The D20 Conference is an annual event held between the world’s highest-leveled Dungeons & Dragons characters, and a magnet of media interest in the often-clandestine world of fantasy power playing. The characters and their roleplayers convene in an agreed-upon location that must be properly supplied by the host. Ringolos, Orange Crush and progressive rock (or, alternately, fantasy film soundtracks complete with incidental cues) must be provided, and the venue must be secured from possible intrusions such as doting mothers and sunlight. However, problems with the Toronto venue plagued this years conference to the point of calamity.

The leadup to the Toronto D20 Conference was full of bad portents. Host and dungeon master (DM) Stephen Harper’s older brother Blake was hosting a beer pong tournament in the garage on the same weekend, forcing the D20 to be held in the dining room where, according to inside sources, the illusion of fantasy was shattered by occasional family meals and repeated humpings by the family dog Terry.

“We complained to Stephen, but he didn’t listen,” said Barry “Elrendel” Moresly, representative of the Sword Coast. “He refused to break character even when the pizza guy got there. If we had a problem, he’d just say something like ‘in what manner of devilrous tongue speakest thou?’. You can’t quest with a guy like that, and you darn sure don’t want him DMing.”

The problems didn’t stop at the setting. DM Harper’s totalitarian tactics and self-centredness created rifts between the D20 organizer and those who adventured therein. One of the first roadbumps would become emblematic of DMing and hosting problems throughout the conference: the artificial lake fiasco, or Aquagate.

“I’d walked into a tavern and ordered a steak,” recounted Dmitri “Thal-Ghash” Brisov. “Thal-Gash is a half-orc, but he’s got the appetite of a troll, obviously. So I order a giant steak, and Steve must’ve misheard, because he rolls a die and says ‘very well – you are now at the bottom of a lake.’ I say I ordered a steak, not a lake, but he doesn’t care.”

The uproar was immediate. Barry, in particular, was livid. “How, by the Four Winds, could the lake have gotten there? The tavern was on a hill, Thal-Ghash isn’t a spell caster, and if the tavern wench could cast spells like that, why in Thoth’s name would she be working in a tavern on the farthest edges of Halruaa?”

Complaints to the DM were met with silence, denials, and in-game reprisals. Recounts Dmitri, “I complained about my order – in character, to the wench, mind you – and Stephen friggin’ drops a bunch of giant squids in the water for no reason! They ate up Thal-Ghash! I had to get Twiglam to cast a Recall spell on my paladin, but he’s only level 8. I mean, it’s a world-class dungeon I’ve got to crawl!”

DM Harper strongly objected to being referred to as "Gargamel's Sissy Little Brother"

Complaints of the artificial, illusion-shattering effect of the lake’s creation would dog Harper for the next two days. Adventurers argued that the time expended on describing the lake would have been better spent describing the environment of the underground passage they were supposed to explore, as previous D20s had seen their respective DMs fail to mention the dangerous thickness of their dungeons’ cobwebs in time for the adventurers to avoid them.

DM Harper, perhaps flustered by repressed embarrassment, and irritated at all the complaints (however valid), steamrolled over these and other protests at his lack of dungeon mastery. A list, compiled by disgruntled conference critics, details his failings in full, and includes such cardinal D&D sins as die rolls falling off tables, treasure troves being paltry for the effort required to unlock them, making dungeon layouts spell “Stephen Rules” from above, and refusing to play any album other than King Crimson’s Lark’s Tongue in Aspic for the duration of the conference. “It’s a decent album, even without Greg Lake,” commented Theodore “High Shaman Triffletrop” Smith, “but it’s just really grating – even during the first listen-through.”

As the game progressed, adventurers who protested these ridiculous conditions grew increasingly frustrated with DM Harper’s inability to adequately address their complaints. The descent into the underground passage grew slower and slower, dogged by more and more problems and irritations, until finally Harper arbitrarily transported all the most visible complainers to small cages in the Netherrealms. Inventory-less, cramped, unable to rest, and denied access to even Light Cure Wounds tonics, these prisoners were informed that they were to be held without use of spells until the DM decided to release them.

