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Me: No, I haven’t heard back from Nancy.

Me: Well, I can’t think of any reason why she wouldn’t want to do it. It’s an awesome idea!

Me: She owns a cheese shop, so me setting up a grilled cheese booth in there is a no-brainer!

Me: It’s win/win, baby!

Me: Well, I thought I’d pick up one of those Instant Pot things and cook them in there.

Me: Oh.

Me: Really?

Me: The Instant Pot can’t make grilled cheese sandwiches?

Me: Why isn’t that on their advertising?

Me: Well, that sucks.

Me: Thought it could do practically everything.

Me: Yeah, I guess I did kind of imagine it like a robot.

Me: No, not like that.

Me: A benevolent robot, one that serves man, AND is capable of making a grilled cheese sandwich.

Me: Well, if it can’t make a damn sandwich, why the hell was it named Time Magazine’s Person of the year??

Me: Oh, I thought it was.

Me: The Silence Breakers were?

Me: I don’t know who they are.

Me: Oh.

Me: Yes, they are very brave women. #TimesUp

Me: I am an ally.

Me: Look, we’ve been through this before.

Me: Feminism is many things, many voices–and my collection of vintage Raquel Welch memorabilia doesn’t make me a “Bad Feminist.”

Me: It makes me an ally.

Me: No, not a creep, an ally.

Me: Well, let me tell you, I’d be delighted if she exploited me back.

Me: I really would.

Me: Oh, don’t act so innocent!

Me: You know you want to be exploited by Colin Farrell.

Me: I saw how many times you watched that Miami Vice movie, and I saw the way your eyes got all weird and intense whenever that greasy Crockett came on screen!

Me: I can’t believe you just wrote that!

Me: You’ve stopped going to your low carb support group, haven’t you?

Me: You were very high in agreeability when you were eating carbs.

Me: Now, not so much.

Me: The Rachelle Maynard I know (and love!) would never have said something like that to me if she was properly managing her carb withdrawal.

Me: Yes.

Me: Yes.

Me: I can see that now.

Me: I am sorry.

Me: I love you way more than I could ever love Raquel Welch.

Me: If I had a poster of you, I’d put it up over the fireplace. I’d wallpaper the entire apartment in you if I could!

Me: No, not like a serial killer.

Me: Like I’m your Crockett and you’re my Tubbs.

Me: We mustn’t let Trump divide us, my love.

Me: It’s what he wants.

I am now boycotting all of Trump’s luxury properties and hotels,

and have donated my, “You’re Fired!” t-shirt to charity. I don’t just believe in talking about change, I believe in being the change, and so instead of complaining about fascism on my Facebook page, I’ve started to picket the Trump International Hotel and Tower.

This is my journal:

Day 1:

Too cold. Stayed home and watched A Very Murray Christmas on Netflix. An instant classic.

Day 2:

Still chilly, but realized that the world isn’t going to change itself, so dressed in layers and headed down to Bay Street with my picket sign.

Teenager on subway asked me what my sign said.

“You’re a Chump if you support Trump.” I said, adding, “You’ve got to fight the power, you know? You have to BE the change!”

The teenager said, “Your sign says, “You’re a Trump if you support Chump.”

I looked at the sign and saw that he was right, and then asked him, “Well, if you knew what it said in the first place, why’d you ask me?”

The teenager shrugged.

Stayed on subway until it arrived back at the stop I had started at and went home.

Day 3:

Pleasant day. Maybe 10 degrees.

Took an Uber cab to the hotel and began my protest.

The first person who walked out of the hotel was a woman wearing a beautiful sundress, a winter scarf that must have fallen from heaven and a cowboy hat. She smelled like the most impossible music and was so blindingly gorgeous that I dropped my sign.

As she stepped into a waiting limo, I cried out, “I would build a wall around all of Mexico for you, I would make America strong again!” but I think maybe she was mute, as she did not respond.

