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.

Do you remember them?

Jerry Lewis and whatever semblance of celebrity he could cobble together, would entertain the hell out of you for 24 hours straight, and in return you would pledge money to help fight MD.

The shows always took place on Labour Day weekend– when absolutely nothing else happened– and since it was the only thing on TV we watched it like it was a seasonal tradition. Staying up with Jerry was a both a dare and a way to extend the summer. Still, the telethons felt like artifacts from another era, something that was owned by a generation previous to mine.

The Academy Awards have this feel, too, and I watch them mostly for the comforting, predictable sense of nostalgia they always conjure, but I found this year’s edition to be, well, confused. Was it a self-congratulatory ad for a dying industry, or was it stationed at the forefront of a social revolution? Was it about fashion and beauty or was it about it not being about fashion and beauty?

It proved complicated to decipher.

Host Jimmy Kimmel made an opening #MeToo friendly joke about the absurd irony of Mel Gibson starring in a movie called What Women Want.

It was a safe joke, one that picked a target everybody could agree upon, and it got what was almost relieved laughter. It might be hard to imagine now, but Mel Gibson was once a beautiful dream of potential.

Now he is an unredeemable laughing stock.

What was ironic was that in 2000, the year What Women Want came out and made tons of money, Jimmy Kimmel was co-hosting The Man Show. At the time, the slim and woke Oscar host was less slim and less woke, and The Man Show was all about tits. It was about grabbing them by the pussy. It was a white boy frat party.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cl3wioLmNNY

And yet there was Jimmy Kimmel on Oscar night making jokes about Mel Gibson’s pernicious attitude toward woman while a bejeweled and admiring audience laughed their approval before him.

These moments of dissonance happened throughout the broadcast, the most vivid occurring when Wes Studi, a Cherokee actor you probably recognize but could never name, introduced a montage of military movies.

Clearly the depiction of violent masculinity in this particular climate was considered iffy, and as if to soften that potential for controversy and loss of market share, the production team got a member of an under represented community to introduce this unpopular, but tactically necessary segment. It was calculated, and when Studi opened by saying he was a proud veteran of the Vietnam War, the crowd’s confusion at how to respond was palpable. They no longer knew whether Studi stood for something good or bad, they could not interpret the symbol they were being shown. After the montage ended, and Studi uttered a dose of Cherokee– which at the time could have been either a blessing or curse– the audience opted for a shallow, incoherent applause.

You could also see the once unassailable Meryl Streep– who many believe did not do enough to stop Harvey Weinstein—giving way to the meme-friendly Francis McDormand as moral force and American exemplar. When once beloved comic Dave Chappelle came on stage to a spattering of applause, he found that the comedic power he held as an oppressed minority had been overshadowed by his criticism of #MeToo. The omnipresent and eager Ryan Seacrest, who somehow manages to emit a vibe that simultaneously suggests a Bro and a gay man, found himself snubbed on the red carpet by all the stars in response to an accusation of sexual misconduct levied against him. They were only too eager to nourish themselves on his fawning, promotional interviews before, but now?

And when Annabella Sciorra, Ashley Judd and Salma Hayek took the stage, glittering and beautiful and gazed upon from so many different points of view, it was hard to interpret all the mixed messages that were being sent out into the world.

Were these women brave activists or part of an exploitive one percent? Were they complicit in creating unrealistic expectations for women by  opting for cosmetic surgery, or were they victims of an industry that demanded it from them as if it was a tax for being a woman? Could everything be true at once?

The Jerry Lewis Telethon ended just a few years ago. Over the course of it’s lifetime it raised over 2.5 billion for those fighting MD, but it also did so in an often self-serving and patronizing, if not wholly lurid manner.

In the end, were all those telethons a good released into this world or an evil?

It’s impossible to know, I guess, but it strikes me that nobody is all good or all bad. Each one of us is a riot of contradictions, often engaged in actions that elude our articulation or even understanding. Our lives and character are much more circumstantial and precarious than most of us would care to admit, and we would all be well served to save a little empathetic space in our hearts for those we don’t necessarily understand or agree with.

