Every community event, even one taking place in as beautiful a venue as the Wychwood Barns, has something of a Christopher Guest movie to it. Saturday was Wychwood's annual fundraising trivia night, in which the organizers hoped to raise money for a variety of community projects.
When we* walked in the space was full of about 500 people who would comprise the 40 competing trivia teams, and two musicians. A 50 year-old man in a hat and a woman with the long hair of somebody who might have spent her 30th, 35th and 40th birthday at Medieval Times, performed an unfashionable brand of Celtic music, the type that was popular back in 1992.
A disorganized and genial clump of people stood in the foyer trying to figure out which of the five line-ups they were supposed to be standing in. At the end of each line, where you could perhaps buy a drink ticket, but not a food ticket, there was an abundance of volunteers, each one singularly focused on the one task placed in front of them.
When they ran out of white wine-- about 45 minutes after the doors opened-- the eyes of the woman pouring the drinks became massive and frightened, as if she was about to be overwhelmed. She began to shout out instructions, dispatching people to the local LCBO, but the truth was that nobody really cared.
No white wine?
No problem!
I’ll have a coke!
It was that kind of crowd.
About half way through the trivia competition, a perky young woman took the microphone and tried to inspire the crowd to do some calisthenics. Everyone but the elderly, who gave it all they got, as if to prove their vigor to the world, and one or two cougars who took this as an opportunity to show off their bodies, seemed kind of embarrassed by this and just sat quietly.
It was at this point that the tone of the evening began to subtly shift. The categories, which had been typically trivial, began to focus on Canada and Toronto, and then specifically on the Wychwood community and their avowed interests. They wanted us to have fun, but the wanted us to learn, too! The night was now no longer about trivia with friends, but had morphed into the sort of “public service” you’d expect from the CBC--fusty and pretentious instruction from people who saw themselves as keepers of the light.
As if in some subconscious rebellion to this schoomarmish turn of events, our team—The Terrible Squirrels—who had been languishing near last place all night, lost interest and like delinquent students, began to amuse ourselves by doodling pornographic cartoons on our answer sheet.
Classy.
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* Unfortunately, our assemblage was too large for one team, and so Heather Spratt—who organized the night out and almost qualified to be on Jeopardy once—broke us down into two smaller units. I couldn’t help but notice that Heather appropriated to her team the doctoral candidate, the guy who went to Cambridge, the two Mensa club members and three Asians. The team I was assigned to, (presumably to make the B Squad stronger) was full of people who like to watch hockey fights on YouTube.
Heather’s team finished in the top ten, while The Terrible Squirrels finished 34th in a field of 39.
According to Rachelle, I’ve been talking in my sleep an awful lot lately. As far as I know, I’ve never been a person who’s done that before, and this sudden emergence of “Somniloquy” is troubling.
Rachelle said that when I first started to do it, she tried to wake me up, but that proved unsuccessful. Since then, she’s just listened, with occasional attempts to enter into conversation with me (which really freaks me out). She has been keeping a list of some of the more memorable things I’ve said on a notepad on her bedside table.
1. Look, I know I look good in corduroy, but (indistinguishable mumbling) and if it’s not God’s will, then it’s not God’s will. (And then, growing agitated) No! I won’t hear another word about it!
2. The mouse spirit is very strong in here. We should leave!
3. Me: Miss Scarlet Johansen! And so we meet again!
Rachelle (pretending to be Scarlet Johansen and attempting to engage me in conversation): I’m a dirty, no talent whore who smells like a cat.
Me: Oh! Hey there, Miss Natalie Portman, glad you could make it to my party, too!
Rachelle (pretending to be Natalie Portman): I have a canker the size of a peanut in my mouth.
Me: You’re very pretty, Nat.
Rachelle (pretending to be Natalie Portman): You’re very lucky to be with a woman as beautiful and kind and patient as Rachelle.
Me: Yeah, sure I’ll lift that chair, Natalie, but first I better take off my shirt.
Rachelle: WAKE UP!! MICHAEL, WAKE UP, YOU’RE MAKING A FOOL OF YOURSELF!!
