While driving along Bloor he started to talk about how much things had changed. This, a safe conversational starter for men past a certain age.

What used to be there.

What’s there now.

All the things we had known and lived.

And so we shared our wonder at the velocity of the world overtaking us, of all the businesses popping up on the blocks passing by and the real estate prices that had long since soared beyond our reach. Each aspect of this conversation revealed an unresolved bitterness in the man, a sense of having missed out, and then a car cut him off. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, “DID YOU SEE THAT ASSHOLE?!”, he shouted as he accelerated into traffic. I tried to say something neutral yet supportive in tone, and then in an attempt to distract him from his rising fury, I asked where he’d most like to live if there were absolutely no limitations.

After some struggle, he offered up San Diego, but this only served as an entry point for a long, detailed story about being on a cruise ship with his ex-wife, getting ripped-off at the bar, and the fist fight that ensued. “They didn’t know who they were dealing with,” he said to me, his voice a cold, flat hiss.

And then we came to a red light and stopped. It felt like the barometric pressure had changed, that some destructive potential was either gathering or dispersing inside the car. And so we sat there quietly, lonely now in ways that could not be acknowledged. And beside us at the red light a beautiful young woman idled on her bicycle. When her eyes accidentally fell upon us, she quickly averted her gaze, just as we knew she would.

And then the light turned green.

She stood up on her bike and pedalled confidently away, into the future, I guess, and there was something so sad and beautiful in this, that neither the driver nor I even thought to speak for the rest of the ride.

(Photo credit to the great Lincoln Clarkes)

When the girls first met Rachelle and I they declared us their “real” parents–probably due to our liberal rules regarding drugs and alcohol and my collection of hats. No matter, since then, they have relegated their actual mom to “birth mother.” They are currently off working as camp counsellors for the summer, and have requested that I write them a letter each week. Here is one:

************************************
My most cherished daughters:

It’s really hot in Toronto right now. So hot your birth mother might even consider putting on the AC. I, as you know, perish in the heat. Humidity is my enemy. I am TOTALLY racist against humidity. Not woke at all in that department.

Fuck the humidity!

I would vote for anybody who proposed building a huge wall between me and the humidity.

I really would.

Anyway, as you should, but probably don’t know, I work-out up to three hours a day.

Fact.

Not fake news!

Part of this routine includes walking ( pretty fast!) on a treadmill for 30 minutes a day. Today, on account of the heat, I took my shirt off to do this. Just as I was finishing and stepping off the treadmill, sweaty and a little bit dizzy, I spotted three young women passing by our front window.

I have to admit, I kind of froze.

Obviously, I wanted to dive out of the way and hide from sight, but startled, I guess, I made eye contact with one of them. Have you ever seen a face collapse? I don’t mean literally, like in a horror movie, but more an unmediated emotional response in the face of calamity.

This woman, the one whom I made eye contact with, had a normal, even confident resting face, but when she saw me standing there shirtless, all conscious control she had over her facial features simply vanished. It was like everything caved in and turned upside down at once—as if she had been seized by a kind of supernatural possession. She gasped and then leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees and stated to gag. One of her friends looked at me and started to desperately wave me away and out of their sight line, which of course, I dutifully did.

Really, really hate sorority girls.

Pretty sure they were from Alpha Gamma Delta.

Don’t you ever join Alpha Gamma Delta. They are the worst. Very stuck-up. And sororities are all about upholding cultural and social hierarchies. Sororities are not woke!

Thankfully, I am a middle-aged white man so the incident did nothing to diminish my mystifying confidence.

Anyhow, that is how my day started.

Soon I will clean the bathroom. Did you know that Rachelle made a chore list, laminated it and has now posted 8 copies of it throughout the apartment?

That’s more copies than there are rooms! It’s true, and you would not believe how unfair the list is!! Do you think I should be cleaning her hockey equipment and the Diaper Genie three times a week??? I swear, Rachelle thinks she’s such a big shot just because she has a job. Let me give you some fatherly advice, daughters, never, ever allow yourself to be defined by paid work. Or becoming a member of a fucking sorority.

