As many of you will have heard, I have started a weekly Podcast with Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund.

This is an excerpt from our most recent episode:

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Me: Before we start today’s Podcast I have an announcement to make. On our last broadcast Heidi made some remarks that were very hurtful to some beloved members of our community.

The appalling statements she made might even be considered an act of violence in and of themselves, and let me say unequivocally that we here at The Breakfast Club have always, and will always be, great allies to all of our friends in the SCBDB community. Your struggle is our struggle, and we will not tolerate any sort of hate speech, calls to violence or prejudice against you and those that you love. You are our family. We love you and stand beside you. I want to take this time now to formally apologize to all Squirrels, Cats, Birds and Dumb Birds who were wounded by Heidi’s words. We are profoundly sorry.

Although Heidi has been a mostly loyal dog to my family for nearly a dozen years, I simply cannot excuse her behaviour, and so she has been removed from the Podcast, effective immediately, and sent to live up in the country with my wife’s parents where she will undergo prolonged sensitivity training.

Taking her place will be Margaret Atwood, one of the supporting actresses from the hit TV show The Hand Made Tale.

Atwood: The title of the show is the Handmaids Tale, and I was the author of the novel upon which the successful TV show was based, not a supporting actress in it.

Me: Please don’t interrupt.

Atwood: You have more important things to say, do you?

Me: Nuts! Now I’ve lost my place!

Atwood: Yes, of course you have. A straight, middle-aged white man with no discernible talents suddenly adrift in a changing world. One day you wake up to discover that you’re not one of the good guys at all, but are actually an enemy of the people, an enemy to all those you never heard, saw or even thought about in all the decades you stomped so blindly through this world. Now that the shell of your status has been cracked open to reveal your mediocrity and fear, it must be so very difficult for you! And how have you responded to this sea change, Michael, to being revealed so nakedly to all whom you ignored? With hostility and defensiveness, of course, with a desperate attempt to portray yourself as a victim rather than a victimizer. So yes, I can see how you might feel that you “lost your place.”

Me: I WAS PATROL OF THE WEEK IN GRADE SIX!! I WAS AT THE BARRICADES KEEPING THE WORLD SAFE FROM TYRANNY, GODDAMNIT!! NOBODY CAN TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME!!

Well, the other day my mother actually received this letter from Margaret Atwood:

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December, 6th, 2017

bärb/

noun

noun: barb; plural noun: barbs

1. 1. a sharp projection near the end of an arrow, fishhook, or similar item, angled away from themain point so as to make extraction difficult.

                  2. a cluster of spikes on barbed wire.

                  3. a deliberately hurtful remark.

Dear Barb:

Please forgive me for being so informal as to use your first name. I can see that you’re not just appropriately (refer to above prolegomenon) named, but that the Murray line carries very excitable genes, and I certainly don’t want to offend you or any of the other members in your easily inflamed tribe.

Let me first thank you for your apology concerning the alarming behaviour of your 50-something son, and the thoughtful inclusion of hand sanitizer with your letter. You are right, hand sanitizer does make for a nice, affordable stocking stuffer. Thank Heavens for Shoppers Optimum points, eh, Barb?

It’s interesting to note that the word “barb” is derived from Latin and Old French words for “beard.” The patriarchy has a deep reach, Mrs. Murray, a very deep reach. For instance, I wonder why your fully grown, almost elderly son, does not feel the need to apologize for himself to a respected woman he’s been publicly berating? Why would his mother have to do it?

Could it be that Michael, an archetypically mediocre white man,

was born into a world that was made for him, a world where women existed as bit players present only to serve his narrative? And then, with all competition smothered, with the entire force of a white, phallocentric history pushing him forward, Michael, armed with every conceivable advantage, became the author of one very unsuccessful vanity-published book.

That’s what he did.

He did not become an astronaut, he became a fantasy baseball enthusiast. And as he ascended to the status of fantasy baseball enthusiast and nothing else, he fully believed that all his “achievements” were due to his unique genius, and all failures a conspiracy of invisible, unknowable enemies.

