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.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
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!
"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!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
"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.
"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.
Monday, August 20, 2007
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?
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?
Saturday, July 28, 2007
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."
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."
Thursday, April 26, 2007
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."
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."
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...)
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