The system, it turns out, was a terrifying fail, and as a result of this the government has decided to refine the system before launching it anew in a few months. I, along with a number of other writers, have been hired to help write clear, effective messages for the probable alert scenarios the government is most concerned about. These are some of the alerts we have been working on:
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Emergency Alert #1
Emergency Alert #2
Emergency Alert #3
Emergency Alert #4
Emergency Alert #5
Emergency Alert #6
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She loved many people, most of them more than me, and my love was cloying and imperfect. I lost her many times. Days, weeks, months later she would return without tears to my shabby and crooked apartment on Coloniale. And I would attempt ferocity and steely eyes, but I was powerless before her. Oh, Monique in new pants, Monique skating at Carre St. Louis, Monique opening a tin of tuna—each moment an act of singular and irreducible beauty.
Her dreams took on the form of divine revelation. Each morning she woke up astonished, unable to grasp the portent of her nocturnal wanderings, but certain of their implicit significance. They became puzzles to solve, ghosts to tend, arrows to follow.
Watching her eyelashes flutter and knowing at that precise moment she was dreaming, I imagined them taking form and floating like mysterious cave drawings in the dark above us. I wanted to pluck them from the air, to preserve them so we could study them later, but even in my mind’s eye they eluded me, curling away like smoke and then disappearing, a trail of phosphorescence reabsorbed into the ocean.
After she left in the morning I would put on the sweater she had been wearing. Intoxicated with her redolence I would wander the streets breathing her in. Everything shining.
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When the waitress brings me the bill she sucks in her cheeks like a super-model and shakes her shoulders from side to side, “Good music tonight”, she says.
George Michael is playing.
Freedom.
I like her, although I am not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s because she’s wearing a grey t-shirt just like the one you had. Maybe that’s all there is to it. Maybe I like her because the grey t-shirt she’s wearing connects me to you, helps me to draw a line back to your body.
At the table next to me sits a couple. The man has thick fingers and puffy eyes, and the woman is skinny and looks reflexively defensive, like she’s used to evading attack. They are speaking slowly, as if English were their second language, but it’s not. They’re just drunk and concentrating, trying to summon something true from their well of hurt. He looks into his glass and then up into her wary eyes, “There is something about you I have been missing so much,” he says.
And the waitress, looking from side to side at the nearly empty pub, sighs as I dig out my credit card to pay the bill. I ask her why the heavy sigh. She tells me that it’s been a long day.
And then there is a pause, and in that moment the space between us fills with something.
It’s sadness.
It’s desire.
And we look at one another, our invisible lives inching closer now, everything closer.
]]>On Sunday Rachelle and I took our son to his swimming class in Kensington Market.
Walking down the stairs to the pool there’s the heavy, nostalgic smell of chlorine drifting up to meet you, and when it does, something takes place that moves you from one point in time to many others.
Every pool you ever knew is conjured, and you remember feeling a little vulnerable and excited as your bare feet padded toward the pool. You remember diving boards and lifesavers, games and races, unknowably beautiful lifeguards perched above like trophies, and the light catching the water as it swells and dips, glinting.
Everything refracted, everything reframed.
But on this day there were about six parents– each one with their tiny, precious child– forming a semi-circle around the instructor. So comfortable and confident in the water, she was like some mythical sea creature who spoke only in a song.
“Three blind mice, three blind mice, splash your hands, splash your hands,” she encouraged, and all the children kicked and splashed– and that, the water leaping up, became the physical manifestation of their joy. To witness this could have been the instructor’s great passion, the love to which she had given her life over.
And Jones was so happy. Excited, he shouted along to all the nursery rhyme instructions. He was game for anything. Even Torpedo Time, when the toddlers are submerged under water and then pushed through a hoop by a parent only to explode out of the water like the radiant beasts they are. Rachelle, who was smiling so broadly her face could have split in two, swung Jones through the water and then lifted him as strong and high as she could, before swinging him back down and then throwing him up in the air. And Jones, now soaring, was above it all, glowing in a weightless paradise for a moment, before falling back to us and into his mother’s arms.
