I Was Pierre Trudeau's and Justin Trudeau's Girlfriend: PART II: JUSTIN

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people dead or alive is purely intentional.

I was Justin Trudeau's girlfriend, from October 4, 2015, to October 4, 2015. Some call it a whirlwind, some call it fate, others call it the delusions of a lonely old woman. All I can say, without being too indiscreet, is that it was the best 24 seconds of my life.

Fourteen months sober, anxious and depressed, still detoxing from decades of drug, alcohol, food, gambling, sex, and gardening addiction, I found myself impecunious on the streets of Brampton, Ontario. My skin looked good though. At age 68 I could still pass for a pasty-faced and stooped Jennifer Aniston, or at least that's what one of the strangers tossing coins in my Tim Horton's cup told me as he stepped over my sleeping bag on the sidewalk.

A few loonies the better, I gathered my shopping bags and shuffled toward the Timmies down the street. The drop-in centre wasn't opened for my program yet, so I thought I'd treat myself to a coffee and watch some Timmies TV. I never tire of weather updates or celebrity news because they distract me from the pit of despair I feel in my gut, and  I get to check-in with the pressing concerns shared by my fellow citizens. Is Blake Shelton really dating Gwen Stenfani? If I knew who these people were maybe I'd care more about them, about myself, and about society at large.

As I neared Tim's, I noticed a big bus pull up into its parking lot.  Three men in suits disembarked, all talking on their phones. I thought this unusual. Nobody talks on their phones anymore. Two women then got off the bus, looked around the parking lot, and then started texting on the phones grasped in their hands. 'That's more like it,' I thought. It was then, when I was almost at the Tim's door, that I saw him get off the bus. Monsieur Justin Trudeau -- blue suited, donning a red tie, black hair shiny and full. My knees went weak and buckled. I stumbled into a garbage receptacle and steadied myself. How embarrassing!  One of his handlers spotted me, smiled and waved. He signalled to Mr. Trudeau and then indicated me.

"M'am, let me help you," the handler said as he held me upright. "Are you faint?"

"I'm all right. It's ... it's .."

"It's him, isn't it?  Would you like a picture with him?"

In my six decades plus of living on this planet, I have always felt invisible, unloved, shunted, defective. Fobbed off on foster parents, surviving through the shelter system, toiling as a line cook, slogging briefly as a senior financial analyst for Bear Stearns, I have known what it is to be reviled. To be graced with this kind offer brought tears to my newly sober eyes. I knew Trudeau junior's father; voted for him, adored him, carried his picture in my wallet to show to people. This is my Prime Minister. Now his son Justin sought the top political position in Canada.  After years of living under a dictatorship, the country now had a chance of returning to its natural order, a peaceable kingdom where the wolf dwells with the lamb.

As I stood astonished, Monsieur Trudeau turned to his handler and whispered something to the effect of "I don't want to use this woman as a photo op."  

He approached me, put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes, the cosmos and all its stars in heaven in his gaze. That gaze penetrated my soul and electrified my body. It sent us tumbling into bed, grappling with each others clothes, mouths hungry for each other. His eyes assured me that I was loved.

Trembling, I uttered the word "Justin."  His handler asked me if I had a cell phone to take a selfie. I hung my head and muttered something about it being in the shop. Monsieur Trudeau produced a phone that glistened in the sunny October air and outstretched his arm. I clung to him, hugging his torso as he snapped a shot. I closed my eyes and let the moment lift me, weightless and pure, skyward.

I opened my eyes and looked around. Justin and his team disappeared. Whether they ever got their coffees, I do not know. Sitting in the Tim's after the encounter, coffee and donut laid out like a feast before me, I vibrated with renewed hope and tantric energy. My friends at the drop-in centre still don't believe me when I tell them I was Justin Trudeau's girlfriend, but I know better. Somewhere now, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, le dauphin de Canada  is attending to the business of ruling our land, and on his phone is a picture of himself and me, a stark reminder of his goodness.

I was Pierre Trudeau's and Justin Trudeau's Girlfriend

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is purely intentional.

EXCLUSIVE TO 

CAROLYN BENNETT WRITER/COMIC BLOGSPOT.CA

I was Pierre Trudeau's  and Justin Trudeau’s girlfriend. Not at the same time. Wait, let me think. …. …. … … ……. ……. … .. no, not at the same time.

I met Pierre in 1996 at the corner of Sherbrooke Street and Rue Guy. I was about to get on the 165 Bus opting for the scenic route up The Boulevard to get to Côte-des-Neiges and eventually Van Horne to board the 161 to Côte-Saint-Luc, when I tripped on my untied shoelaces and into the arms of an older man wearing a cape. “Superman?” I exclaimed. “Non, mademoiselle, -- Pierre Elliot Trudeau.” He righted me against a wall and held me by the shoulders while I caught my breath, which took 15 minutes.  My knees kept buckling and he kept holding me up, until a passerby told us to “get a room”. We did.

