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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.

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Eliminate all conflict-of-interest restrictions governing elected officials. Buy-off and/or torture all in opposition.

Remove Harriet Tubman from twenty-dollar bill, replace with Keith Hernandez.

Find out difference between Hispanic, Latino and Mexican. Fire Mexicans. Find out if Cespedes is Mexican; if so, grant amnesty.

Rename ballpark Donald J. Trump, POTUS, Luxury Baseball Stadium and Driving Range. Also suitable for use as as detention/execution facility in off-season

Mr. Met is a loser as far as mascots go, no talent, but the merchandizing is in place.

Need to open up new mascot revenue streams. Sidekick? Chris Christie? Put him in a flesh-colored bodysuit? Sad clown in flesh-colored bodysuit wearing opponent’s hat?? Mr. Met beats on him with a baseball bat or lead pipe whenever we score.

Every time the opposing pitcher gets pulled from the game a giant image of me, President Donald J. Trump, will appear on the video screen saying, “You’re fired!” Crowd goes wild. Crowds love me, especially mobs.

Contact NASA and find out what planet Noah Syndergarrd is from. Get more like him.

Replace foul poles with beautiful, high-quality columns made from the finest ivory and marble.

Order CIA Black Op to steal opponent’s signals. Be present to ensure waterboarding.

In off-season run reality show to determine Mets new closer. Call it “The Closer.” Think intro: “I’m President Donald J. Trump, the greatest negotiator on the planet. I have what it takes to be the ultimate closer, do you?”

Create companion show for The Closer called, “The Burning Hot Wives of Major League Baseball!”

Interview players, management and other team owners (include fan vote but disregard) to find out who baseball’s hottest wives are. Then the wives, in bikinis, tennis skirts, etc, compete against one another (setting a dinner table, pleasing your man in bed, skiing, etc) to see who is the ULTIMATE trophy wife. Winner gets a featured modelling spot in Sports Illustrated and a $100,000 shopping/cosmetic surgery spree with Melania in her native Slovenia. Note: Buy Sport’s Illustrated.

Sign biggest star in the world for role in organization. Leo?? Hulk Hogan?? Billy Joel?? Larry King?? Meet with cabinet to discuss.

Donald Trump’s New York Mets-themed golf resort and luxury casino on Rockaway Beach. Former Mets work as greeters, golf instructors, bartenders, housekeepers, dealers, masseurs and high-end gigolos. Premier bachelorette party destination and homosexual paradise. Will sink Vegas.

Honor the Job Creators Night. Plutocrats and their servants get in for free. During the seventh-inning stretch there will be a welfare queen scramble. The assembled poor will run about the outfield trying to collect one dollar bills as they’re blown around by a giant fan. Loser who receives the most handouts gets a collector’s edition, Omarosa bobble-head doll and $150 worth of gaming chips at Donald Trump’s New York Mets-themed golf resort and luxury casino on Rockaway Beach.

Fire manager every three months. Employees work best if motivated by fear. (Reminder: Fire personal assistant, efficient but missing a finger, not Trump quality)

Buy-off all the umpires, but torture them first.

Dear Iceland:

You know who I am.

I am Leonardo DiCaprio.

My resume speaks for itself. I am arguably the greatest actor of my generation (sorry Christian Bale), wealthier and more powerful than many small nations and have a Klout score of 88.2. I can make it rain.

You should know that I am a HUGE fan of your work as a weird island nation and am really impressed with your buzz. You’re punching above your weight, little guy, and you’ve got some great PR people in your corner!

I think that the two of us could do some great work together and with that in mind I’d like to attend the Iceland Writer’s Retreat this year in order to research a role for a film I hope to shoot in Iceland in 2016.

What is Leo DiCaprio’s project you ask?

It is to be the blockbuster of 2017. It’s to be called Written in the Ice, and I will star as an ex-CIA operative who has made a break from the dark world of Black-Ops he mastered in his past. Having been given a new identity, Leonhard Jónsson, now a fisherman and aspiring writer, is living a humble village life in Iceland.