We love you very much and ask that you please send photographs of Bigfoot and Mothman,

Your father

If you don’t know who he is, he was one of the stars of the hit 90’s sitcom Friends.

Don’t be impressed by that. There were too many “stars” to count on that stupid show. Even a monkey was a star on that show. A monkey. Not Curious George. Not the Ikea Monkey. Just a regular, annoying monkey, so Matthew’s “star status” is really no big deal at all.

Just like in high school.

Matthew may have had famous parents and a cheap California tan, but I was the real star at Lisgar Collegiate Institute in Ottawa. Not only was I president of the UFO club, but I was also a great athlete, and I used to crush Perry mercilessly at tennis.

All.

Day.

Long.

It used to infuriate him! He would throw his expensive tennis racquets all over the place, complain that I was “foot faulting” or not wearing proper whites. Bullshit stuff like that. Anyway, the bottom line is that I destroyed him and made the tennis team while he did not. This final humiliation seemed to break Matthew, and after that he was my subordinate, little yes-man.

Matthew has been pretty unemployable since Friends, and thirsty for a little bit of publicity, he recently went on Jimmy Kimmel and announced that he and another kid, “Chris Murray,” once beat up Canadian Prime Minister and sex symbol Justin Trudeau back in school.

http://www.womansday.co.nz/celebrity/matthew-perry-admits-he-once-beat-up-justin-trudeau-7383

This is not true.

As Matthew still respects and fears me, he wouldn’t dare use my real name in public, but I was the “Chris Murray” mentioned.

To make a long story short, I was giving a presentation– in the hopes of recruiting future members to my high school UFO club–to Justin’s fifth grade class. After my talk I opened the floor up for questions:

Justin: Je ne peux m’empêcher de remarquer que les filles semblent être sous-représentées dans le club UFO. Pourriez-vous nous expliquer pourquoi?

Me: What?

Justin: Oh, I see you don’t speak French. What a shame. What I was asking was why aren’t there any girls in the UFO club. Are they not allowed?

Me: Girls??

Justin: Yes, girls. They comprise over half the population. ( Class, including teacher, roar with laughter)

Me: No girl has ever tried to join the UFO club. Would any want to?? Do you think you could get us one!?

Justin: That’s not my job. Your job is to create a safe and inclusive environment so they’ll want to join. Girls, would you like to join this creepy, unilingual, UFO club for boys, or would you rather form your own right here?! ( Class, including teacher, roar with approval)

Some other things happened, but in short, I delegated Matthew to beat up Justin after school, however Matthew failed, as I should have known he would fail, and I had to step in to do the job properly. At this time in my life I got nose bleeds very easily, and my bleed had nothing to do with Justin, who mistakenly thought the fight was over and was walking away like a coward. I tackled him and was just about to apply the finishing gotchy when some little girl kicked me in the back of the neck.

I had to wear a brace for six weeks after that.

And sadly, Matthew and I then drifted apart and the UFO Club just sort of faded away.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund:

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

Heidi so sick of Norway!!

Always hearing about how it best country in world to live!!

Heidi call bullshit!

Norway no best!!

Hold on. Heidi have joke.

What first two letters in Norway?

NO!!!!

Norway is NO country!!

Ha-ha!! Heidi very, very funny, it true. Heidi negotiating with Netflix for special. Heidi way better than Amy Schumer. So over-rated. Real hack. Schumer maybe funny for Norway, but not REAL, USA funny!

Heidi hate Amy Schumer and Norway.

It true.

Heidi hate Norway so much she been trolling Norway on Twitter!.

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

Norway MFA(Ministry Foreign Affairs): Norway made education a top priority because it is not only a human right – it is a prerequisite for development.

