I don’t much like the food here at Pulmonary Rehab.

The hatred of hospital food is pretty much a universal, and so I imagined that all the other residents would share my point of view. But no, I was dead wrong. The people I spoke with liked the food, even the simulated pork thing that had been pressed to make it look like ribs.

The reasons for this are simple enough. Many of the people here– by virtue of their condition– are unable to work and have little money. Many of them are older and live alone, lacking the will, funds or ability to attentively feed themselves, and are thus entirely grateful when a meal is delivered to them three times a day. This food, regardless of its quality and regardless of whether it’s “Instagrammable” or not, is a good thing.

Its presence is a relief, a daily stress crossed-out.

People enter into this program eroded and depressed, little more than shadows of who they once were. On Fridays we’re allowed to go home for the weekend, but not everybody does. Some people are too sick or live too far away, but others stay because they have nothing they want to return to.

One man, heavy with sad eyes, said to me as he settled in before the TV, “Why would I want to go home and just sit there, staring at my four walls? I like it better here.”

Sometimes people forget just how breakingly lonely illness can be.

But soon enough, people are reanimated. Men who wouldn’t make eye contact when they entered are shortly cracking wise, singing along to the oldies while working out, and women who hadn’t played cards in years are laughing together over Euchre.

Collected from disparate lives and thrown together in common cause, we get to know one another gradually, through the honesty of proximity rather than the spin of words. You see the pain first, because you know the pain, too. But gradually, that’s chipped away to reveal the person lost inside, the person capable of joy and wonder. It’s a gift, this, and all of us here gathered beneath the mortal cloud of our illness become family, and will linger as family long after each one of us has stepped out the door and receded back into the mysterious worlds from which we came.

Today I have given the Blog over to Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund:

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Heidi like to party.

It true.

No big deal, just how Heidi unwind and have good time! Sometimes booze or drug act as social lubricant so Heidi can have sex with anonymous dogs.

Very exciting! Very, very hot!! Heidi love that, fun times!

Heidi always in control, though. Heidi could stop partying anytime she want. Heidi not on drug and alcohol leash, Heidi have dextroamphetamine on leash! Heidi always in charge! But then one night Heidi partying and Heidi begin to dig hole. Dig, dig, dig!! Heidi could not stop digging! Heidi crazy with digging! Would not notice if cheeseburger fell on Heidi’s head! In some sort of dig trance! And then suddenly Heidi come to and realize she have no idea why digging! Heidi not even know where she was!

Later, video of Heidi digging hit YouTube. Heidi not look right. Collar hanging all loose and stained, tail wagging strange and jerky. Heidi feel shame, Heidi bad dog that night.

Made Heidi stop and think.

Did Heidi have problem?

Heidi consider.

It true memory getting bad.

Always forgetting where bone is.

Sometimes have blackout and no remember how end up covered in mud. So embarrassing. Feel irritable all the time, especially if have to do stupid trick for treat! HEIDI HATEHATEHATEHATE THAT! AND WHEN TWO-LEGGERS MAKE HEIDI WEAR CUTE OUTFIT?!! HEIDI WANT TO DESTROY AND RIP TO SHREDS!! HEIDI WANT RIVERS OF BLOOD TO FLOW!!

Maybe Heidi have anger problem and not party problem. Maybe anger root and party only tree. Heidi take quiz to find out.

Q. How often do you become angry in a normal day?

Not all bark angry bark, but probably 3, 500 time a day.

Q. Do other people comment on your anger?

Heidi told BAD DOG all the time! MAKE HEIDI SO ANGRY COULD BITE BABY FACE OFF!!

Q. Do you believe you are critical of yourself and others?

No, Heidi good dog, very good dog. Two-leggers moron. Birds morons.

Cats morons. Bugs morons. Squirrels morons. So many, many morons!

Q. Do you tend to blame others for your bad luck or unhappiness?

Heidi have to say yes, it very true observation!!

Q. Do you frequently find yourself starting or participating in arguments?

Stupid question! Heidi stand up for what right! Twitter bring out troll-stupids and Heidi have to set them on fire!! You no want to get in flame war with Heidi!

