******************************************
Rachelle: I’m sorry, honey, that’s just not the way that it works.
Rachelle: Although you identify as a two-lunged person, it does not change the fact that you only have one lung.
Rachelle: Yes.
Rachelle: Yes, I think it would likely disqualify you from being hired as a bodyguard.
Rachelle: Hate speech?
Rachelle: Really? You think that’s hate speech?
Rachelle: Well, yes! You should Tweet about it then!
Rachelle: That will really help get things done!
Rachelle: I like the way you fight for justice, you really are the sharp end of the spear!
Rachelle: Oh Pickle, if it’s of any consolation, there are all sorts of reasons beyond you needing supplemental oxygen that would likely stop a person from hiring you as a bodyguard.
Rachelle: Well, you’re pretty weak.
Rachelle: I know.
Rachelle: That rope hang test back in primary school was hard!
Rachelle: I don’t know what they were thinking.
Rachelle: I agree.
Rachelle: It was biased against those with upper body strength issues.
Rachelle: I’m sure you would have gotten a gold star if not for that test.
Rachelle: Well, bronze for sure.
Rachelle: Regardless, my love, I think it’s time to let that go now.
Rachelle: It was a long time ago.
Rachelle: Okay. If Tweeting about it will make you feel better, you Tweet away!
Rachelle: I’ll wait.
Rachelle: What did you Tweet?
Rachelle: FUCK THE ROPE!
Rachelle: Well, that will show them!
Rachelle: Do you think people will know what that means?
Rachelle: Yes. I am very naive.
Rachelle: I believe you. It probably will go viral.
Rachelle: But look, there are other reasons you might not flourish as bodyguard.
Rachelle: You’re kind of clumsy. You move like a pigeon, all jerky and unpredictable.
Rachelle: Also, you don’t enunciate very clearly. I think people would have a hard time understanding the things you reported into your lapel microphone.
Rachelle: Yes. There could be confusion.
Rachelle: Communication is key for a bodyguard.
Rachelle: You’d have to repeat yourself all the time. Lots of wasted time. A terrorist only needs a second to blow himself up.
Rachelle: Oh Michael, I am not “shitting on your dreams.”
Rachelle: His name is Richard Madden. He’s the star of the tv show Bodyguard.
Rachelle: THAT IS NOT TRUE!
Rachelle: He is not an asshole.
Rachelle: He’s just very organized and knows what he wants.
Rachelle: It’s called confidence and strength, and it can be very, very sexy.
Rachelle: A commanding, strong man.
Rachelle: No.
Rachelle: That’s not hate speech either.
Rachelle: If I was an “Alt-Right Nazi” who wanted to “exterminate” those who lacked confidence and strength, do you really think I would have married you, Pickle?
Rachelle: Yes, it is true.
Rachelle: Your potential was, and still remains great. Very great.
Rachelle: You’re my favourite bodyguard.
Rachelle: No.
Rachelle: Sorry.
Rachelle: I was mistaken when I wrote that.
Rachelle: Richard Madden is still my favourite bodyguard.
Rachelle: He could guard my body any time.
Rachelle: Yes.
Rachelle: Sexually.
Rachelle: Well, as much as it would pain me, if a beautiful actress asked you to be her bodyguard, I wouldn’t stand in the way.
Rachelle: I expect Jennifer Lawrence already has a security team in place, though.
Rachelle: But maybe she’d still hire you on. I hear she has a big heart.
Rachelle: You could be The Littlest Bodyguard.
Rachelle: Maybe get on Ellen.
Rachelle: Yes, it would be the Christmas story the world needs right now.
]]>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
***************************
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.
Upstairs at the bar there’s an unrelenting press of people. So many of them. Jostling together excitedly, they’re all hopeful on this festive night out, each one wanting to feel special in some regard, each one waiting for their life to pivot. Unshaven Bros in sports toques and ball caps, beta predators who only move in packs of two and threes, are looking over at a cluster of Friday night women worrying their phones. Men are pushed up against the bar three deep, each one competing for something.
The bartender is at the centre of it all.
