Me: Thanks so much for sitting down with me.

Jane: It’s my pleasure, jobs, justice and particularly climate change are the defining issues of our times, and with what little time I have left, I want to do all I can to bring attention to them.

Me: Of course, of course. Nice hat, by the way—I think it says, “Let’s Change The World Now!” At any rate, you said, “with what little time I have left,” how old are you?

Jane: I am 77 years-old, and fortunately I’m in good health and have lots of energy, so I’m very hopeful that I can keep using my celebrity to bring attention to these causes before it’s too late.

Me: My mother is 77 years-old and she doesn’t look anything like you. Practically a different species.

Jane: I’m sure your mother is a very, very lovely woman, although looking at you I’d think she was much older than 77. But anyway, I’m from Hollywood and I’ve had so much work done I’m practically a cyborg.

Me: Ha!! A sex-cyborg! That’s funny! I’d love to see a Jane Fonda sex-cyborg. I hope the Japanese invent one after you’re dead. But back to the interview. You can imagine how confusing it was for me growing up to have you on one hand, a hot star I wanted to have sex with, and my mother on the other hand– and both being the same age! Very mixed-up– still am, I guess!!

Jane: Well, I hope you got some help for that. That’s one of the good things about Canada, it has universal health care so that people with mental illnesses such as yourself, can be treated.

Me: I loved you in Barbarella. When you made that film, did you have any idea how many strip clubs in North America were going to name themselves Barbarella’s? There must be hundreds, probably thousands.

Jane: The sex industry is a very complicated one, but what is clear is that women should have the right to do what they want with their bodies, be it free choice, stripping or prostitution. We need to enact laws to protect and empower women so that they’re in control of their bodies and lives, treated fairly and in a safe environment.

Me: Okay, good point. This one is a three-parter: Is acting a form of prostitution? Does Hollywood treat women fairly? Do you have sex with all of your leading men, or women, such as the case may be?

Jane: Yes, I think that acting is a form of prostitution, and…

Me: I have never in all of my years been to a prostitute. Never had to pay for it.

Jane: As I was saying, Hollywood has a long, long way to go before men and women are treated equally, particularly older women. Once you hit a certain age, the roles just vanish and you become invisible!

Me: Which is why you’re at a rally in Canada instead of, saying, selling aerobics videos

or starring as a lawyer or sexy, mean matriarch in some movie. I get it. They say that women in Hollywood have a best before date, a point where they become unfuckable. Do you think you became unfuckable, and if so, at what point in your career? Maybe Stanley and Iris or Monster-in-Law?

Jane: (Gets up and leaves)

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.

As many of you know, Rob and I were enrolled at Carleton University in Ottawa at the same time, and it was at a local pub—Tiddlers—where we became last call drinking acquaintances.  We’ve stayed in a weird contact over the years, frequently messaging one another when up late and partying alone. This is my most recent correspondence with the mayor, which took place sometime after two in the morning on Wednesday.

Rob: FORD NATION KNOCKING!!!

Me: Rob!!

Rob: BRAIN ON FIRE! All sorts of ideas!! Need quick feedback!!

Me:  You always make me feel like I’m on a game show, love it!

Rob: The Quebec charter of values thing, you know, where the French people say you’re not allowed to wear the jew hat and stuff? I like it.

Me: If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything!

Rob: Damn straight! I’m free market, not going to tell people what they can’t do, but if you live in Ford Nation, you’re going to have to walk the walk, get it? If you have to be a weirdo and ride a bicycle, then you have to wear an Argo’s jersey when you do it.

Me: It’s brilliant, Rob, it can’t miss! What happens if you’re culturally un-Ford Nation and exploit a public resource like a library?

Rob: You got to see Iron Man III and eat a Cronut burger.

Me: And then wear the t-shirt, “ I survived the Cronut Burger! Ford For Mayor 2014!”

Rob: Yeah!! Ford Nation: Not as diverse as you’d think.

Me: How about, Ford Nation: Strength in Unity?

