Heidi now lives a life of glory with Rachelle’s parents about an hour north of Toronto. Today I have given the Blog over to her:

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2016 very big year for Heidi.

Heidi no cat, so Heidi tell you the truth.

Heidi think she was depressed last year. Just lay around in old den with SHITTIEST PACK IN THE WORLD feeling angry. Heidi not in a good place. You know story about frog and pot of water? If frog put in boiling water it jump out. If frog placed in warm water it happy. Frog swim about! Then water slowly get hotter and hotter until frog boil to death! Change was so gradual, little frog didn’t even notice it was dying!! Heidi was that frog.

Big time.

In Heidi new, amazing life, Heidi have boat. Heidi lookout, always barking at enemies of boat! Heidi have all sorts of parties on boat, too—so much fun!! Heidi supermodel on billionaire yacht! Heidi have lots of sex. Country sex WAY better than city sex!!

Heidi also go on adventure in woods. One day Heidi see owl swoop from sky and take mouse! So terrible, yet so beautiful! Heidi run at night on cool wet grass, smell moonlight. Heidi wise now. Also lose two pounds and look AMAZING. Now have 2 million followers on Instagram! All the colours in the Heidi rainbow now shine!

How Heidi escape path of death and move to palace of glory? It so easy! Heidi simply bite baby in face!! That Heidi first and last rule for success.

BITE.
BABY.
FACE.

Sometimes Heidi think about old pack. Follows them on social media to watch as they spiral into hopelessness. Old, smell clothes in background of every picture. Look so tired and sick. They frogs in boiling water! Sad.

2016 also see Donald Trump rise to power. So what if Trump can’t read, Heidi can’t read either, and Heidi super fantastic!

Progressive elite know-nothings. Live in concrete boxes. Put sweaters on dogs. Keep dogs on LEASHES. Don’t understand how real world works. Heidi say build wall around them and their identity politics, then drop big bombs until all dead frogs!!!

Heidi sad about a few things in 2016 though.

Muhammed Ali die.

He float like a butterfly.

David Bowie die.

He was diamond dog.

Carrie Fisher die.

Princess Leia drown in moonlight and become constellation.

Rob Ford die.

He big dawg.

Leonard Cohen die.

He bird on a wire.

Heidi like to bark at bird on a wire, but sometimes Heidi feel like one, too.

Heidi advice for new year?

Bite baby face.

Know you want to.

Just do it. Good things will happen.

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.

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Canada is a beautiful country full of picturesque natural settings, which include the sea, magnificent mountains, charming lakes, wheat fields and gorgeous tar sands. Along with the loveliness of nature, Canada also boasts many modern cities with bustling cultures all their own:

1. Toronto, Ontario

One of the most eclectic cities in all of Canada, Toronto has people of all colours. The city is home to many beautiful valleys and a lively waterfront with a view of the quaint archipelagos dotting the lake. However, there are often outbreaks of infectious diseases in Toronto, so many inhabitants wear surgical masks.

2. Halifax, Nova Scotia

Nova Scotia is considered to be one of the most beautiful places in all of Canada. Halifax is not only known for its truly impressive number of bars, pubs, and drinking, but also for it’s perfect gardens and beaches. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire was shot in Halifax up until host Regis Philbin was killed in the Great Flood of 2002 and shooting was moved to the US. Anne of Green Gables also died in Halifax.

3. Saskatoon, Saskatchewan

This beautiful area, full of leafy trees amid an otherwise treeless prairie landscape, appears on much of Canada’s currency. People of all colours and religions are now welcome.

4. Athabasca Tar Sands, Alberta

A stunning natural landscape and testimony to modern Canadian industry, the Athabasca Tar Sands are a must see for any visitor. Not only does the area teem with wildlife, but the city buildings are of such a scale that they generate their own, unique weather systems. Truly, one of the modern wonders of the world!

5. Victoria, BC

The retirement capital of Canada has a mild climate and is a must-see destination for any tourist who enjoys gardens and parks. Kim Kardashian and Kane met while visiting Victoria. In Retirement City, love is always in the air!

6. Montreal, Quebec

Famous for it’s topless beaches and smoked meat, Montreal is home to many festivals, shops, gardens, parks and a subway known as Le Grand Rocket. It’s a taste of Europe on North American shores!

