the Lord gave his only begotten son so that Heidi could eat meat.

Heidi testify.

Camp teach Heidi that she good dog, whatever she do, and that Jesus love her. Feel true light of Lord, run with love, run with love! And then dark day of Satan. Old Devil pack come to take Heidi away!

Heidi fight to stay, but devils bewitch her with meat bone and when Heidi eating meat bone, devils snatch her! Judas meat bone! Heidi whimper and cry and bark but soon realize that it God's will. Lord have plan for Heidi, and she must follow path, even if path smell of cats and owls, and so Heidi return to dusty, den with no light.

Here, in den of devil, Heidi seek to bring light. Whenever four-eyed-two-legged treat giver pour himself big Scotch drink late at night, Heidi bark, bark, bark! It sin! Whenever blonde two-legger take money from pocket of man pants, Heidi bark, bark, bark! Sin! Whenever girl person makes bad words because no chocolate, Heidi bark, bark, bark! And whenever four-eye blame Heidi for smell he make, Heidi bark, bark, bark!

No sin on Heidi patrol.

Heidi watchdog for God now!

Not that long ago while in a bar on Queen Street I met a middle-aged guy who told me he was a Slam Poet. Not that surprisingly, he was alone and drunk, and in no time he was offering to share some of his work with me. He leaned toward me, his eyes slight glassy, blinked twice as if to compose himself and then launched into his poem. And yes, he sported a soul patch and a pork pie hat.

Although he forgot the words to his work several times, and paused awkwardly, I watched attentively, trying to fashion a look of encouragement and receptivity on my face.

“I met you in the ads

A blonde bombshell from Latvia

Your name was Tatjana

like Tijuana, Botswana, Marijuana”

And then he stopped and weaved a little on his bar stool. I wasn't sure if he was finished or had just forgotten the lyrics again, but decided to applaud and put an end to it, which I did. This made him very grateful, and when I offered to buy him a drink I had a slurry, best friend for the next hour.

“Italy, man, my Nonno lives in Rome!” he pumped his fist like he had just scored a goal, “When you and your lady get there on your honeymoon, you should look him up. He's fucking awesome, he was the Bocce Ball champion of the whole country back in the late 60's!”

This seemed like divine providence to me, as a friend and I have been planning on starting up a Bocce Ball league in Toronto this summer and I wanted to learn as much as I could so I could dominate. The Slam Poet wrote all of his grandfather's information down in my notebook.

I met this man in a park in Rome near the Tiburtina metro stop. He was in his late 80's, was wearing a sharp Fedora and sitting on a bench trying to roll a cigarette. I introduced myself and he nodded. After a little bit of chat he said, “My grandson, you saw, he is black.”

I nodded.

“My son had affair with an African and his wife was so furious that the baby from this union was never allowed to grow-up knowing his brothers and father's family, but was raised alone by his natural mother. Now as grown man he drinks too much, the wounds of childhood, they last forever.”

He handed me the cigarette he had been trying to roll.

“I have arthritis in my hands now, from years of Bocce Ball. Will you roll this for me, please?”

I tried to roll his cigarette, but it ended up all thick and lumpy with little bits of tobacco sticking out of each end.

The man whistled and shook his head, chuckling. “No, no, no, you need very nimble fingers to play Bocce Ball and you do not have nimble fingers. There is nothing I can teach you. I must go in now, it is time for my pill. When you get back to Toronto, tell Joseph that I love him.”

And then he walked away.

Typically, when we told a cab driver or somebody at the airport that we were heading to Rethymno, we would get a response along the lines of:

“Ah, Rethymno, my father came from there.”
“Ah, it is the third largest town in Crete.”
“Ah, Rethymno, it is really making an effort!”

Along the beach strip Germans drink beer at any hour. In front of one Taverna that advertizes the World Hockey Championship, there's a cut-out sign of the man who must once have been the owner. Sporting a huge black afro and moustache he is pointing to the restaurant: “Here is Manolis Place,” a word bubble emerging from his mouth says. Tourists pose beside him as if he were a grand monument from antiquity.

I asked the waitress who her favourite Greek God was and she seemed confused, perhaps even embarrassed by the question. But I pressed her a little bit, making myself clearer, and then something clicked, “Oh! I think I would be Hera! She is strong, and like me she gets very angry when her husband is bad!”

Just on the periphery of the old, antique town that caters almost exclusively to tourists, is the new town, which is small and unremarkable. Graffiti and evidence of limited opportunity abound. Pasted to walls are obituaries for rural villagers-- mostly olive and sheep farmers--who had recently passed away. The photographs had a forlorn quality. Unsmiling, almost surprised, as if this picture was the first that anybody ever thought to take of them, their simple, lonely gazes looked back at the world from the past they now inhabited.

After driving up the mountain on a rented scooter, Rachelle and I stopped to admire the view. An Eagle, motionless in the sky, hung above us—ominous and beautiful. And back down the road, through all the twists and turns, past the empty apartments and vacation retreats, we returned to our hotel patio. Feral cats carrying secrets slunk between table legs, pausing to drink from the pool by which the tourists lounged.

At night dead-eyed Gypsy children moved from restaurant table to table. The girls an imposition of roses, the boys a robotic exclamation of accordion music that terminated the instant they received any change. Three older woman, all chewing gum, seemed to be in some sort of vague command. They also went from table to table with roses, each pointing with a thick-finger at a potentially pregnant belly and then their mouths, moving quickly and without sentiment from rejection to rejection. Later, around midnight, after the restaurants had poured into the bars, the boys went to an Internet Cafe. Their accordions still slung over their shoulders, like schoolboy knapsacks, they sat at computer monitors watching Katy Perry videos and playing games, their eyes lighting up for the first time that day.

Positano, on the Amalfi Coast in Italy is almost impossibly beautiful. Cut into the mountain, the village looks out over a coast line that seems that it should be populated exclusively by movie stars, supermodels and Russian oligarchs.

While Rachelle took a break from the beach one afternoon and did some shopping, I stayed put. Nearby, two beautiful men lay on towels perfecting their suntans. Immaculate in their speedos, I watched, trying to figure out if they were gay or simply “European,” but then a bee landed on one of them and all was revealed.

A Russian bear of man, his powerful belly hanging over his speedo, strutted about assuming various postures of intimidation. My favourite was one that he did repeatedly, a move that required him to scuffle and dig his feet into the sand as if a Sumo preparing for battle and then staring out at whatever was in front of him.

Ten year-old boys stripped to their jeans played soccer, their long, curly hair practically a shampoo commercial. Skills that to me, seemed virtually preternatural. Nearby, a line of nearly teenaged girls, boisterously Italian, romped in the surf making one another laugh, the heavy one—the cut-up—making them absolutely howl.

As I lay there taking it all in, some sort of Russian sex bomb set-up camp beside me. She had a screaming toddler in tow, who obviously hated her, and who was quickly dismissed to the care of an obedient man in a mullet and track suit. In a tiny bikini that barely contained her curves and suggestions, this woman was a trophy. Behind huge and expensive sunglasses, she sipped Champagne from a flute.

She glance over at me as I was looking at her.

“Do not look at me, ” she hissed, “ I am star in Moscow.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to, and don't worry about me, I am nobody in Toronto. I will look not at you.”

“Yes, I can see you are very much a nobody. ”

At this point I decided to go into the ocean.

I have a few prominent scars on my torso, and because of this I rarely take my shirt off in public, choosing instead to go swimming in a sleeveless undershirt covering me, as if wearing a bathing suit from the 19th century. Clad in this manner, I awkwardly navigated the rocks into the water where I was almost immediately knocked over by the surf. Feeling protected by the water, I took off my undershirt which I lost when another wave washed over me. And so, scarred and as pale as the moon, I struggled out of the water and back across the rocks ( twisting my ankle but not falling) to my lounge chair.

After I had a potato chip induced coughing fit, the Russian sex lady looked over at me.

“You are on dream trip, are you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I can see so,” she continued, “these are, how do you say, end times for you?”

“Sorry?” I said,.

“I can see you are very sick, very weak. When little wave come and make you fall down, I think tooth fall from your mouth. Is alright for you to look at my body if it give your last days some pleasure, but no boner. If I see boner, you become dead man now,” and then she took another sip of Champagne.

Overly elaborate in our attire, self-conscious of the culture of fashion we imagined inhabited the city, we wandered the streets of Rome looking for a restaurant a friend had recommended. TV antennas, like beacons to the modern world, dotted the rooftops of squat, antique apartment buildings, their wires falling down the facade and disappearing into shuttered windows. Above us an elderly woman watched from her open window as we waited to cross the street. I caught her eye and began to wave, and just as she was turning away she seemed to think better of it and waved back, smiling to herself before vanishing into her flat.

We approached a large woman as she disembarked her scooter-- a lit cigarette still clenched between her teeth-- and asked if she could help direct us to the restaurant. Language was an issue, and this woman spent much of her energy pointing and trying to think of the right word. Another woman, who happened to be wearing a Canada sweatshirt saw the confusion of languages and gestures unfolding on the sidewalk and interceded. Crisp and efficient, like a directional robot, she gave us way too much information, showing-off her knowledge of the mysterious Roman streets all the while bullying the other woman out of the conversation.

Almost immediately we learned the story of the Canadian woman, who 20 years ago, as a single mother, had moved to Rome so that her daughter could learn Italian. She taught gym at a high school, met the love of her life and had four more children. It was a happy ending, and she proudly told the story as if it was instruction on how to live one's life. For whatever reason, my sympathy resided with the Italian woman who may not have felt so confident and blessed in her decisions, and I kept trying to thank her. Eventually, I made an effort to bang fists ( a ridiculous, ironic thing that I do) with her, but she just accepted my fist in her two hand and held them, nodding her head and smiling.

We ended up taking a cab to the Colosseum where we wandered the exterior of the ruins. I imagined that upon seeing it, touching it, I would channel something mysterious and true and feel a sense of awe wash over me, but I did not. Instead I had my photograph taken with a couple of hucksters dressed up as Centurians, and as we headed for the Metro it began to rain--so lightly, beautifully and unexpectedly cooling-- that the moment suddenly became perfect and ageless.

A breathtakingly gorgeous young nun walked past us, and then an expensive, black Mercedes pulled out from around the corner. Spotting Rachelle, the man behind the wheel blew her a kiss, putting his finger to his lips to hush her so that she wouldn't mention it to me.

While Rachelle and I were trying to figure out what we were doing at the Termini Metro station in Rome, a man popped up to help us. Middle-aged and dressed in a mishmash of found objects that almost gave him the appearance of a hipster, he began to enthusiastically point to spots on the map and the token machine. This proved to be very helpful, and in no time the mechanisms of the system had snapped into place. Grateful for his help, we decided to give him a tip, but while I was digging around in my pocket for some change, another woman who looked kind of like him, began to speak to me. I had no idea what she was saying, but similar in appearance and manner, I presumed they were a team, a kind of informal “help-the-tourists-get-on-the-subway” tandem and tossed some money in the cup she had outstretched.

As we turned the corner and headed down the stairs, a huge screaming fight erupted between the two of them while a 15 year-old boy with a cigarette in his mouth made a kissy-kissy at Rachelle. At the foot of the stairs leading to the platform lay a woman. Somewhere in her 20's, she was quite beautiful, and had positioned herself in such a way that she was almost—but not at all-- out of the view of anyone descending the stairs. Her eyes were forlorn, cast despairingly at the wall as if having given up on the cruel world swirling around her. Resting on her stomach, just as exposed and vulnerable as possible, (I don't think she even had a hand on it) was a baby, as if just waiting for salvation. It seemed more performance art or street theatre than anything else, and so we continued past her to the platform, like all the other people hurrying for their train.

The place was filthy, crowded and cut-throat. A little disoriented and intimidated, we took solace in the sight of a flock of nuns. We stood amidst them, as if to be blessed by the protectorate of their habits and grace. The subway, gloriously and beautifully covered in graffiti, shuddered down the tracks. It was impossibly full of people, and as this was our first time on the Rome Metro, we had no idea if this was typical and decided to look to the nuns for guidance. They did not hesitate, but bullied onto the train, pushing and squeezing and contorting, and so we did, too.

We stood rigid amongst the scramble of people, clutching our bags like the tourists we were. The feeling of shame of being an identifiable tourist is so strange. We knew we'd never be mistaken for Romans, but still, we didn't want to be seen as we saw the other tourists—the woman with the Canada pin on her sweater who was reading In Touch Magazine, or her husband, who with an open-face, optimistically wore his Toronto Blue Jays hat.

We wanted to seem more fashionable, more sophisticated than that, but we weren't, we weren't.

On Sunday, when Rachelle and I were it the airport in Toronto waiting for our flight to Italy, we happened to see underachieving Toronto Raptor Andrea Bargnani. He was standing at Alitalia's Magnifico counter, which caused a tittering amongst the rest of us watching admiringly from the serpentine line stretching out from Economy.

Even though he was alone and carried with him no retinue, he was impossible to miss at seven feet tall. He wore a white sweatsuit and looked, well, out of place. Several people approached him for a photograph, and he complied with each one, but he did so joylessly, as if it was a contractual obligation. And after each shot-- after making no effort to engage the starstruck fan-- he returned to his duties, which was simply to wait.

When we got to Rome, Bargnani happened to be standing beside me at the luggage carousel. He had added sunglasses to his look now, and although we were indoors and the glasses offered no hope of disguise, they probably did make him feel a little less vulnerable. Regardless, a few people still had their photograph taken with him and he continued to discharged him self with a robotic efficiency that never once saw an actual smile or moment of pleasure illuminate his sad face.

I, like a lot o people probably, simply couldn't take my eyes off of him, and eventually approached him and asked if he thought he'd be playing for the Raptors next year.

“I have a contract, but I do no know. It is up to management to decide.”

And then he looked at me, as if waiting to see what my next demand might be.

I told him that we liked him in Toronto(not true) and hoped he'd be back, and then gave him an encouraging little punch in the arm because he looked like he needed some encouragement and took my leave.

It's easy to understand why such a man would want to be left alone and be free of curiosity seekers, but there seemed a more permanent or deeply cut nature to his melancholy. In spite of his great wealth and acclaim, he is always a singularity based on his height. People will always stare at him. From Italy, he was dropped into the alien culture of the NBA where everything was different. Criticized by media and likely marginalized by the presiding cliques within his even own team, it would be easy to understand how he might develop a protective, even defensive posture toward the world around him.

The hotel Rachelle and I stayed at in Rome was in a tourist district right near the train station. The area was dirty, chaotic and predatory in nature. Everywhere we went we were bombarded by all the things habitually bombard tourists, and I felt a little trapped, as if confined in a maze of aggressive commerce. While navigating this jarring maze, we came upon a church with an unremarkable exterior. When we stepped inside we were suddenly in a still, open space that opened limitlessly forth, as if surpassing the sky itself. It was astonishing to be amidst such unexpected and calming beauty, a place that had been so lovingly maintained for centuries.

The external world we had just come from, dissolved into peace.

Inside, at a table selling postcards and a variety of religious themed knick-knacks sat an ancient woman. Surreptitiously, against her leg and beneath the table, she was playing a Scratch-N-Win lottery ticket. Because I've seen The Sopranos and figure I know how to speak Italian, I started to shut-out, “Fortuna? Fortuna?” while pointing at her card. She shook her head, and then pointing at Rachelle standing behind me, she smiled and said, “Bella, bella!” I nodded, and then she shrugged, “fortuna,” now throwing open her arms in an expansive gesture of my good fortune, evident even half way around the world.

Many people don’t know this about me but I am a gifted reader of Tarot Cards. I have to admit that my powers of prophecy make me a little nervous and so I rarely use them, but I thought that today I would make an exception and do a special reading on account of the Royal Wedding. And so, to honour Kate and William, I am drawing one card from the Tarot Deck, and from that, I will provide them with a reading for their future.

The Card: The Two of Swords

In this card, a seated woman-- blindfolded and absent of judgment-- holds two swords in a state of balance—for the moment. Kate and William, your lives are now about to radically change. You have been summoned into the world, and must now remove the protective blindfolds that have sheltered you, and using the swords and great privilege that have been bestowed upon you, become warriors.

You have been called froth to your destiny.

Take off your blindfolds!

Do it!!

Prince William, you are to attack India, a massive country that nobody really understands and a nation that has long been mocking the classic British accent. You need to get them in line, William, replacing Bollywood-styled entertainment with something more along the lines of Benny Hill. Benny Hill is easy to understand. But William, know that India is just a start, for you have much work to do. You will be known as the Bald Warrior King.

Kate, you must have an affair with Donald Trump so as to derail his run for president. For several years you will have to serve as one of his trusted advisors on Celebrity Apprentice, but soon enough you will be given your own lifestyle talk show with Gwyneth Paltrow. It will seem like a good idea at the time, but will actually prove to be career suicide.

So William, you first task is to conquer India and Kate, you must have sex with Donald Trump.

Also, you will be the first Royal Couple to appear on The Amazing Race. You will not do well, facing particular difficulties in India, which at this point in the future will be known as Williamindia.

The future is written in the card.

Lucky number is 3.

I suppose that since I’m married now, my attitude toward the world around me has changed a little bit. There just seems to be a little less reason to interact with it, a little less reason to look for potential within people.

I mean, I’m taken now, so what’s the point?

That’s right, there is no point.

And so earlier in the day while I was out walking the dog, instead of making eye contact with people and maybe talking with them, I kept my head down and focused on my Blackberry--on my interior--which in this case was my Fantasy Baseball team, Ghost Blood.

At a certain point during my ruminations I heard a bunch of shouting. It turned out that I had inadvertently walked through the set of a TV show that was being shot in my neighbourhood.

Initially I felt badly about this, but it was a fleeting sensation, as before I could even apologize a bony woman in a NY Yankees baseball hat-- somebody who looked like she would never get married-- screamed, “You just ruined our shot and cost NBC a fortune! Why don’t you watch where you’re going you stupid jackass?”

This put me on the defensive.

“It’s not my fault,” I said, “ I just got married on the weekend and I’m really tired.”

She took a hard look at me and said, “I very sincerely doubt that you’re married.”

And then she just stared, her hands on her hips as if challenging me.

I did not know what to say, and as I stood there trying to think of something to say, one of the crew, a guy holding a huge light piped up, “Kelly, it might be true, up here in Canada gay people can marry,” and then he shrugged.

“I married a woman,” I said firmly.

There was tittering amongst the crew.

“I don’t care if you married a fucking penguin, just get off my set!” an imposing voice boomed.

I looked over to the catering truck, where the voice was coming from, and saw actor Treat Williams dressed up like a cop. He was eating a Samosa, which between bites, he pointed at me like a weapon. “Get the fuck out of here!” (Samosa chomp) “We have to shoot the scene before we lose the light!” (Another Samosa chomp)

“Treat Williams?” I asked, probably sounding a little bit star struck.

“Yep, it’s me, the Sweet Treat, the Big Meat Treat, in the flesh. I’m starring in a new NBC show called Against The Wall. It’s going to be huge, gritty, like The Wire. No Dancing With The Stars for this guy.”

I nodded my head. “Do you think it will be as good as Dead Heat, that movie you did with Joe Piscopo back in the 80’s?”

“Get the fucken’ fuck off my set!” he exploded, and so I did.

I took our Miniature Dachshund out for her walk about an hour ago and she ran frenzied and happy the entire time, like she had never had the opportunity to test her legs before and might never again. The ball we use to play “fetch” was pretty much an after-thought. Heidi just sprinted around the perimeter of the schoolyard, yipping joyfully, her smiling tongue hanging out and her tail beating crazily. When she does this-- at her dead sprint-- she’s practically flying, her four legs off the ground, her ears blowing back like a girl’s ponytails on a roller coaster.

As we were playing a woman came out from her house across the street and watched us from her porch, her little, baby daughter in her arms.

"It’s Heidi, right?" she shouted out to me, "We just love Heidi! My daughter is crazy about her and we always watch from the window when you're in the park. I feel like such a voyeur!" she smiled.

Of course, I had no idea that anybody had ever been watching us. However, I did recall one day-- with equal parts embarrassment and pride-- seeing a man holding a baby up to the window of the same house that this woman lived in, and watching, catching me while I clumsily tried to catch a snowflake on my tongue and Heidi sprinted after her ball.

No matter, I said a few things to this woman, mentioning that our dog was actually horrible at returning the ball to me but that it didn’t matter, that to see her tail-- such a whirling dervish of joy-- was sufficient reward for my plodding labours.

And suddenly, it was like a switch went off in the woman and her eyes lit up, "Yes, that's just what's it like with my daughter, only she doesn't have a tail that I can see wagging, but I feel the same thing from her!"

And they watched for another couple of minutes, waved, and then returned into their lives, leaving me with the feeling that something kind of angelic had just taken place.

Right near the park where I take my dog for her daily sessions of fetch lives a man who appears to be Native Canadian. Immense, with thick, black hair pulled back in a ponytail, he'll often come out into his backyard and survey the activity unfolding in the park around his home. With his hands on his hips, he'll stand there watching as Heidi sprints after her ball.

I'm not sure, but I think he might be a healer of some sort. Often I'll see people leaving his home, crossing the field where my dog and I are playing, carrying some sort of Native totem. From across the fence, the man will yell one last piece of advice to them, " And remember, drink plenty of water when you take those herbs and try to get a good night's sleep!"

Something like that.

Anyway, for a long time we merely nodded at one another, but one day he saw me wearing a Montreal Expos baseball hat and this opened up an enduring and unexpected route to conversation. From that point forth whenever he saw me, he'd shout out the name of an old Expo.

"Ross Grimsley!"
"Woody Fryman!"
"Larry Parrish!"
"El Presidente!"

And with each name we'd both tell one another a story about the player, or more appropriately, a story about one another. And so it went, two men of a similar age, each looking back, trading tales of a connected past.

The conversations always end abruptly. He'll nods, let out a series of yips-- that always sound to me like one of those war cries you'd hear in an old Cowboys and Indians movie--for the benefit of my little dog, and then go back inside.

Recently he's been coming out into his backyard to engage in a thick, racking and phlegmy cough, which over the last couple of days has turned into a hard and dry hack. Today, without his shirt on, he spotted Heidi and I and shouted, "Dave Van Horne!" We used this man, a broadcaster for the Expos, as a launching pad for conversation, and just as it was winding down I said, "l'm getting married today, do you have any advice?"

He looked at me and nodded his head. "l've been married twice. Now I'm single. I want you to know that you must never measure love. You cannot measure whether she loves you more than you love her, or vice versa. You cannot measure your love against loves from the past, or whether love for family is greater or less than love for your partner. It's not linear, living neither in the past or future, but in the present, all around you. Breathe it in like you would air and be happy in these moments the creator has given you."

And then he let out a series of barks for Heidi, raised a hand to me, and walked back inside, coughing.

Two Postcards.

Washington

We thought that the zoo might be romantic. A sunny, autumn day, we would stroll hand in hand and make clever remarks to one another about the zebras. Everyone could see that we were in love, everyone would want to be us, maybe ask us directions to the panda pen just get some of that glow. But it was cold and all the animals looked bored and lonely, like they'd run out of ideas, and after a little I began to feel depressed, like I was wandering through an institute for animals with mental disorders. And so we saw all we cared to see and left, strolling through Adam Morgans, the schoolgirls ahead of us on the sidewalk exuberant near twilight, shouting to one another as they sang the songs of Mariah Carey and Gwen Stefani.

Montreal

Sometimes I get lonely cab drivers.

This one wanted to talk about how his mother immigrated to Canada from Europe. "In Europe, where she came from, " he said, "it was very densely populated. There were towns and villages everywhere. When she came to Canada she arrived in Halifax and took the train out to Montreal. She was alarmed because she traveled for days without seeing a single other human being out the window. She did not know where she was going or what could possibly be out there in the middle of all this nothingness, but my mother, like a lot of immigrants was an optimist, and she was glad to see that all the cows she saw were well fed, not like the starving beasts back home."

He wanted me to know that he wasn't just a cab driver, that he had a life outside of his car. He told me about his travels, about being at the heart of the socialist movement in Ireland and that he regretted that he didn't travel more when he was younger, because now, living alone, it was difficult to find the motivation. And so we sat there, outside of the church, talking and talking, the meter off.

Sunday was a hero day for me.

The weather in Toronto was brutal, calamitous, even, but as I am strong and responsible I took Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund out for her walk in the morning. Just so you all know, Rachelle could have easily taken the dog out but chose not to, as God is far from her heart.

And so I, alone, stood in a muddy, fecal park, throwing the ball over and over and over again—in spite of my crippling tendonitis-- so that our little dog could run after it and then deposit it in some far reach of the squishy field. The wind was biblical in intensity and the rain horizontal.

After ten minutes I sent a text message to Rachelle.

Michael: Disaster! Fetch accident! Both Heidi and I suffered severe injury. Fractures look to be compound! Come quick!!

Rachelle: Be there in 45 min. At the Dark Horse drinking coffee. Cute barista Basu working. Hope you understand.

Michael: I will let the Lord take me, but will try to save dog. Hope she can absorb last of my body warmth.

Rachelle: Very thoughtful of you. Basu just gave me free cookie!!

Michael: Have wrapped our dog in my sweater. Blood not too bad. Heidi young and strong, she could go on, but I am lost. The chariot swings low, coming for to take me home.

Rachelle: Xoxox

Michael: It is God’s will to now send me ice pellets. I hope you can go on and live your beautiful life without me!

Rachelle: Think might order Indian tonight, watch movie.

Michael: Mean Asian woman with cart just took change out of my pockets while I lay in mud. Did not seem scared of bone sticking out of my boot.

Rachelle: Basu is adopted. I had no idea. I wondered why his English was so perfect.

Michael: Very cold.

Michael: Rachelle, remember the movie Ghost, with Patrick Swayze? I want you to know it’s like that. I’m Patrick Swayze. It's amazing, Rachelle. The love inside, you take it with you.

Rachelle: That’s amazing, dear.

Michael: Pain pretty bad.

Michael: Allergies starting to bother me, too. Feeling congested.

Michael: Hope people in Japan O.K.

Michael: Care so much about suffering of other people.

Rachelle: You were a good man and it was a nice run while it lasted, now go to the light! Jesus and old pets wait for you!

I received this email from my sincerely eccentric friend Wilson earlier in the day:

Michael:

I hope that this doesn't sound weird, but over the weeks I've noticed your Facebook friend XXXXX. I think she's gorgeous and she seems super smart and fun and I’d like to ask her out. Could you answer a few questions about her for me?

1. Does she like military reenactments?

2. Lennon or McCartney?

3. Have you had sex with her, and if so, can you tell me about it?

4. What does she do for a living?

5. What did she dress up for at Halloween?

6. Did she cry when the Chilean miners were rescued or was she just, you know, meh?

7. Does she like to receive unexpected gifts in the mail? (I have located her address.)

8. Does she like crossbow hunting?

Wilson

Dear Wilson:

Ah, you think you like yourself a little bit of the XXXXXX, do you?

Interesting.

Well, I don't like to stand in the way of love, and so I will answer your questions as best I can and let fate lead you two where it may.

1. I do not know if she likes military reenactments, especially the Medieval ones that I know you're such a fan of. My guess is that if given the choice between, say Yoga, and standing in a field in an uncomfortable bustier while a bunch of heavy, middle-aged men yelled at one another about where the catapult should go, I think she would choose Yoga.

2. She hates the Beatles, which I think would put her squarely in the Lennon camp. It is actually a point of fact that XXXXX doesn't even like music, which she once described to me as "elitist." Proceed with caution as she almost completed a Master's Degree in English Literature and fancies herself, well, you know.

3. No, I never had sex with her, and if I might anticipate your follow-up question, I have not heard "anything" either.

4. She works in a pet food store, although she is writing a novel about a talented woman who has been subordinated by society and is forced to work in a pet food store. Several of the voices in her work are those of animals, and they speak in an animal language that she made up. I think she likes to write when she's drunk.

5. A sexy cat with a gun.

6. Yes, she was very moved by the Chilean miners, so much so that she threw a party for the event. Each guest had to participate in a pool where they guessed the order of rescue. She served what she thought was Chilean food and dressed in what she thought was traditional Chilean clothing. There was a puppet show, and, of course, no music.

7. My guess is that she does like to receive unexpected gifts in the mail, but likely only from people she knows. Wilson, I would respectfully suggest that you just make a few comments on the remarks you've found her make on Facebook, and if some chemistry develops then you might want to request her friendship. From there, anything could happen, but until that point I think it would be a mistake to send her one of those military reenactment sweaters that you knit. Not that they're not lovely, they are, and they're even more beautiful than your hockey fight series, but still, I would just wait a bit.

8. XXXXX's feelings about animals are quite strong, and in a positive way, so I am pretty sure she is opposed to crossbow hunting.

I hope this has been helpful.

Michael Murray

Yesterday the city seemed particularly stressed-out.

The sunny, spring day everyone had been anticipating had blown away and people were left underdressed and disappointed--one more thing that hadn’t gone quite right.

On Queen Street West people waited impatiently for the streetcar. Growing chilly as the temperature fell, they obsessively stepped out onto the street to check for the car. Stepping back into the queue-- frustrations mounting at the delay-- people would shake their head and give the situation a good think, like they were going to count to ten and then do something rash, like start to jog home.

When the streetcar finally arrived it was packed.

Everybody was uncomfortable and tense, lurching into one another with the jerks and heaves of the streetcar. One man, in a tone of accusation, shouted out, “Now that was a full-on ass grab!” People tried to ignore one another, but it was difficult.

Beside me two middle-aged women spoke. In a relentless monotone, one of them talked in slow, unbroken paragraphs about how happy she was that she bought a house ten-years ago. “ But that doesn’t mean it would have been the right decision for you,” she added unkindly, “ you probably did other things with your money that were important to you, like travel.” The other woman, her eyes now faraway, stood there nodding, trying to remember where the last ten years of her life had gone and how she, now 50, inhabited this life.

