CONFERENCE CALL FROM HELL!

On Monday June 27, 2005, three weeks before the CPIG (Canadian Pals of Israel Group) trip to Israel, all those who would be on said trip were required to participate in a conference call. I've always hated conference calls, since to me they seem like little more than a passive-aggressive form of non-communication. But what could I do? I wanted to go on the trip, and besides, it would give me a chance to hear Amos' voice some more, and maybe slip in some sideways flirting while I was at it.
By June 27, I had found out who my trip-mates would be. Amos, of course, which pleased me to no end. Michelle Jones, unfortunately, with her That Girl hair and her anchor-woman ways. Also Michelle's boyfriend, a guy named Mike Cabrini, who apparently was a producer on This is Sunday's Really Serious and Important News Show. And then Rob Johnson, columnist for the Red Deer Report. Also Nancy Goldberg, an actual famous Canadian media person who had a regular column in one of the myriad of Vancouver newspapers, and Rick Reichstag, some guy Amos claimed was known in Red Deer conservative circles (are there any other circles in Red Deer?). A fellow named Ted Rayburn -- a producer for some Christian channel out west -- and a fellow named Alec Garrett -- an editor at the National Capital Cheerleader, the newspaper of Ottawa, Canada's national capital -- were rounding out the media part of the trip. The two CPIG representatives on the trip were Saul David and Angela Silverman.
Whatever. I knew none of those people but Amos. I just wanted the conference call over and done with and the trip to begin (and me and Amos to kiss in the moonlight in Jerusalem or by Lake Kinneret or at that spot at Eilat where you can see a bunch of countries...how many? Four? Israel, Jordan, Egypt and Saudi Arabia).
The conference call went like this:
Robotic Operator Voice: Please identify yourself after the tone.
Tone: Here I am making a tone sound.
Me: Jane Avril
Nancy: Nancy Goldberg
Rob: Rob Johnson
Michelle: Michelle Jones (said in a particularly authoritative and cold manner)
Mike: Mike Cabrini
Rick: Rick Reichstag
Ted: Ted Rayburn
Alec: Alec Garrett
Saul: Saul David
Angela: Angela Silverman
Saul: So everyone's here...but Amos.
Angela: He's usually late.
Saul: Yes, he is. Let's just start without him. Do you all have the itineraries we mailed out to you last week?
All of us: Yep/yes/Roger that!/sure/you know it!
Saul: Okay, well, let's just go over them, and then you can ask questions as we go along, or afterwards, and they don't have to pertain to the itiner...
Michelle: I'm working on a special episode of This is Sunday's Really Serious and Important News Show about Israel's disengagement from Gaza. You can ask me about it.
Saul: Good. So, as I was saying, the questions don't have to pertain to the itinerary. They can be general, about the region, about Israel, and remember, there is...
Michelle: Seriously, any of you can ask me about it. Not just Saul.
Saul: Well good. So, as I was saying, there is no such thing as a stupid question. You might think something you're wondering about is common knowledge, but that may not be. For example, Israeli currency. It's the shekel, and...
Michelle: Go ahead. Ask me about it. I don't mind. I'm an important journalist, and a serious thinker. Ask me about...
(BEEP) Amos: Amos Loewenstein. Sorry, I think I'm late.
Saul (breathing huge sigh of relief): Amos, no problem. We're all here. So we're just going to begin going over the itinerary.
Amos: Okay.
Saul: So, day one, we'll land at Ben Gurion Airport, and from there...
Michelle: Why is the airport called "Ben Gurion"?
Saul: Um, well, David Ben Gurion was Israel's first prime minister.
Michelle: Oh.
Saul: And then, we'll go directly to the Maccabiah Games. For those of you who don't know, those are like the Jewish Olympics. Jews from all over the world compete, and there will be a large Canadian team, including our Justice Minister, Irwin Cotler.
Rob: I didn't know Jews did any sports!
Everyone: Laughter.
Amos: Oh Rob Johnson, you're the funniest person who ever lived.
Michelle: You sure are!
Rob: Jackie Mason does a whole routine about how Jews don't do sports.
Everyone: More laughter.
Amos: Rob, I worship the ground you walk on! You are the greatest columnist who ever lived. And the funniest.
Michelle: You sure are.
Saul: Okay, and then on day two, we're going to an animal preserve. I know that may sound boring, but...
Me: No, actually, to me that seems like the most interesting part of the trip.
Saul: Well good.
Rob: I don't want to go there. I heard there are religious sites in that same area. I'd rather go to those.
Saul: Well, I think...
Amos: Rob, don't worry. We'll change the schedule. After all, you're the best person ever and we want you to be happy.
Michelle: We sure do.
My Blood Pressure: I'm at approximately 300 over 235 right now.
Saul: Er, well, okay. We'll figure it out. So, on day three...
Michelle: Can you wear makeup in Israel?
Saul: What?
Michelle: Can you wear makeup in Israel? I heard religious people will stone you to death if you do.
Saul: Um, no.
Michelle: What about short-sleeved shirts? And can I show my hair?
Saul: Both are okay. So, on day four...
Michelle: What about open-toed sandals?
Saul: Fine, they're fine.
Michelle: Also, I'm allergic to peanuts.
Saul: Well, there are foods other than peanuts in Israel.
Michelle: Good.
Saul: Um, yeah. So, on...where was I?
Mike: I'm an important TV producer. I'm not just tagging along on this trip because Michelle is my girlfriend.
Saul: Okey. Good. So, on day seven...
Michelle: Did anyone want to ask about my TV show about the Gaza disengagement?
Rob: You know what Jackie Mason says about Jews...
Amos: Rob, you are the best! I worship at your altar.
Michelle: Me too.
Me: I'm hanging up. I'd say good-bye, but since no one is able to get a word in here but Michelle, Rob and Amos, I won't bother.
Thus went the conference call. Not just a passive-aggressive form of non-communication. But a passive-aggressive waste of time. I could read the itinerary myself. I could look up the answers to any questions I had. I could do so without putting up with Amos fawning all over Rob (what was up with that? That was a side of Amos I didn't cotton to), or without Michelle and her personality combo of egomania and witlessness. And what was that about her boyfriend? Her boyfriend was coming along...OH MY GOD. I had, at that moment, a horrible thought. What if Amos were planning to bring his girlfriend -- his pushy, commitment-rushing, Red Deer-nik girlfriend -- along with him on this trip?
That would be more than I could bear.