I don’t remember much else from that day

Day 4:

Woke up and meditated hoping to receive wisdom and light to become better protestor.

I then went down to hotel committed to be the best protestor I could be.

I began to pace in front of the building chanting, “Dump-Trump, Dump-Trump, Dump-Trump!” Although I got the words mixed-up quite a bit, several cars honked, which I took to be signs of support.

Had lunch.

Feeling in the zone, I began to protest again but then got a text from my wife reminding me to pick up my blood pressure medication, and so I went off to the store to make sure I got there before it closed. Took my blood pressure while waiting. 120/70.

Not bad! Got my pills and a lotto ticket and headed home.

Day 5:

Took Uber down to hotel again. Talked to the driver about fascism. He agreed about its dangers. (I feel I am changing the world one little bit at a time!)Gave him a five star rating.

Today I proved an inspiration. As I believe we have to unite as one against Trump, I was delighted when a street person joined in my protest. She might have had her difficulties, but she was a very spirited, loud and creative chanter! Said her name was Parking Lot, because that’s where she did most of her work, and that Trump was a “Fuck Roach.”

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!)

One of the repeating themes I’ve encountered is that people cannot believe that somebody who made them laugh so much could possibly have such a sad and broken interior. There’s an obvious lack of empathy in such a position, in that these people cannot see a life beyond the surface one that they so greedily absorbed. To be a celebrity in our culture is to give up one’s interior, becoming a vessel in which the schizophrenic projections of the public push everything else out. It must get awfully stormy in there, and in the end celebrities exist as sacrifices to our need, the actual person (or self) tossed beautiful and adored into the raging, all-consuming volcano of our culture.

Williams himself said that in America they really do mythologize people when they’re dead, and prophetically, he’s now being mythologized. His death means whatever we need it to mean. For some people, it’s a clarion call to awaken the public to the insidious dangers of depression, to others it’s about the dark weight that many comedians carry with them on stage. Everybody seems to have something very real and personal that they feel in his death, but usually end up cannibalizing Williams in an attempt to find some sort of meaning, and perhaps even redemption, in this small, solitary and very sad act.

However, the one thing that seems universal is that everybody is declaring Robin Williams a genius. Although I am of the right age to have experienced the full sweep of his career, I was never much of a fan. I mean, I don’t have a favourite Robin William moment, and like a lot of people I saw a riot of pathology in his performance rather than genius. His need was so great and his onslaught so relentless, that I found it completely exhausting to watch him. He drained me, and I just wanted to hug him into stillness, letting him know that everything was going to be okay, even if it wasn’t.

His comedy was based on recognition rather than content. Middle-of-the-road and Baby Boomer friendly, he was an unfiltered convulsion of mimicry and pop culture references. He was elliptical, swinging from one character to the next before you could think about what he was actually saying, apparently being content in simply getting a reflex response from the audience instead of a contemplated one. You laughed because you recognized his characters, not so much because of what they were saying. It was nostalgic, even old-fashioned, and in a weird way I think Williams would have made for a fantastic silent movie star, so exaggerated was his stage personality. Creating the manic illusion of edge, Williams was safe and not very challenging. He had kind and vulnerable eyes, and always seemed to want to please us, for us to feel good about ourselves, and I think we loved him for that rather than his talent.

It’s hard for me to imagine a creature more physically dissimilar from a human than a lobster– an entity that inhabits the same planet as the rest of us but lives on the cold, dark floor of oceans. If we could imbue it with a human intelligence, could it possibly conceive of the terrestrial civilization above that actually farms and manages lobster communities and then eats them as delicacies? My guess is that no, the lobster is not thinking this, and so I assume that whatever my instinct is about what lies beyond the field of my imagination, the actuality is going to be so much stranger and greater that there’s absolutely no point in trying to codify it into a religion.

