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

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

There was an incident today.

Don’t worry. It’s wasn’t the incident to end all incidents, like we’ve talked about.

And all up and down University avenue, in front of all the hospitals, people are out over their lunch breaks. Workmen sit on a cement embankment smoking. They’re grungy, hung-over, covered in tattoos, their construction vests hanging open. There is a leanness to these men that is both in the eyes and of the body. Glistening with sweat, they watch everyone who passes before them. Every woman walking by knows this. Every man. Everyone judged. Everyone sized up.

is now trying– for the third time– to become the Democratic candidate for President of the USA. The man must like power, I guess. At any rate, he has espoused all the political views at one time or another, and now, at 77, he must truly believe it is finally Joe time. What follows is a list of alternate jobs, other than President of the USA, that Mr. Biden might fill:

Greeter at a prestigious riverboat casino
NHL Ref
Dr. Joe, marriage counselor and TV personality
Gourmet hot dog street vendor
Permanent host of The Academy Awards
Mayor of Caramel-by-the-sea, California
Colour commentator on Monday Night Football
Private detective who lives in Hawaii
Head barber and owner of Joe’s Man Cave
Prince of Whales

Dear Michael:

I think you know just how much Caleb and I love you. We think you’re one of the most unique, misunderstood people that we have ever met, which is why this is so terribly awkward and difficult for us, but we are sorry to say that we can no longer host you at our wedding on April 13th. We thought carefully about it, and after you wrote in, “ A St**k sure would be nice!” when asked if you would rather have ‘Tofu Banh Mi Sliders’ or ‘Vegan Cauliflower Tacos with Chipolte Cream’ for your meal at our fully vegan wedding, Caleb and I realized we simply could not host murderers on our sacred day. There is nothing funny about killing, and we cannot start our official life together by compromising our ethics. We simply will not do it.

When you approach from the back you will see workmen and scaffolding. You will see concrete, lines of vehicles and pylons. You will see obstacles. You will see a place you do not want to be. And at the top of the driveway leading to the entrance, there is a small bench beneath an overhang. It’s utilitarian, a place for patients to sit as they wait for transport. There is no view to be had, just cars and cement and shadow, and sitting there you feel like you’re in a parking garage. On the ground beside the bench, sesame seeds are scattered. A patient almost certainly makes a slow procession to this place each day. Feeling fragile and less than he remembered, his bare legs exposed beneath his hospital gown, he would cast seeds to the tiny birds who would come to feed. Amidst all this mess, this construction and revision, this tangle of concrete and flesh, he would sustain them. This mercy, his daily gift. And he would watch the birds hop and cheep, marvelling at their perfect eyes and darting movements, their little, old man legs and mysterious feathers, and how with one small breath they were up and away, lifting into the blue skies just beyond.

These are the text messages I sent my wife Rachelle on Monday:

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

Me: Yep.

Me: Dropped Jones off at daycare and am now at the polling station getting ready to cast my vote for mayor!

Me: No.

Me: Mayor McCheese is not on the ballot.

Me: It is a shame. Not only is he VERY experienced, but he’s also delicious.

Me: I agree, we do underestimate taste when it comes to appraising our candidates.

Me: I think Doug Ford would have been a buttery mayor, like wagyu beef.

Me: John Tory? The current mayor? Beef jerky.

Me: He looks creepy. Desiccated and plastic, like if you bred a dry roasted peanut with a Ken doll. Looks like somebody from Blue Rodeo who suddenly got really, really old!

Me: No.

Me: No, that’s not a “dig” at Jim Cuddy.

Me: All I’m saying is that his opponent, Jennifer Keesmaat, has aged pretty well.

Me: What?

Me: Look, all I mean is that she looks as good now as she did 15 years ago. Let’s smash the patriarchy and vote for her!!

Me: Oh.

Me: Well, when you put it like that I guess it does sound a bit like I’m going to smash the patriarchy by voting for a woman I think has aged well.

Me: And you think that’s wrong?

Me: Okay.

Me: Well, in my defence I knew JK back in the day.

Me: Didn’t I tell you?

Me: But look, I also like her transit plan. Very smart. And let me assure you, she’s more than just another pretty face! You should vote for The Keezer!

Me: A nickname I had for her.

Me: Oh, that was so long ago.

Me: Lava Life, I think.

Me: We only went out on one date.

Me: Went to Maine for a long weekend.

Me: Yeah, I guess it was a three day date.

Me: What did we do?

Me: Well, she’s a HUGE Stephen King fan so we went on a tour of his house in Bangor.

Otherwise, we just drank some wine, walked the beaches, talked policy. Stuff like that.

Me: Hunh!

Me: Hadn’t thought about that, but yeah, Stephen King’s house is my screen saver.