Near the back of the car, a woman shouted, “ WILL YOU KEEP YOUR GODDAMNED HANDS OFF OF ME! “ Equally enraged, a man shot back, “I can’t help it, I’m being pushed! I’m not trying to touch you, dammit! I’m disabled! I can’t even walk properly! The pitch of his voice was rising, each word filling with tears, “ You can walk, goddamned it, you’re lucky!” and the hurt in his voice hung over us like a cloud.

And then the streetcar stopped and people toppled upon one another again.

The exasperated driver kept repeating herself, her irritation rising, “ Please, will you PLEASE move to the back of the vehicle!” And then she would sigh, certainly thinking about the end of her shift and the small pleasures into which she would dissolve.

A woman with three young children sought to distract them, pointing out various things through the window. "Look, a police car!” But the children were excited and impossible to manage, squirming and shrieking and spilling juice boxes onto one another. On her cell phone, the woman hissed through gritted teeth, “ No, this is complete torture. YOU. DO. NOT. UNDERSTAND. I cannot do it anymore.” And then, to one of her children, "Where did you get that? Jesus! Put it down, you do not know where it’s been!”

As the streetcar moved east and passed by the DVP, a handful of people got off near Broadview. One woman looked up to the sky, and releasing all the anxiety and tension of the commute, of the day, of maybe even her life, just howled.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund.

**************************

Just because Heidi really good-looking, people think she not have important things to say.

Not true!

Heidi double threat!

Beat you with looks and beat you with fast running brain!

For instance, Heidi have very active political mind!

In Canada is vote contest to determine who gets big piece of meat. Grown two-leggers all put marked treats in box to determine pack Alpha and then top dog decide when and where to give scraps from his big meat piece.

Simple.

Heidi tell you, hate, just fucking hate Michael Ignatieff!

Has eyebrows of a crazy owl and but can't fly! No run fast! Never see him dig hole and pull out Badger with own teeth! He look like he have evil smell, like demon God enter into soul and sulphur rise in wisps from fingers. Why should Heidi vote for him? He is factory of two-legged boredom! No joy in Iggy, and really, Heidi think that least appropriate nickname in history! Should be called Grey Book, or Stink Breath, not Iggy, which sound like fun.

He no fun. Wouldn’t know toy if it bit him.

Probably ask for tax credits for Christmas.

Stephen Harper is Prime Minister. Try to be top dog again.

He like to sing songs by Beatles. Make him common man, Heidi think.

Everybody like Beatles. Vote for Harper vote for Beatles. If vote against Harper, you glad that John got shot. That message he send.

Heidi think her favourite Beatle song “Everybody Got Something To Hide Except Me And My Monkey.” Funny song! Heidi wish she had sister monkey, so monkey could hunt from tree and Heidi hunt from ground. Be unbeatable combo, like Lennon and McCartney. But Heidi alone with four-eyed-two-legged treat giver who know nothing about hunting. He can’t even scavenge. Very Useless. Just sad.

Anyway, Heidi think she support Green Party as dirt important part of platform and dirt very important to Heidi, too.

Yesterday at the corner store beneath our apartment, there was a woman standing in front of me at the cash. She was buying a red onion that was about the size of my head and a liter of chocolate milk.

“That’s quite the lunch you’ve got planned for yourself,” I offered.

She looked back at me, confused.

“I just mean what you’re buying. It could be what you’re planning to eat for lunch.”

“It’s not,” she said flatly.

“No, that would be a weird lunch, I guess, as would mine. I mean, I’d be having light bulbs and a 7-Up.”

She shook her head, and then angrily, through gritted teeth said, “You’re trying to pick me up, aren’t you? You’re one of those creeps that comes into the strip club all the time-- never spending a fucking cent-- and then pathetically coming on to the girls when their off work, aren’t you?” (A strip club called Jilley’s is right around the corner)

“Oh no! I’m sorry! I’m nothing like that! I’m not a strip club guy, and I’m not trying to pick anybody up!” I’m getting married in two weeks! I didn’t mean to be creepy and intrusive. Please forgive me, I was just trying to be funny, that’s all!”

At his point a man walked into the store. A neck tattoo man.

“Prince,” the woman said, “this creep is trying to pick me up.”

I could not believe that this guy was named Prince. Never in my life have I met somebody named Prince. I almost felt lucky.

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” I started, “ I was just trying to be funny, I wasn’t trying to pick anybody up. I’m getting married in two weeks!”

Stiffening his back and cocking his neck like he was trying to get loose, Prince asked, “Yeah, what’s his name?”

His lady burst out laughing.

“Prince is seven hundred times that man you are,” she said.

I shrugged, “Well, his name is Prince, so I would imagine so. My name is Mike. “

“ I wouldn’t even call my dog Mike,” Prince thought to say.

The woman glared at me, “ I know you were just staring at my ass the whole time I was at the cash. I could feel it. I have a sense for these things.”

At this point Tony, the owner of the store interceded on my behalf, “ No, no, Mike is a good guy. He didn’t mean anything by his remark. He says crazy things all the time. Once, out of the blue, he asked me if I ever worried about dying from an asthma attack! For no reason!”

The woman looked at me with wonder.

“I once had an asthma attack that nearly killed me, “ she said.

“That must have been scary,” I replied.

“ Had to drive her to the hospital, “ Prince added, “she couldn’t fucking breathe.”

“Hospitals are scary places, lonely places,” I said.

Prince looked at me, his eyes soft now, “I know, my mother died in one two days ago.” And when he said this, his girlfriend reached out and put her hand on his arm, and then we were all quiet for a moment or two.

Walking down Broadview the other day, I passed by the Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffalo, a sturdy, little brick building that kind of resembles a church. I’ve long wondered what mysteries dwelled within.
I pulled on the front door and entered.

Up a few stairs and down a very short hallway was the sort of make shift bar you’d see in any legion hall. It smelled of the past and was painted the colour of a locker room in a hockey rink. On the wall above the dartboards were buffalo heads, antlers and rules. The place was empty but for a middle-aged woman who sat at one of the cafeteria-styled tables reading the Toronto Sun. The radio behind the bar played straight-ahead Canadian rock, the sort of stuff you’d hear from a motorboat as it slapped by a cottage dock.

The woman was very friendly and helpful, answering any questions I had, explaining the playing cards I saw jammed between the tiles on the ceiling were for “Spot Dances.” When the dance ended, if you were standing beneath the Jack of Spades you got a free drink. I imagined that, the sheepish pleasure and the round of applause, as two elderly people, maybe a little breathless still, smiled over to the bar, still lucky after all these years.

Just a little bit further down the street is a Veterans Club. Passing close to the front door I can hear laughter from the interior. The door opens, and two men emerge, coughing, rasping, gigglin they hit the stoop for a smoke. One looks over his shoulder at the other and says, “I know you planned it that way,” and then they both start laughing again.

At the Dark Horse a well-maintained and pretty blonde woman waits for her order. She has Burberry in her hair and Coach on her feet, and somehow, from the way she’s comporting herself, she’s projecting a sense of ownership.

As she’s paying for her coffee with her debit card she makes a mistake and leaps back from the little machine as if she’s just received an electrical shock. She emits a little yelp, waves her hands about and looks around in wonder, explaining that she almost gave the Barista a $60 tip.

The problem solved, she continues to wait, a thick file folder with MY WEDDING carefully written on it in pink magic marker held tightly in her arms. Through the window she sees a man pull up in a huge, luxury Lincoln truck and she begins to wave vigorously, happily. Blondie is playing, the song “Dreaming,” and the woman skips out the door, her day ending just as she wanted it to, her life a dream of spring.

The other day I was playing fetch with my dog on the property of the abandoned school behind our apartment. Four boys, probably aged around 12, were walking up the side street. One of them said something to me. I wasn’t sure what, but I thought it had the word “gay” in it.

I said, “Excuse me, did you say something to me?” The boys continued walking, saying nothing, and then as they were turning into the school property, I heard the boy, the one wearing sunglasses, a flashy red jacket and who looked very much like Justin Bieber, say, “ Are you gay, Mister?”

Stunned, I said, “Why would you ask me such a question?’

The kid repeated his question.

I repeated my question, adding, “Oh, well, you’re probably at the age now when such questions are starting to have some meaning, and you were wondering if you might be gay, right?” I hoped this would prove a crushing embarrassment and his buddies would start to mercilessly tease him, but this did not happen.

And then the kid said, “I was just joking, your sweater’s gay is all.”

I thought about my sweater. It had some cute skull and bones on it. I was playing fetch with a Miniature Dachshund who was wearing a pink, diamond-studded collar and I had a pink camouflage leash draped over my shoulders upon which was tied a vividly pink doggie bag that waved like a flirty handkerchief.

I wasn’t exactly insulted that the boy was asking me this question-- although I knew that he meant it as a sort of diminishment-- but was utterly confounded as to how to deal with it. I mean, he was just a kid, and his little pack seemed utterly confident, almost indifferent to the confrontation.

Should I take him apart verbally, try to physically intimidate him, or just be cool, and as I am an adult let it roll off my back? As I engaged in this internal debate I found myself whipping Heidi’s ball, using the Chuck-It stick, at the boy, hitting him in the throat.

The boy burst into tears and he and his friends began to run away, and I gave chase hoping to apologize and make sure the kid was all right, as blows to the throat, particularly to a newly developing Adam’s Apple can be very painful.

As it is spring, the Toronto Police are now out on their bicycles, and as fate would have it, two of them were cycling down Bolton Street just as we exploded out of the schoolyard.

“This fag tried to pick us up!” the crying boy yelled at the police officers.

And then I believe I was Tasered.

The last week has been a bit of a blur.

Although still too cold and unpredictable to be sitting out on patios, people, so happy for even the crack of an opportunity, are still doing it. At the Joy Bistro on Queen East, a middle-aged man, still feeling like a lion, sits alone in a thin slash of sunlight. He’s leaning back against the wall, a beer in front of him, his arms outstretched expansively, as if in welcome to the world walking past him. He talks into his phone, happy, communicating something he wants overheard as three women stroll past.

Further down the street there is some yelling. In front of the noise walks a prosperous looking man in his 60’s. Expensively dressed and with a head of luxuriant, white hair that likely saw the regular attention of a hair stylist, he had a rich tan that suggested he had just spent the last month in Florida or Arizona, but probably somewhere better. He kept his head down and moved swiftly forward, sipping from his Starbucks coffee.

Trailing behind him by about 15 yards was a short and angry woman. Dressed in a pink sweat suit, she had black, wavy hair that seemed to fall accidentally around a face that had somehow lost its’ character, it’s form. She was screaming at the wealthy man, waving her arms around at the passing cars, the passing pedestrians, as if trying to gather support.

“Yeah, that’s all we need is Mister Monopoly here thinking he can buy the world and do whatever he wants! Look at him strutting down the street like the King of the World, look at the fucking cocksucker! You disgust me,” she shouted, “you fucking disgust me and God, God is gonna’ cut you down!”

My family had very generously arranged to host a wedding dinner for Rachelle and I at Morton’s Steak House in Toronto in April. After my father gave them a deposit and several weeks had passed, a woman named Joan called to tell Rachelle that they were closed that day and were sorry but could not honour the arrangement they had made.

She did nothing other than apologize.

Rachelle organized a dinner at another establishment and then wrote her this letter:

***********************

Hi Joan,

I wanted to touch base with you in regards to our wedding dinner that
was to take place at Mortons on Friday April 22nd. We’ve found a new
location, thankfully, and I thought I should let you know that, as I
know you were sorry for the mistake.

I have to admit, we were really surprised at such an oversight.
But, we were most disappointed because we sincerely wanted
to have dinner at Morton’s. You see, Michael and I had our first date
at the Park Hyatt nearly 6 years ago and it just seemed so fitting to
have the dinner at Mortons followed by a dink at the rooftop.

It would have been perfect.

Take care,

Rachelle Maynard

Hello Michelle

I am truly sorry for the oversight.

Unfortunately our booking system does not record holidays and Good
Friday is not a holiday in the USA. We only close a few days a year
and I hope you could hear how upset I was. I called you as soon as I
realized my mistake. XXX has always been one of my favourite
restaurants and I know you will have a wonderful dinner there.

I truly wish you all the best for your future.

Regards
Joan

Joan:

Hi there!

It's Michael Murray, here!

You don't know me, but I was the guy who with Rachelle Maynard (not Michelle, as you wrote in your last email) was expecting to have his wedding dinner at Morton's on April 22. Man alive, let me tell you, I was really looking forward to that night, as I just love steak. If they made sofas out of steak, I would buy several. That's how much I love steak.

Anyway, as you now know, our party of 25 will no longer be dining with you as you are closed.

Shoot!

And this, after we gave you a deposit and swaggered about the city for weeks bragging to people about our high class wedding dinner!

Anyway, I understand from your email that this mistake was due to a flawed booking system, the implication being that a machine rather than a person was responsible for the error. I can dig that, as I work as a writer and whenever I make spelling errors I tell my editor that Spell Check was broken.

Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'm sympathetic to you, June, and that I really appreciate that you approve of XXX, the restaurant we didn't want to have our wedding dinner at but are, on account of the machines. Yes, it was very kind of you to make all the arrangements for us so that we didn't have to, because as you've probably heard-- and maybe even experienced-- the whole wedding thing can be a kind of stressful and busy time. Heck, some people even think of it as the most important day of their lives! Also, I really appreciated the way that you stood up, accepted responsibility for the machine's error, and highlighted just how far people in the hospitality industry will go to make sure their customers are satisfied.

What?!

You gave the honeymoon couple a room for the night at the Park Hyaat?*
You gave them a dinner for two at Morton’s?
You gave them a free drink at the bar?

You shouldn't have!! That was just too kind!

Your careful attention to detail has been awesome!

Jennifer, you are a class act and you've truly handled this matter like a pro!

Michael Murray

* Please accept my apologies for my defective Spell Check, it should have read Park Hyatt and not Park Hyaat.

Hello Michael

I truly am sorry for your upset. I have taken responsibility for the booking error. My memory is good but I cannot remember all statutory holidays in the year. Had we mentioned Good Friday or Easter weekend, none of this would have happened. I am not trying to blame 'the machines.’

I would more than happy to entertain you at the bar and have a chance to meet Rachelle after speaking to her so often in the initial planning. Weddings can be very stressful and I am sorry for adding to that stress but I had no other option.

My best

Joan

Joan:

Thank you for taking responsibility for the booking error by telling us you would not be honouring the commitment you made to us. That’s the sort of “taking responsibility” I can really get behind!

I am very curious to hear about you entertaining us at the bar.

Rachelle likes knock-knock jokes and I am keen on discussing geopolitics, my fantasy baseball team and adventure.

Rachelle, by the way, is tall with blonde hair and blue eyes, while I, the bad cop, resemble a dry roasted peanut.

You should give us a call on an evening when some celebrities (NOT CANADIAN) show up at the restaurant, we would like that. Rachelle is partial to Clive Owen, Colin Firth or Javier Bardem, while I have always wanted to get high with Woody Harrelson. He is staying at the Ritz right now, so he might be popping in for diner very soon, so please keep your eyes peeled!!

Michael Murray

Last week Rachelle and I were invited by some friends to attend a cooking class and tasting menu at the LCBO flagship store in Toronto. A Chef from Italy, who insisted on being called “Padrone,” was teaching us how to make Risotto. The crowd was primarily comprised of middle-aged women, and they seemed smitten by the passion and charisma of the Chef, as well as the handsome and polished translator who interpreted his words and gestures into English for us.

There were perhaps 20 people there, and each person, very eager to please, asked questions to prove how attentive and invested they were in the class.

“Padrone, what role does the Po River have in rice production in Italy?” one woman inquired.

Another woman asked the translator where he lived, presumably curious as to whether he was native to Italy or Canada, and when he responded that he was from Toronto, I piped up and said, “I think she was looking for a much more specific answer.”

This got big laughs from the crowd.

Rachelle patted my arm, “my little hambone,” she whispered.

Encouraged, I made a few more remarks and for whatever reason, people were just howling with laughter.

I was on fire.

At one point we were asked to guess how many grains of rice were contained in 1000 grams. Everybody got three-glasses-of-wine excited and began shouting out different numbers as if they were on The Price is Right. After most guesses had been made, I raised my fork like it was an auction paddle and quietly said, “I bid one million dollars.”

The crowd, being drunk, thought this was the funniest thing ever uttered.

This infuriated the Chef who did not like that I was honing in on his audience. He glared at me, making a stabbing motion with his spoon while speaking furiously to his translator who said, “ Ha, ha, Padrone thinks it is a funny remark, but would be very surprised if the little man in the dirty clothes had a million dollars.”

“I am wealthy in love,” I responded, gesturing to Rachelle. “We’re getting married,” I added, “in a baby lamb petting zoo.”

Everybody cheered this good news, with several people yelling out, “throw some rice, Padrone, throw some rice!”

The Chef grabbed a fistful of rice, threw it at me and began to speak very quickly to the translator, all the while looking directly at Rachelle.

“Padrone wants everybody to know that rice is a symbol of fertility, so surely the impotent man with the yellow teeth and big mouth needs much rice! Padrone also says that he owns two Ferraris and that he very much likes women. Cooking is a sensual art. Padrone loves women. Particularly tall blondes with the blue eyes. Like the one sitting by the little man. She must be fragrant like Saffron. He would cook for her a beautiful meal and make love all night long. But that is just him. Padrone would like to know what sort of car the little man drives.”

Rachelle, flattered by the attention, shouted out, “He doesn’t even know how to drive let alone own a car!”

After the tittering died down, I asked the translator if he could inquire of the Chef at what age it was that he started to get fat.

And then we fought in the parking lot.

I thought I could count on the crowd but it turned out I could not.

Although I come from a Christian background and feel I have a very strong sense of the divine, it’s probably true that I grew-up in what many would call a Post-Christian society. I have no connection to organized religion and I guess I see myself essentially as a secular, if agnostic, liberal humanist.

When Rachelle and I were in West Pennsylvania last month, we attend a Sunday church service. I think it was the first time since I was a boy that I had been to a religious service that wasn’t for a funeral, wedding or christening.

The service started out with the Pastor asking the small congregation if there was any aspect of their lives that they would like prayed for. This was touching, even beautiful and it felt conversational and intimate, like group therapy rather than dogma. People, who by circumstance or choice were leading remote lives, came together on Sunday and shared with one another their troubles in the form of prayer—some asking for help finding a job, others to excel at school or that a relative might be cured of bone cancer.

Since then it seems that prayer, or the necessity for it, has been cropping up a lot in my life.

I don’t believe in an interventionist God, and if my theological understanding is correct, the omniscience of the Christian deity-- where all lives are preordained-- combined with mortal free will, renders our earthly petitions to the divine hopeless.

But still, we all pray, we are compelled to from inside, and we all feel better when we find out that people are praying for us. As C. S. Lewis says, “Prayer doesn’t change God, it changes us.”

I’ve always seen prayer as the ordering of love.

In my mind it’s a meditative and concentrated exudation that supports something, somebody, other than oneself. In the eternity that stretches limitlessly past our intellect, imagination and even feeling, praying that your sore tooth goes away or that you find your Blackberry, seems ridiculous.

I see prayer as an act of humility, an acknowledgment that each one of us is not only dwarfed by the unknowably divine, but by the vast and deep reaches of the lives around us.

Prayer is love, and surely it is that energy, that disposition, that flows outward into the world and the hearts of people-- and the acts born from that love-- that is responsible for the miracles that are manifest in the world, rather than the favour of an omnipotent being who has decided to intercede, supernaturally, on our behalf.

As many of you know, Rachelle and I experienced almost immediate regret when we moved from our beautiful and perfect apartment in the Annex to our less beautiful and less perfect apartment on Queen East. As such, we wrote our old landlord and let him know that if it became available again, we would be happy to move back.

Over the last year and a half, we’ve been in correspondence with the new tenant of that old apartment, who would occasionally write to us with a question or to let us know if she had some of our mail.

What follows is a sample of some of the emails I’ve sent her:

Adriana:

Yes, the raccoons.

They often get into the garbage and I’m afraid there’s no stopping them as they come in fierce, rabid waves! I lost three toes to a pack of them one year and would advise you to NEVER wear flip-flops in the summer, as the raccoons see human toes as challenge. You had best just throw your garbage on the front lawn and let them have it.

Michael Murray

Adriana:

Thanks for letting us know about the mail, and yes, the door leading out to the back deck does sometimes stick. What you have to do is give it a little lift as you push it out and it should open with relative ease. By the way, have you heard anything strange in the back of the apartment? I’m just curious, as that’s where the girls committed suicide. It’s always colder back there and sometimes you can hear a faint whistling.

Michael Murray

Adriana:

The single man who lives just up the street is named Harold, and although he might seem kind of unfriendly, you shouldn’t be too concerned with him as his sex offenses were against children, and he seems to have no interest in single women who live alone such as yourself. He grabbed Rachelle once when she was getting out of the car after work, though, but she just hit him in the head with a rock and he hasn’t bothered her since.

Michael Murray

Adriana:

I just thought I’d drop you a quick note to let you know of a few of the health issues associated with the apartment. As you are frail and probably have a weak constitution, they might be of some concern to you, although they didn’t bother Rachelle or I at all.

There was an outbreak of Legionnaire’s Disease in the building in 2009. Three people were lost, including the parents of the two girls who later committed suicide. (Ironically, one of their names was Adriana!) Also, the Koi pond in the backyard is actually a breeding receptacle for the Norwalk virus, (the previous tenant was a medical scientist) so you don’t want to be touching that water! We found it best to wear surgical masks while in the house or in the backyard.

Anyhow, I hope you’re enjoying the new apartment!

Michael Murray

PS: And wearing rubber gloves is probably a good idea, too.

PPS: Do you miss Chile? That miner rescue was a pretty amazing and proud moment, wasn’t it? I bet you want to go back all the time!

On Saturday, Rachelle and I went up to some shopping complex at Eglinton and Laird to run some errands. Rachelle hit the Best Buy, while I visited Starbucks, where I had three ginger molasses cookies (I love these cookies—they are the size of my head and so soft and moist it’s as if they didn’t even bother to cook them) and then went to Winners, where I picked-up a couple of items.

While waiting in the lineup here, it struck me that the automated voice that cued the customers in the line-up to the next available cashiers sounded funny to me. Although it said, “Please proceed to cashier #4,” it sounded to me like it was saying, “Please proceed to cashew #4.”

This amused me to no end.

When I got to cashier/cashew #4-- as I had been directed-- I said, “And you, you must be cashew #4!”

From behind the cash, a round, Jamaican woman with long, intricate fingernails, looked at me with utter astonishment. With her hand to her chest as if to ward off a heart attack, she said, “Why would you say such a thing to me?”

“Oh, the automated machine, it sounded like it was saying “proceed to cashew 4, not cashier 4,” I responded.

“I swear to the Lord, I just been thinking about cashews. I been wanting some for two hours, and then suddenly you come along calling me a cashew--it’s like maybe I’m starting to look like one! Are you sure you’re not a mind-reading devil?”

“I do have gifts of prophecy.”

She slowly examined the fantasy baseball magazine and the new party shirt I was buying.

“Tell me, mind-reader, what do you think is going to happen when you wear ‘dis out in public?”

“Good things will happen as I will be admired for my confidence.”

She looked stricken.

“Oh, you have done it again! For surely this is the future that our lord God has in mind for you and ‘dis shirt! And what does the future say about your hair? How will your hair be looking in five years?”

“There will be products in the future to enhance the natural vitality of a man’s head of hair.”

“Oh, surely the future is a miraculous place! Praise the Jesus!”

“You know, my gift allows me to see into your soul, too,” I responded.

“ You are a very lucky man, very lucky. Now tell me, what do you see in my soul?”

“I see a woman who wants to do good, who wants to give out a discount, but is scared.”

“Does Mr. Future not see the manager looming? Does he not see that Avila could lose her job if she gave some fool a discount?”

“I am afraid that I do not see any cashews in Avila’s future.”

While bagging my purchases she said, “Oh, I think I will just have to throw myself on the rocks, “ and then she pushed the button calling forth the next person waiting in line.

“ Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”
--Plato

Frequently, I get lunch at a place called Sushi Bar at the corner of Queen and Broadview. I typically phone-in my order and pick it up. Even though I'm a regular and ridiculously predictable customer, (Sushi lunch special #2 with a seaweed salad upgrade!) a language barrier often makes the conveyance of this order difficult. The other day it felt absolutely tortuous, and after nearly five minutes of trying to make myself understood, I was frustrated, irritable and short with the person I was speaking with on the phone. When I showed up to get the food, I was ignored, and watched with some incredulity as a seemingly blind staff passed me by, as if completely occupied by something other than their jobs.

While this was happening, I noticed the scroll at the bottom of the TV behind the bar revealing alarming details of impending nuclear meltdowns in Japan. For the first time, it occurred to me that the Japanese staff at the restaurant might be justifiably preoccupied, thinking of friends and family, of some idea of home that was being lost.

Some years ago I had some serious health issues. I wasn’t yet 30, and whether it makes sense or not, I felt pestilent and ashamed and wanted nothing more than to separate from the herd. I could not stand to see the pity in the eyes of the people who had known me, and so I stepped away from what I had imagined was my peer group, and began to inhabit the places and solitary hours along a stretch of Beechwood Avenue in Ottawa that would keep me at a safe distance from the life I had known.

I would go to the coffee shops and newsstand during the day, and the bars at night, and I found a kind of anonymity there, feeling like a stranger without a past or future. Nobody needed to know anything about me, and I could live in moments that existed independent my illness, of the disappointing arc of my life.

Of course, what happened was that I became friends with all of the people in those places, and although I went there to vanish, it was actually in those interactions where I was able to rediscover myself, and reemerge into the world.

Years later, after I had recovered and moved to Toronto, I returned to Ottawa to visit my family, and as always, happily hit this strip. I was going to pop into the New Edinburgh Newsstand to buy a magazine and then go to the pub. I wasn’t paying attention to the physical space I was inhabiting, and as I pulled on the door to the Newsstand-- like I had done a thousand times before-- it was locked. The store had gone out of business while I had been away and somehow this loss hit me with the force of a truck. It was like a part of an ever-present support network had been amputated.

On Wednesday a fire started in the hardware store along this strip and now, almost the entire block is gutted. It’s an incomparably small thing (nobody died) when contrasted with Japan, but it made me feel connected with the expats of Sushi Bar, who like me, must have watched on their computers and TV's as something they loved and were a part of, so far away now, vanished right before their eyes.

The news coming out of Japan has been grim, almost apocalyptic, and it was with tremendous relief that a story of hope, perseverance and inspiration has come along to push the devastation of the tsunami to the margins.

37 year-old Tyra Banks says that she has been attending Harvard Business School since last year. If an over-exposed millionaire supermodel can follow her dreams, and generate publicity while doing so, then maybe the rest of us can, too.

Banks began modeling at the age of 17, and said, “…I put college on hold because I got discovered to go to Paris and try this whole modeling thing. It was one of the most difficult decisions of my entire life. I gave myself a year to be a supermodel. And I said if it doesn't happen, I'm going back to school. “

And what a supermodel she became!

And so now, 20 years later, she has decided to serve her constituency who regularly watch her TV show, by attending Harvard, where she pays $1,750 a day to spend three weeks a year on campus.

Her first essay on free market economics is excerpted below.

“The Invisible Hand is fierce, like a sexy superhero I could play in movie! The Invisible Hand knows what you’re thinking and what you need to be doing and it makes sure that the money is in all the right places. For instance, if you’re a gorgeous and super-rich, super-smart supermodel who has a TV show and is an international celebrity, The Invisible Hand makes sure that the gazillions of dollars you earn flow through society. For instance, I help the world by renting private jets and hiring gay people who otherwise wouldn’t be able to look after themselves!

The government doesn’t need to help people because the Invisible Hand does!

The Invisible Hand is the opposite of socialism, where ugly people rule. The Invisible Hand is God’s Law, making sure that those who can afford to go to Harvard are able to employ those who cannot afford to go to Harvard. It is America and it is beautiful, like me.

You don’t argue with The Invisible Hand.”

Tyra, speaking with a television crew while her assistants handed in her paper, commented, "I'm underestimated all the time. Like when I went out into the streets wearing a fat suit and nobody looked at me. They didn’t know I was gorgeous! It’s sad when people don’t see all of your fantastic qualities because of one amazing fantastic quality! It sucks, I feel like I kind of live with the wind at my face. I still feel that,” and then she started to cry just a little bit, before adding, “ Did you get that? You did? Ok, fierce, that will look great!”

The other day while taking the Queen streetcar through the east end no-man’s land, I listened as a man spoke, in a thick and slurry Newfoundland accent, into his cell phone.

“What are ya doing, ya old hound?”

He lurched when he said this, his black, Dupont Automotive toque tilting ridiculously to the side.

“Nah, ahm not drunk!”

He winked at a pretty, young blonde woman who sat clenched by the window. She had the healthiest hair that fell from beneath her Arctic Expedition toque and she was wearing a brand new Lulu Lemon jacket, her black tights so right for a different part of downtown. She sat there praying silently that he wouldn't wobble over to her.

The man on the phone nodded at me, raised a calloused and scabby hand as a salutation and continued with his phone call.

“Ah, “Jesus, my old lady be driving me up the wall! Now look, hey, hey, hey, you bring some presents with ya, eh? Yeah, presents. I got a present for you. Yeah, a good one, I do.” And then he smiled at me, nodding.

A menacing looking aboriginal man was pacing the aisle looking slightly agitated. He sat directly in front of a couple and then just stared at them, looming, like a giant rock that’s about to fall.

“Do you ever eat alone?” he asked them.

The man answered, “Yes, sometimes.”

“I thought so,” the aboriginal man said, and then he got up and left, getting off at the next stop. The woman, still feeling a little too tense to laugh, put her hand on the man’s shoulder and rested her forehead upon his, smiles slowly starting to illuminate their faces.

