***************************************************************
Me: Oh.
Me: I didn’t know you were getting a massage.
Me: I thought you were at the Dufferin Mall trying to improve our phone plans.
Me: Sure was off with that one!
Me: Well, I hope the massage is doing the trick, anyway!
Me: Awesome. You really do deserve to have a “tender yet forceful experience that lifts you out of your body and punishes you in all the right places.”
Me: What’s the masseuses name again? Yana? Didn’t she used to be a hot Russian long jumper before some sort of sex scandal?
Me: Pierre?
Me: He’s your masseuse?
Me: I thought he was your power skating coach.
Me: Both, eh? That’s a little weird.
Me: I see.
Me: He’s a renaissance man.
Me: I do too know what that means.
Me: It means he’s a douche.
Me: You know he lied about being in the NHL, eh?
Me: That’s something sacred, you don’t lie about stuff like that!
Me: Oh, he was in the German league then.
Me: Not. The. Same. Thing.
Me: Like playing in Peewee.
Me: I would dominate that stupid league.
Me: Whatever.
Me: Whatever.
Me: You did what?
Me: Look, my Fantasy Baseball Stats file is private.
Me: I have no idea why you found a bunch of racy photographs of Kristen Stewart in there.
Me: Not a clue.
Me: Maybe Jones put them there.
Me: Really? That’s the stupidest thing you ever heard?
Me: Look, I’m not stupid just because I failed math a bunch of times.
Me: Or French.
Me: Or any other subject!
Me: I’m Alt-Smart.
Me: No, it’s different than being “special.”
Me: You’re being a bully.
Me: You are not a safe space!
Me: Look, look, why are we fighting? It’s Christmas!
Me: Sure.
Me: Of course I’ve been doing my Christmas shopping!
Me: I’m no rookie.
Me: Practically done.
Me: You and Pierre wanted tickets to that Pentatonix concert, right?
Me: Or was it the travelling version of The Price is Right?
Me: Maybe I’ll get you two both!
Me: Yes.
Me: Wow, that would be great!
Me: I had no idea they made Kristen Stewart sex dolls!
Me: What do you mean, “That’s not what my Internet history says?”
Me: Well, I don’t know.
Me: Must have been some mistake.
Me: Maybe the baby sitter was looking up Kristen Stewart sex dolls? How would I know!?
Me: Also, maybe my account was hacked by a Russian?
Me: Well, I’m a pretty important writer.
Me: The Russians know that if they attribute something to me it will have great influence on the public.
Me: They’re smart, the Russians.
Me: You ever see them play hockey? So very clever!
Me: I did not think that Aleppo was a type of dog food two months ago!
Me: I’m pretty keyed in to world events. Always have been.
Me: I have always stood with Syria.
Me: Sure I did.
Me: I gave away that old bathroom scale to a Syrian refugee family.
Me: Well, yes.
Me: The organizer never did come to pick it up, but that’s on her!
Me: She’s the one who doesn’t care about Syrians, not me!
Me: I care about their weight, about how they adapt to the North American diet!
Me: Don’t want them to get diabetes!
Me: Sorry?
Me: Why did I text and interrupt your massage?
Me: I don’t remember.
Me: Oh, now I remember!
Me: If the last three women on the planet were you, Kristen Stewart and Jennifer Lawrence, I would choose you.
Me: Yes, I am very sweet.
Me: I love you, too, see you soon! xoxo
]]>
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.
]]>
Trump, even attired that way, commanded the subway like a stern and punctual marshall at a luxury golf course, and people knew not to mess with him.
Normally he would never think to take the subway, as it is a filthy and vulgar mode of transportation, but today he wanted filthy and vulgar. His legs spread out expansively, taking up at least two seats, he looked down at his most recent text from Melania and smiled:
“I am to poo you,” it read.
Melania’s English wasn’t very good, but Donald knew exactly what she meant.
It was their beautiful night together.
Every year on the anniversary on their first sex, Donald bought a fast food restaurant in the New York area, fired everybody, and then made Melania work the counter. This year, it was a Dairy Queen, and Donald, disguised as the Burger King, was going to come in and order Melania off the menu and then make her his fast food sex slave for the night.
It was a great tradition, and they both loved it very much.
As Donald sat there on the subway thinking about whether he should purchase and then and torture some of the homeless and desperate as part of fast food sex slave night, a woman approached him.
“The Burger King?” she said.