My Shattered Dreams of Love

The day after Amos dropped his "I'm not single" bomb, the day after I feigned total indifference to the news and carried on a chirpy conversation about all manner of things with a poise and aplomb that would have made Princess Grace envious, Amos called me again.
"Hey Jane," said the now familiar voice. "Just calling to chat. How are you?"
What I wanted to say was, "As good as anyone can be after spending the last 24 hours sweeping up the pieces of their shattered dreams of love." But instead I said, "Great! Really excited about our trip."
Amos told me that Michelle Jones would be joining us, as well as Rob Johnson and he went on to list a bunch of other names that, at that point, meant nothing to me. They were all, apparently, shining lights of the Canadian media. Amos also gurgled on and on about the Red Deer Report's upcoming "expose" on Rebecca Chestnut. "I'll send it to you before it goes to press," he gushed.
What I wanted to say was, "I'd rather not read a vicious personal attack on some girl who obviously has had some problems and who is probably trying to redeem herself." But instead I said, "Okay. I'll look forward to it." Oh boy, I was being weak and awful.
It was as though my faux indifference had given Amos the freedom to talk about anything, including, unfortunately, his girlfriend. He kept making references to how "rushed" he felt in his relationship, for example, almost baiting me to interfere. I didn't. My faux indifference had also, apparently, done something else. It had given us both the liberty to continue flirting away, on the grounds that, "Well, it's all out in the open, so this is just innocent flirting!"
He phoned and phoned and phoned over those next weeks of late June and early July. Sometimes he called twice a day, on top of several daily emails. The conversations may have differed in superficial ways, but the subtext was always the same:
Amos: Hi Jane, how are you?
Me: Fine. But lusting after you a lot.
Amos: Same here, but pretending otherwise.
Me: Yep, me too.
Amos: I have a crush on you.
Me: Likewise.
Amos: I'm devoted to my girlfriend, though, so don't get the wrong idea.
Me: For sure not. I'm not interested in you as anything other than a platonic friend, anyway, so no problem.
Amos: I feel pressured by my girlfriend, though, to get married really soon and I don't think I'm ready since I just got out of a marriage to an ultra-orthodox harpie with a snood.
Me: Oh, gosh. Well, that's between you and the girlfriend, right? And I'm SO indifferent to your private life that I'm sure I have no wisdom to impart. It's not as though I'm secretly hoping you'll break away from your girlfriend and declare your undying love for me.
Amos: It's not as though I'm dying to do that, either. Boy, we have so much to talk about don't we?
Me: Yep. We agree about so much. Paul Martin sucks, for example.
Amos: He sure does.
Me: Canadians are ridiculous people, completely delusional about Islamic fascism, just for starters.
Amos: Yep, you got that right.
Me: I love talking to you.
Amos: Likewise. Why do you think I call you all the time? We have the same sense of humour, the same politics. We should really be together, but we can't be.
Me: Guess not. But I'm totally okay with that. REALLY.
Amos: It's too bad, because my girlfriend, apart from being pushy, is not a great intellect. I could never talk to her the way I talk to you about any number of things. You're pretty brilliant.
Me: So are you. We belong together.
Amos: I know, but I can't admit it.
Me: And I'm too afraid of rejection to say it to you.
Amos: Well, see ya later.
Me: Yep. A couple of weeks from now in Jerusalem!
Amos: Mazel Tov!

"Thud," Went my Heart

A trip to Israel? I sent a quick reply to Amos saying of course, of course I would like to go to Israel! He emailed right back, saying that it was through the Canadian Pals of Israel Group (CPIG), and that he was on the board of directors. Once a year, he told me, they send a bunch of journalists to Israel, no conditions attached, to allow them to see the country through something different than the mainstream (i.e. anti-Israel) media lens. Sounded good to me.
"Are you sure," he asked, "that your bosses at the Daily Scum won’t mind?"
"They’re not my bosses," I answered. "I’m my boss!"
"Great!" he replied.
All of a sudden Amos and I were emailing again, our banter was back, the flirting was back. It went on and on for a few days. I learned, among other things, that the reason I was being asked so close to the departure date was that ToryToady#3 had been scheduled to go on the trip but had cancelled at the last minute for some kind of personal reason that Amos was unaware of. I knew Amos was unaware of what it was, because if he had known, he surely would have told me. He was telling me everything else. Completely indiscreet. Carrying on about Rebecca Chestnut, as per usual, proudly announcing that the Red Deer Report was working on a feature about her that would "completely embarrass" her, and so forth. Hmm. I wasn’t sure that was anything to be boasting about. Whatever. It wasn’t my magazine. Heck. They didn’t even want me to write for them. Or at least Colin, the editor there, didn’t.
What did it matter? Amos and I were talking, flirting, and I was going on a trip to Israel! Yayness. Everything was coming up roses.
Or so it seemed. Or so it seemed until June 22nd, 2005, a date I began -- thereafter -- to think of as "Black Wednesday." It was the day that Amos phoned me from Red Deer, for the first time. I was so flattered. I looked at the call display on my phone and saw "Red Deer Report" and my heart positively fluttered. Simply fluttered.
I picked up, trying to sound casual, trying to sound like I didn’t know who it was. "Jane?" said the voice I had been longing to hear, "It’s Amos! Amos Loewenstein."
"Oh hi," I said, feigning surprise. "How are you?"
"Good. I just called you up to bug you a little bit, joke around, you know."
"Sure!" I enthused.
The repartee began, the double entendres, the "fun" that Amos so loved...until about twenty minutes into the call (which must have been costing the Red Deer Report investors a fortune), when Amos abruptly said, "Oh, you should know Jane, that I’m not single."
Thud.
Shock.
"Oh? I thought you were divorced," I said, desperately trying to regroup.
"Well yes, but I’m involved in a relationship here in Red Deer."
Thud. The sound of my heart.
"Oh, that’s fine," I said, in faux-chipper tone.
"Well I just thought, I mean, we had what could have been considered a ‘date,’ you know, when I was in Toronto last."
"Oh no," I laughed, in faux-indifference tone. "I figured it was just a friendly night out! You know, with a bunch of friends. Charles Taylor, the ToryToadies..." I began stammering, trying to think of other "friends" who had been there. "...Polya Bratwurst..."
"Oh, okay, well, good then," said Amos.
"Yeah, cool."
Thud. My heart hitting the bottom of my stomach.
Rip. My heart being ripped out of my stomach.
Squish. Someone stepping on it.

WTF?

On June 5th, I replied to Amos’ succinct email with a decidedly non-succinct one of my own. I decided maybe he needed to be drawn out -- laughable, in retrospect. Amos was -- and is -- the King of Bombast, outgoing, energetic, aggressive, a never-shuts-up kind of a fella. There was nothing holding him back if he wanted to be forthcoming. So obviously, something was holding him back. But instead of facing up to that, and just leaving it, I sent him a gushy email. I referenced our conversation about the Seven Deadly Sins -- I said I had looked them up, as he and I had not been entirely sure that night if we had them right. I listed them and made a joke or two about gluttony and sloth. I decided that making one about lust would be too forward. I gushed (read: lied) about the Red Deer Report. I said it was great. I said Brit Balding was "awesome," that Kristi Morning was "refreshing" and so on. I drew on my considerable -- and almost entirely untapped -- wells of insincerity. I flattered and gushed and gushed and flattered and told him I had had "fun" too, and that I hoped he would call me next time he was in Toronto. My email went on and on. I hit "send," and hoped for a similar response.
I was disappointed. I got another short one. It read, "Jane, it’s fun [that word again] to see the list of deadly sins. Thanks for that. Glad you like the Report. Cheers, Amos." Huh? WTF? What? What was going on? Did I completely misread him when he was in Toronto? Or had I done something that turned him off?
I called my friend Camille and ran the whole saga by her -- the panel, the emails, the evening listening to Pierre-Marie O’Reilly talk about privatizing sidewalks, the flirting, the sins, the Tory toadies, Charles Taylor, Sassafraz, and so on.
"So," Camille asked, tentatively, "was that night a date?"
"Well that’s the thing," I said. "I don’t know. I thought it was, but...well, nothing happened. And now he’s all cold and weird."
"Men," sighed Camille.
"Exactly. So here’s what I think I should do. Not answer his email, right? I mean, he didn’t ask for a reply. And I don’t think he should be rewarded for such a cool reply, especially after my friendly, verbose, chipper, warm email, right?"
"Absolutely," said Camille. "Absolutely. Pull back, because he sure has."
So I didn’t answer. I left it. And it was hard. And everyday I checked my messages madly, and there was nothing from Amos. Nothing. Not a thing. I did google him though, and looked at pictures and articles. He was cute and smart, but he took a lot of grief and criticism from mainstream Canadian media. I tried to find stuff out about his divorce, by googling "Amos Loewenstein, divorce," but nothing about his divorce came up. A column he wrote about the Clintons came up, though, and one about the new pope. "Pope Nazi the First," as my mother calls him.
I had pretty much given up, and figured my "date" with Amos would just be another addition to the long list of odd, inexplicable experiences I had had with men. I mean, I knew I would run into him again -- Canada was small, Canadian media smaller and conservative Canadian media smaller still. And I assumed we would exchange cheerful "hellos" and all would be well and whatever had been there would be left unspoken. But still...it felt unfinished. And then, on June 13th, 2005, Amos replied to my email. Here is what his message said: "Dear Jane, Would you like to come on a fact-finding media trip to Israel from July 16th to 25th. If so, let me know quickly -- it’s a great opportunity. Hope to hear from you soon, and really hope you can come along. Cheers, Amos."
WTF?

