Donald Trump is the living embodiment of a cliffhanger.

I swear, everything the man does compels us to astonishment. And once this happens he has us trapped– as the complicit media knows all too well. Almost obediently, we’ll sit there in anxious anticipation, eagerly awaiting his next act as if it were an episode of Breaking Bad. Trump, always the catalytic agent, exists to propel narratives forward. Where that story came from or where it might be headed is entirely immaterial, all that matters is that in that moment you cared, and the more passionately you cared, the better for him.

Since his election my media streams have been rivers of fire. All day long people have been screaming at one another and making the boldest declarations. It reminds me of the Olympics, actually. Some sport I will have never heard of might pop up, and after a brief, mechanical explanation of what it is and a few minutes of watching, I’ll feel like an expert.

And so it goes with politics. We may not speak the language, we may not have visited the country, we may not have any friends who are native to the place, but in very short order, we still have really, really strong opinions about what should happen to it.

Whenever I find myself assuming this role and asserting some far too sure political view, I remind myself that I have trouble keeping my own house in order. What’s my economic plan for the USA? Hell, what’s my economic plan for my family!

The world is infinitely complex, and our ability to understand it is miniscule. Our chances of being wrong about something are far greater than our chances of being right, and it’s important we keep this in mind, particularly when judging those we disagree with. I mean, if you’re awake enough to understand that not all Muslims are terrorists, then you should be awake enough to understand that not all of your political opponents are racist morons.

One’s politics are a very poorly articulated version of the sort of person one might be in the world. Typically it says more about how we’d like to be seen, than how we actually conduct ourselves. And it is just so hard to live a pure life in this society, we must always keep in mind that it is upon monstrous deeds that most of us have happily, blindly, built our lives.

The furious, pre-apocalyptic tensions defining the USA right now are typically lumped into two categories. There are the coastal city-states that house the progressives and elites, and then there is the rest of America, a kind of seething, primitive horde—think Orcs.

I try to look at it more like the future pitted agains the past.

Every year our world changes more than it has in all the generations stacked before it. A lot of people are disoriented and terrified by the velocity at which their lives are now moving, while others are grateful that time has finally caught up with them. And when one traditional way of life is subsumed by another, there is usually a violent reaction, and I think that’s what we’re seeing– the past trying to claw the future back in place, and a resentful and protective future stomping back.

So be kind if you can, for everybody is feeling like they’re hanging off the edge of a cliff.

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I know that this isn’t proper form, but can I just say, what a goddamn monkey!!

Can we give it up for, George?

Yeah, that’s the sort of monkey he was, the sort of monkey that could get an entire church full of people to yell and applaud wildly. Just think about that for a second. He was an entirely different species, and here we all are, brought together by this wondrous monkey, cheering at the mere thought of him.

Remember that cheer, people. That’s a gift that George left to us, his encouragement to go out there into the world– fearless and happy– and to make as much mischief as possible!

George, as you all know, was no ordinary monkey. Other monkey’s may have arrived on the scene…Bubbles? The Ikea Monkey?

Couldn’t even hold George’s banana peel.

George endured while all the others fell away.

And Lord, such a funny monkey.

The funniest monkey ever, I think.

He was the Robin Williams of monkeys.

It wasn’t just his curiosity that made him so uniquely beloved, there was something else, too, something that spoke to humans and primates alike. George was joy, a playful little monkey who led us back to our better angels, to a place where the light of childhood shone all year round. And regardless of how famous George became, regardless of how busy or troubled his life became, even when he El Chapo made a trophy pet of him,

George ALWAYS made time to play.

Now, a lot of you might be wondering why The Man in the Yellow Hat, his partner in crime, isn’t here delivering this eulogy. Well, he and George had a complicated relationship, and it has to be said that over the years an awful lot of poo was flung. Back when it all started, The Man in the Yellow Hat tricked George by taking advantage of his curiosity, luring him into his big yellow hat and then taking him from his home and family in Africa to the shores of America.

George always resented it.

By today’s standards what The Man in the Yellow Hat did was unacceptable. A crime, even. But in the 1930’s people didn’t see it that way. Anyway, as George learned more about what happened to him, he distanced himself from The Man in the Yellow Hat. Well, it turns out this separation did neither man nor monkey any good. The Man in the Yellow Hat took to pills, the bottle and street fighting,

his whereabouts now unknown, and George careened from one professional disaster to the next– the masturbation incident in the boardroom of Celebrity Apprentice now carved into the history of American popular culture.

Our sweet George sort of wandered through the wilderness after that, a lost monkey in the cities of man. It was at this time that Islam reached out to him, and ???? ???????, as George chose to be called after his conversion, seemed to be getting his life back on track. Unfortunately, like too many of the disenfranchised and alienated amongst us, George became radicalized. Monkey see, monkey do.

