This is what has happened to me.

For a good chunk of my life— well over a decade— I lived without ever getting on a bike. I guess I thought I was done with them, and then suddenly my wife gave me one for my birthday. It’s a beautiful piece of art, this bike, elegant yet sturdy, conjuring the romance of a distant era of picnics by the lake. (You know, tweed, repression and big skirts, that sort of thing.) No matter, we immediately dubbed the bike, Linus The Sinus— in honor of my seasonal allergies— and then my wife and I headed down to the shop to buy all the necessary accoutrements, including a helmet.

Rachelle looked at me, ” Really, is that the helmet you’re going to buy?”

“Yes, it’s fun.”

The helmet in question was purple and decorated with decals of yellow caution tape.

“It makes you look like you’re not all there, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Special.”

“I am special.”

“Yes, yes you are.”

“I’m special like a gold medal cycling champion made out of sharks.”

“Ring your bell, honey, see if it works.”

I rang my bell and it worked.

“Do you see what I mean?” Rachelle asked.

Toronto, like most big cities, is a dangerous place to ride a bike. There’s a climate of unremitting guerilla warfare between cyclists and vehicles, the streets are a congested, unpredictable frenzy of insane people driving cars, insane people riding bikes (often kicking cabs or attacking them with bicycle locks. I actually have a friend who grew so furious at a cab that she got off her bike and threw it at the still moving vehicle.), insane people on skateboard or on foot, buses, streetcars and a variety of other danger zones, like freshly dead (skiddy!) pigeons and streetcar tracks which often feel like they were designed to capture bicycle tires and then catapult the rider into oncoming traffic. It’s a treacherous landscape, and it requires some attention, and so, after a dozen years being off a bike, I’ve been tentative in my approach, often taking to the sidewalk in particularly hairy zones.

I’m aware that this is wrong, and I’m very conscious of moving slowly and apologetically when I do this. It doesn’t much matter. If you have a disposition to be pissed-off, you will be pissed-off when you see me, and if you don’t, well, you’re likely to be satisfied by my apology, weak grin and enfeebled, breathless pace

The other day while pausing on the sidewalk waiting for Rachelle— who was in a store shopping— another cyclist came up behind me. He was pulling a little cart behind him and his eyes were large, as if in the midst of a roller coaster panic.

“Space!” he shouted at me.

I did not know exactly what that meant, but figured it must be a common expression used by cyclists. I moved my bike onto the street and tried to make myself as small as possible.

“Space, space!!” he shouted again.

And then he stopped his bike exactly where mine had been, took off his helmet and said, “Sir, where can I weld? Do you know the welding place? It is here, no?”

We were maybe ten yards apart and so I had to yell back to him, but my voice, thin and raspy at the best of times, was lost to the industry of the city. So I got closer to him, but still found myself yelling and for whatever reason, over enunciating each word, as if I had to really concentrate in getting my words right.

“I know nothing of welding!” I yelled back, “I am waiting for my wife!”

“I like to rest in the sun, too! Do you like to weld?”

It was apparent that the man I was speaking with had a mental disability, and it was while I was in the midst of this exchange that my wife came out of the store with our groceries. As I was putting on my new cycling gloves, Rachelle looked over at me, “You know how this looks, don’t you?” I told her that I did and we cycled home in silence, her on the street and me, occasionally ringing my bell to alert pedestrians, on the sidewalk. Ever since, I have been a lone, cycling wolf.

The other day while riding down a sidewalk in an expensive residential area of the city know at The Annex, a man who was passing by stopped and turned to me.

“You shouldn’t be doing that, you know.”

Irritated, feeling as if it was impossible for me to catch a break, I turned and looked at him. It was Ryan Gosling.

Ryan. Fucking. Gosling.

It’s not enough that he breaks up street fights in Manhattan, but now he has to be the cycling police in Toronto, too?

I have no idea why I said this, but before I knew it I had sneered, ” Give me a break, Gosling!”

At this point I was hoping that the faint momentum I had going for me on the bike would keep me gliding by him and that nothing further would come of our encounter. It would become a grand story, a part of my mythology. I would recount again and again for rapt audiences the story of me telling off Ryan Gosling, mister superhero movie star.

But no, he jogged toward me.

“No, I won’t give you a break. Either walk your bike or ride on the street like you’re supposed to.”

I stopped my bike and gave him a sour look, trying to think of something to say.

“Look, I just have one lung, okay?” is what I came up with.

Gosling looked at me, kind of like the way his character in Drive did, “Did you hear me or not?”

I was going to give him the dismissive “Sheesh” sound and ride away, but he’d put his hand on my bike.

“No, no, you’re not going to ride away from this. Now just get off the sidewalk, okay? You’re a grown man, do the right thing.”

I got off my bike and sighed.

“George Clooney wouldn’t be do difficult, ” I said.

Gosling looked at me and raised his eyebrow, “Oh, yes he would. Have you ever worked with him?” His eyes twinkled and I felt a little bit like I might be falling in love.

“I’ve written him a few times,” I responded dreamily.

“Well, you should just take my word for it and move along.”

Slowly, I began to slink my bike away. It was humiliating, this. I turned around and looked back, hopeful that something devastating and witty would come to me, but all I saw was superstar standing there, still watching me, his hands on his hips.