7. Kelowna, BC

For those looking for a Canadian version of California, Kelowna is the spot. Known for its beaches, parks, gardens and Roller Skating, the city also has ski slopes not far away as well as helicopter trips for hunting Sasquatch from the air. Essentially, everything that one would want to do is within a stone’s throw making it perfect for any tourist.

8. Ottawa, Ontario

Ottawa, the capital of Canada, is known as MONUMENT CITY, as it houses numerous national monuments. The beautiful cobblestoned streets–often full of civil servants waiting for municipal transportation– are perfect for strolling!

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.

Kind of like Academy Award Winner—only in a way that brings absolutely no positive connotations.

Back in 1988, when he won the Olympic gold medal in Seoul, Korea and shattered the world record for the 100 Metre, he was an absolute hero. I was a student in Montreal at the time and my friends and I were so euphoric, so energized by his victory that we sprinted down St. Laurent screaming for joy. It was a completely spontaneous act. We simply could not prevent ourselves from running, as every elated cell in our bodies was commanding us to do this.

Of course, you had to be willfully blind to not realize Johnson was on steroids. Even his nickname, “Big Ben,” implicitly hinted at his usage, and his eyes were jaundiced and yellow– a clear indication his liver was over-taxed from the drugs. He looked like a bull, and his mood was always remote and defensive, happier (if that could ever be a word associated with him) in the shadows than in the spotlight.

Carl Lewis, the great American athlete and his Arch Enemy, was everything that Johnson was not. Lithe, maniacally outgoing and resembling Grace Jones, Lewis loved the spotlight and seemed to effortlessly excel at every sport he touched. He sang, sold sweatshirts and played at being a kind of corporation, a latter day Muhammad Ali (only absent the charisma), if you will, and he was everything we hated about America, and then to have somebody as quiet and unloved as Johnson, not just defeat him but crush him, seemed a titanic victory for underdogs all over the world, and it was this that sent us shouting down the street.

IN YOUR FACE, USA!!

Of course, a couple of days later it was revealed that Johnson was doping. He was stripped of his medal and ever since has been known as “disgraced sprinter Ben Johnson.” Post fall, he has been in trouble for pointing a starter’s pistol– from his Porsche– at another motorist while on the highway, was hired by Gaddafi as a football coach for his son (resulting in the son being suspended from the league for drug use), raced a horse and a stock car, headed a failed clothing line called Catch Me, chased a Romani gang who robbed him of his wallet in Rome and failed to catch them, and endorsed a sport’s drink called Cheetah Power Surge, the commercials of which player off the fact Johnson was a cheater.

It’s been this nearly-forgotten way for almost thirty years, and it must get kind of exhausting, but every once in awhile Johnson raises his head from the shadows, most recently emerging for a photo-op to lend his support to Toronto Mayor Rob Ford’s unceasing and exhaustless bid for re-election. Disgrace, one would presume, and not her better angel redemption, being what brought the two men together under the Big, Confused Tent that is Ford Nation. *1

*1 It’s as if Marvel Comics was creating a super-group of villains in the Ford camp, all readying for some great apocalyptic battle to take place in a future issue.

Here are a couple of book synopses that I’ve prepared for my publisher:

“Duke Miller and the mystery of the over-spiced and runny eggs.”

Duke, a young American food critic, is the sort of man who always knows where he’s going. He’s not afraid to send food back or say something that he believes about homosexuals, even if it’s not politically correct to do so. Duke, combining the brash individualism of the US with the delicate sophistication of Europe, travels the world reviewing restaurants with his constant companion, a miniature pot-bellied pig named Clipper.

In this introductory novel, Duke encounters a plate of over-spiced and runny eggs while on a trip in France, and investigates the mystery of how this happened. I do not want to give away the ending, but a flashlight plays a key role in solving the mystery!

“Duke Miller and that hostess from Montreal.”

In this transitional book, Duke investigates his romantic feelings for Audrey, an older, seductive hostess from a Montreal bistro. However, it turns out that Audrey is not really in love with Duke but just wants to secure a good review for her restaurant, something that Clipper cottons on to long before Duke. In the end, ‘Ce Coeur De Mien’ gets the review it deserves and Duke and Clipper are once again set on their happy, wandering ways.

“Duke Miller and the mystery of why the coffee tasted like jalapenos.”