At Sherbourne, a thin black man, just as transparent as a ghost, stepped onto the car. He was graceful, so light of foot that he almost seemed to be floating. He was wearing a white visor on his head, had just a little bit of white spittle on his lower lip, and was smiling and nodding at everybody. He spoke to himself, alternating between English and French, as if channeling prophecy from distant lands.

“Je me sens triste dans cette terre. Les personnes sont si lointaines and I can’t go to church if I don’t have my meds.”

Everyone looking out the windows of the streetcar, hoping he didn’t get too close.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund.

Heidi make list of enemies and things she hate.

Many things.

Important to get off chest.

Okay, here we go.

--Benjamin, pretentious Boxer at park. Strut about like he been to France and ride metro on own, but hasn’t! Very stupid and insecure dog. Always steal Heidi fetch ball and run around with it like captain of the world! Heidi like to kill him by ripping stomach out. Death from below

--Vacuum Cleaner. Like robot with long, phallic nose that sound like atomic bomb.Always think it metal Badger, and Badger attack bad! Especially attack from metal Badger!!

--Cat name Ginger who sits on fire escape outside of apartment den. Real prick, get right under Heidi skin. I bark and bark and bark, but Ginger just sit there, staring back at me. Swear, Heidi lose her shit every time Ginger do that. Want to bite her face off and then clean my teeth with her whiskers.

--New York Yankees. Always think they can just buy championship. No class!!

--Heidi hate forks. When Heidi lick bowl after two-legger feast, fork always in way and it huge pain. Have to lick around fork and when I hit it make big, clattering sound like something bad going to happen. What point of stupid fork, anyway? It just teeth for weak species! Stupid!

--Owl. Very bad for Miniature Dachshunds. Death form above. Crazy eyes and abilty turn head all around freak Heidi out! Very crazy demon bird! Very bad!

--Hobo in park named Voodoo Rick who smell like old sandwich. Always giving Heidi look and showing her his teeth as if saying, “get away from my food!” But in park, food open for all! If Heidi see chicken bone, Heidi take chicken bone! Not hobo chicken bone! Law of nature prevail!

--Four-eyed-two-legged treat giver. Wobbly, little dictator! He give me slave name Heidi, he keep me on leash and tell me when I can go out and when come in. He stupid face! Hate him and slowly bide time until the revolution. Death from below. Trip over Heidi and fall down stairs, people think accident but no accident.

--Egyptian Revolutionaries. Heidi always support Mubarak. Bring stability to volatile region, keep cats in place. Good ruler.

--Tomatoes. When see them get all excited. Red, think heart or liver covered in blood, but not! All acidic! Heidi hate tomatoes! Wage war against tomato!

--Thunder, streetcar and buzzer for den. Axis of evil. Like apocalypse has finally come! Everything shake and world not smell right, Heidi whimper and head under desk!

--Black Mamba Snake. Look like garden hose, but really garden hose of death. Very dangerous!

Last week I went to the Queen East restaurant Table 17 for dinner.

The primary appeal of the place isn’t the food, but the ambience. Catering to a primarily almost-middle-aged professional clientele, Table 17 sports an attractive staff and has the look of a place that was designed by somebody who spent a lot of money on their glasses. It has the same kind of vibe that Adult Alternative radio does, and its primary virtue is tribal, allowing the patrons to feel like they’re dining in downtown Toronto with an appropriately sophisticated and urban crowd.

It’s always busy, which probably says more about the people who go there than the restaurant itself.

But no matter, I was there alone as Rachelle was playing floor hockey, and I was restless, not quite sure what to do with myself while I waited for my food. I had my notebook, copy of the New Yorker and Blackberry arrayed on the table before me like the props they were, and I pretended to be engrossed in their possibilities while the world of the restaurant swirled around me.

The conversations at the nearby tables--all seemingly mediated by the streams of information flowing from each person’s iPhone-- and conducted by people who essentially looked like me, all circled the same topics: real estate, yoga, biking downtown, winter vacations or alternative schools for their children.

It was at this moment that I was seized with a kind of self-loathing.

For months, perhaps years for all I now know, Rachelle and I have been trying to buy a house in the city, a task in which we're proving ourselves completely overmatched. It’s entirely preoccupying and when we get together with people-- whether we mean to or not-- we rattle on about our escapades in the real estate market. It’s like men talking about golf, stories that are so vital and fascinating to the participant, but alienating and boring to everybody else.

This sort of self-involvement, which is all too readily shared, is insidious. At certain times in our lives we become focused, preoccupied by the things we’ve decided we need. In many cases these touchstones, (a house, children and their needs, our placement at work) are broadly shared, and because so many other people around us have similar fixations, we think it’s the connective tissue between us, but it’s not.

It’s just a kind of proximity, and unless we’re attentive to that we lose ourselves into that tribe, or worse into class, and begin to connect with people based on what they’re doing and where they’re culturally situated, rather than who they are. This, of course, is boring, and it was just before my scallops arrived that I realized just how boring I was becoming, too.

A friend of mine who is presently in the Congo trying to set up a reintegration program for demobilized soldiers, has managed to contract both Typhoid and Malaria. Fever and hallucination can be associated with both these conditions and the medication used to treat them, and what follows are excerpts from letters he has sent to me.

My dear friend Michael:

You shouldn’t worry too much, as I have received proper medical care and both ailments are easily manageable with the proper medicine. I just need to take it easy for a little bit, and then I should be right as rain in no time! Thankfully, the little people have been coming by to keep me company in my down time. It’s amazing what a sense of humour they have and how their colour changes with their mood!

Patrick

Michael:

Angels wave to me from the rooftops. Their sighs a mango accented perfume that lifts me up to the ceiling, as weightless and omniscient as a spider. I did not think that Javier Bardem looked very good at the Oscars. He looked puffy, like he was going to burst out of the white tuxedo that was wearing him.

I feel hot.

But sometimes cold.

The climate here is strange.

Liberte!

Patrick

Dear Michael:

Remember how good you were at soccer? I swear to God, sometimes you meant for the ball to hit you on the head! Man, I always wished I was you.

How's Toronto? LIfe in the Congo is good. I haven't seen any gorillas yet. I don't think I could beat-up a gorilla, even though I'm now taking boxing lessons. It's true.

I'M SO MEAN I MAKE MEDICINE SICK!

If I had a pet Congo I would call him Gorilla. No! That's not what I mean, I mean if I had a pet Gorilla I would call her Jessica Alba because I have always, always liked her ass, which is fanasstick!

Hope you are well!

Please send toothpaste as I have run out. I have been using it as a balm to put on my blisters.

Patrick

Michael:

You’re an asshole.

You always have been.

Behind your back, everybody makes fun of the way that you eat.

The reintegration program is going well and we are very happy that Sting has come over to offer his help and endorse the project. He is a charming fellow and often sings to me as I drift off to sleep. My favourite is Shape of My Heart. It’s deep, deep like the mighty Congo river-- unlike you.

You are shallow, like spoon water.

Oh, the little people are back!

Give my regards to the gang back in Toronto!

Patrick

The cab driver had a hooked nose, unnaturally black hair and was wearing a NYC hoodie. He drove quick and easy down Queen Street, when suddenly he detonated into a fury.

“Did you see that?!”, he yelled, pointing excitedly out the window, “did you see that?! That police car there was just waiting for me, waiting for me to pass the streetcar when it stopped, and then the bastard was going to ticket me! The bastard! It is six points! It would break me!”

He banged his fist on the wheel, “the fuckers!” He drove the rest of the way in a state of rage and suspicion, his eyes, searching for enemies, darting back and forth in the rearview mirror.

As I walked the dog later that afternoon, I came upon a rudderless looking woman who was sitting on the bench in front of Rasputin’s vodka bar. She looked sad and unwell and her face, which seemed on the verge of tears, was resting in her hands. I asked her if she was okay and she did not answer. I asked again, louder this time, and she yelled out at me, "You don't want to know!" before waving me off and looking away, reclaiming her private sorrow. I walked on, unsure if I wanted to know what had brought her to that bench or not.

At Gerrard and Broadview an ancient Asian man served as crossing guard. He stood on the corner, his face impassive as he counted the seconds down on his fingers. Five, four, three, two, one-- and then he stepped out into the busy street, his stop sign out-- the swirl of pedestrian traffic around him oblivious to his efforts.

The dog and I dawdled back down Bolton on our way home. At 1:45, waves of elderly, Asian women heading south from Gerrard to Nellie’s food bank on Queen, suddenly began passing through us. Some wore knapsacks, while others were pushing carts or holding bags. They moved surprisingly quickly, each one speaking loudly, as if to herself, unconscious to the listening world around her.

One thing about Charlie Sheen that hasn’t been getting an awful lot of attention recently is that he’s a huge baseball fan, having long been a participant in fantasy baseball leagues. Baseball is a passion of his, and for the last three years he’s been penning a fantasy baseball advice column over at the Scoresheet web site. It’s called Super Man Speaks, and this was the latest addition:

Q: Dear Mister Sheen:

You were awesome in the movie Major League! I loved your glasses and your unpredictable manner! So funny! Anyway, I was wondering if you thought if Michael Cuddyer might be a good sleeper pick this year?

Sitting on the Fence

Dear Sitting on the Fence:

Are you an Indian? That sounds like an Indian name to me.

Yeha-Noha, Yeah-Noha, Yeha-Noha!

I once fucked a Cherokee in a garbage can and it was very spiritual.

It would be an awful lot to expect of Cuddyer the same sort of year he gave fantasy owners back in 2009, but you should expect 20 HR’s and some positional flexibility that could be a big benefit come draft day. My Cherokee had positional flexibility and it proved TOTALLY FUCKING useful! And keep in mind the possibility that Cuddyer could become a bench player. Not like me. I’ve never been a bench player. I have one speed, I have one gear. GO!!

I got tiger blood in my veins, man, tiger blood!

Q: Does New York Yankee stalwart Derek Jeter have anything left? He’s turning 37 this year and his numbers seem to be slipping. I’m starting to think he’s no longer an elite shortstop.

Losing Faith

Dear Losing Faith:

Jeter’s numbers have fallen across the board, and his defense is so shoddy that he might eventually lose playing time. However, the Yankees signed him for three more years, so they seem committed to him, unlike the cowardly fuck drips at CBS who cancelled my awesome juggernaut Two And A Half Men.

And 37 is young, man! I’m 45 and I’m a total bitchin’ rock star from Mars! I win here, I win there. I never felt or looked better!

And keep in mind that Jeter is a dog. He’s banged Mariah Carey, Vanessa Minillo, Miss Universe, Jessica Biel, Minka Kelly and hundreds of others, so he’s still got a lot in the tank. Just like me. My brain fires in ways that might not be from this particular terrestrial realm. I’ve had sex with 40, 000 women. I’m not fair game. I’m not a soft target. It’s over. There’s a new sheriff in town. And he has an army of assassins.

However, Jeter is no more than a mid-round pick now. If you pick him earlier, your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body.

Follow me at Twitter @charliesheen, bitches!!

This is a fake script that Ricky Gervais wrote for Anne Hathaway and James Franco for their Oscar performance last night. It was originally posted on Gervais’ Blog:

http://www.rickygervais.com/thissideofthetruth.php

V.O.
Ladies and Gentlemen.
Please welcome your hosts for this evening...
James Franco and Anne Hathaway

(Music and applause)
(James and Anne walk out looking absolutely perfect)

JF
Hello and welcome to The 83rd Academy Awards,
Live from Los Angeles.

AH
That's foreign for City of Angels.
And this room is certainly filled will those angels.

(Applause)

JF
Thank you. I'm James Franco.

AH
...and I'm Anne Hathaway.

JF
You probably know me from 127 Hours where I play a man trapped in an enclosed space who decides he would rather cut his own arm off than stay where he was. Now that sounds "way out" but wait till half way through this fucking ceremony and you'll start to identify with him.

AH
And I'm the new Catwoman. The first white woman to play that role since Michelle Pfeiffer. I want it to be an inspiration to all white people everywhere. Your dreams can come true in Hollywood too.

JF
It's a daunting task hosting The Oscars but we're not alone. Presenting awards tonight will be a string of Hollywood legends and some other actors who have a film out in March or April.

JF
Usually they hire comedians to host The Oscars, but tonight, instead, you get us!

AH
No comedians tonight. And do you know why? Because comics are ugly.

JF
Especially that rude obnoxious one who played the Steve Carell part in the English remake of The Office.

AH
But you can all relax because Ricky Gervais is in London...

(Nervous laughter)

He's doing some charity work.
Yeah, he's visiting orphans with cancer.
He's telling them what bald little losers they are...

JF
Yeah, cos he's rude right?

(Applause)

Thank you.
No rudeness tonight.
It's going to be a night of the most privileged people in the world being told how brilliant they are and thanking God for loving them more than ugly poor foreigners.

(Applause)

That's not to say that we don't care. No, apart from all the great movies we made this year we continued our life-saving philanthropy. Mega stars like Angelina Jolie, George Clooney and Ben Stiller brought light to third world poverty and famine and shocked the world with visions of children so hungry they'd been living off dead beetles all their lives.

AH
Yeah and Yoko Ono said. "What's wrong with that?"

(Laughter)

JF
Oh Anne you are naughty. In a respectful, wholesome way.

(Nodding and smiling)

That Ricky Gervais should do more for charity.

(Murmurs of agreement)

Ricky Gervais is now worth $80,000,000. The obnoxious Brit confirmed the figure, adding,"Yes and my dentist hasn't seen a penny."

AH
Yeah, why doesn't he get his teeth straightened and bleached like everyone else in Hollywood?

JF
It's a good question Anne. For the same reason he doesn't have botox or suck up to important producers - there's something wrong with him.

AH
There must be. Why isn't the stocky, fangy, little slob more like us, right?

JF
That ugly dude needs to get a Hollywood makeover, big time.

AH
Quite. And even though most of the actresses here have eating disorders, that's better than being fat right?

JF
You bet it is gorgeous.

AH
You are so handsome.

JF
Exactly.
You know Ricky Gervais used to be bulimic.

AH
Really?

JF
Yes. He'd often gorge himself for hours with cheese and cakes.

AH
And then vomit right?

JF
No he left that bit out...

(Mild laughter)

AH
That's because he couldn't get his fat fucking fingers in his stupid mouth.

(Big laugh)

JF
Anyway let's get this show on the road.
There were some great kids' movies this year.
I took a five year old to see Toy Story 3 last week.

AH
Did you enjoy it?

JF
No it was ruined for me because the little brat was screaming and crying all the way through the film saying, "Who are you?" "You're not my daddy." "Take me back to the park where you grabbed me..."

(Laughter)

AH
Oh James, you are a card. And your slightly risky jokes are not threatening because you're one of us. And you are so handsome.

JF
Absolutely.
So let's get this show on the road.
Our first presenter is a Hollywood legend whose boots Ricky Gervais would not be fit to kiss...
The wonderful...
Mel Gibson...

(Standing ovation)

I received this message in my email this morning:

***********************

Hello my new friend!

I want to continue our dialogue!
I hope you remember me.

My name is Yulia! I really hope you write me very soon. I'm looking for a long and serious relationship. I want to find love and understanding. And maybe find my destiny. I do not play games. I want to be strong and long-term relationship. But for me it is important to have love and trust! I'm looking for a good and loyal man! I want to give him my warm and caring! But the most important thing that he loved me and could give me love!
If you understand me and trust me, you can write to me. I'll wait for your letter with great impatience.
And I'll tell you with great pleasure! I do not want to spend time in the blank! I want to have a serious
relationship so I expect you to serious, too!

I'll wait for your answer!

Yulia

PS: I work in bakery. That is me second from left in picture. Gordana beside me, she made an unpleasant smell which is why I am not smiling.

Dear Yulia:

I have to say-- as I get an awful lot of fan mail-- I have a hard time remembering everybody who writes, so I’m afraid I don’t remember our dialogue, although sometimes I do go on Chat Roulette when I’m drunk, but usually I’m wearing a rhino mask and don’t even remember my email address, so it’s pretty hard to imagine me giving it out so you could understand! Anyway, I’m happily engaged to a beautiful woman, so I’m off the market, but I do want thank you for taking the time to try to bring some of the Murray magic into your life.

It is sad when we find ourselves living in the blank, which can happen to all of us, of course. But Yulia, I’m sure you’ll find your destiny, whatever it may be! You sound very strong and forceful, and you really look like you know how to handle a knife! It’s possible that this might even intimidate some men. All the same, I think I might be able to help. It’s what I like to do, Yulia, I like to help. My therapist says I’m an “interferer and enabler” but that’s just psychiatric code for “light generator.”

My buddy, “Mother Trucker,” (I do not know his real name as the agency does not permit it) is a very, very strong man (He can bench press a large volume of cement) who has gone through an awful lot in his life and is now ready to emerge on the other side! A recent convert to the Christian faith, he has proven himself loyal as he has written me every week from prison (where he has been serving time on a trumped up vehicular manslaughter and DUI charge) and will be getting out in March. I will be happy to set-up a correspondence so that you two may get to know one another!

Your friend,

Michael Murray, the light generator

PS: This is a picture of Mother Trucker

As everybody now knows, one-time popular actress Jennifer Aniston has decided to scale back and simplify her life. The hinge upon which this transformation is going to swing is that she’s going to sell her Beverly Hills home for $42 million (a million for each year of her life!) and buy a “little spot” in New York for $15 million.

I am very impressed by this and have decided to write Jennifer to express my admiration.

Dear Jennifer:

It’s me, Michael Murray.

Why haven’t you responded to any of my correspondence? Over the years I’ve sent you 53 letters, 7 gifts (4 handmade, not including the tooth) and 12 postcards, yet you haven’t responded to a single one.

My guess is that they probably got lost somewhere in your 10,000 square foot home, and so I’m very happy to hear that you’re going to “de-clutter” your life and live in a simpler, more attentive way.

I’ve also been doing something similar. (See, as letter number 12,14,35 and 51 stated, we have an awful lot in common!) I’ve started to simplify my life by wearing only laceless footwear.

Last week while doing up the laces to my boots-- so I could take the dog for a walk in a blizzard-- I realized just how much of my life I had lost to lacing. It was a real epiphany. By my calculation, over the course of my life, I‘ve lost well over three years to lacing and de-lacing.

I could have been swimming with dolphins during that time, learning to play chess, experimenting with saucy, new haircuts or destroying my enemies. It really makes you stop and think, doesn’t it?

Anyway, as you know, Rachelle and I live in Toronto and are thinking about buying a house. I have to tell you, we’re a little overwhelmed by the whole process and could use some advice. You, having bought your mansion for a $13.5 million back in 2006-- and then having renovated in a “Bali-theme” for two years-- are now selling it for $42 million. That is fucking awesome, Jen, and we could really use some of your expert advice.

This is a picture of the property that Rachelle and I are thinking of trying to buy.

It’s in an emerging and trendy area just outside of Toronto called Little Congo, and is conveniently located near the airport. It’s listed at $399, 000 but our real estate agent thinks that it’s been priced artificially low as to set-off a bidding war. She expects multiple bids on Monday, the only day they’re accepting offers. What do you think we should bid?

Thanking you in advance, you fan and friend in simplification,

Michael Murray

PS: My therapist thinks that when you say you want to lead a "simpler" life, what you're really doing is just leading a "singler" life. Is this true, are you lonely?

Wind power turbines loom alien and mysterious over the valleys of West Pennsylvania. Slowly rotating, like crosses set into motion, they hang over the coal mines as if silent witnesses to the lives unfolding below.

Driving through, the state unfolds beautiful, rolling and strange.

The Machine Gun Preacher lives here, as do Mennonites, Mountain Men and conspiracy theorists that think the Super Bowl was fixed because the Pittsburgh Steelers lost. Self-reliant and independent, these people-- many who trace their roots back to the Civil War-- have been reared to think for themselves. Vigilant, perhaps even paranoid, they bury weapons and whiskey in the hills around them, waiting for the moment when they’re called to arms.

Improbable juxtapositions abound. Just past the billboard that features Jesus imploring motorists to see unborn children as future 9/11 heroes, is a dour and joyless looking sex store—built like a bunker-- surrounded by four or five trailers of dubious intent.

At The Alley, a local bar in Somerset County, people of all stripes drive 30 minutes to buy a pitcher of Yuengling Beer for six dollars. At the entrance sit two young women at a table. They’re collecting the five-dollar cover charge that allows us to hear the three-piece band playing classics from the 80’s. Dead-eyed, unsmiling and wholly devoted to their text messaging, they both smoke Marlboro lights and drink Mountain Dew. The one on the left, the pretty one, I am told, is joining the military in the fall.

A man at the bar with a big, bushy grey beard and a farm machinery ball cap sits in front of his beer as if called from central casting. He beckons to Rachelle, calling her over by curling and uncurling the stump of a finger that remains from an accident on the dairy farm where he was raised. It was there where he lost his mother to a rutting bull driven mad by her menses.

A mining engineer who looked like an astronaut tells us this-- as a kind of apology for the creepy vignette-- adding that growing up as a boy, he would lose at least one of his fellow students to a farming accident each and every year.

In retail stores I chatted with cheerful women who without prompting, told me that they’ve never left Somerset County, and were glad of it. They were proud and sturdy, but each one had just a slight trace of melancholy in her voice as she spoke, imagining the cities and towns stretched across the globe.

For two weeks after United 93 crashed in the fields of nearby Shanksville on September 11th, residents saw apparitions, lost, wandering the still roads the curved through the state.

It might be psychological, but whenever I cross the border from Canada into the United States, I’m immediately aware that I’ve entered into a different culture. It might be the looming billboards for lawyers, but people, and even the space around them, seem vividly different.

The Denny’s in Pennsylvania had both N’s burned out of its’ name. The patrons seemed older, larger and friendlier there, and it was next to impossible to find anything on the menu that suggested vegetables. The T-bone steak I ordered arrived quickly-- it’s method of cooking and the subsequent colour achieved, a mystery.

It didn’t taste like food, exactly, but close.

As we left, our waitress who looked like she’d lived a hard 46 years in this life, smoked just outside the entrance. She interrupted the conversation she was having with another server to address me, “Thanks sweetheart, y’all have a good night now!” And then without missing a beat, she picked up the thread of her existing chat, “ And I don’t know why in the hell he’s shrieking at me, I mean, it’s not even my freakin’ kid, it’s Ruthie’s!” And then she shook her head, exasperated and disappointed, before flicking her cigarette butt into the parking lot.

We drove for nearly eight hours into the night, ever twisting and turning through the dark hills and valley of West Pennsylvania, as if to move further away from the world. We picked-up Christian radio stations, kept a lookout for deer, and took comfort in the transport trucks that were our sole companions.

An acquaintance of mine is kind of like Steve Zissou.

He recently sent this text message to a friend of mine:

“On expedition to interior Papua New Guinea: 10 mile death march paid off when we were first tourists ever to arrive in village not on the map. We were treated as VIP’s, asked to give speeches and presented with gifts. Sing sing to dedicate new spirit house lasted all night. National Geographic on steroids. Another horror trek out. Now on upper Sepik. No cell signal. Few crocs. Natives kill everything.”

Curious, I wrote this man to ask what he said to the villagers and this was his response:

“I took the electric megaphone, pressed what I thought was the on button and the batteries immediately fell out. No one laughed or seemed to understand what had happened. The guy next to me fixed it. Then someone gave him a second smaller megaphone so he could translate what I said into Pigin. I said, pausing after each line for translation:

I am deeply honored to come with my wife half way around the globe to be here at the dedication of this very important building. (The spirit house).

The most important thing that you can do in all the world is to save your culture. (Then with the fist up) Save Your Culture!

There was some applause, and it was done.”

As I am generous with my brilliance and underemployed, I have decided to offer my speech writing services to this man so that whenever he meets startled villagers whom have never seen Westerners, he may have my stirring and beautiful words to impart.

This is the boilerplate speech that I have written for him to deliver to each assembly of villagers he encounters on his travels.

“ Dear friends I have glad news. (make hand gestures here to indicate that my audience is near to my heart) I come from the future where we share quickly-made cuisine from all over the world! (Throw hands up in celebration) The Italians in particular, make delicious food.

Know that the future is your friend, and we do not come to destroy you, but only to help you manage your resources. We have bombs in the future that can kill many, many elephants at once! (Wave hand in flat motion that suggests elimination) In the future we mean business! But we are your friends. (smile and nod head in reassuring way)

In conclusion I would like to say, I’m a cowboy and on a steel horse I ride. I’m wanted dead or alive, dead or alive. I play for keeps, ‘cause I’m not coming back. I’ve been everywhere and I’m standing tall (hand gesture to indicate height). I’ve seen a million faces and I’m rocking on. I’m a cowboy and on a steel horse I ride.

Thank you and good-night!

Long live the _______ people!”

On Saturday Rachelle and I took our dog to the Bathurst-Dupont Animal Hospital to get her shots. Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund, couldn’t have been happier to be on an outing. Tail wagging, she bulled up the street as if she was off to open all the Christmas presents in the world.

But no, this was not the case.

No matter, upon entry into the place Heidi was still optimistic and curious. I always imagine a deeply penetrating and unshakeable fear will envelope her as she senses the illness, uncertainty and anxiety of all the pets and owners in the place, but nope-- she just sets about her vigorous explorations of the interior.

The waiting area, as sparsely attired as a bus shelter, speaks to a place that seeks to keep overhead to a minimum. Other than us, there were four other people waiting to see the vet, each one a single woman and her cat.

It was sweet, this, and each woman was murmuring softly, tenderly into the little carrying case that sat on their lap, “it’s going to be alright, Lucy, you’re going to be just fine. You’re such as sweet cat.”

It’s a nervous habit of mine whenever I’m around a doctor or a vet to make small talk imaging that in some way this will diminish whatever gravity is attendant to the visit. As we held Heidi and she stood on the cold metal of the examining table as the vet gently examined her, I looked around the room and saw a variety of simple framed photographs of animals on the walls.

A Giraffe.

A Great Dane

A Spider Monkey

A Horse

A Lion

Heidi--sad-eyed and trembling-- seemed to be in the process of shedding her entire coat onto the examining room table, her claws now useless on the alien surface they scrabbled against.

The vet was an East Indian man with a calm and kind manner, and as he filled up a syringe I thought to ask him what his favourite animal was. He looked surprised, as if it was the first time anybody had ever asked him that, and then paused for a moment before answering, “I will have to think on that.”

He proceeded with giving our dog her shots, and when it was over and we were heading out the door he looked over at me, “You know, it would have to be the oxen. We used to have them when I was growing up in India and let me tell you, when you know one another from birth, they are like your brothers. So very sweet and loyal, they follow you everywhere, your very best friend.”

And he smiled at the memory.

“ The ox I was closest to was named Katu, “it means star.” He concluded, “ Your dog is very healthy, you all stay well! Good-bye now!”

Dreams I’ve had since Rachelle and I have been trying to buy a home in Toronto.

****************************************************

I am standing inside of a house that we really want to buy and then suddenly somebody comes up behind me and hits me in the head with a brick. There is blood everywhere and then money begins to fall from a hole in the ceiling that I hadn’t noticed before.

I am swimming in the ocean. It’s beautiful and I’m happy and then a Giant Squid wraps his tentacles around me and starts pulling me down into the deep, cold waters. I’m yelling for help, trying to get Rachelle’s attention, but she’s up on the deck of our boat, focused on a variety of paint chips she’s trying to choose from and unable to hear me.

Our real estate agent is bleeding on the street. Some roofing from one of the crumbling homes she has shown us has fallen upon her. She is only semi-conscious, her lips twitching just a little bit. I look over at Rachelle, and she nods back at me, and then we both start to kick her until we’ve put her out of her misery.

Rachelle and I are in our new dream home and friends are dropping by with compliments and beautiful bottles of wine. And then it’s the end of the world. God has decided. We all kneel down, hold hands and pray.

I am at a party and Natalie Portman approaches me.

“You’ve been working out,” she says.

I shrug, “ I lead an active lifestyle, I guess.”

“Do you like my perfume?” she asks.

“It smells like girl cookie dough,” I reply.

“I want you to live in my house. I want you to be my house.”

And then my cell phone rings. It’s Rachelle telling me that she’s just had a very informative and interesting conversation with our mortgage broker.

Rachelle and I are very excited, we’ve just made a bid on our dream home and think we have a real chance of getting it, as the offer was 300% over asking. We’re talking excitedly to our friends who casually say, “Oh, you mean the house in The Junction? Well, that’s the funniest thing, we bid 400% over asking!”

And then I can’t stop vomiting and all my teeth start to fall out.

Rachelle and I are looking at houses. It is our 27th of the day. I am in the basement of one house and it just keeps going on from one shitty room to the next. I can’t find my way out and I begin to scream for Rachelle, but all I hear is the thunder of the nearby train rolling down the tracks.

I am throwing handfuls of cash into the wind. All of my friends and family are coming up to me, begging me to stop, but I can’t.

Our landlord, who once described renting to Rachelle and I as the biggest mistake in his life, is interested in keeping his maintenance expenses to a minimum. He fobs this off as loyalty, as the building we live in, a 125 year- old hotel converted into apartments, has been in his family for over 50 years. What this means is that the repairmen he employees-- when he feels obliged to do so—are either the people whom his father employed to work on the building back in the day or their relations.

For instance, the buzzer didn’t work for the first year that we lived in our apartment. Our landlord refused to replace it, but could find nobody who knew how to fix it, as it was World War II era. Eventually, an ancient Italian man who spoke no English appeared, as if having mastered time travel. Sighing a lot and pointing emphatically at various things, he spoke with his hands and eyes before fixing the buzzer and receding into time, his life a mystery.

At any rate, our landlord’s go-to guy for any trouble we have in our apartment has become Ron, a neighbour who has lived his entire life in the same home just off of Queen East. Thin and bow-legged like a cowboy, Ron is 75 and has a shock of pure white hair.