Me: Look, I hadn’t even met you yet!

Me: Rest assured, if you were running for mayor I would vote for you!

Me: You would organize the hell out of this city!

Me: You really would.

Me: And I LOVE the idea of making Toronto a Sanctuary City for all the lost animals of the world.

Me: You would be a way better mayor than JK.

Me: I would be a Russian bot for you.

Me: I would lie to congress for you.

Me: You wouldn’t believe how many laws I would break for you political ambition!!

Me: People would be screaming at me every  goddamn time I tried to eat out. You can bet your bottom dollar on that.

Me: It’s true. You are the fire with which I burn. You have all of me, my love, you always have and always will.

Me: Yes.

Me: Absolutely. You have my word.

Me: I will change my screen saver.

These are the text messages I received from my wife Rachelle the other day:

Rachelle: I’m not sure I think that’s a good idea.

Rachelle: Look, if you’re putting a pretend cast on our three year-old boy’s arm in order to attract the attention of celebrites at the Film Festival, you truly are a horrible father.

Rachelle: Because you’re using him as bait!!

Rachelle: You are exploiting a child.

Rachelle: Yes, even if he agrees to “play dress up for daddy.”

Rachelle: Jesus. Don’t ever, ever make me type, “play dress up for daddy” again.

Rachelle: Really???

Rachelle: That was actually your tag on Lava Life?

Rachelle: That is maybe the creepiest thing I have ever heard in my life.

Rachelle: I think I might vomit.

Rachelle: No, really. I cannot continue this text conversation.

( TWO HOURS LATER )

Rachelle: Really??!! You got Hugh Jackman to sign Jones’ fake cast for me???!!

Rachelle: That is the best thing you have ever done in your life.

Rachelle: Way better than that prank you pulled on the restaurant manager!

Rachelle: No, it was a good prank.

Rachelle: Yes, a really good one, I don’t think he saw it coming at all, but this, this is HUGH JACKMAN!! What did he smell like? Did he like what Jones was wearing? What did he write to me?? Jesus, did you touch him, did you put your hand on him at any point? What did he feel like? Did he talk to Jones?!

Rachelle: For the love of God, just try to remember what he smelled like!! Try. Try as hard as you have ever tried at anything in your life.

Rachelle. I know you have seasonal allergies and it diminishes your olfactory sense, but just concentrate, goddamit, what did he smell like? Was it the ocean? Was it the moon and stars? Was it roast beef and pumpkin?

Rachelle: Really?!!

Rachelle: Roast beef and pumpkin, I knew it!!

Rachelle: I don’t know how I knew it, I just did.

Rachelle: Yes, sometimes my friends and I talk about that sort of stuff.

Rachelle: Really?

Rachelle: You truly want to know what my friends think you smell like?

Rachelle: Jesus.

Rachelle: Okay then.

Rachelle: Ottilie said she thought you smelled like the interior of an old airplane, one that still carried the ghost smell of crappy sandwiches and cigarette smoke.

Rachelle: Well, if you don’t believe me you’ll just have to ask her yourself.

Rachelle: Just out of curiosity, what do you think you smell like?

Rachelle: Really?

Rachelle: I have to say, that was a very unexpected answer.

Rachelle: Was Hugh very concerned about Jones? Did he want to know how he “broke his arm?”

Rachelle: Okay then, “fractured his wrist.”

Rachelle: Hit by a pitch?

Rachelle: You told Hugh Jackman you hit our son with a hardball?

Rachelle: Jesus, Pickle.

Rachelle: NO FUCKING WAY!

Rachelle: You got him to sign, “Rachelle, play dress up for daddy, love Wolverine?”

Rachelle: OMG, that is the sexisest thing ever, wait until I post a photo of that in my Annex Parents group! That’ll knock Vivian off the front page for a day or two!

Rachelle: And did you touch him? What did he feel like? Was there any give, or was it all rippling, equine power?

I have no idea why the guy brought it to me, other than to remove it from his sphere of responsibility, but it felt like a test. Here, I present you with suffering, what will you now do?

The squirrel lay in a blue recycling bin, ontop of some gravel and a piece of tarp. It’s body no longer worked the way it always had, and whenever it tried to heave itself into an upright position, it could not. Imagine the effort– the desperate and complete effort– it must have taken to do that, again and again and again. The eyes of the animal were terrified and dull, and it seemed obvious that it was dying.

I placed the recycling bin in a shaded place, and then brought out some water and nuts, hoping that over the course of the night it might somehow recover, or die as nature had ordained.

