Falling every November, 19th, this day gives me an opportunity to celebrate my masculinity, honour the patriarchy and let my robust heterosexuality roar. It’s a day that I mindfully live to it’s full, manly potential.
This is the journal of my celebration:
November, 19, 2015
6:20 am
Fed the baby and told him stories of manliness.
9:00 am
Had healthy breakfast of granola and a smoothie, as I have a variety of health issues. Told a story about eating bacon to my wife Rachelle while she and the baby played with a “found” rattle (childproof pill container of my anti-anxiety medication) on the yoga matt.
9:30 am
Began to think of myself as somebody named John Steele instead of Michael Murray.
9:45 am
Took Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund, for a walk around the block. Felt good to be out in nature, hunting with my animal. Met two other Miniature Dachshunds, both wearing argyle sweaters. Their owner told me their names were Simon and Garfunkle and to watch out for Garfunkle as he was “crabby.”
10:00 am
Played online poker under the name of John Steele and watched a variety of hockey fights and leaked celebrity sex tapes.
11:30 am
Read “The Littlest Acorn of them All” to my son and then put him down for a nap.
11:45 am
Made my wife a smoothie as she was headed out to a series of womanly afternoon appointments.
12:00 pm
Sampugita, our friend’s nanny, came over to look after the baby. I asked her many questions about her personal life and what dating was like for a young woman in a foreign country. Told her about a few of the sports I used to play. Tennis, in particular.
12:30 pm
Told Sampugita to make me lunch.
12:45 pm
Got text from my wife Rachelle, telling me that making lunch for me was not one of Sampugita’s responsibilities, and that there was left-over quinoa in the fridge.
I AM SURROUNDED BY FEMINAZIS!!!
1:00 pm
Went outside and threw rocks at the stop signs. A few of the kids from the Frat House down the street joined in and for a brief, shining moment, we were a beautiful Northern European tribal pack fighting the enemy. Hail Odin!
1:15 pm
Went home and played with my electric train set while listening to Gordon Lightfoot and slow drinking Jack and Coke.
3:30 pm
Posted my feelings, under the name of John Steele, on a men’s group message board.
4:30 pm
Watched Mike Tyson knock-out videos from the 1980’s, noticing that the boxers all had perfect, gleaming bodies, sweat-slick, they were tangles of beautiful male ferocity under the hot lights.
5:00 pm
Stumbled upon a video called “Johnny Rapid Goes Bareback.” Watched it while finishing my bottle of Jack. More posting on men’s message board under the name of John Steele. And then a little more.
6:00 pm
John Steele then went for a very long, confusing walk alone.
]]>Achieving one of the highest pollution ratings in the history of the planet last week, the city of Shanghai was almost completely enveloped by smog.
The skyline was obscured, schoolchildren were ordered to stay inside and all manner of commerce was suspended. This was a monumental, even apocalyptic kind of problem, but the government decided to use it as a rather cheerful opportunity to disseminate propaganda, pointing out that the smog was excellent for national defence as it acted as a kind of shield, discombobulating the navigational systems of enemy missiles. I present to you a short list of some of the messages the government passed along to the people in the hopes of quelling their anxiety and boosting their morale:
“Although criminals may think the smog conceals their actions from our surveillance cameras, the people of China will always do what is right!”
“Now free from the courageous bustle of industry, it is a lovely time to stroll the streets of Shanghai!”
‘It is important for the people of China to understand that the pollution we see in the air is definitely not living invisibly in the water, earth or food sources of our nation! China: United in safety!”
“The brownish, rank smog must know that the colour of Red China will never change!”
“Be indomitable in physical training to strengthen the physique, but please, not outdoors in peak smog hours!”
“The people must keep the birth rate low to defeat the smog! ”
“We are fortunate and blessed not to have a flu epidemic while the people fight smog!”
“The smog is our shield against aggressive capitalist imperialism!”
“It is good that Kanye cancelled his concert in Shanghai because of the smog for he is decadent and corrupt!”
“Like smog, the Gods of wealth can enter the home from everywhere if the worker is committed!”
“Chinese women’s volleyball, #1 the envy of the world!”
Monica Lewinsky 40:
Dear Monica:
I just want to say that it’s amazing and impressive that you’ve lived this long. I think everybody in the media was sure you’d die in a self-loathing pit of drugs, despair and faded memories, but no! You took up knitting! That is completely awesome, and I wish more borderline celebrity types would do this. MC Hammer? He should be knitting. Anyway, I just wanted to wish you a most excellent and happy 40th and continued success in living an anonymous and not disastrously adjusted life! You’re doing great!
Lynda Carter 62
Dear Lynda:
You probably know what you meant to me when I was a boy growing up, so I won’t get into that here. But sweet Jesus, you were hot. My friend Ian used to hump the TV when your show Wonder Woman came on. Can you imagine that? I tell you, young boys will put their dicks on anything. Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have written that to you, it’s kind of gross, I guess. But I don’t know, maybe it makes you feel kind of proud, too? You are getting old, after all. I don’t mind admitting that women, even Wonder Women (LOL) have always confused me. Anyway, you’re beautiful on the inside and out, and all of us are very proud of you for being a spokesperson for Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I’m on a gluten-free diet, myself. Happy birthday!!
