I’m Not One Hundred Percent Sure That Pandemics Bring Out the Best in Me

horizons shrink, waistlines expand, and Americans find freedom in the most unlikely places

in Ohio, protesters against the coronavirus lockdowns shout through the doors of the legislature

THERE AIN’T NO ONE IN THIS WHOLE wide world angrier than a white American CoronaZombie told they can’t go to their vacation home. “Let my people go! Tell old Pharaoh—“Naw, he sounds Muslim—tell Alex Jones instead!”

I’m conflating, maybe even extrapolating, a bit. The rather freakazoid people above are in Ohio; the people who can’t go to their vacation homes, well, there may be others, but as far as I know they are the white people of Michigan, whose governor, a Democrat and a woman, Gretchen Whitmer, has enacted just about the most rigorous stay-at-home orders in the US.

She’s had to, because apparently Michigan generally and Detroit specifically have extremely high rates of infection, the brunt of this borne by, and I hope you were holding your breath because, of course, black people.

African Americans, many of them being the people who have the jobs that keep society moving during a lethal pandemic, the fast-food workers, the health care workers, the grocery store staff, the front liners in essential businesses, have, of course, got it covered about who is going to get that fuzzy end of the coronavirus lollipop.

But the white people, the angry outraged spluttering CoronaZombies, have grabbed their rifles, their bazookas, their automatics and their semi’s that the Founding Fathers explicitly recommended—“… the right of the people to keep and bear Bazookas, shall not be infringed;” it’s right there, in fluent goose quill— and they are mad as hell and not takin’ it anymore in front of wherever Gretchen hangs out, and they are chanting “Lock her up!”

Gretchen Whitmer is called “that Michigan woman” by the Adolescent-in-Chief, Trump, who never met a broad unwilling to toss him her panties while pole-dancing that he could relate to. And it must be said: For Gretchen to be in power as a woman seems well-meaning but asking for trouble. But to be a woman in power and a Democrat seems more like just carelessness.

By the way: You ever notice how they’re never chanting “Lock him up”? This just occurred to me. Like, it’s never a guy, is it? Have you ever seen or heard the MAGA crowd chanting to lock up a guy? I think I’m on to something, don’t you?

It’s a special chant reserved for the gals, which is, I guess their way of making them feel special. Like buying the little lady some Godiva chocolates and a set of sterling silver handcuffs for Mothers Day.

So “lock her up,” meaning get the women barefoot and in their kitchens, stop them being so uppity, and get them off our backs!

This is not only misogynist but problematic in another way. You see, I have this theory that it shows maturity — remember maturity? Yeah, neither do I — when someone in their teens, or twenties, or even beyond, stops rebelling against parental controls and realizes that some of the advice is actually helpful and sensible.

One day, sick of the emotional effort of being contrary, and deciding that kicking and screaming while pounding your fists and heels on the floor looks a tad undignified, you have a satori.

The clouds part to reveal a chorus of angels and you hear them singing that the advice you found so hateful is not just offered so your parents can annoy you with a demeaning reminder that you’re a helpless, wet-behind-the-ears, financially dependent walking fetus who wouldn’t know to come inside when it’s raining and who can’t figure out how to press the “ON” button on the microwave. It’s meant to save you the heartache of repeating the same mistakes until your forehead is flatter than Saskatchewan and you’ve lost all that time.

And, to your amazement, because you’re now mature, you just go ahead and follow the advice, because now that you’re a grown-up you no longer worry so much about what other people think.

You don’t have to mimic your peer group. You don’t have to prove how cool you are, because now, without even noticing your own coolness, you actually are. You don’t have to “fit in” any more. Other people can fit in with you, instead. You’ve earned it.

You’ve discovered that, although there are seventy-eight buttons on the microwave, one of them for “popcorn” which unfailingly burns popcorn, so that everyone from Orville Redenbacher to Thomas Keller advises, “For the love of god, whatever you do, DON’T use the ‘popcorn’ button,” all you actually need is three buttons: the one for “Beverage,” a second button to choose one minute, four minutes or ten minutes, and “ON.” Microwave popcorn, pizza pocket or twelve-course tasting menu for your instructors in the George Brown College Culinary Arts Diploma course, this is how it works.