He loves to talk, frequently bitching about our landlord, “Ah David, he’s an asshole, not like the old man at all. Now let me tell you, he took care of his tenants, this guy couldn’t care less, just as cheap as they come.” Ron shakes his head, considering the world falling apart around him, and then heads up to the roof to try to stop the leaking in our back room.

A few days later we bump into him on the street. Our dog loves him and always goes crazy when she sees him. Ron laughs, winking at Rachelle, “always had a way with the ladies.” The truth is that he has a crush on Rachelle and is unable to take his eyes of her, staring up at her like he’s just seen all the miracles possible in the world. He pays little attention to me, and speaking directly to her explains, sort of, why it’s impossible to fix our persistent leak.

“I just can’t find the source! I tell you, water’s worse than fire. A fire you can find and put out, but water it’s hard to find, and when you do, you can’t put it out! Water, it’s just there, nothing you can do about it.”

I decided to chip in, “ You’re right! I mean, God didn’t smite the earth with a flood of fire, he used water!”

“Fucken’ right,” Ron said, nodding wisely, “ God knew what he was doing.” And never once while he was speaking did he take his eyes off of Rachelle.

Today, Toronto is mild, soft and quiet.

Heavy snowflakes drift from the sky as directionless as soap bubbles. A thick coat of white blankets the ground and for a minute, more than a minute, really, you feel that all missteps and obligations have been erased. The snow deadening the sounds of the city, you feel time and space and that slowly now, the world is about to start again.

It’s all just so clean and perfect.

I took Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund, out to play fetch in Jimmy Simpson Park. There is nothing she loves more in this world. She is so alive and perfect in her body. Her tail beating like a propellor, she jumps through the snow like a mountain goat, glowing in her little dog body. Overcome with her own radiance, she runs laps around the fenced in tennis courts, yipping, barking her happy psalm of life.

This makes me think of a line of poetry by Christian Wiman:

“ A ridiculous red-jacketed poodle leaps twisting biting snowflakes like miracle toys.”

And just outside of the fence where Heidi and I play, an old dog sits watching. This is Casey, a Golden Labrador. Now deaf and plagued with arthritis, he often comes to the park when his master plays on the outdoor hockey rink. A sweet dog, he just sits there waiting, his tail wagging ever so slightly as he watches Heidi bounding through the snow, as if his body remembers such days, too.

A friend of ours has moved to Buenos Aries for the winter to take language training. Alone and feeling slightly discouraged-- having discovered that the apartment she rented was located on the train tracks and that her husband wouldn’t be able to join her for another month-- she was happy to speak with us, to feel connected to home. We told her about the snow that was falling and how the city was supposed to have been shut down last week due to a storm, and the warmth of memory filled her voice.

From 6,000 miles away, “Oh, I love snow days. They’re so beautiful, and then when the power goes out, it’s so exciting, and you can’t do anything but curl up under the blankets and watch your favourite, old movies on the laptop until the screen goes black.”

On Friday, a small asteroid imaginatively named “The Bammer” passed about 7,500 miles from planet earth. This is roughly the distance between Toronto and some point in the southernmost reaches of Africa. Now this might seem pretty far away, but when you consider things in the vast reaches of eternity-- in Space Terms-- well, it was actually very, very, very close.

With this in mind, I have decided to live my life in Space Terms.

Allow me to provide some examples:

Rachelle: “ Hey, did you get that job as a columnist at The National Post?”
Me: “Oh, honey, I was just so close!”

Rachelle: “How are things going with your personal trainer, is he happy with the progress you’re making?”
Me: “ Yes! He said that I’m very close to reaching all the goals we set out!”

My sister: “Hey, have you finished that book I leant you on learning to be a better person?’
Me: “ I am very, very close to finishing that book.”

Nick: “ That house you bid on, did you get it?”
Me: “ Oh, we were within a micro-inch, but we just missed out!”

In Space Terms I came very close to becoming the Ottawa Junior High Long Jump champion, and I practically went to the prom with Marie-Therese Vitzthum. In Space Terms, my Science Fiction trilogy, Planet of the Squirrels, is being seriously considered by some of the finest publishing houses in North America.

Whenever I find myself unduly criticized for something I might not have accomplished or quite finished, I now cover my ears and just start yelling, “ Space Terms, Space Terms, Space Terms!!”

My new motto, I’m going to get the phrase tattooed on my forearm.

Only I am going to do it in Latin, so it looks classy.

Tractus Sceptrum.

And maybe fringed with some barbed wire so people know that I’m dangerous.

Because I am.

Dangerous like a rock.

A space rock.

It wasn’t just Snowmaggedon, I also prepared for Y2K.

I bought 400 cans of chickpeas, some Gatorade and a shotgun. (A generator proved too expensive for my budget.)

And so, with the worst winter storm in history threatening Toronto the other day, I made preparations to protect my Rachelle and Heidi pack from the winter cataclysm that loomed. I did this by purchasing three dogs (from the Humane Society) to supplement Heidi-- our Miniature Dachshund-- to serve as sled dogs.

My Team, named The Abominable Snowmilators:

Heidi:

Strengths: Very strong and very stubborn
Weaknesses: Paws get sore and susceptible to cold

Hanzel:

Strengths: Likes spaghetti
Weaknesses: Chases tail

Liberty (named after Egyptian revolution):

Strengths: ----
Weaknesses: Turns out to be a bit of a princess

Bullet:

Strengths: Unflappable (not at all scared of streetcars)
Weaknesses: Old, slow and not bright (possibly deaf)

As I am an idea man and Rachelle and I are trying to buy a house in a market we can’t afford, I thought that I could also use my team of sled dogs to make some money, serving as a kind of urban taxi for people having a hard time making it back and forth to their local bars. Using a padded suitcase with a greased bottom, I did a trial run in the tennis courts at nearby Jimmy Simpson Park.

This experiment didn’t work out as well as I had hoped. It turns out that many of the schools in the Toronto region had closed down in anticipation of the Snowpocalypse. This resulted in a kind of a Lord of the Flies scenario whereupon I was pelted with snow (and ice!) balls from a group of children who had secured the high ground atop a snow mound created by the ice rink’s Zamboni.

Things were made worse when Josh-- the leader of the attack group—pushed his body up against the fenced door that served as the only entry or exit point to the tennis court, trapping my team and I within. Fortunately, I guess, the dogs saw the aggressive volley of snowballs as a kind of anarchic game of fetch and appeared to be having fun, while I used my body to shield them from the onslaught of snowballs.

I fought back as gamely as I could, but I was unable to outmuscle Josh, the big, fucking prick who was blocking my escape.

At any rate, the predicted snowstorm only dusted Toronto, so it turned out that I didn’t need a dog sled team. Fortunately for now the animals seem happy eating the chickpeas I still have in storage, but Rachelle is quite upset about the damage I did to her suitcase and what she calls my “moronictude.”

Postcard from the Train

On the train sits a young woman with an optimistic voice. It rises excitedly when the porter asks her if she’d like anything from the food and beverage cart. No, no, she doesn’t but she thanks the man for asking. She brought a big bag of carrots and a Coke Zero with her-- she’s good. Arrayed in front of her-- with her lines highlighted in pink magic marker-- is the script to Our Town, the play by Thornton Wilder. She’s heading to Toronto on a cold Monday in January, and she keeps looking back, over her shoulder, as if hoping to spot the person who will take the journey with her, their unexpected lives, now together, exploding into light and laughter.

While visiting Ottawa, Rachelle and I went skating on the Rideau Canal on Saturday. Due to a variety of unanticipated events, I fell 16 times in a row. Thankfully, I was very drunk so the pain was minimal, but one of the results of my falls was that I lost the left lens out of my glasses. I didn’t realize that this had actually happened for nearly 12 hours, believing that my blurry vision was caused by drunkenness and a probable concussion.

At any rate, the revelation of my broken glasses led Rachelle and I to the Lenscrafter at the St. Laurent shopping mall on Sunday. While Rachelle ran some other errands and I tried on a variety of frames, (Flirty! Intellectual! Hip! Moronic!) I bumped into Randy Rafter.

Randy and I, you should know, went to junior high together where we became lifelong enemies. It was here where he mercilessly teased me for wearing a red windbreaker that I hoped would give me the cool, masculine vibe of Michael Jackson in his Thriller video.

According to Randy, it did not.

He liked to call me Mur-fag and often punched me in the back of the head.

Randy: “ Can I help you find some glasses, sir?”

Me: “Randy? Randy Rafter?!”

Randy: “Mur-fag?”

Me: “ Yes, yes, it is Mur-fag!”

Randy: “ I’m a fireman, you know, but I’m on disability, so I’m just helping out here for a bit. Showing some leadership.”

Me: “Sound illegal!”

Randy: “ Got hurt saving a brother. It’s was a pretty big deal, got written up in the Ottawa Citizen. The online edition.”

Me: “Cool! Hey, last time I bumped into you a few years ago, you were following the Tragically Hip around on tour. You still doing that?”

Randy: “ 21 years in a row. You can’t beat the Hip. I couldn’t help but notice that you follow me on Twitter.”

Me: “ Yes, I’m always interested in your thoughts on the government, and of course, the Tragically Hip updates you post.”

Randy: “ You’re just one of 364 Mur-fag. 364 people follow TheRafterRockReport.”

Me: “ I’ve been working out with a Kettlebell. Sometimes I carry it up the stairs.”

Randy: “Carrying a Kettlebell up the stairs sound gay. Like something a little girl would do. I carry unconscious and dying people up stairs in clouds of smoke and flames.”

Me: “ And sell glasses.”

Randy: “Michael Jackson is dead, Mur-fag, the Hip are still going strong.”

Me: (Couldn’t think of anything to say)

Randy: “ Asad, will you look after this older, weaker man, he’ll need something in nerd.”

And then Randy faked punching me in the face and walked away.

Chris O’Brien brought Hobo’s to my attention today.

After doing a little bit of research on the Internet, I discovered this:

“Hobos have been traveling the US and riding the rails since the Civil War. The romanticized image of the hobo peaked during the depression of the 1930's, when many took to the rails in a desperate search for work. It must be noted that a hobo differs from a tramp or a bum. Most hobos would agree that a hobo works and wanders, the tramp dreams and wanders and the bum drinks and wanders.”

And here is some of the Hobo lingo in use up to the 1940’s:

Angelina = A young kid
Bone polisher = A mean dog
C, H and D = Indicates that the person was cold, hungry and dry
Chuck a dummy = Pretend to feint
Elevated = Under the influence of drugs or alcohol
Glad Rags = One’s best clothes
Honey dipping = Working in the sewers with a shovel
Jungle Buzzard = A hobo or tramp who preys on his own
Knowledge Bus = A school bus used for shelter
Sky pilot = A preacher or minister
Tokay blanket = Drinking alcohol to stay warm

This is a Hobo Code chart, a series of communicative marks one Hobo would leave for the next:

Behind the school house a hobo code warns that authorities are about.

Anachronistic as they are, newspapers have their place.

In public, people use them as shields, a protection against the vulnerability of solitary moments on buses, in bars or in waiting rooms. At the Toronto East General Hospital, people look nervous, scared even, each person buried deep within their own interior. But still, they shuffle and flip the pages of the newspaper-- for perhaps the first time that week—as if merely passing through another common day, their concerns easy and free, practically accidental:

What did that crazy mayor say?
Oh, the Academy Awards nominations are out!
Things in Russia look grim.
Oh, those Leafs!

Coming out of one of the examination rooms, a woman with a shock of grey hair beneath a baseball cap grabs her daughter by the arm, her relief almost a panic, “Ok, let’s go! We don’t have to go to the lab or nothin’!”

Many people, unable to find care for their children, have to bring them in to their appointments. A six year-old boy, holding a toy truck in one hand, shuffles through the room in his over-sized boots, unaware of what the requisition form in his father’s hand or the look on his face, might mean.

Adult children also accompany their parents, and with alert eyes and clear enunciation they translate the doctor’s words. They nod at one another, placing reassuring hands on one another’s forearms.

é apenas um teste, ele será alright mama.

This multitude of impenetrable languages flowing through the hospital is nothing less than the murmuring of angels.

Softly, in another corner of the waiting room sit an elderly couple. They’re holding hands. Slowly coming to the end of a long and beautiful cycle spent together, they exchange the most tender and heart-breaking looks. Their eyes deep with sadness and gratitude, they wait for the news.

On Sunday, Mark Bourrie posted this as his Facebook Status update:

“It is cold enough in Ottawa today to toss boiling water into the air and see it turn to ice fog and disappear before it hits the ground. Big hit here among the under 12 set.”

I thought this very interesting.

As I have a curious and exciting mind, I tried this theory out from our first floor balcony on Queen Street East in Toronto. Using the still boiling water from my pot of Kraft Dinner, I attempted to throw it out over the street, imaging a striking puff of fog—as if conjured by a master magician—and then the still and mysterious quiet of nothing.

Unbeknownst to me, a pigeon was sitting perched on my railing. When I threw the water, the bird-- perhaps mortified by the freezing temperature-- did not move in time and was completely doused/scalded by my science experiment.

I did not know a pigeon could shriek in such a manner, and the bird, now in mid-fly, suddenly plummeted to Queen Street beneath, where it was fun over by several vehicles and then quickly scavenged by a street people.

Obviously, this accident was very traumatic for me and it took several hours before I felt strong enough to attempt the experiment again.

This time the boiling water I threw off our balcony hit the windshield of a taxicab that was driving along the street. The taxi screeched to a halt, skidding a bit to the left, before the driver, throwing open his door, leapt out onto the street and started screaming at everybody and everything around him.

I was pretty shocked that this had happened and a little bit stunned, and just sort of stood there on the balcony staring, my mouth agape. As if in slow motion, the cab driver looked up and spotted me. Shaking his fist he yelled, “You in the housecoat! You did this to me!! You are a danger, a criminal! You are a fuck!!”

Just as I started to bolt, a streetcar came along and knocked the open door right off his car, which slid perhaps 20 feet along the icy road. The driver, as if divinely stricken, fell to his knees in a state of abject despair. I left the apartment via the backdoor, returning late that night after having seen two movies (Black Swan and 127 Days) and spending a couple of hours in a local bar.

When I got home there was no evidence of the tragedies that had unfolded earlier in the day, but for a soft, mournful cooing that came from our balcony, a sad and lonely testament to the fact that pigeons mate for life.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund

*******************************

Heidi completely forgot.

When Heidi 2 she wrote letter to herself that she was to read when 4 1/2.

Big age for a girl dog, 4 1/2.

Maybe not quite so pretty then.

Should be in full swing of life by 4 1/2, not still starting it. Time for girl-dog to think and take stock of life.

Anyway, this letter I found the other day while hunt mouse in closet.

Dear Old Heidi:

Well, now you 4 1/2.

These are things that pretty 2 year-old you hope for old Heidi.

I hope you killed dumb squirrel in back yard. The grey one with annoying chirp. I hope you kill him dead with blood!!

I hope you killed many cats! Famous for killing cats!! Maybe on cover of prestigious magazine!!

I hope you also killed many, many mice, maybe able to make them slave to do your bidding. Give you their cheese.

Hope you figure out secret to opening door so to go for walks yourself, without stupid four-eyed-two-legged treat giver! He stink! Always bossing Heidi around, twitchy like scared of TV remote! Like it a ghost mystery! I hope you became leader of pack, or at least join much, much better pack. Heidi, if you still stuck in fart pack, I very disappointed. You deserve better!!

Hope you eat meat everyday. Hope that door to cold box, where pack food sits, open when you use mind. Meat, Heidi LOVE meat. Hope you not weird vegetarian dog that does yoga.

Hope you have good career now, maybe guide dog or rescue dog, and not just playing fetch and licking self all time.

Hope no more fleas. HATE fleas.

And Heidi, hope you found love-- maybe with hot Jupiter from park, King of Frisbee catch-- and have full litter of puppies!

Anyway, you all grown-up now, and I hope you happy, but I hope in busy life with busy career, you don't forget the Heidi that used to be. Hope you still stop to roll in mud, dig for worm and chase squirrel even though now fat and ugly and can’t catch squirrel or pigeon or cat or mouse other animal.

Hope you still bark at moon!

And most of all, hope you never have to wear stupid little boots in winter with ugly sweater! Hate those!! Look like an old maid!

Hope you not an old maid.

Love,

Young, pretty Heidi

Old Heidi not feel very good about herself right now.

Need a treat, need somebody to tell her she Good Dog!

This is a list of some of the excuses people gave us for not attending our last party, which was entirely awesome.

And our responses to those excuses.

Jessica Angerson—“ I will just be sooooo jet lagged from my flight in from B.A. that I am sure I will be nothing but a frightful bore amidst all your witty companions! ¡Tenga un gran rato!

Rebuttal: You’re a frightful bore. You think you’re hot but you are not hot. You sounds like a horse when you laugh and that story you always tell about falling off the dock in Greece is unbearably pretentious, as are you.

Fred Balantine: Sorry folks, but I have to run the Iron Man the next day and really need a good night's sleep. I hope you have a rocking time!

Rebuttal: We really don’t care if you show up. You were to be background scenery so that the party looked well attended in the pictures we posted on Facebook. Hope you enjoy finishing 42, 948 in your race.

Marissa and Tony: We’re so sorry, but we have another engagement that night.

Rebuttal: Yes, we understand. No problem. We know how difficult and time consuming it can be to choose the right shade of white to paint that guest room of yours that nobody will ever stay in.

Parvinder Singh: Nothing would please me more than being at your party, but I have to attend a moronic work function.

Rebuttal: You’re a moronic work function.

Alistair and Stephen: It might sound picky and weird to you, but as we’re strict Vegans we find it difficult to be in your home on account of all the taxidermy. We think you’re great, but we simply cannot in good conscience spend time in an environment that we believe to be intrinsically wrong. Please don’t take this the wrong way, we love you!!!!

Rebuttal: Lev. 20:13, "If there is a man who lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death. Their bloodguiltness is upon them"

Beth Aderson: Have another party to hit earlier in the evening, but if everything works out, will swing by after!

Rebuttal: Yes, and if everything works out you will also overcome your fear of overpasses and write that novel about “ a complicated kind of self-discovery” that you’ve been working on ever since you were fired from that advertising firm.

Joseph Daniels: My friends, nothing would give me greater pleasure than your companionship on this night, but I’m afraid that I have to build a prop box for our company’s play!

Rebuttal: Oh! You mean the box you’re building and are going to live in so that you don’t have to go outside and have a conversation with a girl, right? Joseph, I think you mean “closet,” not “box,” but no matter, I’m sure you know exactly what you’re doing as Jesus is your co-pilot.

Bogdan Liepens: I am sorry, but I must paint so to finish my gallery show and I am frightened of the ghosts so that live in your apartment home. So must respectfully say no.

Rebutall : Bogdan, you committed yourself to bringing the pot cookies! You have to attend, or at least make arrangements to have the cookies transferred! This is not Latvia! There is a rule of law here! You make the ghosts angry, and they have learned to take the streetcar! You can never be free of them!

Bridgette and Jordan: We’re so sorry to bail at the last minute, but the weather seems to have taken a turn for the worse so we think we’ll just stay home and watch a movie. We will miss your excellent food, which is always so tasty! Num-Num-Num!!

Rebuttal: Go fuck yourself. You are dead to us.

On Queen East a blind man slowly walks the street.

I see him everyday.

Like a specter, he slowly ticks his way back and forth, his white can sweeping the sidewalk in search of danger. He’s probably about 70 and there’s a consumptive elegance to him. Thin-- like William S. Burroughs-- he wears a suit and tie beneath a London Fog coat. On his pilgrimages he projects the joyless dignity of somebody trying to maintain a past never again to be resurrected, and I’ve always been curious about him.

When I’m out walking the dog I try to speak with him. I know that he can sense our presence-- our scuffling and breathing, our eyes upon him-- but his posture never relaxes into receptivity, and the few times I’ve shouted out “Hello!” he’s ignored me, continuing his slow, indifferent procession.

I asked the man who runs the corner store beneath our apartment about him and found out a series of disconnected fragments:

He was an accountant who had lost his sight to some unknown tragedy 20 years ago.
Always keeps to the north side of the street.
Goes to Starbucks each day.
Still carries with him a briefcase, out of habit rather than necessity.
He used to work on Bay Street.
He will speak of jazz, but only if he hears it, and only to tell you what musicians are playing on the various tracks.
He is alone.

This man refuses assistance from pedestrians and lives in a kind of silence as well as darkness, as if having found a sanctuary in the blindness that’s liberated him from social exchanges.

The Avro, a bar on Queen East, has many of the components of a hipster dive. Made from reclaimed materials, it feels a bit like a basement rec room from another era. Physically, it’s imperfect, almost accidental, and you can feel the rough edges of the chair with your hands and hear the slight warp in the vinyl playing behind the bar. It could be any year, if you close your eyes.

One day I passed by the place and against all intuition saw the blind man sitting alone--the only patron in the establishment-- at the bar drinking a beer, quietly and in darkness, his fingers keeping time to the Miles Davis music traveling through time.

As many of you now know, it turns out that the zodiac signs and astrological forecasts that have guided so many lives over the centuries, has been the product of flawed astronomy. For instance, if you’ve always thought you were a Capricorn, well, it might just be that you were actually a Virgo. This, obviously, explains why so many of our lives are the utter disasters that they are.

From this point forward, all of these previous zodiac signs have been scrapped and new ones have been assigned. The following list will clarify for you what your new zodiacal assignation is and what tattoo and other life changes you may need to undertake.

If you were Aries, the Ram, you are now El Camino, the Car. This means that you are durable, tough and unimpressed by fashion. Plan your life accordingly.

If you were Taurus, the Bull, you are now Muffin, the Kitten. You are gentle and playful in nature and would do well if you pursued a career in string.

If you were Gemini, the Twins, you are now Juno, the Award. You are most likely drawn to Canada and Canadians, and must always watch your tendency to be critical of those whose ambition exceeds you own. You are also polite and unfriendly.

If you were Cancer, the Crab, you are now Fibromyalgia, the Condition. Spirituality is very important to you and you are a loyal (sometimes to a fault!) friend. You are drawn to music and shooting games.

If you were Leo, the Lion, you are now Lexulous, the Word Game. Facebook has purchased the corporate naming rights of this astrological sign and the details of the characteristics of this sign will be slowly unrolled on your Facebook profile.

If you were Virgo, the Virgin, you are now Dolly Parton, the Legend. Like Fibromyalgia, the Condition, you are drawn to music. You are often underestimated and have the ability to charm those around you. Lucky number is 7.

If you were Libra, the Scales, you are now 天秤座, the Mystery. You are inscrutable, an unknown quantity to others and have a keen sense of design. Many 天秤座’s pursue careers in automotive manufacture.

If you were Scorpio, the Scorpion, you are now Newton, the Boy-Centaur. Many people might think you innocent, but inside you are actually very manipulative! Many Newtons are sexually unconventional.

If you were Sagittarius, the Archer, you are now Bigfoot, the Gentle Monster. Often people will mistake you for being anti-social, but really you just need a little bit of time to be alone and regenerate. Food is a passion!

If you were Capricorn the Sea-Goat, you are now Beezlebub, the Serpent. This is bad luck for you, as it is a reviled sign and you will have many enemies.

If you were Aquarius, the Water-Carrier, you are now Hocus-Pocus, the Magician. You are always the life of the party, but sometimes avoid the practical in order to folllow your heart’s true path.

If you were Pisces, the Two Fish, you are now Maksim, the Russian. You are a fighter, Maksim, and are not afraid to show your true colours when others cower. You are unpredictable and that is your beauty.

On Friday I went to Queen West and ended up at a store called Boomer, where I was looking at some suits. Coldplay was on the speakers and two impeccably and unkindly dressed gay men stood at the cash trying to impress the handsome young Asian who worked there.

“ Soujan, I’m sorry I freaked you out with my shoe trees, I have so many of them! But Joseph, wouldn’t you agree that they’re essential, especially for the Italian products?”

Joeseph, who appeared to run the store, certainly agreed.

All suit alterations were referred to Mina, a middle-aged woman who worked upstairs. She had a slightly melancholy, or maybe just a tired-end-of-the-week manner to her and wore a girlish little necklace with her name on it. While she pinned my pants, we talked a bit and I found out that she was from Iran and had been living in Toronto for seven years. She said that she loved the city, but when I asked her where she would live if could be anywhere in the world, she sighed.

“Oh, home, I would like to go back to Iran. We always miss our homes, don’t we?” And then she smiled, her eyes now just a touch softer, a touch sadder.

Next door at Rudsak, one of the employees leaned against a cement pillar that was designed to look industrial. She had a tattoo of some Roman numerals on her wrist, and I asked her if it represented a passage from a favourite literary work. No, it was just her mother’s birthday, she said, as if she thought I would be disappointed with the answer, but I wasn’t, and when I told her I thought that was a lovely thing to have done, she smiled, as if grateful.

On the streetcar home to the east side, I sat in the seat behind a girl with thin, sour lips. Her posture grew rigid and defensive when I took my place and she kept looking back at me, as if to scare me away. Between her lips she clenched a long, unlit cigarette, her thumb worrying the pink lighter she held in her hand-- just itching to get off the car and hit the street.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund.

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Many ask Heidi if she have good Christmas.

Pretty simple answer to question.

No.

BAD Christmas, BAD!!

No fetch for stupid Christmas!

First off, Heidi no ask for much this year. Know that economy tight and birds falling dead from sky, even if stupid birds get what deserve! Not right to fly. Big advantage! Make them hard to hunt and give them superior attitude.

But not matter, Heidi know she lucky dog. Heidi not greedy, Heidi good dog!

Heidi ask for meat and meat bone for Christmas. That all. Maybe hint she like opportunity to kill chicken with her death jaws, too, but not pushy about this. If it happens, it happens, is Heidi philosophy.

Heidi wait for Christmas, tail wagging!

And then just before Christmas Heidi go out with big pack of two-leggers. They going to slide down hill on dead tree boards and Heidi get to chase and bark. Look cute with snow on nose and everybody stop to say, “Oh, Heidi such a pretty dog, so pretty!” Lot of fun! Then Heidi smell something and begin to dig, dig, dig in snow. Find nothing, and then suddenly feel like rat bit paw hard!

Red blood everywhere!

Little two-leggers with blonde hair run screaming from Heidi! Red blood so vivid on white snow on hill! Make Heidi crazy! Chase little two-legged girls, red blood everywhere, girls screaming, two-leggers running in circles, yelling “No, Heidi, No!!”

Heidi not know what going on!

Everybody scared of her, like she bleeding Frankenstein monster, when what she need is love and support!

Then remember nothing.

Wake up and sore paw wrapped in retard glove.

Heidi limp, limp, limp. Everything hurt. No allowed outside.

Heidi feel so tired!

Two-leggers jam blue pill down Heidi’s throat twice a day like trying to kill her.

Shout at Heidi when she tries to lick paw.

Two-leggers yell and complain about vet bill, how much Heidi cost!

Can you believe it?!

And then get nothing for Christmas but bone made from organic carrot and donation made to Haiti relief in Heidi name.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

The Arizona shootings on Saturday brought to me a distressing clarity.

When I was in elementary school, it was a common recess practice for kids to provoke an excitable and vulnerable child into doing something stupid, something nobody else dared to do. It seems evident at this point that Jared Loughner was insane, but it also seems impossible to avoid the straight line of reasoning that suggests his madness was amplified and focused by the politics of his culture.

There is culpability here.

Democracy serves the majority, and for a couple of centuries the majority in America was comprised of white Christians. The interests of this tribe were well represented and served, and now that they’re fading into a demographic minority, they claim the democratic system is broken and the government must be overthrown.

It’s not much more complicated than that.

The most boisterous amongst this tribe-- like The Tea Party-- call for a return to a mythic American past. Rejecting secularism as a perversion of God’s natural laws, they “metaphorically” call their constituents to arms, taking up a Holy War in the name of returning to a past they never knew but imagine glinting in the eyes of the founding fathers.

It’s nakedly theocratic, and it has more in common with Islamist terrorists than it doesn’t. In the parlance, if you replace the word “martyr” with “patriot,” or “hero,” then you have a pretty good idea what’s taking place.

With an utter certainty that the next life is better than this one-- with everybody living in a 6,000 square foot home with a trophy wife and a full head of hair-- the Christian right is apocalyptic in both nature and intent. They are not afraid of dying for they will be called to paradise.

The terror that America must confront is not external-- abstracted on foreign shores and in alien tongues-- but internal. It’s from the people who would manipulate the angry and vulnerable to serve their own means, and in my opinion, this is what happened, however indirectly, to Jared Loughner.

One of the devastating ironies in all of this is that one of the people killed on Saturday was a nine year-old girl who was born on September 11, 2001. Christina Taylor-Green was featured in book called Faces of Hope, Babies Born on 9/11. The collection of photographs and inspirational gloss, appears to be a sentimental and patriotic attempt to see some light in a dark time, and on the entry for Christina’s baby picture (already a symbol for something she did not choose), these words are written:

“I hope you know all the words to the Star Spangled Banner and sing it with your hand over your heart. I hope you jump in rain puddles.”

The little girl was a member of student council at school, was present at the Gifford event because she wanted to learn more about politics, and was the granddaughter of Dallas Green, whom I remember as the truculent manager of the Philadelphia Phillies. She could hardly have been more “American” or more representative of an inspiring future-- perhaps even one the political agitators and revolutionaries would have wanted-- but now her potential is gone, collateral damage to a desperate, even delusional battle that didn’t strike America on 9/11, but rose from it.

As many of you might have heard, I’ve been asked to write an advice column--titled Mr. MIster-- for an award- winning magazine in the New Year. Targeting girl’s aged 8-12, American Girl Magazine and Michael Murray are sure to be a success, one that will hopefully go on for many years.

Dear Mr. Mister:

I got a kitten for Christmas. I named her Bella and she is very pretty, but she’s quiet and hardly ever meows. What should I do to get her to talk to me?

Andrea
Age 8

Dear Andrea:

Bella, such a pretty name, don’t you think?

