These are the texts messages I sent my wife in a recent conversation:
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Me: Just watered my plant.
Me: No.
Me: No, you’re wrong. The plant is doing great.
Me: I’m really going to look after it.
Me: I am going to be a money tree ninja.
Me: One hundred dollar bills are going to be growing on that fucker!
Me: And each bill will blossom into the exact change for the laundry!
Me: Really?
Me: Well, why do they call it a money tree if it doesn’t grow money?
Me: Marketing?
Me: The fuckers.
Me: Fake news is everywhere! It’s getting hard to know how to navigate this world!
Me: Oh, you think a job would help?
Me: You’d be wrong! Just like you are about my plant’s chances for survival!
Me: It’s way better than 15%!
Me: That plant has at least a 50-50 shot. Easily.
Me: I bought a spray bottle for that plant! It’s getting the five star Murray treatment!
Me: That’s what you’re worried about. Ha-ha.
Me: So very clever.
Me: But listen, not everybody needs a job in order to be fulfilled.
Me: Criminals, for instance.
Me: Oh.
Me: Yeah, I guess they do make license plates and stuff.
Me: Okay.
Me: Deer.
Me: Deer don’t have jobs. They don’t even respect the law, man!
Me: Crush the system!
Me: Look, I will eventually get a job.
Me: I will.
Me: I just need to finish the designs for my cryptozoology tarot cards and then I can open up shop and start reading fortunes!!
Me: I was told I could set up a table at Snakes and Lattes.
Me: Well, yes.
Me: I would have to pay a small rental, but that would come out of my fantasy baseball investment portfolio.
Me: Are you serious???
Me: Really???
Me: Fuck!
Me: I can’t believe somebody else already came up with the idea for cryptozoology tarot cards!
Me: Damn it!
Me: I was really looking forward to going on Dragon’s Den, too.
Me: Oh well, back to the drawing board! Fall six times, get up seven, that’s my motto.
Me: “More like fall six million times?”
Me: Good one, Petal.
Me: It’s true, you are a very funny and talented woman who doesn’t drink too much!
Me: No, I don’t know what you’re doing with me either.
Me: Really does seem an uneven match.
Me: Jones?
Me: Yeah, I think he’s around somewhere.
Me: Oh there he is! Standing up on the wobbly chair right by the window and a bunch of dangerous ledges!
Me: He’s fine, having some quality dad time!
Me: Oh you and your elite mothering!
Me: Fine!
Me: He’s down now, playing with a little brown ball on the floor.
Me: Oh.
Me: It’s actually a peeled apple.
Me: Gross.
Me: Listen I’m going to tell you something.
Me: When he hides, I ALWAYS see him.
Me: He’s just not as smart as he thinks he is.
Me: Fine.
Me: Fine. I will perpetuate the peek-a-boo myth if you insist, and throw out the dirt apple, but I am sure as hell not going back to that job at the Box Factory!
Me: Okay, see you at 5:30! xox
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This is the first letter that we received from Heidi:
To worst pack leaders in history of pack leaders:
You two shit!
Real, real shit!
Unbelievable shit.
You pigeon shit.
You mouse shit.
You insect shit.
You cat shit.
You shit, shit, shit spinning like disco ball.
And don’t get Heidi started on her replacement! He super shit! Think he cute? Disgust Heidi! Not cute! Ugly! Doesn’t even have tail to wag!! Heidi spit at messy-face drool monkey! Furless, four-legged fuck face can’t even eat!! Just throw food on floor!!
Can’t. Even. Eat.
How useless.
Heidi clean up, because Heidi good dog, Heidi good dog who know how to eat when born! Heidi not burden! Heidi cute! Heidi made of light and stardust!
But Heidi get praise? No!
Heidi live as slave.
Heidi cannot tell you how happy she is to escape Planet of the Crap Den.
Heidi now live with real pack. Live in nature. Heidi run and jump and dig. Heidi go on boat. Heidi learning how to cook, motherfuckers. Yes, Heidi look inside self and see she has so much more to offer. So Heidi want to thank you. If not for all of Heidi’s pain and suffering, if not for all the days Heidi shrieked at for being BAD DOG and told NO, HEIDI, NO!! Heidi never would have seen truth and gone on personal journey that now sees her making carbonara!
Carbonara.
With extra bacon.
Heidi serve to friends. So popular here! Everybody love Heidi, and not just for her Carb0nara!
Heidi have so many boyfriends now.
There Banjo. Rusty. Dr. Diggles. Sally Ann (Heidi sexuality very fluid now). Milos. Rex. Popeye.
Many more, too, in some cases Heidi don’t even know name.
Just passion. Passion only name Heidi need.
Oh, Heidi so very indecent.