The room was around the corner at the Ritz Carlton Hotel, the "Grande Dame" of Sherbrooke Street. Ironic that I should be walking in with a former Prime Minister when in fact, I had been banned from the establishment since 1994 -- some trifle about dousing a balustrade with gasoline and lighting it on fire. Pierre lowered himself on the king bed, shrugged, and then loosened his pants. I could tell by his pinched expression and general ennui that making love to me would be just another public service for a man who had given so much to his country.  I grazed his flaked and bony fingers with mine and whispered “it’s okay. Let’s just drink instead.” He ordered several bottles of Dom Pérignon (which I adored when someone else was buying). I drained the bubbly while he stroked my dirty blond hair and watched La Petite Vie on Radio-Canada.  I must confess my memory fails me a bit after this. At some point in the evening I recall Justin Trudeau knocking on the door and imploring his father to leave. “Je t’aime papa”, he cried. Pierre did not leave me. Au contraire [from the French for “on the contrary”] dear reader, he listened as I recited poetry I had scrawled on hotel stationery, and caressed my back as I knelt before the toilet vomiting.  Afterwards, I have a vague impression of his thin lips on mine, blowing into my mouth while applying steady compression on my chest with the heels of his hands.  

The next morning I woke up on the floor, fully clothed, pallid and parched, with delirium tremens and a mark on my neck resembling a hickie. The DTs are gone, but the “hickie” remains, In fact, every year on the anniversary date of my rendezvous with Monsieur Trudeau, I allow the faithful to touch the stigmata, which is formed in the image of a middle finger. Suffice to say, I have not washed my neck in almost 20 years.

I will always t’aime Trudeau senior. But you won’t believe what happened almost 20 years later with me and his son Justin!

NEXT MONTH PART II: The Justin Year(s)day.

Recovery and the Pain Conundrum

Pain and Addiction, Pain and Addiction

They go together like dread and affliction

Bet your bottom twoonie

You can't stop both and not go loonie

Have you had the pleasure of visiting a walk-in medical clinic in a major Canadian city lately? I say pleasure, but what I really mean is desperation. No one other than hypochondriacs, citizens seeking non-emergency but somewhat urgent medical attention, or drug addicts go to walk-in clinics. I am in the "all three" category, however I have been clean and sober for a few 24 hours. To say they are depressing is making a mockery of hopelessness. Walk-in clinics are up there with government offices and collision centres, in my books.  My books have pages by the way. Actual physical pages.

A week ago my back collapsed. That's the good news. The bad news is that it has been doing a reverse four and a half somersault pike ever since. All this from falling on my ass while on a standup paddleboard. A standup paddleboard, the things that look so relaxing when gorgeous people drift peacefully on them. They are lethal weapons when boarded by an oaf in ankle deep water. Oh well. At least some kids saw me land hard on my butt and then pointed and laughed.

At the urging of loved ones and others unfortunate enough to be in my vicinity for any length of time, I inched my way over to a walk-in clinic after four days of teeth-grinding pain. I was whisked in rather quickly (an omen?) and left in an examination room, but not before I noticed the sign at reception: THIS CLINIC DOES NOT PRESCRIBE NARCOTICS. A middle aged man came in, a doctor I am happy to report, and we chitchatted for a minute until he said, "What seems to be the problem?"

Since time began, pain has been a part of life. And since time began, those suffering seek to eliminate their pain. Some do it through spiritual enlightenment. Others do it through various medical remedies. Still others do it through acquiring thousands of pairs of shoes. I have approximately eight pairs of shoes, and I say approximately because I only wear three pair. Being in recovery, I am to aim for the highest spiritual plane of being possible because I am supposed to be "awakened". I fall short. On my ass. I pick myself up, and try, and keep trying, but some days the world wins. Medical remedies have served me well when I use them as directed and for the length of time prescribed. I am okay with that. Recovery purists may argue otherwise, but there are certain medications I need.

The not-so-good doctor proceeded to grill me with questions about my history with back pain. I was not prepared for the Spanish Inquisition, although being prodded with soft pillows would have been nice. “What do you do to to deal with your back pain?” he asked, over and over again. Over and over again I explained, “I wait, take a few painkillers, and walk it off.”  

“But what do you DO?”

“I walk it off!”

“What do you mean, ‘walk it off’?”

“I WALK IT OFF. I grin and bear it until the pain subsides.”

“Why are you not ‘walking it off’ now?”

“Because this is no garden variety agony. This is different. Hey – my coworkers told me to come here – it was not my idea.”

“What do you DO?”

“When?”

“What do you DO with pain?”

“Can you just examine my back please?”

“You DO what?”

“I am not going to ask you for narcotics, don’t worry.”

“DO you know what you DO?”

“I take a prescribed anti-inflammatory, but they aren’t cutting it… I’ll just leave now.”

“What do you DO when in pain.”

And that’s when I broke down in tears. I was looking for some sort of relief, assurance, anything to ease the pain. Compassion would have been nice. I do not cry often due to emotional constipation, so for me to sob was highly unusual. Maybe it had something to do with the excruciating PAIN.

And then he relented. He wrote a note for my employer. And two scripts.

Physiotherapy.

Percocet.  

And he got the hell out of the room.

I was not expecting a narcotic painkiller, but I have filled the prescription and use as directed and when essential. Is this relapse? No, this is self-care.

I really like my physio guy. 

Think I’ll just stick to standup, and leave the paddleboarding for now.