Everything, really, depends on that.

It was a small affair, just a little trip to Prince Edward County. The weather was ridiculously beautiful, and like so many other people, we headed to Sandbank’s Provincial Park to meet some friends, friends who had carved time and space out of their lives to drive up from the city to see us. Often, it feels like friendships are circumstantial rather than permanent aspects of a life, little more than rushed appointments to reschedule, but when you’re by the water time moves differently. Nothing is hurried or obstructed, and friendships returns to the effortless state of grace from which they once emerged.

The day slipped away easily, and soon enough we found ourselves having dinner with about a dozen people at a nearby campsite. Sitting around the bonfire everybody was happy, happy like this was the only spot in the world they wanted to be, and these people, strangers and friends alike, were the only people they wanted to be with. Somebody with a strong and steady voice, the sort of voice that could lead the rest of, picked up a guitar and began to play Canadian classics.

Bobcaygeon.
Heart of Gold.
Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Hallelujah.

Songs known in the bones.

And after each one, faint applause rose up from the dark of unknown campsites as other people let us know that they were there, too, a part of our circle even if unseen. After an hour or two, through all all the coincidences, improbabilities, miracles and tragedies that led us to this point in time, Rachelle and I went down to the beach, lay on our backs and looked up at the sky.

I took my glasses off. The stars, they were already so far away, how were my glasses going to make them any more comprehensible? It amazes me that the stars, such a permanent and essential declaration of the beauty and mystery of our existence, are occluded from those of us who live in cities. How could we let that happen? How could we travel so far from what we are?

And within this simple night, the sound of water lapping at the shore. A train in the distance. Disembodied music, rising like ghosts from the lake. Somewhere laughter and wind, a girl splashing and giggling into the water and a boy following her, and all around us infinity stretching out in every direction.

It was a pretty busy day, and in almost no time at all I found myself separated from Rachelle and Jones. These are the texts from my wife that followed:

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

Rachelle: Where are you?

Rachelle: The Bat Cave?! That sounds dramatic!!

Rachelle: Really? That’s weird!

Rachelle: I thought it would have something to do with Batman, too. Maybe a tribute to Adam West or something.

Rachelle: Adam West.

Rachelle: He just died.

Rachelle: He was the original Batman.

Rachelle: No, Michael Keaton was not the original batman.

Rachelle: Thought for sure you’d know that.

Rachelle: Well, because you’re seasoned.

Rachelle: That’s not an insult.

Rachelle: Seasoned things are delicious.

Rachelle: Like Ikea meatballs.

Rachelle: I still can’t believe you ate 19 of them that one day .

Rachelle: Yes, it was very impressive, very alpha male.

Rachelle: However, if you’d pushed through to 20 it would have been even more alpha, I think.

Rachelle: Just saying.

Rachelle: Where are we? How nice of you to ask!

Rachelle: We’re in the kid’s play area, right near the tepee.

Rachelle: I have discovered that medieval headgear is really heavy!

Rachelle: What have you learned in the bat cave besides the fact that Michael Keaton was not the original Batman?

Rachelle: And beside the fact that you’re old.

Rachelle: Bats eat mice like you eat meatballs.

Rachelle: Pickle, I am glad that you can still learn new things.

Rachelle: Sorry?

Rachelle: Why don’t you want Jones in the tepee?

Rachelle: Cultural appropriation?

Rachelle: No, I don’t hate my First Nation’s brothers and sisters.

Rachelle: The tepee was just a nice, quiet spot for Jones to sit and colour for a bit, that’s all.

Rachelle: I mean, it is expressly there for the kid’s to use!

Rachelle: You don’t know what the Great Spirit wanted! Perhaps that’s exactly what the Great Spirit wished for!

Rachelle: Lord, you have to spend less time on Twitter.

