My level of celebrity has gotten to the point where people are digging up my ancient Tweets.
Several of mine, written way back in 2008 when I was only 42, have surfaced. Now that the fires of controversy, anger and hurt have subsided a little, I would like to address these Tweets. First of all, the Tweets themselves:
“More like No Country for Old Mansplaining! Can’t believe that piece of shit won best picture! Tommy Lee Jones was the worst, and there were no nude scenes!!! Zero!! #OscarsSuck!”
“ But it’s true, those goddamn orientals do work like dogs! How can we keep up! I really like the potential of this young buck of a councilor! Look out for Rob Ford, Toronto, he tells it like it is! #Orientaldogs”
“ I wish some great hacker would steal all the private, nudie photographs of hot movie stars and then release them to the general public! #EspeciallyJenniferLawrenceSweetJesusSheismyJesusMySexySweetJesus!
“I don’t know. Just something I don’t like about Barack O’bama. Maybe it’s the ears. Such a Ferengi. And we have no idea where he was born. #WhatAreYouHiding!?
“The blacks sure dominated the Olympics again!” #Beijing2008
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Although it’s difficult to apply the cultural values of one era to another, I categorically apologize for my Tweets and to anybody whom they brought pain. I want to be clear that in no way do I endorse hatred, racism, homophobia, xenophobia or any form of bigotry or intolerance. When I made those Tweets I was young, immature and stupid, but regardless, there are simply no excuses for any of them.
In the fullness of time I have come to realize that No Country For Old Men was a great movie, in spite of Tommy Lee Jones talking an awful lot about weird things and there being no nudity. Women are not purely sex objects. I see that now. I am sorry I didn’t see it earlier.
I had no idea a hacker would take my Tweet as inspiration and that The Fappening would one day occur. I am sorry that I was an unwitting party to this sex crime. In the wake of #MeToo, I have come to understand the constant sexual harassment and intimidation that woman daily suffer, and women out there, I want you to know that not only do I hear you, but I am listening. Thank you.
The Obama family were exemplars, and I am very sorry to have doubted them, particularly the girls. But perhaps more importantly I want to apologize to Star Trek fans and the fictional race of the Ferengis. It was not my intention to imply anything negative about this great and proud and kind of greedy species. In no way was I trying to say that they were Jews, and by assocication that Obama was a jew. That was not my intent. I was drinking heavily that year. I think Jews are great.
Lastly, I want to apologize to the all the blacks of the world. My words were insensitive and ignorant, and I now understand that not all blacks are good at sports. Just look at the Mets. I want to thank you, black people, for this gift of awakening. You have changed me.
I appreciate all the constructive criticism I have received. I’ve genuinely learned so much about how to be a better person and wish everyone all the best.
Namaste,
Michael Murray
PS: Please buy my book A Van Full of Girls. It’s the only chance I got.
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Atwood: You must know how much it pains me to do this, but after the most recent injuries to both Elvis Andrus AND Corey Seager ( si non fortuna velim fortuna omnino! ) I have found that my team, The Bad Feminists, is in need of some help at shortstop. Thusly compromised, I have no alternative but to attempt to discuss the possibility of a trade with you.
Me: You know, I really don’t have a clue how much it pains you to open a chat window with me. Please describe.
Atwood: It feels as if am a lone tree burning on the desert.
Me: A really ancient, worn out and desiccated tree? One that’s been completely abandoned by all the other trees that used to respect her but now subtweet her because they think her work is over-rated and old fashioned? A tree that just decided to go ahead and set herself on fire because let’s be honest, nobody was even going to notice?
Atwood: No, not that tree.
Me: Sounds like that tree.
Atwood: Your ability to evaluate the world around you is very poor. It’s why your team always finishes at the bottom of the league and you’re in a constant, emasculating state of rebuilding. It’s your cycle of pointlessness, part of what feeds your rage.
Me: I can’t remember– maybe because you look so much alike– but was it you who won the Nobel prize for literature or that singer Bob Dylan?
He might have come along after your time, so here’s a little video of him to ensure you have a clear, very clear picture, of the great literary talent who bested you for the Nobel:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJymBJ_5iUg
Atwood: I am interested in acquiring New York Mets infielder Asdrubel Cabrera from you, and as you obviously have no chance of winning this year, I’ll give you a couple of promising, young players who you can use next year in exchange for him.
Me: No.
Atwood: Without even hearing who those players are?
Me: I’m not out of contention yet.
Atwood: Yes you are. You’ve never been in contention.
Me: I WON’T BE BULLIED!!!
Atwood: Is that what’s been happening to you? You’ve been bullied into failure again and again and again? That daily video chat with your mother each morning, it’s not really helping you organize your life and establish your own goals, is it? No? Well ask yourself, is it your mother refusing to trade me Cabrera, or is it you, Michael?
