J. M. W. Turner, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

A small woman in her 40s or—50s—?—steps out of the cold and into the bakery; her bright orange puffy jacket clings to her like a mummy bag down to her ankles, cinched around her waist with a wide black band. 

For the past few days, my exercise has amounted to a short walk to the mailbox.

I’ve been awaiting, you see, the print edition of The New Yorker, to which I am now subscribed.

Today, the mailbox is empty, but for a lone, ripe copy of the magazine, The New Yorker.

It’s 1998 at the Orillia Public Library.

That smell; the electrified dust and oxygen as we pass through the first set of doors to the long empty hall with the downward-sloping wheelchair ramp, maybe the longest in Ontario, and we inhale the particles: old bookish tones with a touch of road salt and boot rubber embedded in a damp worn-out carpet.

Being a boy and making bad decisions doesn’t make you a Badboy— it just makes you a boy.

To be what the ladies call a Badboy, you gotta do something special.

You gotta pack heat and own the street.

Fourty years ago there lived a black lab that swallowed a raw moose heart whole. My dad witnessed this Granite Hill legend, and he loves to tell the story.

“Paint what you see, not what you know.”

Twenty years later, his advice permeates my latest creative struggle: writing.

The more I write, the more difficult it becomes. Last year, I sent Tony a short creative piece I’d written and asked him what he thought.

“It’s good,” he said, “but it’s a little telly.”

You’re out with a friend in a crowded area and she slaps you on the shoulder and points behind you excitedly. “Look! Look!” You spin around two seconds too late to see whatever it was.

You shoulda seen it. Everyone else saw it. It was amazing. I can’t believe you missed it.

That’s how I imagine Ron will feel when he reads this bizarre story in which he’s the main character.

I wouldn't say I admire Justin Trudeau for his speeches, but as a Canadian who’s been paying close attention, I’m impressed by how skillfully he uses language to divide Canadians while at the same time seeming to unite us.

When I was in high school, I kept a photograph of baby Adolf Hitler taped inside my locker. It was two inches wide, black and white, in high gloss. If I had to guess, I would say he was around one year old when that photo was taken, and he was a cute little munchkin — chubby cheeks and all. 

As I drove to the dentist office for the first teeth-cleaning of my adult life, I felt my palms start to sweat and my breathing get irregular.

I peed before crawling into my tent, but some of that smokey-pine-needle-snow tea I was drinking hasn’t made it to my bladder. 

Now it’s 2 am, and it’s alllll there. 

I met a guy last year who was in the midst of moving his family to Dubai— a big, life-altering decision.

When my wife asked what inspired them to make such a big change, he mentioned a book; Don’t Waste Your Life, by John Piper.

That book is now on my bookshelf, and I’m terrified to read it.

He wore a beige worn-out Tilley hat, work boots, and blue coveralls two sizes too baggy for his slight build; the back-pocket, torn and peeled back, lay flapped down against his right ass-cheek. 

If you decide to take an IQ test, I recommend you don’t share the results with your friends, nor tell them they can find the test.