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

Rachelle: You’re still mad about losing at Ms. Monopoly, aren’t you?

Rachelle: A resignation is a loss.

Rachelle: Yes, it is.

Rachelle: I know.

Rachelle: It was clear you were thrown off your game when you weren’t allowed to use your special dice or your customized Hat marker.

Rachelle: You didn’t quit because it was unfair.

Rachelle: You quit because you knew you had no hope of winning.

Rachelle: Yes. Times change.

Rachelle: That was the POINT of the game.

Rachelle: It was designed as a twist on the original, inverting the societal hierarchy we labour under, giving women $240 every time they pass Go, while men only get $200.

Rachelle: I have no idea what Jordan Peterson would say about that.

Rachelle: Who is he, anyway?

Rachelle: Boy, that’s an awful lot of links to YouTube videos.

Rachelle: Okay, okay, okay.

Rachelle: I’ve heard enough.

Rachelle: Fine. Equal opportunity and equity are different things.

Rachelle: So that’s the reason you quit Ms. Monopoly just when you were about to lose?

Rachelle: Okay. Resigned.

Rachelle: Principles.

Rachelle: Oh yes, we certainly do need more community leaders like you, Pickle!

Rachelle: Quitting a board game with friends and running off to “catalogue your comics” was indeed a brave and principled stance!

Rachelle: You bring honour into our home with your actions!

Rachelle: No, that’s not right.

Rachelle: You do not support our family by scavenging the garbage cans of Toronto for comics and then never bothering to resell the soggy, disgusting ones you retrieve.

Rachelle: You know it makes the neighbours very uncomfortable to see you doing that, don’t you?

Rachelle: Pickle, they have no idea what you’re looking for.

Rachelle: They’ve started to leave their empty wine bottles in front of our apartment.

Rachelle: I can’t believe you didn’t notice.

Rachelle: On Monday there must have 30 of them!

Rachelle: No.

Rachelle: That bottle increase had nothing to do with the film festival, and everything to do with the neighbours trying to charitably address your disturbing, garbage-picking ways.

Rachelle: Yes, it is nice of them.

Rachelle: Most people are nice, Pickle, it’s true.

Rachelle: I honestly don’t know if Cate Blanchett is nice.

Rachelle: I can’t imagine you having dinner with her.

Rachelle: You’d lose all composure, drop your cutlery, knock over glasses. That sort of thing.

Rachelle: My guess is Jennifer Lawrence is nicer.

Rachelle: I suppose you’re going on another celebrity watch today?

Rachelle: Okay. Just don’t be creepy, and remember to pick-up some coconut water! Must get back to work! xo

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

Rachelle: No, it’s not.

Rachelle: I’m sorry Pickle, you’re wrong.

Rachelle: It’s not the Marie Keto diet.

Rachelle: There are two different things. The Keto diet where you eat steak, and Marie Kondo, a Japanese spirit who tidies apartments when you’re sleeping.

Rachelle: It’s an easy mistake to make.

Rachelle: I don’t know how you’re expected to keep up either!

Rachelle: The world moves quickly, it really does.

Rachelle: Did you drop Jones off at daycare?

Rachelle: “Only Jones and Hulk make the rules now?”

Rachelle: He said that to you when you asked him to put on his boots?

Rachelle: OMG, that is the funniest thing I have ever heard!

Rachelle: I’m not sure I’d want to live in a world like that, either.

Rachelle: Can you imagine?

Rachelle: There would just be SO MUCH SMASHING.

Rachelle: Marie Kondo should be part of the Hulk and Jones team, quietly tidying up after they raze city after city.

Rachelle: Really?

Rachelle: How is that sexist?

Rachelle: And disrespectful to Asian culture?

Rachelle: It just is? Is that all you’ve got???

Rachelle: Look, proclaiming that you’re tolerant of everything but intolerance is not an explanation for why you think I’m sexist and racist.

Rachelle: No it isn’t.

Rachelle: It doesn’t even really make sense.

Rachelle: Yes.

Rachelle: By extension you don’t really make sense either.

Rachelle: Yes, all your friends know that.

Rachelle: For a very long time now.

Rachelle: When you really get going we call it “Murrbling,” as in, “Man alive, was Michael ever Murrbling last night!”

Rachelle: I don’t have time right now, Pickle. My hockey game is about to start.

Rachelle: Okay, I’ll pick up some Jackson Triggs on the way back, and of course I’ll come home with my shield, or on it. They don’t call me the Blonde Volcano for nothing!

