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."
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
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...)
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...)
Saturday, April 21, 2007
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.)
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.)
Friday, April 20, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
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."
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."
Saturday, April 07, 2007
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.
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.
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