The Red Deer Report

The day after my date with Amos Loewenstein, I must have checked my email, like, twenty thousand times to see if he had sent me a message. But nothing. It was June 3rd, 2005, and I was anxious about Amos, and what I was starting to feel for him. Rather than simply obsess, I decided to obsess productively: I decided to read the box of Red Deer Reports he had given me. That way, I could impress him with my friendly devotion, and with my knowledge of his product. And I could maybe even convince him to let me write for him. Actually, I had previously pitched stories to the Red Deer Report, but the Report’s snotty editor, Colin Lampoonovitch, had rejected my ideas in a most dismissive manner. My pride would never allow me to approach him again -- but I tried to put my pissed-offedness about that aside and give the magazine a fair shot. It meant so much to Amos, and Amos was so damn cute.

Fuck!

Anyway, I sat down that day, and read. And read. And read. And the Red Deer Report really needed help. Oh, they had a famous and entertaining columnist, Dirk Weiss -- a very funny and internationally successful Canadian who hated gays and Muslims and spoke with a fake British accent. He had previously written for the National Highbrow Tabloid, which is how most Canadians came to know him. I knew Amos must have been paying him a fortune, but if he brought readers to the Report, then what the heck. The other writers at the Report, though, left much to be desired. First of all, there was Brit Balding, a pretentious, nutty, homophobic Brit who had managed to make a career for himself in Canada -- one he would never have managed in a country with actual competition, such as England or the U.S. Balding had a crappy TV show on Canada’s Christian channel, sandwiched in between the 700 Club and reruns of the Muppet Show. Most of Balding’s ramblings seemed to focus on how allowing gays to marry would bring about the certain downfall of Western civilization. Apart from Weiss and Balding, the only other noteworthy Report contributors were Rob Johnson, a very nice fellow who actually could write and actually had important things to say...when he wasn’t being homophobic (what was up with all the homophobes? Amos wasn’t like that!), and Kristi Morning, daughter-in-law of Chadwick Morning, a famous Alberta politician who was a Christian who also hated gays. (WTF?) Kristi Morning’s columns were all about teaching her children to pray and garbage like that. Urgh. Seriously, as I read the Report, I kept thinking, "I have to find a diplomatic way to tell Amos this magazine needs help." I mean, there was no question Canada needed -- and needs -- more conservative media. But if it’s nonsense conservative media, what good is that? What good? It just allows the left to point and say, "What a bunch of nuts! Don’t vote for them!" In fact, the high point of each Red Deer Report I looked at was the "Letter from the Publisher" that Amos penned. It was the only part of the magazine with common sense in it, and the only part of the magazine that wasn’t permeated with fear and hatred. Amos needed non-homphobic conservatives to write for him, conservatives who would write about the war on terror and the importance of a freer market and so forth. What was up with all the Christian nuts?

And then I remembered, "Oh yeah, Red Deer is in Alberta." That’s what was up.
I kept wondering -- how could someone as smart and cultivated and, well, Jewish, as Amos Loewenstein tolerate these people? How?

I didn’t have much time to dwell on that question before I saw, in my inbox, a message from Loewenstein, late in the day of June 4th, 2005. I was so excited to see it. I was so excited to see his name there.

"Hi Jane," it read. "It was great having fun with you in Toronto this week. I’m back in Alberta now. Hope to see you soon, Amos."

That was it?
And there was that word again, "fun."