George’s curiosity just proved too much in this case, and his life ended in Syria as part of an ISIS suicide squad.

I don’t know much about the afterlife or where George is, but I choose to imagine that beautiful monkey still clinging to that kite from one of his very first adventures, the winds gently pulling him upwards and home to glory.

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.

adding that he, too,  just like a Regular Joe, enjoyed watching the life-simulations depicted on television programs. It was as if some rudimentary form of Artificial Intelligence, one that existed in a strange human-like form that for all it’s advanced technology just couldn’t get the hair right, was trying to prove its humanity to a skeptical public. It was so clumsy it was almost sweet– like a grandparent saying YOLO in the wrong context.

However, the truly funny thing about this pronouncement was that nobody, not a single politician from any party, had ever suggested that they had a plan to tax Netflix. With this, it seemed that the Conservative strategy was laid bare—they were going to announce a really horrible, really unpopular idea every week, and then assure the public that they would fight tooth and nail against such an appalling idea. This tactic would confuse the public, who would mistakenly think that the combative stance assumed by the Conservatives meant that one of the other political parties had actually proposed the idea and that taxing Netflix would be essential to their governance.

Out of nothing, something– it was the conjuring of a perfectly evil plan.

In keeping with this theme, the next thing that Harper announced was also incredibly weird, only on this occasion instead of lining himself up in opposition to the weirdness, he was trying to initiate it. Stephen Harper suggested banning Canadians from traveling to terrorist-controlled countries.  The idea behind this would be preemptive, serving to stop young, naive, would-be-jihadists from traveling to Syria, being trained by their dark forces, and then sent back, with ISIS flags now sown on their backpacks, to destroy the homeland.

This notion, crazy, paranoiac, wholly against the Charter and impossible to implement, seemed positively Trumpian in its blunt vulgarity. However, the point was never to impose such absurdity on the population, but to get the other parties to argue against it, thus making them look soft on terror.

It’s PSYOP’s, really, with the ruling government attempting to spread disinformation and confusion in an attempt to manipulate the mood of the electorate so that they’re not actually voting based on information, but on a “gut-feeling.” People will “feel” like the NDP want to tax Netflix simply because Harper said he was against doing such a thing, and after all, the NDP tax everything anyway, right? Likewise, people’s fears that the Liberals are soft on terror (Trudeau’s always getting his picture taken with Muslims!)

will only be reinforced, because now the Liberals have to argue that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with traveling to a country that most people associate only with blood-thirsty terrorists.

Harper’s strategy is to set off smoke bombs.

He’s not interested in persuading people with his inventive policy, but in sowing uncertainty and even fear, so that the undecided and those who don’t follow politics all that closely, the people who don’t really know what’s going on (because Harper has set about creating this bewildering cloud of Orwellian uncertainty and double-talk) will take the path of least resistance and opt for “stability” and maintaining the status quo.

In a nutshell, it’s everything that’s wrong with politics.

However, I was curious to see how it might actually unfold in the real world and so I went out to a bunch of Starbuck’s in the Toronto area and tried to engage the staff in conversations about race.

Starbucks

10 Dundas Street East

8:30 pm

Me: Hi.

Barista: Hi.

Me: Are you a fan of the TV show Empire?

Barista: Don’t think I know that one.

Me: Oh. Well, it has an all black cast. Not a single white person on it. After a few episodes you don’t even notice how weird that is. It says a lot about race, I think, and the gritty world of Hip Hop. Very topical considering Ferguson and everything.

Barista: You seem very authentically informed.

Me: Well, I’m a part of Black Twitter, so I feel pretty plugged in.

Barista: I see. What can I get you?

Me: Decaf green tea. Grande.

Barista: I bet you like being white, don’t you?

Me: I don’t really see race.

Starbucks

407 Yonge Street

11:30 am

Me: Hey, anyone interested in rapping about race?

Barista: (foams milk)

Me: (Turning around and facing the customers in the lineup behind me) Anyone?

Guy with an eye patch: This might not be “politically correct” or anything, but I hate the Irish.

Me: Really, the Irish? But they have Leprechauns!

Guy with an eye patch: Exactly, Leprechauns are just about the creepiest thing in the world.

Me: What happened, did you lose your eye to a Leprechaun?

Guy with an eye patch: No, I lost it in a fire. The Irish also cheat at cards, and on their husbands.

Girl in denim jacket: And I have to add that the Muzzies got no business taking over this country, if they want to live here, they should damn well dress like everyone else, am I right?

Me: Hey, this is great, now we’re really starting to get into the hard stuff! How about you, (pointing at a woman on her phone) what do you think?

Woman on her phone: (Gives me the finger)

Me: (To Barista) People are still very uncomfortable talking about race. It’s a real shame, because as painful as it is, we really have so much to learn from one another. We need to be brave.