Does that sound about right?

But it’s not your fault, Barb. It’s the world we were born into, and if you want to learn more about why your son is an asshole, you should tune in to Bravo on April 30th to watch the award-winning, crisply produced recreation of my uncannily predictive dystopian novel, A Handmaid’s Tale. It stars Elisabeth Moss, whom you might have seen on the cover of some of the magazines you buy at the mall.

Margaret Atwood

PS: Von all den Kreaturen, die auf der Erde atmen und sich bewegen, wird nichts gezüchtet, das schwächer ist als der Mensch.

All the same, family members told her that I had been writing about my feud with Atwood ( http://michaelmurray.ca/atwood-condo-tweet-fight#more-6562 ), and that some of the things I had been saying about her weren’t very kind. My mother was very, very disappointed in me and demanded that I write her an apology. We got in a huge fight about this, of course, and since I refused to do what she wanted, she went ahead and wrote Margaret Atwood a letter herself:

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Dear Ms. Atwood,

Hi, how are you?

I am fine, although I have to say that the weather in Ottawa has been very unpredictable! One day it’s hot as the blazes and the next it’s so cold Frito won’t even go outside!

Just last week ( in late September) it was far too hot to shampoo the carpet, so I called up Bea and asked her if she wanted to go to the Second Cup for a coffee. She said Ok, but first she had to finish watching her show, and so I waited, and then once we got there Bea insisted on sitting out on the patio. I have no idea why she wanted to sit there. It was so humid it was like being in a sauna! It’s no wonder she felt faint, she’s lucky she didn’t have another heart attack!

Anyway, I hope that the weather is better in Toronto than it is here.

It has come to my attention that my son, Michael Murray, has been saying some mean things to you on the computer. That’s not nice at all. Just cheap. It’s elder abuse, is what it is, and he’ll find out exactly how that feels when he’s older. He’ll get his, he will, and then he’ll be sorry. Let me assure you he was definitely not raised to be so cheeky and disrespectful, and the ENTIRE Murray family is very sorry for the way he has behaved toward you. It’s shameful, and although no one likes to say it, the truth is that he’s never been the same since the bee sting. It changed him, even if the doctors said it didn’t. A mother knows.

By the way, congratulations on winning an Emma for The Handmaid’s Veil! Such a fancy event! It must have been nice to have all those lovely starts applauding the great work you’ve done! Did you see Hugh Jackman? Such a handsome, classy man!

Yours sincerely,

Barb Murray

PS: Just awful about Las Vegas! I don’t know what’s gotten into people!

PPS: I have inclosed some hand sanitizer (There is a special on at Shopper’s Drug Mart) as you can never be too careful during flu season!!

but I recently made an exception when Manor Park Public School asked me to address their students.

I was a pupil there back in the 70’s, dominating the classroom and playground from grade two to six, and I guess it’s fair to say I was a bit of a legend. The current principle, after hearing of my brilliant, game-changing, hugely successful book A VAN FULL OF GIRLS,

wanted to know if I, “a real writer,” would give the commencement speech to her graduating grade six students.

This is the text to my speech:

“Graduating class of 2016, I’m not going to lie to you.

Grade seven is a shit show.

The truth is that you’re really, really going to hate it. So much so that you’re going to wake up each day terrified, jittery and spastic. Bad things will happen every day. Algebra, for instance. Algebra will strike you like a goddamn wasting disease. Girls will become powerful beyond your wildest comprehension. You won’t know what hit you. And without any warning, and for no reason whatsoever, the kids you thought were your friends will turn on you. Look to your right. That kid there? That kid will one day spit on you. To your left now, please. That kid? That kid will tell the person you want to ask to the dance that you have B.O. from your butt. And you won’t have any idea why. You will look and feel ugly. Your parents, before they divorce, will probably take you to a psychiatrist and then you’ll have to take pills that make you a really sad kind of sleepy.