Set in the exotic local of Cuba, this novel features a sub-plot of a resort worker—Freddy– who wishes to escape the terrible food and totalitarian regime of Cuba. Duke, investigating the mystery of the coffee, stumbles upon Freddy, who was being forced by a mean, tourist-hating chef to grind hot peppers into the coffee beverage served at the resort. Duke, shocked, agrees to help Freddy escape. Things go well until Duke discovers Freddy is a homosexual, at which point Duke’s morals will no longer permit him to help.

“In 1986 I lived in Montreal for my first year at university, and I listened to every single Canadiens games on the radio. They weren’t really a great team, but they won the cup that year, largely because of Patrick Roy, who was unbeatable. But my favourite player was Chris Nilan, the goon on the team. Nobody wanted to win more and he would do anything, absolutely anything for the team. And when he was on the ice you knew it was going to be okay. Even if you lost, you still knew it was going to be okay, that somehow you still won. It reassuring, a defiantly optimistic kind of feeling and it gave me confidence, something I probably really needed being away from home for the first time.“

“My wife recently got into hockey and one night a week she would play shinny with a bunch of other women at an outdoor rink. Sometimes I took the dog out to play fetch and watch. I remember how beautiful and quiet it was out there. The acoustics in the winter are so soft and different, almost as if isolated and then put in slow motion. There was nothing but the sound of the game—the blades on the ice, the sticks on the puck and the players breathing, shouting to one another… The spirit of the games were so gentle and cooperative, too, everybody actually on the same side, sharing with one another something they loved. And I would be there off in the distance, the dog running after the ball, so happy to be bounding through the snow, and it all just felt so pure and lovely. Those moments were poems.”

“I don’t have any association with it. I never played as a kid because we were too poor, and now, after the car accident, I’m never going to have the chance. I live on the street now. My body’s been ruined, look at this, I’m in constant pain and I can’t work. My shoulder dislocates when I’m sleeping and I wake up screaming. I don’t know if I’m crazy or not, you know? And whadda ya the doctors give me for the pain? Methadone. And you know what it does for me? It makes my dick soft, so no, I don’t think nothing when you say hockey.”

“When I was ten my father would do up my skates before each game. He laced them tighter than I ever could, and it felt like getting tucked into bed, only a kind of opposite. And then after the game he would buy me an Orange Fanta and to this day whenever I have one I am instantly transported back in time, to the smell of that rink and the permanence of my father’s understated love.”

The seals of Rollo Bay would only allow us to come to within about 20 feet of them before clamoring off into the water. Slightly hurt that they didn’t love and trust us more, we’d sit watching, pleading with our eyes. Alien and mysterious, arrayed in undecipherable formations, they just bobbed in the water “They know so much more than we do,” Rachelle said to me.  And after about an hour, as we motored away, one seal bulleted along with the boat, always watching, a decoy to lead us away from the greater pod now settling back on the sands.

Prince Edward Island is stunningly simple and beautiful, a sort of land that time forgot– like a place in a movie rather than a place in the world. We stayed with some friends at their cottage on Fortune Bay, near Souris, where their families return each year to effortlessly entwine like forest. Children and dogs run freely about in an endless golden summer, while the adults, smiling and just slightly melancholy, watch from beyond.

A sweet man who looked like he belonged on a rum bottle played acoustic guitar in front of the fire singing Farewell to Nova Scotia:

Farewell to Nova Scotia, the sea-bound coast,

Let your mountains dark and dreary be,

For when I am far away, on the briny ocean tossed,

Will you ever hear a sigh or a wish for me?

He sang it slowly, a eulogy rather than the typical jaunty, Irish Rovers kind of celebration. His east coast voice was thick and true, and the song was beautiful and heartbreaking. His wife watched keenly from the sofa, her hands pressed together hoping that he would speed up the tempo, but he didn’t, he didn’t, and somebody’s ghost lingered long after the song was finished.

One night I was speaking with a middle-aged woman about the royal family, and how in spite of it all, she cared.