Although completely overwhelmed, she’s working calmly through the chaos. Surrounded on all sides by some sort of want, she makes a millions subtle calculations with each one of her actions. Each person is a problem that must be solved, a fire that must be extinguished. Her face determined, she moves fluidly and with purpose, and all the men encircling her at the bar with their steaks and Keg-sized glasses of red wine, are watching.
A man around 60 leans in. Everyone is leaning in, trying to flag her attention. This man, he’s lived his life handsome, and the confident residue of that lingers within him still, “Can I be next?” he asks in a salesman’s voice. The bartender forces a smile and takes his order, and all the other men waiting stiffen a little, jealous.
He is pleased with himself, this man. He feels special.
When she returns, he leans in yet further, “That tattoo on your right forearm, the roman numerals, are they from your favourite Shakespeare passage? Are you an actress?”
It is not clear that she is flattered by this attention, but she gives a partial, evasive answer.
“It’s a date,” she says, giving the man a polite, discouraging smile. Gesturing to how busy she is, she moves to disengage and tend to other preening, signalling men, but this man was not finished. “This is my favourite passage,” he began, and then in his best Shakespearian accent:
“If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die…”
And she is trapped, so trapped she is almost suspended in air.
Her eyes close for just a moment, as if it is all too much, and then she reanimates herself and begins to applaud robustly, cutting the man’s recitation short. It was as if a battle had been won, and she got to keep the secret of the tattoo– something so important, so crucial to who she wanted to be, that she had it written into her flesh–for herself.
]]>Well, the other day my mother actually received this letter from Margaret Atwood:
********************************************************
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.
]]>My most recent invention is a dating service called Hater Mater, where people are paired based on the things they dislike rather than the things that they like.
This is the preliminary questionnaire I have written for people using the App:
1. On a scale of 0-10, how much do you hate the sky?
2. Please choose the stupidest fucking sign in the zodiac.
3. Order these celebrities in the sequence in which you would most want to see them surreally injured in a crossbow incident:
Amy Schumer
The Ikea Monkey
Ethan Hawke
The entire cast from Orange is the New Black
Eric Trump
Adam Driver and Terry Richardson
4. On a scale of 0-10, how much do you hate the ocean?
5. Which Margaret Atwood novel gives you the worst stabbing stomach pain?
6. What do you hate more, squirrels or birds? (Please elaborate)
7. Do your parents hate you more than you hate them, or do you hate them more than they hate you?
8. Is you best friend kind of an asshole?
9. Do you find chopsticks to be infuriating and stupid and pretentious?
10. Do you often find yourself fantasizing about making over-rated Canadian author Margaret Atwood cry?
11. Which part of this passage from a celebrated Margaret Atwood novel do you despise the most?
“Who are you? And I mean really. Who are you?”
My gut tells me that if I tell her right now, in this moment, it will not be well-received. “A friend,” I say, my gaze lowering to her lush mouth and lifting. “And the man who wants to kiss you. Really kiss you. Can I kiss you, Myla?”
“You’re asking?”
“Yes. I’m asking. After all you’ve been through-”
“He hasn’t destroyed me. He hasn’t beaten me and I don’t like that you think he has.”
“I don’t think he’s beaten you.”
“He hasn’t,” she insists. “I’m not giving him that power and damn it, you better not either by treating me like I’m broken and fragile. So kiss me if you’re going to kiss me or let me go, if you don’t want-”
I cup the back of her head, and slant my mouth over hers, my tongue sliding against hers, stroking, caressing, and the taste of her, one part hunger I welcome, but the other part, the torment, I intend to drive away. I deepen the kiss, my hand pressing beneath her tank top, finding warm, soft skin. My fingers splay over her rib cage, while my mind reminds me that no matter how big she talks, she wants this escape for a reason. She has been abused, used, hurt. “
12. “Everybody loves a parade,” true or false?