What Not To Do When In Recovery

As someone who is in long-term recovery from drugs and alcohol substance abuse, I am sometimes asked "what do you do for fun?" Many people cannot conceive of a life in which one abstains from intoxicating substances (including me on occasion). For me, the trade-off is worth it, as I do not vomit blood or wish I was dead quite as often. Still, many people in society view teetotalers and abstainers as sanctimonious bores, or worse, members of the Conservative party of Canada. I try my best to thwart stereotypes by maintaining the same dishevelled appearance and hopeless attitude from my using days. I do admit though to being guilty of bursting with gratitude while radiating health and contentment every now and then.

As a service to those living in sobriety, and to those who love them (or tolerate them) here are a few handy tips on what not to do when you are in recovery.

1)  Volunteer to be a designated driver for a frat house

2)  Wrestle the drink out of the hand of anyone over 90

3) Say to friends who invite you to their place for a meal of Coq Au Vin, "GET BEHIND ME SATAN!"

3) Lecture teens on the evils of what you used to take enormous pleasure in

5) Refuse to eat blue cheese offered to you at a reception because the last time you did you were "tripping for hours"

6) Boycott your local diner because it serves eggs with hash

7) While a priest drinks consecrated wine during communion yell out, "easy there fella!"

8) Say to the Pope  as he sips champagne at a state dinner, "I used to revere you."

9) Get kicked out of a state dinner

10) Offer to give anyone a piece of your mind. You need those precious few fragments for yourself.

May 2-4 weekend, comin' up in Canada. See you on the hiking trails!

An Apology From Bennettworld

 

To: Readership

From: President & CEO,Bennettworld

Dear Stakeholders:

It has come to our attention that many of you were disappointed with the quality of the January blog entitled Pestilence.

Please accept our sincere apology for any inconvenience this may have caused you. At Bennettworld, quality writing is our top priority. No, wait -- it's safety. Safety is our top priority. No ... wait ... it's quality writing. Quality writing is our top priority, with safety being a close second.

We understand that the author of this blog, Ms. Carolyn Bennett (not the MP), suffered from severe bronchitis for several weeks during the winter. This may explain the absence of a blog entry for February (DISCLAIMER - does not, nor does not suggest, absence of blog entry was due to illness). We apologize unreservedly for the shoddy, if not hallucinatory, tone of the piece.

In the interest of transparency, we include with this correspondence a selection of letters and emails we received concerning the blog Pestilence. It is our hope that you continue to read this blog for the mild chuckles and obscure musings it provides.

Sincerely,

President & CEO

Bennettworld

"My wife and I were dismayed by the astounding lack of substance in the January blog. One only has to read the blog of a pre-teen to find more trenchant social commentary. We are NOT amused!"

- Mr. & Mrs. R. V. Crowley

Eau Claire, Wisconisin

"My bridge club usually enjoys sharing the latest bon mots from Ms. Bennett's blog. The piece entitled Pestilence, however, we found self-indulgent. Thankfully, the piece was brief."

- Miss Wilma L. Chalif

Tusla, Oklahoma

"Why would Ms. Bennett think anyone, besides me, would be interested in the inflamed mucous membranes of her respiratory tract?

- Ms. Pauline D. Steinmetz

Novak, South Dakota

"Phil Kessel is more of a man than you'll ever be, Bennett!"

- Dion Phaneuf

Pestilence

I am writing this blog on Friday January 30, 2015. Christmas Day 2014 (December 25, for anyone unfamiliar with Christmas) I contracted a viral infection. I believe I caught the bug on a plane en route to Saskatoon. I could be wrong. I could have caught it from a telephone, or a human being, or a turnstile. All I know is that for just over five weeks (has it only been five weeks?) I have had a cough that rattles everything in my vicinity.

At week three I broke down and went to my doctor. She asked if I wanted antibiotics, just to shut me up. I relented and said yes, even though I knew they wouldn't do anything. They did do something though. They made my face swell up. I looked like Phil Kessel should, every night he is on the ice trying to pretend he's a team player. I dislike Phil Kessel. In fact, I dislike the Toronto Maple Leafs. No -- I find the storied franchise and its fans preposterous. But that is another blog...

Excuse me, I just dredged up some mucus, in the shape of Phil Kessel.

My cough erupts from a gooey subterranean nether region, somewhere between Michigan and Hades. If Boris Karloff had a baby, it would look like the chunks I hork. I sound like a gunner who smoked three packs a day on the Eastern Front.

Has it only been five weeks?

I don't know why I am so sick. The human body is a marvellous thing, when it is not gross. This is not a bacterial infection, and I don't have pneumonia or whooping cough. It is simply a persistent invader. Kinda like Phil Kessel should be, in the offensive zone.

I will shake this off soon. Either that, or I will be pulling along an oxygen tank on the subway. One good thing -- people move away from me on the TTC. It's great, but a little sad.

So, don't cry for me Argentina. Cry for Leaf Fans. I will be okay.

When is Dyson going to invent a vacuum for post-nasal drip?

Stay warm.