4. You’re very sadly mistaken, because I only fall down when I mean to.
5. ¡Y entonces el día vendrá cuando tengo mi venganza sobre los hombres de dios, y una oscuridad terrible descenderá como un capote!
6. I could throw the ball further if I wanted to, but I’m not a showboat.
7. No, I’m not a turtle, I’m a man, but I do have some turtle skills.
8. I fly fast.
On Tuesday, a bunch of us took advantage of the Winterlicious Festival (where high end Toronto restaurants offer a discounted Table d’Hote menu) and went down the Bymark restaurant for dinner.
Located at the base of the Toronto Dominion Tower in the financial district, the Bymark is headed by celebrity chef Mark McEwan and is conspicuously expensive. The point of a restaurant like the Bymark, I think, is not to achieve culinary excellence, but to create an impressive ambience of elitism. To eat their predictably good, but not great food, you need money, and really, that’s all your business associates need to see. You have money, and you care enough about them, to spend it.
Like a characterless restaurant you might see in a movie or lifted from the pages of a luxury magazine, the Bymark projects an inoffensive modernity. It’s the sort of place that conceals character rather than reveals it, if that makes any sense.
At the table next to us sat a group of thick-necked businessmen. Their meal complete, they stabbed away on their Blackberry’s as they sipped their postprandial scotch. Discussing the Dion Phaneuf trade, they used the first names of the architects of the deal in such a way as to make you think that they belonged to the same golf club, which was likely the point.
Across from them sat three young women who were conspicuously overdressed. Looking nervous, as if this was their first night in Manhattan and they were hoping to see some celebrities, they kept their heads down, concentrating on their iPhones.
I’m not sure what I was expecting out of my dining experience, but as always, I was hoping for a leisurely and decadent evening that would see us charm the staff and receive free drinks. Well, nothing of the sort happened. We were seated without much warmth or competence, and then rocketed through our meal at such a reckless velocity that our appetizers appeared on the table before our wine and cutlery.
The food was good, but far from memorable. The plates felt like they’d been made to get the job done rather than wow the diner. Expedient and loveless, the whole experience was kind of disappointing, even vaguely humiliating.
I felt manipulated, like I’d been strapped onto a conveyor belt and then processed by some Winterlicious machine that couldn’t have cared less about my experience, but had an eye on the bottom line, just as you might imagine things would feel in the heart of the financial district.
A couple of years ago Rachelle and I went to New York City for the weekend. It was only the second time I’d been to the city, and I was feeling a pretty typical combination of excitement and intimidation.
We were staying at the Roosevelt Hotel at the corner of 45th and Madison, and although this is right in the middle of the swirling heart of Manhattan, it still proved next to impossible to get a cab. And so, along with everybody else from the hotel also looking for a cab, we would all clump together under the awning in the entranceway waiting for the doorman to get us all taxis.
I always felt kind of frustrated and humiliated by this. It just added to my insecurity about being a rube in the big city, making me feel like I was part of some micromanaged bus tour from a prairie church group.
On the second day I broke from the pack and ventured off to hail us a cab while Rachelle waited in the queue back at the hotel, in case I had no luck.
Manhattan is immense and throbbing. Each block-- each half-block really-- feels entirely unique to the previous one. The towering skyscrapers each fall away, replaced by different ones, and the constant flow of people and traffic serves as a current, giving you the sensation of movement and velocity even if you’re just standing still.
It’s exciting and a little bit disorienting, and when I was just a half block away from Rachelle, I felt like I was maybe a million miles away.
It was raining lightly and it was insanely competitive getting a cab, but I persevered, and like a native New Yorker (I thought), I ignored all pretenses to civility and order, and snagged a cab in short order.
However, due to a variety of one-way streets and traffic complications, the cab couldn’t drive the half block to pick Rachelle up at the hotel. And so I stood there on the sidewalk, holding the door of the cab open while I screamed Rachelle’s name, hoping to get her attention. I could see her, but she couldn’t see me, and my voice, thin and raspy, was instantly lost in the sounds of the city. And of course, as I was yelling and yelling, other people, like jackals, began to descend on my cab. I kept yelling Rachelle’s name, but it was no use. The cab driver was restless, and there were at least three other people trying to take-over the ride.