“You look low rent,” the Burger Trump retorted, “and let me tell you,” he continued, “I would rather be a king than some low rent subway hen.”
The low rent woman had full lips.
“Subway hen?”
Donald ignored her, Tweeting a threat to France.
The low rent woman looked closely at his fingers, as if figuring something out.
Suddenly, the subway came to a screeching halt. Everything went dark and Donald fell to the floor, his Burger King head spilling off and his phone skittering out of his pocket! When he looked up, he and the subway hen, also on the floor, were facing one another, their lips just inches apart– something unspoken burning between them now.
“You’re Donald Trump,” she whispered, “I knew I recognized those tiny, orange fingers!”
The stranger’s breasts heaved upon the filthy, seductive floor of the subway. He stared at the woman and she stared back, their breath hot and real.
Trump inched toward her and she inched toward him.
At that moment Donald’s phone began to ring, picking up an audible message from Melania, “Donald, it is your Queen Dairy, I have customer, and child wants me to make curl with ice cream that I cannot make. Tell her we close? Give her money? I stand by you, my man, even if ice cream disgusting. I still poo you, my king.”
Donald swept the phone away with certainty, like a Commander-In-Chief. And then the lights came on and the subway started up again. The low rent woman got up and dusted herself off and walked away, shivering, “This is the weirdest, fucking grossest day of my life,” she muttered to herself.
“Rosebud, “Donald Trump mouthed, “Rosebud.”
There was only one person in front of me in my checkout line, and behind her a small pile of groceries on the conveyor belt that I presumed belonged to somebody who had just gone off for a moment to grab a forgotten item. Just as the person in front of me was finishing, a woman came speeding into the line from around the corner. “Excuse me, “ she said, “those are my items there and I just had to run off and grab a few things, can I go ahead?” This is what I expected, and I told her it was okay. She pulled out her phone, made a call and started to unload a shopping cart that tuned out to be completely full. Talking about Vail on her cell, she leaned toward me and said, “ Actually, I have a little more than a few items,” and then she continued on about partying with Goldie and Kate at some resort.
Me: “ Well, you can’t do that.”
Mean Woman in Expensive and Stupid Hat: “You said I could.”
Me: “No, that was for a few items, not an entire cart. You can’t just use a banana and a few pumpkin seeds as a placeholder and then fill up an entire cart. That’s an awful thing to do. It’s immoral.“
Mean Woman in Expensive and Stupid Hat: “Jillian, I’ll have to call you back, there’s a dick here I have to deal with. (And then she hung up her phone and turned sternly toward me) It’s just a few items, lighten up, okay? Jesus, you must be a real pleasure to live with.”
Me: “Damn it, I am a pleasure to live with! I’m whimsical and my wife and I laugh a lot, I’m just not going to tolerate your entitled behaviour, okay?”
Mean Woman in Expensive and Stupid Hat: “Really, you laugh a lot? Sure, I bet you laugh while your wife just rolls her sad eyes, questioning all the crappy decisions that led her to this sorry place in life, as you continue to babble on about your day bullying women at the grocery store. “
Sutapa, the cashier: (Laughs)
Me: “Sutapa? Really? I thought for sure you’d be on my side!”
Sutapa: “I was just laughing at something that happened earlier in the day.”
Me: “You’re lying to me Sutapa, I can tell. “
Woman at the back of the line: “This drama is just making everything take longer, it’s exhausting, and now there’s bad karma all over the place. Will you two please just get it over with!”
Mean Woman in Expensive and Stupid Hat: “Bully.”
Me: First of all, I’m not a bully, expensive hat here is a bully, and doesn’t anybody care about justice? Is this the way you’d want your children to act? We can’t let her win!”
Woman at the back of the line: “Fuck, stop it! Just figure it out!”
Me: (To the woman at the back of the line) That, was a pretty big karma bomb you just dropped. (And then to the mean woman in the expensive and stupid hat) You want to see how much fun I am? How about we decide by Rock, Paper, Scissors?
Surprisingly, the mean woman in the stupid and expensive hat agreed to this. I won, utilizing the paper strategy, and I have to say, it was the smallest, saddest, most lonely victory of my life.
At Sanagan’s Meat Locker the guy working the cash wore a baseball cap that said Jimmy’s Coffee. It had brownish, indeterminate stains and smudges on it, and somehow this made it look deadly cool. I told him I liked his hat, and he said, “You like all the meat stains on it, don’t you?” I nodded. “Yeah, whenever I’m in the back room I’m constantly getting banged about by all the hanging carcasses, it’s like getting whacked in the head all the time by those pugil sticks on American Gladiators!”