Welcome to the real world, class of 2016

But it’s not all doom and gloom and climate change and dying pets and pimples the size of coins, no, there is some relief to be found. You can read, for instance, taking refuge in make-believe worlds where nobody is going to beat you up each day because they heard your mother speaking french, or something. 

I work as an author, which means I spend all my time constructing these magical realms of make believe! Think of me as a modern-day wizard!

(child yells)

Sorry? I didn’t hear you.

(Inaudible)

No, not Voldemort, the other one.

(Various children yell)

Didn’t Voldemort have a good brother?

(Children shrieking NO!!)

Well, he should have, but whatever. Fine, then. I am like Voldemort–a powerful, powerful, often misunderstood wizard who can conjure great worlds and then shrink them into books like A VAN FULL OF GIRLS, which can be bought online at Indigo Books, and is such a powerful spell that it might just save your life! You should pester your parents until they buy you several copies—remember, your happiness, the entire course of your future depends on you getting this one thing right. Get your parents to buy you A VAN FULL OF GIRLS, and get them to do it now before it’s too late. Tell them it’s for a class or something, it doesn’t matter.

Class of 2016, congratulations, and may you all travel in A VAN FULL OF GIRLS!

Thank you all, and God bless.

Why are writers all so ugly?

Simon

Simon:

It’s true, most writers are pretty ugly.

They were just born that way, and no matter how their parents dressed them, they remained ugly.

A consequence of this ugliness is that they were almost always excluded as children, forced to watch from the sidelines as their more attractive peers lived their happy, little lives. It’s unlikely that any of their glittering peers were mocked, called “Grosslord” and then turned away from the Manor Park Mayfair Kissing Booth, amidst a cacophony of kids pretending to barf, even though the Grosslord in question, who yes, needed dental work at the time, had the money, just like everybody else, that it cost to get a peck from grade eight goddess Mary Appelton. Injustice makes a writer, and ugliness is a great injustice. So the writer, by circumstance rather than by instinct, becomes an observer, hovering darkly on the periphery, always plotting, plotting, plotting, always devising schemes of seduction, conquest and personal elevation, all of which, of course, are doomed to fail.

It’s why so many writers are alcoholic as well as being ugly.

Eventually, the writer will become destitute and bitter, unable to do much beyond engage in Twitter wars about Canadian poetry.

However, I would be remiss if I were to say that all writers are ugly, for this is not true. Tyra Banks, the author of Modelland, is world-renowned beauty.

And of course, Samuel Beckett: 

Dear Bitter Writer:

Like most people, I was disgusted and heartbroken when I heard about the mass murder in Orlando. I wrote down some of my feelings on the matter, and I was wondering if you could tell me where the best place might be to publish my Think Piece? I was considering Medium, any advice?

Brad

Brad:

The best advice I can give you is to never, ever publish anything that is referred to as a Think Piece. Think Pieces are the equivalent of drunken phone messages left for an Ex. Lost, wandering and self-absorbed, they exist only to make the author look enlightened rather than to actually share some sort of enlightenment. Truth be told, I can’t read the words Think Piece without wanting to punch whomever coined the phrase in the face. It sounds remdial, like something you’d do in kindergarten.

“And what’s this a drawing of, Bobby?”

“It Think Piece.”

“Well, it’s lovely, I like what you’ve done with the raging green!”

So no, Brad, just no.

Don’t do it.

And Brad, if you’re straight, that cry of no becomes even louder. I don’t care if you’d fuck Tom Hardy

and are a true ally of the LGBT community, the world still doesn’t need another straight voice added to the storm of voices attempting to deconstruct the shooting. Whether you think people from the LGBT community were specifically targeted or not doesn’t matter. The LGBT community is one that has always been subject to violence, hatred and bigotry, and this, the largest mass shooting in America’s rich history, conducted at a specifically gay venue, suggests that those directly within the community might have a deeper understanding of what the shooting “means,” so I suggest that all straight voices just park it for a little, and listen rather than tell. Just switch your profile pic to rainbow and call it a day, okay?