It Is A Wonderful LIfe

     I gauge my emotional health on how I react to It's A Wonderful Life. Most years I smile at the familiar sentimentality. On a couple of occasions I've fallen asleep before the climax (that's what she said - BOOM!) This year, I felt George Bailey's desperation. I let out a maudlin sob at the end. The fact that the film  ran on CTV last night, December 6, may say something about our nation's morale. This is the earliest I remember the movie being broadcast.

      Is it just me, or is the news really bad these days? Is anybody else troubled by what's going on in the world? Before you say "'twas ever thus", hear me out.

      The other night I was staring glassy-eyed at the telly, while Dan tapped on his phone. Peter Mansbridge, growing balder by the minute, read this off the teleprompter, in reference to UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon's call for action on climate change:

            "Ban Ki-moon made it clear -- he has no time for climate change deniers, and no time for any country that doesn't put the survival of the global population before its own domestic wants and needs."

     "Hey, Dan?"

     Tap, tap tappity tap. "Yeah?"

     "Did you just hear what I heard?"

     Tappity tap. "What?"

     "That the survival of the global population depends on countries taking action on climate change."

     "...yeah?"

     "Ban Ki-moon has no time for Canada."

     Tappity tap tap tap.

     "Dan?"

     "Nothing we can do about it from the couch right now."

     "But. But. never mind  ... good night."

It's stuff like this that made me drink vodka from a jar on the subway. Now I shoot back the strongest chamomile tea I can brew.

     Survival of the global population, huh? I wonder what Ban Ki-moon is trying to say.

     I remember my dad being gripped by the oil crisis in the 1970s. Aged ten and wanting to appear precocious, I followed the news and attempted to express my outrage at rising oil prices. "Dad, this is a damned situation," I remember saying, it being the first time I used a curse word at home. My father responded to my trenchant commentary by grabbing me by the scruff of the neck and shoving a bar of soap in my mouth. I think I offered my opinion a year or two later about Watergate, something I had no understanding of either.

     What is a person to do about the survival of the global population, at 10:15 p.m. on a Thursday?

     Not much. 

     But as George Bailey and It's A Wonderful Life demonstrates, it can go one of two ways:

     1) Jump off a bridge.

    OR

     2) Make a difference in the lives of others through acts of courage, generosity and kindness.

     I'll take door number two, Monty.

     And I'll watch reruns of Seinfeld before bed.

Twas The Night Before Vote Time

Twas the night before vote time, and all through the ward

Not a drug dealer was stirring, not even a Ford.

The putdowns and smearing were strung out with care

In hopes the electorate soon would be there.

The children were tossing all angst in their beds

while visions of Daddy loomed in their heads

And mamma in her muumuu and Rob in Leafs cap

Had scrawled the last promise in a long list of pap

When out from the basement there arose a great clatter

Rob hoisted from his chair to see what was the matter

He shuffled to doorstep and then he did shout

"Hey Doug, vote's tomorrow -- get the fuck out!"

The stairs creaked and buckled as the big man came up

From smoking from bong and drinking from cup

He rubbed his wide face and with eyes all a glisten

He vowed he would fight, to the people he'd listen

Rob outstretched his hand to his very big brother

Then gave him a hug, and one for his mother

More sluggish than buzzards, Rob's posse they came

up from the basement; Doug called them by name:

Now Lisi! Now Loser!

Now Dixon! Now Bloods!

On, MamMo! On, Liti!

Before the street floods!

To the front of the driveway

To the wheel of car

Now dash away, dash away

Dash away all!

Doug was all dressed in sweats, from his top to his feet

His clothes were all wrinkled and stained from canned meat.

A bundle of signs he had flung on his back

and he took a big hammer from out of his pack

His eyes how they drooped, his dimples how creepy!

His cheeks were all bloated, his scars were all weepy!

His voluminous mouth flapped with a huge breeze

and sweat poured from brow, and onto his knees

His sibling young Rob planted hand on Doug's shoulder

Asked, "Make me deputy mayor, if I get older?"

Moved with compassion, and a trifle disgust,

"Rob, badass motherfucker, it's done!" Dougie did cuss.

Then no words were spoken as both got to work

They joined their ill posse, and assorted ill jerks

They planted Ford signs on lawns tidy and neat

Any person protesting is one that got beat.

Once finished they sprang and to team they did yell

And away they all flew like bats out of hell

But I heard them exclaim. 'ere they drove out of sight,

Happy Mayoral Election to all, and to all a  good night!

 
 
 

Rejected Business Ideas

Ministry of Government and

Consumer Services

ServiceOntario

Companies and Personal Property

Security Branch

393 University Avenue, Suite 200

Toronto Ontario

M5G 2M2

19 August 2014

RE: Business Registration

Dear Ms. Bennett:

Thank you for contacting the Ministry of Government and Consumer Services, and for submitting your business ideas for registration.

After careful consideration, we have made the decision to rejected your application. You may wish to review your business plans, marketing strategies, financing, and overall concepts for your proposed enterprises. To recap, they are:

1) Bad Ass Baby Tattoo Company: Tattoos for the infants of ink aficionados.