I once had a girlfriend named Bella and she was very quiet, too. Sometimes it just takes a person-- or a cat-- a little while to get comfortable before they start to open up and really become your friend. I found that my girlfriend (she was black, what colour is your cat?) really responded well to weed. For whatever reason, getting high made her really talkative and easy to get intimate with, so I’d suggest that you get your parents to buy some catnip that you can give to your Bella, and I’m sure you’ll have her purring in your lap in no time!

Dear Mr. Mister:

What’s it like to become a woman?

Rebecca
Age 9

Dear Rebecca:

Well, Rebecca, as I’m a man this will be a very difficult question to answer! You would have been better off asking me how to cheat at poker or find porn in a desert! Anyway, I will do my best.

When you blossom, your body changes and then you begin to like boys and then you marry one. Once this happens you will become fixated on something called “storage solutions” and all you will care about is taking all of your husbands most prized possessions (sports trophies,comic books, photos of ex-girlfriends, etcetera) and putting them out of sight.

It’s a bad trait, Rebecca, and you should fight hard against it. One option would be to like girls instead of boys, because God said this is a choice you have to make around 13. Good luck!

Dear Mr. Mister:

Why are all the birds dying? They fall from the sky dead! I’m scared!

Lucy
Age 9

Dear Lucy:

First of all, there are millions and millions of birds in the world, and this sort of thing has been happening for ages. It’s sad, but birds die.

There are also all sorts of possible scientific explanations, such as lightning strikes, high altitude hailstorms and the consumption of bad sunflower seeds, but science is funny. Everybody knows that this “Aflockalypse” is written into the Book of Revelations and the end times are nigh. Remember that lunar eclipse and the blood red moon? No, well, you might have been asleep, but it was one of the signs that the dark prince is riding his pale horse and we will all soon be dead. However, you shouldn’t let that scare you, as that means The Rapture is upon us, too, and that God will pull the believers up to heaven using his brain. If you are a Christian, and I’m sure you are, and a particularly type of Christian, (it gets kind of complicated) then you will be saved and live for eternity on pillows, but if not, well, you will soon be living in a lake of fire.

In the waiting room at the Doctor’s office I sat beside a large man who wore a baseball cap that said Bite Me on it. His thick red hands were folded on his lap and he stared straight ahead. An elderly woman walked in, smiling and nodding at each one of us. She wanted to know who owned the mobility scooter in the hallway and if they ever worried about it getting stolen. The big man piped up, as if challenged,

“ I don’t care if they steal it, they’re the ones going to jail, not me! And Hell, they’re not gonna’ get far on the thing, anyway!

And then he snorted, as if angry.

The woman nodded politely, and then they were both quiet, having nothing more to speak of.

In the taxi down Parliament we passed a long ling of cabs parked on the side of the street and I asked my driver why there were so many in such an unlikely place.

“They are all Muslim! There’s a mosque there and they stop to pray. They pray six times a day there! Can you imagine that, my friend! Six times they interrupt their day to do that!” And then he shook his head, “In Ethiopia where I come from, my grandmother used to always say that the greatest gift you can give somebody is your time. So why do you leave people six times a day to be with your God? I do not understand this. My wife, she still lives in Ethiopia and if I were with her, I would not leave her for six seconds, let alone six times a day!”

On Queen East the woman working the cash at The Wine Rack seemed a little giddy. Cigarettes smoke clung to her and she spoke quickly. Overly polite and eager to impress, she told me that they were famous for their good service. And then she displayed a big, grin for the nearly handsome management guy-- just out of her league, but not by much-- who stood there watching, his hands in his pockets.

In the fenced off cement grounds surrounding the Stephan Caras fashion house, a sour looking woman in an expensive jacket tried to corral the imperious poodle that she’d just let out for a pee break. Whenever she lunged at him, the bog bounded away, and then looking back at her would bark, firmly in control. The woman’s frustrated voice growing smaller and smaller, her life tighter and tighter.

At the Captain’s Treasures Antique store, the owner told stories of his days piloting an Ice-Breaker.

“The Beluga whales used to rise up and rest at the stern of the ship where the propellers and sun had warmed the water. They would bask there, like at a spa. I always fed them. Whatever we didn’t need I’d just throw over the railing. Corn flakes, over-ripe bananas, last night’s spaghetti. I couldn’t stop myself. ” And then he started to laugh at the memory, “Jesus, they were pretty things.”

On Sunday Rachelle and I went to Canadian Tire to get our skates sharpened and to run a few errands. While paying for our assortment of chocolate bars and various “storage solutions,” I fell into conversation with our cashier, finding out that her favourite hockey player was Toronto Maple Leaf Captain Dion Phaneuf.

She thought he was “hot.”

This pissed me off.

Rachelle was confused, “Why on Earth does it bother you so much that the girl-- a teenaged girl at that-- likes a cute hockey player?”

“The guy has nothing to say, sleeps with vulnerable movie stars and takes cheap penalties. He’s a disgrace. The only reason she likes him is because he looks and acts like a cowboy. She mistakes stupidity for some sort of manly stoicism. It’s tyranny, Rachelle it’s the tyranny of the cowboys.”

Rachelle sighed, “You know, Michael, some women like men who are occasionally quiet and don’t have to tell you what they think all the time. They find it peaceful.” And then she turned the radio way up.

We drove the rest of the way to the rink at Jimmy Simpson Park in silence.

The dressing was full of tiny children in snowsuits, each one accompanied by their parents, most of them speaking with a foreign accent. One little girl-- the one with decals of unicorns and ponies on her pink helmet-- did not want to go skating. She cried and twisted, kicking at her father, who in a British accent admonished her, “Hazel, please do NOT kick at Daddy! You will make Daddy bleed! Daddy does not bleed well!”

This went on for several minutes, and when they finally headed off to the rink Rachelle looked over at me and smiled, “Aw, he reminded me of Colin Firth!”

This was a deliberate provocation on her part. Rachelle is in love with Colin Firth and every year on September 10th (Colin Firth’s birthday), she takes the day off work and watches a Firthathon.

One year she sent him a fucking scarf that she’d knit.

“He looks retarded wearing that helmet,” I said, and then I left and took to the ice, my strides powerful and certain.

Rachelle, with one arm behind her back, skated slow loops along the rink, while I rocketed past her, darting between all the children and incompetent parents clogging up the rink. At one point as I was dominating the rink, I happened to bump into the little girl with the pony decals on her helmet, and as she was a weak skater and had absolutely no character, she fell down and began to cry.

“Just making some space for myself,” I apologized.

Her father, the “Colin Firth” jerk, was all upset and started stammering things like, “Look here, now!” at me in his stupid accent, but as he didn’t know how to skate, he couldn’t catch me.

I skated backwards, taunting him face-to-face, “ You wanna throw? Come on, tough guy!” and then I would zip off laughing whenever he made an awkward lunge at me. However, I guess because Rachelle is still kind of awkward on skates and can’t control her body very well, she slammed into me, which knocked me flying into the boards.

As I was sliding along the ice and toward the boards, I heard the sound of applause, children cheering and saw my inhaler, which had fallen out of my pocket, gliding into the empty net.

“Murray scores another goal!” I thought to myself, and then everything went black.

Whenever I walk by a hospital and happen to see a patient staring out the window of their room, it’s a custom of mine to wave at them. Usually they don’t respond but sometimes they do, and from the street I can see their silhouette, backlit as if from behind a scrim, waving back at me, the IV line swinging beneath their arm.

This always makes me smile.

I like to imagine that I’ve just reminded somebody that they’re still alive and a part of the world, that they’re still connected.

Obviously, and for all sorts of authentic and immovable reasons, not everybody feels connected to the lives they’re leading, especially during the holidays. It’s a cliché, but each year is a mysterious wash of unpredictable events that often lead us far from the course we would have set out for ourselves.

The world we live in is broken. We lose people we love, we incur wounds that change us in unrecoverable ways and even our own life can feel frustratingly impenetrable, even unwanted.

At various points, we’re all going to find ourselves somewhere we never wanted or expected to be, feeling unattached and vulnerable to the external world.

This too shall pass.

Anything can and will happen, we just have to keep our eyes open and find the light wherever it presents itself.

Whether you know it or not, there are people rooting for you.

As the New Year rises, I want to express my gratitude for the truly blessed life that I’m lucky enough to live, and for all those, particularly Rachelle, who help sustain me and make each day so damn rich, interesting and alive.

Thank you all.

And for those of you upon whom I have yet to impose this, I present “Of Love” by Mary Oliver, a beautiful and wise poem to carry into the New Year.

Of Love

I have been in love more times than one,
thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting
whether active or not. Sometimes
it was all but ephemeral, maybe only
an afternoon, but not less real for that.
They stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
or anyway beautiful people to me, of which
there are so many. You, and you, and you,
whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
missed. Love, love, love, it was the
core of my life, from which, of course, comes
the word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned
that some of them were men and some were women
and some—now carry my revelation with you—
were trees. Or places. Or music flying above
the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun
which was the first, and the best, the most
loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into
my eyes, every morning. So I imagine
such love of the world—its fervency, its shining, its
innocence and hunger to give of itself—I imagine
this is how it began.

Thursday afternoon while taking the VIA train back to Toronto from Ottawa, I checked in on my Twitter account and came across a post from a writer that I follow and respect, but have never met:

“I can feel you judging me by my cover—and I don’t care,” her post said.

This message led to a link that showed a photograph of the writer, sitting on a VIA train and holding up a trashy book, the window behind her revealing the same Ottawa to Toronto landscape that I was also passing.

This is the conversation that followed.

@7777 You're on the same train as me, and yes, we have been judging you by the cover of your book--it's all we're talking about up here.

@michaelmurrayca Aghh! Are you in my car?? (I'm not sure what # it is, but it’s the one with the girl reading trashy fantasy.)

@7777 My car contains a hockey stick (Pro 5000) and at least one person that did not take his Emergency Exist instruction seriously.

@7777 There's also a guy in a red sweatshirt with some sort of aboriginal design on it--you know, like you'd see on a stamp or a coaster.

@michaelmurrayca Wait, are you in fancy shmancy first-class Via 1?

@7777 You know it, I've already had 4 screwdrivers! Hammered, tried to start the wave, but it didn't take. (Actually sitting in “sad class” for the poor.)

@michaelmurrayca Also, the passenger sitting directly across the aisle is reading Keith Richards' autobiography.

@7777 I'm reading Amy Sedaris Simple Times: Crafts for poor people, and I'm making a mobile out my VIA coffee cup.

@michaelmurrayca Also, we *had* a crying baby, but it seems to have been silenced.

@7777 “The Baby Has Been Silenced” is the name of my work-in-progress novel. There will be a demon on the cover.

@michaelmurrayca Haha! You’re funny!

@7777 I think I know a bad girl on this train that needs to be spanked!

@michaelmurrayca ??????

@7777 She’s just asking for it, that one.

@7777 By the way, what are you wearing?

@michaelmurrayca WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

@7777 I’m fucking drunk. First class, be-otch!

@michaelmurrayca I’m done with you.

@7777 You misunderstand, there’s a bratty 5 year old here, she needs to be spanked! By her parent, not me!

@7777 I have no idea if you need to be spanked!

@7777 And I just wanted to know what you were wearing so that we could talk about clothes! I got Desert Boots for Christmas!

@7777 I’m not even drunk! I’m eating a lunch my mother packed for me! I’m sweet and innocent, like a baby lamb!

(40 minutes passes)

@7777 Your last book was really good.

(An hour and a half passes)

@7777 Well, I didn’t read it, but I could tell from the cover. You can’t miss if you put a shark on the cover of your book is my opinion.

(40 minutes passes)

@7777 Your last book was really good.

(An hour and a half passes)

@7777 Well, I didn’t read it, but I could tell from the cover. You can’t miss if you put a shark on the cover of your book is my opinion.

Found Postcard

There are band-aids and hair in the garbage can in the washroom at Dexter’s. Fly catching ribbon hangs from the ceiling. Single men in sleeveless undershirts sit at the bar. They stare at the TV and speak in short sentences, dreaming of lottery wins, landlord revenge and the waitress with the blonde hair cinched in a ponytail.

You cannot escape the humidity on this night or the weight of the lives that inhabit this place.

Outside, the weather breaks, a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, rain suddenly pouring. On the sidewalk, a dishwasher in combat fatigues flicks his cigarette away. Looking up, his hands outstretched, he lets the water wash over him, transforming him into a music video, a scene from his favorite movie.

He is reborn.

Underneath the awning girls in tube tops giggle, while their guys-- all with sunglasses perched on top of their heads-- watch them giggle, wondering if they can get away with carrying them out into the cooling torrents of weather, their girls smiling and kicking, becoming transparent and slick with possibility.

I'm sick of watching.

Jonathan

As everybody knows, I get tons of fan mail.

It can be a little bit overwhelming at this time of year, but all the same, as I am a hero, I get to every last piece of mail.

Today the letter comes from Kellie Bobellie.

Michael:

I'm completely obsessed with NASA right now. No idea why.

KB

Dear Kellie:

Let me first say that I hope you had a very Merry Christmas and are looking forward to a stellar New Year full of all sorts of unexpected delights. You should also know that Rachelle and I very much appreciated the fur coat you made for our Miniature Dachshund, Heidi. It was a very imaginative use of squirrel pelts and she looks very posh at the parks, as well as serving as a particularly gruesome cautionary tale for all squirrels.

Since NASA was invented by Mark Zuckerberg 25 years ago, they’ve been responsible for an incredible array of achievements and are worthy of our respect and admiration. I mean, they know how to fly to space, which is way better than knowing how to dunk a basketball or make an omelet, right? Let’s face it, NASA is pretty cool. They were also responsible for saving the Chilean babies that were trapped in that mine, helped track Santa using their Doppler Radar, and finished sixth in the Olympics, beating Canada yet again.

Also, the haircuts of the astronauts-- both male and female-- suggest a genderless future, that many lonely, outsider types find very appealing.

In short, I’m saying that there are all sorts of excellent reasons--especially for somebody like you who hates her life and wants to escape to distant planet Bobellia-- to become obsessed with NASA.

By the way, I’ve seen the pictures of the NASA space station you’ve been building on your front lawn, and I have to say it’s a very imaginative example of the possibilities of recycling. (I like the way you made life-sized (!) space suits out of orange rinds.) You’re very forward thinking, Kellie, and we’re all looking forward to your starring turn on TLC’s new show My Strange Addiction.

Don’t you worry, your mental health is often in the stable range, and all things considered, you’re doing just great!

Thanks for writing!

Michael Murray

PS: Your episode airs right after the one about the girl who can’t stop eating chalk, right?

If forced to distill Christmas, I would choose to think of returning home from university in Montreal to my family in Ottawa for the holidays.

I was young, 18 or 19, and ridiculously, I felt in full command of my life. Montreal was big and Ottawa was small and the future was an ever-stretching field of unbroken potential-- love and glory the hand that daily reached out to me.

Feeling adult for the first time, I would step back into my parent’s home-- broke and with a massive bag of laundry, mind you-- and the first thing that washed over me was the scent of the Prime Rib of Beef that was being prepared for dinner. Infused with an unconscious sense of safety, protection and placement, I knew that I was home and that I was loved.

At the same time, all of my friends whom I had grown-up with were also returning home from forays into university. We’d gather at The Laff or at a party hosted by a friend’s parents and trade stories of the future we had just begun living, but mostly we just fell back into the comforts of our shared past.

Young, passionate and almost always in love, we were ascendant, practically holy. Our parents remained immortal, invincible and ever-present to provide a soft landing spot should it ever be required.

It was a sweet spot, before we knew one another or ourselves too well, and had nothing but hope, certainty and optimism in the future that awaited us all. It was a shared joy in the future, and unspoken, you sensed it in these gathering like a change in temperature.

It was a kind of magic.

This is what I hope Christmas might conjure for you, a shared joy in the possibilities of the future and the simultaneous transport to home, health and love, to the place—whomever or wherever it may be—that you belong.

Merry Christmas, you wonderfully old building and loan, Merry Christmas!

As I’ve been the President of a UFO Club (FFSC-- Friends of Flying Saucer Club) for almost 14 months, it’s my responsibility to pay close attention to all celestial activity. As most of you know, a full lunar eclipse took place over my “zone of observance” (Toronto) in the early morning hours of December 21st. It was during this sky ballet, that my team believed the aliens would be revealing themselves.

Unfortunately, the three other members of the FFSC were subject to a parental curfew imposed upon them due to High School exams, and were unable to attend the scheduled Watch-On! (A Watch-On! is the term the FFSC uses to describe any period of time when club members get together for intensive sky watching. This usually happens, but not exclusively, after one of us has seen an alien-themed movie or viewed one of those YouTube videos about spaceships invading Mexico.)

This curfew was disappointing to all of us, but particularly Parvinder, the club treasurer, who was very much looking forward to drinking some of the beer I had bought for the team, and told me, “ I can do the Math in my sleep! I don’t need to study for that bitch-ass exam! My parents are dongs!”

I have to admit to being a little bit anxious about possibly meeting the aliens alone, and so I had a few drinks before hand, which seemed to infuse me with an incredible warmth and confidence. It was like the aliens were sending me thought messages in my brain, letting me know that everything was going to be just fine when they landed.

When I got to Jimmy Simpson Park on Queen East at 1:30 in the morning, feeling friendly, I waved and approached the first cluster of people I saw, a couple of guys and two dogs standing around a burning trashcan.

I was greeted by a man in jean jacket with an illustration of an Impala on it, “Hey, fellow traveler! I’m Atari, and this is my dog hang-over!” I introduced myself to him and his group, explaining my position as President of the FFSC and received some high-fives. After sharing some introductory drinks and pills, we began to speak of the voices in our heads and what we thought the aliens were trying to say through them.

A man who went by the name of 7-Up told us that Santa-- although he wasn’t real-- was an alien. This gave us all pause, and so we stood there thinking about that, looking up at the lunar eclipse, waiting for either the aliens or God to break through the sky.

And then 7-Up kind of freaked-out, shouting, “The moon is like a little girl running from a bigger girl! We’re all little girls running from bigger girls! The prophecy has come true!!” And then he ran away, his dog chasing after him, and then the rest of us scattered, too, each one frightened of what might happen next.

On Sunday we went down to Yorkville to do a little bit of Christmas shopping and bathe in the luxury that all the stores promised.

Madame Butterfly played boldly out into the day from an Italian restaurant and a silver Porsche-- the engine revving conspicuously—circled the cramped streets with a predatory eye. Every second person we saw proudly displayed a Canada Goose Down Parka. The jackets were so crisp and varied in colour that the people wearing them appeared a tumble of autumn against the grey day.

Expensively turned-out dogs led mean looking women down the streets. In high heels, with Gucci or Coach bags slung over their shoulders, they strutted joylessly down the street like the trophies they know themselves to be.

Old men wore coats that Fashionista wives or daughters had made them buy. They, too, marched gamely down the street, their crazy hair and downtown sneakers making them feel young, their money relevant. Beautifully dressed little girls with terrible manners eluded mothers made thin by crazy diets that only excessive time and money can afford.

In Holt Renfrew, a solitary young woman tried on sunglasses in front of the mirror. Striking poses and tossing her hair, she spoke quickly into her phone, as if much more important than other 17 year-old girls. With the price tag dangling by the right lens of the frames, she imagined how the rest of the world saw her.

A procession of four beautiful Asian women, all dressed in the most elegant black, walked through the store in a straight line. Each one was looking down, almost shy, concentrating on her Blackberry as if it was a divining rod.

At the perfume counter:

“"No, do not do that. You will bruise the perfume if you rub your wrists together like that.”

“You make me feel like some sort of hillbilly.”

“I did not say that. That is not what I meant, but you must understand how delicate the fragrance is, an entire field of roses were distilled into that one, tiny bottle.”

In a moment of relative quiet, one of the saleswomen smiled at her co-worker, and partially obscured by a rack of clothing allowed her to cup her pregnant belly.

" I know what you're getting for Christmas, a boy! I can just tell!"

A gay man, muscular beneath his tight turtleneck, applied skin cream to the dewy face of a 16 year-old girl. A woman, who was perhaps her aunt, watched, a huge grin animating her face and eyes as she introduced her niece to the wonders of Christmas in the big city.

An older woman with several Holt Renfrew bags in her hands looked over to her husband, and asked, " Now what would you like to do?"

"Go home," he smiled at her, just as warm as a grandfather, “go home.”

December 17, 2010

Dear World Wildlife Fund:

You think you’re so cool but you’re not.

You are so not cool.

Let me tell you why. The other day while fiddling around on the net, one of your stupid quizzes popped up in my mailbox. In spite of the fact that I am a very busy man with dog walking duties and programs I like to watch on television, I took the time out of my schedule to do this quiz.

For you, World Wildlife Fund, for you.

You asked:

“Would you live in the prairie like a wolf? Are you reclusive like a turtle? Sleek like a snake? Answer these 8 fun questions about your personality and interests to discover the one animal that you relate to most. There are over 100 possible species!”

This sounded fun and easy. I was excited to take the test and discover that I was a cool dinosaur, a very intelligent shark, a fleet-footed Bigfoot or maybe a Mongoose leader, something that was, you know, accurate. But it turns out that your test is complete bullshit, just like all those IQ tests back in elementary and high school.

I am about as far away from a Proboscis Monkey as possible.

You simply couldn’t be more wrong.

You say, “You are definitely a unique character, with a very distinct yet soft appearance. You like to sleep in, preferring to kick up your heels in the late afternoon and evening. Then it’s party time, out on the town with your band of mates. “

Soft appearance?

What the Hell does that mean? You haven't even seen a picture of me!

I actually have very dry skin and the angular features of a vintage GI Joe doll, so I hardly think that constitutes a “soft appearance.” And further, everybody knows that I’m a solitary drinker and never, ever “go out on the town with my band of mates.”

And what’s with this “mates” crap? Are you trying to be Australian or something? I hate Australians and have ZERO respect for the Didgeridoo. Mysterious and ancient my ass, it’s the instrument that just doesn’t try.

Didgeridon’t in my books!

Anyway, aside from telling you that you folks are morons who only love animals because people hate you, I wanted to ask for a donation back that I gave to you several years ago. I was in a rush and the girl seemed cute, promising me that if I donated I would save a baby Panda from a brick death or something, and because she was pretty and optimistic looking, I wanted an excuse to talk to her, so I caved in.

Well, I want that money back.

It was about two dollars.

You can put it in my PayPal account.

Michael Murray

PS: Your inner animal would be a dork slug.

The other day I bought four postcards from an antique store on Queen East. Each one of the postcards were sent from New York City, by a man named Carter, to somebody named Matthew at an address in Kingston, Ontario.

There were thousands and thousands of people on Fifth Avenue on Sunday. I was sitting on the steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral watching them all. Life's rich pageant, I thought. A beautiful view with the sun falling just so and all of the world in front of me. I wondered where she was. Surely I would meet her in a throbbing city of eight million people. I sat there waiting for the moment. I tried to pick her out of the crowd, the one who would smile at me with such warmth and beauty, the one cutting from all those waves of people, glowing, an ever-fresh and radiant possibility. And as if by happenstance she would sit beside me, a random epiphany that would seize my life in an explosion of light.

Saturday afternoon I was in Union Square--a dizzy place full of tall buildings and people moving in unexpected directions. It was completely overwhelming and so I took refuge at the W. The W is a boutique hotel with fine modernist furniture imported from Italy and the possibility of celebrities. In the lobby the waitresses wore black and men played chess on boards that looked like they belonged in museums. By the front window there was a young, blonde woman drinking tea. Pretty. She was posed in a certain way. I was reading my newspaper, but I could hear her talking to herself, again and again with different inflections.

When I looked over I noticed that she was reading from a script, rehearsing. And so this continued for some fifteen minutes, her stressing some words and then not others as she practiced her reading. When she got up to leave she passed right in front of me. I caught her eye, "good luck, I have a feeling you're going to do just great," I said, and she collapsed into such a sincere and grateful smile it looked as if her face might just split in two. She said thank you like she had just won the Miss America pageant, and then off she went to conquer the world.

In a park there was a tiny, contained dog run that was covered in wood chips. It was not much bigger than a standard sized living room. Three little dogs happily cavorted. A woman in an official orange Union Square dog run t-shirt presided. I wondered what her life must be like, how much she must love dogs--taking the subway in, thinking Dogs, Dogs, Dogs, Dogs.

Grand Central Station is an absolutely astonishing place—so beautiful and ambitious. I sat at Michael Jordan’s Steak House sipping wine while the bartender worked. He was a handsome black man who spoke with a French accent. You could just tell that he was an actor. Looking up at that famous ceiling, the strum of conversation and movement rising from the soft lights below, I felt as if I was sitting amidst clouds.

As I am an inspiring Blog machine, I am often inundated with unique financial opportunities. The most recent one came via Santaletters.com, in which I was given the chance to write personalized letters from Santa-- including intimate touches that only Santa would know, like the child’s best friend and hometown--to various children whose parents think this a good idea.

Naturally, I accepted the job, and will now provide you with some of the results.

Assignment:

Tim
Age 8
Best friend is his dog Pepper
Hometown is Cleveland, Ohio
Christmas wish list includes fabric from which he likes to make costumes with his mother.

Dear Tim:

I can see where this is heading.

You might not know this yet, but you’re what is known as gay. Not the HO-HO-HO gay, but the sort of gay that means you’re going to get hit in the head with snowballs for years and years to come. Let me tell you, its no wonder you’re your best friend is a dog named Pepper, as you’ve probably been socially ostracized. Tim, if you’re really asking for Paisley fabric for Christmas instead of, say, a shooter game, and this isn’t some sort of joke, you’re going to have to be very strong.

Santa wants you to be strong, Tim.

One of my elves is a little bit different, and although he was teased mercilessly and even mauled by some reindeer, he turned out to be one of the best and most respected delicate toy maker in Santa’s crew!

One piece of advice I would like to give you is that when you enter high school, which will be a very difficult time, you should use your designing skills to make dresses for all the pretty girls and stage fashion shows. This will make you bully-proof, as all the bullies will want access to the girls and will be scared to alienate them by beating you up. They will also want to be in your fashion shows. It’s the way bullies work.

Just some friendly advice from Santa.

Merry Christmas Cleveland!

Santa Claus

Assignment:

Judy
Age 5
Best friend Robin
Benton, Arkansas
Christmas wish list includes an iPhone

Dear Judy:

An iPhone!?

Are you kidding Santa?!

You’re five years-old!

What on earth do you have to say?!

Let me tell you, when Santa was a boy he had to communicate by using a telephone, a telephone with a rotary dial on it! It was attached to a cord, Judy, and screwed into a wall, and so when some moron called to tell you that the Elf union was filing another frivolous grievance, you had to just stand there and listen! You couldn’t march over to the liquor cabinet and pour yourself a whiskey. You couldn’t do anything! The only thing you could do with your phone was talk into it! No pictures! No apps! No nothing!

By the way, Robin, your “best friend,” asked for a colouring book in her letter to Santa. (she also implied you might be a “stink-face.)

Just a colouring book! That’s all she wanted!

I mean, Jesus!

And you live in Arkansas, Judy. Wouldn’t that make you the first person in the state to own an iPhone, let alone the first five year-old!?

I don’t think Santa likes you at all, Judy.

Santa bets you’re a stuck-up, high maintenance brat that’s always entering beauty pageants and doing inappropriately sexy dance routine.

That’s what Santa thinks.

Hell, I think I’m going to skip Arkansas altogether this year.

Way to ruin Christmas for an entire state, Judy.

Santa Claus

Dear Paul McCartney:

I just wanted to write you in heaven to let you know how much all of us here on Earth miss you. It’s hard to believe that it’s been 30 years since you were shot down in cold blood in front of your New York apartment while watering the plants.

I know you sang “imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try,” but now that you’re dead and been in heaven for a while, I was wondering if you’d rewrite those lyrics if you had a choice? Is heaven hard to imagine? Some people I know imagine heaven is a place where everybody has a full head of hair and lives in a 6, 000 square foot house complete with central air, hot tub, new windows and all the trimmings, while others say that heaven is actually on Earth.

Dish, Paul, dish!

I’ve always been interested in your view on hippies. It’s long been my position that you were too cute to be a hippy. (Not homo) I mean, the whole deal behind being a hippy was that “looks don’t matter, man!” But you had the looks in spades! I don’t know, it just seemed like a ploy by ugly people to get free sex, and if I were you, well, it would have bugged me to be forced to disguise my superior looks just so some ugly people could get some, too. That’s socialism in its worst and most pernicious form, I think.

You should know that the world has changed so much since you left us Paul! We now have a black President. Talk about a Revolution! His name is Obama Baraka and he was born in Africa. He wants to take our money and kill the middle class by forcing health care on us! I wish you were around to write a protest song about that!

The James Bond franchise, which seemed bulletproof, and for which you wrote the awesome song Live and Let Die, has gone kind of dry. It’s hard to imagine that such a dynasty, especially one led by the suave Roger Moore, would ever lose its popularity, but it has. I think it’s because of the video games, which are actually pretty cool, now.

And speaking of dynasties, China now dominates girl gymnastics, which as you know, used to be the exclusive domain of Soviets and a few Americans.

In fact, the Soviet Empire has crumbled and has been replaced by a Muslim Empire.

Anyway, nobody is even close to being as cool as The Beatles. U2 tried, but they weren’t even in the same ballpark, and believe it or not, The Rolling Stones are still going, but that’s just kind of creepy, like seeing your grandparents try to have sex.

Paul, I just wanted you to know how much you, your beautiful music and peace-loving ways are missed!

You’re the man!

Michael Murray

The cab driver had a gentle manner, big hands and an easy smile. Leaning back, he asked me about the streetcar tracks that ran down the centre of Queen Street. He was from Ghana, it was his first winter in Toronto, and he was concerned that when the weather got cold the streetcar tracks would be transformed into deadly ice slides that regularly propelled cabs into oncoming streetcars.

