Author: Michael Murray

The subway car smelled of Tim Horton’s coffee, and besides myself, there were only seven other people on it.  It was around noon on Friday, and each person there chose to sit just as far from another human as possible. Plugged into an iPod or scrolling away on a Blackberry, the commuters all fought to…

Last week, we attended a dinner party in which one of the guests told a story. She was telling us about being at another function, one that was hosted and attended by a bunch of really rich people. As a sort of parlor game, the hostess asked each diner to tell the rest of the…

On Sunday, Rachelle and I drove out to Scarborough to go to the Pacific Mall.  We were both ridiculously excited, imaging a sort of theme park, where absolutely anything we could imagine would be available, with some freaky Asian flair, and sold for next to nothing. This was not the case. The mall is large…

It was 16 degrees out on Friday. Heidi and I strolled down Madison, passing the Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority house, where privileged Daddy’s Girls were assembled on the steps and in the front yard. Some poked away on their MacBooks, while others, holding rakes like the entirely foreign objects they were, attempted yard work. They…

Last night, in a spirited yet demoralizing floor hockey match, The Jesus Cobras fell by a score of 4-3 to The Bomb Squad. The Bomb Squad was a team characterized by crisp, white t-shirts and headbands that were worn without a trace of irony. They had one dirty player, and one player who looked like…

The woman in front of me at the grocery store looks a little bit like a bird. She’s far too thin, her glasses make her eyes look massive and she has a nervous manner, hopping stiffly from one foot to the other. Her basket is full of organic carrots, a couple of bags of seeds…

It’s funny how two people might interpret the same thing. On Valentine’s Day, a fire truck with flashing lights, parked on the street near our apartment. It was obvious to me that they weren’t tending to a bona fide blaze, but had been called out on another matter. As I looked out the window, it…

Last night, at one in the morning, three people were in the process of moving into one of the apartments in the house next to us. Trying not to be creepy, I watched them at their task from my desk at the front window. It was raining out and they looked disorganized. Their cube truck…

Our real estate agent’s name is Rod, and I get the sense that he might be a very lonely man. He seems positively happy to spend his Saturday afternoons with us, as if it’s a relief for him to step outside of his life for a few hours. He’s quick to smile, and before either…