Date with Amos Loewenstein -- Part Two

I promised to tell you about the second part of my date with Loewenstein sooner, but I was busy recovering from the trauma of getting my taxes done. I could not erase from my mind -- try though I did -- the agonizing memory of my little tax lady with her bindi, staring at my receipts from the Daily Scum and saying, as she shook her head, "Great God Ganesh!"
But I am determined to forge onward with my tale.
Remember, it is June 2nd, 2005 -- and part one, if you have not read it, is here.
It didn’t seem to be much of a date yet, as for the first part of the evening we had to listen to a maniacal French-Canadian libertarian trash George Bush and declare privatized sidewalks to be the manna from heaven all of us were waiting for, and for the second part, it seemed we would be joined by Charles Taylor, Canada’s pundit extraordinaire. And all of a sudden, things got even worse. Amos announced that three other people would be joining us. Three young males, of course, because we were in a Conservative Party venue, so there were 56,000 males per female present (another reason it was very easy for me to be the hottest tamale in the room). I only knew one of them, and even then only by reputation...such as his reputation was. His reputation was that of a high-achieving, politically ambitious (and therefore law school-attending), humourless nerd. None of their names much matter, and anyway, to me they will always be fondly recollected as "ToryToadyOne," "ToryToadyTwo" and "ToryToadyThree."
Off we marched, Amos, me, Charles Taylor and the ToryToadies three. Everyone was clamouring for Charles’ attention, as we trundled along, and trying to keep up with his gait, one worthy of the Preakness. I couldn’t figure out why. I just found him dull, and, as I have stated before, reminiscent of a horse or a fly. And not even in a good way. Yet others did not see him this way. He was like the captain of the football team and Amos and the ToryToadies were the Jewish nerd and the Debate Club, respectively, desperately trying to get the Big Man on Campus to like them. For the ToryToadies I didn’t care. But for Amos, I cared. Amos was so head and shoulders above Charles, I could already tell, that it was tragic to see him fawning all over the likes of Charles Taylor. The opposite should have been happening. The great irony was, that you could tell that Charles had probably been a Debate Club geek in high school. He was probably head of the Debate Club and never had a date, and got called "faggot." He had "recovered geek" written all over him, and now he was overcompensating by being the ultimate cool kid.
Oh well, all of us have our insecurities, yes? Yes.
The evening continued as Charles Taylor unilaterally decided we would go for our drink (would it be a collective one, I wondered?) at a place called the Irish Embassy. In we went to the dark, loud place and shoved ourselves, chasing after Charles, into a booth where we did not fit. Amos and Charles sat across from each other on the booth’s inside, two ToryToadies sat in the middle and I sat at the end across from another ToryToady. Or rather, I clung desperately to the table trying to not get shoved out of the booth by the heavy young gentleman to my left...and by cute, though plump, little Amos.
We ordered our -- thankfully not collective -- drinks, and looking over at the ToryToadies, I realized they all looked about 12-years-old. So I made a joke, suggesting to the waitress that she ask them for their ID. She laughed, Charles and Amos laughed, and the ToryToadies looked indignant, to a ma...boy. To a boy. Defiantly, they all ordered brandy, as though to say to me, "See? We’re sophisticated!" When the drinks arrived, ToryToady sitting diagonal from me swished his around in his glass, sniffing it, as though he were at a whisky nosing or something. "See? See, lady?" He seemed to be saying, "I am worldly! I am not twelve!"
Whatever. The next hour was spent desperately trying to make chitchat with ToryToady across from me. It was agony. All he wanted to talk about was Canadian politics. All I could think, as the names of various Tory MPs came out of his mouth, was, "Who on earth is he talking about?"
Mercifully, there was movement in the booth, and all talk stopped. Amos Loewenstein had decided to go back to his hotel. He shook hands, finally getting to mine. "Well, we’ll be in touch, okay?"
"Um..." I was panicking at the thought of being left alone with a bunch of people I had no interest in and didn’t know anyways, while the one person present I was actually interested in left the pub. As I grabbed Amos’ hand, I pulled him towards me, whispering in his ear, "You’re not going to leave me alone with a bunch of people I don’t know, are you? Especially when you’re the one who invited me!"
He looked surprised. "Oh," he chuckled, gesturing in their general direction, "they don’t bite!"
"Well, I..." I stammered... "Well I guess I’ll just leave, too," I finally said.
"Oh sure," said Amos. "Hey, let me give you a lift home."
"Great!" (Ka-ching! Perhaps I would get some smooching with Amos after all!)
We said our goodbyes, and all three ToryToadies sipped their brandies proudly, thrilled to see me leave. "Goodbye, old hag, goodbye," they seemed to be saying. "We are not twelve! We are drinking brandy!"
Amos and I walked to his car, and along the way I noticed how nicely he was dressed. Pin stripe suit, pink tie, and what I call "gangster shoes," i.e., dark, pointy, lace-up, leather with an Oxford cut out pattern. Very smart, very stylish.
All of a sudden he said, "Would you like to go get another drink?"
"Sure!" (Double ka-ching!)
The next few minutes were a near-death experience, as Amos, driving like a madman, managed to nearly hit three other vehicles, take several wrong turns and talk non-stop all the while, barely noticing he had brought both of us so close to the Grim Reaper in the primes of our lives. "Is there somewhere you’d like to go in particular?" he asked, foot on the gas, swerving to avoid something or other, I couldn’t see what because he was driving so fast.
"Well, I kind of enjoy..."
"What about Sassafraz?" he asked, turning onto Bay Street and heading directly for Sassafraz.
"Sure!" I hate Sassafraz. It was crass, pretentious, over-priced, glassed-in and lit up like an ant farm. The only reason to go was to spot whatever celebrities might be stuck in Toronto making a movie. But I was so happy to be with Amos. In we went. I excused myself to the ladies’ room (really just to check myself out and reapply lip gloss), and came back to find Amos, nose to his Crackberry, barely looking up as I sat down.
"Oh, sorry," he said, sheepishly. "I’d better put this away!"
"Well, yeah," I laughed. "You kinda better!"
We ordered drinks -- the waiters all seemed to know Amos and his preferences, offering him his "usual," like we were in a 1950s movie or 1970s sitcom, and one of them asking me if I would like a caviar martini. (I said "no.")
The conversation began. And it was amazing. Somehow we got onto the topic of the Seven Deadly Sins. Amos asked me which I was most prone to. Oh easy, I said. "Pride and anger." He told me his, "Gluttony, lust, anger, pride..." he kept listing them till we both started laughing.
"I have no impulse control," he said.
"Happens to the best of us."
I told him about my experiences at Canada’s Most Boring Magazine. In particular, I mentioned how much I disliked working with the fundamentalist Christians there, because they were constantly trying to "save" me.
"That’s a compliment," he said. "It means they think you have a worthwhile soul." He was a glass-half-full guy, I remember thinking. But I wasn’t sure I agreed with his interpretation.
"I don’t think they thought I had a worthwhile soul," I said. "Christians have at least one thing in common with Muslims -- they’ll take any wretched soul they can get their hands on! No standards, no standards whatsoever. That’s why I like Jews. You guys have standards. You force people to make some effort to convert -- that’s very important. I mean, what’s that Groucho Marx line? I would never want to belong to a club that would have me for a member."Amos really laughed.
And then somehow, we got onto the topic of dating and he mentioned...or rather, he said the magic words. The magic words were: "I’m divorced." It seems Rahel with her snood and her elegant hats was gone. And Amos was available. Or rather, he was out and about in the dating world. But he mentioned no one serious, no one special, no committed situation. Yay! I was thrilled.
We talked for another hour at least, until he looked at his watch and said he really had to call it a night. It was already nearly 2 a.m.
We left the restaurant and got into his car, which he had parked about three feet from the curb, on an angle. I was surprised it hadn't been towed. He drove me home and along the way I wondered if he would invite me to fool around with him at his hotel, or at least give me a goodnight kiss (on the lips, of course). When we got to my building, he got out of the car and opened my side -- sweet!
Outside the car, he abruptly said, "Ooh, I forgot." He opened the trunk and pulled out a box of Red Deer Reports. "Here, Jane. Would you be interested in reading these?"
"Oh, sure," I said. And I actually meant it. I liked Amos. I wanted to read his magazine. I wanted to know him.
I stood there with the box he had given me, and he began to back away, saying goodbye and mentioning what fun he had and that he would email when he was back in Toronto.
"Sure," I said. And then I did it. I leaned forward, box between us, and did the kiss on the cheeks thing. Only twice. Not four. Didn’t want to overdo it.
He blushed. Those little, fat, rosy cheeks got rosier, as did the rest of his face and his neck. It was visible even at 2 in the morning.
"Goodnight, Jane," he said. I thought he said it nervously, but maybe I was projecting. "And," he added, "thanks for making my visit so fun."
"Oh, same here," I said.
"Oh, and I hope you find the magazines fun."
"Sure."
"Fun" was one of Amos’ favourite words, I would learn in the following months. "Fun."

In Which Jane Avril Pays Her Taxes

I know I have promised my readers the story of the second part of my first date with Amos Loewenstein. And that will come...tomorrow. But now, I want to write about the here and now, the present, April 2007. This morning, I, Jane Avril, went to see my "accountant" -- or rather, a little South Asian woman with a bindi who happened to be the only available "tax expert" at H&R Block when I walked in -- in order to pay my taxes. Or, in order to participate in the "legalized theft" from hard-working citizens by the government of Canada, as Pierre-Marie O'Reilly might say. Tax time is hell, not because I ever owe much (or even anything), but because it serves as a yearly reminder of how little I have accomplished, and how alone and desperate I am. Each year I am asked the same questions: "Are you still single?" Yes. "Do you still have no dependents?" Yes. "Are you still at the same address in that lousy neighbourhood you live in?" Yes. "Still self-employed/unemployed?" Yes. Yes. Yes.
It's appalling. The worst part has to be glancing around the waiting room at H&R Block, only to see your fellow denizens of the Dregs of HumanityLand, pathetic and hollow-eyed to a soul, hoping against all reason that tomorrow will be better. This morning I saw clearly the class of human I am lumped in with: "Artists," (i.e. drug addicts who can't hold down a job); the mentally ill; people in the Canadian film and television industry who are already subsidized by Canadian taxpayers such as myself, through the various Canada Council grants they are living off of so they can write their crappy scripts, and yet who will still -- undoubtedly -- get a substantial refund from all the money they didn't earn; students who are more than ten years younger than me and therefore have some justification for their pitiful circumstances (unlike me); the badly dressed, the badly groomed; the striving; the angry; the lonely.
Awful, just awful...but for one ray of hope.
I got some money back. The government of Canada owes me $17. Thank you, Stephen Harper. I know true fiscal conservatives and libertarians hate you, but I, Jane Avril, am a fan. Thanks to changes you have made to our tax code, I got $17 back. Of course, I had to pay the H&R Block lady $200 to process my file, but it's the principle.
Stephen Harper, you continue to have my vote.
And tomorrow, readers, the second part of my first date with Loewenstein. (Loewenstein, Loewenstein, Loewenstein...)