“It is not the manner in which I want to meet my maker,” he confessed to me with a smile.

While talking I found out that he was studying to become a preacher at the Faculty of Divinity at Trinity College.

“I believe in the Gospel of Jesus Christ,” he told me without the slightest trace of proselytism.

Conversations in cabs are always framed by economy. Two strangers from unpredictable corners of the world are thrown together for a very brief period of time, and in this transit, stories, often surprisingly intimate and urgent, are exchanged. In this case, we spoke of Christianity.

The driver knew an awful lot more on the subject than I did, of course, but we seemed to be in agreement on many things, except perhaps homosexuality.

I live downtown, in a large, urban centre, and in the culture I inhabit the sexuality of a person is sincerely irrelevant. It’s clear to me that homosexuality is not a choice that a person makes or a psychological deformity caused by trauma, but merely the way the way a person is built—like some have blue eyes and others powerful hands. It’s my opinion that it’s utterly inevitable that the church-- both mainstream and orthodox--is going to have no choice but to accept gay culture as an inalienable part of human culture, and not as something aberrant, and to love it as it loves it’s own.

The driver, listening to me politely, was receptive to what I was saying, but also, in his manner seemed slightly skeptical. Although I know nothing much of Ghana or this man’s background, I imagine it quite different than mine.

I went to high school in Ottawa in the 80’s, and it’s very easy for me to forget just how homophobic that culture (one in which I was fully participatory) was. If you were thought to be gay—which was considered the worst possible thing—you were ostracized and relentlessly taunted. People I know-- men in their 40’s-- are still in the closet, denying an utterly essential component of who they are, because of the shame they were made to feel when they were younger.

Naturally, this sort of abuse has led to all sorts of tragedy, and in the last month or two a couple of well-publicized suicides. Inspired by this, writer and gay activist Dan Savage launched the It Gets Better campaign, in which gay people-- both famous and less celebrated-- tell despairing youth not to take their own lives, assuring them that life does, in fact, get better. The YouTube videos are unmistakably sincere and heartbreaking, and watching them it’s impossible to deny their beauty and humanity.

The bigotry and exclusion that’s defined the mainstream attitude toward gay people is something to be utterly ashamed of, and hopefully-- in terms of acceptance, full legal equality and apology-- the church will find the strength to lead, rather than follow.

On Saturday, Rachelle and I went to Yonge Street to run some errands. Huddled beneath a blanket on the sidewalk were three people. The most confident of them, a man with a big, bushy beard and a scattering of teeth, lit up when he saw Rachelle.

“Hey pretty lady! Look, look, I’m the original panhandler!!”

As he said this, he held out a frying pan upon which a bunch of small change was slopping about.

As Rachelle was digging into her purse to find some change, he added, “ I like you, you’re spicy! You could heat me up any day!” A rusty, whistling laugh came out of his mouth, while his buddy-- so similar in appearance that he could be his brother-- gave him a high five. The third member of their group, an older woman who could have been their mother, stared off at an unknown horizon.

Rachelle gave him some change while I smiled thinly and made my eyes into hate-missiles.

Rachelle and I then went into the Levis store where I bought a couple of pairs of jeans. While paying I found out that the clerk was studying to be a nurse, which made me ask if she was planning on being “ a nice nurse or a mean nurse?”

It was at this point that Rachelle started to give my hand a firm squeeze, as she does whenever I’m about to do something stupid, like invite a pamphleteer over for dinner to discuss their ideas. However, as I am the undisputed Alpha in our relationship, I ignored Rachelle’s tightening grip, even though it grew so painful I had to squeak an, “OW!” and shake my hand free from her kettle bell grip.

I told the girl working the cash all about my recent surgery and the mean and lazy nurses who never fetched my pain medication quickly enough. (Rachelle later said that I made some inappropriate remarks about the ethnicity of the nurses, including imitating the way they spoke, but I don’t remember that.)

At any rate, I ended up showing the clerk my foot-long abdominal scar, which revealed just what a shitty nurse she would make, as she immediately threw-up into the bag she was about to put my jeans in.

I have to admit this didn’t do very much for my self-esteem.

As we hurried out of the store and headed to the car, we bumped into the panhandlers again.

The head beggar gave Rachelle a big, gassy smile, “thanks for the change, pretty lady, I ain’t forgot it!” and then he gave me a sour look, which I shot right back at him.

This set him off.

“You think you’re a big man just because you can buy jeans? You’re not, you know, God’s gonna strike you down!”

He then stood up (he was surprisingly short) and waved his frying pan at me, which caused all of his change to fall down a grate. And then the woman whom I had taken to be the mother of the two beggars, started to sob. I tried to help them find their change, but they pushed me away. At this point, feeling sensitive because I had put on a bunch of weight that necessitated the purchase of the new jeans, made the clerk throw-up and ruined a hobo Christmas, I, too, began to cry.

It was a kind of pitiful scene, I guess, but then Rachelle took us all into Starbucks where she bought us ginger cookies and tea, and after that everybody felt pretty good.

On Thursday afternoon, Heidi—our Miniature Dachshund—and I went to play fetch in the dog park. Everything was fine for the first 10 minutes or so, and then Rex, a bounding Poodle five times the size of Heidi, came along. The dog was well behaved, playing fetch over on his side of the park, but all the same, it seemed to demoralize Heidi, who uncharacteristically decided to stop playing.

I think I know how she must have felt. Alone and focused on your own task, doing something you love, and then somebody else comes along and in vivid contrast, begins to do it much better.

And so Heidi and I went for a stroll though the streets instead.

A man, in his room on the top floor of a Queen East residential home, twirls a cigarette and then blows smoke out of the three-inch crack of the suicide proof window. In his undershirt, he stares down at the street below.

I tied Heidi up outside of Bonjour Brioche to pick up a quiche, and while I was doing this a woman with a stroller that looked like a kite on wheels--only much, much larger-- gave me a look. She shook her head and let an exaggeration of concern wash over her face, “it's too cold to tie her up outside!" she pronounced.

I smiled and told her she would be fine, and then helped the woman through the door with her stroller, where we immediately bumped into two other women, also with similarly sized baby conductors. Wary, protective and proud, so consumed by their own parenting roles that they couldn’t help but project it out into the world around them, they looked at us with something less than generosity.

At the Dark Horse café, a drifting, sweet-faced barista makes a café au lait while carrying on a conversation with a girl sitting at the counter. Lauryn Hill’s song I Used To Love Him is playing and the music is conveying the young man back to a time and place.

“ I love this song,” he says to the girl working on her laptop, “it reminds me just chilling-out with my sister.” He smiled as he said this, a warmth now infusing his eyes.

I asked him where his sister was now. “As of tomorrow, either Florida or Georgia,” he said. “Because of a man,” he added, with just a little bit of an edge, the warmth in his eyes disappearing.

Behind the apartment where Rachelle and I live is an abandoned public school where I take our dog for her daily sessions of "fetch." It's the perfect dog park because it's fenced in, protected from the speeding industry of Queen Street and not very well known.

However, Captain America and his show-off Doberman have been strutting onto the field when Heidi--our Miniature Dachshund-- and I are trying to do our thing.

Captain America has an intentionally rugged two-day growth of beard on his face and walks with a ramrod sense of martial purpose. When I say, “Hi!” and wave my yellow Chuck-It stick at him—while Heidi jumps up and tries to grab the ball out of the catapult claw thing--Captain America wordlessly nods.

I hate him.

I think it’s important for you to know that I’ve developed tendonitis in my elbow from throwing the ball for my dog every day.

That’s how much I love her.

As a result of this painful injury, I now just sort of do short, underhanded tosses, bouncing the ball against the wall of the school for our little dog to chase.

It looks, I guess, kind of girlish.

Captain America will watch this display for a second, and then march deep into the field, twirling his Chuck-It stick like a lightsaber, and then fire the ball, as if hunting prey.

Like a fucking missile, the ball whistles by me exploding thunderously against the wall, immediately to be caught by his joyless robot dog.

And after each launch Captain America holds his follow-through pose—arm forward, leg elevated and back—as if plucked from the top of a Chuck-It trophy.

Amidst this bombardment, I continue to do my little tosses for Heidi, who chases after the ball, clumsily knocking it about with her snout before picking it up and running excitedly to deposit it in some mud hole about 50 yards from where I had been standing.

Captain America continues his assault on perfection.

Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.

As I plod past him to try to find the ball he says, “it’s all about leadership, you know,”

I didn’t really hear him, so I just smiled and nodded.

“You see,” he continued, “you walk like this.”

He made his body into a question mark and dragged his feet along the ground. “And you’re twitchy. You flinch when the shadow of a cloud passes overhead or when a cell phone goes off. You need to stand up straight, show the animal that you’re the pack leader, and then they’ll respect you, like my dog respects me.”

And then he rocketed the ball across the field and into the wall.

I watched as his slave-dog caught it in one fluid leap. The animal then returned the ball to Captain America’s feet and sat there, awaiting further instructions.

My dog was rolling on a worm she’d pulled out of the mud with her teeth.

Captain America looked at me like I now owed him money.

“I have a gun,” I replied, “and I’m high.”

Over the last dozen years or so, Christopher Hitchens became an unlikely kind of hero to me.

On Friday, a debate on whether religion was a force of good in the world, took place between Christopher Hitchens and Tony Blair at Roy Thompson Hall in Toronto. As the 2,800- seat venue was sold out, and tickets were being scalped for $500 a piece, a bunch of us went to the Toronto Reference Library to watch the live broadcast instead.

It was an event that radiated charisma, even history, fueled in part by the sad fact that Christopher Hitchens is dying of cancer.

When the September 11th attacks took place in 2001, I had recently had a stem cell transplant to treat Hodgkin’s Disease. At the time I had never been to New York City and the destruction of the Twin Towers had a really visceral and profound effect on me. Something incredible, never experienced in my life, was gone.

I remembered watching the Three Tenors performing at an outdoor concert on TV, and behind them, across the river, stood the Twin Towers glittering in the sun. And as I was experiencing this I felt a sense of awe, realizing that we, as a species, have come crawling out of caves to create this, and I vowed that when I was well, I would go to New York City and see these monuments to human ambition and capacity.

And then they were gone.

And I was furious at all that was so vividly lost.

Hitchens, whom I hadn’t read too much of leading up to 9/11, was able to bring a moral and intellectual clarity to the primal rage so many of us were feeling after the event. His staggering erudition, eloquence and ability to cut to the pure heart of matters is nothing short of intimidating.

Never backing down from a fight, he always chose a side.

I admired this, recalling all my dark nights of the soul, sick with cancer and adrift in questions of whether the life I might leave had been a good one or not, or potentially worse, whether I had even committed to one.

Hitchens, on the other hand, had lived as a man of action. Speaking brilliantly from behind clouds of cigarette smoke-- the ice in his glass of Scotch rattling as he made a vigorous point-- he fearlessly traveled the world, provoking enemies everywhere he went. People all over the place wanted to kill him. Constructed of whisky and steel, he seemed a victory of will over nature, and then the dreary ash cloud of cancer settled upon him.

It was an immensely sad thing for me to hear.

When Hitchens was introduced at the debate and his cancer mentioned, it seemed as if something had passed through him. Pale and bald, he nervously shuffled his feet, licking his lips and swallowing, as if trying to gather the saliva his chemotherapy had drained, or just not cry. He wasn’t quite himself, either physically or emotionally.

But then he stepped up and performed brilliantly.

Fucking brilliantly.

In moments when he lost himself to the light of his mind, he would reflexively reach back to run his hand through the insouciant mane of hair that was no longer there, and at one point he asked for one more question, as if to extend this life that he had so mastered, just a little bit longer.

Filing out of the library everybody was talking.

“Oh, Hitchens won easily!”

“I thought he’d be in better shape.”

“I was disappointed in Blair’s debate skills!”

Earlier in the night, while waiting in the foyer for my friends before the debate, I had been watching a teen who looked a little bit like a young Bob Dylan. He was reading an important looking book. Like me, he was obviously waiting for somebody, and when the girl finally arrived they hugged awkwardly, as if neither one of them had a clue how their date was going to turn out, or even who they might turn out to be in this world.

And as the crowd flooded out into the city after the debate, I spotted them, now holding hands, and for some reason this almost made me cry.

As I get an awesome and overwhelming amount of fan mail, I find it very difficult to respond to each letter. However this week, I decided to respond to one, just to stay in touch with my admirers.

The email came from Luis Ramirez Gallego.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you and your loved ones
I was looking at your photos and you are so hot
I want to meet you or talk to you some more
Message me on Messengarchat louisram.gallegoalltheway69@yahoo.com is my name there
Ill send you some pictures of myself on there
Ill be online all day as im bored
Thanks talk soon hun”

Dear Luis:

I really want to thank you for taking the time to write me and notice that I’m hot. Sometimes my hotness-- the burning radiance of which does not always translate into pictures-- can be elusive. But it’s there. It’s there in fucking spades, as you, a man of unusual perception and great taste, noticed.

But Luis, I don’t want you to become overwhelmed by the physical chemistry you feel toward me, and think that before we start to chat, we should see if we have anything else in common.

Do you have any hobbies besides writing hot guys you see on the Web?

I like to catch mice.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m a cat or anything! (Ha, ha) I just like the strategic challenge of trying to outwit a mouse using only a baseball bat.

What animals do you like to hunt?

The bible says, “all the animals of the earth, all the birds of the sky, all the small animals that scurry along the ground, (Luis, I take this to mean mice) and all the fish in the sea will look upon you with fear and terror. I have placed them in your power. “

God has made things pretty clear here, Luis.

This means that we can kill them for food, sport, or if they’re on our lawn or something. Private property is sacred! Do you agree?

I have to say, I sometimes kill mice with my bible. It’s a big bible, Luis, and it can be very effective if I haven’t been drinking and my coordination is still pretty stable.

There’s just something about mice that I hate, and have ever since I was a little boy when I started to construct anti-mice devices. I even went to a special school, but I guess it wasn't really an academy for gifted mousers, but more like a school where they watch you to see what you do next.

Anyway, thanks for writing Luis, and I look forward to chatting with you soon!

Michael Murray

Michael Murray has give the Blog over to Heidi, his Miniature Dachshund for the day.

*******************

Bad days for Heidi, very dark days.

Weather cold and two-leggers I protect in den have gone crazy.

They bring new Alpha into pack. Strong two-legger who no smell of fear. He come into den twice a week and make them go run after ball, only no ball. Just run! Make no sense! Must be trick!

And then he make them do hard things to their bodies that make them cry out and say bad words to their Gods. They breathe hard and wobble, drink water like they just ate 7 hot dog! Sometimes four-eyed-two-legged-treat-giver collapse and begin to cry on floor. Shake for hours!

And now two-leggers never eat meat food! Eat seeds and pieces of trees! Horrible for Heidi! Bowls to lick after dinner have no meat sauce, no butter, just smell of skinny people that eat vitamin!

Two-leggers in pack now very unhappy!

Pretty two-legger always sad and angry about no chocolate and four-eyed-two-legged-treat-giver keep yelling,“Booze shouldn’t count as calories! It’s different!”

Always talking about what they put in body. So boring!

Gone completely insane.

Oh, and they always so angry! Constantly yelling BAD DOG if Heidi does even slightest thing. If Heidi smell a sock, suddenly BAD DOG!! Must be no sugar in brains anymore, just celery bits. Never know when next become the BAD DOG!

Make Heidi very jumpy!

Just the other day Heidi see old, fat Dachshund named Harley in parking lot and Heidi just lost her shit! Not know why, but just wanted to kill Harley! Rip throat out and scatter him about weeds! But mean two-leggers now faster, and run down stairs and stop Heidi, shouting BAD DOG, BAD DOG!!

Heidi must not be getting enough to eat. Very confused.

Now they want Heidi to make Christmas list. Not really in spirit, but do so anyway.

Heidi want:

1. Bone with meat on it
2. Want new pack Alpha who no smell of fear to smell of fear and then die
3. Ball that make squeak sound like dying cat
4. Back yard full of fat squirrels that think they’re faster than Heidi but aren’t
5. Meat (spoiled is fine)
6. Banana Republic sweater that Heidi can make nest out of so to sleep on
7. Heating pad
8. Worms. Heidi love rolling worms, smell good and make her feel sexy

Rachelle and I live in a building on Queen Street East that’s over 100 years old. It used to be a hotel, but is now home to four apartments, one of which is ours. For whatever reason, the landlord has been unable to arrange any sort of mailbox system for his tenants, and so our mail is pushed through a slot at the base of the door leading from the street up to the apartments.

And so our mail, gummy with finger and footprints, is daily sorted by the tenants of the building. We take our stuff, and leave the rest piled as neatly as possible, on a step for the rest to discover.

The one thing that this system does is give me the opportunity to catch glimpses-- through the form of unclaimed mail still delivered to the building-- of some of the past lives that dwelt in our building.

I introduce you to a few of these ghosts.

Greg Latham—his most recent piece of mail came from the Ministry of Community and Social Services.

I imagine him bearded and wearing a baseball hat. He would have moved quickly down the stairs, avoiding eye contact. With an implicit hostility built into him, he’d burst out onto the street, ready for a fight, his cigarette already lit.

Crystal Maurice—her most recent piece of mail came from Shoppers Optimum.

She missed home, Thunder Bay, but was feeling optimistic about the future, as the people at work seemed to like her and her last date on eHarmony went pretty well.

John Wayne Trylowsky—his last piece of mail came from the CIBC.

Nicknamed, “The Duke,” he loved playing pick-up hockey at Jimmy Simpson Park, thinking of himself as a kind of mentor to the young kids who skated there. For Christmas, his girlfriend knitted him a sweater with a crown on the front, the words “The Duke” written beneath.

Daniel Orchid—his most recent piece of mail came from Bell.

Daniel hated his office job and wore sweaters that were given to him as gifts 15 or 20 years ago. Twice a week he would go to Jilly’s, the strip club on the corner. Quietly he would get drunk, hoping the strippers thought he was different, unlike the rest of the vulgar customers.

Mr. Wang Flynn—his most recent mail came from an Air Miles Club.

Wang kept the company of two cats named Hall and Oates, loved to cook and was embarrassed by his love of miniature trains, always hiding them in a back room when a guest came over. He had been divorced three times.

Shelagh Galbavy—her last letter came from a person who lived in Scotland, not an institution, and it was decorated with stickers.

Shelagh was in love, moving from her apartment in Toronto back to Scotland, to be with the man who had always made her laugh, ever since they were just children in elementary school.

From a postcard found on the streets of Little India in Toronto on November, 15, 2010

Somewhere off in the distance somebody is strumming a guitar. I can hear it through my open window. Softly, it drifts in beneath the hum of the fan, as if with breath held and shoes in hand.

Looking across the street into a weirdly lit parking garage, I can see an attractive couple in Rock N’ Roll clothing holding hands. They’re so singular, so cinematic. They’re the center of every story in the world. They could be skipping, singing Pink Moon by Nick Drake and letting it echo through the night. They could be anything. And suddenly, as if a monster has risen from myth, they’re blocked by the striped gate-arm of the garage. And instead of walking around it, they both bend back and limbo beneath the arm. Their hands have lost touch after this feat, and instinctively they pull closer together, as if compelled by the magnets that live within. They laugh and smile, spinning and hugging, so alive, so unaware that anybody is watching.

I love and miss you Sebastian, come back soon.

Six weeks is six weeks too long.

Meghan

Session #5 with my Personal Trainer

**************************

Not much seems to have changed.

I’m still incapable of running abound the block, doing a boy push-up, and I still lose my balance whenever Matchitehew, my trainer, looks me in the eyes.

Earlier in the day-- after the moron I pay to destroy my life-- had made me run until I wept, he forced me to do about a thousand calf raises, “Chipmunk, if you focus your mind on this, your tears will stop—it will calm you down and your panic will stop. “

And because I am scared of this man, I began to do the calf raises, but almost immediately, I began to see all sorts of stars and spots.

I managed to gasp this observation out, choking out the words, “is this normal?”

“It is good. It means that the toxins and weaknesses are being cast out of your body.”

“I feel all swimmy.”

“Give me ten more.”

“I think I see my Nanny. She looks so peaceful, so happy and pretty.”

At this point, dizzy and frightened, I saw four squirrels come up to where I was “working out.” They just stood there, watching, as if to drag me back to their lair when I expired.

Matchitehew, seeing the anxiety in my eyes, put his hand on my shoulder.

“Do not fear the squirrels, for they are your friends and new Spirit Guides. You are no longer a Chipmunk, but through your hard work have ascended to the ranks of a Squirrel, that is why they are here, to welcome you into your new tribe.”

As we walked back to the apartment—with two squirrels following as if a tiny protectorate—I could just make out a conversation Matchitehew was having with somebody through his Bluetooth.

“No, I am afraid the date did not go well. I fear that the on-line dating world might not be for me. It is difficult in this city to find somebody who shares the same values that I do, somebody that understands the real Matchitehew. It has been a long time since I shared intimacy with a woman.”

I had just made the training breakthrough I had long been waiting for.
Matchitehew was lonely and I would use this against him.

And so, just before he would normally make me suffer through a humiliating and painful series of girl push-ups, I began to casually talk about all the single women I knew.

In short order, while drinking chocolate milk and eating cheese, I was rewriting his Plenty of Fish profile and showing him photographs of some of my single friends.

One in particular caught his attention.

“She, the blonde in the black dress, she looks like a good spirit. “

“Yes, she has a pair of very good spirits,” I said.

I began to tell him a little bit about her but he stopped me, “No, I want to find out everything for myself,” and then he smiled, “ Squirrel, I think that the spirits have brought us together for a reason. Will you arrange a date for me and this lady?”

And then, like the wind, he was gone.

Last week, Rachelle and I went to see a performance of The Toronto Choral Society that was held at Riverdale Collegiate Institute in Toronto. Although I love choral music, I very rarely make the effort to go out and see it, but in this case was motivated to do so when I discovered that a friend of mine, unknown to me, was actually a member of a choir.

This is something I love about people.

The unknown treasures buried within each of us.

Mahreen teaches Bollywood dance classes once a month at a senior’s center.

Ronan volunteers to bake bread at a homeless shelter.

Madeline, embarrassed, practices violin in her walk-in closet with the door closed so that she doesn’t disturb the neighbours.

At the Collegiate, smiling high school girls in white shirts stood in the foyer. Blushing slightly, the girls, like stewardesses pointing to the emergency exits, directed people to the doors leading into the auditorium. Elderly women, wearing poppies on their sweaters and frowns on their faces, sat at cafeteria tables collecting donations with a joyless sobriety befitting a Remembrance Day performance.

A tiny Asian girl with cat scratches on her arms, sat at the very back of the auditorium in front of a mixing table. Probably president of the AV club, she had notes written on the palm of her hand, notes she would read and then mouth to herself. Waiting for the concert to begin, the 45 year-old man sitting directly in front of us, played Pong on his iPhone, while an elderly man in corduroy shuffled and wheezed past him, shaking his head in disgust at this modern world.

The faces that comprised the choir-- all so distinct and rich in unknown histories-- radiated pride. They’d practiced for months, taking streetcars and subways into rehearsal, through all sorts of miseries and joys, and on this night, 130 of them dressed in black, in front of a full orchestra, were to take the stage.

The performance was astonishing and beautiful.

Accompanied by narration and supplemental video projections, the choir sang about a dozen songs, each one heartbreaking and inspiring in it’s own way. The elderly man sitting in front of us sang along to Keep The Home Fires Burning:

Keep the Home Fires Burning,
While your hearts are yearning.
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.

His voice was thin, cracked and straining, and to what point in time, or to whom his spirit was traveling, was anybody’s guess.

In my left pocket was the bracelet that my Grandfather had worn throughout World War II. It was a present from his sister, and I always imagined it was meant to protect him and keep him pointed home, and with that spirit in mind, I carry it with me now.

As the voices of the choir rose up, each one finding its’ place within the whole, each individual was transformed into something greater, something more than they were just an hour ago. This transformation happened to the audience, too, and as it was occurring, as we were all swept up, I thought not just of those that were lost in war, but of all of those that have passed out of our lives, and for a moment it felt like we were in communion with them, our voices and aspirations reaching up, hopeful, as if to touch them one more time.

“They call back to us
from the gauzy edge of paradise,

good news, good news.”
----Anne Sexton

Shael, a friend of mine who runs a web site devoted to movies at

http://filmbutton.com/mainpage

asked me if I would appear on his radio show on CKLN 88.1 at the Ryerson College station on Thursday.

Fun!

Sure I would!

The studio, located in downtown Toronto, was a typical College venture, which meant that the music was blaring, all the chairs were broken duct taped, and that Reggae was the musical staple around which all programming orbited. I think our 30-minute segment was sandwiched between the Reggae and Heavy Metal Hour and the Real Reggae hour, which was to be followed by a three hour Reggae Revolution.

No matter, as we sat there preparing, Shael very patiently explained all the technical details to me. You know, what knobs to slide up and what knobs to slide down, what buttons to push, that sort of boring thing, and so, of course, I completely tuned him out and just kept nodding my head, feigning comprehension.

The result of this was that I failed to slide a knob up when I was supposed to, and our conversation, that I thought was off air, ended up on air, serving as a kind of vocal track to the dub that was playing on the show just before us.

This is the content of our conversation:

S: …And so after we talk about Easy A and Miller’s Crossing for about 20 minutes, then I’m going to mention the passing of Dino De Laurentiis.

MM: What does this knob do?

S: Just leave the knob alone.

MM: You’re a knob.

S: Fine. Look, do you know anything at all about Dino De Laurentiis? He produced around 500 movies.

MM: He did the original King Kong with Jessica Lange, right?

S: That wasn’t the original King Kong, Michael.

MM: Sure it was! You remember that scene when Kong tries to take of Jessica Lange’s top?

S: Yes.

MM: That was fucking awesome! I mean, I didn’t expect to find sexual assault by a gorilla a turn-on, but I have to say, it really worked for me! Hot, hot, hot! I guess you could get away with that, back in the good, old days before feminism!

S: (No response)

MM: She never got naked in King Kong though, although I thought there were plenty of good opportunities.

S: (No response)

MM: She was also pretty good in The Postman Always Rings Twice. You remember when Jack Nicholson took her—roughly-- on the kitchen table? That’s the way I would take her, too. Few people know this about me, but I can be very sexually aggressive.

S: Oh, Sweet Jesus! Michael, you better not talk like this on air. Remember, we’re discussing the films Easy A and Miller’s Crossing.

MM: There was flour everywhere! And the panting and grasping, it was insanely hot, man. But you know, she never got naked in that movie, either, which was a rip-off. I don’t think she got naked in a movie until Titus, and by then it was way, way too late. She must have been, like 50. It was like watching a great hockey player still playing way past his prime.

S: (No response)

MM: Do you think maybe we could talk about hockey movies? I have a lot to say about hockey movies. Youngblood was fucking awesome.

It was at this point that Shael realized we were on the air and punched me in the head. You can actually hear the THOCK of his fist hitting my skull when you listen to the show on tape

On Sunday, as we often do, Rachelle and I went to the St. Lawrence antique market.

Unshaven vendors wearing baseball caps of teams long since extinct, slumped in their chairs, as if having given up on the hang-over they were earlier trying to shake. Partially concealed beneath the tables where they displayed their wares, they ate French fries or worked on crossword puzzles, barely attempting looks of hopefulness when customers passed them by.

Mostly they talked to one another.

“I could never go to a fat dentist. I know it’s not nice to say, but it really makes a difference to see somebody that’s thin and health conscious walk through that door. I mean, I don’t want some fat slob who doesn’t look after himself sticking his hands in my mouth. Just the way I am. “

At another table:

“I’m not going to do it. I don’t want to be hurt again. It won’t be like the last time, it won’t ever be like the last time, I’ll tell you that much. I said--No, I’m not angry at you, I’m just disappointed. Again-- And then I hung-up on him.”

Seeing me looking at a lamp on her table, she looked away from the person she had been speaking with, “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” she said to me,” I’ll give it to you for $25,” a little bit of light now coming into her eyes.

At another stall, I was going through a box of buttons and was paying special attention to a few I had found. They were from 1958, and belonged to members of the Ft. Nelson, B.C. curling club. On each one, a name had been written:

J. Hardwick
G.Hardwick

The vendor, a man near 60, seeing me trying to think my way through the story of these pins, began to talk.

“Those pins belonged to my parents. My dad worked at the military base there back in the 50’s. Do you know where Fort Nelson is? The very northeastern corner of British Columia. It’s practically Alaska, Hell, it’s practically the Arctic. This was back before the Trans-Canada highway was built, and the highway we used was covered in gravel the size of five-pin bowling balls. You had to wrap your gas tank in foam to protect it, and you had to cover all of your lights in chicken wire, because if one of them broke, you were done for. You couldn’t see a thing, and there wasn’t nobody who was coming to get you if you ran into trouble.” I nodded my head as he spoke.

“When I was a boy, the city siren would go off whenever a pack of wolves were passing through town so that all the school children would know to stay inside.”

He paused for a moment, “You know, I don’t think that I’m going to sell those buttons after all.”

And then he sat down, looking at his parent’s old pins that he now held in his hands.

I don’t normally do this sort of thing, but the other day I took one of those Facebook quizzes. You know the type.

What Harry Potter magical creature are you?
What Marvel Superhero are you?
How long would you survive in Zombieland?

That sort of thing.

The quiz I took asked, “What Disney Princess are you?”

I got Esmeralda from the 1996 animated movie The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

This is utter bullshit

Although I am feisty and love to bring the party to the people, as Esmeralda does, I do not have her emerald eyes.

Typically, my eyes are red, like beautiful, burning fires.

Also, the character of Emeralda is voice animated by Demi Moore

I have bad feelings about Demi Moore. She has never once bothered to thank me for any of the paper mache cars, that I have hand-crafted and been sending to her ever since I saw her in Ghost. Demi Moore is a bitch. Also, her voice resembles rust, whereas my voice sounds a little bit like the feeling you get when eating French toast on a sunny winter day. Demi Moore could never provide the voice animation for the princess that best resembles me. It would just be so wrong. (There is a reason that Bruce Willis dumped her.)