Kevin Spacey 53
Dear Kevin:
I have to say, and you’re now old enough to hear it, you’re a VERY over-rated actor. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have a happy birthday, you should, but you just need to stop hamming it up so much.
Elisabeth Moss 31
Dear Elisabeth:
I just want you to know that I think that Peggy Olson, your character on Mad Men, is made of steel. She takes no shit!! I mean, it’s a man’s world where she works, but Peggy stands up for herself, changes with the times and learns how to dress! It’s awesome. How does it feel to have your own doll? Pretty cool, I bet. I’d like to have my own action figure. He’d be playing table tennis. Do you know Jennifer Lawrence? Happy birthday!
Selena Gomez 21
Dear Selena:
You know what’s weird? It’s weird that on your birthday I was riding my bicycle by a fancy hotel in Toronto that was being swarmed by gitchy teen girls in really short shorts all waiting to see Justin Bieber, the guy you dumped. What a bunch of losers! Like you, I’m not a Belieber, and you know what? I’m old enough to be your father but still find you really sexy! Funny, eh? Happy birthday, Selena, may your 20s be wild, unpredictable and very experimental!
As far as I can tell, Foster’s iconic status was earned for surviving childhood stardom with fewer visible scars than most. This is no small achievement, of course, but it’s not exactly an artistic one. As one friend put it, we feel protective of Foster because we will always see her as the precocious child she was in her defining role in Taxi Driver, and because of this we shelter her.
On Sunday night Foster was given a lifetime achievement award at the Golden Globes awards. (Helen Hunt, who received her fifth Golden Globe nomination this year was not) As many of you are probably aware, Foster’s speech was a weird, seemingly improvisational flight that had a polarizing effect on the audience at large. Those who instinctively shelter Foster or see in her a champion of intelligence and integrity loved it, while others saw it as a self-serving and deluded Hollywood indulgence. I would fall into the latter camp, I think.
Looking entirely healthy, beautiful and confident, she proceeded to congratulate herself on her appearance and then pretended to come out of the closet, all the while using a tone that diminished those who had previously come out of the closet as somehow self-interested or even vulgar. She then talked about how hard it was for her to lead a normal life, ignoring the possibility that it was hard for anybody to lead a normal life, made a self-important plea for privacy, and then seemed to enjoy flirting and teasing the audience by hinting at retiring from acting (what a national tragedy that would be!) — before publically and somewhat melodramatically, bringing attention to her mother’s dementia. And of course, she chose to do all this from the glittering pulpit of the Golden Globes.
She was a little mixed-up, I think, and far too fast to congratulate herself and dismiss the pedestrian efforts and realities of those who lived outside her bubble of privilege and popular acceptance. It was ironic, to say the very least, that she would choose this platform to champion Mel Gibson, her great friend, instead of pioneers within the LGBT civil rights movement. There was an angry piety to her words that suggested the megalomania of a person who saw herself as a kind of martyr. She seemed small, lonely and disconnected up there on stage, almost cruelly insulated, and it made me sad to see that celebrity had torn her so.
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It was a cold day in Toronto, blank and windy, and none of the people I was accustomed to seeing were around. The woman normally stationed right at the corner of Huron and Bloor, the one that I don’t much like, wasn’t there. Neither was the ghost man in front of the Second Cup or the woman with the swollen legs who dozes on the bench. It was too cold, and they must have all been taking shelter somewhere.
And then I saw two young students, happy and kissing on the street corner. Bright-eyed and lost in one another, they seemed wholly ascendant and in love, drawn to one another as if out of the pure, unbidden force of chemistry. Radiating optimism, they were a little stream of light running through this otherwise bleak day and I thought about giving the basket to them. I imagined how special they and their love would feel, that out of the entire universe– on the eve of the apocalypse, no less– they were chosen for this gift. At night they would feed one another the weird, unpredictable delicacies from the package, and cozy in their student apartment would watch a favourite movie on the laptop, excited about going home for Christmas, about growing up and being in love.
But then I thought, “No, I should stick to my plan.”
And so I kept walking and very soon came across an old man reclining defiantly on the sidewalk as if a Playboy centerfold. A burning cigarette was in the hand that propped up his head, his toque was askance, his beard dirty, yellow and mean, and he had a look of permanent indifference to him. I asked him if he wanted the gift basket. He asked what it was, more of a challenge than a question, really, and I told him. He said sure and so I put it down beside him. I don’t think he thanked me– it was just more stuff, something he might be able to translate into something useful to him. As this was taking place a young woman was walking into the Noodle Bowl and witnessed this unexpected moment on the last day of the world, “Merry Christmas,” she yelled, chasing after me, “that was beautiful, Merry Christmas, Merry, Merry Christmas, and I love your dog, she’s just the cutest thing, oh, this is the best, thank you, thank you! You have no idea how much I needed that!”