But not for the CoronaZombies. They’ve learned and earned nothing. These guys, and of course it’s mostly guys, are still in an embryonic state of helplessness, because women are their slaves, but in reality their mommies, so, stuck in eternal resentful, thwarted adolescence, they automatically rebel.

Their sense of adult, independent manhood is so tenuous, so fragile, that to follow a woman’s advice, even the advice that will save them from catching and/or spreading a potentially fatal disease, is to them tantamount to sitting once again in that highchair while she goes, “And here comes the airplane into the hangar ooogie boogie mumsy wumsy puddin’ pie!” with that spoonful of Gerber carrots.

So they take out their dicks—oh, fine, excuse me for living, guns and cars—and assert their masculinity. It’s all such a tedious, predictable shit show.

I went out of the apartment to shop for groceries during the past couple of days. I do-si-do’ed around the few people I encountered on the sidewalk, and I stood in line, six feet in front of me and six feet behind me, to enter the grocery store.

It was a sunny day, with spring being all coy about putting on her make-up and peeking around the corner in nothing but a towel. The day felt calm and there was a big world happening, bigger, at least in that moment, than anyone’s problems. There was no one complaining. There were no guns or crazy demos.

That’s because Canadians still retain the idea of the social contract. We still understand that we are not just individuals as islands of magnificent solitude and self-contained rights. Because we have universal healthcare, and revere that we have it, we still understand that we work together, through our government—which is us, because we elected them to do what we wanted—to achieve what we could never accomplish on our own. For the proof of that, I cast a glance south.

As always we have our watered down, hearts-not-in-it, bargain basement versions of the American neediest cases. We have a guy called Derek something, an actual member of the Conservative Party of Canada, standing in a field questioning whether our Chief Public Health Officer, Theresa Tam, “is working for us or for the Chinese,” a disgusting and defiantly racist comment that is universally rejected and reviled.

(There is no equivalent to the Fox Network run by Canadians, by the way. Our media, apart from one or two outliers, are firmly mainstream, and any news anchor who attributed any validity to that question or denied its racism would be fired the same day. Just ask Don Cherry.)

A comment rejected and reviled—but not by the erstwhile party leader, the gutless Andrew Scheer, who blushes and giggles like a trainee geisha when he’s asked if he will condemn the remarks.

Scheer demurs. He waffles. He prevaricates. He breaks out in more nervous dimples than a newborn baby’s butt having its first diaper change by Dad. He does everything it’s possible to do with words except answer the question or condemn the remarks.

Once again, a woman in power is targeted by whiny, insecure, immature males who just don’t know how to deal with her, and who are tacitly given the seal of approval by their wimp leader who’s scared that conservative voters won’t play with him at recess if he condemns racism and misogyny.

The only flaw in my theory about women being the targets of male rage would appear to be that Justin Trudeau also takes a lot of similar flak. But in the minds of the Conservatives and the usual gang of online incels, Justin is a woman. So my theory lives on.

We then have another guy, who I theorize will not be picking up a Governor General’s Award for logic any time soon, noting that the number of Covid-19 cases is nowhere near what was predicted, so that he questions whether all this freedom-squashing sheltering in place was necessary.

Dear Stupid Person: The reason the number of cases is lower than predicted is that we did shelter in place and it worked. Just exactly how flat does my forehead have to get?

Little Miss Shirley Temple Black CoronaZombie: the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

I DO RATHER LIKE THAT THERE’S a Democratic Governor of Michigan called “Gretchen.” This is really only the second time I’ve heard that name, the first instance being as the protagonist in a famous song by Schubert, “Gretchen am Spinnrade” or “Gretchen at the spinning wheel,” which he wrote just a few moments after he was born (child prodigy). Unfortunately, no sooner had he scraped the grape-jelly-like afterbirth residue off his velvet smoking jacket than he lost the fucking manuscript in an Uber.