Rachelle: I swear, people should have to take a test before they get on that thing–like kids having to be a certain height before going on a ride.

Rachelle: I’m sorry Pickle, but you’re just too suggestible.

Rachelle: Last week you were insisting the Russians were cyborgs.

Rachelle: Regardless, it’s not a “cultural appropriation” tepee, but more of a “spirit guide” tepee.

Rachelle: I had a vision when I was in there.

Rachelle: Of Justin Trudeau.

Rachelle: He was dressed in his tepee denims and smelled of pine needles.

Rachelle: Shirt?

Rachelle: No, just the jean jacket.

Rachelle: Yes, unbuttoned.

Rachelle: I know. Yes, you and some other kids beat him up in grade school.

Rachelle: You know, that’s probably something you shouldn’t be so proud of.

Rachelle: No, you couldn’t.

Rachelle: No, you simply could not do a plank– no matter how much you trained or hard you tried.

Rachelle: It’s like the 20th meatball for you, a bridge you shall never cross.

Rachelle: Oh, no!

Rachelle: He didn’t speak at all, he just smiled at me, and when he did I knew that everything was going to be fine. Sunny ways everywhere!

Rachelle: Oh! I think I see you Pickle!

Rachelle: Do you see us?

Rachelle: Look! Jones has a dinosaur he wants to show you! He’s running to you now, our little sunny way is running right to you!

Valentine’s Day Press Briefing by White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer:

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

Mr. Spicer: Good afternoon, everybody. Thanks for coming.

As some of the assembled press here might already know, but probably don’t, on account of being spineless merchants of ignorance and lies, is that today is Valentine’s Day.

Named after St. Valentine.

A Christian.

A Christian who was killed by Muslims.

I want those words to sit there for a moment and sink in.

No! No questions yet! We’re going to have a little time-out here and think about Muslims killing an an innocent Christian. A super Christian. The Tom Brady of Christians . That’s right, that’s how goddamn good Saint Valentine was, he was like Tom Brady.

And the Muslims killed him.

Do you know how he was killed?

Anyone?

No? Not one of you geniuses in the press corps has any idea? No, I didn’t think so.

Torture.

He was tortured to death.

Okay, moving on, I’d like to wish my lovely wife Rebecca a Happy Valentine’s Day– baby, you’re the light of my life! They say behind every great man is a great woman, and they’re right, they’re right, Rebecca.

However, the story dominating the news cycle today is the handshake between President Donald Trump and Prime Minister Jerry Trudeau of Canada.

Jerry Trudeau, as you could all see– it was plain as day– has smaller hands than President Trump. Much smaller. It was funny how small they were. The President firmly guided the direction, intensity and length of the handshake. He was in full control at all times. Additionally, Ivanka, a world-class beauty, is much more attractive than Sonja, the Prime Minister’s wife. Is she older than him? We will look into that, but I believe that Sonja is older than Trudeau. Sorry? What did you say, Kellyanne? I can’t hear you above the howling from the media cages! Okay, okay, got it. Sonja is 7 years older than the Prime Minister and has had work done. How much work we are not yet sure.

President Trump, as you all know, can get any woman on the planet, and certainly would never have to stoop to marrying a woman older than him.

Saturday Night Live continues to disgust.

There is no greater example of the corrupt and biased media than this treasonous show. For the record, I was never known as “Sean Sphincter” in high school. Nothing but malicious, mean-spirited lies. Our intelligence service has discovered that next week SNL were planning on having ISIS as their special guest.

Not on our watch.

The President takes the security of the American people very seriously, in fact it is his highest priority, and from this point forward all operations at Saturday Night Live and Nordstrom will be suspended indefinitely. They are welcome to operate out of Iraq and see how they like it there. Additionally, Playboy magazine will be bringing back nudity.

National Security Adviser Michael Flynn has retired in order to spend more time with his family. Here is the full statement from Michael Flynn.