Date with Amos Loewenstein -- Part One

It was June 2nd, 2005, the day of my first "date" with Amos Loewenstein. I say "date" in quotation marks, because I wasn’t sure if it was a date. As far as I knew, he was still married. He was friendly and chummy with me over email -- we had been corresponding nearly non-stop since our media panel the week Belinda Stronach crossed the floor -- but maybe he was simply a friendly, chummy guy. I guessed I would find out. I wanted very much to look elegant that night. I knew the Royal Club and I knew the crowd at this kind of get together -- a bunch of policy wonks, Tories and those possessed of political ambition unknown to normal humans. I knew that the women would all be wearing suits and would all have perfect "anchorwoman" haircuts, i.e. shoulder length blunt cuts, matching bags and shoes and innocuous jewelry. I knew this crowd, and I knew that, thankfully, I was nothing like them. It was hot that day, very hot and humid -- Toronto can be like Manila in the summertime -- so I put on a flowy, chiffon black skirt, a strapless black and gold top and low-heeled mules. I grabbed an old, sequinned pocketbook of my mother’s from the 1950s and put on some big, hoop earrings. I wore my hair down, and when I say down, I mean it was more than halfway down my back.
I would not fit in at the Royal Club. Fine by me. I felt nervous, excited. I knew I was getting a crush. I hailed a cab outside my apartment building and went to the Royal Club. I walked in to the snooty old club, and saw a crowd milling beyond the reception desk. They were all be-suited and self-important looking so I figured they had to be there to hear someone talk about privatizing sidewalks. The man at the front desk was just starting to ask me what event I was there for, when I saw, through the crowd, Amos Loewenstein’s rotund form, and then his head, peeking out and smiling first, then waving at me. I waved back and said to the man at the front desk, "Oh, I think those are my people." The man laughed, and in I went.
I ran up to Amos and...he said "Hi," nervously. I said the same. I had wanted -- indeed, planned -- to kiss him on his little, fat, rosy cheeks. But something made me hold back. After he said "Hi" I looked down and noticed he had a box of Red Deer Reports with him. He noticed me noticing the box and said, sheepishly, "I’ve got to promote the magazine every chance I get." "Oh, of course!" I replied. He then said, casually, "And speaking of, I’m going to go promote and schmooze until dinner starts," and off he ran, all energy and ambition and cuteness. I was left standing there with no one to talk to, surrounded by women and men in suits. What, I asked myself, was I doing here? What was I doing with these people? And more importantly, who in the hell are these people? Do I even recognize one of them? I did what I call my "Terminator scan" of the room to see if there was anyone familiar. There was. Lark van Vacuumtopfen. Lark was an ex-friend of mine. She had actually been, I thought, my closest friend in the world in 2001 and 2002, when I was working at Canada’s Most Boring Magazine. She was my boss -- i.e., my editor -- until she introduced me one day to our uber-boss, the publisher of Canada's Most Boring Magazine. When he and I met, the sparks flew, immediately...and kept flying. They flew and flew and went combust all over the place and he and I entered into a passion-filled, dinners-out and talks about 9-11 and anthrax and Paul Wolfowitz fuelled relationship. And then one day he dumped me. And Lark stopped being my friend. And now I hated her for that. Especially since she claimed to be a Christian, and I could not remember where it said in the New Testament that Jesus said unto them, yea, ye shall abandon thy friends in their darkest hour. Was that part of the Sermon on the Mount? I thinketh not!
But anyway, that was all behind me. I no longer cared about Canada's Most Boring Magazine or Lark van Vacuumtopfen. And I would be damned that night if I would go and talk to her just out of desperation.
I Terminator-scanned the room some more till I saw Patrick Clerk, Canada’s second-foremost newscaster. He would have been Canada’s first-foremost newscaster, but he refused to cover Gulf War I because he had irrational fears of both camels and mirages. This earned him the nickname, "Pusillanimy Patrick." Being a coward myself, I felt kind of sorry for him, and anyway, he was standing alone, looking like he hoped someone would recognize and talk to him. So I did. I went over and introduced myself. He beamed. He was anchorman handsome. He asked me what I did, and I realized that I could now proudly call myself a "columnist." Well, okay, maybe not so proudly, since I was a columnist at the Scum, but what the heck. So I said it, "Well, I have a column at the Daily Scum." (I admitted it out loud!)
"Are you covering this?" Pusillanimy Patrick asked.
"Oh no, no. Amos Loewenstein invited me," I answered.
"Oh, how do you know Amos?"
I told him about our media panel with Charles Taylor. Pretty soon we were chatting casually, about all sorts of things and then the lights in the room blinked. We figured that meant we should be seated.
"Are there assigned tables?" I asked Pusillanimy Patrick.
"No, no. Well, except for the head table. Pierre-Marie O’Reilly and his friends will be sitting there. But come sit with me and my crew," he enthused.
"Sure."
I followed him. Pretty soon, at my table of eight, there were six men, me, and an empty seat next to me, on my left. Amos rushed over and took it. The men at the table chuckled. "I can see why you want to sit there," they laughed, gesturing at me.
This was what I loved about Conservative get-togethers. It was really easy to be the most attractive woman in the room. All you had to was wear your hair down and show a little skin.
Compared to all the mousy little things with their blah suits and their anchorwoman bobs and their "tasteful" pearl earrings, I was hot stuff.
Dinner began. The chit-chat began. I asked Amos where he stayed when he was in Toronto. "Do you stay with friends?" I asked.
"No, no," he said, "I stay at the Royal York Hotel.""Wow, fancy!" was all I said. But I was thinking, "Oh my, he’s in a hotel room. We can go back there together after the dinner and fool around!"
"Yes," he said. "It’s very nice. And I get a reduced rate because my friend Kevin Kelley -- you know, the MP for Red Deer North -- gets me the parliamentary price."
"Oh, nice!"
"Yeah." The chit-chat continued until it was time for Pierre-Marie O’Reilly to speak. His topic was privatizing Canada’s sidewalks, and I learned, through his speech, that he was the president and founder of the French-Canadians for No Government and Armed Citizens Society (FCNGACS).
His speech was kind of boring -- I didn’t see how making people buy their own sidewalk was going to help anyone -- but he piqued my interest when he singled out Amos mid-speech, giving a plug to the Red Deer Report. Amos blushed, and momentarily looked up from his Crackberry, which he had been working on all through O’Reilly’s speech. (I actually thought that was kind of rude, but Amos got the official Jane Avril Cute Man Immunity Pass for Bad Behaviour that night.) Then O’Reilly went back to ranting about sidewalks and somehow managed to segue onto the topic of George Bush. In true French-Canadian fashion, he started trashing him and making excuses for terrorists. Ugh. What was up with French-Canadians, anyways? They loved Hitler and now they loved Islamofascists.
Whatever. All I could think about was Amos and whether he was still married to Rahel with the snood or not. When O’Reilly finished his speech, there came the Q & A period. I noticed, with horror, that Polya Bratwurst was in the room, and that she was madly waving her hand, trying to get O’Reilly’s attention. Polya Bratwurst was a fixture on the Canadian Conservative scene, but no one could really say why, since she hadn’t accomplished anything substantial or noteworthy and wasn’t particularly smart. She was mostly known for sucking up to rich people (and dating them, when possible), and for promoting herself. Sadly, in Canada, this appeared to be sufficient activity with which to create a career.
After a few questions that actually had to do with the topic at hand, Polya finally got her chance. After mentioning how great she was, she said, "What do you think of gay marriage, and how it affects the potential privatization of Canada’s sidewalks?"
The room fell silent, but for a few people trying to stifle laughter. O’Reilly, to his credit, kept a straight face. Perhaps, I thought, his English was so bad he didn’t know how dumb Polya’s question was. I can’t remember how he answered, but he almost seemed to be taking her seriously. At any rate, Polya’s astoundingly stupid question topped off the event, and people got up to do a bit more milling about, before leaving.
Interestingly, Pierre-Marie O’Reilly made a beeline for me and introduced himself. "Great speech," I said, lying. "Thank you," he said. But it was more like, "Zank you," with his thick Quebecois accent. He asked what I did. "I have a political column with the Daily Scum," I said. "Oh, really?" He looked nervous, and then I realized there was an angry and slutty-looking Asian woman standing next to him. (Even though she had a serious business-suit on and serious anchorwoman hair, she was unquestionably slutty-looking. There was just something about her. I had friends who referred to women like her as "Bangkok Whores." Politically incorrect, yes, but my friends were Asian, so they were allowed to say that.) He kept casting looks her way, as he tried to carry on a conversation with me. She moved closer to him, glaring at me. Ooh, boy. I knew a jealous, pissed off Asian chick when I saw one.
I stepped back. "Well," I said, "I better go find Amos." Off I went. When I found him, Amos said to me, "If you don’t mind waiting for me to schmooze a bit more, maybe we can go get a drink." I was ecstatic."Sure!" I fairly shrieked. "And I’ll give a call to Charles Taylor and see if he’d like to join us," he added, whipping out his Crackberry.
"Oh," I said, joy and hope fast dissipating, "sure. That’d be fun."
Drat. I would not get Amos alone. And if that weren’t bad enough, I would have to listen to Amos and Charles Taylor talk about Canadian politics all night.
Sheesh. What had I gotten into? I stood by and waited for Amos to finish schmoozing. Who knew? Maybe he and I would have some time alone later. But if not, I was still determined to make the most of the night.