For the vast majority of my life I believed in the general sincerity of our governance. I mean, I didn’t accept everything that they said, I knew that they’d obfuscate to suit their own political agendas, but on the big stuff, when push came to shove, I trusted that we were led by people who would not directly lie while looking you in the eyes.

Now, I don’t want to suggest that I believed in a rigid, black and white Cold War dichotomy.

I understood that there were nuances and that the truth was round, rather than two-sided, but I did think that Western Democracies abided by some immutable principles and were to the best of their ability, “good.”

Well, when the US government cynically lied to it’s own people about Iraq having Weapons of Mass Destruction, and then went ahead and invaded the nation, resulting in the death of perhaps one million Iraqis, all the while knowing that Saudi Arabia was actually the country that nurtured the 9/11 terrorists, my child-like faith was forever shattered.

It was simply astounding to me that something so calculated, something so evil, could take place, and take place without a revolution of protest erupting in our streets.

I now view authority with a level of skepticism that I did not before, understanding that those in power always have more to protect and gain by lying than those outside of power. And so it was that I went to see the documentary Citizenfour last week.

It’s actually more of a living historical document than it is a movie, I think, as it’s a real time presentation of Edward Snowden, over an eight-day period, as he leaked NSA documents to some journalists and the film-maker in a hotel room.

It’s a startlingly media-savvy and perhaps unprecedented way to conduct a leak, and that alone gave the movie a surreal, kind of theatrical feeling. Snowden was very consciously “presenting” himself and his motives to the world. He was, in a sense, acting and this struck me as odd.

Snowden always seemed to be suppressing a small, self-satisfied smile, as if trying to conceal his delight in being a gravitational figure that was setting a great narrative into motion, and I was astounded by how articulate he was, speaking in unbroken, virtually literary paragraphs when describing his intent and circumstances.

Isolated, without legal counsel and unsure of what was to happen to him and everybody he loved, he did not betray any anxiety, but seemed, calm, confident and even rehearsed in his manner.

Now when I see such a thing, I don’t suspect Snowden of fabricating the leaks, which essentially reveal to the public that the NSA is an omnipotent entity that has access to absolutely all our communications and actions, I suspect the NSA of fabricating Snowden. He was a CIA agent, after all, and what’s the use of a grand surveillance apparatus unless the people beneath it are conscious of it and feel its weight pressing down upon them daily?

I don’t have an opinion on the matter at this point, and there’s no way I can gather enough information to make a lucid and truly informed judgment, but my faith in our institutions is at such a low, that like a mad man in an alley, I find myself given to question everything that they prepare for my consumption, and you know, it doesn’t feel very good.

In it, he asks all sorts of cool, attractive and successful writers a series of questions about potato chips, but for some reason he forget to include me in his survey. This sometimes happens as an awful lot of people find my blinding talent and natural, easy charisma to be terribly intimidating, so they just act like they’ve never heard of me. Also, I’m sure that they figure I would command a very sizeable fee for any sort of participation or association, so I guess I understand why Kevin didn’t ask me.

No matter, as I am generous, I have decided to answer his questionnaire anyway.

1. Tell me about yourself. In 25 words or less, who are you?

I look like Elvis Costello, but remind people of Kanye. Skipped grade three. I do alright.

2.What is your favourite brand and flavour of chip? Of all the chips out there, what make it the every day chip?

O’Grady’s Extra Thick Au Gratin potato chip. They were as thick as a pork chop and covered in some sort of chemical cheese powder and they were awesome. Each chip was like a sandwich, a toxic, completely narcotic sandwich. I think they were discontinued in the 1980’s, although I did see a bag in an Amish General Store a few years ago in West Pennsylvania. (I heard rumours that they were used in the Chernobyl clean-up, but I never believed them.)