What a dick.
What a fucking dick.
I would throw my bike at him.
It would be a sudden Ninja move.
It would hit him first in the throat and then he would respect me.
And then we would be best friends and my love for him would be filial and not creepy.

Life would be good.

However, throwing my bike at him proved difficult as my allergies were bad and I was hyperventilating a bit (RYAN FUCKING GOSLING!), and so I just kept walking my bike away. I didn’t want it to end this way though, and so I stopped and turned around, fully planning on yelling, ” “The Notebook was a fucking Jokebook!” but Gosling was gone. Even though the star was nowhere to be seen, I felt his presence and continued to walk my bike down the street, now the slowest, saddest man in the world.

About five years ago, on Wellington, in the burgeoning and wealthy neighbourhood of Westboro, a new Royal Oak opened. Adjacent to the trendy Westboro village is Hintonburg, which is proving resistant to gentrification. The area, which is gritty and working class, refuses to be taken over by the hipsters who can’t yet afford the Glebe. And so, these two areas exist, side by side,  coming together to mingle at places like the Oak.

On the street, sketchy looking men ride wobbly bikes that look like children’s cast-offs.  Their shirts unbuttoned, empty plastic bags flapping out from their pockets, they stare with hungry eyes at the customers on the patio. On the sidewalk, other men wear penny loafers and Brooks Brother shirts. They look confident, like they’ve been to Europe and Asia many times.

Near the entrance to the patio are the regulars. At first there were just six of them, but soon there are over a dozen. People know each other here.  They wave one another in off the street. Amidst an impromptu tangle of chairs and tables, they recount the stories they’ve been saving all day.

Two articulate women– each one drinking a glass of white wine—are trying to figure out if they want to share an “Oak Combo.” Later, one of them tells the other that she’s getting a divorce. That’s her secret, the news that must be shared, in person, over a drink.

There is pawn shop across the street. An immense, bald man wearing a t-shirt that says “For those about to fart, we salute you,” approaches it. He swings his arms when he walks, his belly pushed out. With him is a thin and agitated man wearing pimp jewelry and an over-large Dany Heatley jersey.  He’s hoping somebody accidentally bumps into him. He’s just looking for an excuse.

A woman in a pink top sits alone at a table reading the Kitchespee Times.  She’s small, with curly hair and sweet and curious eyes. She’s eating a nation of poutine. When she speaks, she reveals a startling and crisp British accent.

Two men who look like they might be Carelton Profs drink Guinness. One of them is very expressive, talking with his hands. It appears like he’s very accustomed to speaking in front of people, of making sure that his ideas are understood. Beside them, a guy and two women are talking about somebody they know who has become a lover to one of 50 cents’ bodyguards.  When the man hears this, he sighs, covering his eyes with his hands.

Well maintained women talk about the Stilton and Port pate at Thyme and Again. One of the women has a small bite or abrasion on her shoulder. She simply cannot stop scratching at it. It’s driving her bananas. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Of the three women at the table near the door, one is tall and blonde and deeply tanned. Her clothes could be expensive. The women who are less blonde and tall and deeply tanned, look grateful to be out with her. She speaks with bold certainty. Inspirational. Motivational. A salesperson out with a couple of new employees,  she’s trying to convince them that the good life she enjoys is just a few sales away.

Each year (coincidentally around Christmas time!), we are presented with the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. It’s a weird confection, one that projects the false back stage hysteria of Entertainment Tonight and the insider giddiness of Fashion TV  with just a dash of Cirque de Soleil added in a surreal and feeble attempt to make it “arty.” I think the idea might be to turn this thinly-veiled infomercial into a Christmas TV tradition (think “the Grinch” or “A Very Brady Christmas”). In truth, it’s just an excuse for men to feel OK about leering at sex fantasies while pretending to get gift ideas for their wives. Whether these gifts make anybody feel any better or sexier is a matter for debate. I imagine that many women, clad in their husbands’ idea of fantasy lingerie, might feel distinctly unlike Giselle Bundchen and just, well, ridiculous.

A friend of mine who lived for a time in both New York and London, claims to have seen a number of super-models out in the city. He also claims that they’re not attractive. Preternaturally thin and curvy, they seem a different species, alien. Striking, yes, but attractive? No. Cubist renditions of women, particular features exaggerated to alarming effect, he said that he wasn’t at all attracted to them, that they bore no resemblance to the women of Earth. And so it is that the genetic marvels that comprise the super-modeling community of the world really only exist in and for our imagination.  They’re visual projections of the media that have nothing to do with reality, conjured as if by magic to sell us a sense of want, inferiority and ill-fitting jeans.

The show is absurd and very nearly impossible to watch. I mean it. I’m not just saying that because I think my girlfriend will get mad at me if I say it was hot, hot, hot. It is not hot, hot, hot, it is stupid, stupid, stupid (once again I ask you to think “A Very Brady Christmas). It commences with the soft core trumpet-stylings of Chris Bolti and slo-motion shots of the various models standing around back-stage getting primped and buffed like the high performance vehicles of fashion they are. There are quick cuts everywhere. Behind the scenes of the fashion show it is a frenzy of activity and gathering momentum as beautiful women collide and jiggle, an obviously gay and obviously French man is brandishing a mike, telling them “to make it as ‘ot, ‘ot and sexy as it ‘as ever been!!” Somebody else yells GOGOGO!! and the models  gallop onto a stage that’s festooned with a huge stuffed bear, gift boxes and a multitude of candy canes. With wings attached they Rock n’Roll down the catwalk like the saucy colts they are.