He is crazy talented and charismatic, but he’s suffering a form of PTSD and has writer’s block. However, this lifts when he attends the Iceland Writer’s Conference and meets a quirky, hipster Icelandic woman (hotter and younger than Bjork, but suggesting Bjork) who believes she communicates with elves. They have sex.

Through one of her nocturnal communications with the elves, (she falls into an automatic writing trance but must be naked for it to work) she is given a secret for renewable energy that will save the world from global warming, but before Leonhard and her can get the secret out and save the world, evil government forces and big oil seek to kill them and destroy the information.

It will be the best movie ever, sweep all the awards and be a “Titanic” success for the Iceland tourism, but for me to properly play all the dimensions of Leonhard Jónsson, I will have to attend the Iceland Writer’s Conference, free of all expenses for myself and my staff of 28.

A few other requests:

For the process to properly work, I need to be in the presence of lots of beauty. Please ensure that the class is populated with beautiful women. I cannot stress the importance of this enough.

I will require a beach, and if it is off-season, then I will require that it is artificially heated so it simulates the tropics.

I will need a helicopter and a yacht.

I will only attend 45 minutes of the conference each day and will not be required to “turn in” any work for grading.

Legal immunity from the laws that govern Iceland will also be required.

Nobody is permitted to look directly at my man bun.

Looking forward to working with you, and my lawyers will be in touch shortly!

Regards,

Leo

but recently he’s been opening up a lot of Chatbox windows, always asking strange questions and speaking in an absolutely bizarre voice. At first I though it was a joke, something he liked to do when high, but today I think I put the pieces together.

I recently wrote about the Guardians of Peace, the organization responsible for the massive hack on Sony,

and one of the results of this is that they started to follow me on Twitter. I have to say, this has been unnerving, but perhaps not as unnerving as learning that US Law enforcement has been actively gathering intelligence on the Guardians of Peace through undercover operations on Facebook. I now suspect that the FBI has hacked into Rob’s Facebook account and is now using it to try to gather information about my relationship with, and knowledge of the Guardians of Peace.

What follows are some of the Facebook Chatbox sessions “Rob” and I have had over the last couple of weeks:

Rob: Hey, big guy! How are you favorite sport’s teams today?

Me: The fucking Canadiens were beaten by the Senators! Lost $150!! Please don’t tell Rachelle! She’d kill me if she knew I was still gambling!

Rob: A secret gambling vice, that’s a real exploitable vulnerability, Michael! I bet your enemies could ruin you with that information! Anyway, sure would be nice if the Guardians of Peace hacked into the Canadiens and taught them a lesson or two about football! Can you make that happen, Michael?

Me: Rob, it’s pretty early for bourbon, isn’t it?

Rob: I like our friendship, Michael, it is good that we share! We must go to a strip club soon! You have a Korean fetish, right?

Rob: Who is your favourite sexy actress? I like the way that Miley Cyrus twerks!

Me: Her dancing is cultural appropriation, Rob!

Rob: America is a land of freedom that grants equal opportunity for all, do you not agree with this premise?

Me: No, not really.

Rob: Mike, can I call you Mike? You know what treason is, don’t you? Is treason or revolution something you would support?

Me: I would like to commit various treasons with Jessica Simpson.

Rob: If you had to pick a country to invade, what country would it be?

Me: I don’t know, Russia? Somebody’s gotta make Putin put on a shirt.

Rob: So are you saying that Russia is the next to suffer a major cyber attack???

Rob: The Eagles are a great band. What do you think they would make of the Guardians of Peace and their hack on an innocent corporation (Sony) working within the free market? Do you think if the Eagles knew anything about the terrorist organization The Guardians of Peace, that they would turn that information over to the authorities? I do. I think that the Eagles, your favourite band, would do the right thing.

Me: The Eagles aren’t my favourite band. The Doobie Brothers are.