Rachelle: Love you, too, and don’t let Jones and the Hulk push you around. You make the rules!

Rachelle: Yes.

Rachelle: By that I did mean I make the rules. xo

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

Short track speed skating is easily the greatest of all the sports the winter Olympics have to offer.

However, the first thing that we have to address are the catsuits worn by the athletes. It’s the elephant in the room, the resonant fact that simply cannot be ignored. Whenever we’re talking about speed skating—the strategy, the danger, the speed, the sheer ridiculousness of it– we’re also talking about how goddamn sexy the competitors are in those outfits. And yes, it is true, I’m not at all against sexually objectifying beautiful athletes I’ll never encounter. In fact, it’s pretty much the main reason I watch the Olympics these days. The human form– full of potential and ambition– performing stunning feats in it’s most perfect earthly manifestation? Yes, I’ll take two helpings please!

Make no mistake, this is the subtext to every speed skating viewing experience you have.

Beyond that there is the fact that the speed skaters, with their helmets and visors, armed with a razor sharp foot knife that’s about as long as a forearm, look like superheroes come to skate for truth and justice.

These people are weaponized, and the fact that it’s short track speed skating ( to say nothing of the positively insane short track speed skating relay) means that they’re CONSTANTLY wiping out.

It’s so unpredictable that luck is almost as important as skill. It’s a last-person-standing kind of sport, one that’s so cruelly constructed you’d think it was invented by a sadistic gym teacher.

No matter, the fact that a wipeout is almost a certainty, and that a wipeout is usually a tangle of kicking razor blades, a crash could have very dire consequence. And so when you see one of the athletes cross the finish line, know that they have just skated through death, and when they take off their helmet and throw back their head, elated and forever, know, too, that they are one of us, and that for a moment at least, we are all beautiful and immortal.

—————————————————

Well Michael Murray you may enjoy watching sexy athletes court death (because?!) but give me a performance I can watch later via Robyn Doolittle’s tweeted emojis any day.

Or night.

Because we don’t have cable and I don’t want to watch sexy athletes court death, but I don’t want to watch English villagers disappearing one by one on TVO either.

We get it, TVO. English villages are full of old people and old people are murderers so do not move to an English village unless you’re old and want to murder people. The end.

But speed skating? Seriously? Speed skating?? What’s that – one emoji? Done. Well I’m sorry, Michael Murray, but that’s not a story. So not sorry. Figure skating, though, figure skating is a sportstory (yes, that is so a word!) that a reporter can emoji (yes, that’s a verb – I emoji therefore I amji) for people who can’t watch the Olympics BECAUSE OF THE COURTING DEATH THING, MICHAEL MURRAY!

And it’s just like being there on your couch watching Patrick Chan do his short or long or whatever – but faster. My emotions totally ran the gamut, but like in one second.

Don’t believe me? Here it is.

Ms. Doolittle called it, “Watching Patrick Chan: An Emoji Journey” – so right away a heads up that it might be a bumpy ride. Fortunately, I had a cup of mint tea right here beside my computer, just like I do now. Then there was a Canadian flag, which, you know, I’m actually a down-with-borders type but okay. Then a pair of ice skates (well duh, Robyn). But then, oh my Gord – a laughing emoji! Yay! Wait… what? A grimacing emoji!? Nooooooo! Not again! Too soon! Too soon! Oh sweet Jes – a crying emoji? Already? What the – SWEATING?! Oh now come the eff on – screaming? Really? We’re screaming now? In agony? Or maybe… Ah, never mind. Looks like we’re weeping buckets.

Okay. Well. Glad that’s over. <schhhlurp> Ah, mint tea. So refreshing. And just one more week…

This is his first press conference:

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

3:24 P.M. EDT

Elmo: Hi everybody!

Guess what Elmo is thinking about today!!

Afghanistan!!!

Afghanistan starts with the letter A!!

Do you know what else starts with the letter A??

Attitude! Elmo hopes all of you people in the press have really good attitudes today!!

President Trump is ordering another 4,000 troops into Afghanistan. President Trump took over a mess, and now America, and her global allies and partners, are going to make things a lot messier! Elmo loves to make a mess! Do you like to make a mess? America will be making a mess of terrorists in order to clean up the mess the previous administration made of Afghanistan! So remember, America will not be nation building, America will be killing terrorists!

Terrorists are bad!

Yay, America!!