As this sad spectacle was unfolding a man with a ruddy face and a protuberant belly was walking by.
“What’s her name?” he asked.
Demoralized, I sighed, “Rachelle.”
He turned and faced down the street, and putting his hands up to his mouth shouted, “ RACHELLE!!!!!”
It was like he had fired a cannonball into the city.
Rachelle turned and looked up the street, saw me, and started to trot happily toward the cab. The man who had shouted her name, marched away, swallowed up into the city in less than five seconds.
A New York moment.
Recently, one of my hobbies has been reading the stars. I would now like to share with you my astrological forecasts for all the signs for the upcoming week.
Aries March 21-April 19
Dear goat, you can’t allow your stubborn streak to get the best of you this
month. You must be gentle and receptive, understanding that there are two
sides to every coin, sometimes three. Wear yellow.
Taurus April 20-May 20
Dear bull, my friend, you work too hard. If you continue at this pace, I
fear an automobile accident may happen or you might have a quarrel with a
loved on in which you say something you can never take back. The stars say
so, they say that you should take it easy for awhile, maybe catch a movie
and avoid the highway for a spell.
Gemini May 21-June 21
Dear twin, the prettiest in the zodiac. The stars say that this is an
excellent month for romance. Wear that little, black party dress, update
your MySpace web site, have one more glass of wine and party like it’s 1999!
Lucky number, 14.
Cancer June 22-July 22
Dear crab, my little, misunderstood pet of the zodiac. This is a good month
for you to come out of your shell. Ha-ha, get it? Come out of your shell?
Crab, the stars are telling me that you need to see the humour in life, not
everything is grim, you’re not actually named after a horrible disease or
have to live your life blindly crawling along the bottom of a cold and deep
ocean. Lighten up! Have a drink! Avoid hobos!
Leo July 23-August 22
Dear lion, just because someone in your life is feeling very judgmental and
pious, it doesn’t mean you have to stand there and take it. Not this month.
Leo, I ask you to roar, you tell that person to step down to get off their
high horse, or you’ll take the horse down yourself.
Virgo August 23-September 22
Dear virgin, the pure heart of the zodiac. This month, I ask for you to
recognize that creativity emerges from conflict and opposition. What you
think is problem right now is actually a golden opportunity!
Libra September 23-October 22
Dear libra, the sign of my ex. This month will be more of the same. As
usual, you will say that you are going to do something, and then you won’t.
You will continue to have trouble communicating, you won’t respond to the
e-mails people send you and you won’t start to get into shape. There you
have it. It is written in the stars.
Scorpio October 23 - November 21
Dear scorpion, you should look at this month as if it were the start of a
new school year. Ask your mother what you should wear, suck up to those in
authority and seek out those you think are cool, betraying those you suspect
are not. Trust me, this strategy will work.
Sagittarius November 22-December 21
Dear centaur, did you know that Oprah Winfrey is also a Sagittarius? She is.
This month, you should try to be more like her and less like Doctor Phil.
Capricorn December 22-January 19
Dear combination goat-fish, normally you’re as articulate as Bill Clinton,
but lately you’ve been feeling more like a combination of Stockwell Day and
Dan Quayle. Capricorn, this is a good month to keep a low profile.
Aquarius January 20-February 18
Dear aquarius, sweet mermaid, you watch too much television, especially that
reality stuff. Read a book.
Pisces February 19-March 20
Dear piseces, the very fastest swimmer in the zodiac, this is an excellent
month for you. You must attend every party you’re invited to, even those you
haven’t been invited to! You’re as handsome as James Bond and as sexy as a
Marvin Gaye song! Oh, it’s going to be like frosh week! Let it ride this
month, bet it all on red! Stay away from cats, the stars say you might be
developing allergies.
Restless men roam the streets of this neighbourhood. Evasive and distrustful, they avoid eye contact, as if they don’t want you to remember their faces. Sometimes they’ll pause for an hour or so in the Laundromat, taking the warmth before continuing on in their journeys. On Wednesday, one such man was leaving the Laundromat just as I was entering.