Q. Have you damaged property during an angry outburst?

Yes.

Q. Have you ever physically harmed another person during an angry outburst?

Of course, Heidi great warrior! Heidi Dachshund! Whole point is to kill, it why Heidi go for neck!!

Q. Have you ever been charged with a violent crime?

Heidi no answer this question. Pass.

Q. Do you keep any weapons at home?

Heidi is weapon, motherfucker.

Heidi deadly weapon.

She bring you close with her velvet ears and coco bean eyes, then game over!

Last night was Pub Night at the rehab centre.

It took place in the same generic, over-lit space that all our social events take place, and the “bar” itself was a few cafeteria tables that had been pushed together, upon which was a scattering of paper plates with a few potato chips and cheesies on them. If you had gotten a note from the doctor you were allowed to get half a glass of wine or beer, but most of us had forgotten to do so, and settled for a ginger ale.

More cafeteria tables, also pushed together, formed a U in front of a small stage upon which a band was playing. Many of the men watching, arms crossed as if judging the music, perhaps even their circumstance, sat as far away as possible. It was as if their bodies were clenched, resisting both the music and all that lay before them. Meanwhile, the women seemed entirely receptive and accepting. Happily fanned out to the side tables, closer to the band, they sat swaying to the music and singing along together. It was beautiful to see, and it was hard not to imagine them all fifty years earlier out on a Saturday night in some smokey dance hall, each one of them a vibrant and glowing presence, each one desired– their entire lives still waiting to unfold mysteriously before them.

The woman who mops the floor of my room is so fair and blonde as to be practically transparent. I am somehow embarrassed whenever she comes in and has to clean around me, and I hope to compensate for this weird power imbalance by being excessively friendly, and she’s kind enough to indulge my need for small talk. She has a thick eastern European accent and far away, sad eyes hidden behind blocky glasses. As she wipes down the plastic casings of the rails on my bed, she says, “Look, you see?” I don’t, and have to look closer. “My superior leaves little marks with a pen so she knows if I have cleaned properly or not. You see it now?” I nod as she wipes it away and say something I think is funny and disparaging about her superior. “No, it is her job, the cleaning must get completed and she must make sure it is so. We all must do our jobs.”

I feel like a child in the face of those words. This middle-aged woman who used to be a professor of accounting in the former Yugoslavia, now in a scratchy blue uniform cleaning floors in a hospital a million miles from all that she had known and loved and earned. My heart could break for her– her country vanished, her life now so improbable and alien. And she looks at me. She knows what I’m thinking, or at least she thinks she might know. She pauses for a moment, “It is true that life is hard, but we must live it, no? We must live it,” she says, as if we had both been forced to leave our native land.

Heidi big star.

Known all over world.

Not just because Heidi so cute she make your teeth hurt, or because Heidi so fast you think, “BLACK AND TAN LIGHTING JUST FLASH FROM SKY!!,” also because Heidi such a great writer it make you want to give up and cry. Maybe try hard drug and then later when feel empty after rehab, start to cut yourself just to see if still feel.

Heidi can be very damaging for self-esteem of others.

Heidi not bragging, just telling it like it is.

So Heidi get huge amount of fan mail. So many requests. So many dirty pitchers of dog penises! It all crazy!

Recently Heidi receive request from the Ilford Animal Cemetery in England.

Animals who fought and died for pathetic two-leggers, buried there. Coward two-leggers disgust Heidi! Enslave animals to fight for them! Make Heidi sick. Many stories of brave animals who die for stupid two-leggers lost, and now two-leggers want Heidi to write about hero animals who received medal for bravery.

Even though Heidi hate two-leggers Heidi say yes because of money. 

You don’t want to know how much Heidi get paid for this gig.

So much money and treat you wouldn’t believe. 

Beauty, Rescue Dog No. 3477/9277:

Beauty was a Bedlington Terrier, so name not true. Wire-haired Terrier dog ugly.