If this is not enough charisma and sexual energy for you, then you are blessed to discover that there are live musical performances. Seal. Remember him? A bald, black man who looks like he could have been a character on an episode of Star Trek? Well, he’s married to Heidi Klum now, and since she is both a super-model and the nominal host of the show, he got to sing his hit song Crazy. Models marched past as he and his wife blew kisses at one another. It was touching in a gratuitous and completely fake kind of way. We were also treated to the spectacle of Ricky Martin who once again tried to gamely proclaim his heterosexuality through song. His gestures toward dance indicated that he could be afflicted with any number of physical or mental disorders. It was very embarrassing, like watching the drunk guy at the office Christmas party dancing to Rock Lobster.

Tyra Banks officially announced that she was retiring from the runway after this, her last show. Like the aged professional athlete who just doesn’t know when to quit, Tyra looked a little lost and out of place. In comparison to the other models, Tyra has super-sized things. Most were wearing thongs made from dental floss or the slenderest thread from a spider’s web, but Tyra was pretty well concealed. They didn’t have her in flannel pajamas, but it was pretty clear that by next year they would. To compensate for her special wardrobe, Tyra struck a variety of fierce poses, showing us that personality counts, too. She ended by marching off the stage holding a scepter above her head, proclaiming that her interests had evolved, and that now she wanted to help people (through her daytime talk show, which it turns out was marketed with just as much zeal as any of the lingerie that was modeled), rather than seduce them. Me too, Tyra, me too, I know exactly how you feel.

Over the last three decades, Madonna’s success has had little to do with actual music and everything to do with the theatrical construction of a persona choreographed around music. Her performances have always been spectacles, rigidly controlled exhibitions of camp grandeur. In this regard, she was made for the halftime show at the Super Bowl, the place where camp grandeur, nostalgia, commerce and Americana is mixed into a syrupy cocktail and then be blasted off into the world like a rocket.

Personally, I thought that Madonna did pretty well in her performance. Obviously, she was going to be subject to heavy criticism. She’s 53 now, the majority of the athletes on the field had no idea who she was and given the nature of how she’s framed her career, she was obliged to once again play the role of omnisexual femme fatale. It’s a pretty difficult situation in which to truly excel, I think.

No matter, Madonna was pulled out, as if Cleopatra on a barge, by an army of hulking centurions. Amidst the dry ice swirl of gay iconography, Madonna emerged as a gold-clad Valkyrie, only instead of casting judgment on who should rise and fall in battle— as in the Norse tradition— she was a glitter bomb shilling for Bridgestone tires, Vogue Magazine and most importantly, herself.

As irony consumed itself, the question wasn’t how Madonna could maintain any semblance of artistic/professional credibility, but how she could credibly maintain her image as a vivacious sexual dynamo living on the cutting edge.

Well, in the entertainment industry, the first thing you do is refuse to age. Madonna, necessarily Vampiric, fed off the blood of Nicki Minaj, M.I.A. and LMFAO, who all appeared on stage with her at various times. She looked mostly as she has for the last 30 years, although conspicuously more covered up now, and she gave a solid, professional performance that was vividly commercial, appealing familiar to aging Gen X’ers and well, not too embarrassing.

Still, I found it kind of poignant. Madonna remains a relatively athletic and competent dancer, but her movements are little slower, a little softer and more practiced than when she was younger. The motion looked largely the same as it always did, but there was just less pop, less sex to it. She moved almost gingerly about the stage, careful not to fall or do anything that her body would no longer permit, and when one of her supporting dancers was holding her up as she did some sort of cartwheel thing (designed more to show she could do it than to add anything of substance to the show) you could see in his face a kind of apprehension. He wasn’t interacting with a peer but with somebody’s mother, and he was careful to be gentle and sturdy, in short, to not drop her. The look on his face said that Madonna was no longer a viable sexual creature—she had passed through into a different realm, a realm from which there was no return.

Watching, I found that my eye no longer fell naturally upon her. It used to be that when I saw her move I was sparked by an almost exhilarating sexual charisma. Everything she did was an aggressive seduction, the manifestation of her ever questing sexual vitality, but she seemed remote from that now and I couldn’t help but notice the physical charisma, the life and sex appeal radiating out of all those who were supposed to be background players. Seeing that natural fact of aging, however cleverly disguised and professionally executed, rendered Madonna vulnerable, and watching her try so hard to be who she was when younger— to reach back for those moments—instead of realizing the performer she might have grown into, made me feel a sympathy I don’t normally experience during the halftime show of the Super Bowl.

Michael Murray

Pajiba.com

I was struck by this observation while watching A Charlie Brown Christmas, which is entirely unique in the genre of animated Christmas specials. The first oddity is the jazz soundtrack. Composed by Vince Guaraldi, the score is so integral to the show’s mood and tone, that it’s practically a character. There’s a thoughtful, adult quality to it, one that suggests art rather than commerce, and although the show was released in 1965, it has a pre-modern, almost rural feel to it.