Heidi: @NorwayMFA HUMAN RIGHT?? WHAT ABOUT DOG RIGHT?? HEIDI THINK NORWAY SMELL LIKE STINKY CAT FACE!!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Maybe stupid Norway only think about human rights because no-brain Norwegian Elkhound make animals look bad!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Norwegian Elkhound is worst! VERY BAD DOG! Huge national embarrassment!!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Norwegian Elkhound stupidest dog.

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Very bad with sex, too. Ugh.

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Heidi so embarrassed to have relations with Sköll.

Heidi: @NorwayMFA He couldn’t hunt ladybug, let alone moose! Ha!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Sköll moron. He chase sun.

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Norwegian Elkhound sit on throne of lies! Norway sit on throne of lies! Heidi hate throne of lies! Heidi hate Norway!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Heidi say NO WAY to Norway!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA You stink!!

NorwayMFA: Norway is proud of its environmental policies, and the fact that we offer more green space per person than any nation on earth!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Why Norway only care about people? Is because Norway evil?

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Norway ever think so much space because everybody hate place so much??

Heidi: @NorwayMFA It true. So much subtweeting about Norway, Norway would not believe!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Everyone talk behind Norway back. Think Norway gross! Full of stupid sweaters!

NorwayMFA: Norway now has 32,000 electric cars which is the highest rate per capita in the whole world!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Ha! Electric car what weak two-legger use at Ex! Nothing to be proud of, Notway!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Like being proud of anemia!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Think fjords stupid, too!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Fjord sound Norway make when Norway fart!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Heidi rather live in volcano than Norway!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Norway, you nothing but fake news!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Heidi think taxes are for chumps!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Ayn Rand barf if she ever step foot on parasite country!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Norway full of slackers living off bloated government!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Heidi believe if give dog a fish, feed dog, but if teach dog how to hunt, dog feed self!!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Know why nobody ever say MAKE NORWAY GREAT AGAIN? Because Norway never great!

Heidi: @NorwayMFA How many countries you conquer lately, Norway?

Heidi: @NorwayMFA Heidi rest her case. Norway, you the Bono of countries.

You could count me amongst the latter.

The first three words of the eulogy were, “Friends, Romans, Countryman,” and the emotional performance was so rehearsed and needy, so over-wrought with technique, that it completely turned me off. His slight lisp made him enunciate each word with greater force, and the stresses felt unnatural, built for manipulation rather than a natural expression of feeling and sentiment.

It was as if as a child of celebrity, he craved the burning light of fame, and that there was no circumstance, even that of his father’s funeral, in which he would not step into the light of another life. He just seemed to enjoy this day in the spotlight more than was appropriate, you know?

So I was a hater, dismissing him as a “high school drama teacher,” and lumping him in with Ben Mulroney, host of a breezy celebrity news show, whom I saw as another shallow, attention-seeking child of a Prime Minister.

It was easy enough to resent Trudeau his ready-made celebrity. He was good looking, naturally charismatic, had the touch of aristocracy, and people seemed as desperate to make a star of him as he seemed as desperate to become one.

Of course, we are admonished to be kind, for everybody we meet is fighting a hard battle. That Trudeau grew up wealthy and famous is true, but he also grew up in the toxic, corrosive glare of fame. His mother, suffering from mental health issues, was often absent, luridly splashed across papers and viciously mocked,

while his father was doing the nation’s business. It must have been lonely and strange for young Justin, and then he lost his beloved brother, one of the few people on the planet who might understand. Surviving this upbringing intact is actually entirely heroic, a testimony to character rather than a “free ride”.

Throughout the campaign, throughout Trudeau’s life, he was made light of. People challenged his intellect, although it was never exactly clear why, they condescended to him by calling him by his first name and sneered at his hair, as if trying to feminize him, as if they were schoolyard bullies calling him “a girl.” As if that was an insult.

Justin Trudeau took it. He did not get bitter, he did not change or become angry, he remained the same optimistic, essentially happy and earnest person that he had always seemed to be, and he continued.