Jeezus, dude! No way are you getting that iPhone!

“Das ist sooooo wie mir!” was his only comment, as the little show-off Schnozzler scrambled to write the whole thing out again from memory, this time competing with his friend Felix Mendelssohn who had himself just lost the entire score of the incidental music to “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” in a London cab a week before.

“Alvays I am immer making ze big vergessenses when my Fanny is distracting me,” Mendelssohn added, gazing at his firm, really quite toothsome bubble-behind in a huge, Baroque gilt-framed mirror. But of course, he was referring his Schwester, Fanny. “Fanny,” as you know is the diminutive of—

What is Fanny the diminutive of? Seriously.

Let’s reverse engineer this.

So “Peggy” is a diminutive of “Margaret.” So then, by analogy…

Take the “f” of “Fanny” and change it to two letters previous in the alphabet in the non-dim version. So, “D.” Then, change the “a” to “e” and then the “g” in “Peggy” represents the doubling of the third consonant, so “n.”

Ladies and gents, the mystery is solved. Felix Mendelssohn’s sister’s actual name was: Dennis Mendelssohn.

I know that Dennis isn’t really a Jewish name, but don’t forget the horrible anti-Semitism in 19th-century (not to mention 20th- and 21st-century, also this afternoon) Germany. They obviously called their only daughter “Dennis” to give her a big leg-up in society, which is extra fortunate because, if you look up any pictures of her, Dennis, that is, you’ll see she is keine Ölgemälde, not even an oil-painting-by-numbers by your six-year-old.

But getting back to Gretchen and her spinning wheel. This song is a setting of a scene from Faust, which is easy to guess because Germans have two pieces of literature: “Faust” and “Mein Kampf” and it’s a toss-up on any given day which one they prefer.

I don’t recall anyone called Gretchen in Mein Kampf, do you? Well, there you go, Faust it is.

Goethe wrote Faust; he’s kind of like the German Shakespeare, but more efficient. Germans are all about efficiency. Why have Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe both sweating buckets getting all those plays ready for the Globe when you can have an all-in-one? Goethe is the laptop where the screen comes off and turns into a tablet, of German literature. You could probably read Kindle books and make phone calls on a Goethe as well, knowing the Germans.

However, Goethe’s most famous achievement is writing the slogan for Audi, “Vorsprung durch Technik” which means “We’d spring some work on you, but technically there isn’t any.”

German is a member of the portmanteau family of languages, like Welsh, where a single word can express the universe. For example, it you wanted to say, “If you’d like to cry little pearly teardrops about the fact that there’s no work, maybe we could get together on Wednesday, please and thank you, bitte, but only if it’s together, I’m too shy on my own!” then the word for that would be:

« das EsGibtKeinArbeitAlsoMöchtenSieDiePerlenTränenTröpfchenVielleichtAmMittwochZusammenMachenAberNimmerAlleinIchBinZuvielSchüchternDankeSchön-tum! »

Then a native German speaker would add, “Sieg Heil!” Germans say “Sieg Heil!” at the end of every other sentence, which means, approximately, “Doesn’t life just suck donkey testicles?” Obviously this is formal, so they would probably preface this with something like, “Guten Abend, Gnädiges Fräulein!” (= “We could have a good evening if one of us brought some goddamn condoms or are you happy with just frottage?”)

Germans can be a bit of a downer. But at least there’s Beethoven, except he was honorary Austrian. If you want to really get up a German’s Nase, remind them about Beethoven. They’ll have das Konnipchen. Probably with a big Stein of Bier.

Germans ultimately are nice people, if you legislate that, and fairly harmless as long as you don’t let them anywhere near a munitions factory or someone who’s not blond. Or food! Don’t let a German anywhere near food! Good grief! What were you thinking?

Anyway, I didn’t mean to get all literary and intellectual on you. It’s a bit early for this, right?