(Stay tuned for PART II.)

This is Sunday's Really Serious and Important News Show

The day before my dinner with Amos et alia at the Royal Club, I managed to catch him on TV. It was another of his appearances on Michelle Jones’ This is Sunday’s Really Serious and Important News Show. I could not figure out why someone as brilliant and high profile as him would waste his time with Michelle Jones. But he appeared to be a regular on the show. Michelle Jones was like a self-parody -- a cartoon anchorwoman. She was Brenda Starr without the brains, without the depth or as many dimensions. She never stopped smiling, even if she was discussing people being hacked to death in Rwanda, she never stopped bobbing her stupid head, she never spent more than a fraction of a second out of camera range and everything that came out of her mouth was pat and predictable. Oh, occasionally, if a segment was particularly tear-jerking, she attempted faux gravitas by furrowing her brow and looking compassionate.
But with Amos Loewenstein, she was discussing something altogether not serious: More Belinda Stronach. More attempts by the Tories to bring the government down. More of what Canadians had been ignoring and wishing would go away for weeks already. Amos was beside himself at Belinda (though thankfully, he didn’t make his Peter Mackay "conservative bone" joke again). He wanted his election, and he wanted it now. Amos was truly amazing on TV. He was much as he was in real life: Pumped up, funny, cute, intelligent, quick-witted and unique (though he didn’t look as rosy-cheeked as I remembered. They must have gone heavy on the pancake makeup).
On today’s show, he was wearing a pale yellow suit. With his rotund form, he looked like an Easter egg -- tempting, sweet, springy, edible and fattening. Oh goodness, was I getting a stupid crush already? I hoped not, for two reasons, no, three. 1) Amos was married, as far as I knew...though he had made that funny face when I mentioned his wife in London. 2) Amos lived in Red Deer. 3) I was too old for crushes, and hated the vulnerability they imposed upon the person with the crush. You could be destroyed in a flash when you had a dumb crush on someone, no matter your age, and no matter theirs.
Ah, whatever. What can you do? The only thing worse than a crush is living in a crushless state, living a life where you don’t feel. At least this is what I told myself.
Anyway, Michelle Jones came across awfully hard on TV. And she was sure nowhere near as attractive as Rebecca Chestnut. Chestnut, for all her lunacy, was gorgeous, telegenic and natural. You could tell Jones was reading off a teleprompter and wouldn’t have a hope in hell if she ever had to be spontaneous or think for herself. She and Amos appeared to have some kind of pre-set, or agreed upon, banter. That was the only moment at which he didn’t seem at ease.
Again, though -- and because I am nothing if not someone who wants to accentuate the positive -- I have to give kudos to Michelle Jones for her hair. It was sort of an icky, muddy brown, and sort of a pedestrian, banal "anchorwoman length," (i.e., shoulder length), but it had a flip at the bottom that never moved. It was like That Girl’s hair, only without the movement. Remember at the end of the That Girl opening credits, when That Girl scrunches up her hair? Well, if Michelle Jones tried to do that, her hair would snap in two. But left untouched, it was remarkable in its rigidity. As someone whose hair never curls, I was kind of envious. What kind of miraculous, nuclear-powered, industrial-strength hair products did Michelle Jones use, I wondered? Agent Orange, perhaps? Did she have some deal with the Pentagon? Somehow I doubted it. If she were in cahoots with the Pentagon, she wouldn’t be stuck hosting This is Sunday's Really Serious and Important News Show, out of Alberta.

Bucket full of crazy

I didn’t wait long to see if Amos Loewenstein had meant it when he said he wanted to keep in touch with me. Three days after our media panel in front of the Teenage Right-Wingers of Canada, I sent him an email. I waited three days because I thought doing it the next day looked too eager, or like I was trolling for work...though that possibility wasn’t far from my mind. Heck -- I could make an excellent contributor to the Red Deer Report, couldn’t I? But I didn’t want Amos to think that was all I wanted, as it certainly wasn’t. I liked him and wanted to know him better. He had so impressed me on that panel. And I kept thinking about his pudgy, rosy cheeks. So cute. So I didn’t email the very next day.
Or two days later. I was going to email two days later, but something so exciting happened, I needed time to process it and buy cheap, sparkling wine with which to celebrate. What happened was, I got a phone call from the editor of the Toronto Daily Scum, Toronto’s worst daily paper (and that was saying something). The editor wanted to offer me a weekly column! My very own column, where I would get to write about whatever I wanted! I was over the moon. And the pay wasn’t bad. After years of struggling as a freelancer, I actually had a bit of hope. Okay, it was the Daily Scum -- a paper that still had girls in bikinis, the Scum Girls, they were called, on page three every day. It was not exactly Le Monde, or anything. But because it was so appalling and stupid, it was extremely popular with Canadians, the most trivial people on God's earth. There was also the advantage that occasionally my columns would get reprinted in the other Scum papers across Canada, for the Scum network was national, spreading its bile, ignorance, sports and cheesecake from Kelowna to Antigonish. So I would have a national voice. Me, Jane Avril.
In other words, when I finally emailed Amos, I had something exciting to report, at least in the relative sense. His reply came quickly -- only ten minutes later. I saw that he was on a Crackberry, which somehow, didn’t surprise.
"Dear Jane," it read. "Thanks for your friendly note. I’m delighted to hear you will be writing for the Scum! Did you know that I have a column in the Red Deer Daily Scum? I will be looking for your work, from now on. Congratulations. Listen, did you hear that Rebecca Chestnut has been hired by the National Highbrow Tabloid? I can’t believe it. She is a convicted felon. What is this going to say about conservatives in Canada? We have to do something about this, don’t you think? I wonder what Charles Taylor thinks about this. Anyway, it so happens I am in Toronto this week. Would you like to get together for a coffee?" He signed it "Cheers," with his signature, "Amos Loewenstein, Publisher, Red Deer Report," underneath, along with various phone numbers.
A nice note, but I was surprised he gave a hoot about Rebecca Chestnut. Chestnut was a Canadian girl who was, put simply, a bucket full of crazy. She had become famous when she was at university in Saskatoon and sued a professor for sexual harassment when he asked her the time one day. Chestnut claimed that the way in which he asked the time made her feel threatened, and campus feminist groups supported her, calling on the university president to fire the running-late professor. The professor claimed he simply had forgot to put his watch on that day, and was worried he wouldn’t get to his next class on time. He was suspended from teaching for a semester and made to take a gender-sensitivity training workshop, in spite of his claims, when it was discovered that on that same day he had asked two other female students the time, making them feel intimidated and, in the words of one of them, "used by an older male, only for my time-keeping abilities." Months later -- curiouser and curiouser -- Chestnut was convicted of stalking the prof-with-no-watch, after she bombarded him with erotic emails and threatening phonecalls.
The whole situation was nuts -- one of the many things that have helped make Canada the trivial, silly, ridiculous country it is. However, she earned herself the never-ending hatred of many men, academics, people without watches and normal women everywhere.
Since those days she had reinvented herself as an arch-conservative, talk-radio type. So when the National Highbrow Tabloid hired her, it didn’t seem a good fit. They considered themselves highbrow (though they really weren’t), and she was proudly vulgar, not to mention a lousy writer. While I was ticked that they had hired her, it was only because they had not hired me! Her lack of writing skill or the fact that she was purportedly a bucket full of crazy didn’t bother me, nor did the possibility that she might "ruin" the reputation of conservatives in Canada. Heck -- no one read the National Highbrow Tabloid anyway, and even if they did, conservatives in Canada face an uphill battle, no matter who writes for whom.
But I didn’t say all of that to Amos. I replied with a classy and careful, "Well, I don’t know about Chestnut’s past. My main concern about her is that she is not the best writer." And that was all I said about Rebecca Chestnut. I went on to say that I would "love" to meet him for a coffee, and asked him to suggest a day, as I suspected he was busier than I.
Again, within ten minutes, he got back to me. "Jane, Would you like to join me, along with some of my friends, on Thursday, June 2nd, at the Royal Club in Toronto, for dinner? Pierre-Marie O'Reilly will be giving a lecture about privatizing Canada's sidewalks."
"Sure!" I replied, enthusiastically. "I’d love to. Thank you for thinking of me."
If I’d known what lay ahead, I may have replied, "Sorry, I'm washing my hair that night."