Later, I went to Mackenzie’s Pub on Bloor. The man sitting to my left had a shaved head and haunted eyes. He stared straight ahead, his right hand slowly, almost tenderly caressing the sleeve of his jacket. He never looked over at anyone or up at the bank of TV’s above the bar, but straight through the skyline of liquor bottles in front of him and into his fragmented image staring back at him from the mirror. He seemed intense, maybe even angry, as if immersed in a circumstance that was overwhelming and forced– Led Zepplin playing chaotically in the foreground, as if emanating from his head and not the sound system all around us.
When I got the bill from the bartender for $19.89, she exclaimed, “Good year!” I didn’t know what she meant and said, “Sorry?” “Oh, 1989, I was in high school then, it was a good year,” and then a small, embarrassed, maybe even somewhat melancholy laugh, before she turned to another task.
We’re going to make millions and millions and millions of dollars, and then we’ll probably each buy a sports franchise. This is an excerpt from that book:
The Burger King:
If you are to dream of this deformed, hybrid monster, then it is certain that dark days loom before you and that murder may soon be in your future. Take care when dealing with weapons and seek the counsel of a priest. If the Burger King of your dreams was flying and you were able to fell the creature with a crossbow, then it is foretold that a sickness will fall upon the land.
Nadia Comaneci:
If you are to dream of this darling of the 1976 Montreal Olympics, and if she is doing her adorable floor routine, you will be blessed with a new mistress. If you dream of a young Nadia and she is holding a doll of herself, it is a clear sign that one of your mistresses is sure to become pregnant.
However, if you dream of the adult Nadia Comaneci, it is a warning that your wife may soon discover one of your mistresses and you must take precautions in your romantic liaisons and limit your alcohol consumption. Best to drink only clear liquors.
God, Our Heavenly Father:
This is a most auspicious dream, full of glad tidings! It is a certainty that your enemies will be struck dead and that rapid advancement in employment will be yours to enjoy. If you and God are best friends and gossiping, then it means that useful information that you can use to your advantage will soon be coming your way. However, if you dreamed of our Lord and he was tired, just sitting by himself in his bedroom with his cat, and you got the sense that he was lonely and disappointed, it is a warning that you have been taking the pleasures of your life for granted and that homosexuality, in spite of the desires you might feel, is a sin!
Ford has submitted an audition tape with a number of sample interviews he’s conducted, and this is a small selection:
Doug Ford interviews Deepak Chopra (Indian-American author, public-speaker, businessman and physician)
Doug Ford: So, what do you like better being a doctor or being a businessman?
Deepak Chopra: Well, we are more than just the labels that society puts on us. Yes, it is true that I am a businessman and doctor, but I, like all human spirits, am many things, and everything that I do nourishes my soul equally.
Doug Ford: I’m a very successful businessman. We make labels. We’re called Deco Labels. Three different locations, two in the GTA and one in Chicago. Deepak, let me ask you, you ever been to Chicago?
Deepak Chopra: I have been many times and will be there next week to promote my new book, Why is God Laughing: The path to joy and optimism.
Doug Ford: That’s great. You should take in a Blackhawk’s game and go to Michael Jordan’s steak house. Jesus, those are some good goddamn steaks. Do you eat steak in India? I mean, you folks worship cows, you’d think you’d know and appreciate how delicious steak is. By the way, I’ve always admired the Indian people, you guys are great, very colourful and polite.
Doug Ford interviews Suzanne Somers (comedienne, actress and businessperson)
Doug Ford: Let me tell you, thirty years ago you were just about the hottest thing I ever saw. Chrissy Snow. Jesus Christ. Hot. And let me tell you, Three’s Company, that was a real comedy. Classy.
Suzanne Somers: Thank you.
Doug Ford: So, you write poetry in your spare time?
Suzanne Somers: I’ve always felt the need to express myself creatively.
Doug Ford: I like to box. Sometimes shot put. Okay, my producer wants me to read one of your poems. It’s from a collection called Touch Me: The poems of Suzanne Somers. I bet you have a lot of takers when people hear you say, “touch me,” eh? Right for the boobs.
Suzanne Somers: I mean it spiritually, not physically.