THOUGH I LOVE TRAVELING IN the US, love Americans — the honest to god, warm and welcoming, sit-a-while-and-have-some-pie, passionate and outspoken, above all, decent, and, heaven knows, never boring, Americans that I meet whenever I visit—I thank god every morning that I was born Canadian.

Because in Ohio, as in Michigan, and probably the Carolinas and maybe even Virginia and Georgia, everywhere I look, Americans are always riled up about freedom.

Americans have the doggone craziest ideas about what freedom entails.

Americans are not just automatically obeying orders to shelter in place! They are not about to be told what to do, not after they dumped those boxes of Lapsang Souchong in Boston Harbor.

Americans love the idea, their idea of freedom, so much so that they have invented new kinds. As a Canadian, I can only shake my head in envy, and genuflect with respect, for Americans are the cutting edge when it comes to freedoms no one else enjoys.

The freedom to die of Covid-19: “Hell, no! You ain’t gonna quarantine MY ass!” “It’s just a plot to take away our liberty!” This includes the freedom to infect others. Remember others?

The freedom to go bankrupt: “Ain’t my fault if you can’t afford your heart operation!” “I want to choose my health care, until I get fired…” “SOCIALISM! We’ll be no different from North Korea!”

The freedom to flaunt one’s ignorance: “The earth is flat, AIDS came from a lab in the US, Hillary’s pizza parlor, vaccines kill!”

The freedom to shoot and be shot. “Nothing is more important than no background checks, not even my children’s lives.”

The freedom to start everything from scratch: “Rugged individualism! Self-made! I didn’t use the roads, the electricity, the library, the supply chain, the groceries, the fuel, the railroads, the college, the ideas, the advice, the loan from my family, the grant, the tax cuts!’

The freedom to ignore science: “You’re not gonna tell me that that huge contraption is gonna fly through the air?! It must weigh a million tons! I don’t believe it just cause some elite scientist says it!”

It’s interesting how the pandemic has changed one thing, however; one intensely satisfying development that was instantly pointed out by every progressive with a direct conduit to NBC or a WordPress blog.

Everyone’s happily taking trillions of dollars in aid.

No one’s complaining about “socialism.” Two trillion rabbits out of two trillion hats, two trillion of the money that “just isn’t there” for healthcare, Universal Basic Income or affordable housing. That is, when only the disadvantaged need it. Just isn’t there, until you need it.

Things I have baked, cooked, or bought, then eaten, by myself, in the past month:

  • Two loaves of no-knead bread; two loaves of whole wheat sandwich bread, six purchased croissants, a box of donuts, a box of Timbits;
  • A pack of Twinkies and a pack of those pink cakes with coconut on them (Dolly Partons? Hello, Dollies? something about a dolly, anyway);
  • Five batches of chappatis;
  • Two mix-in-the-pan cakes from the New York Times online;
  • An apple cinnamon cake that serves twelve;
  • Eight boxes of Kraft Dinner;
  • A bowl of buttercream frosting that was meant for the cake;
  • Burgers, French fries and onion rings, with mayonnaise, all homemade;
  • Three batches of peanut butter cookies, two batches of blondies, five batches of shortbread;
  • can, forgive me, Julia, for I have sinned, of Chef Boy-ar-dee ravioli and one of chili (the chili wasn’t entirely bad, the less said about the ravioli, which smelled like the hallway in a long-term care facility, the better);
  • Countless pouches of microwave popcorn (Beverage; 2; ON;)
  • And tonight I’m making chicken Divan, a casserole of chicken breast and broccoli bathed in a cheese béchamel sauce made with whipping cream.

Coronavirus has more than one trick up its sleeve to kill me. I see that now.

Luckily, I smoke cigarettes. Because studies currently underway in France apparently indicate—and I’m not making this up—that nicotine may protect you from infection with the novel coronavirus.



An Action of Grace: Canadian Thanksgiving

What’s the purpose of Canadian Thanksgiving?