Although Linus and Lucy (the signature piece of music to which all the Peanuts famously danced) doesn’t appear until about halfway through the special, it became so culturally embedded that it was used as the theme song for all subsequent specials.

However, it’s not this piece of music that starts A Charlie Brown Christmas, but another Guaraldi composition. Wistful and contemplative, this music is in no rush, nor does it try too hard to sell you anything, be it a mood or a new song for your iPod.

As this music plays, the cartoon opens with a slow, 10-second pan. We move languorously across the winter landscape to watch the Peanuts skating on a frozen lake. With implacable faces, they glide about the ice. Instead of jubilantly playing as a group, as most children would, they seem indifferent to one another. Content to do their own thing, they seem lost in their own world. While this is slowly unfolding, we hear children’s voices, slightly out of tune, singing Christmas Time is Here. This has to be the most sombre, even mournful, Christmas carol ever.

Of course, the music isn’t the only thing that’s disarming about A Charlie Brown Christmas. The voices of the Peanuts and the rhythms of their speech have always seemed a little bit weird to me. There’s a choppy, almost breathless quality to the way they deliver their lines, and it wasn’t until recently that I discovered that the actors who voiced the Peanuts were indeed children.

Typically, when we’re watching a cartoon like The Simpsons, we’re hearing adult actors performing the voices of the children. This adds all sorts of polish and depth to the delivery. The actors furnish their lines with the knowing maturity of adults who understand exactly what the writing team intended.

In the case of the Peanuts, the children used for the voices were sometimes too young to know how to read, and their lines were fed to them, half a line at a time, and then spliced together.

For this reason, there’s an unusual pace and innocence in the way the characters speak.

It’s as if the words were translated from an adult language to a child’s language, making it simultaneously alien and familiar. Sometimes, it’s like the kids don’t even really understand what they’re saying.

It’s all very strange and dislocating, but it has the ring of truth to it.

At any rate, the plot moves forward and Charlie Brown is not in the Christmas spirit. He attempts to direct the school pageant, but proves a failure at that. He then bungles the task of picking out a tree, choosing one that’s little more than an emaciated sprig of parsley. However, after Linus delivers the epiphanic Gospel of Luke, in which the true meaning of Christmas is revealed, things take a turn for the better. The tree, attended to by the Peanuts gang, fulfils its beautiful potential, and we’re left with the image of everybody, Charlie Brown included, singing beneath an immense night sky as snow falls.

Charlie Brown, a square peg in a world of round holes, always has an uncertain frown, as if drawn by somebody with a shaky hand, on his face. The jangly lines of an insomniac circle his eyes, and despite his very best efforts to be like the effortlessly confident and graceful Snoopy, things just never work out for him. The melancholic, depressive glaze of the Peanuts is unmistakable, and that’s one of the reasons that I think it makes for such a strange and compelling Christmas special.

I suppose there are many people who relate to Charlie Brown at this time of year. With manufactured Christmas muzak bombarding us at the shopping malls, many of us feel pressured to be happy and to confront obligations, both financial and social, that we really want no part of. Often, the absences in our lives feel amplified at this time, and it’s easy to fall through the cracks and feel blue, like an outsider, like Charlie Brown.

Each year, the eccentric Peanuts special returns and washes over us like a Miles Davis performance. A Charlie Brown Christmas comes at a different tempo, giving the audience the opportunity to fill the space between the notes that have been struck, and hopefully, like Charlie Brown, find some solace in a restive moment of grace and innocence.

Being a regular at the Laff felt an awful lot like living in a Tom Waits song, but it felt even more like actually being Tom Waits. The cast of characters defied invention and each night tended to bring with it some surreal treasure, some story that you knew you’d be repeating in twenty years.

There was Rollie– the unreliable shop-lifter– who would set up the “Rollie-Mart”near the shuffleboard table. It was a very poor man’s version of a flea market and you could place orders with him, say a book on baseball, and two weeks later he’d show up not with a book, but an actual baseball. For his efforts you were obliged to give him a couple of dollars.

There was kung-fu Dan who was so named because if you woke him up, he

would arise swinging, shouting “get away from my stuff!” There was Tom St.Jean who had to spend a weekend in prison for a DUI offense, and returned to the fold championing prison as a kind of vacation, like Florida, replete with good food and cable. And there were Monday nights’ when Jen worked– when she stood on the chair and reached up to change the station on the television set she’d inevitably expose a ribbon of flesh at the base of her back and the room would just go silent.

People ordered large beers there, or if they didn’t, they ordered many small ones. One Canada Day the smallest unit of alcohol the waiter’s would permit you to buy was a six-pack. Tiny, little tables full of huge, empty beer bottles—an ocean of empties. If you knew the waiter, you could get “traveller’s, or maybe drink after hours.

There are two stories that sum up the Laff for me. One night a scratchy looking man came in dragging a garbage bag full of something on the floor.  He went from customer to customer trying to sell them the contents, which turned out to be meat he’d stolen from some butcher. He’d proffer a bleeding and dripping rump roast from table to table, the saran wrap unpeeling as he tried to convince you it was worth five dollars. The waiter had enough and tossed him out. To express his displeasure with the waiter, he threw the roast at the window, it hit with a resounding thump leaving a trail of grease and juice trailing down the window. All the patrons rushed to the window to see what had happened—all of them still clutching their beer. You did not go anywhere without your beer.