These are the text messages my wife sent to me the other day:
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Rachelle: How’s the pulmonary rehab going, my love?
Rachelle: Oh, I’m so glad to hear that you’re dominating the warm-up exercises!
Rachelle: Yes, you are a natural leader, it’s one hundred percent true!
Rachelle: What’s The Flower Pot?
Rachelle: I see.
Rachelle: So you sit in a chair, and then move one of your legs as if you were lifting it over a flower pot?
Rachelle: What a strange name for an exercise!
Rachelle: Well, I don’t know. Maybe something a little more macho, something like The Grizzly Stomp or The Sumo Crush.
Rachelle: I like The Grizzly Stomp, too. You should write that down and put it in the Suggestion Box.
Rachelle: You already suggested a Cosplay night! Interesting idea, Pickle, but aren’t all the other residents elderly?
Rachelle: I see, that’s good thinking on your part, you can make your oxygen tanks look like rocket packs!
Rachelle: You are very creative, it’s true, and as you say, you are the Wayne Gretzky of The Flower Pot.
Rachelle: Really? The physiotherapist asked you to lead the class yesterday?! How flattering!
Rachelle: Yes, I am sure it was a great honour that everybody else was bitterly jealous of! I’m curious, did you get to choose the music for the work-out?
Rachelle: That’s great! Who did you pick?
Rachelle: Oh.
Rachelle: Well, it just seems like an odd choice.
Rachelle: I didn’t know, Tori Amos just seems weird to me. Complicated, annoying.
Rachelle: Sorry. I am trying to encourage and support you, my love.
Rachelle: Really?
Rachelle: Right in the middle of the stretch she said you had a very small flower pot?!
Rachelle: OMG, That’s hilarious!
Rachelle: I mean nasty, just nasty.
Rachelle: 90 is old, and aging can make people mean.
Rachelle: You’re probably right, that smart-alecky Yvette lady likely had dementia.
Rachelle: Because it’s not your class, honey.
Rachelle: That’s why they wouldn’t let you “expel her from your program.”
Rachelle: Well, I’m glad you put her on notice, anyway, and sorry that everybody is now calling you The Little Flower Pot.
Rachelle: Think of it being like Dear Leader, a term of respect and fear.
Rachelle: Well of course I miss you terribly, but I’m struggling along. Even had a little party last night to fight the loneliness.
Rachelle: Probably less than 25 people, I don’t remember.
Rachelle: He might have been there, not positive.
Rachelle: Oh, you’ll get a kick out of this!
Rachelle: He brought his Porsche over the other day to take Jones for a ride, and Jones just loved it! I’ve never seen him happier! It’s astonishing Pierre doesn’t have any kids because he is just SO amazing with them!!
Rachelle: Yes, you’re amazing with Jones, too.
Rachelle: Sure Jones misses you.
Rachelle: Well, he’s still not really talking yet, so he missing you in a kind of subconscious way, I guess, but I can tell that he really does miss you!!
Rachelle: Tonight?
Rachelle: Oh, Steve needed to take somebody to the magazine awards at some fancy hotel and Jen is out of town, so I have to go as his date. Barf.
Rachelle: He was nominated in two different comedy writing categories.
Rachelle: It is a shame none of your work was nominated!
Rachelle: No, I have no idea why Steve won’t accept your Facebook friendship.
Rachelle: The world is mysterious.
Rachelle: Never mind that though, what are you up to tonight, my Little Flower Pot?
Rachelle: Fish stick night! Yum!
Rachelle: You’re my favourite fish stick, you know.
Rachelle: It’s true.
Rachelle: Don’t ever doubt that!
Rachelle: You will always be my favourite fish stick! xo
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Me: Hi! I really want to thank you for taking the time to talk with us, and add what a personal honour it is for me to be speaking to a woman with with such a dizzying literary capacity. You are truly one of the greatest writers in the entire world.
Atwood: That’s very sweet of you, thank you.