From The Canadian Encyclopedia:

The first Thanksgiving by Europeans in North America was held by Sir Martin Frobisher and his crew in the Eastern Arctic in 1578. They ate a meal of salt beef, biscuits and mushy peas to celebrate and give thanks for their safe arrival in what is now Nunavut. They celebrated Communion and formally expressed their thanks through the ship’s Chaplain, Robert Wolfall, who, according to explorer Richard Collinson, “made unto them a godly sermon, exhorting them especially to be thankefull to God for theyr strange and miraculous deliverance in those so dangerous places [sic].”

Mills, David et al. “Thanksgiving in Canada”. The Canadian Encyclopedia, 05 July 2019, Historica Canada. https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/thanksgiving-day. Accessed 13 October 2019.

The article makes it clear that “Thanksgiving” has many meanings above and beyond harvest celebrations and Pilgrim landings. It’s a time to thank—god, or your lucky stars—for health and for survival, for whatever prosperity we have, for family and friends, for peace, for democracy and freedoms—for somehow muddling through this crazy life that is given to us.

In the past year I’ve survived fraudsters, tight finances, more crazy roommates and my sixty-fourth birthday, and somehow I just keep going.

I have good friends, resilience, a sharp mind, the music of Beethoven; memories both tender and terrible, all of which remind me I’ve had, and still have, a fairly extraordinary existence in one of the countries that’s most blessed with wealth and goodwill.

I’m gay, and I won’t be put to death for that. I could marry my partner, if I wanted to, and if I had a partner. I have food to eat, a place to live. I have skills that have directed my life down interesting pathways: Classical pianist; bodywork/zen shiatsu; photography and visual art; and from the time I was able to pick up a crayon and annoy people, writing.

And I’m sixty-four and still look good enough that people don’t run from me, screaming. As long as I have my clothes on.

I spend far too much time complaining, going over old hurts, nursing my wounds, worrying, regretting, and eating Kraft Dinner—

—and how do they get FOUR PORTIONS out of that little box? Torturers! Once I added Brussels sprouts, and though they were thinly shredded, my roommate threatened to call 51 Division on me. I saved my skin by adding some Shopsy’s wieners, cut up and boiled in the same water as the pasta.

I will add that my family were wiener boilers from way back. We didn’t hold with socializing with wiener fryers, who tended to be Catholics and other idolaters from southern Europe and even more reprehensibly “ethnic” folk who tried to do more than contribute some new additions to the McCormick spice line.

If the situation warranted, we’d cross the street to avoid encountering a hot-dog fryer family out for their evening promenade, though it hurt our souls to shun them. But how else to teach them the evil of their ways?

Thanksgiving is a time to recall that much of life is in the attitude we take, simplistic though it sounds.

In Québec, Thanksgiving is celebrated much less than in other provinces of Canada, given the Protestant and Anglo origins of the holiday.

The Québec French translation of Thanksgiving is “Action de grâce.” This is a beautiful rendering, which reminds me that grace means to be given something for no reason. Grace is a gift we don’t deserve, love that we didn’t earn. Grace means to be an infant again, held protectively; to dive off the pier and trust the waves to catch us.

This Thanksgiving, give a thought to the refugees of the world: the homeless, hungry and displaced, who are suffering because of wars, famines and natural disasters.

That we are not refugees is an accident of birth, statistically improbable.

Yet, through grace, here we are.


A Satori


If seedlings are waking up in clay pots on my balcony, 
if there are tiny, fragile seedlings 
that despite their tininess and fragility
still manage to express their true nature,
just as distant stars express theirs;

If this expression of stars and seedlings
is inevitable, yet innocent;

And if a seedling, a wisp of green, a mere tendril, 
can heave aside a boulder, its opponent,
which is a crumb of earth, 
And the crumb can’t resist —

If the will to life and its expression are that powerful;

if the force of life animates everything and 
everything will continue in its path 
without regard to me or my existence—

Then I know I am, and will be, safe; 

I know that I need only do the next right thing
and that the next right thing will present itself
and I will recognize it.

And I need only do this next right thing 
as completely 
and with as much sense of inevitability 
and with the same innocence
as do the seedlings in the ground or the distant stars.