A few weeks ago during the Munk debate on foreign affairs, something the girlish and daft Trudeau was presumed to know nothing about, somebody was riding Trudeau for one of his father’s policies, again, imperiously, as if lecturing a child. And as this was taking place, Trudeau let his back stiffen just a bit and interrupted him. As if taking a step forward somehow, he asserted that he was proud to be his father’s son, and that he hoped to continue to build on the Canada that his father helped create. He was not furious or panicky. He was simply sure of himself.

And in this moment something changed. All the flimsy, lazy insults were unmasked, all the sniping and juvenile attack ads fell away.

And there, without embellishment, stood a man, a man of some substance who could not be so mocked. Trudeau, once again, for the millionth time, perhaps, was proving he was above and beyond this petty mewling. He was in a different grade than the men attacking him. He was not aligning himself with the Ford Brothers to get votes.

Trudeau was more than we had expected, not less. He has proven himself in ways we can’t even begin to understand, and we should trust in him and his decency, pushing the baser, cynical fabrications aside.

Don’t be scared to vote for Justin Trudeau. He deserves our respect and support, so, so much more than those he is running against. I am proud of him, and I cannot say that about any of the other leaders.

She was young and pretty, a student studying to become a dietician, and her youth, cast amidst the somewhat resigned and much older counterculture of porters, seemed to make everybody a little giddy. Her innocence and simple optimism was a narcotic, and all the men stood a little straighter and attempted to make charming remarks around her. She cheerfully pushed me about in my wheelchair as if it was some high school game and not life on the slippery slope, and it made me want to be outside, in the sun of some past, leaning back and resting my head against her and the limitless smell of her hair… but no, no– there is much work to do.

We pass so many people in the hospital corridors. The always smiling Happy Cancer Ladies, who’ve either discovered their bliss through illness or are frozen in panic, unable to move their focus from the positive for one second lest they shatter into a million pieces. Gratitude radiates from them, and they smile at me as if I’m a precocious child, making gentle, almost holy room for my slender passage. And then suddenly, I was part of a long procession of wheelchairs passing by—bald and pale cancer patients, a girl burned with acid from an honour attack and an elderly man with skin so thin you could almost see into his past. The Happy Cancer Ladies stand aside and beam, practically applauding, they’re so sincerely proud of us.

Men who wear brown coveralls run the elevators. All day they live in these boxes, these boxes that open and close like respiration. They sit there, flipping through the Toronto Sun and wondering what else the world might have to offer them, and when the new porter wheels me in, something happens. It’s like everybody has had three drinks and is now wearing their favourite shirt. Conversation pipes up, and everybody is talking and laughing and flirting, dispensing wisdom and jokes about the myriad complications of negotiating the underground tunnels.

“I was her mission, “ I say, “I am the treasure she has returned with.”

The young girl laughed because that is what she does, but the elevator man seemed intrigued, “You are a treasure?” “Yes,” I said mystically, “I can grant you a wish. You tell me what you want and I will make sure you get it.” I expected a joke, but I could see in his face that he would not let this happen. He looked at me, stating plainly, “I want my mother to be here with me.”

I put my hand on his forearm, ” You have to close your eyes and imagine her, thinking of the best, safest times you spent together, and through this you will summon her, and you will feel her touch upon your skin, her scent returning…”

It cast a little spell, this, and the girl made the sound of a small animal that wanted to be hugged, while the man stared off at a distant horizon. As I was being wheeled out, the elevator man wanted to tell me something, a message from a song by King Crimson that his language inhibited him from pronouncing, and as he leaned toward me trying to spell the title out, the doors closed, the potential of this information lingering between us for a moment, and then falling away.

He’s receded from public life and many have been wondering what he’s been doing. As it turns out, one of the things he’s been doing is applying to attend an Icelandic Writer’s Retreat in April. The application required that you write a short story or essay based on the following photograph of the Harpa Concert Hall and Conference Center:

This is Doug Ford’s entry:

Sometimes a guy can go to a pretty black place. That can happen after you lose an election. When your whole life has been about winning, and winning hard, losing feels like a sucker punch to the gut. Not even football or pornography or yelling at people can fill the hole. Sometimes a guy has to go to therapy.