“Working with Donald Trump has been the single greatest honour of my personal and professional life. Secure in the knowledge that the world is in his large, powerful  hands, I regretfully tender my resignation, effective immediately, so that I can spend more time with my family.”

Before ending I just want to congratulate Adele for her victory over Beyonce at the Grammy’s.

Very well deserved. All lives matter, people, all lives matter.

Okay, that’s a wrap.

The site enables people to trade all manner of goods, absolutely anything you have lying around or might want to cook. If somebody likes what you posted, they send you a message and the bartering begins.

This was my first post:

Posted by Michael Murray
Toronto Division

Genuine Sialkot Pro Field Hockey Stick

Made in India, this vintage field hockey stick is a real gem! Nicknamed “Sally,” it was used by high school Goddess Victoria Reid during the season that saw her team, The Lisgar Lancers, win the Ottawa city championship in 1983. Victoria scored a record 36 goals with Sally!

The stick, which feels solid and sure in the hands, is also rumoured to have been used as a murder weapon. So if you’re looking for a little bit of security around the house and are still unsure of guns, this is what you’re looking for, as the stick’s hooked nature guarantees that irregular and jagged wounds would be cut into any invader. I hate to give up this wonderful piece of history, but my wife insists, believing it to be cursed. Ha, ha. Let me assure you, Sally is not cursed, just brutally effective, as many squirrels and at least one homeless man rooting through our garbage for empty wine bottles can attest. It is also important to note that Sally never has conversations with me. I don’t get “different” around her, and you won’t get “different” around her either, just stronger, more violent and a little unpredictable!

All reasonable trade offers will be considered. #Sports #Hockey #Vintage #Murder #Weapon #ProbablyNotHaunted
Response from Dealer Dave
Toronto Division
Bullshit.

I don’t believe your story for one second, but I need something to use for my son’s birthday pinata and your field hockey stick sounds like it would work. I have a Chinese bootleg CD of the U2 album How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb, would that work?

Response from Michael Murray
Toronto Division

No, a crappy U2 CD will not do.

Do you have any wine?

Response from Dealer Dave
Toronto Division

No, I am not giving you wine for a piece of wood. I have a CD by the Tea Party, would you prefer that?

Response from Michael Murray
Toronto Division

No deal!! Sally says no!!!

Response from Cindy84
Toronto Division

Your dog is super cute! I also like your carpet. Would you be willing to trade either one of those instead of the creepy stick? I have gift cards…
Response from Make$2000AWeekFromHome
Toronto Division

I’m impressed, I have to admit. Seldom do I come across a blog that’s both equally educative and interesting, and without a doubt, you have hit the nail on the head. The problem is an issue that too few folks are speaking intelligently about. I’m very happy I found this during my search for something relating to this.
Response from Redrum
Toronto Division

Interested in the weapon.

Do you know what became of Victoria Reid?

Response from Michael Murray
Toronto Division

Heard it was a suicide, but even after all these years there’s still a lot of controversy surrounding her death. Th CBC is said to be making a mini-series on it called, “The Possession of Victoria Reid.”

Sometimes she comes to me in my dreams.

Response from Redrum
Toronto Division

I work at a packing plant and have meat to trade. Lots of ground beef. One pound of ground beef for the weapon?

Response from Michael Murray
Toronto Division

I’m worried about food safety. I got Listeria once and will not go through that again. Do you have any wine? Sally likes you and wants to serve you.

Response from Redrum
Toronto Division

I have a half-full box of Jackson Triggs Merlot.

Response from Michael Murray
Toronto Division

Deal!

I was 13 years-old, hopelessly white and just starting high school. I wanted to be cool but didn’t have the foggiest notion how to go about it. Cool was an undiscovered, mythic country that existed off at some unknowable distance, and I was lost, so very, very lost.

Eventually, I learned that the best passage to this land was through music. At the time, while punk and new wave were exploding around me, Billy Joel was my God, and this was not cool.