This is what I understand we are talking about 

when we talk about god.

Monday Man-Crush –OR– How to make a Libtard hard! Top 4 most jaw-dropping Justin Trudeau pictures ever, revealing his Canadian secret of success that is so awesome! Unbelievably??! cute!!?

How to make a libtard hard?  The look is bemused vulnerability. (Justin, baby?  Answer the phone?)

September 2016

It’s my birthday, and I am donning my tightest skinnies – no Kleenex-stuffing necessary, thank you very much, first in line – plus my “Only Gay In The Village” red sleeveless top in preparation for my man-crushing on this week’s and every week’s hunka hunka burnin’ PM,  Justin, The-Person-Called-Trudeau.

With a bitter yet achingly triumphant shout-out to George Clooney for blocking my relentless barrage of sexts over the past 12 years – manly as your stubbly chin and smokey voice may be, you have nothing on the taut muscles, tousled hair and houri eyes of May I Call You Justin, every gay male boomers’ – goomers’ ? – wet dream.

Justin – just one more button?  Please?

My swollen,  purple mangina trembles at the sight of our very own PM revitalizing Canada’s brand at the U.N. with his pledge of liberal lashings of humanitarian aid;

Only JT could tumesce my beaver-cleaver with such authentically awful straight-guy dancing as first PM in history to attend Toronto’s Pride Parade—which just shoots the tragic want-so-bad-the-cock-I-cannot-have longing right off the charts.

And at the risk of being TMI about things, I’ve popped such a libtard bologna-pony as he smiles at Syrian refugees, and – aw, shucks, don’t think badly of me – leaked just a little drop, or maybe two,  of pre-cum into my Stanfield’s Y-fronts (available by mail-order in “one-size-fits-all” granny pant version, white only, and not in Québec, je suis so fucking désolé) as he strutted arm in arm with that steamin’ cup o’ hot, hot chocolate called Barack Hussein Obama.

And I don’t mean Nesquik, dudes. That’s kid stuff.  I mean Ghirardelli bittersweet, the finest grown-up America has to offer.

What does a red-blooded Canuck say to a refugee?  “Welcome”.

Well, that’s what a Canadian thinks; that’s what anyone but an American thinks.  Barry, if you’d been Canadian, if you’d made it to Prime Minister, it would have been business as usual, but we would have fairly bust a collective gut with pride for our black, brilliant, witty, eloquent leader, our model father and husband, the guy who really WAS ready to answer that 3AM phone call, our trophy PM, the embodiment of that dream that is not just exclusively American.

Instead?  Your prime function wasn’t to function. It was to shine the Klieg lights on the tumbleweed-infested badlands of darkest America, to turn over those famous metaphorical rocks and watch as the creepy-crawlies came scuttling out, squinting, Trump-ballots in hand.

Whatever insects have instead of hands.  (Mandibles?  Yuk!)

My fantasy threesome involves Barry, Justin, a  tape measure, and a pizza delivery gone very, very wrong.  ( JT –  you make my mouth water like an amuse-gueule at Scaramouche, but seriously? Brown shoes at the White House?? )

You shoulda been dancing in the streets, Americans; held an eight-year New Deal shindig to which everyone was invited, rich and poor, black and white; where everyone could talk and everyone would listen and every small-c conservative would pop a boner for Barack.

Instead, white str8-tards everywhere rattled the bars of their playpens and spent eight-years screaming  SOCIALISM! eight years badmouthing, lying, sulking;  eight long years wishing that their new-born little brother, the guy who was taking attention away from THEM, could just – lose the birth certificate and disappear.

America, there’s nothing like you, that’s for sure.  What can we say about a country so resentful of its own self-made elite class, a country that beats its gorilla chest and bellows about the American Dream—then spends eight years playing who do you think you are?    

Harper was the punchline; we were the joke.