2) Drive Thru Urinals: A complement to fast food drive thru windows. Allows the driver and passenger to relieve themselves via urinal or catheter, to save time. (You may wish to approach the Canadian Intellectual Property Office with this, as it is more of a patent)

3) Racoon A-Way: Do-It-Yourself animal removal kit. (Shovel, ax, large garbage bags)

4) Rent-A-Crank: Service provider. Acting as proxies for parents, elderly people nag and cajole successful younger adults, to keep them honest.

5) Gee-Had Me: Lighthearted greeting cards and novelties for Islamic extremists.

6) Old Tyme Movers: Environmentally friendly eco-movers, using horse drawn covered wagons. Fee charged by the hour.

7) Look Up: A computer app for mobile phones. Alerts busy texters when to raise their heads and focus on: crossing busy intersections, paying for food, buying groceries, boarding public transit, driving vehicles, engaging in conversation with a human being physically with them, swimming, bicycling, hiking etc, etc.

8)  Public Pylon: 24/7 on-call service that places traffic pylons around your vehicle, to reduce the risk of parking tickets.

9) Bad Ass Tattoo Removal Company: Hard-edged tattoo removal for the whole family. Sterilized needles optional.

10) Be Me, Be Free: Cloning service. Send replicas of yourself to events and occasions you rather not attend: e.g. board meetings, parent-teacher interviews, one man/one woman shows, family reunions, church, children's dance recitals etc..

We suggest you further investigate and develop your proposed business ideas. Not to put too fine a point on it, but we think you should abandon them all together.

Thank you for submitting your business ideas. The fee for each concept will still be applied

Sincerely,

Faceless bureaucrat

Miracle on the HI-360

                                                                          

From Kahului, Maui's main city, the little town of Hana is 52 miles away, or about 84 kilometres. Hana is nestled in the island's rugged eastern coastline, and according to the  

Go Hawaii tourist website, is considered one of the last unspoiled Hawaiian frontiers. I would call it a backwater, if not a marijuana outpost. The drive to Hana can take anywhere from two to four hours to complete, because it consists of narrow one-lane bridges, and hairpin turn, not to mention spectacular scenery. A person is apt to toddle and gape.
 

The Hana Highway (HI-360) has 620 curves and 59 bridges. That's a lot of body and dental work. The road weaves its way through lush rainforests, towering waterfalls, plunging pools and breathtaking seascapes. Did I mention the hairpin turns? If you visit the Go Hawaii website, you will see I lifted some of the Road to Hana description, and changed the adjectives. Gosh, you'd think I was a speechwriter for Prime Minister Harper. I am merely setting the scene expeditiously, to get to the funny part.

I had just come off a gig in Honolulu, and Dan and I were vacationing in Maui. Yeah, I had a gig in Waikiki. Was booked in December 2013, at the height of the Toronto ice storm. (The internet is a wondrous thing at times, when it's not a black hole for attention spans. A company from Australia found me on the You Tube --but that is another blog to procrastinate writing.) All the tourist websites and books said to DRIVE THE ROAD TO HANA. I must confess, I am getting cautious in my advancing years. I thought the drive may be a little too tiring for Dan, because there was no way I was going to attempt it. I do not own a car, have never owned a car, and only drive the cars of other people when they are inebriated beyond repair. I am an dyed-in-the-wool urbanite, right down to my library canvas tote bag and metropass. Nevertheless, I shook off my apprehension, rented a car, and appointed Dan as chauffeur for the week.

 Maui is not a big island, but beautifully craggy it is. I imagine it is like Newfoundland, without the sleet, snow and people saying "I's the B'y". As Dan turned the wheel one way and then the next, and as the car climbed the road to Hana, I felt vague unease. One false move, like say texting a client, or eating a burrito, and we'd plummet off the side of the road and explode like cars did in the TV show Mannix.  It was more than that though. I felt, in my gut, that something was going to happen, and that something would not be good.

I pretended I was relaxed and happy. I had every reason to be; I had just come off a successful gig, and was remunerated well. The drive was every bit as amazing as the tourist books said. Dan parked the car at a remote beach, and we headed for the water.

That is, he headed for the water, and I was stuck guarding keys and wallets. I watched him frolic in the big surf, thinking it was a bit rough. My stomach clenched some more. I glanced over at a bbq hut in the distance, and saw a man leaning on a shovel, his eyes closed.

I turned back to the ocean, to see Dan climbing up from the beach, heading toward me.

Without his glasses.

Dan wears glasses. Dan needs glasses. To see.

     "Darlin', I lost my glasses in the ocean," he said.

And that's when I flew into a rage. Looking back at it now, I supposed I hadn't completely shaken off my apprehension.

      "I knew it! I knew it! I knew something was going to FUCK UP! I had this feeling ALL DAY LONG, something was going to FUCK UP. And something FUCKED UP."

I paced around in a fury, at the same time steeling myself for the tortuous drive back. I would have to get behind the wheel, be the responsible one, and draw upon my driving school knowledge from 1996.

     "GET IN THE CAR NOW. It's going to take six hours to get the hell out of here!"

What happened next is what I like to refer to as "Miracle on the HI-360."