Me: I think an awful lot of people would be surprised to learn that you played Fantasy Baseball.
Can you tell us here at The Knuckler how you got into it?
Atwood: As people may or may not know, I’ve always been very interested in speculative fiction, and when I heard about Fantasy Baseball, I thought it was in the same vein. You know, like Fantasy Literature, so I looked in to it. Alas, it was not, but I became fascinated by it and all the marginalized, impotent men that play it so obsessively. It’s role playing, really, where all these limited, in many cases arrested men, bond together and pretend that they’re something much more powerful than they are in the ordinary dirt of their relentlessly disappointing lives.
It’s like a religion for them, I think, a little treehouse they can retreat to and act as supreme ruler of a secular male kingdom. I have always thought that without Fantasy Baseball there would probably be an awful lot more mass shootings. Anyway, I got involved in order to research a character for one of my books and have been playing ever since.
Me: Oh.
Atwood: And I have to say, I’ve done very, very well.
Me: Good for you.
Atwood: I’m sorry, are you being sarcastic?
Me: Oh no, a marginalized, impotent shooter-type such as myself wouldn’t have a clue how to do that!
Atwood: I see.
Me: I guess you’ve just been a very lucky player!
Atwood: Lucky?
Me: Plucky. A very plucky player.
Atwood: Really?
Me: Well, let’s not get side-tracked with semantics here. So, I’m sure all of The Knuckler’s readers would love to hear what your Fantasy Baseball team is called!
Atwood: The Blind Assassins.
Me: Oh.
Atwood: Mister Murray, I have to say, you sound disappointed.
Me: Well, coming from a “literary genius” you’d expect something a little more imaginative and eloquent. It seems lazy and nakedly self-promotional to name your team after one of your own books, especially if it wasn’t good enough to be an Oprah Pick or made into a movie.
Atwood: What is your team called?
Me: Mike’s Mashers.
Atwood: That’s very clever. How are they doing this year?
Me: They’ve been savaged by injuries I’m afraid, so it looks like I’ll be rebuilding again.
Atwood: Again, eh? So, how long have you been playing Fantasy Baseball?
Me: I don’t know, 25 years?
Atwood: Have you ever won?
Me: Ha, ha, ha! Have I ever won? What a funny question! Let me tell you, I’ve more than held my own.
Atwood: But have you ever won? Have you ever finished in first place? Have you tasted the sort of victory that for a moment erases all those memories of being the last pick, of being mocked for throwing like a girl, of all those many, many times of being over-looked by the more talented and beautiful?
Have you ever had your revenge, Mister Murray?
Unfortunately, I suffered an asthma attack at this point during the interview and we had to suspend our chat.
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Hello America!!
I am Melania, the luckiest woman in the world, and I am so happy to be here before you!
Why, you might ask, am I the luckiest woman in the world?
Is it because I am beautiful?
Is it because of my gorgeous dress and luxurious jewelry?
Is it because I am like champagne?
Is it because I am so very rich and famous I never have to wait in line?
Is it because I speak five languages?
Is it because I am white?
(Wait for enthusiastic screaming to subside)
NO!
It is because I am married to the greatest man in the entire world, Donald Trump.
Donald is the perfect husband. He has bought me so many wonderful things! He is so smart and such a great negotiator, and he loves America so much! He wants America to be the best, like him. He wants America to be #1 again!
(Wait for applause)
Thank you for your applause, you are such a classy audience, so very classy!
(Wait for applause)
Some people, some very bad people, say that I copied my last speech from a black woman. This is monkeyshines! I would never do such a thing. I am innocent and I will sue!
(Wait for cheering and celebratory gunshots to cease)
Thank you America, thank you!
Donald Trump, the next President of the United States and author of the hit bestseller The Art of the Deal, is not just my husband, but also my lover.
Yes, and let me tell you, he is as good at making love as he is at making deals!
(Crowd goes wild)
My lover is also tough on terror!
He will not tolerate it!
He will fire it like a bad apprentice!