Can you guess what else Elmo is thinking about today?

Anybody??

No?

Ha, ha! Maybe you want to dance with Elmo? Elmo just loves to dance!

( Elmo dances)

Oh, Elmo so tired from dancing, Elmo almost forgot what Elmo was thinking about! Elmo remember! Elmo was thinking about Fake News!

Boo, Fake News, Boo!

Fake News is just about as bad as the terrorists!! Poor President Trump, he just wants to make America great again, and he has to fight terrorists AND fake news!! Such a hero!! Elmo loves heroes! Let’s all stand up and clap our hands for heroes!! Yay!!!

Elmo wants to say that although it is true President Trump briefly sized up the sun during yesterday’s eclipse, the President is not blind and is in perfect health!

That was fake news!! Elmo hates fake news! Elmo thinks that President Trump has such energy he might live forever! He is healthiest, most patriotic President of all time!! But even if the President had suffered significant blurring and fading of his vision during his encounter with the sun, which he hasn’t, there have been many great blind people in history! Do you like history?? Elmo loves history!

History says that America is great!

History also says that Daredevil was blind! And even blind Daredevil could still destroy all his enemies!!

Maybe Daredevil will visit Afghanistan?! Elmo thinks that would be so much fun! Wouldn’t that be fun?!

Remember to check Twitter to see when Daredevil might be appearing in Afghanistan!!

History also says that the great poet Milton was also blind, as well as musician Jose Feliciano!

And look, here’s Mister Jose Feliciano! Would you play a song for Elmo Mister Feliciano?!

Yay!! But first, Elmo thinks it is important to say that Mister Jose Feliciano is from Puerto Rico, not Mexico as many seem to think!

Elmo loves you Mister Jose Feliciano, thank you for the beautiful song!

Such a fun press conference!

Before Elmo leaves today Elmo wants to say just a few words about Jerry Lewis. That man kept us all laughing for over half a century, and his incredible charity work touched the lives of millions. Jerry lived the American Dream—he truly loved his country, and his country loved him back. Our thoughts are with his family today as we remember the extraordinary life of one of our greatest entertainers and humanitarians. Thank you, Jerry. You will be missed.

Elmo loves you all!!

Kiss, kiss!

Donald Trump is the living embodiment of a cliffhanger.

I swear, everything the man does compels us to astonishment. And once this happens he has us trapped– as the complicit media knows all too well. Almost obediently, we’ll sit there in anxious anticipation, eagerly awaiting his next act as if it were an episode of Breaking Bad. Trump, always the catalytic agent, exists to propel narratives forward. Where that story came from or where it might be headed is entirely immaterial, all that matters is that in that moment you cared, and the more passionately you cared, the better for him.

Since his election my media streams have been rivers of fire. All day long people have been screaming at one another and making the boldest declarations. It reminds me of the Olympics, actually. Some sport I will have never heard of might pop up, and after a brief, mechanical explanation of what it is and a few minutes of watching, I’ll feel like an expert.

And so it goes with politics. We may not speak the language, we may not have visited the country, we may not have any friends who are native to the place, but in very short order, we still have really, really strong opinions about what should happen to it.

Whenever I find myself assuming this role and asserting some far too sure political view, I remind myself that I have trouble keeping my own house in order. What’s my economic plan for the USA? Hell, what’s my economic plan for my family!

The world is infinitely complex, and our ability to understand it is miniscule. Our chances of being wrong about something are far greater than our chances of being right, and it’s important we keep this in mind, particularly when judging those we disagree with. I mean, if you’re awake enough to understand that not all Muslims are terrorists, then you should be awake enough to understand that not all of your political opponents are racist morons.

One’s politics are a very poorly articulated version of the sort of person one might be in the world. Typically it says more about how we’d like to be seen, than how we actually conduct ourselves. And it is just so hard to live a pure life in this society, we must always keep in mind that it is upon monstrous deeds that most of us have happily, blindly, built our lives.

The furious, pre-apocalyptic tensions defining the USA right now are typically lumped into two categories. There are the coastal city-states that house the progressives and elites, and then there is the rest of America, a kind of seething, primitive horde—think Orcs.

I try to look at it more like the future pitted agains the past.

Every year our world changes more than it has in all the generations stacked before it. A lot of people are disoriented and terrified by the velocity at which their lives are now moving, while others are grateful that time has finally caught up with them. And when one traditional way of life is subsumed by another, there is usually a violent reaction, and I think that’s what we’re seeing– the past trying to claw the future back in place, and a resentful and protective future stomping back.