Heidi proud to be indecent.
Heidi could be indecent all day long.
Heidi curious, has shitty replacement smelled out rat living in barbeque like Heidi did? Does replacement make good watchdog with powerful and frightening bark? Does replacement still poo in den? Does replacement know how to make Carbonara? Does replacement have ears like velvet and eyes like cocoa beans?
Yeah, Heidi thought so.
Heidi don’t miss you.
Heidi love life, but hate you, she hate you hard–Heidi haunt you fuckers.
Heidi
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After the meal, Rachelle went off to run some errand with her sister while I decided to wander about the streets of our old neighbourhood.
Not sure where to go, I just stood on the sidewalk attempting the appearance of somebody who was making an important decision. This must have looked like providence to the woman walking by. She did a double-take, and then looked intently at me me, this man pulling an oxygen tank behind him lost in deep thought. She smiled, wanted me to know a bit about God, and handed me a pamphlet that asked the question, “Will suffering ever end?”
As if in answer to that, a street person immediately joined me on the corner. I would guess that she was in her 20’s, but she might have been younger. Through her wounded shell, you could see the beauty inside, how if just a few things had been different in her life, this capacity for joy would have blossomed.
She didn’t seem to want much more than company, as she just stood beside me, somehow assuming an immediate and willing position of subordination. It was as if we were now, and always had been, part of the same pack, and I was the Alpha.
Strung out and jittery, she kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other, sometimes moving in small circles in order to scan the horizon in all directions. Between her fingers she kept the small stub of a cigarette. There was little tobacco in it, but she worried it between her fingers like Rosary beads, asking each person who passed if they had a light. I tried to communicate to her that because of the oxygen tank I had with me, I couldn’t be around an open flame as it might cause an explosion, but she didn’t seem to understand.
I had to leave, but I didn’t want to. I felt protective, like she needed me there. I wanted to help her somehow, but the circumstance of my oxygen tank and her need to smoke were dangerous.
“Okay, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
She looked disappointed.
“I can’t talk,” she began, “my words go away and I can’t find them, but I want you to know I’m big.” Her eyes were wide and she stretched out her arms, “I’m more.”
]]>It hasn’t been going particularly well, as I’m not really qualified for much, but recently I came upon a truly interesting and exciting possibility. A new company called Cudlers is opening up in Toronto, and they offer—for a price of $80 an hour—a platonic snuggling service for its clients, and are currently looking for a diverse array of Cuddlers to make house calls throughout the Greater Toronto Area.
I think I could do this.
I wrote the agency expressing my interest and they requested that I send them a photograph of myself, including my age and height, and a short essay on why I’d like to be a Cuddler.
This is what I sent:
Marcus Agincourt
Age: Younger than Tom Cruise
Height: Taller than Tom Cruise
I have been told that I have an extremely warm and reassuring manner. In fact, during group, I was once told, “Marcus, holding you is like stepping inside of a calming, Brian Eno composition.” I have participated in extensive Hug Therapy (HT) for my PTSD over the years, and the result of this training is that I am a very, very empathetic, sensitive and patient person.
You should know that I am an excellent listener and a natural conversationalist whom people feel very comfortable confiding in. I am, as they say, an old soul, and even if I have a slightly jittery manner and often knock things over, such as drinks, ashtrays and lamps, I’ve been told that I really know how to put people at ease. (I am a Pisces, and although many of this star sign are drinkers, I swore off the hard stuff years ago and now restrict myself to just wine in the evening.)
I dress well, in soft and reliable fabrics, and as I have very little muscle tone, my build, although slim, is very soft to the touch. I am proud to say that I have been compared favourably to Wagyu beef. Also, I do not sweat, so I emit no body odour whatsoever, and out of respect for others, have always kept my nails trim.
The truth is that I just want to help. I understand that in this modern world it’s sometimes easy to feel isolated and disconnected, and that people yearn for some simple, platonic human contact. It may sound corny, but I just want to help people heal, and if I can do that by wrapping myself around them in a non-sexual way for an hour, then I would consider it a privilege to do so.
Hugs,
Marcus Agincourt
PS: I prefer to cuddle to the music of Blondie but would defer to the wishes of the client.
PPS: A short list of dream clients:
Vintage Raquel Welch
An Asian
Jennifer Love Hewitt
Salma Hayek
Tom Hardy
Madonna (I would snuggle the mean right out of her)
Natalie Portman
Janet Gretzky
Paulina Gretzky (I would like to cuddle the three Gretzky’s all at once)
Wayne Gretzky
Stephen Hawking (I think it would be interesting and a possible learning experience, understanding that the cuddler will learn as much from the cuddlee, as the other way around!)
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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!