On a cold winter’s night the doors smashed open. A man covered in blood fell to the floor while his friend tried to, I don’t know, staunch the bleeding, I guess. The two were so positioned that the door remained open, and the cold air from outside was whistling in. This lasted for perhaps a minute, at which point the bar collectively put on their jackets and continued drinking while the man bled on the floor.

We won’t see the likes of the Laff again.

Michael  Murray

Another Crash in miniature, NBC’s Southland fills the spot vacated by the departed ER and is being billed as a raw and authentic look at L.A. and the cops who police it. Unfolding beneath the scorched light of a pre-apocalyptic City of Angels, where serial killers, gangsters, and celebrity flotsam crisscross the same landscape, Southland is character rather than case-driven. Starring the characterlessly good looking Benjamin McKenzie, who plays rookie cop Benjamin Sherman, we follow the interlocking narratives of about a half-dozen different officers and detectives. Sherman, a child of privilege, is subordinate to his partner, John Cooper, who comes across as a meathead, the sort of guy who’d tell fart jokes at a party. He speaks and moves quickly, trying to impress and frighten Sherman, whom he contemptuously refers to as “Richie Rich” with worldly, impatient cynicism.

On a nocturnal tour through the seamy underbelly of L.A., Cooper handles meth heads and hookers with casual ease, while Sherman sits rigid and humorless in the passenger seat. It’s impossible for the young officer to tell the undercover vice cops from the criminals, and this, of course, is the point. When you enter into the belly of the beast, lines become blurred and morality indistinct.

However, what’s more striking than the show’s philosophical underpinnings is its self-conscious attempt to impose a documentary aesthetic onto a carefully crafted drama. Shots are obscured or framed in an unconventional, kinetic manner meant to suggest we’re participating in an uncensored slice of life. In an attempt at realism, swear words are bleeped out, but after this starts to feel like a distracting gimmick and not an authentic representation of the patios of the street. I suppose the idea is to make us feel like embedded passengers on an unpredictable journey rather than the audience, but the relentless artiness of the technique becomes cloying, and I found myself wishing they would stop trying to impress me.

In spite of this art-school eagerness to please, there’s an appealing lyricism that permeates Southland. When the show starts, its simple script informing us that only 9,800 cops patrol the four million inhabitants of L.A. fills the screen. Surging, masculine music plays in the background, and as sepia-tinted images of the last century of the city’s underworld scroll by, we have the sense of a doomed but noble constabulary marching into an eternal battle. It’s a great opening, one that manages to be simultaneously antique and contemporary.

Many of the show’s scenes are composed with a painterly ambition. When two police officers are about to enter a dark and fetid home, dogs bark dangerously as they knock on the door. As they move through the home, the camera lingers on small, almost arbitrary images—an untended plate of food, a partial glimpse of the frayed fabric on some furniture—before revealing the rotted, half-consumed fingers of a corpse. Watching this unfold, we feel the same sense of dread and inevitability that infused David Fincher’s Se7en. The L.A. these officers inhabit looms over them, and with each step they take it presses closer, threatening to consume them entirely.

As each episode draws to its conclusion, Southland becomes as evocative as a music video. The soundtrack appeals to our melancholy, and slowly, the camera pans over unguarded moments in the lives of the central stories we’ve followed for the last hour: a detective makes love to his fragile wife while their dog watches from the hallway; a stoic detective stands sadly in the kitchen while her elderly mother yells some eccentricity from upstairs; and Cooper sits at bar alone, across from a criminal who was busted earlier in the day—both drinking, both, essentially, the same. It’s not the most profound thing you’re going to see, but like Crash, for a moment or two, it will make you feel something, even if you don’t have to think too hard about it.

The houses, like those who live inside them, are imperfect and have the tendency to shape the lives within, rather than the other way around. Unlike Rockcliffe, where you can build a glittering palace to your vanity, you can’t always get exactly what you want in New Edinburgh, but sometimes have to live without a garage. You’re still rich, of course, but you get to have an everyday complaint or two so that you can feel connected when you head down to Beechwood, the main artery that serves as the de facto line between Vanier and not Vanier.

Running through two oppositional demographics, the street gives birth to a confusing litter of shops and bars. Neither high-end nor low-end places really work along this strip, and so there is an eccentric and hopeful mix of places that really wish they were located somewhere else — somewhere better or somewhere worse, as the case may be.

On the street, there will be a bar for those with money and then another bar for those with less money, neither establishment drawing quite enough of a clientele to be the success they wanted to be. Every business here seems to be in the process of becoming rather than being, if you know what I mean.

Divisoria in New Edinburgh. Photography by Clive Branson

My favourite place in Beechwood village is Divisoria, a new store that sells “Philippine and Oriental” goods. It’s optimistic, this, placing a Chinatown corner store in an area dominated by either Franco or Anglo palates. Inside, where there might one day be customers, they try to sell canned sardines and karaoke machines, and behind the cash, affixed to the wall, hangs a heart cut out from a brown cardboard box upon which is proudly taped the first loonie they received from a sale.