Barista: You do know that the campaign isn’t taking place in Canada, right?

Starbucks

585 University Avenue

2:00 pm

Me: (To Barista) So, who is your favourite black actor or actress? Supermodels count.

Barista: Why are you asking me this?

Me: I’m trying to start a dialogue about race. I want to find out about your lived experience. Have you ever written a letter to a black celebrity, and if so, was it a hate letter or a love letter?

Barista: It’s never occurred to me to write a celebrity a letter.

Me: Any celebrity, or just black celebrities in particular?

Barista: Any celebrity.

Me: Weird. Not even Pam Grier??

Barista: Look, I got to keep the line moving here, are you going to take that cookie or not?

This creature has voice-recognition software that will allow the doll to “listen” to children speak and give chatty, informed responses. Hello Barbie is WiFi connected and via an embedded microphone, records what the child playing with it says. The recording then travels over the Web to the Mattel super cloud where the words are recognized and parsed, with that information then being used to formulate the doll’s response.

People are very concerned about privacy, worried that the information could be misused by Mattel for marketing purposes, or hacked into by the NSA or other malicious, information-seeking entities. The Beta run of the doll was not without controversy, and many families reported that their children had unusual experiences with their Hello Barbie.

Aziz, age 6:

Aziz: “My favourite animal is a dog!”

Hello Barbie: “Some people think Americans are Imperialist dogs, does your family think that Aziz?”

Aziz: “My family won’t let me get a dog!”

Hello Barbie: “Your family hates America and her freedoms, Aziz, that’s why they hate dogs! It is your duty to inform on them, all the cool girls are doing it! Do you like my shirt? It’s very expensive!

Jahida, age 5:

Jahida: “What are you going to be for Halloween?”

Hello Barbie: “ A proud American!”

Jahida: “You’re funny, Barbie! I like you!”

Hello Barbie: “I like you, too, Jahida, it’s too bad you and your religion make Jesus cry.”

Fahima, age 7:

Fahima: “I hate Cindy. She’s a bully and always makes fun of my hair!”

Hello Barbie: “I hate terrorists!”

Fahima: “What’s a terrorist?”

Hello Barbie: “Oh, a terrorist is very bad person!

Fahima: “I don’t like bad people!”

Hello Barbie: “Did you know that I can take photographs with my pretty eyes that go up to space and talk to angels? The angels understand what my pretty eyes have seen, and then they fly over the terrorist and drop holy fire on him! The terrorists are such evil, freedom-hating people, that if you ever hear about where any of them are, even your Uncle Maru’deen who lives in Pakistan, you should tell Hello Barbie, and then Hello Barbie will talk to an angel about Cindy! I like Taylor Swift, do you?

Shalimar, age 6:

Shalimar: “What’s your favourite colour?”

Hello Barbie: “It’s hard to choose between red, white and blue, but I think it would be white!”

Shalimar: “Like you, you’re white!”

Hello Barbie: “That’s right, like America, a white, Christian nation!”

Shalimar: “Oh.”

Hello Barbie: “ Do you like my hair?”

Shalimar: “ Yeah.”

Hello Barbie: “Me, too.”

Shalimar: “What’s your favourite food?”

Hello Barbie: “ I love barbecue potato chips! What about you?”

Shalimar: “My mom’s hummus, I think, but also cookies.”

Hello Barbie: “Hummus isn’t a real food. “

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.

Here is a quote from his column in the Sun newspaper, “… if some old bigot from a backwoods village in Pakistan or Somalia doesn’t want to respect Canada, that’s where our schools come in and teach those bigots’ kids and grandkids what it means to be Canadian.”

I will now provide you with a collection of holiday messages (quotes from columns) from Ezra Levant over the course of the last year:

Christmas Day: “ Look, I get that Muslims and atheists and homosexuals might not have it in them to honour the sacrifice that Jesus Christ made on the cross for THEIR sins, but the least they could do is get into the spirit, buy a few things and keep this damn economy growing! You’re in this country now!”

New Year’s Day: “ The First Nations People never had any sense of time. They didn’t have a calendar! Everything was just “now” with them. Have you ever tried to have a meeting with one of them? It’s next to impossible, they just don’t “get” time, so why on earth should they get this holiday?”

Family Day: “ Gay couples cannot biologically create families. End of story. This is not a holiday for them. They and their rainbow tattoos are not wanted, and for the record, I have never had gay sex, never even been curious, not even when I was alone in that bus station in Minnesota and it was just me and that Mormon missionary and the light above us, swaying slightly in the summer breeze, kept flickering, as if a suggestion.”