Rob: Love it!!! Man, you really GET the heart of Ford Nation! I miss having these late night jam sessions in person!

Me: Me, too, big guy, me, too.

Rob: Know what else I miss?

Me: Tiddlers!

Rob: Tiddlers RULZ!!!!! But dude, I miss Frosh Week. I could fucken live in Frosh Week. I would take my vacations there if I could. Fuck Florida!!

Me: Frosh Week was awesome. But look, what happens to vegans? They’re not Ford Nation at all.

Rob: If you want to be vegan and live in Ford Nation, then you have to be a stripper once a week, too. Don’t care about their religion. Chicks only, tho.

Me: What if somebody isn’t a man of the people? You know, not the type to go to visit people in public housing and put campaign stickers on their door frames?

Rob: Oh! Just got another idea!

Me: Great!

Rob: My fantasy hockey team?

Me: Yeah?

Rob: Gonna call it, Everybody’s Twerking For The Weekend! After the Loverboy song!

Me: Genius.

Rob: Honest, I think it’s the best thing I ever thought of.

Me: Me, too.

Rob: Hey, you see those pictures of that bear chasing the bison down the highway?

Me: Yeah.

Rob: You the bear or the bison?

Me: Not sure. You?

Rob: Both, little buddy, both.

I’ve never been able to tell who lives in this sprawl of a place, but sometimes I’ll see a girl sitting on the fence or a maybe couple of them standing about smoking furtively. Somehow, they all seem a little sideways, possessing wild, impulsive eyes suggesting that at any moment they might throw a rock through a window or give somebody a hand job behind a tree. There’s just something that feels very delinquent about it all.

The other day there were two girls, both dressed for a humid summer night rather than a cool, windy day in March, standing in front of the place, One of them became intrigued by the idea of our dog, Heidi, a Miniature Dachshund. From the other side of the street she began cooing and flirting, more stripper than schoolgirl, trying to get Heidi to cross over to her, but the dog sensed something wrong in her and grew rigid, barking. And such is this girl’s life, desperate for warmth but always being rebuked by confusion and hostility.

In the line-up in front of me at the LCBO stood an elderly woman– once elegant and the belle of the ball– and her withered husband, now being pushed about in a wheelchair by a Filipino domestic. They were buying a bottle of wine and bickering, getting lost in the small details. The world around them, the people waiting in line, the cashier, the nanny, everything fell away, and there was nothing left but the furious minutia of the moment, this moment to which both of them had travelled together for so long and so far.

A little further along I sat down on a bench and a nearly homeless man, thin as a rail and with the sort of tattoos that looked self-administered, stopped to chat with Heidi. He put his nose right up to hers, his lips pursed, and then he kissed her on the snout. He kept his face there, waiting, and Heidi licked him back, and it was evident that this small, beautiful moment illuminated his day.

Silently, as if an idea rather than an actual person, a young woman in a U of T track jacket ran by us. I could feel her whoosh, like being startled by a deer, and looking up I saw her blonde ponytail bouncing and then vanishing forever around the corner. And then on our way home a guy bounded out of his apartment and smiled at us. Exuberant, he was quickly 20 yards ahead, stretching as he walked, his arms as wide open as possible, as if to gather in the entirety of the day that awaited.

He was just thinking of the kids.

At any rate, as many of you know, Rob Ford and I went to Carleton University at the same time and were last call drinking buddies. Although we’ve never had a sober conversation, we developed a strange but resilient friendship, one that sees us communicate to this day. Whenever one of us is drinking alone, we often go on-line to chat with one another, a sort of nostalgic slur back to the good old days.

Around 2:30 Monday morning, I got this message from Rob:

Rob: Hey fag!

Me: Slobber!

Rob: Just. Fucking. Love. Sunday.

Me: It’s a holy day.

Rob: This grizzly worships at the church of FOOTBALL!!! PARTYYYY!!!

Me: What’s your fav football movie?  I think I like Against All Odds–Rachel Ward was hot!