Not wanting to endure my wrath for an interminable journey back, Dan insisted on driving. Being a coward, and an angry coward, I let him. For the first 20 minutes I hollered anytime the median line disappeared . Then, I started to relax. Dan was driving well. Not only that, he seemed to drive better without his glasses. He took hairpins turns with panache, exceeding the 15mph speed limit, and then some. I resigned myself to driving once we hit towns and the city again, but no, he kept going, passing other cars and keeping up with the highway traffic going 65mph, all the way to Kihei where we were staying.

Unwinding with beverages on the lanai at the condo, I asked Dan why he insisted on driving.

     "It was either I drive, or you mad at me for the rest of the day."

     Yes, Miracle on HI-360. The thought of someone ranting in a car for six hours gave him new vision. And it gave me insight into my own catastrophic thinking, and my need for control. If you take the Road to Hana, remember to just enjoy the ride.

                                                                                                  

Les Habs and Me

The last time the Montreal Canadiens won the Stanley Cup, in 1993, I was a young standup comic, full of piss and vinegar, pissing vinegar more likely, from metabolizing lethal doses of alcohol, marauding down town Toronto screaming Les Glorieux! Les Canadiens sont la!! Now, in 2014, I am unlikely to be drinking alcohol any time soon, but I am sorely tempted to join, or start, a riot again. Because if the Habs win the Stanley Cup, unbridled emotion will ensue.

I haven’t lived in Montreal for 25 years, but I still tell people I am from there. It’s in the blood, (or these days in the mucus, this being spring allergy season).  Being from Montreal isn't just a fact of birth; it’s a state of mind. It’s picnicking with your best friends on Mont Royal; it’s narrow cobblestone roads and lounging on a terrace; it’s minus 35 degrees and not being able to feel your fingers; it’s referendums on sovereignty that keep the rest of Canada hostage. The Canadiens, the hockey team that helped define Quebec, unite Montrealers from far and wide. In Toronto, when I see a brave soul coming out of the closet as a Habs fan, donning a Habs cap or wearing a Canadiens T-shirt, I resist the urge to kiss them.

Why I pour so much emotion into a hockey team, I can’t say. I do know that the game of hockey has seen me through some dark times in my life, when grief and anger almost swallowed me. Much has been said about the Montreal Canadiens being Quebec’s new religion. It is accessible worship and immediate communion. I have had to remind myself to pull back at times, to not get overly invested emotionally in a game’s outcome. But, lord, how the Canadiens can enthral and invite devotion! It is the rouge, bleu et blanche, those vivid bold colours that ignite the eyes and heart.

Why do I still love the Habs? Because they were my youth -- helped me through all the pain and glory of it. They were my young adulthood and now, my middle age. They are my long time companion. The team, no matter what, will always be my Glorieux.

I Was Rob Ford's Girlfriend

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Not out of the realm of possibility mind you, but purely coincidental.

I was Rob Ford's girlfriend.

I dated him on and off from 1987 to 1998. Mostly off.

We met at the Etobicoke Ribfest. He asked me if I'd like some of his secret sauce on my ribs. I thought he meant the food I was eating, but no, he meant my ribs. 
I thought he was funny.

I was 14 , he was 29. I've always had a thing for older men. These days I'm dating William Shatner, or Bill, as he likes to be called.  I feel confident in saying to you, my friends, that Rob Ford is no Spock. He's not even Scotty, or Bones, or Lieutenant Sulu, or Captain Pike's yeoman.

Forgive me, I digress. It's the brain damage...

 

Rob asked me if I liked ACDC and Rush. I shrugged and said "I dunno". He asked if I liked Guns and Roses and I said "yeah." Then he handed me a gun and a rose.

We made out in his Dodge Caravan. He kissed like he was slurping back a beer. I went along because he was 29, an older man, like Alfred Hitchcock or William Conrad from the Quinn Martin Production Cannon. I let him feel my breast, and then almost let him feel my other one, but then I noticed his brother Doug was in the back seat watching, so I told Rob I'd see him later, alligator.

Rob was a giving lover. He gave me weed, booze, crack and once a little cough syrup because I was coughing. He liked to go down on me, he called his move the "Robbie Bobbie". One night he got wrecked and didn't want to make out. Instead he rested his head on my lap and cried, cried about all the times he was bullied in school. Kids called him fat and stupid and an imbecile, that he was too fat to play football. He felt so hurt, lonely and worthless. I told him it was okay, that we all feel like outsiders and losers. It was okay to feel pain, that we are only human and that kids could be mean and cruel. Then he punched me in the face.

That's when I had to leave.

He said "don't go baby! I won't do it again! I'll show them -- I'll show them all -- I'll coach football! I'll be a leader among men!"

I downed my beer, hiked on my jeans and headed for the door.

"Baby please," he begged, "I'm fine. Stay with me! I'm gonna be someone someday. I swear one day I'll rule this town! I'll be Mayor of Toronto. I'll be famous!"

I never saw him again, until I turned on Sun TV in Toronto and saw him and his brother had their own show. Too bad it was cancelled, but I hear he's on You Tube now. You Tube! Can you imagine!

Now Rob will probably have book deals and a line of BBQ grills and his own brewery and his own ecstasy stamp. 

He might even be on talk shows.

But that's okay. I don't fault him for capitalizing on his misfortune.

Why? Because I was Rob Ford's girlfriend -- and for the right price, I will do the same.