Very ugly. So ugly make Heidi barf, and not the sort of barf you want lick up. So Beauty probably shunned by other dogs. Possible Beauty depressed, had no choice but to work suicide job for coward two-leggers. Beauty rescued 63 animal from rubble, including some cats, so know Beauty not right in head, but still, in end, Beauty good dog, in spite of bad looks!

Peter, Rescue Dog No. 2664/9288:

Peter a beautiful Border Collie. Very hot. Heidi would have liked to have met Peter in bushes on dangerous escape. Would have made passionate, urgent love! Maybe in different life Peter be Baby Daddy for Heidi. Peter titan amongst dog, might have saved up to one million lives. Peter not very, very good dog, Peter very, very great dog! Peter hate Hitler.

Tyke, Carrier Pigeon 1263 MEPS 43

Two-legger steel death birds that drop fire always carry real bird with them.

When two-legger fake bird crash, real bird flies off with message that say where flightless, useless crew is. This make bird hero? All bird do is fly. It what bird do. If Heidi dig hole, does Heidi get medal? NO! Heidi told, BAD DOG, and then get sprayed with hose!! For sure something bad happen to Heidi. No make sense. Anyway, if Heidi carry message to Tyke it would say, “Guess can’t expect much from bird, but Tyke, you gave world as much as you could, so rest in peace, little brother!”

“This city has a serious raccoon problem. I’ve had some standoffs with some raccoons, seriously. I’m a big guy, powerful, a football player, and when I holler the trees shake, but the friggin’ raccoons, they just look at you. They’re not scared anymore. It’s a severe problem we’re having in this great city, and it’s only getting worse. They’re getting braver and braver by the day. I’m not a big raccoon fan, I’ll tell you that straight up. We have to kill them.”

As I have a personal relationship from the Mayor stretching back to our college days drinking together, he’s consented to give me a short interview exploring his feelings about the raccoon.

Me: “Rob, can you tell me about your most powerful raccoon experiences?

Rob: “ When I was in grade seven a raccoon climbed the fence and tried to enter into our family pool area to steal some food. Biggest mistake that raccoon ever made. Remember, I was drinking and getting high in those days, and when I saw that raccoon, I saw red, it was like I protecting the QB, you know? I started to chuck rocks at him, and I think the third one hit him square in the face, knocking him out. He was bleeding, and it was obvious that the merciful thing to do was kill him, so I bashed his head in with the ghetto blaster. It was messier than I would have thought, and one of the girls there, one that I liked, started to scream and cry and I knew getting some with her wasn’t going to be easy that night, and it was then that I realized the city had a really serious raccoon problem.

About a year later, and this lasted most of high school, I started to have these debilitating raccoon nightmares. Had to drop all my math and science and economic and history courses, the stress was so bad. I don’t want to talk too much about it, but it was like I was the last man on earth and all around me were these predatory ghost-raccoons trying to steal my stuff and eat my manhood. There was a bed-wetting issue for a while. You know, I wouldn’t have been able to admit that before, but rehab has taught me to be honest, so yeah, I wet my bed up until I was 18 and I’m not ashamed of it. It’s the fault of the raccoons, my fucking spirit enemy.

You might imagine how I hated them after all the years of nightmares and boring immersion therapy, and so Doug and I took it upon ourselves to just kill as many as we could. Using golf clubs mostly, we killed the hell out of them. We were athletes and we just felt compelled to win, you know? It was a, what do you call it? A holy war thing. We used to make necklaces out of their little fingers and then wear them to school dances. I guess you could say I’ve always had a special relationship with the raccoon.”

While out for a run on Canada Day, Joe Killoran came across Toronto Mayor Rob Ford (fresh from an apparently combative two month stint in rehab) and his entourage stomping about Toronto looking for votes. Killoran, who looks a little bit like Zeus or one of those Spartans in the movie 300, began, in an admirably articulate state of rage, to scream at Ford. “Yes,” we collectively said, “these are my words manifest in the pleasing form of a man!” The Ford brothers, normally masters of physical intimidation and the death stare, shrivelled up in Killoran’s presence.