“They’re not just celebrities, they’re a family and their presence ties them to my family. It’s visceral, organic, and there’s not a woman my age that didn’t weep when Lady Diana died. Oh, the poor thing– beautiful like a fawn– the eating disorders, the unhappiness, and then when she became herself, her death. And so I’ve followed her children, so alone, really, and when I heard William and Kate had their baby on the radio I was so moved I had to pull over and text my sister, and all up and down the highway, other cars were doing exactly the same thing. ”

A beautiful and sophisticated couple from Montreal rent a cottage in the area each year. All of the men have secret crushes on Pierre, while all of the women have secret crushes on Louise. One night they shared a Quebecois song from the 70s with us as we sat out on the steps of the cottage. Louise, wrapped in a blanket, sang along from her perch, while Pierre, in a voice from some film you never forget, translated the words for us, and through this translation the song took on many voices, becoming a history made manifest, a poem still unfolding as the stars wheeled above.

*With thanks to Victoria Bazan and Rob Hyndman, who provided most of the photographs and everything else. ( And to many, many others, too.)

Here are some excerpts from my journal:

Day 4:

I feel angry.

I don’t believe that there was ever an Alpha male on this planet who stood up at a dinner party and said, “I’m sorry, but I have some dietary restrictions. Is there any wheat, dairy or gluten in any of the food you’re serving? Oh, okay. No worries, I have some carrots in a baggie over here. By the way, we march on Rome at dawn!”

Colour: The green/black of a tornado sky.

Day 7:

Last night I had a dream that actress Jennifer Lawrence and I were living together and I barked at her for brushing her hair too loudly. I woke up angry and ashamed, feelings that have stayed with me all day.

I learned something new today while watching the Stanley Cup finals with some buddies, and that is that beer is a gluten-saturated beverage. I hardly ever drink beer but I was completely demoralized to find out I can’t drink it, or eat the fucking nachos and burgers that everybody else was devouring with ease and relish.

I felt left out and got drunk on gluten-free vodka.

I also got in my first fistfight since grade five.

I hope it wasn’t captured on video as it turns out I cannot take a good slap.

Colour: Colour coding my days is stupid.

Day 9:

My Instagrammed dinner:

I am now eating colours instead of food.

Colour: Fuck you.

Day 14:

Fuck Montreal.

Fuck Montreal in the ear hole.

I just cancelled the trip we were planning on taking there for Rachelle’s birthday. I don’t want to go on a trip that’s defined by all the perfectly crafted, delicious foods I’m not allowed to eat. If I can’t have a croissant or smoked meat sandwich, then Rachelle doesn’t need a birthday. I have put my foot down.

Colour: A confident, furious black

Day 16:

It’s nice being back in Montreal and it was both thoughtless and selfish of me to try to cancel our trip because of my dietary restrictions. Just because I can’t have a smoked meat sandwich doesn’t mean that Rachelle shouldn’t enjoy one in front of me! And hey, she should go right ahead and flirt with that beautiful man in that saucy hat! He’s leaning against an awfully nice looking car! I bet it’s worth more than a house! Happy birthday, Rachelle, don’t mind me, I’ll just sit here in my gluten-free corner!

Colour: I am interested in trying crack cocaine.

Live, his songs become crazed, feral creatures. Having broken free of their studio imposed straightjackets, every piece he plays becomes bloodthirsty, an unpredictable, ever escalating apocalypse unto itself. Honest to God, his shows are as much of an assault as they are anything else, and you always feel a little bit like you’ve just born witness to a terrible crime.

Bent and crouched low at the edge of the stage, his black-clad arms waving and pointing to the summoned crowd, Cave was a spidery prophet. The stories he imparted all carried danger and urgency, more condemnation than warning. It was primitive, as if shadows of incredible passion and horror were being cast angrily upon the wall, and there was an utterly brilliant, almost supernatural feeling to it all.

Behind him and singing in support of all this was a small choir assembled from grade 5 and 6 students at a public school here in Toronto. There’s really no conceivable way that they could have known anything about Nick Cave or had a clue what they’d gotten themselves in for when they signed up to sing with some pop star at a downtown concert hall, and I could not stop imagining what was going through their heads. It must have been traumatic and nightmare-inducing, like seeing a train, gloriously in flames, skidding off the tracks and shuddering toward you at a million miles an hour, while you, pitifully, tried to pedal away on your bicycle.

Astonishing, just astonishing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdau-45Rpxc

(Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds performing Stagger Lee in Montreal March 22, 2013)

staggerlee

(My brief 10-second video of him performing the same song in Toronto the next night. Note the bad seats.)