Adventurers thus subjected eventually rebelled, denying the DM’s authority and magically magically transporting themselves out of these cages, despite the vexed insistence of DM Harper that they could not do that. While many of the attendees simply left the conference after being freed from detention, some mutineers then further flouted roleplaying conventions and teleported their characters into a place they described as “the DM’s mom’s vagina,” laying waste to its elegantly described environs.

A furious DM Harper unleashed an impossibly large horde of orcs in response. The adventurers laughed at the DM spawning orcs in “his mom’s vagina”, but their laughter ended when he declared that the orcs had killed all their hard-leveled characters. “The keen-eared and Listening Elrendel should have heard them a mile off, had they existed before stupid Stephen just made them up ’cause he’s a crybaby,” reported Barry.

Harper's mother Karen and her unscathed vagina after an uneventful traffic stop on the weekend of the conference

The conference then devolved into shouting and namecalling, until Stephen’s brother Blake and his hockey buddies happened upon it and mocked it until it was abruptly brought to a formal close by a teary-eyed and thoroughly humiliated DM.

“The thing was, beforehand, Stephen was bragging about how much he’d spent on the whole thing,” recounts Yoshi “Yoshi” Takamoto, Stygian representative. “He was saying he’d gotten the chairs reupholstered, he’d gotten name brand snack mix, Stewart’s fizzy pop, and all this stuff. If you believed him, he must’ve spent ten times what Joey spent last time. But I didn’t see any of it there. The way he’d been carrying on, you’d think it should’ve been the best D20 ever. I think he just wanted to host for hosting’s sake.”

DM Harper could not be reached for comment, as he was grounded for throwing the remote at the TV in the aftermath of the conference.

FROM: John Semley, Chief Scout in Charge of Locations, PUNNY TALKS PRODUCTIONS LTD.

RE: Taping for upcoming season of CTV’s POKERFACE

Dated: 07/29/2009

Attn: Residents,

This is just a friendly notice that your neighbourhood is being used as a filming location for the upcoming season of the CTV’s new crime drama POKERFACE. Filming will be taking place in the surrounding of the intersections of Bloor St. and Euclid Ave, from approx. 07/31/2009-08/06/2009 including filming in local Korean Yum-E BBQ restos. While we, the producers, apologize for any inconvenience this may cause, we invite you to come out and enjoy the filming of POKERFACE.

Frequently Asked Questions (F.A.Q.s)

In cognito ergo sum: Yannick Bison goes under deep cover in POKERFACE

POKERFACE (all caps) is the new crime drama set to air on the CTV this fall season. Starring veteran Canadian actor Yannick Bison, POKERFACE follows the adventures of Bill “Pokerface” Bilodeau, a former World Poker Tour champ turned professional lie detector. It’s like David Simon meets a poker game. Using the skills he acquired at the card table, Pokerface has left the glitz and glamour of the Las Vegas showroom to pursue his first love: law enforcement. And his second love: a woman. When Canada’s most dangerous crooks try to pull a fast one on the boys in blue, the Bluff Springs Police Department have an ace up their sleeve: POKERFACE!

Just what exactly are Detective Pokerface’s powers?

As a professional card sharp, Pokerface is able to identify “tells” (a subtle change in behaviour) in criminal suspects. Sgt. Pokerface is more of a free agent, or “wild card”, working in tandem with the police to gauge the veracity of sworn statements, confessions, tip-offs and any other information that may prove useful in the apprehension of robbers, knaves, shysters and sundry other felons. As a professional card sharp, Pokerface also has access to the city’s largest array of costumes, and thus proves invaluable as an undercover agent. Yes Pokerface is a true chameleon, as he dons all manner of hat, goatee and sunglass combinations in order to infiltrate the seediest bad seeds of the city’s criminal element. As a professional card sharp, he also possesses the gift of gab, able to “psyche out” suspects into confessing. Even when they are innocent! In short: Pokerface sees your regular Tuesday night programming as raises you INTRIGUE!

This sounds a lot like that new Tim Roth show on Fox.