Teenage Right-Wingers

That May morning, in 2005, shortly after Belinda Stronach crossed the floor, I boarded the early morning bus from Toronto to London, all nerves and second-guessing, on my way to impart my wisdom (such as it was), to the Teen Right-Wingers of Canada. Why had I agreed to this? Why had I said yes? Who was I, a freelance writer with unconvincing conservative credentials, being asked to inspire a bunch of teen right-wingers? It made no sense. But I had said yes, following my gut, as Oprah always tells us to do. When you do that, she says, you will never go wrong. Oh really? I guess, I thought that morning, I would find out.
I arrived at the hotel where the convention was being held shortly before the panel was set to begin. A young nerd came to get me in the lobby and usher me to the room where the audience waited. Outside the room there were cookies, sandwiches and coffee. Young Nerd told me to help myself, but I was too nervous for anything but water. All of a sudden Young Nerd said, "Oh, would you like to meet Amos Loewenstein?" I wanted to say, "Um, not really...and anyway, we have already met," but instead I said, "Sure!" Young Nerd brought me over to a corner of the hallway where a short, plump man was hunched over a box, pulling magazines out of it and sorting them into piles, depending on their covers. The magazines were different issues of the Red Deer Report.
"Amos," said Young Nerd. "This is Jane. Jane Avril. She’ll be joining you on the panel today."
Amos Loewenstein looked up, and then stood up straight, revealing that he was a) shorter than me, b) cute as a button, c) possessed of the rosiest cheeks I had ever seen on a man and d) wearing a smart, navy suit and red tie. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and looked so professional. I was dressed like a teenage girl -- strapless green top, black jeans and hair long and loose. What must he have thought?
"Hi," I said, extending my hand.
He smiled. "Nice to meet you."
"Oh, we’ve already met," I said. "About four years ago...but don’t worry. No one ever remembers me."
"Oh no," he said, laughing. "Come on. Come on. You’re killin’ me, you’re killin’ me."
"You were with your wife," I said. "She was wearing a snood over her hair. She was beautiful."His face registered something -- I wasn’t sure what. Pain? Nostalgia? Embarrassment? Had he got divorced? I felt so stupid. I was desperately trying to think of something to say to recover the merriment of a few minutes earlier, when he offered to get me a coffee. "No, no," I told him. "I’m sufficiently caffeinated."
"Oh," he chuckled, pouring himself one instead. "I’m not!"
He asked about my career. I desperately tried to make it sound successful. He pretended to be impressed. I asked about the Red Deer Report. He said they had a growing circulation and that he had convinced VIA Rail to include it among their offerings in their VIA First Class Lounges across Canada.
He gestured over to the boxes. "Actually, if you don’t mind, I want to finish putting the magazines on display." "Oh sure," I said. "Can I help? I’m really nervous, and I just want to keep busy till our panel starts."
"Of course," he said. "But why are you nervous? You’ll be great."
"I doubt it," I said. "I’m a lousy public speaker."
We began sorting magazines, according to cover stories, and placing them on a display table for the students to take. "Get ‘em while they’re young," said Amos.
"You bet," I said.
Pretty soon Young Nerd came back over. "Charles Taylor isn’t here yet, and you’re scheduled to go on in about five minutes. What do you two want to do? Do you want to give him some time, or go ahead as scheduled?"
Go ahead as scheduled, I thought. But Amos spoke. "Well, I’d love to wait for Charles. But I have to be back in Toronto by 5 p.m. I’m appearing on ‘This is Sunday’s Really Serious and Important News Show’ with Michelle Jones."
(Michelle Jones? Ugh. I had never met her, but on the air she seemed hard, full of herself, brassy and hosted an appallingly bad show no one watched. The only thing that could be said in her favour was that she had hair with a little flip at the bottom that never seemed to go limp or move. Quite impressive!)
"Okay," said Young Nerd. "I’ll call Charles on his cell."
Amos looked at me. "Charles has a great little Audi -- I’m sure he’s speeding along and will be here soon." "I hope so, I just want to get this over with."
Amos laughed. Young Nerd came back. "Charles was mistaken about our starting time. He won’t be here for half an hour. So maybe what you two should do is start without him, and he’ll join you as soon as he gets here."
Oh boy! The premier political pundit in Canada and he couldn’t get our start time right. Grrr...
"Let’s do it," said Amos.
Young Nerd led us into the jam-packed room where our panel was set up. There must have been 200 kids there! I was mortified. Young Nerd introduced us -- and then said these terrifying words: "I’ll let both of our guests say a few words about themselves, and about conservatism in Canada." Huh? No one warned me I would have to do anything other than answer a few questions from teenage squares.
"Ladies first," Young Nerd said, handing me the microphone.
OH. MY. GOD.
I was mortified. All I remember is mumbling something about...well, something, as I stared at the front row of spectators. Among them, I recognized Kevin Kelley, an MP from Red Deer. Kelley had dated a friend of mine. She had told me he was gay and in denial about it. She came to that conclusion because he wouldn’t have sex with her, even after they’d been seeing each other two months! She really wanted to get it on with him, but he wouldn’t oblige. He claimed it was because he was a devout Catholic, but my friend didn’t buy it. Nor did I. I don’t care how devout you are -- no nearly 40-year-old man doesn’t have sex! And if he wants to wait for marriage, then he GETS MARRIED. But Kelley was still single. I guess I could understand why he was in denial. He lived in Alberta. It couldn’t be much fun to be gay in Alberta. Anyway, Kevin Kelley’s face is basically all I remember from my "speech." Then, thankfully, it was over, and I handed the microphone to Amos. He got up and spoke and...I had never seen anything like it. He had the room mesmerized, including me. He talked about his magazine and how the students could apply to be interns there and how they could get a subscription discount if they applied that day, he talked about blogs, he talked about Paul Martin and Stephen Harper and...Belinda. His speech ended with him saying that the only time Belinda Stronach ever had a conservative bone in her body was when she was sleeping with Peter MacKay. The room erupted. Oh my.
Amos Loewenstein: Quite remarkable! The Q&A session began, and went fairly smoothly until...Charles Taylor swooshed in, forty minutes late. The room erupted again. Positively. Erupted. Taylor, though late, was allowed to give a little speech. He droned on about Lord Byng and yada, yada and then finally stopped talking. It was clear he loved the sound of his own voice. When his voice was finally quiet, the crowd went wild, even wilder than they had for Amos. Kevin Kelley shouted out, "Taylor for Prime Minister." I could tell by the look on Charles’ face that he felt all of this fuss was his due.
With Charles there, the Q&A session ran less smoothly. He was quite the microphone hog! It was so funny. I had been so nervous about Amos Loewenstein, but he had been generous when we were alone on the panel together. Charles Taylor was not so generous.
The rest of the afternoon went thusly: A right-wing teen would ask a question. Loewenstein would answer in a funny way. The entire audience would burst into laughter and applause. Or, Charles Taylor would answer in a serious, long-winded way and the entire audience would burst into applause and cheering. Or, rarely, I would answer. And there would be quizzical looks and a smattering of applause. My only moment of glory came when one of the students asked about the recent -- at the time -- story, published in Newsweek, of Korans being flushed down toilets at Guantanamo Bay. As a result of the story, Muslims had rioted (what else is new?), and several people had died (what else is new?). "How do you feel," the young geek asked, "being responsible, as a journalist, for those deaths?"
I grabbed the microphone, boldly, and said, "Journalists are not responsible for those deaths. The people who rioted violently enough to kill are the ones responsible."
The room fell silent, until -- and I could feel him staring at me -- Amos said, loudly, "YES!" And he began clapping, followed by Kevin Kelley, followed by the whole room. It was nice, and pretty soon, our panel was over. We were all presented with coffee table books about the history of Western. I got up and found myself swarmed by students who wanted to talk. It was great. Amos Loewenstein was also swarmed and finally extricated himself, approaching me. As at the beginning of the afternoon, we shook hands. "Thanks," he said. "I have to get going now, but I’d like to stay in touch." He handed me his card.
"Oh, thanks," I said. "Sure, of course! I don’t have a card, though, but I’ll email you."
"Great! I’d like that. What are you doing now?" he asked.
"Well, I guess I’ll just schmooze with the kids." Amos laughed. "Good idea."
"Yeah."
"Okay, well, I hope we talk soon. I have to get into Toronto for Michelle’s show."
"Okay -- drive safe!"
Off he went. I regretted that, when he asked what I was doing next, I didn’t just say, "Going back to Toronto." He may have offered me a ride -- and I could have had more of a chance to chat with him.
Oh well, I thought to myself. Whatever. I had his card.
I stayed around and chatted with the kids. It was fun. I even chatted with Charles Taylor, who had one hell of a firm handshake! At one point, I noticed he had six or seven cookies stacked in his hand -- it sort of endeared him to me. I mean, he did have flaws, apparently. He was a sugar-freak and a cookie-hoarder. After a half hour or so of chatting with the young people, I got the bus back to Toronto. En route, I looked at Amos Loewenstein’s business card. People always say, "Let’s stay in touch." But they hardly mean it. He probably didn’t mean it.