Killoran, stripped to the waist, looked like the truth. Radiating a masculine power that seemed fueled by the archetypes of the 1970’s, Killoran was our single-combat hero. He was what we wanted to see in the mirror, saying what we wanted to say. In short, he was the ideal proxy, and Rob Ford, the actual proxy of Toronto, was it’s pale and receding antithesis.

The irony is that Rob Ford’s narrative positions the Mayor as Toronto’s Everyman. He’s just a regular Joe, a guy who likes helping out the common folk, hates the high-minded, mocking elites and struggles with the same sort of demons that we all do at the end of hard-working day. Ambushed so vividly by an actual regular Joe, the myth was laid bare. Ford, the man who stakes his brand on his ability to connect, his ability to be real, man, was a paper tiger, a bully stripped raw by the confrontation that stood unblinking before him.

It was an entirely awesome and revealing moment, so naturally it’s been co-opted and ruined. Inspired by Killoran, a handful of protestors who look like some agitated soccer dads yelling at the ref from the sidelines, have taken to calling themselves The Shirtless Horde.

One of them, after unconvincingly shouting, “I’m not intimidated by you!” at Rob Ford’s sobriety coach, was actually kicked by him, in the shin, I think. It’s exactly the sort of thing you remember taking place at recess, and as much as I might want to imagine myself the Shirtless Jogger, I do not want to imagine myself a member of The Shirtless Horde.

Even worse than showing us what we really look, The Shirtless Horde has the distinction of reinstalling the Ford myth. Surrounded by their limp chants, Ford puffs up– like he’s just eaten some spinach– and once again projects the confidence of a man who believes the script that he’s just here to bring some sense and fiscal restraint to a downtown that’s spun wildly, indulgently out of control, and this, this will be an exhausting way for us to spend the rest of our summer, so Shirtless Horde, please stop, your work is done.

Day 1

“Describe how you’re feeling right now.”

I feel good, like I’m ready to dominate. I’m in the zone, just like I was when I attended the Washington Redskins fantasy football camp as a kid. It makes me mad that people think that the name Redskins is somehow racist! It’s an honour to be a Redskin, not an insult! Jesus Christ!! It really burns me, that. Makes me want to punch something in the face really hard. Going to go do some lifting, channel my feelings into a “positive stream” instead of getting sucked into a “self-destructive negativity spiral.

Day 2, 2014

“Describe a recent situation where you felt the urge to take drugs or alcohol.”

“The Situation.”

At breakfast when my eggs were runny.

“Moods”

“1. What did you feel?”

“2. Rate each mood (0-100%)”

I felt really pissed off. I’m paying a shit-ton of good money to be in this facility and I’m not even an addict, so the least you could do is get the fucking eggs right! Is it that hard to scramble some eggs? Fuck! (100%)

I also felt frustrated, like one hundred fucking percent frustrated. Just make the goddamn eggs, okay? (120%!!)

“Automatic Thoughts”

“What was going through your mind just before you started to feel this way? Any other thoughts? Images?”

I was thinking that I was fucking hungry and looking forward to some eggs. In my mind, I saw fluffy eggs, cheesy, fluffy eggs and they were being served by a hot chick who was totally impressed that I was mayor of Toronto. We were going get messed-up and then have sex, maybe with one of her friends, too, and I was going to wear my Redskins football helmet. It was going to be totally awesome, and then I saw my cock-blocking brother Doug laughing at me in front of the chicks, and I couldn’t get it going, you know, and I then I got served some runny fucking eggs!

Day 3

“What are you looking forward to right now?”

I’m looking forward to my first rehab setback. That’s going to be fucking epic.

Day 4

“What is the most positive experience you’ve had through rehab so far?”

I’ve really gotten to look deeply into who Rob Ford is and I think I’ve achieved an inner peace, a tranquility, even, that I’ve never known except on the football field. I’ve learned that some days the eggs are runny, and that’s okay, you just have to deal with it. Also, I had sex with that lush real estate agent from Brampton.

Twice.

That was pretty awesome.

Need to get my suit dry cleaned though.