Good question. Though two of a kind in several mostly superficial ways, there are some similarities. Fox’s Lie to Me stars Tim Roth as a professional human lie detector (not a thing), where POKERFACE stars Mr. Bison as a professional human poker player (a thing). Where Lie to Me relies heavily on the pseudoscience of microexpressions and body language—themselves derived from eugenics—POKERFACE draws inspiration only from the discipline of Texas Hold ‘Em poker playing, giving it a level of stark, often macabre, realism that ups the ante of what you’ve come to expect from primetime criminal drama.

Hmmm…sounds pretty neat. But what else can I expect to see on this CTV show POKERFACE?

Besides taught crime-based suspense, POKERFACE also offers a good deal of wry humour. Lt. Pokerface sees the world through the lens of a cynic, often approaching situations with a trademark caustic wit. As a result, Pokerface often goes head-to-head with his puritanical partner, Chase T. Loman (Callum Keith Rennie*, in his first turn as the straight man) and an aging mentor played by the venerable Gordon Pinsent (Due South, Power Play). Also, see Pokerface play card to get with the city’s most eligible bachelorettes as he pulls double-duty as a practised ladiesman proficient in the venereal arts of seduction and love-makery. But what about the one who got away, local Bluff Springs kindergarten teacher and high school sweetheart Molly DeMure (Mia Kirshner)? Will Pokerface learn that love’s the game with the highest stakes of all? Tune in to find out!

Well I’m convinced. But my friend here still isn’t sold. Can we have one final pitch?

Sure. POKERFACE! The CTV’s new Tuesday night crime program! Catch all the terse procedural action on POKERFACE! STRAIGHT drama! FLUSH with suspense! A FULL HOUSE of entertainment! POKERFACE! The man who can catch a tell from two districts over! Pokerpalace.com gives POKERFACE “two aces in the pocket! A slam dunk!” POKERFACE!

So stop by our crafts service table in your neighbourhood for a piping hot coffee and muffin and catch all the excitement of a real-live television filming. And don’t forget to catch POKERFACE! Coming to a Tuesday night near you! This fall on the CTV!

*Please refrain from looking Callum Keith Rennie in the eye.

“Now’s the time,” Charest told reporters. “I mean you try to talk to Stephen about issues of Quebec independence and he gets this little wrinkle in his brow and his mouth starts to twitch a bit in the corner–it’s just too mean.” Before tapping Harper on the shoulder and pointing him towards a hidden camera which had been mounted inside an oil painting of Lord Durham, Charest had spent the preceding four hours presenting a 69-point plan for Quebec independence from the Dominion of Canada.

Charest’s 800-page debriefing report contained a pie-chart breakdown Quebec’s GDP (which figured bootleg Iron Maiden t-shirts, single cigarettes and cabane-de-sucre tourism as jointly accounting for 88% of the province’s annual income), a green-shift plan predicated on the reduction of carbon emissions resulting from a transition from automobiles to unicycles, and mock-ups of Quebecois currency depicting Guy LaFleur, a group of trapeze artists, the 2008 Montreal Canadiens riots, and Buckminster Fuller’s geodesic dome. One of the more controversial documents revealed the Royal 22e Regiment of the Canadian Forces to be a standing army of professional devilstixmen. “Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t figure out that I was yanking his chain,” Charest said. “I mean Stephen’s always had a bit of a hard-on for the Confederation, but come on. We even had a pregnant nun knock on the door halfway during the meeting to ask if she could borrow a splash of rum. It was an open mockery.”

This famous photograph of former Quebec premier and territorial nationalist Jean Lesage en route to see an Iced Earth cover band was revealed to be part of the inside joke.

Upon being let in on the on the extravagant gag, Harper–whose reaction was accompanied by a precisely-placed glissando from a slide whistle, which punctuated the hilarity of the whole thing–remained slack-jawed for a few seconds, before reportedly doubling over and slapping himself on the knee. “It really was a good little prank,” Harper told reporters. “Jean showed me all these internal memos and even an extended take of DeGaulle’s Viva le Quebec libre speech that ended with ‘…NOT!’ I was a bit annoyed at first, but now I can see that the whole thing is pretty funny.”