Me: Look, I’ll give you Joe Panik for Jake Baurers and Nick Williams.
Atwood: NO! As the great Aeschylus said, “ I have learned to hate all traitors, and there is no disease that I spit on more than treachery!” You are a cheat, a blackguard! Panik just had thumb surgery and is out for the next two months! He’s worthless to me! Cabrera for Bauers and Williams, that’s it. Take it or leave it!!
Me: Can you arrange for me to meet Elisabeth Moss?
Atwood: I refuse to pimp out the wonderful actress from the award winning TV show, based on my award winning book, The Handmaid’s Tale, to you!
Me: You will if you want Asdrubel Cabrera in your lineup.
Atwood: You wouldn’t be allowed to make eye contact with her or touch her, you know.
Me: Jesus, of course I know that!
Atwood: I will think on the matter. You are dismissed.
]]>Well, the other day my mother actually received this letter from Margaret Atwood:
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December, 6th, 2017
bärb/
noun
noun: barb; plural noun: barbs
-
- a sharp projection near the end of an arrow, fishhook, or similar item, angled away from themain point so as to make extraction difficult.
2. a cluster of spikes on barbed wire.
3. a deliberately hurtful remark.
Dear Barb:
Please forgive me for being so informal as to use your first name. I can see that you’re not just appropriately (refer to above prolegomenon) named, but that the Murray line carries very excitable genes, and I certainly don’t want to offend you or any of the other members in your easily inflamed tribe.
Let me first thank you for your apology concerning the alarming behaviour of your 50-something son, and the thoughtful inclusion of hand sanitizer with your letter. You are right, hand sanitizer does make for a nice, affordable stocking stuffer. Thank Heavens for Shoppers Optimum points, eh, Barb?
It’s interesting to note that the word “barb” is derived from Latin and Old French words for “beard.” The patriarchy has a deep reach, Mrs. Murray, a very deep reach. For instance, I wonder why your fully grown, almost elderly son, does not feel the need to apologize for himself to a respected woman he’s been publicly berating? Why would his mother have to do it?
Could it be that Michael, an archetypically mediocre white man,
was born into a world that was made for him, a world where women existed as bit players present only to serve his narrative? And then, with all competition smothered, with the entire force of a white, phallocentric history pushing him forward, Michael, armed with every conceivable advantage, became the author of one very unsuccessful vanity-published book.
That’s what he did.
He did not become an astronaut, he became a fantasy baseball enthusiast. And as he ascended to the status of fantasy baseball enthusiast and nothing else, he fully believed that all his “achievements” were due to his unique genius, and all failures a conspiracy of invisible, unknowable enemies.
Does that sound about right?
But it’s not your fault, Barb. It’s the world we were born into, and if you want to learn more about why your son is an asshole, you should tune in to Bravo on April 30th to watch the award-winning, crisply produced recreation of my uncannily predictive dystopian novel, A Handmaid’s Tale. It stars Elisabeth Moss, whom you might have seen on the cover of some of the magazines you buy at the mall.
Margaret Atwood
PS: Von all den Kreaturen, die auf der Erde atmen und sich bewegen, wird nichts gezüchtet, das schwächer ist als der Mensch.
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Dear Bitter Writer:
I think that having the capacity to feel a broad array of emotions is a big component of being a great, great writer, like you are, and with that in mind I was wondering what the first book that made you cry was?
Igor
Igor:
This one is very easy.
The first book that made me cry was Horton Hears a Who!
Completely fucking terrifying.
Dr. Seuss was one messed-up guy, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he turned out to some sort of unknown serial killer. He’s like a Stephen King for children. You should fear him.
Anyway, I was probably about four when this book was first read to me, and I immediately understood that our world was no different than the speck of dust Horton was holding. Our lives– even those of Mommy and Daddy– were incredibly precarious and vulnerable, subject to forces we know nothing about and couldn’t even begin to imagine. At any second, all we knew and loved could just vanish into an unknowable abyss. I did not sleep for two weeks after the babysitter (Summer) read this stupid book to me, and ever since, I’ve been cursed by a deeply penetrating existential terror, one that continues to govern my days.
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Dear Bitter Writer:
You’re such an interesting and charismatic person, I was wondering if you’d share with us any literary pilgrimages you might have gone on?
Oscar winning actress Jennifer Lawrence
Jennifer:
Ha, so great to hear from you!
As far as your question goes, I’ve never been on a, “this is the cafeteria where Kafka ate,” or, “ this is the dungeon where Dr. Seuss used to torture his victims,” kind of pilgrimage. Instead, I think of each day as a literary pilgrimage. I go out with the conscious intent of finding a moment of beauty in the world, of discovering something holy, and then I try to recreate it using words. And so each day is a journey, a pilgrimage toward something sacred that must be worshipped.