Therapy is for the weak, and Ron Ice, a very successful businessman and philanthropist, was not a weak man. He was a powerful man, a man who was a shot put champion at his high school.

Girls used to gather around to watch him throw the shot put. Ron was like a Nordic god and he did very well with the ladies, thank you very much. Those were good times for Ron, but now, with all the critics and small people yammering away at him after the election, all the people who don’t understand how to run a business, he realized he needed to clear his head, even if it was the weak thing to do.

Ron looked deep into his soul and realized that he wanted to broaden his horizons.

Iceland.

Iceland was the territory that Ron always started in when he was playing Risk.

It had access to markets in both the east and west, had plenty of challenging terrain to hide in and there was little pollution. Ron would move to Iceland and start his empire there!

People loved Doug Ford in Iceland. He stood a good six inches taller than the rest of the population, and as he still looked like a Nordic god, people began to worship him, “Look!” the villagers would cry, “The prophecy is true and the Ice King now walks amongst us! Ron Ice took the country by goddamn storm.

One day ISIS terrorists took over the Harpa Concert Hall and Conference Center where they planned to burn Christians in cages. Ron Ice would have none of that. Ron drove down there in his jeep, got out and just walked into the place. People were in awe of what big balls he had. When the terrorists saw him they all started yelling and getting excited in that language of theirs. They waved machine guns around, but Ron was as cool as ice.

He just stared at them, a penetrating hate stare, and then he began to yell, his mighty eyes bulging, and when he did they all put down their weapons like subservient kittens and were arrested.

Ron Ice walked out of there, got back in his jeep and drove up to the misty green hills of Norðurland vestra, where he had some property and a condo, and from where he would soon launch his internationally successful printing business Ice King Labels and Tags.

“This city has a serious raccoon problem. I’ve had some standoffs with some raccoons, seriously. I’m a big guy, powerful, a football player, and when I holler the trees shake, but the friggin’ raccoons, they just look at you. They’re not scared anymore. It’s a severe problem we’re having in this great city, and it’s only getting worse. They’re getting braver and braver by the day. I’m not a big raccoon fan, I’ll tell you that straight up. We have to kill them.”

As I have a personal relationship from the Mayor stretching back to our college days drinking together, he’s consented to give me a short interview exploring his feelings about the raccoon.

Me: “Rob, can you tell me about your most powerful raccoon experiences?

Rob: “ When I was in grade seven a raccoon climbed the fence and tried to enter into our family pool area to steal some food. Biggest mistake that raccoon ever made. Remember, I was drinking and getting high in those days, and when I saw that raccoon, I saw red, it was like I protecting the QB, you know? I started to chuck rocks at him, and I think the third one hit him square in the face, knocking him out. He was bleeding, and it was obvious that the merciful thing to do was kill him, so I bashed his head in with the ghetto blaster. It was messier than I would have thought, and one of the girls there, one that I liked, started to scream and cry and I knew getting some with her wasn’t going to be easy that night, and it was then that I realized the city had a really serious raccoon problem.

About a year later, and this lasted most of high school, I started to have these debilitating raccoon nightmares. Had to drop all my math and science and economic and history courses, the stress was so bad. I don’t want to talk too much about it, but it was like I was the last man on earth and all around me were these predatory ghost-raccoons trying to steal my stuff and eat my manhood. There was a bed-wetting issue for a while. You know, I wouldn’t have been able to admit that before, but rehab has taught me to be honest, so yeah, I wet my bed up until I was 18 and I’m not ashamed of it. It’s the fault of the raccoons, my fucking spirit enemy.

You might imagine how I hated them after all the years of nightmares and boring immersion therapy, and so Doug and I took it upon ourselves to just kill as many as we could. Using golf clubs mostly, we killed the hell out of them. We were athletes and we just felt compelled to win, you know? It was a, what do you call it? A holy war thing. We used to make necklaces out of their little fingers and then wear them to school dances. I guess you could say I’ve always had a special relationship with the raccoon.”