Tall and imposing, he was slightly unsteady on his feet. His bottom lip protruded, giving him a disapproving air, and he had the flat, broad nose and meaty jowls of a spent fighter. He gave my dog and I a hard look. As he was heading for the door he decided to stop and light the cigarette that he had dangling from his mouth. As he was engaged in this casual and pointless act of defiance, Heidi, my Miniature Dachshund, began to bark at him. I shushed her and apologized, but the man brushed unhappily past us, sarcastically sneering “nice dog” as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. I turned and looked at him, and he, smoking on the sidewalk, glared right back at me.
I threw my clothes in the dryer and left, aware that he was still staring at me as I walked down the street home.
An unsettling feeling, that.
An hour later, when I returned to pick up my clothes, the man wasn’t there and I have to admit that I felt kind of relieved. Relaxing a little bit, I began to dig my clothes out of the dryer only to realize that my laundry bag was gone.
I shook my head, imaging this guy finishing his smoke and then returning to the Laundromat. As people looked at the floor and read their newspapers, he would have grabbed my bag and walked out with it, stuffing it in some garbage can around the corner, just to prove to me that it’s a loveless dog-eat-dog world out there.
A friend of mine recently sent me an application to appear on the show Fearless in the Kitchen with Christine Cushing. I figured they were looking for charismatic and charming people, such as myself, to learn dangerous knife tricks in glamorous kitchens across the city, but no, that is not what the show is looking for. Instead, they’re looking for people who are incompetent in the kitchen and are interested in improving their skills. (It should be noted that my friend added, “ I know you have no interest in improving your skills, but I’m sure the producers would make an exception for you considering the almost charming depths of your ignorance, incompetence, and oddly, arrogance.”)
The application itself is long and involved, and requires a surprising number of rather risqué photographs of myself, so I’ve decided to just excerpt a few portions of it here.
PLEASE DESCRIBE 3 COOKING HORROR STORIES THAT YOU’VE EXPERIENCED.
1. I once made a creamy hamburger soup (with croutons that I made myself from Wonder Bread) that I took to a dinner party as an appetizer. All of the guests thought that it was a joke. Fearless in the Kitchen, it was not a joke. However, as I am cagey and quick on my feet, I pretended it was a joke, too, but I burned, Fearless in the Kitchen, I burned, vowing that one day I would have my revenge.
2. Rachelle, my lady who is all fancy in the kitchen, gave me the responsibility of preparing dinner once a week. It was to be called “Monday’s with Mike.” I made “breakfast for dinner” the first time, serving up some scrambled eggs, beans and Triscuits. Rachelle, after eating a few bites, claimed to have a particularly sore mouth canker and said she was unable to finish the meal, however, I saw her eating leftover chicken about an hour later. The next week I cooked a pot roast, enriching the broth with dried onion soup mix and Grand Marnier. “Monday’s with Mike” was consequently canceled and replaced with “Take-out Tuesday.”
3. As I am a very creative and charitable person, I bounced back after the humiliation of “Monday’s with Mike” and decided to embark on a program of making a new soup each week, which I would then give out to homeless people in the downtown area. As it turns out, many of the homeless have very bad taste in food. Sister Abagail, who works at the nearby mission, came to our door one night and asked me very politely to stop giving the homeless soup as it was giving them intestinal issues. She said “Although it is very sweet of you to want to help, it is clear that God has other plans for you than to be a soup chef.” Fearless in the Kitchen, I burned, once again, I burned.
On Friday Rachelle and I got our monthly Hydro bill.
This was a very unpleasant experience.
Clearly, we’re using far too much electricity and must take some cost cutting measures so that I’m not overcome with waves of intense and debilitating nausea every time we get our monthly bill.
1. Our apartment has very few windows and thus has very poor air circulation. In order to combat this I created a network of 21 constantly rotating fans that always keep the air circulating in an orderly clockwise manner. I’m afraid that the expense of maintaining this fan network (which I named The Michair Machine) is now prohibitive and the system will have to be mothballed. In lieu of The Michair Machine, I have broken a pane of glass in our bedroom window to facilitate air circulation, and have drilled approximately 30 little holes in both our front and back door.