With Donald you will always feel secure because you know that if any terrorists, or some loser country, were to try any monkeyshines, he would destroy them.
(Pretend to be a sexy cowboy/stripper shooting a gun)
He would. It would be no joke.
(Wag finger)
Let me ask you beautiful Americans, who does Hillary Clinton reminds you of?
Ha, yes, she does remind me very much of an old Jew!
Who else does she remind you of?
Yes, a lesbian for sure! She has no fashion sense, no class. She dresses like a box.
A hag robot! Yes!
And of course, yes, a serial killer. It is in her eyes, the killing.
So many horrible things she reminds us of, so, so many horrible things!
In closing I want to say that Donald Trump is a beautiful, beautiful man. So rich and so successful and so sexy. Not only does he live the American dream, he is the American Dream, and he will restore the American dream for all of you beautiful patriots.
I love you, America, open carry for all, and remember to follow the next President of the United States @realDonaldTrump!
This inhibits his writing, and in an effort to figure out young people and how they work, he recently fostered an 11 year-old Iraqi orphan named Naseefa for three months. Franzen insisted that Naseefa keep a journal, and what follows are excerpts from that journal.
Day 15:
It is morning and I had just woken from another nightmare full of the bombs and the screaming of the torn and dead. As I open my eyes I see Master Franzen staring down intently upon me. He has been watching me in my terror, he says. “Naseefa, what were you thinking as you slept?! Tell me!!” I say to him that I do not know how to put my thoughts into english words and Master grows frustrated. He hits at things in his apartment, saying bad words, and then he runs off and begins to type.
Day 18:
Today Master took me to Fantasy Forest amusement park. “Go,” he said, “act naturally.” Master then bought a hotdog, arguing briefly with the vendor about technology, and then sat on a bench with his notebook. I went on the Merry-Go-Round and as it was just starting up Master ran to me, “Little boy,” he yelled, “why did you choose this horse? It’s missing a hoof, does it remind you of the carnage of war? Does it summon memories of a family member having an amputation? Why not the lion, does it frighten you because it summons images of your abusive uncle having sex with your mother while your father worked?!”
I did not know what to say so I began to cry. Master Franzen scribbled in his notebook and then started to argue with the hotdog vendor about technology again.
Day 19:
Master seemed depressed today, spending hours in front of the mirror rearranging his hair.
Day 24:
Today Master forced me to open a Twitter account. He wanted to observe as I interacted with the outside world through the use of technology. However he keeps interfering, insisting that every hour I Tweet something about his new book Purity. Without saying a word, he hands me a little piece of paper with the words I must Tweet.
“Franzen is a giant who looms over the American landscape.”
“Purity is a complex and beautiful meditation on what it means to be alive.”
“We are blessed that not only is Franzen the greatest living writer in America, but that his best novels promise to be before him.”
“Just saw an interview with Jonathan Franzen! Not only is he brilliant, but sexy, too!”
Day 38:
Lasagna for dinner again. Master said that his fans worship him and make food for him all the time, and then he laughed a dry, mean laugh.
I am frightened in America.
Day 43:
Master returned to the apartment in a bad mood today, as his tennis lessons did not go well. “The backhand bedevils me!” he exclaimed, before throwing his racket at his transistor radio.
He stared at the broken pieces on the floor for a long time and then suddenly he spun around and shouted at me, “What are you thinking?!”
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He’s receded from public life and many have been wondering what he’s been doing. As it turns out, one of the things he’s been doing is applying to attend an Icelandic Writer’s Retreat in April. The application required that you write a short story or essay based on the following photograph of the Harpa Concert Hall and Conference Center:
This is Doug Ford’s entry:
Sometimes a guy can go to a pretty black place. That can happen after you lose an election. When your whole life has been about winning, and winning hard, losing feels like a sucker punch to the gut. Not even football or pornography or yelling at people can fill the hole. Sometimes a guy has to go to therapy.