The shenanigan, which was perpetrated by such prominent heads of state as Charles DeGaulle, Maurice Duplessis and Rene Levesque, soon made headlines across Canada. While many were baffled at precisely how an entire province of Quebecois citizens had been able to keep quiet about the caper for generations, the variously fiendish intricacies of the hoodwink were applauded by many in the Canadian comedy industry. “What a gas,” journeyman satirist Rick Mercer told the press. “I thought we were testing the limits on the RMR, but now my whole career looks downright workmanlike by comparison. A tip of the cap, Quebec. Bravo.”

“Who me?” responded former Blackfly star Colin Mochrie. “Well I’ve got a new commercial coming out next month, and my second Little Mosque cameo. And I’m currently looking for a publisher for the second in my series of bathroom trivia readers. Wait, what?”

Other Canadian comic personalities were reportedly distressed at the ramifications of Quebec’s elegant comedic yarn. “The whole thing has just got me shook,” said first lady of Canadian comedy Luba Goy. “My whole life I felt certain of what I was doing, but now? It renders the whole idea of the Chicken Canon facile. Pointless. I spent the better part of the afternoon talking Roger Abbott off a ledge.”

When questioned about the humdinger, and its effects on the present landscape of Canadian comedy, Charest reported that the province’s intent was not to make the rest of Canada feel inferior about their comedic ambitions. “We were just trying to the stir the pot a bit, you know? Sure sure, maybe it got out of hand, but once we got Laurier in we knew we were going all the way. And is not like we don’t find some of these other Canadians funny. I mean we love that uh, how you say, Butt? Brent Butt? Off the CTV Corner Gas. And who is the other one, with the charity work? Oh yes, uh, national Man Wid Broom Leslie Neilsen,” Charest and his cabinet proceeded to break into a fit of laughter for 90-or-so seconds before regaining composure. “No, but seriously.”

JEAN SEMLEY

b) Cocaine is okay now because Hugo Chavez.

c) Xx_Walter Benjamin_xX

d) A facebook picture of you and Jack Layton drinking workingman-sized pints in the campus bar.

e) The word “now” coupled with an exclamation mark.

f) Taking the manager of Franx Supreme to task for having the tenacity to run something that isn’t the Archictecture Cafe. Where are my yummy vegan goodies???

g) This scathing review of Braveheart is a pipe bomb.

So just now I accidentally hit refresh on my “Whisper of the Heart” divx download, and found myself with about an hour to kill. Anyways, heres what happens when you put all our faces together. I wont show you the parent images because I’m too lazy:
This is Deanna and Lee: Deanna, as a visual suggestion, a blonde five o’clocker miiiight be worth looking into.

Me and Ed: Holy Adorable, Ed, what are we going to do about this? It’d be a crime against man if this little sprite were never to know the pleasure of laying at our feet while we warm ourselves on the familial hearth. That brings me to:

Millar and Ian: the only picture of Evan on file is the one his mother gave to me after I gave her a warm stone massage and then we took a shower together. Bear with me folks, its from 1999, so the science is a little wonky to begin with.

Doyle and Max: Smouldering and composed.

What next? Add 8 parts friendship, 2 parts good time, a dash of laughs, and you’ve got this handsome fellow(?)!

Working similar late evening shifts, it made sense that Deanna would sleep on my couch, instead of go slug it back to her den in St-Henri. We’d go to school together the next day, skip the same classes, and eat the same shitty vegan handouts.

One night I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, folding and unfolding my pillow, covering and uncovering my feet at the edge of the bed. When I complained to Deanna she suggested, “try to think of revenge. That’s what I always do”. At the time I chalked this suggestion up to all my female asian friends secretly wishing they were emotionless assassins. The next morning to impress her I relayed a hapless dream in which I revenge-peed on some childhood bully’s bed. When I was a kid I remember doing something similar (lying to sound cool, not peeing) (although that too) when my older brothers would pow-wow, bragging about their vivid dreams that were just straightup Samurai Showdown II. I would concoct really amazing scenarios in which I, a giant falcon, and John Candy were seeking shelter from an electrical storm. Never having really dreamt, I was disappointed to find that they’re a lot less plot driven, and a lot more where I just keep getting shot in the neck, over and over.