PS: Have you been getting my postcards? I have not heard back and was wondering if I was given the wrong super-yacht address for you?
PPS: I think you’re something sacred that must be worshipped!
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Dear Bitter Writer:
I just want to say how much I LOVED your brilliant book A VAN FULL OF GIRLS.
It is, and I hope this doesn’t embarrass you, the work of a true genius. Obviously, writing just pours out of you, but if for some reason you couldn’t be a genius writer, what do you think you’d do for work?
Taylor
Taylor:
Thank you for the kind, extremely perceptive words!
It’s hard to imagine a life where I’m not a writer, but if I were forced to live one by some alien over-lord or something, I think I would probably be a model. I think I could bring a lot to that job.
One of the components of this event was that I was signing copies of my bestselling book A Van Full of Girls. In case the book has somehow escaped your attention, here are a few press clippings:
“ I thought it was fine, but it could stand for less swearing. Swearing doesn’t prove what a big man you are.”
—Barb Murray, Canadian mother
“Although I could not invest in Michael’s book project, I was struck by how courageous he was to put his thoughts down like that and then, in spite of the risk of public embarrassment and the terribly long odds of any sort of success, seek publication. So brave. We need more people with Michael’s spirit in Canada.”
—Arlene Dickinson, star of the CBC hit TV show Dragon’s Den
“ It’s just lie after lie after lie.”
—Doug Ford, Canadian businessman and politician
I have to say, and I’m giving you the straight-up truth here, the book really is a fucking game-changer.
You should buy it.
At any rate, while we were selling off our things, Margaret Atwood, who lives in the same area, happened upon us. I conducted a somewhat adversarial interview with her a few months ago for a magazine called The Knuckler, ( http://michaelmurray.ca/atwood-interview ) and as this took place via phone I was unsure if she knew who I was, but when she saw me at my little A Van Full of Girls kiosk, she approached.
Margaret Atwood: I’ve been surveying all your trinkets here, such a contrast amidst the grandeur of the neighbourhood. So sweet, so hopeful.
Me: Thanks.
Margaret Atwood: It’s like an archeological dig. Sifting through the debris you can see the arc of a life, the enthusiasm and ambition that inevitably crumbles into failure, and then finally the recognition of that failure and the selling off of all that had symbolized your hope.
Me: I’ll let you have the Six Million Dollar Man thermos for a buck.
Margaret Atwood: I don’t think so.
Me: Your loss.
Margaret Atwood: You seem to have an awful lot of unfinished self-help books for sale. Why is that?
Me: I don’t know, why is the Handmaiden’s Tale so much more popular as a TV show not written by you, than as a book written by you?
Margaret Atwood: Handmaid’s Tale, it’s Handmaid’s Tale.
Me: Oh. Sorry.
Margaret Atwood: This book, A Van Full of Girls? Are you the author?
Me: Yes. You should buy a copy. Support the arts.
Margaret Atwood: So tell me, how does self-publishing work these days?
Me: My book wasn’t self-published.
Margaret Atwood: Really!? How extraordinary. Typically you don’t seen an established author out on a front lawn selling his book from a knapsack. And look, you have so many copies! You must have at least 40!
Me: You know what? I also have an awful lot of Margaret Atwood books for sale over there, but people just don’t seem interested. One woman picked up a copy of Lady Oracle, showed it to her friend and said, “Barf.”
Margaret Atwood: (Gives withering look)
Me: (Imitates withering look)
Margaret Atwood left shortly after this exchange, but not before telling me that I should keep all the self-help books I was trying to sell, and buying, for reasons we can only imagine, a used The Very Best of Chris de Burgh LP.
In an effort to combat this, my wife Rachelle has developed a side hustle in which she combs through various stores for used children’s clothing and then sells what she finds online. I have recently become a part of her purchasing team.
What follows are the texts she sent to me while I was on a shopping mission:
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Rachelle: So, did you get those pink Sorel boots at the Value Village that you promised to pick up for me?
Rachelle: Oh.
Rachelle: I’d have thought you’d be there by now.
Rachelle: What problem?
Rachelle: Oh, I didn’t realize that taking the Queen streetcar to a destination on Queen street was “counter-intuitive,” especially considering that we used to live on that street.
Rachelle: Yes, I guess that was a lifetime ago.
Rachelle: We were very different people then, it’s true.
Rachelle: That’s right, there was no Netflix back in those days!
Rachelle: Yes, those were much more innocent times.
Rachelle: Those were the days before you fell down the conspiracy theory rabbit hole!
Rachelle: I’m sorry dear, of course I meant “Got Woke.”
Rachelle: Yes, you really are just as woke as fuck, and you’re right, the Lame-stream media can’t be trusted– it’s just too bad you still have such trouble with ordinary challenges is all.