]]>In the Shopper’s Drug Mart a nearly elderly woman with a walker clunked slowly along in front of me. Very cheerfully and talking to nobody, she chattered to herself, “Oh, look at all the rubbish that’s on sale, rubbish, rubbish, rubbish!”
The line-up was customarily long and so the cashier called the cavalry. A woman, brusque in every conceivable manner, came and staffed one of the registers, announcing that the next person waiting in line should migrate over. But instead, the last person waiting in line darted over and seized the opportunity. He had all manner of sinus medication in his arms and looked sullen and sour, like somebody who just lost at the dog track. I gave him an “I Know What You Did” look, to which he responded by trying to look sicker.
Back on the street we passed the man who always calls our dog Fritz. He’s tall this man, crooked, with floppy white hair and a cane. He looks like a British genius given to saying thing that are just a moment beyond one’s grasp and as he leaned against the Tim Horton’s he tipped his cap, “Herr Fritz, a good day to you!”
A little further along was an obese man plugged into a pair of earphones. He moved slowly and erratically, as if movement was difficult and he really wasn’t very interested in what direction he was headed. When the dog and I passed him he snarled, “Get your fucking dog out of here!” “You really must miss something,” I said in response, but he did not hear me and continued in anger.
Immediately after, as if in response, we bumped into a woman who wanted to tell me about her Dachshund, Brandy. Lived to be 18. She said that they had a Cocker Spaniel, too, but Brandy, Oh, and then she put her hands to her heart and smiled, smiled, smiled.
We then passed a dog walker. Energized by something she spoke excitedly into her headset. She had thin legs and moved like a boy, like somebody who always wanted to be the quarterback during pick-up football games. She yanked at the dogs, “Come on Huckleberry, hurry up Rizzo, we’re not stopping here!” And then a woman just leaving a nursery jumped from the fifth step down onto the walkway, and as she did so she kicked out her legs like she was in a gum commercial. I could not let this unguarded moment pass, so I said, “Very athletic!” The woman kept her head down and did not respond, heading swiftly down the street to whatever joy beckoned.
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In the booth behind us sat two women. One of them had a tattoo of Tinkerbell– sluttily composed on all fours– inked on her back, while the other woman had a tattoo of a several dollar signs on her back.
“I don’t know what was wrong with the bitch,” Slutty Tinkerbell said.
“She’s always had an attitude,” Dollar Sign agreed.
“Well, I wasn’t going to let her get away with it, so I told her, but before I knew it bitch had me by the hair and whipped me to the floor!”
The waitress was about 7 months pregnant, had sweet but tired eyes, and was an utter ace at her job. Flashing about, she was like some serving telepath, predicting needs and wants long before they were actually articulated. When she brought us the bill it occurred to me to ask if she’d come up with a name for her child. She seemed a little bit startled by the question, and then a little bit sad, “No, no, I’ve been too busy to think about it, I’ll have to just wait and see, I guess,” and then she spun off to another table, her life now receding like a partially glimpsed ballet.
Crossing the pedestrian overpass to the Market, we were greeted by a tall, thin black man in a frayed dashiki. He gave me a quick appraisal, “Hey there Little Man, how’s it going?” In front of him he had an array of mysterious oils and dyes that I had paused to inspect, “The Little Man’s day goes well, how does the Tall, Thin Man’s day go?” He laughed and banged his fist into mine, and I felt proud, like I had just passed some sort of Detroit test.
Not far from him a woman crouched near to the ground in a position that seemed almost predatory, as if she was planning on springing up and pouncing on all who passed by. She was wearing a complete, black Burqa that she’d accessorized with a pair of impenetrable wrap-around sunglasses. Somehow, I knew that she was stunning beneath the intimidating cover—you could feel strength radiating from her and it was obvious that her concealment was a function of pride rather than modesty. Beside her a handsome man with a Thelonius Monk beard sat on a pillow chanting Muslim prayers. They were rock starts to me–perfect in their alien beauty, as if pulled from the cover of a Miles Davis album.
In the open-air market we bought some blueberries from a pair of fussy, 60 year-old gay men.
“No, it’s three dollars each or two for five dollars!” the one with the beard and mustache corrected. The other man sighed and closed his eyes for a second, and then with an edge in his voice that was directed to his partner, said to us, ‘That will be two-fifty, please.”
Down Russell Street we saw heavy men with diabetic limps. Clustered in a group in front of us, one wore the jersey of Detroit Tiger slugger Prince Fielder, while the others arrayed around him, leaned on canes, wore t-shirts from rib joints or hats tilted at a jaunty angle.
Boisterous and playfully combative, we could hear them bantering. The closer we got, the more clearly we could hear one of the men shouting out every five seconds or so, as if part of an unfolding musical improvisation, variations on a riff:
“Leave the white girl alone.”
“Now you be leaving the white girl alone, you hear.”
“Don’t be messing with that white girl’s business.”
“Just leave the white girl alone.”
As Rachelle and I passed, one of these men stepped out and scowled back at his buddies, “Ah, white girls can’t cook worth a damn!” Winking at Rachelle, he gestured us away with his hand, his pals all laughing and tossing high-fives.
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