It All Started When Belinda Crossed the Floor

It all started -- this started becoming my life -- back when Belinda Stronach crossed the floor, becoming a Liberal instead of a Conservative. Nearly two years ago now. I can scarce believe everything that has happened since then -- in my life, in Canada. If you had told me back then that Stephen Harper would be our prime minister within months, I would not have believed it. I thought for sure he was a sinking ship. Back then, the Tories were flailing about, and it seemed sort of fitting that their high school branch -- the Teen Right-Wingers of Canada -- had asked me to come and speak at their "convention" (can you call it that when it's teens?), being held at Western University in London, Ontario. That has always been what my career has been like. I never get invited by the big leagues, always the high school version. But still, I felt I couldn't say no. Nonetheless, I was horrified to discover that joining me -- it was a media panel -- in front of the kids would be Charles Taylor and Amos Loewenstein. When I say Charles Taylor, I don't mean one of the many, many Charles Taylors out there. I don't mean Charles Taylor the former president of Liberia, or Charles Taylor the pretentious Canadian philosopher. I mean Charles Taylor, Canada's foremost political columnist, the National Highbrow Tabloid's star! What the hell was he doing -- I wondered at the time -- agreeing to talk in front of a bunch of teens? Maybe his career wasn't going as well as I assumed it was. I mean, he was everywhere -- billboards, TV, radio, his very popular blog. A lot of women thought he was hot stuff, but frankly, he never did much for me. He has a long, skinny face, and his eyes look like they are on the sides of his head, like a horse or a fly. He has a seriously weird nose, moles and a receding hairline. He is tall, though. I guess his success and intelligence are what make women see him as desirable. Whatever. I felt intimidated, though I always knew him to be gracious and polite. The other speaker, Loewenstein, the founder and publisher of the Red Deer Report, Canada's most extreme right-wing magazine, was another matter altogether. It was not a matter of intimidation with him. It was a matter of my being terrified. I had met him once, years previously, with his wife, Rahel. She was an Orthodox Jew, quiet, gentle, very gorgeous, elegant, always with her hair covered and long-sleeved shirts and skirts. He, on the other hand, was known to be boisterous, aggressive, rude, tough, obnoxious, and quite inelegant. He was short and overweight. In other words, he had always seemed an odd match for his wife. He was Jewish, but not Orthodox, I thought. At any rate, at that time, that week that Belinda crossed the floor, the least of my concerns was Amos Loewenstein's marriage. It was dealing with Amos Loewenstein himself in front of our audience. As he was known to be so tough with opponents, so brutal and unforgiving, I was determined to not cross his path when we were up on panel. I was also anxious because I have always hated public speaking, and both Taylor and Loewenstein were expert at it.
So it was with a great pit in my stomach -- one that felt likely to rise and come up in the form of vomit at any moment -- that I boarded the bus that Saturday, four days after Belinda's defection, to London. And that's when my life really changed.

When did this get to be my life?

This is the strangest story you will ever hear. It's about all the billions of mistakes I have made. Not in my whole life, mind you. There wouldn't be enough byte space on the planet for that. Just my mistakes from the last couple of years. So, so many. So many, in fact, that I do believe I am qualified to write a self-help book about how to best do everything wrong in your life. And when I say doing things wrong, I mean fecklessly, stupidly, gloriously wrong. Wrong men, wrong places, wrong jobs, wrong "yeses" and "nos," wrong hair, wrong clothes, wrong restaurants, wrong positions in bed, wrong trains and planes and automobiles.
That's really all I know about, so I'll offer it all up to you in this blog.
All of my wrongs, all of my mistakes, have led me to this place -- where I am right now, for better or for worse. And where I am right now is Singapore. Singapore is sort of like my city, Toronto, only with less Chinese people and a slightly less repressive government. I'm in Singapore for a conference -- a meeting of the Mount Kilimanjaro Group (MKG). The MKG is a yearly get together of economists, politicians, academics and journalists, all bound together by their love and admiration for both famed Tanzanian economist, Mbaku Kelly-Nkrume and famed German Kaiser, Wilhem II. Kelly-Nkrume created Tanzania's fabled "privatized sidewalks" (which only lasted a month but which many libertarians still hark back to as the "golden era" of African free markets) and Kaiser Wilhelm is the Teuton who helped start World War I.
I guess the MKG got its name because Kelly-Nkrume was Tanzanian (but from the Zanzibar part, not the Tanganyika part) and Mount Kilimanjaro used to be called Kaiser-Wilhelm-Spitze after Kaiser Wilhelm (who was not from Tanzania at all, but rather Germany. Or Prussia, or something. I think he was also "King of Prussia." But it was Germany by the time his deal was done.)
Anyway, every year the MKG meets in a different city and this year it's Singapore.
And here I find myself, due to all my mistakes, listening to a truly barf-worthy conversation between Polya Bratwurst and Pierre-Marie O'Reilly, two fellow Canadians. Bratwurst is a raging egomaniac who wants to be prime minister of Canada one day, and O'Reilly is a man, even though his name sounds sort of like a girl's. He's also an egomaniac (there's a lot of that in Canada, I guess) who also wants to be prime minister of Canada. Their conversation is pretty putrid. They're basically verbally fellating each other. He just told her she was a "star," after raging about how he "used to be the king," and she just fawned and slobbered that "I owe you so much!"
Oh puke, barf. Why doesn't the MKG provide complimentary barf bags for anyone exposed to ridiculous Canadians? The worst part is, I am trying to carry on a conversation with a normal person, with an apparently normal-sized ego, without throwing up all over him. Because he might not like that. He is Luxemburgian, and cute and earnest and nice but his voice cannot drown out the raging egos three feet away.
It's a torturous evening, and I find myself wondering...when did this get to be my life? When did Polya and Pierre-Marie and Luxemburgian guy and Singapore and Kaiser Wilhelm the Second become my life?
When did all of that happen?