Rob: The Doobie Brothers always do the right thing. They hate North Korea, love freedom and always give the government useful information in the war against terror!

Over at the bar sat an older man, his hand inside the dress of a young, very drunk woman. Her body was bending and curving into his, grinding and pressing, the bare flesh of her back exposed like a wound. Careful and still as a predator, he was looking past her incoherent eyes to another point in the evening, waiting.

Another man, probably near 60, had a mop of charismatic grey hair and carried with him the manner that suggested a confident expectation that things were going to work out in his favour. He’d talk to anybody, fully expecting that they’d be happy, even flattered, to chat and then move tables to accommodate him. Familiar in an indistinct way and able to immediately establish a hierarchy within the place, he had the aura of celebrity.

He turned out to be John McDermott, a Scottish-Canadian tenor and sort of middle of the road performer that your parents might really like.

Incongruously, accompanying him were a group of 20-something Bros, all dressed like they were ready for a night of poker and drinking in a buddy’s kitchen. There was a raw, unkind edge to them and they were treating McDermott like he needed them more than the other way around. They were egging him on, and in short order the room was called to silence and John McDermott sang Danny Boy for us while his crew, holding cell phones in front of their faces like masks, took disinterested videos while continuing their snickering conversations with one another.

The singing was lovely, and many people looked like they felt blessed to have been present for such a spontaneous gift. But still, there was something mechanical and imposed about it, like we were tourists who had just been taken advantage of by sneering locals who now expected us to pay.

I wanted to clear my head a bit from this and stepped out on the balcony. The city was soft, fuzzy and fog-lit, the skyline glowing.

Near me on the railing arrived one of McDermott’s young crew. He was wearing a black hoodie and had a smudge of a moustache on his upper lip, and rocking his body back and forth he pulled deeply from the back of his throat and horked over the side and down to the street 18 floors below. He then went into the bar and proceeded to talk the really drunk woman away from the older, predatory man, bringing her back to his group, a trophy now, for all of them to enjoy.

“This is not just a metaphor for my time as mayor, but for life. It’s a struggle, it’s always a battle, but even when it’s -2 out and all you want to do is watch YouTube videos in bed and drink Gatorade, you have to get up, go out there and work to make the world a better place. As the great and controversial Japanese author Haruki Murakami said, “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”

“Ah geez, I don’t remember this one. It looks like I’m with Jesus. Maybe a parade?”

“Couldn’t believe how frigging big that owl was! Truth be told, I was kind of scared of the thing, but in politics, as in life, you have to overcome your fears, and I did. I looked that owl in the eyes and said to myself, “Mr. Owl, I respect you, but I am not afraid of you, not even if you do that Exorcist thing with your head. You shall have no dominion over me!” And even though I am a man and the owl is a bird creature, and I was speaking in my head, it’s like the owl “got” what I was saying. We came to an understanding and I overcame my fear of that owl. That’s what politics is all about.”

“I remember that day! It’s the small moments that comprise a life, isn’t it? I had to take the TTC because my driver had been arrested for something, forget what. Anyway, I’m a man of the people and had been talking to everybody, learning about them, and then I had a moment to myself, some quiet time for reflection, and I was thinking about my fantasy football team and how to make Toronto a better city. That’s when the Ferris wheel idea came to me.”

“This is one of my favourite moments from all my time in office. For a brief instance, we were all able to put aside our differences and come together as one. It was beautiful, man, just beautiful. One love, that’s what it’s all about, one love. That’s how I’d like my years as Mayor of Toronto to be remembered. When I was mayor, Toronto was the city that danced like nobody was watching.”

“I was looking up at that sculpture of the rat, and it looked to me like it had been decapitated and its head had just been put up on a spit as a trophy, everybody laughing. I don’t know why, but I was suddenly overcome by an empathy for the creature and I just wanted to reach out and touch its face, let it know that it was loved.”

“On Wednesday morning, the public got their first glimpse of disgraced CBC radio host Jian Ghomeshi– who is charged with five criminal offences including sexual assault and choking–as he appeared at a downtown Toronto courthouse.