I have a friend who is a Charismatic Christian, and knowing that my wife was out of town one weekend, he invited me over for dinner with his men’s group. I did not know what a men’s group was. I imagined a bunch of guys who liked fantasy football, crossbows and the free market, and with that in mind went over expecting to eat a huge steak.

When I arrived there were about six other men sitting in the living room, as if waiting for me, as if they’d been waiting for me for their entire lives. There was something unusual about these men, an aspect of aggressive contentment that was entirely humourless and disquieting.

One man seemed to make a special project of me. He handed me a piece of paper upon which were what he considered to be numeric proofs of the immaculate nature of the Bible. After looking at it for a minute or two, and commenting on the interesting connections it made, I joked, “If the Bible were perfect, surely it would contain a few photos of Raquel Welch, don’t you think?”

I was being charming.

Men’s Group charming, I thought.

He gave me a long, hard look and then nodded to the other men, who over the course of the next fifteen minutes filtered out to the front porch to have cigars.  Thickly built, the man was probably 20 years older than I was and gave me a look that suggested he’d seen my type before. We talked for a good half hour before he announced, “You know, when I was younger I was a sex addict.”

I nodded respectfully.

“There seem to be very few old sex addicts,” I couldn’t help but add.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Not funny Ha-Ha, funny the other way, I guess.”

He snorted, “When I met a woman do you know what I saw?”

“No,” I said.

“Genitals. That’s what I saw. Just genitals.”

He spat out the word “genitals” in the same way a serial killer in a movie starring Morgan Freeman might. “But it was the Lord Jesus Christ who saved me from this sinful bearing!” And then he shouted something and raised his fist into the air.

“Come with me, son, I want you to see something.”

He led me out to the front porch where the rest of the men were, and for the first time in my life I saw people speaking in tongues, or at the very least, pretending to speak in tongues. With their arms up, aspiring for heaven, the men were shouting and crying. As a holy babble poured forth from their mouths, they twisted and spun, undulating, as if no longer owner’s of their own bodies. Ferdinand, the Congolese guy who had been addicted to heroin and cocaine, was so stricken by the Lord that he collapsed and fell into the Weber barbeque. I rushed over to him, and upon revival asked him what he had seen during his hallowed transport but he did not know what to say. His wide, innocent face just looked back at me, “ All was good,” he said, “all was glory.”

“But what happened when you collapsed into the barbeque?” I pressed.

“The Lord spoke his miracle into me.”

I looked at the men on the porch. Although in a state of ecstatic transference, they still managed to hold their cigars and glasses of whiskey. Each one was recovering from some life seizing passion, be it drugs, alcohol or an addiction to sex, and it was clear that they’d replaced one obsession with another. It was fantasy football, only with the Pentecostal Church replacing the NFL.

As I crouched near Ferdinand with what was likely a look of wonder on my face, they asked if they could pray for me, the black sheep. I was a little bit anxious about what this meant, but said yes and inched into their prayer circle clutching my scotch like it was a holy talisman. They all put a hand on me and lifted the other toward the skies, and then they really put their hearts into it. The man who had taken me on as a special project reached out to touch me, and when he did, he shuddered away as if suffering an electrical shock.

But he was strong, and reached out to touch me again. It pained him to do so, I could see it in his face, but he persisted, Satan was not going to beat him. Powerful, unguarded commands from his heart issued forth, and then he proclaimed that he saw a serpent wrapped around me, a serpent coiling tighter and tighter. The other men were shrieking and howling. “You must come to the Lord, the serpent is winding itself into you, I see it,” my exorcist proclaimed in a voice that seemed to come from a TV set. I nodded my head and looked at him, “No,” I said, “you don’t see a serpent. You’re lying. I think the serpent is wrapped around you.” And I looked at him like I was goddamn Clint Eastwood. And then Ferdinand, whom I think has peace-making instincts, distracted everybody by being struck by the Lord again, shouting, “The Lord has seized the Serpent, it departs!” before collapsing once again into the Weber.