So be kind if you can, for everybody is feeling like they’re hanging off the edge of a cliff.

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:

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

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!

This is a vast question, one that the Globe and Mail is trying to answer by asking some writers their thoughts on the matter. I am flattered to say that I was one of the writers they asked, and this was my response:

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

A real man must have a healthy respect for nature. 

A real man knows that humidity is a festering curse, so if the Humidex rises much above 30, he will stay inside with the AC cranked. He does this because he is smart and powerful and worldly. The real man never retreats, he merely lies in wait until favourable conditions arise. 

A real man is also wary around birds.

He believes flight to be cheating and does not trust cheaters.

If any cheater birds come around a real man’s family, that bird would be a fool. A real man will wave his arms about and shriek, he will do whatever it takes to keep that bird from attacking his family.

Even if his family can be ungrateful and mocking.

That sort of stuff just rolls off a real man’s back.

A real man knows how to build a scarecrow to keep birds off the property he rents, too. If the real man lacks money because of his integrity, because he’s unwilling to be a sheep and get a “job” working for some soulless corporation or media conglomerate, then he will scavenge goods to create his scarecrow, and his scarecrow would be just as good, and a lot more scary, than any fancy, professionally manufactured scarecrow.

A real man is not scared to use coupons.

He is industrious.

And his fearfulness makes him fearless.

And if he cries easily, like when Jon Snow had to kill his red-headed, Wildling girlfriend on GOT, or when a sweet, little gymnast just nails the program she’s worked so hard on, it is only because he feels things so strongly. 

A real man feels it in the gut.

He feels it in the gut hard.

You must understand that.

When at a party and spotting a turntable, the real man knows that it is his duty to assume all DJ responsibilities. He doesn’t shirk from this the way a not-real man might, but he owns the goddamn responsibility. He was born to educate the world by playing the barely recognizable esoterica from his youth. He was born to explain things to people.

And so, the real man won’t be bothered by all the pretty women rolling their eyes and leaving the dance floor. He won’t care that they call him DJ BuzzKill and make fun of his leather bomber jacket. In such a situation, the real man would be crying because the complicated beauty of his music had touched him in a holy way, that is all. 

The real man used to be really good at sports.

Last year there was a play-off game between the Texas Rangers and the Toronto Blue Jays that was perhaps, one of the weirdest, most entertaining, anarchic ball games in the history of the known universe.

Part ayahuasca trip, the game culminated when Blue Jay superstar Jose Bautista absolutely crushed a three-run homer that for all intents and purposes, ended the game, time and the universe.

It was that epic.

The Rangers were ruined.

You could see the post-traumatic stress disorder forming in their glassy eyes. You could see the days of boozing and aimless driving. You could see that recovery was going to be impossible.

And if that wasn’t enough, Bautista performed a now legendary bat flip that saw him standing motionless at home plate, like a statute of a Greek God, as he watched the ball sail to glory,

before dropping the mic by tossing the bat, as if it was now something repellent to him, about a mile away.

This got under the skin of the broken Rangers, and it stayed there.

Jose Bautista has big, rat-like ears, the physical rectitude of a matador and a self-confidence that radiates from him like some sort of X-Man power. He is arrogant, this man, and although he’s an intelligent and astounding baseball player, he’s still a prick. I mean, he thinks of himself as a corporation and acts accordingly. He knows how great he is, and if for some reason you forget it, his body language will surely remind you, and if that doesn’t, well, he’ll tell you. You get the sense with Bautista, that he really does see the rest of the world as, “The Little People.”

At any rate, this bat flip, this losing in the playoffs to the Jays has stuck in the collective craw of the Rangers for the better part of a year.

Sunday was the last meeting of the two teams this year (barring a playoff match-up) and the Rangers pitcher hit Bautista with a pitch. This was pay back, and although Bautista gave him the slow, threatening stink-eye, he didn’t do anything, until he did do something. This something was a hard, illegal take-out slide of Ranger second baseman Rougned Odor on an ensuing play.

Now this sort of thing has been happening in baseball for a hundred years, but only recently was this kind of slide (in which you try to knock over the second baseman rather than achieve possession of the bag) made illegal. Odor, the second baseman, shoved Bautista in the chest. Bautista, who could buy and sell the little man, moved toward him like a God toward a mortal, and as he was pulling his fingers together to make a fist,  Rougned clocked him in the face with a stunning punch that saw Bautista’s $13,000 glasses, helmet and ego go flying.