Therapy is for the weak, and Ron Ice, a very successful businessman and philanthropist, was not a weak man. He was a powerful man, a man who was a shot put champion at his high school.
Girls used to gather around to watch him throw the shot put. Ron was like a Nordic god and he did very well with the ladies, thank you very much. Those were good times for Ron, but now, with all the critics and small people yammering away at him after the election, all the people who don’t understand how to run a business, he realized he needed to clear his head, even if it was the weak thing to do.
Ron looked deep into his soul and realized that he wanted to broaden his horizons.
Iceland.
Iceland was the territory that Ron always started in when he was playing Risk.
It had access to markets in both the east and west, had plenty of challenging terrain to hide in and there was little pollution. Ron would move to Iceland and start his empire there!
People loved Doug Ford in Iceland. He stood a good six inches taller than the rest of the population, and as he still looked like a Nordic god, people began to worship him, “Look!” the villagers would cry, “The prophecy is true and the Ice King now walks amongst us! Ron Ice took the country by goddamn storm.
One day ISIS terrorists took over the Harpa Concert Hall and Conference Center where they planned to burn Christians in cages. Ron Ice would have none of that. Ron drove down there in his jeep, got out and just walked into the place. People were in awe of what big balls he had. When the terrorists saw him they all started yelling and getting excited in that language of theirs. They waved machine guns around, but Ron was as cool as ice.
He just stared at them, a penetrating hate stare, and then he began to yell, his mighty eyes bulging, and when he did they all put down their weapons like subservient kittens and were arrested.
Ron Ice walked out of there, got back in his jeep and drove up to the misty green hills of Norðurland vestra, where he had some property and a condo, and from where he would soon launch his internationally successful printing business Ice King Labels and Tags.
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Dear Iceland:
You know who I am.
I am Leonardo DiCaprio.
My resume speaks for itself. I am arguably the greatest actor of my generation (sorry Christian Bale), wealthier and more powerful than many small nations and have a Klout score of 88.2. I can make it rain.
You should know that I am a HUGE fan of your work as a weird island nation and am really impressed with your buzz. You’re punching above your weight, little guy, and you’ve got some great PR people in your corner!
I think that the two of us could do some great work together and with that in mind I’d like to attend the Iceland Writer’s Retreat this year in order to research a role for a film I hope to shoot in Iceland in 2016.
What is Leo DiCaprio’s project you ask?
It is to be the blockbuster of 2017. It’s to be called Written in the Ice, and I will star as an ex-CIA operative who has made a break from the dark world of Black-Ops he mastered in his past. Having been given a new identity, Leonhard Jónsson, now a fisherman and aspiring writer, is living a humble village life in Iceland.
He is crazy talented and charismatic, but he’s suffering a form of PTSD and has writer’s block. However, this lifts when he attends the Iceland Writer’s Conference and meets a quirky, hipster Icelandic woman (hotter and younger than Bjork, but suggesting Bjork) who believes she communicates with elves. They have sex.
Through one of her nocturnal communications with the elves, (she falls into an automatic writing trance but must be naked for it to work) she is given a secret for renewable energy that will save the world from global warming, but before Leonhard and her can get the secret out and save the world, evil government forces and big oil seek to kill them and destroy the information.
It will be the best movie ever, sweep all the awards and be a “Titanic” success for the Iceland tourism, but for me to properly play all the dimensions of Leonhard Jónsson, I will have to attend the Iceland Writer’s Conference, free of all expenses for myself and my staff of 28.
A few other requests:
For the process to properly work, I need to be in the presence of lots of beauty. Please ensure that the class is populated with beautiful women. I cannot stress the importance of this enough.
I will require a beach, and if it is off-season, then I will require that it is artificially heated so it simulates the tropics.
I will need a helicopter and a yacht.
I will only attend 45 minutes of the conference each day and will not be required to “turn in” any work for grading.
Legal immunity from the laws that govern Iceland will also be required.
Nobody is permitted to look directly at my man bun.
Looking forward to working with you, and my lawyers will be in touch shortly!
Regards,
Leo
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