Looking back I realize Deanna was a few years older than me, a precious amount of time at so young an age, that separates the boys from the men, the loved from the loved and scorned. Now, at the height of my hormonal vindictiveness, I’m happy to say that I no longer struggle when imagining bed-time revenge.

It began last summer when I worked a boring mindless job, allowing me the oppurtunity to sustain these really intense internal monologues, that would only get interrupted by a little lunch ritual known as Subway Sub Club. I’d think real philosophical shit, like, Bilyana, dog, what do you think heaven is like? Well, glad you asked. My heaven is one that allows me to travel back in time, with all my current knowledge in tact. There I’d be endowed with the tools (my MIND) to confront, and defeat, my third grade teacher/VP Mrs.Marshall, who nailed me once for scrawling some bullshit graffiti on the wall.

It went down like this: She called me into her office, and listed offenses off on her witch-fingers, because I guess I had some behavioral problems. She threatened suspension and I cracked, sobbing as though my tiny child-heart had broken. In heaven I do not admit to my offenses. I stand firm and prattle off some bullshit about how history teaches us that an oppressed population must express itself in uncommon ways. I would cite my babyish message of “Candace loves Doug”, to be a guerrilla weapon of the weak, as powerful as that photograph of the Vietnamese girl running naked down the street while on fire. As powerful as a RATM Che Guevara shirt, or the Afghani girl on the cover of National Geographic with soulful sand-glass green eyes.
The best part about this heaven is, I don’t even have to iron out my argument. I’d just drop a few three syllable words, and bammo – Mrs.Marshall’s world is both sufficiently and thoroughly rocked. Being 9 years old, I probably hadn’t begun wearing collars, but standing 4 feet tall in front of her massive desk I would sneer, roll up the sleeves to my oversize “beach bums” t-shirt and spit on her wood carving of a smiling worm + apple (with plaque that says “You’re the Apple of my Eye, Teacher!”). Bitch would straight-up blanche, and after a closed door PTA, I’d skip about 15 grades.

The same year I was yelled at for doing extra problems on my arithmetic work sheet. Old Lady Marshall bellowed at me for not listening, but little does she know, I was just trying to learn harder, is that a crime? In heaven I don’t need my future-college-graduate-brain to tell her to “shove it”, I would have just needed to have seen that episode of the Simpson’s where Lisa turns cool, which was probably in the late 90’s.

My most recent forays into Revenge World have gotten a little more NC-17 now that I’m a legal adult, and have smoked at least 3 ‘doobs’, and soooo much hookah. I almost don’t want to sleep anymore because the “think of a scenario where you are always right” game has become a liiittle too fun for bedtime! In it I revel in my ability to cure illness with my healing touch, crack up a room full of beautiful, but discerning, strangers with a bit of impromptu prop comedy, and most of all, alienate every woman who has ever been involved with anyone who I’ve ever loved so goddamn hard it hurt.

Before I wrap this up, Let me tell you how.
In the future, I go out for a group dinner with an ex (doesn’t matter which) and they like, bring a date or whatever. The date says something kind of bitchy, along the lines of that scene in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts pulls some crumpled bills out of her trashy bra, and the snooty store clerk on Rodeo Drive is just like “you don’t belong here”. Everyone at the table is kind of put off by how awful this girl is, so, being kind of, unpredictable, I text message everyone at the table — except her — on my blackberry 9!!!!!!! What the text message says is completely arbitrary, but mark my words, it’s still very clever, and searing, kind of like….Dorothy Parker??

What really matters is that everyone receives a text except her. She’s scrambling to find out what every one’s laughing at, but of course it’s all at her expense!!!!. My ex fondly recalls my Dorothy Parker wit, and wish he wasn’t saddled to such a slut of a girlfriend, who, it has to be said, is kiiindof a bitch. Everyone wishes they were my boyfriend/girlfriend, my dinner is paid for, and then John Krasinski, of NBC’s The Office shows up, and rubs my back. Star-struck, enemy-bitch asks for his autograph, and John says, “sorry, I’m not here for business, I’m here for pleasure”, and then helps me put on my jacket. We walk out of the resteraunt levitating about 10cm and then I fall asleep and then I dream I’m getting shot in the neck.