13. Is Real Estate for fools?
14. When you hear the word “Mindfulness” do you want to build an attack drone or buy a magic killing sword?
15. What do you hate more, having to use a sink or writing with a pen?
16. Which superhero would you most like to beat-up in a fight?
17. Do you hate it when people say, “Good Morning!”
18. Are relationships insanely unrealistic and entirely impossible?
19. On a scale of 1 to 100, how much do you hate non-Spanish speaking people who pronounce Nicaragua as ‘Knee-ah-rah-hah?”
20. If you heard that Margaret Atwood opened a restaurant and that all the sandwiches were named after her poems, would you immediately vomit?
]]>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aki6xZCo0Fw
At first this incident was attributed to overheating and dehydration, but this was later revised, the cause falling on a mild case of pneumonia. Whether the initial concealment of this was a simple matter of obscurant political reflex, or if the pneumonia is actually a symptom of a more sinister, underlying condition as many are speculating, is unknown. What is known is that illness, be it mild or grave, is not at all uncommon amidst people around 70 who are subject to inconceivable stress and an insane work schedule. Legions of Presidents have suffered aliments, and this is a short list of some of them:
Lyndon B Johnson had the Dropsy.
Martin Van Buren, after being prescribed laudanum for the pain associated with his gout, became an opium addict. This is an excerpt from Van Buren’s diary:
“ …Men of genius move in orbits of their own; and seem deprived of that free will which permits the mere man of talent steadily to pursue the beaten path. Van Buren was made to soar and not to creep. I should much wish, like the Indian Vishna, to float about along an infinite ocean cradled in the flower of the Lotos, & wake once in a million years for a few minutes – just to know that I was going to sleep a million years more.”
George H W Bush suffered from Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome, which is characterized by episodes of severe vomiting that have no apparent cause. Episodes can last for hours or days and alternate with relatively symptom-free periods of time.
Whenever Bush visited Japan, he threw-up almost constantly.
Zachary Taylor suffered from Crop Sickness, a condition that made him unusually cruel to his slaves and eventually killed him.
FDR had Polio and was confined to a wheelchair. The press even colluded with him in attempts to portray him in ways that did not directly associate him with a wheelchair.
Josiah Bartlett suffered from Multiple Sclerosis, but in spite of that is still considered the greatest orator of all the American Presidents.
George W Bush, while on a bombing mission over Hanoi in October 1967, was shot down, seriously injured, and captured by the North Vietnamese. Although Bush was able to charm his way to freedom, his injuries caused him lifelong physical limitations. Art therapy has been a large part of Bush’s continued recovery.
Jimmy Carter was abducted by an alien spacecraft in 1973, thoroughly examined, and then released. He has suffered Night Terrors ever since, and is now obsessed with creating crop circles.
]]>
Me: Thanks so much for sitting down with me.
Jane: It’s my pleasure, jobs, justice and particularly climate change are the defining issues of our times, and with what little time I have left, I want to do all I can to bring attention to them.
Me: Of course, of course. Nice hat, by the way—I think it says, “Let’s Change The World Now!” At any rate, you said, “with what little time I have left,” how old are you?
Jane: I am 77 years-old, and fortunately I’m in good health and have lots of energy, so I’m very hopeful that I can keep using my celebrity to bring attention to these causes before it’s too late.
Me: My mother is 77 years-old and she doesn’t look anything like you. Practically a different species.
Jane: I’m sure your mother is a very, very lovely woman, although looking at you I’d think she was much older than 77. But anyway, I’m from Hollywood and I’ve had so much work done I’m practically a cyborg.
Me: Ha!! A sex-cyborg! That’s funny! I’d love to see a Jane Fonda sex-cyborg. I hope the Japanese invent one after you’re dead. But back to the interview. You can imagine how confusing it was for me growing up to have you on one hand, a hot star I wanted to have sex with, and my mother on the other hand– and both being the same age! Very mixed-up– still am, I guess!!
Jane: Well, I hope you got some help for that. That’s one of the good things about Canada, it has universal health care so that people with mental illnesses such as yourself, can be treated.
Me: I loved you in Barbarella. When you made that film, did you have any idea how many strip clubs in North America were going to name themselves Barbarella’s? There must be hundreds, probably thousands.