No, New Edinburgh, in spite of the presence of diplomats and politicians, still has a working-class shadow cast across it. And living there, with the houses so densely and imperfectly arranged, you can’t help feeling an intimacy and sympathy with the diverse array of people around you, and this — this is a nice thing to feel in any neighbourhood. — Michael Murray

“This looks good, we should see it,” she said on Saturday night as we watched a trailer for the movie on her laptop.

In this promo Fassbender sits on a subway with a crisp scarf knotted perfectly around his neck. He simmers, casting his penetrating sex eyes upon a pretty, married woman who beneath his steady, tactile gaze, is flattered, nervous, vulnerable and curious. It’s a piece of hypnosis, really, and it had entirely mesmerized my wife.

Trying to break the spell, I said, ” Fassbender looks good in a scarf, eh? You ever have somebody look at you like that on the subway?”

Rachelle did not respond, but replayed the trailer, watching it with as much concentration and intensity as I have ever seen in her. It was almost like she was solving a math problem, except that there was what looked like a little bit of spittle forming on the bottom left corner of her lip.

Me: “Did you hear what I said?”

Nothing.

Me: “You know, a woman tried to pick me up on the subway two years ago. I was wearing my cool shoes, you know the ones? The Steve Madden ones? She had a rather pronounced facial tic, though, and a bit of a stutter, so maybe it wasn’t a huge compliment..”

Still silence.

I gave Rachelle a push to the shoulder.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “tomorrow we go see this movie.”

I reminded her that we’d seen the director’s ( Steve McQueen III) first movie Hunger, and that she didn’t like it.

“Remember, it was about emaciated guys smearing fecal matter on the wall of a prison cell? Fassbender was one of those guys, you know? You thought he was gross.”

“It just shows what a brilliant actor he is.”

“Well, just keep in mind that you were disgusted and bored by what a brilliant actor he was. Why can’t we go see The Descendents instead? George Clooney! He’s winning!”

“You mean old,” Rachelle said coldly, looking at my grey hair.

And so the next day we went to a theatre in downtown Toronto to see the movie. As we took the elevator from the parking lot up to the cinema, I noticed that it was full of middle-aged women and a couple of gay men. I turned to everybody, “Are we all heading up to see Shame?”

The assembled group all mumbled and nodded their assent. A woman in a bright blue jacket suddenly blurt out, ” I so wanted him in Jane Eyre. I mean, I really wanted him!”

“Even when he was blind and had that hobo beard?” I asked her.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, even more, even more,” she said, closing her eyes and biting her lip.

The movie, like the elevator, was full of women and gay men. It didn’t take long for McQueen and Fassbender to make their point as the repetitive demystification of what Fassbender’s schlong looked like began in earnest. It looked pretty long to me. Maybe a little unnaturally so. I turned to Rachelle and asked, “Do you think he might have stimulated it a little bit before these scenes? I mean, it looks like it’s in a bit of an in between zone to me.”

Rachelle said nothing, but the older man sitting to my right responded, “It’s common practice,” he whispered, “they hire people to do it. They’re called Fluffers I tell you, I would be Michael Fassbender’s Fluffer for free.”

“What do they Fluff with?” I asked.

“A gloved hand.”

“Well, why wouldn’t Fassbender Fluff himself?”

“Oh child,” he said, “you’re so naive, it’s Hollywood!”

“Quiet!” Somebody shouted.

I noticed at this point that Rachelle had moved two rows away. I waved over at her but she was unresponsive. And so, for the rest of the movie this man and I kept a whispered dialogue running as we watched the movie.

It’s possible that Shame was the quietest movie I have ever seen in my life. Devoid of any emotional core it was little more than a carefully arranged series of set pieces, installations, really, animated by actors. As the sexual compulsions— ever-multiplying— paraded by, people started to walk out of the theatre.

I leaned over to the man sitting next to me.

“So, the idea is that McQueen, in depicting porn, is trying to make something as boring as porn, right?”

“Yes, but much better looking.”

“I see.”

I was quiet for a bit. I waved over at Rachelle but noticed that she’d actually nodded off and was asleep.

The man leaned over to me, “Your girlfriend has decided to sit somewhere else?”

“It annoys her when I talk during movies. Just drives her crazy, so often she’ll just find another spot to sit.”

The man nodded. About ten minutes passed and then he leaned over again, “The movie’s very formally, artfully constructed, but it’s lifeless, you know what I mean?”

I nodded, “I surely do!”

He continued, ” They’re making a boring movie in order to show us that addiction is boring and that addicts are by definition boring people. We pay to see how unpleasant and dull they are on the inside.”

“No,” I corrected, ” we pay to see how beautiful they are on the outside.”

The man laughed and shook his head in agreement, and then he looked over at me, thinking.

“Do you ever feel dead inside?” he asked.

There was a pause during which he shifted his body toward me. He put his hand on my knee.

“That’s my wife,” I said, pointing over to the sleeping Rachelle two rows forward.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve over-stepped my bounds,” and then he quickly got up and left the theatre— this moment, easily the saddest, most emotionally affecting of my afternoon cinema experience.

Ok. Here’s what happened.

With Guerilla’s fifty dollars burning a hole in my pocket, I went online in my ongoing quest for true love while documenting the experience in a weekly journal. But before I present any of the details, here’s some of what my Lavalife profile looks like:

Lavalife Section: Dating

My nickname: A DOUBLE TAKE

Opening Line: I like to gamble.