Doug Ford: Yeah, whatever. So it’s called “Organic Girl,” and it goes like this:
Organic girl dropped by last night
For nothing in particular
Except to tell me again how beautiful and serene she feels
On uncooked vegetables and wheat germ fortified by bean sprouts
Mixed with yeast and egg whites on really big days
She not only meditates regularly, but looks at me like I should
And lectures me about meat and ice cream
And other aggressive foods I shouldn’t eat.
Nice. Okay, I got a two-parter for you. So, what’s the theme of this poem and you ever have any work done? You still look pretty good.
Doug Ford interviews Tanya Tagaq (award winning throat singer)
Doug Ford: Sorry, I had a real hard time there with your last name. If you’re in show business you might want to change it so that it’s easier to say and remember. Just smart business.
Tanya Tagaq: I like my name as it is, thank you.
Doug Ford: (Stares at her, a burning silence for 20 seconds.) Are you saying you don’t care about business?
Tanya Tagaq: No, I’m saying I care about my name.
Doug Ford: You’re First Nations, right? Am I right? Yeah, look, don’t you think if maybe you guys were better at business you wouldn’t have signed all those treaties where you gave up prime real estate for bracelets and you wouldn’t always be asking tax payers for hand-outs? So maybe business is important, okay? You get it? (Aggressively bangs question cues cards on table) Alright, so what the hell is throat singing anyway?
It’s a complicated and unresolved situation at this point, but in short, Ghomeshi, a popular radio personality in Canada, was fired from his job because his BDSM sexual proclivities– and the serious allegations stemming from them– were brought to the attention of his employers who decided, upon careful reflection, that they could no longer work with him as he damaged the brand. It is more intricate and terrible than just that, of course, and crisis management teams, wounded parties and insane lawsuits are now a part of the sex storm, but one thing that has happened with absolute certainty is that I now know way more about BDSM and the laws governing it than I ever imagined I would.
As I am a very adventurous and sensual person, I have suggested to my wife that we experiment with some BDSM in our life and she readily agreed. This is the BDSM Journal that I have been keeping.
Day 1
Submissive role: Rachelle
Dominant role: Me
Me: I DON’T WANT TO WATCH NASHVILLE TONIGHT!!
Rachelle: Pickle, I don’t think you’re supposed to yell, I think it’s more a tone thing.
Me: Oh.
Rachelle: Don’t worry. This is new for both of us, just try again.
Me: Okay.
Me: (Clears throat and delivers line sounding like Clint Eastwood) I don’t want to watch that damn Nashville tonight.
Rachelle: No honey, you sound like an old man
Me: Is that good? Does it turn you on?
Rachelle: No, not really. Let’s just watch Nashville, okay?
Grade of experience: 6 out of 10
Day 2
Dominant role: Rachelle
Submissive role: Me
Rachelle: We’re going to Ikea today to find some storage solutions and maybe a runner for the dining room table!
Me: I’m not feeling well.
Rachelle: OBEY ME, SLAVE!!
Me: Coldplay! Coldplay! Coldplay!
Rachelle: Honey, that’s not the safe word.
Me: I forgot it. What is it?
Rachelle: I’m not allowed to tell you. GET IN THE CAR, WE’RE GOING TO IKEA, MAGGOT FACE!
Me: Cold sore! Cold sore! Cold sore!
Rachelle; No, slave, that’s not it either! Put on your leash and get in the car, I COMMAND THEE!!
Me: Are we taking the dog with us?
Rachelle: YES!!
Grade of experience: 0 out of 10
Day 3
Dominant role: Me
Submissive role: Rachelle
Me: Please pass me the salad!
Rachelle: Yes, master.
Grade of experience: 9 out of 10
Day 4
Sadistic role: Rachelle
Masochistic role: Me
Rachelle: I have made bulgur for dinner tonight! It is an excellent source of fiber! Eat it now, worm!!
Me: I have been feeling a little clogged up lately. I deserve to be punished, master.
Rachelle: (Takes my glass of wine away)
Me: Hey! What the fuck???
Rachelle: You are forbidden from having any more wine this week! You drink too much and it’s bad for you, my cockroach!
Me: Cold war! Cold war! Cold war!
Rachelle: Pitiful fool, you’re not even close with the safe word! Teaches you for not listening to your master, now eat your bulgur!!
Me: Is there any Sriracha, at least?
Rachelle: NO! YOU FORGOT TO PICK UP AT THE GROCERY STORY! NOW, SILENCE! (puts on the soundtrack to Dirty Dancing)
Grade of experience: 0 out of 10
The Ottawa that I remember is a sincerely, and wonderfully decent place. The average person, somebody who might work modestly within a cautious and secure bureaucracy, was friendly, wholesome and responsible– the kind of person you hoped might live beside you.