Jane: The sex industry is a very complicated one, but what is clear is that women should have the right to do what they want with their bodies, be it free choice, stripping or prostitution. We need to enact laws to protect and empower women so that they’re in control of their bodies and lives, treated fairly and in a safe environment.
Me: Okay, good point. This one is a three-parter: Is acting a form of prostitution? Does Hollywood treat women fairly? Do you have sex with all of your leading men, or women, such as the case may be?
Jane: Yes, I think that acting is a form of prostitution, and…
Me: I have never in all of my years been to a prostitute. Never had to pay for it.
Jane: As I was saying, Hollywood has a long, long way to go before men and women are treated equally, particularly older women. Once you hit a certain age, the roles just vanish and you become invisible!
Me: Which is why you’re at a rally in Canada instead of, saying, selling aerobics videos
or starring as a lawyer or sexy, mean matriarch in some movie. I get it. They say that women in Hollywood have a best before date, a point where they become unfuckable. Do you think you became unfuckable, and if so, at what point in your career? Maybe Stanley and Iris or Monster-in-Law?
Jane: (Gets up and leaves)
]]>
However, I was curious to see how it might actually unfold in the real world and so I went out to a bunch of Starbuck’s in the Toronto area and tried to engage the staff in conversations about race.
Starbucks
10 Dundas Street East
8:30 pm
Me: Hi.
Barista: Hi.
Me: Are you a fan of the TV show Empire?
Barista: Don’t think I know that one.
Me: Oh. Well, it has an all black cast. Not a single white person on it. After a few episodes you don’t even notice how weird that is. It says a lot about race, I think, and the gritty world of Hip Hop. Very topical considering Ferguson and everything.
Barista: You seem very authentically informed.
Me: Well, I’m a part of Black Twitter, so I feel pretty plugged in.
Barista: I see. What can I get you?
Me: Decaf green tea. Grande.
Barista: I bet you like being white, don’t you?
Me: I don’t really see race.
Starbucks
407 Yonge Street
11:30 am
Me: Hey, anyone interested in rapping about race?
Barista: (foams milk)
Me: (Turning around and facing the customers in the lineup behind me) Anyone?
Guy with an eye patch: This might not be “politically correct” or anything, but I hate the Irish.
Me: Really, the Irish? But they have Leprechauns!
Guy with an eye patch: Exactly, Leprechauns are just about the creepiest thing in the world.
Me: What happened, did you lose your eye to a Leprechaun?
Guy with an eye patch: No, I lost it in a fire. The Irish also cheat at cards, and on their husbands.
Girl in denim jacket: And I have to add that the Muzzies got no business taking over this country, if they want to live here, they should damn well dress like everyone else, am I right?
Me: Hey, this is great, now we’re really starting to get into the hard stuff! How about you, (pointing at a woman on her phone) what do you think?
Woman on her phone: (Gives me the finger)
Me: (To Barista) People are still very uncomfortable talking about race. It’s a real shame, because as painful as it is, we really have so much to learn from one another. We need to be brave.
Barista: You do know that the campaign isn’t taking place in Canada, right?
Starbucks
585 University Avenue
2:00 pm
Me: (To Barista) So, who is your favourite black actor or actress? Supermodels count.
Barista: Why are you asking me this?
Me: I’m trying to start a dialogue about race. I want to find out about your lived experience. Have you ever written a letter to a black celebrity, and if so, was it a hate letter or a love letter?
Barista: It’s never occurred to me to write a celebrity a letter.
Me: Any celebrity, or just black celebrities in particular?
Barista: Any celebrity.
Me: Weird. Not even Pam Grier??
Barista: Look, I got to keep the line moving here, are you going to take that cookie or not?
]]>
My hatred of him was immediate, visceral and enduring, and over the years I have taken time out of my busy, important life to write him a note each year on his birthday. This is a small sample of some of the letters I have written him:
July 3, 1986
Dear Maverick:
Your call sign in Top Gun should have been Muffin.
You’re a loser and flash in the pan and it’s obvious you don’t have a clue how to play beach volleyball.
