A Night Out With Protagitron(...'s Overwhelming Stage Fright)

Slide 1 Of My Presentation

Sorry for my sudden disappearance. Duty called. Duty, in the form of a presentation for Toronto's Nerd Nite. Yes, in spite of the crippling stage fright I've struggled against since my childhood, where an annual speech competition meant an annual anxiety attack, I decided I should really get up in front of a roomful of strangers and talk about something. Anything! It could be anything once I got up there, because I would be too nervous to remember what I was actually supposed to be talking about.

However, I had told the organizer I would be talking about comic book films, so I figured I should at least try and give a presentation that was at least 95% about the promised content, and only 5% blank looks and vomiting.

So I dutifully prepared, even through a cold that made me sound like The Thing for a week. Dan made me all of the film clips I requested (awwwww) and I shoved them into Powerpoint (or, rather, Apple's "interpretation" of Powerpoint, Keynote).

Finally, it was go time. But not before ingesting a pint of liquid courage at Tequila Bookworm. Which unfortunately wore off right when I arrived at the venue. Which fortunately was licensed.

The buzz from my gin and tonic was good until I realized I would be following Tyler Irving's excellent and very funny talk on chemophobia. The bar was set high, and guess what was one of my other regular childhood failures - the freaking high jump. Hooray!

Hands shaking, I let the host, Lauren, plug in my laptop, and faced the audience. I opened my mouth. And somehow, magically, most of what I wanted to say tumbled out.

There was applause, and people asked interesting, attentive questions. My one regret was focusing too much on superhero comics with my answers (Stray Bullets would make an excellent TV series! Saga an incredible series of films! And Fatale as well!) but you can't do everything right.

I didn't vomit, and that was enough for me.

If you're in Toronto and have a topic you're passionate about, think about attending a Nerd Nite, and then signing up for a talk. It's not as terrifying as the speech competitions of your youth, and twice as manageable as the high jump. 

Can't Stop Physics: Bobbie Robbie 2014

Sadly, I was unable to score a signed Rob Ford bobblehead doll this morning.

Now, the important thing here isn't that our scandal-scabbed mayor, who's lied about smoking crack, written reference letters for drug dealers, spewed racist, homophobic garbage, and regularly lost battles with inanimate objects, is selling bobbleheads to raise money for the United Way, or that he's doing so on the eve of the first council meeting since he admitted he smoked crack, or that these bobbleheads have lead to long lines outside of City Hall.

Who cares about that anymore? The Rob Ford Experience, I have decided, isn't a municipal political disaster. It's a piece of performance art, forcing viewers to confront the constructs of power and privilege within the fraught sphere of the "public"... OR SOMETHING. Like any good art experience, there is a gift shop with souvenirs. There are these bobble heads.

And so, the really important thing about the Rob Ford bobbleheads is, that I didn't get one.

This is the greatest miscarriage of wobbly-headed justice since I missed out on a "Marty the Marmot" bobblehad giveaway in Victoria, BC. Now I'll never have a physical memento of the Ford Years, just a bunch of incoherent rantings about NFL TIE REALLY and BIKE LANES GIVE THEM BACK.

But what if I never need a physical memento? What if these years never end, and I'm surrounded by Fordliness forever, in a miasma of Russian Prince? Because I think he might win. By coming out about the crack, then stubbornly moving on, he might just pull it off. It doesn't matter that his critics are justified. The less he engages, the more shrill they'll sound. And then he can talk and talk about how much money he's saved as our mayor. The fuzzy truth of that strong claim doesn't really matter. He's said it enough times, that people have started to believe him. "If he smokes and saves me money, I'll vote for him — " one of my fellow citizens recently said, "even if he's a bum."

It's that kind of high quality reasoning that makes me think Rob Ford's bobbleheaded persona could take on the man himself in 2014. Not only will it "save" at least as much money, but voters will love its positive, can-do attitude! That Bobbie Robbie just never stops nodding.