Tant pis.  The only grumbles you’ll hear in Canada these days come from those permanently disaffected overgrown white heterosexual males whose clock is stuck somewhere around grade 9 — Stephen Harper was perfect for them; his affectless, droid-like style barely concealing the simmering resentment of the least-liked kid in school — the Libertarian Geezers  who still think ‘politically correct’ is a current discussion, and who need the company of other similar geezers to give a little lift to their fleeting, sponge-y hard-ons.

But at least most of them are old.  I figure all we really have to do is stall until the geezers are gone to dust and the new generation is in power.  JT is an avatar of that new optimism.

So here’s to my Monday Man-Crush: the so very not-regular guy who reaffirmed that being Canadian is just about the coolest damned thing there is to be;

Justin Trudeau: who touched me in my secret place and made this libtard hard.

“Dude, who you callin’ a libtard, eh…?”

Oscillating and pulsating, on and off, -OR- “What we talk about when we talk about extremely personal hygiene, assuming we’re tasteless enough to talk about it at all, and we are.”


Campers, I give you herewith:

The dashboard for an electronic bidet’s remote control.

Oh, you heard, cupcake. Oh, yes you did. Stop going “LaLaLaLaLaLa” with your fingers in your ears.

I have so much to share.

Don’t ask me how I stumbled across this treasure. I do not remember. Any more than the bathrobe-wearing 85-year-old dementia sufferer remembers how he ended up on the midnight bus to North Bay with egg-yolk in his chest hair and clutching a box of wet wipes.

(I would like to say I found it “on the computer”. This is how my Luddite friends would respond to the question.  And I don’t complain, much, because at least they’ve remembered that “the computer” isn’t “the TV-looking thing with all the pictures on it”.

(But it’s a losing battle as their trembling white senior-knuckles gradually give up their hold on the crumbling cliff edge of the twenty-first century, and they slide back! back! into the abyss filled with IBM Selectronic typewriters—whose golf ball technology replaced the gentle thwack-thwacking of individual keys with the sound and sensation of being shot point-blank in the forehead with an assault weapon—carbon paper, correction fluid, avocado-green kitchen appliances, orange shag carpeting and push-button princess telephones.

(That was their defining era, the fork in the path when they shook their heads at “progress”, took a just-invented Valium and called Bell Canada for return of their “perfectly good” black rotary dialler.  To get an idea of what Bell Canada was like back then, think Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction” but without the wife to stand in her way.)

Now let us return our gratefully wandering attention to the dashboard in question.  I may be remembering correctly or I may not, but I think it was the options for “front cleansing” and “rear cleansing” – and their shamelessly derivative Keith Haring-inspired icons – that made me stop for a moment and really think about my life up to this point.

Specifically, my total mismanagement of the whole euphemism quandary, including the words “fresh” and “man-scent”, and those countless times when the other person waiting for the elevator opted to let me go it alone.  Always happy for another excuse to lie awake at 3 A.M., wide-eyed and counting the holes in the acoustic ceiling tiles.

Also about: “Deodorizer – on/off”. This instantly raises the bar on what I previously counted as torment, for I have never known a torment quite like the torment of wondering who would choose “Off”.

Also: “Wand cleaning”.  Let me just say that again:

“Wand. Cleaning”.

For the combination of those two words—the wizardly, Harry Potter-ish and oh-so-phallic “wand” and the quotidian, practical “cleaning“, conjuring as it does Mrs Aquino from up the road who wears her support stockings rolled to the knees, and which all but forces your reluctant little face into the fact not just of something NEEDING cleaning, but WHY – well, let’s just say that, in the game of word association I play with myself, “wand” elicits the response “injury“.  As in, “Get this guy to the ICU – it’s a wand injury, poor bastard. And page the plastic surgeon on call!”

Also: “Oscillating / Pulsating”.

This is almost past the point of what the human psyche can bear, because with those two words we’ve crossed a line in the sand that I thought uncrossable.  I must finally face the cold fact, namely:

There is a machine that offers more options for the tender care of my nether regions than my ex-boyfriend did.

WAY more options.

And you know what?  Somehow, I always knew.