Ford, perhaps anticipating all of the apologies he’s going to have to make as part of his 12-step program, is said to have already written one to Stintz:

Dear Karen:

Geez, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for saying that I wanted to fucking jam you. It was inelegant of me, and you are a classy lady who deserves better. In fact, when I get back (I will have a tan and expect to have lost another 30 pounds) I would like to take you out for an elegant dinner at Splendido (Spendido!).

Just the two of us.

On me, not the city.

I can apologize in person and we can talk policy and then you could listen as I explain how business and government work. You are easily the most attractive of my opponents, and it wouldn’t bother me in the least to give a pretty lady like you a little help.

I think it would have been cool if we went to high school together. I was really good at sports, rich and quite a bit thinner than I am now, and I bet we would have gone out. Do you ever think about alternate universes? I do all the time. In one alternate universe I bet we’re together, in an open kind of relationship, and are political dynamos. In another alternate universe I live in California and spend a lot of time on the beach and in another I’m an MMA fighter.

But right now I’m confronting reality head-on. It’s what a man does.

Anyway, now that I’ve wrestled and vanquished my demons, it’s time to forget the past and move forward. I’ve survived a terrible disease now, showing a lot of courage in doing so, and I’m no longer going to be a victim to drug monkeys, the media or left-wing politics. I am going to be a new and improved Rob Ford, slimmer and more deserving of having an affair with a woman like you. I swear, you’re so pretty that you could be a figure skater or a hot sportscaster.

I really respect you, Karen and look forward to working with you in the future!

Cheers,

Rob Ford

Me: Kind of scared.

Me: Kind of very scared.

Me: What if there’s a rope?

Me: I can just imagine it hanging from the ceiling.

Me: Swaying ominously.

Me: They’ll force me to climb up it.

Me: There might be a rope!!

Me: I’m not overreacting.

Me: Look, I know it’s not grade 4 gym class.

Me: No, I’m not expecting dodge ball.

Me: It would be nice if you were supportive rather than sarcastic.

Me: I don’t have dodge ball nightmares.

Me: Not anymore.

Me: Fartmares.

Me: Very funny.

Me: No, I’m not going to ask them if they can do anything about my “gas problem.”

Me: Because there is no gas problem.

Me: My trainer?

Me: Her name is Laetitia.

Me: She’s French, France French.

Me: She thinks I’m really funny.

Me: No, funny ha-ha.

Me: Cute accent.

Me: She really loves the anchor tattoo on my hand. It reminds her of Marseille.

Me: I know it was a commitment tattoo I got with you, but I can’t help it if other women find it attractive.

Me: My hands don’t look old.

Me: I’d say they look like they belong on a 25 year-old man.

Me: She’s going to test my grip.

Me: No, not my grip on reality.

Me: Man alive!

Me: My right hand has like a GI Joe Super Kung Fu grip!!

Me: Laetitia is really impressed! Gave me a hug!!

Me: Oh, you know the French.

Me: They’re like that.

Me: Yes, whorish.

Me: Such beguiling giggles, too.

Me: Are you going to your girl’s night out Salsa Dance Slut thing again tonight?

Me: Your sisters are a very bad influence on you.

Me: Alejandro.

Me: No, I don’t want him coming to my birthday party.

Me: I just don’t.

Me: I don’t want to talk about it.

Me: I don’t care if the therapist said I have to communicate more.

Me: All right.

Me: I communicate that I hate Alejandro.

Me: Well, didn’t he poke somebody in the back with his boner while dancing????

Me: I can’t do this now, I have to prepare for my next test.

Me: Mentally. I have to get in the zone.

Me: I want Alejandro out of the zone!!

Me: The next test?

Me: I have to walk briskly for the next six minutes.

Me: Yes.

Me: Well, why wouldn’t I take off my shirt?

Me: The French are used to that sort of thing.

Me: And I’m going to get a good sweat on.

Me: Oh.

Me: Apparently the equipment works better if I keep my shirt on.

Me: No.

Me: I don’t see any equipment.

Me: I think Laetitia might be a drunk.

Me: She’s all worried about me texting when I do the brisk walk test thing.

Me: Thinks I might walk into a wall or something.

Me: As if.

Me: Hate Laetitia and her bad skin.

Me: Glad I’ve never been to France.