It was awesome.

Of course, there are all sorts of people who are upset about the savagery of the act, but not me. It was cathartic and shocking, a David and Goliath moment that saw the preening, entitled 30 million dollar a year athlete get what his behaviour actually warranted. It was, for a moment, a kind of justice, a blow for the little man, and it made me happy.

Team Leader: Okay, I guess we’ll just wait another five minutes to see if Noor shows up, but if not we’ll just start without her.

(AWKWARD SILENCE)

Me: Well, I think it might be a nice way to kill the time if we each told one another a little bit about ourselves.

Team Leader: This isn’t required so nobody has to participate.

Me: My name is Michael Murray, I stand nearly six feet four inches tall and live in Toronto with my wife and our Miniature Dachshund. When I was a boy Iron Fist was my favourite superhero. He could summon and focus his chi into one amazing punch and was teemed with the super awesome Luke Cage, who was known not to take any jive.

Person #1: My name is Cindy and I live in Ottawa.

Person #2: Tom, in London.

Person #3: My name is Beth and I live in Kingston where I’m a student, and I guess I my favourite superhero would be Lara Croft.

Me: She’s not a superhero. She’s a video game character.

Person #3: Oh, I didn’t realize that Iron Fist was a real person. I’m surprised I haven’t heard more about him.

Team Leader: Hopefully Noor will be here very soon. We’ll just give her two more minutes and then we’ll get into the material.

Me: Team Leader, is there any sort of dress code we have to abide by when we’re doing our work?

Team Leader: Well, as you’ll be working from home, of course not.

Me: Great, because it’s a straight up fact that I do my best work when I’m not wearing a shirt.

Person #1: Gross.

Team Leader: Michael, we don’t need to know that. You’re over-sharing and making us all a little bit uncomfortable.

Person #1: Look, I’m not a difficult person, but I think this is sexual harassment.

Me: I think you hear what you want to hear, Cindy.

Person #1: What does that mean?

Me: You sound like somebody who maybe wants to get sexually harassed, you know?

Team Leader: Okay Michael, you are way out of bounds here and if you don’t apologize immediately and stop this conduct, you will be terminated from the project.

Me: Our Dear Leader makes a persuasive argument. Cindy, I am very sorry, I was just making stuff up and trying to be funny, lighten things up a bit while we waited, but I see that I was creepy and inappropriate, and I am really, truly sorry for that.

Person #1: Fine, but I still feel like I need a shower.

Person #2: I think we all do.

Noor: Hello! Sorry I’m late, did I miss anything?

Me: We were just talking about taking a group shower.

Team Leader: Michael, you’re fired.

This week I told her students about the Guardians of Peace, the agency that hacked into Sony, spilled all the gossip on the movie stars and Hollywood executives, changed international policy and held a movie hostage. They were duly impressed, and in accordance with the way I described the group, they thought of them as a combination of God, Santa Claus and G.I. Joe. I asked each child to write a letter to the Guardians of Peace, and these are a few of my favourites:

Dear Guardians of Peace:

Are you related to the Guardians of the Galaxy??

My mother took me to that movie in the summer and it was AWESOME! There was a raccoon that shot a machine gun and a tree-person! It was the best. If you haven’t seen it, you should go as soon as you can! Anyway, do you think you two could work together, and if not, perhaps you could fight against one another and it could be made into a movie? I would buy all the action figures.

S. Age 9

I have a cat named Tinker. The other day she caught a mouse! It was disgusting and cool at the same time! I felt bad for the mouse but I also felt excited! Is that what it’s like to be a terrorist? Is Tinker a terrorist?

M. Age 8

Dear Guardians of Peace:

This year I asked for a cape for Christmas but I did not get it. I was good all year long and really deserved the cape, but still, Santa forgot it. I think he’s getting old and is slipping. It’s time for him to go. You seem to be very powerful, would you consider taking over Santa’s job? If so, I would like a cape for Christmas, the game Grand Theft Auto and to be allowed to watch Game of Thrones.

W. Age 10

Dear Guardians of Peace:

Why did you say the bad things about Angelina Jolie?

She’s pretty, and all she wants to do is adopt babies and make the world a better place. My father says that you are terrorists and cowards, and that everybody in North Korea is short. I have included a drawing of a short person.

S. Age 9 ½