What are sex criminals wearing this season?

Well, foregoing his signature, I’m-old-but-a-downtown-scenester-who-likes-beating-women-rock-guy style, Ghomeshi went with a black suit, crisp white shirt and subtly pattered dark tie. Standing beside his fearless and brilliant lawyer, Marie Henin, who was smartly turned-out in black with a lurid splash of lipstick across her face, the pair looked evil and powerful, like they had mastered the dark arts and were taking the charges very seriously.

Ghomeshi, who typically sports a youthful, mop of dyed hair that suggested the gentle innocence of a Muppet to his victims, had trimmed it, a clear attempt to convey to the court that he was a serious man, a full grown predator and that these women would have understood that, via his hair, and thus implicitly consented to being attacked by him. His signature five-o’clock-shadow, a reminder of his love and violent fantasies surrounding the sleazy 1980’s TV show Miami Vice, was gone, once again suggesting that he was a powerful, business-savvy man of violent and criminal action. “Think Christian Grey, not Ted Bundy, “ Mr. Ghomeshi’s stubble-free face declares.

By not wearing a bloodstained white shirt, Ghomeshi and his legal team are sending a clear message to the courts that he is not always beating women for his own twisted sexual gratification,  but is often taking time to try to plot some form of consent from his victims, usually while setting up his video camera and arranging his other props. The tie, dark and respectful, but with a subtle pattern, is a clear indicator of the BDSM interior of Ghomeshi, a bold statement of his violent intentions that not even the most drugged, intoxicated or star-struck woman could possibly have misunderstood.

In court we see that Ghomeshi has decided to eschew the tie and go for a more casual, you’re-relaxed-and-in-my-lair-and-I’m-showing-you-my-record-collection vibe. He’s showing the court that he’s their friend, the voice that they allowed into their home, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom for so many years, and that their relationship is now so intimate that the obvious next step is to introduce a startling, brutally violent, dangerous and one-sided sexual component into their life together.

With Ghomeshi, the safe word is always “style.” “

And then, two new mothers, each one wearing sweat pants and with a baby strapped to her chest, walked serenely down the street. They were almost glowing, almost hovering, and they walked in geisha silence, as if having moved passed language to an inalienable home that would be forever present.

Day 1:

I am grateful that we are wealthy enough to hire a house cleaner.

I am grateful that Albina, our house cleaner, always changes from her street clothes into her work clothes in the living room. It’s provocative and edgy. It doesn’t matter what she looks like, it just shakes up the day, you know?

I am grateful for sharks, as they have starred in a lot of cool movies and television programming.

Day 2:

I am grateful that it is now socially acceptable for a man to carry a “murse” and not have to sit on his wallet all day. Sitting on a wallet is like having to sit on a Club Sandwich all day.

I am grateful that I am very athletic and am not a nerd.

I am grateful for the invention of yoga pants.

Day 3:

I am grateful for the TV show Nashville, which is fucking awesome.

I am grateful that I don’t have to read very much for my job.

I am grateful that we don’t live with a ghost in our apartment, that would really dampen the quality of our life, I think.

Day 4:

I am grateful that I am wealthy enough to buy prestigious clothes and look really good when I go out.

I am grateful that I am really, really popular, as I was in high school.

I am grateful for the good governance and fiscal responsibility that guides Canada as a nation.

Day 5:

I am grateful for the beautiful autumn leaves.

I am grateful that BB King is my uncle. I have learned a lot from him.

I am grateful for heating pads.

Day 6:

I am grateful for unexpected Scratch N’ Win victories!

I am grateful that the LCBO is just down the street.

I am grateful that none of my erotic selfies have been leaked to the public.

Day 7:

All praise and love to Jesus, our LORD and SAVIOUR! I am grateful to him for the abundant gifts he has given me. PRAISE!!

I am grateful for celebrities.

I am grateful for peanuts, particularly dry roasted peanuts.