What follows is a transcript of the speech Rondeau made to council:

“Let me start by giving you some numbers:

79, 510

143, 740

500, 100

10, 336, 440

These numbers are the high scores I achieved as a fourth grader in Space Invaders, Omega Race, Frogger and Asteroids. I’d like to just let that sink in for a little bit. Those. Numbers. Produced. By. A. Fourth. Grader.

I had a wicked powerful gift.

A wicked powerful gift that was stolen from me by the government.

I can guarantee you that my life would have turned out much differently if I’d been allowed to cultivate my gift and big government didn’t step in to crush the free market. Not only was the free market destroyed, but so was the spirit of a sweet, chubby boy in grade four who maybe wasn’t very good at sports, but learned how to compete and achieve greatness amongst the frogs, asteroids and pixels.

If I had been allowed to pursue my dreams I don’t think I ever would have been cursed with the Oxy addiction that’s plagued me for the last 8 years. I think I would have found the self-esteem I needed as a child and not been a bully magnet, I think I would have impressed some girls and perhaps learned to talk to them. When I’m sitting at the bar not playing a video game, I think about the life that might have been a lot.

A lot.

I know some of our city fathers thought that video games would lead to drug addiction, but it’s just the opposite! It’s the absence of video games that lead to drug addiction!

Just as it’s not right for Ben Affleck to get banned from the Hard Rock Casino in Vegas for counting cards, it’s wrong for the government to steal the dreams of children and merchants alike, and ban video games in our town! What is this, Footloose?! No, we’re not friggin’ Soviet Footloose, we’re America, and we don’t tell our citizens what to do! We’re number one, and we need to stay number one! China has some pretty wicked video gamers coming down the pipe right now, and in order to keep beating them, we need our kids to start early and play hard!

It’s been over 30 years, it’s time to lift the ban!

Pac-Man for everybody!!

Thank you for your time, and go Bruins!!”

(Standing Ovation)

Here is one of the columns I just found while cleaning out an old box:

Q: There’s a girl in my Latin class who I’m absolutely nuts about. Should I tell her?

A: NO, THERE IS NO WAY ON EARTH THAT YOU SHOULD TELL HER!! (Is it Marie-France Lapoint? She is CRAZY hot, especially in those green cords!!! Drool!!!)

Look, this girl who may or may not be Marie-France Lapoint, is probably completely out of your league and dating a guy who lives in Europe or goes to university in the States. You should spare yourself the humiliation of rejection and just wait for her to notice you and your totally cool sweater.

It’s not always easy to do this, but it’s ESSENTIAL that you try. Look at her all the time, but pretend like she’s not important to you because you’re popular and your family is rich. Your indifference will make her think there’s something wrong with her, and this insecurity will probably make her try to be nice to you, and when this happens you should still play it really cool, like you would never have a crush on somebody like her but you’ll talk to her in boring, old Latin, and then when she gets really, really hammered at a party you should make your move!! The master has spoken.

Q: My parents want me to take Computer Science but I think it’s a stupid waste of time. What do you think?

A: First of all, parents are useless. They’re completely embarrassing and don’t understand anything! Of course Computer Science is a waste of time!! Fortran and Cobol?

They sound like robot names! Only nerds take that class and they’re not learning anything important or fun. Rest assured, the world is not going to be run by Cobol and Fortran. However, I do think that computers are going to be really important, one day giving us instant access to pictures of naked women (Kim Basinger and Jamie Lee Curtis!!) and sports scores.

Computers will be like libraries, only they’ll be small and with you all the time, like on Star Trek, but things are going to move so quickly in the future that studying something like Fortran in 1983 isn’t going to do you any good at all. Ignore your parents and take gym or something cool and remember, don’t hangout with any phonies!

Q: If I want to appear of age in a bar, what drink should I order?

A: A Screwdriver. And wear a Harris Tweed hat.

The master has spoken!