3. Have you ever had a negative experience with potato chips?

Yes. I had a Cinnabon flavoured potato chip the other day and it tasted like a fucking Cinnabon. It was disgusting. Also, I have very vulnerable gums and sometimes a jagged, little dagger of a chip can get lodged in them. Very painful.

4. Have you ever incorporated potato chips into love making? If yes, what was it like? If not, is this something you have considered?

Potato chip packaging has been used in a variety of sexual acts, but the actual potato chips have never been used in love making.

5. Finish this sentence, people who list plain chips as their top snack choices are _________.

First against the wall.

6. Dip or no dip?

Dips are for rookies and pretenders, the proper chip, the O’Grady’s Extra Thick Au Gratin chip, needed no such vulgar embellishments.

7. Do you ever mix flavours of chips? What is your favourite combination? Is there a combination you have been meaning to try? What is your signature blend and what do you call it?

Mixing flavours of chips is something a child or somebody who suffered a very serious head injury would do.

8. Dehydrated fruit chips, yay or nay?

If you’re a Dumpster Diver of some sort of Freegan, sure, but for members of society? Of course not.

9. Is there a time for a baked chip? Or is it a fry or die situation?

Maybe in times of extreme deprivation, like in a war, but certainly not when America’s clipping along at full speed.

10. Tell me about your favourite chip memory?

I was a student at University in Montreal and I was broke. I went to the local corner store and begged for credit, which they stupidly gave me. I bought a large bag of O’Grady’s Extra Thick Au Gratin potato chips, a can of Coke Classic, a pack of Winstons, five quarts of Molson and the magazine Celebrity Skin. I think it was the best night I ever had, a moment of still perfection that I travel back to often.

Dear Bitter Writer:

What are writers really like?

Ansell Pitt

Dear Mister Pitt:

Writers are the worst.

I’d be hard pressed to think of any single grouping of people, be they bound by profession, religion, ethnicity, sexual fetish or disease, that are worse than writers.

Writers are grubby, small, aspirational and hateful people.

The only thing that they loathe more than themselves are other writers. The success of other human beings, even in some cases animals, is toxic to the writer. If you happen to fall into conversation with one about something that is “good,” or something that you “like,” the writer will quickly, as if in a panic, change the topic to something that is “not good,” or something that they “don’t like.” They will do this in the way that a squirrel might scurry off up a tree when it gets startled. Writers feel diminished by light and joy, and will seek to suck as much of it as possible out of any given day. Never, ever ask a writer to make a speech at a wedding.

Think of this way:

If all the writers on the planet were jammed into one insufferable country, it would be torn apart by civil war and terrorism.

And then likely bombed by every other county in the world, too.

It would just be that bad a place.

Dear Bitter Writer:

Hello, love the very helpful blog! My question is book cover designs. What would go on it? Should the character be on the cover or should the cover relate to the content in the story? Thank you.

Samantha Bell

Dear Ms. Bell:

Are you some kind of a moron?

Look, if some other moron is willing to publish your stupid book, you should let them put whatever the fuck they want on the cover!! As a writer it is essential that you learn to be a sycophant. You must shamelessly align yourself with whatever the prevailing tribe is, and ceaselessly, but with as much elegance and perception as you can muster, lather all editors and associated “literati” (gag!) with compliments. Tell them how much you love the little, European scarves they’re always wearing and how cool their frames and tattoos are, and for God’s sake, if they want you nude and fully penetrated on the cover, you let them know how much you love their “edgy vision” and ask how many orifices they want penetrated, damn it!

The shirtless dude started off near a garbage can but soon moved into a more central position by a big, beautiful tree. It was here where he began to bullwhip the leaves off of the tree. Such a dedicated warrior! Such terrifying accuracy!! As he didn’t seem like the type who was adverse to a little bit of attention, Rachelle and I took the dog over to have a closer look. He nodded at us, and we nodded back, noticing that he was actually stunningly good looking.

Rachelle: Cool!!

Douche with the whip: (In a completely posh British accent) Would you like to try?