2. I have forbidden Rachelle from using her blow dryer in the apartment, and now insist that she ONLY use it at work.
3. I have sold off some of the jewelry that Rachelle never wears on Craig’s List to help pay for the massive bill.
4. I have bought an extension cord, and am now using the electrical outlet in the hallway—that the building pays for-- for our refrigerator and microwave. Unfortunately, this now means that both our refrigerator and microwave in the hallway, but some sacrifices have to be made.
5. I have bought a kit so that I might learn how to generate electricity from a potato.
6. I am now insisting that whenever Rachelle needs to power up her laptop
computer, that she does this from work. As I work from home, I am exempt from
this requirement.
7. Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund, is no longer allowed her customary 3 hours a
day of Animal Planet.
8. I have replaced the Venetian Blinds that covered our front bedroom windows with a network of cleverly arranged mirrors, so that the lights from the traffic on Queen Street might be reflected into our room so that we don’t need to turn on any lights at night.
9. I have thrown out Rachelle’s electric toothbrush.
10. Using a network of coat hangers, I have constructed a sort of “lightning rod.” (Dubbed the Mightning Rod). Using the Mightning Rod, I plan on tapping into the cables that power the streetcars, and transferring that energy into a receptacle so that I might always have lightning in a bottle.
Last Friday we had a little party to help celebrate a friend’s birthday.
One of the results of this is that we now have a bunch of balloons in the apartment. Like some alien tribe of jellyfish, they’re clustered together in the living room, as if feeding off of some nutrient on the ceiling. When you walk through the room it’s like you’re cutting through brush, having to move the tail-like strings that fall into your path out of the way. It’s fun, this, and it never fails to make me feel like I’m participating in some sort of adventure.
Slowly, over the course of the week, the balloon’s numbers have began to dwindle-- some to domestic accidents, others to age. As the helium escapes and the balloon slowly sinks to the floor, our Miniature Dachshund will immediately set upon it, as if it was some predator invading her den. And so, the remaining balloons have the appearance of survivors, of creatures clinging to life.
Yesterday, while I was sitting in the bedroom doing some work, a purple balloon floated in through the door. This was the first time such a thing had happened, and I was a little bit startled. The balloon bobbed up and down by the ceiling, as if a ghost watching me at the desk.
A friend once told me about an experience he had in which he was convinced that a spirit of a recently deceased friend was contained within a balloon that drifted into his room. The balloon went to my friend and lingered there, and then after five minutes, the balloon expired and drifted to the floor.
An old friend of mine is dying right now, and I had this story in mind as I watched the balloon enter into my bedroom.
After a spell, this balloon drifted toward the center of the room where a rotating fan spun from the ceiling. Its’ string got caught on one of the blades of the fan and the balloon was being violently bounced against the ceiling in a jarring cycle. I immediately leapt up, and freed the balloon from the fan, taking it out onto our semi-enclosed balcony above Queen Street and leaving it there.
As silly as it sounds, I didn’t want to part with the balloon. If it drifted away into the city, fine, but if it stayed, well, that would please me even more. After about ten minutes had passed I heard a scream from out on the street. I went out onto the balcony and saw a street sign lying on the pavement and a few excited pedestrians talking to a police officer.
A moment of drama that had just eluded me.
It was at this point that I remembered the balloon. I looked all over for it, but it was gone. I spent the rest of the day trying to shake a settling sadness, waiting for a phone call that never came.
Today the Blog has been given over to Heidi, Rachelle and Michael's Miniature Daschund
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Very confusing time for Heidi with all late night talk show controversy.
No know what to think.
Red Conan good dog who could run with Heidi pack any time. He make funny wag tail bark out loud joke! And Andy Richter is good dog, like fat Golden Lab!
But Jay been Alpha for so long! It bad to go against Alpha!
Alpha take food and cast out! And then you have to wander in rain and eat bug, fight big animal! Bad times, bad times when cast out of pack!! Alpha Jay have powerful jaws to rip and tear, too!
But Jay is old dog now, use same jokes for years. Not funny! Not even cat or mice laugh at dumb joke. He rip off Letterman and Red Dog for years! BAD DOG, BAD, BAD DOG!!
Maybe time Alpha go into woods alone.
Don’t know.
Glad I not network exec.