Ford More Tears

Happy New Year, dear reader. It is 2014: year of the horse, the 100th  anniversary of the start of WWI, 75^th anniversary of the stirrings of WWII, the year Canadian Forces pull out of Afghanistan and, most monumental of all, the municipal election year in Toronto.

Ah, Toronto, city of tempered glass, concrete, steel, and a subway system that hasn't changed since Charles Nelson Reilly appeared as uptight Claymore Gregg on the television series The Ghost & Mrs. Muir. Money is being invested in infrastructure, apparently. I think we’re getting a new swing set for a park. This is my adopted city, one that has been good to me. What’s been extra good to me in recent memory is our mayor, Rob Ford.

People have asked me (okay, maybe not) “why haven’t you commented on Mayor Rob Ford?”  I believe the expression is “gilding the lily”. Why tamper with comedy perfection? Mr. Ford has been a gift from the comedy gods. I have always held that Toronto proved its exceeding progressiveness by having elected the world’s first developmentally delayed politician. Perhaps in 2014, the City should consider imposing an IQ minimum for candidates, like those height requirements needed to board certain amusement park rides – you have to be this smart to run for mayor.

Now Mayor Ford is in the running again for re-election. He has called his campaign “Ford More Years”. Dan, my paramour and live-in caregiver (he makes a mean pancake) on hearing the news, immediately quipped “Ford More Tears”.  Being the comedian in the family, I put my spin on it with Ford More Gears, Ford More Beers, Ford No Hears etc. But Dan was first out of the gate and, I admit it, captured the exasperation of sentient beings everywhere with Mr. Ford, his antics, Ford Nation, and the dumb and dumber team of Rob and Doug.

Thing is – Dumb and Dumber is one of my favourite comedies. Rob and Doug Ford make for great entertainment. Too bad Rob Ford is the actual mayor of Toronto. I would vote for him in a second if everyone agreed to let him run amok for the cameras, to let him exist only on television and in opinion pieces and blogs. He’s way more fun than Mark Grimes (who?) or Gloria Lindsay Luby (who?). Rob Ford has put Toronto on the map. Sure, people say he’s disgraced the city and has sullied its reputation, but is that all bad? We’re on the map! Come see our new aquarium!

This is when my Gemini nature really emerges. My 100% whole grain side says “Rob Ford shouldn't be allowed to vote, never mind run for office”, while my frosted sugary side says “Yo, smoke a fatty, fatty, and mow Pam McConnell down one more time.”

In the book Amusing Ourselves To Death (published in 1985) Neil Postman theorized that television sacrifices quality of information in favour of feeding the insatiable needs of entertainment. In 2014, this is not only true, it is an industry, a lifeblood.

We are all complicit in the creation of Rob Ford, as critics, citizens and consumers.  He is the lightening rod for our civilization and its discontent. So hello 2014,  bonne année, Kung Hei Fat Choy, and Insha'Allah, we’ll stay sentient, sense of humour intact. 

How Natalie Saved Christmas

Late afternoon, mid-November and I'm sitting in a corner booth at McDonald's with Dan. We had just finished sanding an antique sideboard at his shop and I was the one to suggest a coffee at McDonald's. After not setting foot in the place for over 35 years, I will now drink their coffee on occasion. This is an occasion; I'm depressed.

Depression feels like a vice grip clamping my brain. I've felt it coming on for weeks, have tried to ignore it, but it has closed in. Gloom eclipses my thoughts and days are getting darker. Thank god November coincides; it's always difficult to describe this pain in the spring.

I've suffered from depression all my life. Some of the best comedians have. That's not to say I'm one of the best comedians -- I'm pretty good -- but I'm not great and certainly not the best. I have a melancholic nature and I discovered early the antidote to that is to assume the opposite. I remember as a child sitting in an armchair (it was orange woven fabric ) and numbly staring off. I did that fairly often. It was either that or recite goofy stories I wrote for my classmates.

Today I'm pensive, staring off onto the street, the heavy slate sky matching the concrete side walks. Colours hurt right now. The red AutoWash sign across the street makes me squint. Autumn, time of decay and inevitability. There isn't a minute that goes by that I don't feel a cell die. Today is the Santa Claus parade too. I went last year and felt deliriously happy, swept up in the holiday magic and cheer. This year I feel too low, to inexplicably ashamed to go. I have a sip of coffee and tell myself to be patient, that this internal dread and fear will pass.

I see her in my peripheral vision, tallish, wearing a grey hoodie. She is nearing.

"Do you have any money? I'm hungry."

I glance up. She's standing over me and looking into my eyes. Dan is sitting across from me and she doesn't see him. I don't feel fear, annoyance, repugnance, pity, compassion. I feel nothing. She has asked me a question and all I can do at that moment is be truthful because I'm numb.

"Yes, I have some money. Let's go get something to eat."

"Can I have McNuggets?"

I dig seven dollars and fifty cents out of my wallet.

"I have seven dollars and fifty cents. Let's see what that will buy."

"Can I have a combo?"

"This is all I am going to spend. Let's see what it will buy."

There is a line up at the counter and she steps in front of the queue. I tell her we have to wait our turn.

"How are you today?" I ask.