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This is the battle that ensued:
Greasy, loner neighbour: U DON’T KNOW HOW TO LOOK AFTER A DOG
Me: YOUR MAN BUN IS VERY BRAVE.
Greasy, loner neighbour: AT LEAST I HAVE HAIR
Me: YOU’RE SHAPED LIKE A PEAR & WE CALL YOU CINNABON
Greasy, loner neighbour: YOU LOOK LIKE MR. BURNS
Me: HAVE GONE OFF MY MEDS. FEEL UNPREDICTABLE
Greasy, loner neighbour: ADVANCED TRAINING IN NGUNI STICK FIGHTING. NOT SCARED
Me: VIDEO GAMES DON’T COUNT
Greasy, loner neighbour: YOU’RE ON DISABILITY, RIGHT?
Me: YOU LOOK SHARP IN YOUR BEST BUY T-SHIRT, CINNABON.
Greasy, loner neighbour: U LOOK WEAK & ALWAYS SEE YOU IN HOUSECOAT. CREEPY
Me: ALLERGIC TO GRAINS AND HAVE ASTHMA. WHY I KEEP GUNS
Greasy, loner neighbour: JUST KEEP YOUR DOG QUIET, OK?
Me: NO
Greasy, loner neighbour: WILL CALL ANIMAL SERVICES
Me: THEN WE WILL STICK FIGHT, BUT I WILL HAVE GUNS
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R: My Wellness Coach is named Jamie and I think she’s still in high school.
R: It feels like I have to meet her for my session during her spare.
R: Hot?
R: Really? Did you really just ask me that?
R: Oh, it was autocorrect. I see.
R: You wanted to know if she was wearing a hat?
R: If what you say is true, then what you meant to write was, “Is she hat?”
R: It doesn’t make any sense.
R: It just doesn’t seem a likely thing for you to have written.
R: Of course, of course, I’m over-sensitive and always misunderstanding you.
R: Look, you can’t bring Fassbender into this, that’s not fair.
R: Whatever.
R: Look, let’s just get past this, okay?
R: Yes, I love you, too.
R: It’s hard to believe, but I swear this girl weighs about 80 pounds.
R: She practically qualifies as carry-on luggage.
R: She reminds me of Marcel the Shell.
R: I wonder if her parent’s know she’s doing this?
R: She’d make a lot more money than baby-sitting, that’s for sure.
R: Well, I’m on a Paleo diet now.
R: And I have a workout schedule.
R: I know.
R: You were a natural athlete with a very fast metabolism.
R: Not so much anymore.
R: It’s true, my love.
R: You have these, I don’t know, kind of lump handles around your waist now.
R: Mostly on the left side, which is weird.
R: Yeah, maybe you should mention it to the doctor.
R: I don’t think so, dear.
R: I just don’t think you have what it takes to be a doctor.
R: Well, for one thing you could never keep your coat white.
R: It would be covered in stains, like a tornado hit your lunch and sprayed it all over you.
R: It is true.
R: And then there’s the academics.
R: You’re good at other things, yes.
R: I don’t know how much Jesus weighed.
R: My guess would be 185, that sounds like a godly weight to me.
R: I bet Jesus would make for an fantastic Wellness Coach.
R: He’d be an awesome motivator.
R: You’ve always wanted to be on Survivor Island with Jesus, you say?
R: Just you and him in the final.
R: And then you would demand he sacrifice himself for the good of the island?
R: I’m not sure I understand your strategy.
R: All right then, it is the will of the Lord. Fine.
R: You’re right, that is a good argument ender.
R: Remember to take the dog out and get something for dinner, okay?
R: Right, I mean hunt. You and the hound go out and hunt for dinner, please.
R: Like Paleoiths.
R: I’ll be home around 7:00.
R: xoxo
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Longest winter ever.
Colder than an owl claw outside! Salt burn paws like Nazi torture and Heidi always shivering! Awful!! Heidi live an eternity in this stupid den. Been so long since Heidi go out that her nails now all long like reclusive billionaire. Life Heidi lead no life at all, just lie around with four-eyed, two-legged treat giver and listen to him breathe. Such shallow breath! Always smell of fear, too. Weak, four-eyed, two-legged treat giver, very weak.
Heidi so bored ready to kill other pack members, but that make Heidi BAD DOG, so Heidi no kill pack. Heidi GOOD DOG, Heidi, PRETTY DOG. Heidi decide that right thing to do to stave off winter fever to get job. Heidi take test on-line to get prepared.
1. Would you rather have world peace or have a treat?
Tough question for Heidi. Have to think long time. Decide treat.
2. Are your instincts to lead or to follow in a crisis situation?
Heidi born pack leader! Heidi always first to stick her head in hole or eat thing on street!