…and this is my “office”, so to speak. Why yes, Mike, that is a mini-fridge. I’m pretty sure I could paint in here if I wanted to. Just don’t feel like it. It’d involve unplugging and moving the old M-fridge, which has beers in it. Usually. And the beers that are usually in it are Steamwhistles, because I can now easily afford the uncompromising taste of a premium domestic pilsner. Ever tried the delicious taste of an Ontario Steamwhistle, boys? Haha, guess not.

Seriously though Stevo-O, Anne, my boss, is easily as chill as Bob from your record store. She smells like she smokes, and I’ve caught her listening to The Beta Band on three seperate occasions. On top of that, I’ve been working here four months and I don’t even know the bitch’s last name! Do you know Bob from Bob’s Records last name, Steve? You do? Huh. No. It’s nothing. I guess I was just thinking about how Anne and I are just informal enough in our interactions to get by without knowing one other’s last names. Don’t worry, maybe one day you’ll somehow forget ol’ Mr. Robert ‘Bob’ Kendell’s last name, then you guys can attempt the same level of laid-back understanding that Anne and I enjoy, workingday after workingday.

And I mean, sure, the dress code is technically “business casual”, but it usually skews more towards the “casual” than the “business”, if you know what I mean. Honestly, Sandi last-name over in administration may as well just go ahead and change the name of Fridays to “Chuck-Taylor-days”.

Well, “Black-Chuck-Taylor-days”, at the very least. Which is actually cool with me, because when your job is this chill, you need something to distinguish the weekdays from the weekends. So I save my red Cons for Saturday, and that way, when I look down, I know “hey look, red Converse high tops, I am not at work right now.”

“Data Entry”? Uh, where did you get that from, Steve? Well I’m sorry we all can’t work in the glamorous world of selling garage records forever, man. While you’re behind that counter making minimum wage hawking Sonics re-issues that people don’t even need anymore because of the internet, I’m halfway to owning a motherfucking Pontiac Sunfire. So have fun with all that Montreal youth-culture stuff, man. All the rest of us in the twenty-four to twenty-nine year old demographic driving late-model coupes during our generous vacation allotments will all be very impressed with your bus passes, your jean jackets, and your unruly, fly-by-night bangs.

Besides, did you even see this computer? Did you even see it? What’s that little symbol underneath the screen right there? Could you maybe identify that for the rest of us Mike? Yeah. That’s right. An Apple. It’s not really ‘data entry’ when you have a built-in webcam and something like fifteen professional-quality photo-filters to put over the corresponding jpegs. And I know you guys have noticed the difference in MSN Messenger pictures lately, because I mean, I can essentially chat whenever the hell I feel like it. And do. And I do other creative ventures, too. Yeah, you laugh it up Mike, but you see this Jetplanes of Abraham show poster of a neon deer exploding? Two words: All, me. And that show was fucking awesome. We had pizza and everything. Do shows in Montreal have pizza usually? Don’t think so. I would say, oh, roughly eighty percent of shows here have pizza on-hand at all times. I bet sometimes you could really use some pizza to wash down your sour Quebecois beers over in some N.D.G. shithole, couldn’t you fuckfaces? So enjoy talking to me on Messenger all day while it lasts, because once I fire Photoshop 4 up on this little puppy, you won’t be seeing this handsome emboss-filtered face in the corner of your MSN windows all that often. No. The only way you’ll be relating to this-here guy is by emailing ericcassidy@subpoppostermakingguys.com

Shut the fuck up Steve, you know I meant Seripop.