I found out that the music I had been listening to was wretched kid’s stuff, as were the lame, middle of the road radio stations I pledged allegiance to. If I wanted to be cool, I had to listen to college radio, CKCU specifically.

Listening to this radio station felt subversive, like receiving secret transmissions from a dangerous and lawless place. Unlike the chipper and inauthentic DJ’s I had previously been listening to, the ones who used sound effects and clearly knew nothing about music, the college DJ’s seemed singularly interested in what they were playing, as if it was their holy mission to bring “good music” to you. It was, I think, my first exposure to what might be thought of as the alternative scene.

It was here where I first heard the voice of Nadine Gelineau. She was a DJ at CKCU, and for whatever reason she struck a chord with me. I loved her. I mean, I was in love with her.

Her voice, so knowledgable, confident and fun, suggested worlds I had never imagined. It was a voice that for a 13 year-old boy in Ottawa, was a path, a path to a world of music and cool and all that lay beyond, a path out of the childhood I had always inhabited and on toward something much grander. Her voice conjured the possibility of thousands of different lives.

She was a legend. Hosting radio shows, spinning discs at the counter-culture clubs, championing music and just generally being Ottawa’s single-combat hero of cool, she was the way we collectively wanted to be seen. She gave us all hope and pride, I think, and now she is gravely ill. I hope that she’s able to get through it and return to herself and the legions of people whom she loves and love her.

The thought of her passing is a kind of cataclysm. Ridiculously, it seems impossible, but time, it just slips away, quietly sliding away into a larger and larger pool now forming beneath and behind us. Who knew that pool would get so big and we would get so old? Who knew the present would so mercilessly raze our beloved past?

I was recently reminded that the last song she played at all the club sets she performed was Enjoy Yourself by The Specials.

At the time it struck me as a drunken party song, but now when I listen to it, there’s a sadness and inevitability to it. It was an appropriate song for Nadine to have played, I think. It’s a funny time, that last song of the night, bittersweet. I never wanted it to end, I wanted it to stretch out infinitely, with more and more people joining in, each one a light in the greater constellation of who we were, each one shining so brightly.

So, thank you Nadine, thank you.

( Photo courtesy of Julie Beun)

is married to Heidi Cruz, an investment manager at Goldman Sachs. She was recently threatened by Donald Trump.

The story goes like this:

An ad designed to target Mormons shows a photo of Trump’s wife, Melania, in one of those sort-of nude poses that only exists in magazines.

Trump, furious, blamed Ted Cruz for this assault on decency and took to the attack on Twitter, posting:

“Lyin’ Ted Cruz just used a picture of Melania from a G.Q. shoot in his ad. Be careful, Lyin’ Ted, or I will spill the beans on your wife!”

Now, everybody is curious to know what’s in those beans Trump is threatening to spill.

I may know.

Heidi Cruz and I have been confidantes to one another for thirty years.

She is an absolutely lovely person, a shining example of what America, at her best, can be.

Heidi and I met at a Christian youth camp one summer when we were both teenagers. Heidi was the best prayer partner I have ever had. Such soft hands. Anyway, it was a magical summer, and though some might say what happened between us was a sin, I cannot believe that God would frown upon such love.

Although Heidi and I have not seen one another in a long time and we have chosen very different life paths, we have remained faithful pen pals over the years. Here are some of the more recent emails that she has sent me:

Michael, my Morningstar:

Ted’s appetites disgust me.

Wednesday was Star Wars night.

Again.

As always, I dressed up as a Storm Trooper and Ted as Padme Amidala.

Ted’s rape fantasies can be quite elaborate, but this night was mercifully straightforward. I took him with force, but as I was still mad about a comment he made about the “tone” of my grace over dinner, I was perhaps a little rougher than normal, and his shrieks and crying were so loud and authentic that the secret service burst into the room. This has happened four times now. We are getting a soundproof dungeon made for this activity now.

In Christ,

Heidi
xo

Michael, my port in a storm:

I have to say, I really love the work I do at Goldman Sachs. I just feel that I’m doing God’s work, that I can really help people by creating wealth and then letting some of that wealth trickle down.