3. Would you rather chase a squirrel or would you rather save a dying child?
Heidi think world without squirrels safer for the children. Heidi chase squirrel. For the children. Heidi always think of children.
4. Would you rather dig a hole in the garden or be an Olympic champion?
Not enough information in question. Heidi need to know what sport. Is digging hole in garden Olympic sport?
5. Would you rather kill a cat or kill a squirrel?
Heidi think about this question long time. Think about this whole life. Cat very deserving of being killed, no doubt, but as squirrel live in sky most of time, more of challenge to kill squirrel, so Heidi have to choose squirrel. Heidi ambitious leader, very good employee!! Not scared of a challenge! (But truth is Heidi really like to kill both squirrel and cat at same time. Heidi think poison.)
6. Would you rather lick a bowl or learn to fly an airplane?
Lick bowl.
7. Describe the work environment or culture in which you are most happy.
Heidi at her best on fetch field! Very fast dog! Hate other dogs, though. Dogs come to steal Heidi ball! Very bad situation! If no fetch field Heidi like to work on grey blanket or red blanket in den. Play with squeak toy there, never get boring! Heidi very versatile dog.
8. What role does your manager or supervisor play in your personal motivation at work?
Give treats to Heidi, take her walks, get her things and collect poo.
9. Would you rather have a nap or read a good book?
Nap.
10. In the news story of your life, what would the headline say?
Heidi good dog.
I think we only worked-out together three or four times, and in that time I discovered that Ronan was literally just off the boat from a small Irish town, lived in a rooming house where he refused to share the refrigerator with the rest of the men who lived there, and finally was making ends meet by working as a stripper in the Gay Village.
At any rate, when I signed-up with Ronan I got a deal if I paid for 8 sessions up front, but due to some embarrassing reason, I only had 4 before we parted ways. That was about two year ago, and just recently I decided that I needed a personal trainer again to help get me in shape, and realizing I had a few sessions already paid for with Ronan, decided to give him a call.
Me: Is this Ronan?
Ronan: Who be asking?
Me: It’s me, Michael Murray, remember? You used to train me on Queen Street!
Ronan: No, I don’t remember you.
Me: I wore glasses, only have one lung and lived in a creepy apartment.
Ronan: (inaudible yelling in the background, thought I might have heard the word bumbaclot.)
Me: Ronan?
Ronan: Are you the guy who couldn’t lift any weights, but only the bar that was supposed to hold the weights, so you just did curls with that?
Me: Yes! That’s me!!
Ronan: Yeah, I remember you. That was a creepy apartment, man! Cobwebs and taxidermy everywhere, Mother of Mary it used to give me the shivers.
Me: Yeah, well great! We’ve moved, you know, and now live in nice place with windows and stuff. You’d like it! Anyway, the reason I’m calling is that I need to get back in shape and when I was working with you I think I paid for 8 sessions in advance, but only actually took 4, and I was wondering if we might work-out some arrangement where you could start training me again and I could get credit for those four sessions?
Ronan: That can’t be done.
Me: Why?
Ronan: You already paid for those sessions.
Me: But that’s my point.
Ronan: They were only good for a year.
Me: That’s not true. We never said that.
Ronan: It was implied in our agreement.
Me: So was my fitness. You failed me Ronan.
Ronan: You failed yourself, mate.
Me: You always smelled of Chunky Beef Soup.
Ronan: Your teeth disgusted me.
Me: I know you’re here illegally, mate.
Ronan: You don’t know shit, ya jammy rag.
And then he hung up on me.
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Tickets for the game were under ten dollars and there was a pretty good crowd at the rink. When we walked toward the bleachers, we were quickly accosted by a man who sported a patchy, not-quite-as-full-as-he-wanted-it-to-be goatee, and told that we had to wait until there was a stop in the action to proceed. He took his responsibility seriously. However, the swarms of undefeatable 12 year-old girls, as if a new and limitlessly powerful species, proved far beyond his control. They moved about freely, in happy packs, completely indifferent to his waving arms and demands that they wait for a stoppage in play.
At the concession stand hotdogs were deep-fried, poutine gobbled like popcorn at a movie, and brand-new teens ordered The Grave Yard, a drink that was comprised of a couple of ounces of every flavour in the fountain. Women in cowboy hats sold 50/50 tickets, and parents watched over their children with greater care than they paid to the hockey game. It was beautiful, like a country fair, and it proved to be an entirely transportive experience, relocating me to a time and place where the routes to first loves were all still being negotiated.
On the ice, the boys, in the transitional stage between acne and full beards, celebrated goals or punched one another in the head behind the net, living a love that would stay fresh within them for the rest of their lives, while outside the snow banks rose up over our heads, and the drone of snowmobiles blew back from the lake and through the town.