In My Own Words (description of me):

“In my own words.” It sounds like the title of a bad poem. One of those poems that is shaped on the page like a swan or a heart. At least, that’s what I think. I guess that means that what I’m writing now is my own lousy poem: a humiliating heart-shaped song of myself. I’m embarrassed and ashamed already.

But hey! I’m here because I’m interested in people, in opportunity. I think the idea of this is fun, straight out fun. I like writing to people and having them write back. Fun, fun, fun! I also like meeting the people, talking with them, and finding out about their lives.

Versatile, me. My friends describe me as “awesome,” “unbelievable,” and “amazing.” I emit a good buzz. I’m wicked funny and dress well. I don’t miss hockey. I’m a writer. Well, I’m trying to be a writer. I’m nice, did I say that? I should have. I’m nice. My instincts are kind and sincere and Jesus Christ I am super rich. I’m optimistic. I think that everything is fun. If it’s not fun, then at least it’s interesting. Taking the bus! Fun, fun, fun!! And Jesus, you should see me when I take off my glasses—”You Are So Beautiful” starts playing in everybody’s head, and all the angels pause, forgetting what they were doing for a moment. I’m a crime fighter, dashing like Batman. And modest. Did I mention my modesty, my irony, my self-deprecating wit, my wealth?

Personal Details

Gender: Male

Age: 39

Height: 5? 9”

Body Type: average

Ethnic Background: white

Smoking Habits:  do not smoke

Religion: non-religious

Drinking Habits: socially

Language(s) spoken: English

Location: Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

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Week 1

Thursday

Well, Lavalife is both highly addictive and banal. I can sit for hours, blankly clicking on the profiles of women I might want to date. But I’m not really processing anything, I’m just staring—very much like channel surfing. Actually, it’s probably more like playing the slots. I like slots. They’re fun, especially if you’re a creative type and you can make a drinking game out of playing. (I am very much the creative type, I really should have put that in my profile.) I wonder if the casino is still doing well? Probably. They have good entertainment there. Man, I remember that one time myself and Matty went down to play some black jack. That was an awesome time! After smoking a joint, we got lost and ended up taking in a Neil Diamond tribute act called “Nearly Neil.” I should give Matty a call, see how he’s doing.

There were expenses associated with my preparation, and I’m now down to about 30 loonies or so. Fortunately, you don’t have to pay to get started on Lavalife. Posting a profile is free, but if you wish to initiate contact with another person, you have to pay approximately three dollars to send an e-mail. Now that my profile is live, the combination of my devastating good looks and magnetic charm pretty much assures me that I will have an avalanche of women plunking down the three bucks to send me alluring messages.

I will now check.

Hmm. That’s funny. It would seem that there have been no responses to my profile. Weird. I wonder if maybe the system was down for the last couple of days or something. Possibly a computer virus.

Saturday

I have returned to compulsively checking out profiles. I’ve noticed that women have great affection for their pets. Apparently, if you’re not a “cat person” then you might be in for some trouble. Many of the women claim to miss hockey. This disappoints me as I thought one of my most attractive qualities was that I don’t miss hockey. Perhaps they’re lying. Probably, because the truth is that I kind of do miss hockey and I’m glad it’s back. I think that Dany Heatley trade is going to be fucking awesome.

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Week 2

Monday

I find that I cannot stop myself from checking out profiles. I get no work done, I just sit there—click, click, clicking. It’s like something out of a sci-fi film. No, maybe something from a Stephen King novel. I’m just sitting at my desk, feeling absurdly picky, eliminating people on the basis of their nicknames and other petty impulses. She has brown eyes? Not for me.

Maybe I should bite the bullet and spend the coin to write somebody.

Wednesday

I received my first Lava e-mail today. At first I was very excited but then found out that the writer, nicknamed So_happy_to_be_single, is my ex-girlfriend. She was not looking for a reconciliation. Instead she seemed to think it would be good to make fun of the orange turtleneck I’m wearing in my photo. “can’t believe you used that photograph!” she wrote. She also added that I was only a “social” drinker if by “social” they meant “constant.” Ha-ha. Went on to tell me about how she herself was inundated with solicitations, how she was going out on a different date every night. She was even kind enough to include a rather graphic description of an encounter with some dude in a parking lot. Ended her note by saying “dog doesn’t miss you.” Nice touch.

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Week 3

Monday

Accidentally broke my computer after reading that e-mail from my ex. I now have to log on at the Ottawa Public Library. Still haven’t received any real messages. Just noticed that a lot of homeless people tend to go to libraries. Kind of counterintuitive, that. I always imagined that libraries would be full of smart people, people interested in reading, but really it’s full of people who are sick of being outdoors.

Discussed Lavalife with my friend Andrea who claims to know about these things. Using diplomatic language, she told me that somebody who looks as “unique and confident” as I do might be better off not posting my photograph right up there for all to see. “Let them get to know you a little bit first, so they will see the force of your personality in your looks,” Andrea said.

Wednesday

I have written a note to the Lava administrators to ask them if my account is working properly. They assured me that it is and that it is not uncommon for men to have to make the first move. They encouraged me to spend some money and write some women. They told me not to get discouraged.