There’s a lot of planning in Ottawa. Nothing happens without forethought in the city, and sometimes it feels as if life doesn’t happen in real time, exactly, but in a kind of cushioned, protected time. Parliament, in spite of being perched on a cliff and its jagged Gothic flourishes has always felt about as accessible and threatening as a Keg restaurant. There was just nothing menacing or intimidating about the place. It was like the Block Parent on the street, the home of a kindly couple that never had children and would always protect you when the local bully tried to steal your toque.
You felt safe, even welcomed there, like you might even get fed some Kraft Dinner before heading on your way. In fact, Parliament was so homey that a colony of cats actually lived there for years.
And to watch the city experience something as merciless and bloody-minded as the shootings, something that existed at such a terrifying remove from our comprehension and control, was unbearably sad. The rules by which Ottawa lived, that had come to subconsciously frame my psychological landscape, did not apply. The world that I imagined existing when I grew up likely never really did, and now, from the distance of middle age, I can see it receding quickly.
The eruption of violence, in a city that had always seemed frozen in time and almost magically apart from the real world, was a blunt and pitiless assault on the myths that have sheltered and nourished me over the years. It was like watching somebody whom had always protected me and I loved, getting beaten up and being powerless to intercede. A kind of chaos, emerging from a vast and dark pool, had descended on the ordered and good, and the sadness I felt about watching that was deep and heavy in the bones—the echoing gunfire amidst Gothic arches and limestone columns, a sound not soon to be forgotten.
]]>In it, he asks all sorts of cool, attractive and successful writers a series of questions about potato chips, but for some reason he forget to include me in his survey. This sometimes happens as an awful lot of people find my blinding talent and natural, easy charisma to be terribly intimidating, so they just act like they’ve never heard of me. Also, I’m sure that they figure I would command a very sizeable fee for any sort of participation or association, so I guess I understand why Kevin didn’t ask me.
No matter, as I am generous, I have decided to answer his questionnaire anyway.
1. Tell me about yourself. In 25 words or less, who are you?
I look like Elvis Costello, but remind people of Kanye. Skipped grade three. I do alright.
2.What is your favourite brand and flavour of chip? Of all the chips out there, what make it the every day chip?
O’Grady’s Extra Thick Au Gratin potato chip. They were as thick as a pork chop and covered in some sort of chemical cheese powder and they were awesome. Each chip was like a sandwich, a toxic, completely narcotic sandwich. I think they were discontinued in the 1980’s, although I did see a bag in an Amish General Store a few years ago in West Pennsylvania. (I heard rumours that they were used in the Chernobyl clean-up, but I never believed them.)
3. Have you ever had a negative experience with potato chips?
Yes. I had a Cinnabon flavoured potato chip the other day and it tasted like a fucking Cinnabon. It was disgusting. Also, I have very vulnerable gums and sometimes a jagged, little dagger of a chip can get lodged in them. Very painful.
4. Have you ever incorporated potato chips into love making? If yes, what was it like? If not, is this something you have considered?
Potato chip packaging has been used in a variety of sexual acts, but the actual potato chips have never been used in love making.
5. Finish this sentence, people who list plain chips as their top snack choices are _________.
First against the wall.
6. Dip or no dip?
Dips are for rookies and pretenders, the proper chip, the O’Grady’s Extra Thick Au Gratin chip, needed no such vulgar embellishments.
7. Do you ever mix flavours of chips? What is your favourite combination? Is there a combination you have been meaning to try? What is your signature blend and what do you call it?
Mixing flavours of chips is something a child or somebody who suffered a very serious head injury would do.
8. Dehydrated fruit chips, yay or nay?
If you’re a Dumpster Diver of some sort of Freegan, sure, but for members of society? Of course not.
9. Is there a time for a baked chip? Or is it a fry or die situation?
Maybe in times of extreme deprivation, like in a war, but certainly not when America’s clipping along at full speed.
10. Tell me about your favourite chip memory?
I was a student at University in Montreal and I was broke. I went to the local corner store and begged for credit, which they stupidly gave me. I bought a large bag of O’Grady’s Extra Thick Au Gratin potato chips, a can of Coke Classic, a pack of Winstons, five quarts of Molson and the magazine Celebrity Skin. I think it was the best night I ever had, a moment of still perfection that I travel back to often.