Rachelle: (Giggles)

Me: (Holding the twig I had been using to play fetch with Heidi and in an unfortunately thin and raspy voice) Are you a Indiana Jones or something?

Douche with the whip: I’m sorry sir, I couldn’t quite hear you.

Me: (Clearing my throat and taking a lozenge) My allergies are bothering me, I said, “Are you Indiana Jones?”

Rachelle: (Stepping forward) I’d like to try now, please!

Douche with the whip: (Smiling like Jude Law) No, I’m not, but my agent thought it would be a good idea if I learned a little bit about the whip as he has an audition for me in a new role on Game of Thrones. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to have that opportunity, so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m making a display of myself out here, but you really need space to practice. (To Rachelle) Of course you can try!

Rachelle: (Jumping up and down and clapping her hands)

Me: I’m a well-known writer. I’ve been interviewed on TV.

Rachelle: Oh, that was a long time ago, Pickle! You haven’t been a columnist in years!! (To the douche) Everybody on Game of Thrones is so beautiful, I’m sure you’ll get the part!!

Douche with the whip: (Holding Rachelle around the waist and guiding her hand as she held the whip) You have to really relax your wrist and use a very free and easy motion.

Me: I think Game of Thrones is over-rated. Without the nudity nobody would even notice the show.

Rachelle: Will your character be asked to do any nudity? Oh, and I’m Rachelle (she actually tossed her hair), what’s your name?

Douche with whip: My name is William Burroughs, like the author. Apparently we’re related but I don’t know exactly how.

Me: Rachelle, Heidi’s not feeling well and needs to go home.

Rachelle: Okay Pickle, you take her, I’ll catch up later!

Me: (Examining the flyer he handed me while our dog Heidi was jumping about barking hysterically) Mister Adam Vaughan, let me quote here, it says, “I understand the transformative effect that good public transit can have on a community.”

Adam Vaughan: Yes, I think good transit is essential to relieve congestion, ease pollution and allow people of all income levels to have access to all the wonderful things our city has to offer.

Me: You know, I once saw a man expose his penis on the Queen streetcar.

(Awkward silence but for Heidi’s barking)

Me: It was there for people of all income levels to experience. Would you say that penis was one of the wonderful things our city has to offer? That it had the power to transform?

Adam Vaughan: I’d say that was an unfortunate incident that’s another example of the TTC being underfunded and the mentally ill underserved.

Me: One woman screamed and threw her knitting at him. It was a good strategy actually, as he hurried out through the back doors after that.

Adam Vaughan: Well, I’m running to become your Member of Parliament and I’m hoping I can rely on your support.

Me: I guess my endorsement would mean quite a bit for your campaign. I’m sure you want to get as many well-known writers as possible on board. Just makes sense, that.

Adam Vaughan: Yes, of course.

Me: I have a few more questions for you, do you mind?

Adam Vaughan: That’s why I’m here. Please, feel free!

Me: Well, the truth is that I know absolutely nothing about you other than what I just scanned on this flyer, so let’s start with some basics: If you could choose what to come back as, what would it be?

Adam Vaughan: Oh, geez, that’s a tough one.

Me: You can’t say “ a great fiscal policy for Toronto” or something lame like that.

Adam Vaughan: Spiderman. I’d love to be able to swing through the city.

Me: You can’t say Spiderman. He’s fictional. And that’s not much of an endorsement for our public transit, you know.

Adam Vaughan: Okay then, perhaps a cat. A cat that’s smart enough to take public transit.

Me: Good choice.

Adam Vaughan: Thanks.

Me: What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Adam Vaughan: Probably piety, it’s a kind of arrogance. This sounds like the Vanity Fair questionnaire, is it?

Me: Yes, the bits of it I can remember, anyway. Personally, I think confidence is horribly overrated.

Adam Vaughan: I see. Are you on disability?

Me: No.

Adam Vaughan: Well, thank you for your time, and please remember to vote on Election Day!