I woke up the next day to see that the animal had lifted itself from the box, travelled perhaps 25 feet, and collapsed on the street. It rose to 40 degrees that day. The situation had become worse, and I could see that my actions had been a feckless half measure, designed to make me feel better more than actually help the squirrel. If I had more courage, I would have killed the squirrel. Or I would have picked him up with my hands, wrapped him in a blanket and carried him into the cool of the apartment. I would have done more than the bare minimum necessary to excuse myself of moral repsonsibility.

It’s funny, when we’re on social media we appear so responsive to suffering, so brave. We stand in solidarity. We sign petitions. We boycott and shame. We make bold proclamations, as if calling troops forth to battle, our virtue and sensitivity shining like fires. But in the real world? When we’re actually called to suffering?

Well, I didn’t do much. My efforts were just enough to make me feel better, you know? I got the squirrel onto the grass, tried to shield it from the sun, and once again set out nuts and water.

As I sat at my desk I could see the squirrel through the window as it lay immobile, occasionaly spasming as it tried to right itself. Other squirrels were arriving, not to help, of course, but to take the nuts I had laid out. It was unbearable to watch, and so I called Animal Services.

They arrived, plucked the squirrel up off the ground with an elongated grabber, swiftly put it into a cage, thanked me for my, I don’t know, participation, and then left. And that was that. The animal’s suffering, the animal’s death, was no longer my responsibility.

Whatever the test was that I was given in the form of this injured squirrel, I am sure I failed. And I cannot help but think of myself online, up to my neck in this absracted reality where we’re all so certain we know what the good is, and how to accomplish it. But when I was literally handed a small opportunity to alleviate another creature’s suffering, my intercession was insufficient, and the unintended consequences of my actions had made matters worse.

I will try to remember this as I move through my days.

This is an excerpt from our debut episode:

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

Me: Hey! Welcome back to The Breakfast Club with Heidi and Mike!!

Heidi: We all bark and all bite!!

Me: We sure are, Heidi, we sure are, and I have to say, that was a fascinating interview we just did with Muffin the cat! I mean, WOW, what an interesting cat!

Heidi: Heidi want to barf.

Me: What do you mean?

Heidi: HORRIBLE interview. Heidi no care what Muffin think about immigration or Kim Kardashian getting mom-shamed for straightening daughter’s hair.

Me: Well, you have to admit, Muffin did have some pretty interesting and unique ideas about how to solve the global immigration crisis.

Heidi: You want crisis? Heidi give you crisis. Name Muffin is crisis. So stupid! Why moron cat named after food? Why after crappy food? Why not Steak?! Why not Cheeseburger! Why not Twizzler?

Me: Twizzler is a good name!

Heidi: Heidi like Twizzlers.

Me: Me, too.

Heidi: Twizzlers a uniter.

Stupid Muffin don’t deserve name Twizzler. Such a fat, lazy animal! Muffin never hunt, just lie there! Make society hunt for her! Heidi hate that!

Me: Well, Muffin is an indoor cat.

Heidi: Heidi have no time for Muffin excuses! Muffin staring at diabetes, Heidi tell you.

Me: And hey, for those of you who have to commute today, you should know that traffic along the DVP is slow, so you might want to explore some other routes…

Heidi: Look. Heidi know this controversial, but Heidi think it wrong to normalize cats. Cats evil.

Either you against evil cats or you for evil cats. Not complicated. Not nuanced. You have cat on show, you cat apologist. You part of problem.

Me: The Heidi Hot Take! I was wondering when that was going to happen, so tell us, how can you be certain that all cats are evil?

Heidi: You got to break some eggs to make omelette. Way of the world. Dog eat cat eat other dog eat it all.

Me: Okay, well, maybe now would be a good time to open up the show to callers! Anybody out there have an opinion on whether it’s wrong to normalize cats or not?

Heidi: Ha! Heidi laugh!

Me: Why?

Me: No way you have callers! Also, Muffin really stink. Heidi almost faint from stench. Heidi need danger pay! You think cats clean because always licking paw and brushing self, but just OCD. Cats mental in the head! Cat hygiene fake news!

Me: While we wait to get connected to our first caller, it’s time to provide you with a message from one of our sponsors. Support for The Breakfast Club with Heidi and Mike comes form MailChimp…

Heidi: More than 7 million businesses around the world uses MailChimp…

Me: To send newsletters, messages and deliver high fives…

Me: Heidi?

Me: Heidi, it’s your turn now.

Heidi: Oh! Heidi sorry. Licking herself. What words?

Me: You say, “MailChimp, sends better email!”

Heidi: MailChimp, sends better email!

Me: And now you bark, Heidi.

Heidi: Heidi no bark. No chance. Heidi have self-respect.

Me: Okay, still trying to connect with our caller, just be a sec.’

Heidi: Ha! Heidi marry Muffin if actual caller. No way caller. Heidi can smell your lie sweat. Heidi know.