"I'm fine."

"I wanted to go to the Santa Clause parade today, but, well, I didn't make it," I say.

"Uh huh."

"Have you ever been?"

"No."

Her eyes are glazed and fixed. She smells of old wool and body odour. Her hair is close cropped. I'm guessing she is between 30 and 40 years old. She is stooped.

"Are you from Toronto?" I ask.

"I was born in Jamaica."

"Do you have brothers and sisters?"

"I'm an only child."

"Do your parents live in Toronto?"

"My mother is in Mississauga and my father lives in New York City."

"New York City. That is a great place, one of my favourites."

She smiles and she is lovely.

"Where do you live?"

"I'm homeless. I have bipolar and I can't work."

"What's your name?"

"I'm Natalie. What's yours?"

"I'm Carol." I extend my hand. "Nice to meet you Natalie. That is a lovely name."

When it is our turn to order I ask for 10 chicken McNuggets. She asks the cashier for a combo pack and the cashier says no, because I only give her seven-fifty.

I leave Natalie and return to the corner booth and to Dan, who has noticed the police have shut down traffic on Keele. I try not to think about the ridiculousness of living in Toronto these days.

I see Natalie carrying a tray and sitting down at another table.

"Look," says Dan, pointing.

I turn around and face the street. A flat bed truck goes by, giant fairy tale ducks in tow. I hear someone say the float is probably going up to Weston for its Santa Claus parade. Another flat bed truck whizzes with a Smurfs display. I am on this.

"Natalie! Come over here. Come sit with us!" I'm waving at her and she comes over with her tray.

"Look outside!"

Float and float goes by, shiny candy canes, gingerbread people and gingerbread houses, penguins in bow ties, all barrelling down Keele. Natalie offers Dan a McNugget.

"That one is pretty," she says of the gingerbread float.

I'm smiling now, perked by the crazed parade.

"Hey, here come the reindeer!"

We see the big finale shoot by, the twelve reindeer, the north pole workshop and Santa's sleigh. Three people not Santa are sitting in the sleigh. People on the side walk have all stopped to watch this. They wave anyway.

Natalie has finished her McNuggets. "I have to go now," she says.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to go back to the shelter now. Thanks for the McNuggets."

And then she hugs me.

For that instance, my cells stop dying. She hugs me and I feel alive. She shuffles away and out the door.

My eyes meet Dan's. We don't say anything. We're both tearing up. Natalie, for those few moments, has transformed me. She has blessed me. There is no other way to describe it.

"There needs to be more housing for people," Dan says.

"Yes." Grateful, I let the tears flow and lift my coffee cup and touch his.  "Merry Christmas, Natalie."

Dear EPublisher

 Dear EPublisher:

Thank you for your interest in my first novel Please Stand By. I do appreciate your notes, support and eagerness to get it into the www. ether. However, your enthusiasm has been a deciding factor in my pulling the manuscript from your epublishing company.

I can hear the sighs of disappointment from my legions of fans. I can hear the accusations about denying the public my humourous insights, searing imagery and complex characterization. How dare I be so selfish.

Ah, yes, I can hear them, as I tap a spoon against my tea cup. The roar is deafening.

The simple fact is -- I don't read ebooks.

Not only that, I don't have a smart phone and I don't have cable or satellite TV. I have a phone that was given to me in 1994. It has an oversized keypad because it is a phone for the visually impaired. It plugs in to the wall.

I can go down the list.

I am not anti-technology, far from it. I am not a Luddite. I am a Luddite-light perhaps. That's a better term than cheapskate.

So I realized -- why would I have my novel published as an ebook when I don't read them?

You also told me I had to get on Twitter, PinInterest and Facebook. This caused many sleepless nights. I joined Facebook in July 2013 at your insistence. Call me a late adopter. I use it reluctantly, as a promotional depot. I hate the thought of bothering people with "notifications" and feel guilty when I don't respond to personal requests for online friendship. The less time I sit and stare at a computer screen, the happier I am. Maybe If I am ever "liking" a beheading on Facebook, I'll be more open to using Twitter and PinInterest.

Which leads me to the main reason I have decided to put my manuscript on hold with your company.

Crowdsourcing.

We were going to put an Indiegogo campaign together for me to ask people to pre-order my book. I wrote a funny script and lined up an excellent cinematographer to shoot it.

And then I pulled the plug. So close.

Cancer researchers use crowdsouring. NGOs use crowdsourcing to raise funds for typhoon victims. Writers who are social media darlings use crowdsourcing.

I could not in good conscience go electronic cap-in-hand. Even to friends and family. Especially to friends and family. This is a first novel, not a cure for Alzheimer's (although it has been said I am a clever writer). Can't do it. Even if it, as you say, "pre-ordering".

So where does that leave Please Stand By?

Exactly where it was a year ago, under a stack of paper on the bottom book shelf in my office and as a Word document. It may stay there indefinitely. Or I may work up the nerve again and send it to small Canadian publishing houses. And I do mean houses, there is one around the block from where I live.

Thank you very much for tolerating my infernal unwillingness and knuckle-cracking. I am confident you have moved on at lightening speed to the next fortunate writer.

I remain,

Carolyn Bennett writer/comic