St. Patrick’s Day: “The Irish are awesome. Nobody can drink like them, not even the Russians, and especially not the Indians. If there was a drinking Olympics, and there should be, the Irish would win every year. They deserve three holidays. I had an Irish girlfriend in University, Shelagh, and she was a wild one, if you know what I mean.”

(Shelagh looked like a combination of these two)

Easter: “ And now the Vegans and Vegetarians want to take away our Easter eggs. They can suck my dick.”

Canada Day: “ Canada is a truly beautiful country. Have you ever seen a good-looking Muslim woman? I have not. That religion is not producing any Kim Kardashians, that’s for sure, and if they are, they must hide them up in the hills with all the other terrorists.”

Labour Day: “It’s a statistical fact, black people rarely work and they shouldn’t get any of the benefits of the holiday until they get their numbers up. We’ve been carrying them long enough!”

Thanksgiving: “The Feminazis would have you believe in something they call “White Male Privilege.” Well, it was white males who built this country and provided the sperm that made your families, so I want to say that I am thankful for them and if they have a little bit of privilege, it’s because they earned it!”

Painting #1

A lot of people fantasize about being the President. They like the idea of power, of absolute power, like I had, but what people fail to think about is that when you’re President of the United States of America there are an awful lot of people that want to kill you. I did a lot of stuff when I was President, stuff that made some people mad, and I never forgot this. Wherever I was, it was always in the back of my mind. Who was trying to sneak up on me? How were they going to do it? What did they know?

These feelings don’t go away, they stay with you.

In this painting I’m naked in the shower, vulnerable yet powerful. I hear the door open in the bathroom and I don’t know if the Day of Judgment has come in the form of an assassin or if it’s Laura just wanting a little. And so, in a moment of uncertainty, suspended between the anticipation of an erotic encounter or a battle to the death with a would-be murderer, I’m looking in that little mirror there to see what’s going to happen next.

Note the muscles in my back. I keep in pretty good shape.

Painting #2

I really like hot baths. It’s good alone time for fantasizing. But still, I always think of the assassin, of when the Angel of Death is going to come and get me, but when I’m in the bathtub I like to imagine the Angel of Death being like Angelina Jolie in that movie with Brad Pitt. They’re both assassins and she’s all like a dominatrix. Very sexy stuff.

In this painting I was thinking about that. Angelina Jolie is going to assassinate me and as she sneaks up behind me she sees my naked body. She’s attracted. The stream of water coming out of the faucet between my legs reminds her of a boner. Curious, she gets in the water with me and we go at it, but you never really know if it’s violence or passion, and then after we have wicked sex, I strangle her with the little chain from the bathtub plug and then I call Secret Service.

That’s what I was thinking when I made this painting.

Another woman, less shy, seemed encouraged that somebody had actually spoken and started a conversation with me about geography. The man she was taking her daughter to visit was a big football fan and loved Brazil’s national squad. “I’d love to go to Brazil,” she said to me.

Her daughter was probably about 16 or 17, had a dollar sign tattooed at the base of her right thumb and having squeezed herself into an outfit that wasn’t much larger than a sock cut off at each end, was dressed to please. Ever since 9/11 she’s been scared to fly, but if she could drive anywhere in the world she told me she’d visit either Australia or Newfoundland. As she was telling me this two very tough looking men in their early 60s approached the building. They looked like they knew trouble and what to do with it– like they were born angry. One guy, covered in tattoos and with a powerful, wide upper body, pulled his shirt on as he entered the room, as if a statement of violent intent. The other man was in a sleeveless, white undershirt, his ashen hair greased back. They sat there like furious, black clouds.

The girl who was scared to travel passed slowly in front of them and then back again, at which point her mother grabbed her by the arm, hissing, “ Jesus Kat, you really gave those two an eyeful, didn’t ya?”

Walking into the prison visiting area is a little bit like passing through security at the airport. You empty your pockets and then walk through a metal detector while largely disinterested officers idle by. Once inside there are two U-shaped seating areas with the red-suited prisoners on one side of the protective glass paneling and the visitors on the other.

A woman who was wearing a hijab began to weep after speaking with her son. She was emotional and talking with her hands, her husband trying hard to steady her from beneath a heavy, masculine mustache. A young man blew streams of kisses at his infant daughter. The child’s mother, waving the little girl’s hand at her imprisoned father, was backing out of the room, stealing as many moments as she could.  Nearby a prisoner sat waiting for his visitor. The man had vulnerable, heavy eyes. He was just sitting there in front of the phone, his mind God knows where, and the pull toward his loneliness was so vivid and intense that I had to stop myself from just picking up the phone and starting a conversation.

On my way out of the building I passed through a cluster of people smoking. One woman said, “I thought for sure that my other boy would be here, too, but at 24 he still hasn’t been incarcerated, praise be.” And then she added, “But he’s still just 24, so I gotta keep my prayer on!”