Your smile makes me want to punch you with a rake.
Happy 24th, moron.
Michael Murray
PS: Please send an autographed photograph.
July 3, 1992
Dear Tom:
I want to congratulate you on your Irish accent in Far and Away.
You’ve really been acting the shit out of things lately, especially when you made us all understand what it must feel like to be Tom Cruise in a wheelchair in Born on the Fourth of July. That was some heavy shit, really brave, and you deserve a milk carton full of Oscars for that role.
Happy 30th, loser, it’s all downhill from here.
Michael Murray
PS: I have named my band Cole Trickle after your character in Days of Thunder. Inspired by your acting, we formed as a group even though none of us can play any instruments.
July 3, 2000
Tom:
What the fuck was up with your package in Magnolia???
I mean, please! Are you really that vain that you have to make it look like you have a giant cock? Really?? And did you even know what Eyes Wide Shut was about? Truly, you are the worst actor ever.
Happy birthday.
Michael Murray
July 3, 2005
Dear crazy Scientology person:
Joey will never love you.
You will never have her.
You may jump on sofas all you want, but you will never win her heart. You are a robot, a robot made of money and teeth, and although she has likely signed a contract, that contract will end and she will leave you. Mark my words, Cruise, mark my words.
You’re 43 now, and although you don’t know it, things are beginning to slip away.
Happy birthday.
Michael Murray
PS: I am taking the bus to America to buy a crossbow on the weekend.
July 3, 2014
Tom:
I’m on medication now and am doing well. I understand boundaries. I am sorry about the genetic material I sent to you on your 50th birthday. It was inappropriate of me, to say the least, and trying to get you to introduce me to your ex-wife, the Katie Holmes version of your ex-wife, was insensitive. I just want to thank you for our friendship over the years, wish you the best as you move through your 50’s and let you know that I am really just fantastically excited for Top Gun II.
Happy birthday, old friend!
Michael Murray
]]>
The shirtless dude started off near a garbage can but soon moved into a more central position by a big, beautiful tree. It was here where he began to bullwhip the leaves off of the tree. Such a dedicated warrior! Such terrifying accuracy!! As he didn’t seem like the type who was adverse to a little bit of attention, Rachelle and I took the dog over to have a closer look. He nodded at us, and we nodded back, noticing that he was actually stunningly good looking.
Rachelle: Cool!!
Douche with the whip: (In a completely posh British accent) Would you like to try?
Rachelle: (Giggles)
Me: (Holding the twig I had been using to play fetch with Heidi and in an unfortunately thin and raspy voice) Are you a Indiana Jones or something?
Douche with the whip: I’m sorry sir, I couldn’t quite hear you.
Me: (Clearing my throat and taking a lozenge) My allergies are bothering me, I said, “Are you Indiana Jones?”
Rachelle: (Stepping forward) I’d like to try now, please!
Douche with the whip: (Smiling like Jude Law) No, I’m not, but my agent thought it would be a good idea if I learned a little bit about the whip as he has an audition for me in a new role on Game of Thrones. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to have that opportunity, so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m making a display of myself out here, but you really need space to practice. (To Rachelle) Of course you can try!
Rachelle: (Jumping up and down and clapping her hands)
Me: I’m a well-known writer. I’ve been interviewed on TV.
Rachelle: Oh, that was a long time ago, Pickle! You haven’t been a columnist in years!! (To the douche) Everybody on Game of Thrones is so beautiful, I’m sure you’ll get the part!!
Douche with the whip: (Holding Rachelle around the waist and guiding her hand as she held the whip) You have to really relax your wrist and use a very free and easy motion.
Me: I think Game of Thrones is over-rated. Without the nudity nobody would even notice the show.
Rachelle: Will your character be asked to do any nudity? Oh, and I’m Rachelle (she actually tossed her hair), what’s your name?
Douche with whip: My name is William Burroughs, like the author. Apparently we’re related but I don’t know exactly how.
Me: Rachelle, Heidi’s not feeling well and needs to go home.
Rachelle: Okay Pickle, you take her, I’ll catch up later!