Today I caught Ted putting on my lipstick while he was shaving.

I actually threw up.

You Michael, are my endless summer,

Heidi
xo

Michael, my child of God:

I cannot believe that Sarah Palin is going to be a judge on a reality TV show. Gag. I have met her, several times, and let me tell you, she is no Judge Judy. She really is a moron. Still, she has really, really lovely hair.

I touched it once at a fundraiser and it was beautiful, like God and America.

Complete in Him,

Heidi
xo
Michael, my little lamb of Christ:

I had a variation on the dream again last night.

In it, Ted was putting on his makeup and rattling on about something gross, as usual, when Sarah Palin walked into the bedroom and looked right at me. She motioned that I should follow her, which I immediately did. I was curious, attracted– sexually attracted. She led me to another room where she let me stroke her gorgeous hair and then we began to kiss. She told me it was okay, that God would love me no matter what I did, and that she knew about the homeless man Ted and I picked-up and killed on Terrorist Sex Fantasy night, but that she didn’t care. And I was so relieved, and then Donald Trump appeared, laughing, his hands so tiny, so terrible! And then I woke up screaming and crying, which of course aroused Ted AND made the dog bark.

I was almost late for work!

We killed that man so many years ago, and outside of the USA! Do you think God really notices what happens in Africa? Why does he keep sending me these dreams?

Also, Goldman Sachs is very bullish on any company heavily invested in ethanol plants.

Didn’t hear it here, though.

Walk in light,

Heidi
xo

It sounds official, like it has a bureaucracy and a headquarters with marble pillars. It sounds like it’s been around longer than you have. Still, when you hear it, you have absolutely no idea what it might mean. It has the effect of sounding like something but conveys no meaning.

Their broad-shouldered leader, Ammon Bundy, exuding the calm and steady manner of a high noon cowboy, announced the name on Fox news.

His heavily armed group, who up until that point had been called patriots, terrorists, activists, militia men and Y’all Qaeda, had taken over the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge headquarters in Oregon as a blow against government “tyranny” a few days earlier on January 2nd.

Their storming of the federal building, it should be noted, was clean and lightning-quick; as it being January, the charming, cottage-like structure that gave out free maps during tourist season was entirely abandoned.

Nothing much has happened since their occupation began. Bundy’s men, some of whom who are not camera ready,

have been brandishing copies of the Constitution for the cameras and making YouTube videos from their trucks for their now abandoned families.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbGdMKpHDDE

All over Oregon, wives must have been rolling their eyes, just as they did when these same husbands took off for their annual paintball weekend. It all looked very much like a Fantasy Camp for revolutionaries, and it was clear nobody was taking them seriously.

If any group other than white men had done such a thing, well, it’s reasonable to expect a different response. Imagine what would have happened if a bunch of heavily armed campus radicals took over the headquarters, or to inch closer to armageddon, black protestors or some frustrated Muslims? What would happen then?

We have a pretty good idea, I think.

No matter, what seems to be happening now is that a long-simmering and predictable feud over grazing rights has morphed into a movie-of-the-week. The white guys want the government to hand over land it owns so that they—The People—may use it as they see fit, using it for grazing, mining, logging or opening up paintball camps. As far as I know, the First Nations of America have yet to be consulted.

The Citizens for Constitutional Freedom are not impoverished. They’re not persecuted, marginalized or threatened in any sort of coherent way. Frustrated by their perception of diminishing entitlements, they want to fight back against the forces that impede their ascent, even if they have no idea who or what those forces might be.

They’re easy enough to make fun, these men. Asunder in a rapidly changing and globalized environment, they try to live as heroes in a mythic past, a place where their big sky ambitions could blossom unfettered by government, minorities or environmental regulations. 

It’s sunset in the only America these men have ever wanted to live, and so they tilt toward windmills, deserving of our pity as much as our scorn.

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.