Domestic Friday: Beau's Smokin' Banana Peels

Smokin' Banana Peels was the beer I dreaded most from the Beau's Oktoberfest Mix Pack. It's a smoked Hefeweizen. I imagined it tasting like some sort of unholy charcoal briquette/banana smoothie, like something served up from Satan's Booster Juice.

Hefeweizens do not contain mashed-up bananas, thank Christ. Instead you'll find wheat, barley, and strains of yeast that give a banana-like or clove flavour to the beer as it ferments. Though distinct, it is also subtle, which is exactly what most smoked beers I've had in the past have lacked. Every time I tried one, I felt like I was drinking LiquidSmokeTM with an ABV. 

So I was pleasantly surprised to find that the two flavours, fruit and smoke, were well balanced in this beer. The smoky notes kept the banana from being cloying. The distinctive banana aroma kept the smoke from being choking. Lesson learned: never judge a beer by beers past.

Sex and the Megacity: Trudeau and Tru-Don't

Isn't your favourite cultural product from the late 90s/early 00's Sex and the City? No? Well shut up, hater. You're probably a Miranda. I, however, am a Fast Walking Background Extra #3. Fortunately, Justin Trudeau's recent  Toronto event - where, for $250, I could meet the man glowingly described as "Dreamier than Mulchair" and "Not Michael Ignatieff" by Canadians everywhere - meant I could finally live out my SATC fantasies. Get ready for...

Sex and the Megacity: Trudeau and Tru-Don't

by Carrie Bloorshaw

When you live in a cracked-out amalgamated metropolis like Toronto, you get your kicks where you can. Maybe you lick the pole on the Spadina streetcar.

Maybe you smoke some actual crack.

Or maybe you try and get on the first wagon headed out of town, to a new city where everything closes at five, dignity matters, and nobody remembers the time you tried to climb the outside of Sneaky Dee's, naked.

I was thinking a move to Ottawa was in order, and I didn't want to do it on the back of a backbencher. I was shooting for Mr. Big Deal - Justin Trudeau himself.

With my eyes on the parliamentary prize, I accepted Justin Trudeau's invitation for a ladies' night. I would get to know him - really know him - in a few hours. Plus there would be booze. A chance to be intimate in all the right ways with our next prime minister, and knock back a few glasses of cab sauv before throwing it all back up in a cab cab's back seat? Madam Speaker, I move to adjourn... to the venue!

I had  maxed out my credit card to buy the right shade of Liberal Red dress. I wanted the Mr. Big of Canadian politics - big name, big hair, big ideas - to notice yours truly. And notice he did.

It was about the time of my sixth Lib-tini of the night. They tasted suspiciously like regular cosmopolitans with little paper Liberal flags stuck in them, but I didn't even want to know what a Paul Martin-i was. It looked old, and sad, and people kept on ordering other drinks after they had one.

And then - there he was. He cut across the room like Stephen Harper cutting through democratic process in order to prorogue parliament. I held myself up with the back of a chair.

"Hello there," Mr. Big Deal said. "What's your favourite virtue?"

Looking into his earnest, desperate eyes, I couldn't help but wonder - What are the dating procedures when the House of Commons Procedure and Practice just won't do?

"Why, Justin" I purred, falling off of the chair and on to the Liberal party leader, "shouldn't you be asking me what my favourite VICE is??"

I shoved another mini-quiche into my mouth.

"Because it's gluttony. Gluttony, and SEX!"

However, Mr. Big Deal was more acrobatic than he looked. Like Jean Chrétien proving a proof, he wriggled out of my grasp.

As I stood up, the Lib-tini caucus in my stomach started to behave in a very unparliamentary manner. Where had it all gone wrong? Why wasn't I one of Justin Trudeau's real life heroes? Was it because he was married, or did he know I had secretly voted NDP last time because Jack Layton's mustache reminded me of my daddy issues?

Only one thing could save this night, and it didn't come from a bottle. I pulled out my cellphone and dialed the number I kept under "300 Pounds of Fun."

"Hello, Rob," I said, "are you up for meeting one of your constituents tonight?"

Well, Ottawa might have been nice for a term. But I can never resign from you, Toronto. And the best part is, you can't make me, either!