And Ottawa – no, listen – Ottawa is actually pretty cool. Take the food, for instance: I know you guys probably think you’ve had nachos before, but believe you me; you haven’t. The Highlander Pub over on Bank does this thing with grilled chicken strips and Monterey jack that renders your previous understanding of the term “nacho” impotent and misguided. And coupled with a pint of delicious Steamwhistle beer, they’re like 7 dollars no tax between five and seven. And segueing from the five-till-seven into the seven-till-eleven-thirty time slot, let me just say that the night life here is absolutely hopping. I mean, you can’t judge Ottawa just by last night, guys – it was a Thursday, and it was sort of raining out, which come to think of it is surprising because its never rained in Ottawa any other days I’ve been here. Tonight will be better; I don’t know if you guys have heard of a little band called, oh, I don’t know, Embassies of Denmark, but they’re playing a basement show just down the –

Fuck you you haven’t, Steve. We saw them open for that other band with cellos that one time, and you fucking well know it. You’re such a piece of shit.

Oh so I’m a sellout, now? I’m a sellout, am I? Well, you know what, Steve? You know what, my man? I hope you’re familiar with the nearest bus stop, Stevey my boy, because you can get the fuck out of my office.

Oh, and Steve, one more thing: Close the door behind you.

Montreal is awesome because everyone is on welfare and down on their luck. Because of this, they’re really angry, and will do crazy shit that doesn’t fly anywhere else. Often, because I’m a glutton for punishment I will go as far as to invite the attention of bizzarro humanity by making initial eye contact, and then having the audacity to sustain it. Here is a list to illustrate how I’m a terrible judge of character and deserve everything that’s coming to me.

The first is Guerlain. He is an old black man who looks like Lee Perry, and who accompanied me home for 10 blocks from the Mont-Royal metro, when I first moved to the Plateau. He initiated contact by commenting on what a “beautiful gorgeous sunny day” it was. I agreed, and he told me he was going my way. My way led right to my front doorstep, where he stalled, asking me if I wanted to drink Sangria on a roof with him. I said no, and he asked me about my apartment, offering advice because he was a landlord/art trader/saxophonist. Having no need for a new place to live/ art/ the sexual whine of a tenor saxophone, I politely thanked him for the walk. He somehow got my phone number out of me, because I’m spineless and can’t think on my feet. He gave me his card, which was printed on olive green cloth and featured a picture of a saxophone. A few weeks later he called, and when my roommate picked up he began to coyly flirt with her. My new roommates thought I was a hoser, and weak.

Another beautiful spring day, again at the metro, this time the Berri-Uqam. I sat waiting for my train reading a book, when a man with a clipboard and a generally tidy appearance approached me. He offered his immediate services as a hairstylist. I declined, but he sensed hesitance, and managed to cajole me behind a pillar, whereupon he undid my pony tail and began running his fingers through my hair. I was not even high. He then secured a limp ponytail with lots of bumps at the top of my crown and proceeded to frown at his clipboard, occasionally looking up at me.

“When was the last time you’ve seen a dentist?”

I was confused.

“Last month, I had a checkup”

I caught a glimpse of his clipboard and was dismayed to find that it was exclusively photographs of dental plates.

“Do you have a regular dentist?”

When I opened my mouth to respond he nimbly darted his groady hands in there. I power- walked away to the other end of the platform, and waited for the train. I took it to Peel where I got off and called my boyfriend at the time, Dean. On the verge of tears I told him that a man did my hair, and then grazed my teeth with his hands, his handy hands that did my hair and probably his hair and probably also zipped up his fly (unwashed). Dean was annoyed. “You always let shit like this happen to you”. I started sobbing and spitting, to try and get rid of his hand molecules. I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the food court at Cours Mont-Royal spitting into a water bottle and feeling violated.

Lastly we have, some nameless bro on the orange line headed south from Jean-Talon. He was a mulatto dude in his early twenties rocking a hoodie and leather jacket. He had regular/fitted jeans tucked into wool socks and some high top cons. At first glance I thought to myself, “This is the best dressed man I have ever seen”. At second glance I realized his pants were unzipped and his dick was in his fist. Every stop set off renewed peels of his laughter as he realized he was forcing his fucking craziness upon a whole new group of people. Since it was summer, a string of small children tethered together from some day camp came on. This made him laugh more.