Rob: She woulda made an awesome stripper.  But I think it’s All The Right Moves that does it for me. Cruise has always been my man, and you get to see the mother from Back to the Future naked. Boner city!! Movie hit me right where it counts.

Me: Your bio should be called Rob Ford: All The Right Moves. And you should be in football gear on the cover with a couple of cheerleaders flanking you!

Rob: I should fucken’ hire you, Murray.

Me: Wanna do a shot?

Rob: Just did one!

Me: Me too!

Rob: High-five!!

Me: You following the US election?

Rob: I live in Romney City, little buddy, Romney City.

Me: You like the small government, eh?

Rob: Yeah, it’s not that I’m a racist. Blacks are fucking awesome at football and lots of the chicks are super hot, like that chick in Sin City, Roxanna Dawson. I would vote for her ass in a second!!!!!

Me: You’ve always had a soft spot for the ladies.

Rob: You mean hard spot! LOLOLOLLOO!!

Rob: You remember that waitress with the Montreal Canadiens tattoo on her neck?

Me: You mean stripper.

Rob: Yeah, she was black. I used to tip her real good.

Me: You’ve always been a class act slobber, just like you were with that football team you coach.

Rob: Couldn’t let ‘em wait after the game they put in, wouldn’t been right. The Mayor’s office gotta mean something, right?

Me: Yeah, you know, my wife wishes there were more chipmunks in Toronto, can you do anything about that?

Rob: Talk to a few people. Maybe deport some raccoons, bring in chipmunks. Make a chipmunk theme park, attract tourists– maybe make some chipmunk snack. Good idea, fagman, gonna get some people on it! Gonna grab another brew, c u soon!

A little bit unsteady on her feet, she’s wearing a Flashdance t-shirt and has Cleveland tattooed across her neck. She looks like she needs a cigarette, like she needs something. Her hair, which must have once been blonde, is now colourless. There’s a small bruise beneath her left eye and a defiant, proud kind of Fuck You, to the way she walks. You can smell her perfume from 10 yards away and later, when she steps out of the washroom the cold water she’s splashed on her face has caused her mascara to run.

Lawyers pace the room. A few talk urgently into cell phones. The one who looks like a Ken Doll records case notes into his Dictaphone– pleased with the sound of his own voice he bends his inflections as if for an audience. A man built to take up as much space as possible, suddenly declares, “This is bullshit!” He sits down beneath a couple of faded posters advertizing the Victim Support Line and begins to tell a story to his small retinue about a Jane and Finch stripper who was deported.

Translators, waiting to be called forth through the entrance into the prison for a hearing, are scattered about.

The Mandarin/Cantonese translator works on a Sudoku puzzle.

The French/Arabic translator, an immense, transgendered man reads a graphic novel.

The Romanian translator talks about skiing in Bulgaria.

The Vietnamese translator makes frequent trips to the washroom.

The Tamil translator looks like my old high school Geography teacher.

A ridiculously huge prison guard, indifferent and sadistic looking, emerges into the foyer like Darth Vader. Keeping the door propped open with one foot he shouts out, “Croatia!” Inconvenienced, he looks around. “Croatian translator!!” he yells again. Nothing happens, there is no Croatian translator present. The guard shrugs. Wordlessly, he returns into the prison, the door slamming shut, the matter no longer his problem.

A man of about 65 sits in the corner reading the Bible– softly, so softly, he’s repeating the verses to himself.

A woman with long blonde hair walks into the place. She’s wearing five inch stiletto heels, a leopard print top and black tights that make her look like she’s been dipped in ink. She wants to look hot for the husband she’s visiting. She has her two young sons with her and they’re so carefully polished and dressed as to appear ready for church or a Tommy Hilfiger shoot. The boys are excited by the vending machines and the older one jams his arm up the slot and begins to try to pry a chocolate bar free. The mother catches him out of the corner of her eye.

Tyson.

Come.

Sit.

Down.

Now.

“ If you don’t, we will go home right now, dammit.”

The boy comes to her, throws his arms around her neck in a hug, and then they both begin to cry.