Rachelle: Oh.
Rachelle: That’s what you want people to think.
Rachelle: I see.
Rachelle: Conceal the truth within a fog of misdirection! Just like a magician!
Rachelle: It’s amazing how successful you’ve been at making everybody believe you’re not very hygienic and unable to hold a job!
Rachelle: Oh, don’t be like that!
Rachelle: You’re still my favourite flavour of ice cream!
Rachelle: What? Something’s happening on the streetcar?
Rachelle: Bullying? Well that is serious!
Rachelle: What’s he saying to you, Pickle?
Rachelle: Well sure, it could be somebody else getting bullied, but I just figured it was part of your plan. You know, to draw fire from the weak to the strong!
Rachelle: I do know you well, Pickle!
Rachelle: So what did the guy say to you?
Rachelle: She called you a “weak-chinned twerp” because you got the last seat?
Rachelle: You’re right, it’s not your fault she’s slow.
Rachelle: You know what I think? I think she underestimated your quickness! Just like you planned!
Rachelle: But still, it’s amazing how bullies know exactly where to attack!
Rachelle: How did she know that you’re so sensitive about your weak chin?
Rachelle: Oh, good one, telling her you just had hernia surgery and needed to sit is sure to shut her up!
Rachelle: Oh, I’m sorry that it didn’t work.
Rachelle: And now she’s making fun of your “Solidarity Pin?”
Rachelle: What is a “Solidarity Pin.”
Rachelle: Oh, it’s a safety pin that signals to others that you’re a safe zone? And any persecuted group or person can take comfort under the umbrella of your entitlement, is that it?
Rachelle: So you’re kind of like an X-Man?
Rachelle: Got it.
Rachelle: Are other people wearing safety pins rushing to your aid?
Rachelle: No?
Rachelle: Well, maybe it’s your responsibility to find them?
Rachelle: Do you have your Ativan with you?
Rachelle: You better take one, honey. Maybe two.
Rachelle: Remember your breathing exercises.
Rachelle: In through the nose and then slowly out the mouth like you’re blowing out a candle.
Rachelle: Oh, Pierre, my power skating coach is trying to get through right now, so I have to go.
Remember to pick up the boots, my brave, little cloud of disinformation, and don’t let that bully scare you off your mission!
]]>but I recently made an exception when Manor Park Public School asked me to address their students.
I was a pupil there back in the 70’s, dominating the classroom and playground from grade two to six, and I guess it’s fair to say I was a bit of a legend. The current principle, after hearing of my brilliant, game-changing, hugely successful book A VAN FULL OF GIRLS,
wanted to know if I, “a real writer,” would give the commencement speech to her graduating grade six students.
This is the text to my speech:
“Graduating class of 2016, I’m not going to lie to you.
Grade seven is a shit show.
The truth is that you’re really, really going to hate it. So much so that you’re going to wake up each day terrified, jittery and spastic. Bad things will happen every day. Algebra, for instance. Algebra will strike you like a goddamn wasting disease. Girls will become powerful beyond your wildest comprehension. You won’t know what hit you. And without any warning, and for no reason whatsoever, the kids you thought were your friends will turn on you. Look to your right. That kid there? That kid will one day spit on you. To your left now, please. That kid? That kid will tell the person you want to ask to the dance that you have B.O. from your butt. And you won’t have any idea why. You will look and feel ugly. Your parents, before they divorce, will probably take you to a psychiatrist and then you’ll have to take pills that make you a really sad kind of sleepy.
Welcome to the real world, class of 2016
But it’s not all doom and gloom and climate change and dying pets and pimples the size of coins, no, there is some relief to be found. You can read, for instance, taking refuge in make-believe worlds where nobody is going to beat you up each day because they heard your mother speaking french, or something.
I work as an author, which means I spend all my time constructing these magical realms of make believe! Think of me as a modern-day wizard!
(child yells)
Sorry? I didn’t hear you.
(Inaudible)
No, not Voldemort, the other one.
(Various children yell)
Didn’t Voldemort have a good brother?
(Children shrieking NO!!)
Well, he should have, but whatever. Fine, then. I am like Voldemort–a powerful, powerful, often misunderstood wizard who can conjure great worlds and then shrink them into books like A VAN FULL OF GIRLS, which can be bought online at Indigo Books, and is such a powerful spell that it might just save your life! You should pester your parents until they buy you several copies—remember, your happiness, the entire course of your future depends on you getting this one thing right. Get your parents to buy you A VAN FULL OF GIRLS, and get them to do it now before it’s too late. Tell them it’s for a class or something, it doesn’t matter.
Class of 2016, congratulations, and may you all travel in A VAN FULL OF GIRLS!
Thank you all, and God bless.
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