Friday

I am not discouraged. No sir. I feel very attractive as I sit here in the library beside a bag lady who is trying to hide the fact that she’s eating an egg sandwich. I feel radiant and confident, and the stitches in my forehead from the accident with my computer are coming out soon. No, I did not lose any confidence or self-esteem when Andrea told me that I would be better off without a photograph of myself. Nor was my confidence shaken when she told me that I should stop trolling for hot girls in their 20s and maybe focus my attention on some of the women more in my “league.” Whatever.

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Week 4

Tuesday

I have decided to be proactive. I spent some money and wrote an e-mail to Hotchik21. She likes rollerblading. In fact, she had posted a picture of herself rollerblading. Looks good in Lycra. I wrote to tell her that she looks good in Lycra, figuring that an attractive young woman like her would probably like to receive a compliment from a distinguished gentleman such as myself. Did not hear back from her.

Later, I noticed that Hotchik21 made a change to her profile. Right near the top it read “NO CREEPY OLD GUYS PLEEZ!!”

Wednesday

I have taken Andrea’s advice and removed my photograph. Now a person will have to request to see my picture, and at that point they will already be in love and not quite so intimidated by the fierce intelligence my photograph projects.

I am going to write up a storm. Beautiful, delicate, hilarious, and wonderful messages to all the wonderful women out there (aged 35 to 45 as Andrea has instructed).

Thursday

I just wrote a woman named SuddenlyScotland. She said she liked whiskey and chess. I sent her a note about playing chess while drinking scotch, about how I approached chess as a drinking game. She seemed charmed and asked to see my photograph. My photograph appears to have intimidated her as she no longer responds to any of my e-mails.

Later I wrote Yoganita. Her profile said that she was socially conscious and liked the Indigo Girls. I wrote to tell her I thought she was very pretty for a gay, hippie chick.

Friday

Apparently, there is a function on Lavalife where you can “Block” certain users from communicating with you. The administrators wrote me a helpful note telling me that Yoganita had “Blocked” me from writing to her. Some people just don’t know how to take a compliment. I’m not at all surprised that Yoganita is single.

Tonight I wrote to a woman calling herself LondonCalling. A really funny e-mail about getting drunk on jungle juice at a high school-type party and then throwing up while people danced to the Clash. I thought it would be funny to add that the party took place last weekend, that myself and my buddy Matty crashed it after a night of gaming at the casino. I did not hear back from her. Was notified by administrators that I had been “Blocked” again.

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Week 5

Tuesday

It’s funny how easily you can start smoking again. I mean I hadn’t had a cigarette in over a decade, but when I hit the casino with Matty, well, ever since it’s been like I’ve never stopped puffing away. Forgot about how much it stains the fingers and teeth. Turns out that the bag lady at the library is pretty cool. Sometimes we go out to share a smoke and make fun of all the government workers. I’ve told her about Lavalife and what an excellent way it is to meet people, how much it improves one’s confidence and social skills. Donna Mae (that’s her name) seems interested to try it out.

Thursday

Today I received two e-mails. However, they were “collect calls” which means that I have to pay to read them.

One of the e-mails came from a woman in the Phillipines. She listed her interests as “touching, kissing, oral sex, and intercourse.” Her Lava name was Nanny69. I decided to spend the money and read her letter. “dear sir, I am very much interested in meeting mature gentleman for pleasure. Please send pic and I will do same.” I sent her my photograph, asking if she liked what she saw. I have not heard back.

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Week 6

Monday

Donna Mae got some new clothes from the shelter and now really looks like she could live in somebody’s home. Even though we were shushed several times by the librarian, we were able to create a Dating profile for her on Lavalife. We nicknamed her Hardstuff. I greatly underestimated Donna Mae. She has an awesome sense of humour and has been very generous with her sandwiches. Really a lot of fun.

Tuesday

I borrowed my father’s digital camera so that Donna Mae and I could take photographs of one another and post them with our profiles. Action shots from all across Ottawa—posed on Parliament Hill, smiling by the canal, hanging from the branches of a tree in a park. Stuff like that, stuff that expresses our vitality and optimism. I am psyched! This will be so cool!

Thursday

Alright. It turns out that Donna Mae was not “all of that” after all. After a fun day of photography, we went to the Dominion Tavern to celebrate with a couple of drinks. We got a little bit tight, I guess, and it turns out that although Donna Mae can really hold her rum, she is a bit of a nasty drunk. She said some very unflattering things about both my appearance and my personality. She snorted at how my profile says I am 5’9” with an “average” body. She thought that was “rich.” Anyway, I was pretty pissed off about some of the things she was saying so I went out back to chill and have a smoke. When I returned, both Donna Mae and my dad’s digital camera were gone.

Saturday, 11:30 p.m.

Don’t laugh. It’s not funny. I cannot afford to buy my father a new camera. The editor of Guerilla says it’s “not my problem” and refuses to pay any more money for me to document this entirely shitty and humiliating Lavalife experience. So I’m up a creek without a paddle, as they say. Sitting in a stupid library, spending my last loonies writing e-mails to “Hardstuff”, begging her to return my dad’s camera. No, not funny.

Looking for Lava Love-on a budget

Michael Murray, Gureilla – Ottawa Culture at Ground Level

Published: October 2005 – Issue 6