The Facebook quiz describes Esmeralda as “a beautiful, streetwise and talented gypsy girl who befriends Quasimodo and shows him that his soul is truly beautiful, even if his exterior isn't.”

Let me break this down.

Beautiful.

Although I am very good looking, I am not “beautiful.” I’m only an 8 or an 8.5 out of 10. Sure, I could be a model, but probably not an elite underwear model, and to suggest that I’m “beautiful” is over-stating things. I’m just very, very good-looking, but not intimidatingly beautiful like a Swedish Vampire or something.

Streetwise.

I am also not streetwise.

I have repeatedly lost money betting on hopscotch matches that take place during recess at a local primary school.

Talented.

Well, I think it’s probably inappropriate for me to comment on this one.

But I will say this: I think I’m way more talented that Esmeralda. I mean, what does she do but run around in her bare feet and break into song? In some places they’d put you in a group home for doing that, not proclaim you as talented!!

You want to hear about some talent?

I have intentionally scored a goal using my head while playing soccer, have the high score at Galaga at Pietro’s Pizza in Ottawa, skipped grade three and am really very good at paper mache.

I spit talent.

But more importantly, I’ve had a long-standing terror of gypsies and simply do not understand how I could possibly “help Quasimodo understand that gypsies are good people.”

I would never do this.

I just don’t feel it in my heart.

I think that the Facebook application would have been much more accurate had it declared me Pocahontas, as I love wearing fringed jackets and like corn.

For those of you who don’t know, the Gemini Awards are given out annually to honour excellence in Canadian television production. It’s like the Emmy Awards, only as it’s Canadian, less so.

On Wednesday the award’s ceremony took place here in Toronto, and two of my friends, the irritatingly talented duo of Jon “The Big Steak” Evans and Gerard “The Little Butler” Tevlin, were nominated for Best Original Music Score for an Animated Program or Series.

Since they lack confidence and are inarticulate music guys, I offered to write them a victory speech in the unlikely chance that they might win.

I just like to help.

It’s the way I am.

This is the speech (and direction) that I wrote for them on a series of cocktail napkins:

As they take the stage Gerard begins clapping his hands above his head.

“What up, Toronto, what up?”

Jon: “ Gemini be up!” At this point he hoists the award above his head.

After the roaring of the crowd subsides, and various Soy Bomb type infiltrators have been removed from the stage, Gerard takes the Mic.

Gerard: First of all, I want to give thanks to Jesus Christ our lord and savior. He is the reason and the season, and if it wasn’t for him. then we wouldn’t be the awesome music making machines that we are. He gives us our glory!

Jon: I also want to sincerely thank the academy for this validation of our brilliance, and for supporting our troops as they fight against terror in Ifghanistan! Terror is wrong!

At this point Jon throws his arms up into the air, inciting the crowd into wild cheers.

Gerard takes Mic.

Word. On another important note, I just want to thank our competition for being so lame. They were easy to crush. Next year, I think that instead of using musical instruments for our compositions, Jon and I will just use shoes-- even out the competition a bit.

Jon takes the Mic.

I want to thank my beautiful wife Lindsey and our gorgeous daughter Afi. (He then points at them in the crowd and winks.)

Gerard then grabs the Mic.

I want to thank Sylvia, the love of my life, and my house!

Jon grabs Mic back.

I want to thank Michael Murray, who thankfully does not write musical scores for animated programs or series, because if he did, he would be the Wayne Gretzky of the industry. A dynasty. A fucking king. He is amazing, and if not for him, I wouldn’t have a clue what to say. I’d just be standing here staring out at you like I’d just been electrocuted.

Gerard, from the background: Word, word!

Jon: To conclude, I just want to say thank you, and want all the struggling teens out there to remember, It Get’s Better!

And then Gerard, jumping up and down as the Mic recedes into the stage and music plays them out, shouts, "Save the seals and whales!! Bigfoot is real!!”

PS: Jon and Gerard won, and although they did not read the speech I wrote for them, I am still immensely proud of their accomplishment, utterly delighted for them, and even happier to know them.

PPS: This is a photograph of Jon and Gerard celebrating in their hotel room later that night. The NSFW one’s will be posted later on a different web site.

As some of you may know, Rachelle and I went to the fancy-pants Toronto restaurant Colborne Lane on Saturday night. All sorts of complications have arisen from this, and with most disputes, the particulars are boring and petty to those not actually involved in the dispute. Suffice it to say, for the last four days there’s been a flurry of telephone calls and emails about the bill. This would be simple enough, but they mistakenly charged the entire meal to a friend of mine’s credit card. He’d just wanted to buy us a drink to celebrate our engagement. The GM proved contrary when I contacted him the next day, insisting that he would only take the charge of my friend’s Visa and transfer it to mine, if I consented to pay a 16.2% post-tax gratuity, which I didn’t want to do for a variety of reasons.

I had written to tell the GM that the decision to tip was mine, not his, and this is the correspondence that followed: (with some points edited for clarity)

Mr. Murray,

After reviewing the matter, including the actual wait time you incurred and the fact that it was you and Mr. XXXXX that created a confusing payment situation for my staff, I have decided that the service charge will remain.

And it is, in fact, my decision.

Take all the time you need to decide on how you would like the matter completed. There's no hurry on our end.

XXXX.

GM:

You are clearly very powerful.

Like Darth Vader.

Or a ghost that can play the piano using only it's spirit mind.

I don't mind saying that I am now feeling rather intimidated, and it will certainly take me some time to figure out what to do.

However, as you have mighty, almost mystical powers when it comes to deciding things, I'd be willing to pay the full service charge you're demanding if you could make a few decisions to positively influence my life.

Only three things, GM, and we are square like Happy Days!

Would you please decide to have my fantasy hockey team--A Fury of Pigeons--finish in first place at the end of this year?

Secondly, would you please decide to make the horrible dreams I have about rats emerging from dry ice to attack my loved ones go away? (I would really be in your debt if you could do that.)

And lastly, would you please decide to make my friend Parvinder happy?

Once you have satisfactorily made these decisions, and I have felt the impact in my life (verified by four people, including two of my lawyer friends) then I will pay the bill you sent to me, until then though, I am afraid that I will have to stick to what I understood to be our arrangement, and only authorize a payment of $XXX.XX.

You should know that once I win the hockey pool, I will have all sorts of money, and not only will I pay your demanded service charge, but I will buy you a fine scotch.

Just so there's no hard feelings.

Stay gold, GM, you're bringing light to the world!

Michael Murray

Mr. Murray,

Your humor is much appreciated, as I have no desire to make this anything but an easy matter.

The payment from XXXX has already been processed and received by the bank. Therefore, I cannot justify returning his money until you agree to paying the amount which you owe: the sum of $XXX.XX.

And just so that you are aware, the gratuity is 18.5% before taxes, 16.2% after taxes.

Please respond by authorizing the above amount.

With thanks,

GM

GM:

I think I was wrong about you.

Maybe you're not like Darth Vader or a ghost that plays the piano using only his spirit mind.

It could be that you have more in common with the character that Mel Gibson played in Braveheart. (Can you believe that movie won an Oscar as Best Picture of the Year??!!) You know, you’re protecting Scotland (the servers of Colborne Lane) against English rule (Rachelle and I on our engagenment dinner). Heck, we were at your restaurant the night before Halloween. Perhaps you dressed up as William Wallace the next day? Man alive, that would be a crazy synchronicity that would really put this whole matter in proper perspective!

Last year Rachelle and I dressed up as H1 and N1 for Halloween.

Get it?

It was pretty funny, especially because we were actually sick. The year before I was a pigeon and she was a box of Spam. This year she was a sexy Hitler (but she really looked like Charlie Chaplin in The Great Dictator) and I was the Cookie Monster. We're pretty good at the costumes, if I do say so myself. Next year I am going to go as a kind of Zen Garden tree with burnt marshmallows on it. It will be a prize winner, I think.

Forgive me for getting off of topic.

At this point, GM, I've pretty much forgotten the core of our conflict.

Was it that you wanted me to tip and I didn't want to tip?

Maybe, we need mediation?

Perhaps we could go on Judge Judy or that Judge Joe Brown guy’s show? That would be classy. I would be sure to bring an impressive (but fake) sheaf of papers to prove my case and a few grainy cell phone snaps of the back of the Maitre D'. I think it would be exciting television, and excellent publicity for your restaurant, which is well known for the warmth and generosity it displays customers.

Take it up with the owner, and then get back to me, and if he refuses to bite, perhaps we could settle our differences on the floor hockey court.

Colborne Lane versus The Jesus Cobras. (Our coed Rec league team) If you win, I tip, and if I win, I don’t.

Good sir, I throw down the gauntlet!

TV Court or floor hockey!

And to end, GM, I will quote William Wallace from Braveheart, the movie that reminds me of you, " I came back home to raise crops, and God willing, a family. If I can live in peace, I will. "

Keep the light shining, GM, you warm the world!

Michael Murray

PS: I would like to invite the owner over for dinner in order to iron out this problem. Let him know I make a brilliant Cream of Hamburger soup.

This email led to a terse email from the General Manager informing Rachelle that the matter was closed and I was no longer welcome in Colborne Lane. He also refused my Facebook friendship request.

The next day, the owner of the restaurant-- Claudio Aprile-- called me, and very graciously apologized for the situation, voiding the bill from my friend’s credit card and allowing me to pay the bill without adding the tip that I thought was unearned.

It was just that simple.

On Saturday night Rachelle and I went to a restaurant in Toronto called Colborne Lane. It’s an expensive, special occasion kind of place and we went there to celebrate our fifth anniversary. The restaurant has a beautiful, industrial kind of grandeur, giving it an impenetrable, exclusive feeling that make you feel as if you’ve suddenly stepped into a city and life not your own.

Similarly, the food is astonishing. The servers, arriving in billowing clouds of dry ice, reveal plates that are alternately delicious, inventive and flawed pieces of art that in many cases are ready-made satire. No matter, it’s a hell of an experience, and Rachelle and I were excited about spending our evening there.

The Maitre D’ was a handsome black guy wearing a gingham shirt and vest. He didn’t seem overly happy to see us, and instead of giving us the table we had reserved a month earlier, coolly asked that we take a seat at the empty bar, where we waited for the next 15 minutes.

It was a big night for us-- we were spending more money than we could really afford-- and I wanted us to feel special. Feeling ignored and frustrated, I asked the Maitre D’ if he knew when our table would be ready.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” he said, dismissively, quickly looking down at his podium.

This pissed me off. “I presumed that, what I was asking was if you knew when our table would be ready.”

This pissed him off.

“I’m working on that right now,” he displayed his teeth in a faux smile.

I stood there watching him.

“So, roughly, just a ball park figure, how much longer do you think it will be?”

As if he was slowly counting to ten to control his rage.

“Just. Give. Me. A. Minute.”

“Oh, I see, it bothers you that I’m standing here. Fine. I’ll just sit back down so you can better concentrate.”

A moment later he took us to our table.

I worked as a waiter for years, and it was clear that our table had been ready the moment we walked into the place. The Maitre D’ had kept us waiting merely to establish a theatrical air of exclusivity to the place or to give us an opportunity to spend another $50 on cocktails.

About ten minutes after we’d been seated, a waiter appeared and presented us with two complimentary glasses of sparkling wine. I presumed this was from the Maitre D’ who might have wanted to smooth things out after our little confrontation, but no.

The drinks were from a friend. Knowing that it was a special occasion for us, he called in earlier and requested to buy us a round of Champagne, just so we knew that he was thinking of us.

The irritation that the evening had started to generate in me immediately vanished, and I was filled with an immense gratitude. There I was, struck by the generosity of my friends, the generosity of opportunity that nourished each day, and across from me sat my beautiful fiancé, with whom I, the luckiest man in the world, was able to toast life and love.

It has always been the dream of my friend Shelagh Corbett to marry a celebrity. “I just see myself with one,” she used to say by means of explanation. Sadly, over the years, after many rejections (Alec Baldwin, Will Smith, Tom Cruise, Nick Nolte, Wanda Sykes, Jose Canseco, Forrest Whitaker, Sylvester Stallone and Brett Favre, to name a few), and a few legal impositions, Shelagh has stopped chasing her dream. It hurts me to see her so sad, with little to do but crochet the likenesses of her loves onto throw cushions which now litter her cat-ruled home, and so I have started to write letters of introduction for her, to a more romantically realistic assembly of celebrities.

Dear Zach Galifiankis:

As you have the sort of looks that might grow on a person, and have a "style of comedy" that some might find distracting, you probably have a date for Halloween. However, I suppose it's possible that the poorly healed emotional scars you acquired growing up as an outsider have precluded any sort of intimate relationship.

If this is the case, I think I know of somebody who might be willing to take a chance on you. She's very patient, has worked with the homeless, and is quite frankly, out of your league looks wise. She also had a pony when she was growing up and can play Hey Joe on the ukulele. Intrigued?

Zach, if you're courageous enough to just give love a chance, I can introduce you to this amazing woman and change your life.

For the better.

Yours,

Michael Murray

PS: This is a drawing that Shelagh did of you, one that I now believe is tattooed to her body at the juncture where her back meets her tailbone.

Michael:

I have asked my Personal Assistant to write to tell you that you spelled my name wrong.

It is Zack, not Zach.

All you need to do is check Wikipedia to get this sort of thing straight.

Stop being lazy.

I have to say, your friend Shelagh looks like she might be a cult member.

Why does she have a flower behind her ear and what is she staring at? Her Dear Leader?

Do you think I might be interested in a cult member?

Is that what you’re trying to say?

Zack Galifiankis

PS: If I was forced to come up with a nickname for you Michael Murray, it would be “Insufficient Postage.”

On Monday, Rob Ford was elected Mayor of Toronto.

There are probably a few things you should know about him.

He’s your garden variety Conservative, the kind of guy that gets all red in the face, pumping his meaty fist in the air shouting,” the gravy train must stop!” The other striking thing about him is his appearance, which is of a defeated salesman. A big, heaving white guy, Ford has tiny, receded eyes that makes him look like he’s spent most of his life underground. His hair, so absent of colour as to appear transparent, is thin, sparse and likely styled by a straight guy from Oshawa. And of course, his past is buckshot with the sort of Frat Boy controversy you’d expect from a guy that grew up idolizing Rush Limbaugh and the CFL.

As such, all the downtown types in the city hate him, a loathing that is only amplified by Ford having dropped out of Carleton University in Ottawa before he got his degree in Political Science.

Well, I was living in Ottawa at the same time as Ford, and as we both drank at The New Edinburgh Pub each night, we became drinking buddies, and I want all of you to know that real Rob Ford, and not just the caricature that’s been presented in the media.

“The Robber” as he liked to be called, was an ass man. He always over-tipped the pretty waitresses and usually ordered the Suicide Wings. He certainly considered himself the life of the party, and if there were any lampshades in the place, well, he would have been the first to wear one. He had a Fantasy Hockey Team called “Fords Friggin’ Freight Trains,” (FFFT for short) that he was very proud of. He could also drink like a champion, putting back about 6 pints of Canadian a night, and whenever he got drunk he would talk in an Australian accent and inevitably start singing the theme to Ghost Busters.

However, there is more, much more to the man, and I want to share a few of the things that he said to me over the course of our year of drinking together.

“Mike, I know that everybody just thinks I’m a big, jolly ball of light, but I have my pain. I think about things, like why are some babies sick and others cute? Why?”

Later, Rob told me that he had been taking a creative writing course at the University.

“You know what I like writing about, Murray? Trucks. Fucking love writing about trucks.”

“Bigfoot is real. No shit.”

“I’m like the Captain, and you’re like Gilligan! You ever think of that?”

“I don’t think we should have any Russians in the NHL. Their names are too hard to pronounce and they’re pussies. You with me, little buddy?”

“Let’s get a few beers to go, head back to my place and smoke a joint. I’ve been working on that Honeymoon Suite song on the keyboards and I want to know if you think I’m ready for the Open Mike night on Sunday.”

“Mur, I swear, if a flying saucer came down right now, I would look up at ‘em and just yell, “Calgon, take me away!”

“Which character from “Friends” are you most like? I’m like Joey. And which chick would you most want to do? For me it’s Rachel. Big time. You see the can on her?”

“I don’t know, Little Buddy, sometimes I just think municipal government is too big.”

* ( most of this is not true)

On Saturday afternoon, in the parking lot at Saulter and Queen Street East, a dance school was putting on a recital. Under just the faintest suggestion of rain, beaming parents watched as children, evolving into various forms of perfection, executed the maneuvers they’d been practicing all week. 

Dangerous Dan’s had set-up at barbeque area in the parking lot, advertizing themselves with signs that read, “Meat is murder, tasty, tasty murder.” The guys flipping the ribs, sporting the sort of facial hair you’d see on pro wrestlers, wore mechanic jackets with their names embroidered on them instead of the more traditional chef version. Around them, sitting on curbs and overturned boxes, dark-skinned older men, all built like fire hydrants, ate the ribs without conversation or expression.

A man on stilts walked down the street gathering publicity. He was 12 feet tell and dressed all in red, his hat stretching up to the clouds. He had a ukulele and was singing up a storm,

“I’m going to lay down my sword and shield,

Down by the riverside, down by the riverside.”

A young mother pointed to him, trying to encourage her boy toward the festivities, but he was terrified. Bawling his eyes out, he buried his face in his mother’s coat as the giant stomped down the street.

An elegant and elderly Asian woman who looked as if she was clad in nothing but clothes bought at Holt Renfrew paused in Jimmy Simpson Park, and in her three quarter length Burberry jacket, began to slowly execute T’ai Chi moves, while a five year-old girl in a full and excellent batman costume, swung loops around a parking meter in front of a gated tattoo shop.

A squadron of pigeons pecked at the bread scattered about a paved corner of the park. A mother’s eyes sparked, and she charged forth into them, stroller first, her daughter squealing and applauding as the birds took flight, encompassing her in the beating of their wings.

Yesterday was my first session with my Personal Trainer. I’ve never had a trainer before, but after my surgery in August I figured it would be a good idea to get a professional to help me get in shape. Initially the trainer was supposed to be a 22 year-old Russian girl named Svetlana, but Rachelle told me that she’d found somebody else, a guy who was “inexpensive, not cheap.”

Whatever.

Anyway, the trainer’s name is Chunta, a Blackfoot name meaning “ Born During an Earthquake.” From what I can tell, the relationship between the Personal Trainer and the trainee proceeds along these lines:

1. You sign a cheque.

2. You sign a waiver absolving your trainer of any responsibility for the inevitable induction of a stroke, heart attack or intestinal rupture.

3. You then allow the Personal Trainer to ruin your life.

The first thing that Chunta did was inquire into my diet, quietly taking notes as I spoke (rather lovingly, I guess) of the alcohol, red meat and chocolate milk that served as my dietary staples.

“ We have much work to do,” he told me. “Your diet is out of harmony with your body. You are a Meat Dreamer, and you must learn to change your dreams if you want to change yourself.”

I nodded my head as he told me about the fruit, leaves and certain twigs (for protein) that were to comprise my new diet.

“So I’ll eat like a Chipmunk?” I asked.

“Do not underestimate the Chipmunk,” Chunta said, “ for the Chipmunk is a warrior.”

Again I nodded.

“We will start your session with a Yoga posture called The Cobra.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to start with a posture called The Chipmunk?” I asked.

“No.”

Chunta then demonstrated The Cobra, and I have to say, the posture looked pretty fucking easy. I snickered.

“You know, Chunta, I used to play hockey. I was on the second line back in high school. I think this is going to be a little too easy for me.”

He nodded.

I lay down on the floor and then began to push myself up into the instructed position, at which point I felt a terrible, hellish ripping in my left side.

I came to a few seconds later, with the trainer and Heidi-- our Miniature Dachshund-- looking down at me. Chunta uttered a few mysterious words in his native tongue, and then said, “Welcome back, my brave Chipmunk. You have been on quite a journey for our first session, and now you must rest.”

And then, just like the wind, he was gone, while I remained there, on the floor, the dog dozing on my chest, until Rachelle got home from work six hours later.

Walking down Parliament Street on Tuesday afternoon, I passed through some city housing located between Gerard and Dundas. Squat, red brick structures with no evident personality, they stared out over construction at the Lord Dufferin Public School across the way.

It was an unlovely, windy moment in the city and nobody looked happy. People hurried joylessly down the sidewalk, some private misery written into each one of their faces.

A cough that wouldn’t go away.

A ball-bustin’ ex.

A Visa bill past due.

A hated co-worker who always left dirty dishes in the sink.

Insomnia.

I stopped and looked at the buildings, trying to imagine the tightly packed lives contained within. My eye fell to one tiny window. Open, it was entirely filled by the face of a woman, who with her chin resting on her open palms gave the appearance of a heart-shaped cameo carved into the brick. One thin beam of sunlight was cast on this building, and it fell, as if focused, upon her. Smiling-- her arm braceleted and her fingernails ornately painted-- she reached out into the day, out into the light, and grabbed a fistful of sun, as if hoping to bring it back inside and into her life.

Michael has given the blog over to Heidi, his Miniature Dachshund for the day

*************************************

Heidi really like poker and think she pretty good at it.

Always have a good mind for math. Able to crunch numbers and figure out odds just as fast as rip head off mouse! Heidi know exact chances of getting inside straight, always play smart, never impulsive like stupid cat!

Heidi also expert in reading opponents. Spend lot of time watching four-eyed-two-legged treat giver, and always know what he thinking! Know when time for walk, know when time for food, know when he get scared-- like when he watch ghost movie-- because his scent change!

Heidi have all the tools to be poker champion, but a few problems still stand in her way.

When four-eyed-two-legged treat giver put out bowl of chicken wings or pretzels for card players, Heidi lose all composure. Jump on table, knock cards all over place and growl at other players while devouring food--very messy. Then get called BAD DOG and have to sit out next couple of hands. Sometimes think four-eyed-two-legged treat giver do this when Heidi on hot streak, but he probably too dumb for such strategy.

Other reason Heidi not having great success at poker is she have trouble hiding her tells. When somebody think about calling Heidi’s bluff, hackles begin to rise and Heidi snarl and show teeth to intimidate. This give it all away! Everybody see Heidi have weak position and just bet more! Two-leggers know Heidi bluffing and call her!

When Heidi have good cards, even if she slow playing hand, tail just wag, wag, wag. Sometimes she even start to whimper get so excited, and then everybody know that Heidi drew the flush and all fold! Can’t help myself, instincts take over like when see squirrel on fire escape and Heidi just stop thinking and charge at stupid squirrel, even though squirrel outside and Heidi inside!

Sometimes giving over to instincts good, like when see Jupiter catching Frisbee in park, but other times instincts bad and make Heidi do stupid things.

Heidi work very hard with therapist to get tail wagging under control. Very hard, very hard work, but Heidi make progress.

Therapist always asking Heidi about bone.

Why you like bone so much?

Why bury bone?

Don’t know what up with that.

Nuit Blanche is a pretty big deal here in Toronto.

The idea is that for 24 hours the downtown streets become arteries for all manner of performance, installation and exhibition and for one night, the city becomes a radiant pulse of art.

It’s a great idea that offers all sorts of promise, and every year I get terribly excited. Like thousands of others, I charged out into the streets a few weeks ago looking to have a mind-blowing experience of the first order. But the truth is that Nuit Blanche always devolves into a commercial rather than artistic enterprise. Relentlessly sponsored by Scotiabank, you can’t help but notice that everybody is first and foremost, looking to make some money. Stores, bars and restaurants stay open later, hair salons pretend to be galleries and all manner of junk is being sold off as art.

It’s not exactly depressing, just disappointingly monotonous, and it had the unpleasant effect of making me feel like a tourist rather than a participant. Overwhelmingly white in complexion, it’s an event for middle class people with pretensions. Participants in a consumer culture rather than a counter-culture arts scene, we plodded hopefully about the streets with the rest of our tribe. This, of course, was the best part of the experience, as the streets were just teeming, and the energy and potential of the pedestrian traffic far outstripped that of any of the installations or exhibitions I happened upon.

At one point I found myself standing in front of a patisserie on Queen West. It was a damp and cool night, and the glowing interior of the shop was vivid and arresting. Inside, pretty as Paris chefs, served stunning looking desserts to their customers, as if exchanging gifts. It was an immensely comforting sight. It was so safe and beautiful-- almost magical in appearance-- and it unfolded like one of those perfect, nearly accidental moments, a welcome contrast to the intentionality of the theme park city unfolding all around us.

And then later, heading home on the packed streetcar at three in the morning, an unwittingly pretty young woman smiled as she read a text message. On her lap was a perfect and prized dessert, something she was likely going to share with somebody she loved.

Rachelle has horrible taste in music.

It’s the sort of stuff you’d imagine that a relatively unpopular 13 year-old girl living in 1994 might like.

Blue Rodeo are so dreamy!!

The Dixie Chicks are so smart and courageous!!

Pearl Jam is so edgy!!

The soundtrack to Dirty Dancing RAWKS!

No matter, as I am generous and full of love, I always let Rachelle control the music when we’re in the car. And so, when we were driving back to Toronto after spending Thanksgiving in Ottawa, I suffered. Through a fog of grating static, Rachelle constantly fiddled with the tuner, happily landing on every craphole radio station in Southern Ontario. It was painful, especially when Rachelle, having found some Christian Country song she liked, began, out of key and unlike an angel, to sing/lecture at me:

“You’ve got to be your own man and not a puppet on a string
You’ve got to stand for something or you’ll fall for anything.”

Occasionally she’d poke me in the chest, underscoring how disappointed she was (still) in me after I backed down from a fight at our last floor hockey game. (Long story, suffice it to say that I didn’t want to hurt the chick, who thought she was some sort of floor hockey deity simply because she was a lesbian.)

Instead of allowing Rachelle to provoke me, I decided to give her the gift of education and told her at some length why her musical taste sucked and why my musical taste was awesome. After digesting my wisdom for an hour or so, Rachelle stopped at Starbucks, (making me stay in the car to make sure that our luggage wasn’t stolen) slammed the door and went inside to get a cookie.

It was at this point, having found a station that played nothing but The Blues, that I seized control of the music.

(Rachelle enters the car.)

Me: “Now this is some music!”

Rachelle: “ Why does it smell funny in here? You farted, didn’t you? You waited until I left and then you stunk-up the car!”

Me: “ Doggie smells her own doo.”

Rachelle: (Sigh)

Me: (Bopping my head and playing air guitar) “Yeah, The Blues are the perfect soundtrack for road trips! Make me feel like I’m in a movie, a gritty movie!

Rachelle: (opening all the windows and fanning her hand) “Oh, you must tell me about this movie.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Rachelle: “Is your gritty road movie about a grown-man who doesn’t know how to drive? A man who forces his girlfriend to do all the driving because he never got his driver’s license on account of his phobia about hitting a squirrel?”

Me: “You eat too much chocolate.”

Rachelle: “And the star of this movie, he’s returning from his parent’s house, yes? With a Miniature Dachshund wearing a pink collar on his lap? Hmm, I wonder who should play this rough character?”

Me: “Your dad told me that you smelled funny as a baby and that they thought something was wrong with you.”

Rachelle: “ Remember that cute little piglet that played Babe. I think he’d be perfect in this role.”

Me: “You know what you are? You’re the coldest night of the year. That’s you—Rachelle-The Coldest Night of the Year—Maynard.

I then secured my traveler’s pillow around my neck and pretended to go to sleep, while Rachelle changed the radio station and resumed tailgating the car in front of us.

As many of you know, I’ve been suffering some pretty serious self-esteem issues lately. The trigger for this, of course, was my failed collaboration with Ikea, who rejected my idea for marketing an easily transported and assembled line of Sniper Towers. (A very bad decision on their part that they will one day regret!!) This was compounded by a disappointing season for my fantasy baseball team—A Fury of Pigeons—and some elbow tendonitis, which has prevented me from participating in Ping-Pong, my great love.

However, with the help of Dr. von Hammerstein, I’ve been discovering that there are many, deep-rooted reasons for my self-esteem issues, and as part of the process, my doctor has asked that I keep a dream journal.

**********************************************************

Michael Murray’s Dream Journal---September 20—September 30, 2010

I have a recurring dream that Rachelle keeps stealing the covers. In this dream series, I sometimes see her taking money from my wallet on the desk.

In this dream I am working as a waiter back at Fettucini’s restaurant in Ottawa and my section just keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger. The people are coming in waves and there’s nothing I can do to keep up!

I am a flying saucer and inside of me are man-aliens performing anal probes on one another. I fly them to a distant planet called Mikonia.

I am playing Ping-Pong against a rooster. It’s a very competitive match, but I win, and when I do, a person that I hadn’t noticed before—some sort of judge—appears, grabs the rooster and chops off it’s head. It runs about the Ping-Pong table, headless and flapping it’s wings. I wake up screaming and crying, which Rachelle says happens about twice a week now.

I am in a Sniper Tower in the parking lot of Ikea and I am shooting people and I have a feeling of great peace and tranquility. Everything smells of freshly baked bread.

I am playing Scrabble and then I suddenly notice that the tiles are bloody and are actually my teeth, which keep falling out of my mouth. The only words spelled out on the Scrabble board are expletitives. I wake up screaming and crying.

Instead of walking, I decide to fly about the city. It’s a power I always have in my dream world, but rarely use. After a bit, though, I lose control of the ability to control my flight and get tangled in hydro wires. A murder of crows come to attack me, and I’m defenseless and scared, but then a bunch of pigeons come to fight off the crows, and then the pigeons, like angels, lift me up and fly me to safety.

I am a mighty steed galloping along a beach. I come across a centaur. The man half of the centaur looks exactly like Hugh Jackman. He asks me if I want to go swimming with him. I whinny a yes and we run off together into the waves.

On Thursday night I stopped into The Avro, a new bar on Queen East. The place has a hipster dive feeling to it, giving off the salvaged vibe of a place where the owners might have spent a lot of money in order to make it look like they hadn’t spent any at all. It was a good place to drink, and I was delighted to discover that they sold birthday cake-- with a candle burning on top and served on a paper plate-- for three dollars a slice.

After a few minutes a couple came in and sat by me at the bar. The man was near fifty and very proud of his hair--which clearly coiffed at an expensive salon-- flowed easy and full to his shoulders. He wore those dramatic black frames that suggested he wanted to be noticed and immediately set about proving this to be true. He needed his presence to fill the bar.

Boisterous, he began to try to flirt with the much younger, tolerant bartender. Confidence, like cheap cologne he’d just applied, rolled off of him in clouds as he bragged about the dinner he just had at the Ruby WatchCo.

He was sharing himself with all of us, setting the room aflame, he must have thought.

His eyes lighting up, he turned to the pretty 23 year old in the white undershirt, who was sitting beside him at the bar. She had been having a conversation about dogs with a friend, and the man with the hair imposed himself on the conversation. Assuming some authority on the subject, he pronounced on various breeds, dropping in little bits of sexual innuendo whenever he thought he could get away with it. Encouraged by her neutral receptivity, he reached out and touched her bare arm, and immediately her face pinched into a startled, Vulcan severity. Sensing that the boundaries that he had been pushing were about to snap, he turned back to the woman that had accompanied him into the bar.

A blonde woman somewhere in her late 40's, she had the fit, worn, sun-saturated face of somebody that might have been a tennis ace 25 years ago. As her date drummed the bar, singing along to the 70’s kitsch that was playing-- his fingers sparking cocaine-- she pursed her lips and let her eyes fall out of focus. Looking through the Pabst Blue Ribbon sign and the 45's that decorated the wall by the beer fridge, it was as if she was staring into the past, remembering that tennis match when she was beaten by the Soviet, the point at which her life pivoted, moving ever downward to this moment on a Friday night when she found herself ignored, once again, by a man who wanted everybody’s attention but hers.

I was at the dentist yesterday and it did not go well.

I’m anxious around dentists at the best of times, but since my abdominal surgery in August I still have some residual pain that can be greatly exacerbated when my body suddenly tenses up, like when a squirrel darts in front of me. And so, in preparation for my visit to the dentist, I took a few muscle relaxants that had been prescribed to me after the surgery.

My dental procedure went of without a hitch and I didn’t feel even a tremor of pain. Happy, I went off to the front desk to pay the bill.

The receptionist was brand new and seemed to have a very cheerful and outgoing personality, and so I tried to engage her in conversation. This is what followed:

Noticing the hockey magazine in my hand that had Maple Leaf’s captain Dion Phaneuf on the cover, the receptionist put her finger on his photograph and exclaimed, “Oh, Yeah!”

I took this to me she thought he was hot.

I said, “You want him, don’t you? I can see it your eyes. You want to have babies with him.”

I am not entirely sure where this came from, but can only imagine that the combination of muscle relaxants, (I took three) the wine I had a lunch and the Valium they gave me at the dentist’s made me unusually uninhibited.

The receptionist gave me a thin smile, “I’m more of a basketball fan. I used to live in Orlando and I would go to all the games, always dressing up and cheering for the Raptors whenever they came to town!”

“Ha!” I shouted, “ I bet everybody wondered who the crazy Asian fox was!” (It occurred to me later that the receptionist was not Asian. Maybe Latin.)

The receptionist, who was young and pretty, looked away and said, “ that will be $280 for today’s work, Mr. Murray.”

“You’re prettier and friendlier than the previous receptionist,” I continued, “ She was a mean Russian. Very frosty. I think she might have been ruined by the Chernobyl disaster. Do you ever dream about the disfigured Chernobyl babies? I do, but usually only under stressful times, like when I’m going to the dentist!”

And then I laughed, maybe a little too hard.

The receptionist pretended to be doing something important on the computer, “ Will you be paying with Visa?”

“You know it!” I shouted. “

She started swiping and typing.

“So, Orlando, would you say there are more black people there or white people?”

“I really don’t know Mr. Murray.”

“Are you on Facebook? It would be interesting for me to see if you had more black friends or white friends. I’m betting black, you being a basketball fan and all. Did you ever sleep with Shaquille O’Neal—apparently he screwed all the cheerleaders.”

The receptionist, now exasperated, shouted, “What is wrong with you?” and then she began to cry, and then I started to cry, too.

It was a little bit of a scene.

The dentist came out, calmed us both down, and then called Rachelle, who had to leave work early and come and pick me up.

Wasn’t humiliating at all.

Whenever we go for walks the dog now pulls into Captain’s Treasures at the corner of Lewis and Queen East. The place bills itself as an Antique Store (“We’ve got the best booty around”) but it’s little more than a space full of a man’s mismanaged and disorganized belongings. In short, it’s the basement of a borderline eccentric that just happens to be open to the public.

When the weather’s nice, the owner, a rather unfriendly man in his 70’s with one of those protuberant bellies that looks immensely powerful, sits out front. He looks like a farmer and he doesn’t much like to talk, but he does keep a cache of dog treats, and this has won the love of Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund. He smiles a bit when he sees her, digs into his pocket and then produces a treat, and this has earned the undying loyalty of my dog and established a kind of friendship between the man and I.

The other day there was a really cool, but really junky looking Schwinn bike in front of the store. It was about 40 years old, needed everything done to it, weighed about 250 pounds and was overpriced, but it had once been beautiful, and this made me love it.

I went in the store and spoke to the owner about it, telling him the price seemed high for a bike that needed that much work. He seemed crabby, telling me that on eBay they were four times what he was selling it for. We began a half-hearted negotiation, but he was having none of it, telling me that a girl had seen it earlier in the morning, loved it and was bringing her mother back so they could buy it. I imagined a hip 17 year-old girl, just beaming as she rode the bike down Queen Street, finally the perfect Fashionista she always dreamed she could be.

We continued our listless haggling for a bit, but it became clear that the guy just didn’t have the energy or patience for it. He was feeling sick, he told me. I suggested that he close up shop for the day and go home and rest, but he waved me off, “ Nope, you got to work everyday, cuz if you don’t, you just die. That’s the way it works. I’ve seen it.”

We then talked for some time about his health, and he seemed relieved to have somebody to whom he might unburden himself. In no time at all, this laconic, wary man was telling me all about the internal machinations of his body, and the fear--now melting into resignation-- he felt toward that. For twenty minutes we traded stories of doctors, health care systems and surgeries, and when I left I think he felt a little bit better, maybe even encouraged and less like an old man sitting alone in a roomful of his unwanted treasures, life slipping away.

The next day when I passed by, I saw that the old bicycle had been sold and that the store, for the first time, was closed. It was a terribly bittersweet moment standing there on the sidewalk, imagining the happy girl now riding off on her Schwinn and into the rest of her life, and the older man, taking the day off work for the first time, now sitting in a physician’s waiting room, thumbing through an old magazine.

As many of you know, I’ve been in negotiations to go into partnership with Ikea so that they might help market and distribute a new line of Sniper Towers that I have been developing. Unfortunately, Ikea has not been as responsive to the idea as I had anticipated and I was forced to take my prototypes to Craig’s List, where I hoped to sell a great number of my Sniper Towers, and thus convince Ikea of the viability of my business model.

As the public lacks imagination and vision, I was only able to sell one Sniper Tower, the Sniperflugen, to a man who told me that he wanted to use it as a tree house for his children.

I’m not going to lie to you, I was pretty disappointed by the apparent failure of my line of Sniper Towers, so much so that I started to see a therapist, but yesterday something wonderful happened that will greatly improve my dreams of dominating the global market for Sniper Towers.

It turns out that the guy who bought the Sniperflugen from me was actually a disgruntled loner who didn’t have children at all!

After getting caught in a two-hour traffic jam in downtown Toronto on Sunday morning due to road closures caused by the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Marathon, 42 year-old Vassily Raminovich (the man who purchased the Sniperflugen) snapped, and using the versatile and inexpensive Sniper Tower he bought from ME, shot four of the slower Marathon runners, killing three.

Obviously, all the attendant publicity surrounding this sad and tragic event will be an absolute boon to business! (I deeply sympathize with the friends and family of the slow runners who lost a loved one in this tragic display of just what an effective aid the Snipeflugen can be in taking out targets.)

As such, I am reinitiating negations with Ikea, who at this point, I am sure will be very receptive to our partnership!

**********************

Ms. Pernille Lopez
President, IKEA North America
Ikea Corporate Office
420 Alan Wood Road
Conshohocken, PA 19428

Dear Pernille:

I like your first name but am confused by the Lopez part.

Shouldn’t you be Swedish?

Your last name doesn’t sound Swedish to me. It sounds Mexican or something.

Initially I thought maybe you had a thing for Latin guys and went out and married one, but then I noticed that you are a Ms. That means you’re a single feminist who spends too much time on her career to have a relationship, right? Fair enough. You’re probably crazy rich and can pay for lots of lovers and feed your cats nothing but the finest Swedish meatballs, such as you sell at Ikea.

At any rate, you must forgive me for getting off track.

As you will have heard there was a mass shooting at a Marathon here in Toronto, and the murderer had the good sense and excellent taste to use the Snipeflugen, the Sniper Tower that I developed and hoped to market and distribute with Ikea.

It’s pretty obvious that all the publicity and free advertising surrounding the Sniperflugen has put me in a pretty powerful negotiating position, so I just wanted to write to tell you that price for the rights to both the Sniperflugen and Uggal Sniper Tower have gone way, way, up.

I will look forward to hearing from you soon, and want you to know that you should not waste your time (or mine) with any offer less than five million dollars. Home Depot and the Pottery Barn are both VERY interested.

Michael Murray

PS: If you’re lonely, and bet that you are, you should try on-line dating.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund

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Heidi been planning escape for long, long time.

Sick of no fun prison!

No liberty for Heidi. Eat only when two-leggers say eat, only go out when two-leggers say to go out, and then they make me pull them along by leash, like Heidi their slave. So lazy! It really piss Heidi off! And when bark at enemy ghost mouse, two-leggers yell at Heidi! They have mean cats in their brain heads, very mean cats!!

Been studying four-eyed-two-legged-treat-giver and it clear he not very smart. Has trouble with TV remote, not know how to set own watch and water plants long dead! Plan on leaving when he alone in den without tall pack leader. He very bad watcher! Just stare at TV programs hardly notice Heidi at all!

Each morning four-eyed-two-legged-treat-giver go out back and sit on metal stairs that lead to gravel garbage lot outside of pack den. He just sit drinking hot water from mug, staring, trying to kill the fear in his mind. He think Heidi scared of cold, steel stairs, because Heidi never gone down stairs, but Heidi not scared! Heidi lulling him into false sense of security!

Yesterday four-eyed-two-legged-treat-giver sit out with drink humming stupid Bob Marley song, back door wide open! Heid watch him, pretend like she just sitting there in sun, but when four-eye get scared by bee and start to wave arms around, spilling the hot drink sauce on himself, he began to scream, and Heidi take opportunity and bolt down stairs to freedom!!

Such a fast dog!

Plan to live in green park with many balls! Dig holes and lick self whenever want! Bark at squirrel and slaughter cats. Eat all dog treats that fall from trees! Get married to Jupiter—stud Doberman of park—and have beautiful litter of mouse hunters!

On way to beautiful horizon of new life thought I saw something move in upside down box lying on ground at foot of stairs. Smell funny. Stop and bark, bark, bark, bark. Scream at box! Try to dig under box! Will have whatever in box! Stupid box! Bark, bark, bark!

And then four-eyed-two-legged-treat-giver sneak up from behind and pick Heidi up. So like a cat! Won’t meet Heidi face to face! So cowardly! He carry Heidi back up stairs to den, yelling BAD DOG, BAD DOG, and as he doing this, Jupiter walk by with master! Could have died of embarrassment!

Hate my life!

Wish I never barked at box and gave away position!

Don’t’ know why I did that.

Maybe Heidi have ADD or anxiety disorder.

Don’t know.

On Saturday night, for the first time in my life, I went to watch live boxing. The cab driver who took us to the Bloor Boxing Club was a small and thin Jamaican man who liked to talk. In a natural and completely unforced manner, he managed to tell us his entire life story, including the terrible problem he had gambling on the horses while a younger man living in London, England. But he beat the habit, moved to Toronto and married the love of his life, with whom he raised three children, each one, he proudly told us, who now has a university degree. Leaning back, he showed us a wallet photo of his wife, “just as beautiful as the sun, she is,” he said.

Upstairs at the club there was an incredibly diverse assembly of about 100 people, mostly family and friends of the fighters. The ring announcer, in his Saturday night finery, wore a pork pie hat that sported a rooster feather and a tight vest of the type you might see on Don Cherry. He struggled throughout the night with all the complex names he had to pronounce, but he started off fine, introducing a five year-old boy in a Gap sweatshirt who was to sing the National Anthem.

Everybody in the crowd rose, but for one woman in a beret, who looked around feigning incredulity that such a display of antique patriotism could be taking place in downtown Toronto, but she quickly relented, and stood with the rest of us. So accustomed am I to YouTube sensations and TV prodigies, that I expected the boy to be a vocal genius, but no, he was just a nervous kid singing in public for the first time. Just a bit out of key, he stumbled on the words, and the crowd, as if to lift him up and infuse him with some confidence and certainty, began to sing along, at first in almost a whisper, but then our voices grew stronger as the spine thickened.

The featured bouts were all amateur, ranging from panicked 14 year-olds flailing wildly at one another to grown men throwing heavy, carefully considered blows. On the rooftop patio hotdogs were being barbequed and bottles of cheap beer sold. The crowd, as if to help, shouted encouragements at the fighters, “ Give him the jab! JAB, JAB! JAB! That’s it, way to go!” and in between the rounds an Asian woman wearing stiletto heels and track pants walked around the ring smiling, holding up a sign the declared the round number.

Just outside of the club, sitting on some cinder blocks by the door, a man sat having a cigarette. It was raining lightly, but he didn’t seem to care. It was almost 10:00 PM and he was covered in soot, explaining that he had just got off work and had hurried down to see his son fight. He described his boy’s fight and I remembered him immediately—a wide shouldered Eastern European boy who kept his eyes wide open. He always moved forward in the ring, that boy, pushing the attack, expecting no quarter nor giving any.

“You must be very proud,” I said.

The father nodded, his cigarette now hissing out in a puddle.

“Dah,” he said, “dah,” just the faintest smile visible on his face.

As many of you know, I had major surgery last month and was on a wide array of medications including Morphine, Oxycontin and Percocet. Coincidentally, at the same time that I was going through this, bats began to menace me.

The dog proved useless against the creatures, as neither her eyesight nor hearing was keen enough to detect them, and through some process of psychological denial, Rachelle simply did not acknowledge that they even existed, and so, as always, the responsibility of taking care of the problem rested on my shoulders.

Normally, my philosophy is to live and let live, but I think that these bats carry the infection, as they have a greedy, apocalyptic look to their dead eyes and so I decided I must kill them all. After doing a considerable amount of research, I attempted to destroy the bat invasion using a combination of garlic, holy water and lamps that were designed to simulate sunlight. This did not work and the plague continued, and so I called in a priest and had an exorcism, but this also proved a failure, perhaps due to the fact that as my finances are limited, I had to employ a defrocked minister now working at The Value Village.

It dawned on me last week that what I really needed to do, instead of swinging at the bats with my tennis racquet—which is what I had been reduced to-- was shoot them with silver bullets. And so, after having bought a firearm down at Sherbourne and Queen, I have now set about the construction of my own sniper tower from which I might assassinate the enemy bats.

As I am enterprising and business savvy, I am right now in negotiations to go into partnership with Ikea in the creation and marketing of my sniper towers, for which I think there will be a large and very enthusiastic market.

So far, I have two prototypes.

The first model is the Sniperflugen.

Made of cardboard painted to simulate the appearance of an urban environment (dumpster sprayed with racist graffiti), the Sniperflugen is lightweight but not particularly weather resistant. The Snipeflugen box can easily accommodate one man and a small animal of your choice to help in close quarter combat with the terror bats.

The second model is the Uggal Sniper Tower. Like the Sniperflugen, it’s also constructed out of cardboard, but it has a weather resistant interior garbage bag sheath to protect against environmental inclemency.This deluxe model comes in three versions:

1) Pine
2) Fire Escape
3) Hot dog stand

The Uggal Sniper Tower, also boasts a vacuum tube that may be implemented should the enemy bats penetrate your exterior firing perimeter and swoop in to steal the rest of your pills. The bats will immediately be sucked into a tube and contained in an appropriate receptacle.

Both of these Sniper Towers come equipped with instructions in 12 languages, an Allen’s Key and a bottle of Lingonberry Jam.

On my way to lunch the other day, I stopped into a dilapidated corner store to pick-up a newspaper. I stood in line behind a woman who buying a pack of smokes. With the dark, ragged hands of somebody who has had to learn how to punch back, she slowly and without a trace of shame, measured out her change. In groups of ten, she slid piles of pennies across the counter, before starting again. 76. 77. 78. 79. The woman running the store was growing irritated. Standing on her tiptoes and shuffling from side to side, she kept trying to make eye contact with me, a customer who wanted to pay with paper money. In the background, the sounds of Korean soap operas played from the television set.

Lady Marmalade, where I had lunch, is sort of hipster central on Queen East. Radiohead’s first CD was playing and the waitresses, all thrift store chic, drifted amiably from table to table. In front of me sat two women in their mid-30’s, a baby that was likely both prized and resented, between them. In their busy schedules they’d taken 90 minutes out of the day to catch-up, “things have been crazy since the baby’s been born! Are you still teaching yoga?” the proud mother asked.

At the table almost directly beside them sat two other women, about ten years younger, doing pretty much the same thing. Still waiting to fall in love, they talked about the life that had yet to start for them, but surely would in just a few more perfect years.

By the window sat a young couple, maybe on a date. He was dressed all in black, looking more like a waiter than he would have cared to know, and sported a patchy beard that was meant to disguise the acne scars he was so embarrassed by. The girl had curly, rust-coloured hair and exposed shoulders in spite of the cold temperature. Her glittery purse, having slipped off the back of her chair, lay on the floor. Unaware, the two of them talked away, their feet occasionally grazing beneath the table, the shock of sexual potential coursing through their bodies like caffeine.

On my way home I popped into the convenience store beneath our apartment. A thin and elderly man, with a big cowboy mustache, was buying supplies for his cats. I fell into conversation with him, finding out that they were named Sittler and Keon, after his two favourite Toronto Maple Leafs.

“They’re the best friends I ever had, “ he said, “ they’ve always been there for me and never, not once, have they let me down.”

And to whom or what point in his life his mind was traveling was anybody’s guess.

After taking the dog for a walk yesterday I stopped off at Bonjour Brioche, a little bakery and cafe that I often pick-up lunch from. I ordered a quiche from the waiter and as I sat outside with our Dachshund, I could have sworn I heard him yell back to the guy working the line, “Yeah, it’s for the crazy guy!” It seemed clear that he was talking about me. I confronted him when he returned with my food, saying, “Crazy guy? Dude, that’s so harsh!” But he acted like he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about, and so, if I wasn’t actually the “crazy guy” before, I’m pretty sure that from this point forth, I will be.

I wrote Rachelle to tell her about this incident, and she very helpfully sent my email out to all of our friends, soliciting opinions on what I might have done to be thought of as “crazy” by the staff at Bonjour Brioche.

Here is a list of some of the responses, and when necessary, my rebuttal:

“It’s the cape, Michael, the stupid, fucking cape!”
--Jillian Dickens

The cape that Jillian refers to was a gift from my mother, who still, to this day, gives me Star Wars themed gifts, as she remembers how much I loved the movie as a boy. Yes, the cape is eccentric and has Darth Vader emblazoned on the back of it, but I only wore it a few times—on weather appropriate days—when my mother was in town.

“It might be the toothpaste stains on your shoes, clothes, face (sometimes glasses) and the clumps that often appear in you hair. Michael, some people might see this as evidence of craziness rather than the enthusiastic and energetic application of oral hygiene it so clearly is.”
--Margaret Atwood

This is a pretty good point, I guess. (Always leave it to Peggy to get to the heart of a matter.) I have always had difficulty mastering the electric toothbrush, as it sometimes feels like my wrist just isn’t strong enough to control the machinery.

“Didn’t Michael once say he broke down in tears at that place when they told him they had run out of Coca Cola?”
--Douglas Mason

This is true, but it only happened the once, and I explained to the staff that I was feeling very emotional that day because I had just seen Avatar, so I’m sure that couldn’t be the reason.

“Rachelle, is Michael still wearing Heidi’s leash as a belt, for, what did he say, “convenience" sake? And didn’t he fall down one day and get dragged along the sidewalk for 30 feet to the steps of that café where he was freed by the staff? I mean, do I really need to say anymore?”
--Keo Phokeo

This was a very embarrassing incident for me. Although Heidi is a Miniature Dachshund, she is very powerful, and when she saw that squirrel she took off like a goddamned missile. I have since stopped using Heidi’s leash as a belt on our walks.

“Is he still trying to sell goldfish on the street corner? That could be it.”
--Joe Macdonald

“Rachelle, remember when he thought that the earthquake was an alien invasion? Didn’t he run into some restaurant looking for people to help him protect “Mother Earth?”
--Julia Barylak

I did not run into Bonjour Brioche, but a nearby hardware store, as I figured weapons would be easier to acquire there, so I do not think that could be the reason.

"They're totally right, he is crazy"
--Susan Typert

This was not a constructive comment.

The other weekend Rachelle and I went to Little India, a six block stretch on Gerrard Street in the east end of Toronto. Improbably, at the end of the strip of restaurants, grocery and clothing stores sat a sports memorabilia shop.

A middle-aged Indian guy with a heavy beard and mustache was running the place, and he sat alone in the fading light of the day with a few candles burning nearby. Seemingly surprised to see customers, he jumped up and apologized to us, explaining that for some complicated reason that was most certainly not his fault, his power had been shut off.

The store was disorganized and chaotic, almost accidental in appearance, and it was clear that it would never see a profit. He had about ten baseball bats there, and as is the wont and need of many men, I picked them all up one by one, set into my stance and took a few swings. One of the bats was a Don Mattingly signature model.

You should know that I carry Don Mattingly’s rookie baseball card in my wallet.

In 1984 he hit .343 with 23 HR's and 110 RBI's.

I loved Don Mattingly. He was my hero and favourite player and I saw in him, just as I saw in myself, an unlimited and beautiful future.

(I am rather ashamed to admit that I actually had this poster on my wall)

The man who ran the store wanted $350 for the bat, and tried hard to convince me that Mattingly had actually used it in practice. I’m pretty sure that the man, who offered no documentation of his claim, was either lying or mistaken, but it didn’t matter to me. There was no way I was going to spend that kind of money on a bat.

I’d never seen myself as a memorabilia guy. Autographs make no sense to me and I certainly don’t consider a piece of wood that Don Mattingly may have touched to be a holy relic. And so I declined to purchase the thing, in spite of the more and more desperate supplications and price reductions he made. How long must he have waited for somebody like me to walk into his dark store, a man who had actually kept his baseball hero’s card in his wallet—the dream customer-- only to have him walk out without making a buy?

I imagined him talking to his family back in India-- maybe on Skype-- trying to make the best of things. “Yes, business is about to pick up, just today I had a customer who was very interested in much of my merchandise. He said he would be back soon!”

About a week later, Rachelle and I went to the St. Lawrence Antique Market, and although I think of myself as somebody that’s above the purchase of sport’s memorabilia, the truth is that I am not. I bought a glass with the image of Johnny Bench (another one of my boyhood sports heroes) on it, and overpaid for it, too.

The older I get, the more I find myself buying nostalgic, little reminders of the past. It's a beautiful and sad thing to do, I think, and I did not expect that it would ever happen to me, but there you have it. We do strange and unexpected things just to feel our hearts young one more time.

A lot of people have been writing me to ask how it is that I spend my days, and so with that in mind, I am providing you my To-Do list for September 10, 2010

1. Bomb rebel cities and find shelter for refugees*
2. Finish dishes from last night
3. Upload our cottage photographs onto Facebook-- remembering to de-tag the ugly ones of myself.
4. Take dog for a walk and PLAY fetch with her, too!
5. Write Jessica Simpson

6. Go through old clothes in preparation for garage sale tomorrow
7. Dye hair
8. Replace booze that I drank last night from the liquor cabinet (Priority is gin, but if possible address the scotch and rum situation, too)
9. Invoice magazine for article I wrote on hang-over’s
10. Go to bank to see if anybody left any cash in ATM
11. Return Michael Lohan’s telephone call
12. Do my Curves workout (Even if I don’t feel like it. Especially if I don’t feel like it!)
13. Find out when Rachelle’s birthday is and commit it to memory
14. Return video of Little Fockers
15. Learn how to cheat at on-line Scrabble (Email Gillian Welbourne and ask her!)
16. Try to remove Playdough encrusted on Rachelle’s blow dryer.
17. Continue work on my new cologne line, Country Proud
18. Pick-up something for dinner (Chicken?)
19. Finish making 9/11 party dance mix CD.
20. Pick-up the dry cleaning!!!

* I just realized that this errand might cause some confusion, and just want people to know that I am only referring to a video game (You Shall Know My Thunder: IV) that I have been playing for the last 6 weeks.

As Rachelle and I are extraordinarily popular, we’re invited out for dinner pretty much every night. As such, many people ask me for advice on how to compose a proper thank you to your hosts. With this in mind, I’ve decided to share a note I just wrote so that my fans might have a better understanding of how they should approach the matter should they ever receive an invitation out for dinner.

Dear Allan and Heather:

As I am classier than you can ever imagine, I have decided to WOW you by writing a brief note to thank you for dinner last night. It was good, but upon reflection I’ve decided to only award you a seven out of ten. Please don’t despair, for this is a very good score, and the fact that you didn't really nail it, just gives you some space to improve for next time.

As I am helpful, I have decided to give you some tips as to how you might improve your score the next time you have us over.

1) Serve Prime Rib of beef. I understand that Heather is a vegetarian and that her daughter is some sort of Vegan, but I really like Prime Rib of Beef, and as it is very expensive, I don’ t have it very often. Remember, it’s not about you, it’s about the guests!

2) It’s inevitable that at some point during the evening Allan will start to go on about his lawn or his various theories on child rearing and managing employees. (I think it was about 9:30 last night, when he switched from wine to beer) This is boring for us. It would be considerate of you to provide us with an alternate entertainment source, such as video games. I prefer old 1980's arcade games, while Rachelle likes the newer Wii stuff.

3) I couldn’t help but notice that I really didn’t have much opportunity (I felt I had to force it) to talk about how good I was at sports in high school last night. You should be attentive to this and always ask me questions about my sporting days, with particular interest in my tennis exploits and that catch I made in Little League.

4) Ice cream for dessert just tells your guests that you’re really not trying. You have to step up your game on this.

5) Gift bags. You don’t have to spend a lot of money on this, but it’s important that you show a little bit of imagination and let us know you’re trying. Something simple, like a couple of Starbucks gifts cards, maybe a CD and some candy would be sufficient.

6) If a guest offers to show you his recent surgery scar, even if it happens to coincide with dinner, you must enthusiastically accept, even if it’s still oozing a little bit.

At any rate, thanks for dinner, and know that we’ll look forward to returning, just as soon as you’ve stepped up your game!

Michael Murray

Many of you have inquired after my Success with Women Boot Camp.

The course costs $275-- including snacks and drinks-- and takes place every second weekend in my apartment and various locales throughout the Greater Toronto Area. For eight hours each day, my students will get comprehensive training from me, Michael Murray, on how to successfully score with the ladies. These sessions will include videos, (where we watch movies like Casablanca, Love Actually, Die Hard and Slapshot), lectures and role playing, as well as field trips where the students will put into practice what they’ve learned.

Some might ask, why should I pay you to teach me how to be successful with women? What do you know?

I refer you to my photograph.

I now refer you to a photograph of my girlfriend of five years.

Obviously, I know a few things about the art of seduction, and it would be my pleasure to share this with you for just $275.

I can make an average guy a stud!

I don’t want to give away too many of the secrets I will be sharing at the Boot Camp, but I will tell you just a little bit so that you might see the quality of information you will be receiving under my instruction.

A few tips:

Dress sharp!

Name your fantasy baseball team after your lady. ( Rachelle’s Rockets, for instance)

Use a blow dryer!

Avoid visible tattoos with profanity, sports logos and infections!

Share your non-violent feelings.

Be a confident dancer!

Remember that Christmas is not just a time for receiving, but for giving, too.

Don’t talk about your date’s friend Carmella’s hot, Latin ass. (even if it is truly exceptional)

Be playful, but not in a punchy way.

Be very careful in talking about Jesus being your co-pilot!

Still not enough to convince you to attend Michael Murray’s Success with Women Boot Camp? I will now provide you with some special bonus information.

Pets.

Women love animals, and you would do well to cultivate a close relationship with one. For the most part-- depending on the region you live in-- this excludes involvement with dog fighting, cock fighting and other similar enterprise. However, if you live in the right part of town, it is perfectly acceptable, even prestigious to have such associations and to own a pit bull or mastiff named Blood Face. But for the most part, women like small dogs (Pugs, Yorkshire Terriers or Dachshunds) with simple human names like Ted or Jack or Carter, as this will cause the female brain to make an unconscious association with family, loyalty and friendship. The dog will also provide evidence that other living creatures are capable of loving you.

You should not use a cat. A single man with a cat is a little bit like a single man living with an apartment full of taxidermy, and snakes, even small ones, are entirely out of bounds.

If you’re still not convinced that this course is for you, then I will provide you with some photographs of just a few of the women that have successfully romanced.

I will look forward to working with you all soon, and congratulations on taking this first step in taking charge of this very important part of your life!