A Christmas Warning

or “Oh Mothers, Tell Your Children Not To Do As Mike Has Done”

originally written June 06, 2007

by Edward Petrenko

I saw Michael Margules today.

For those just joining, let’s recap my experiences with Michael Margules (name changed out of sympathy – I suspect he Googles himself routinely). He was a kid in my middle school. He was not a popular kid in my middle school. He had no friends, no particular talents or callings, and as far I know, was not even a good student, which is the usual refuge of unpopular, untalented youth. He existed on the margins of the school’s consciousness, emerging only periodically to be humiliated before retreating back to the forgiving shadows.

Until today, there were only two incidents involving Michael Margules that I could remember. The first happened in middle school, during the first fifteen minutes of gym class, when we all got to shoot basketballs to warm up. Come to think of it, it was basically a way for the gym teacher to not have to do anything for a quarter of his day. In any case, its unsupervised nature led to it basically being recess, a social situation, and groups of kids glommed together to tool around with basketballs. Groups of kids, that is, and Michael Margules. Michael was by himself, near me and my paltry but superior social group, when he shot a basketball and completely missed the net. Or maybe he dropped the ball. Whatever it was, it was some slight failure that elicited laughter and attention from us. Michael, angered that he should be noticed for his one flubbed shot, and not the others he might have possibly made (maybe), lashed out and kicked the basketball. Right against the wall. It bounced. It hit him right in the stomach. It knocked him to the ground in some pain. We laughed. What else could we do? Grade 7 boys don’t detect pathos, they cause it. Nevertheless, this set up what has become a rubric for Michael Margules’ existence, whenever it comes to my attention: he tries, he fails, he makes it worse.

Jump forward several years. I’m in high school now, and Michael Margules has been reduced, from a gangly kid I sort of felt a little sorry for when I took the time to think about it, to an anecdote involving an unpopular kid and a basketball. It’s Friday or Saturday night, and I’m sitting around, watching TV. Sure, maybe I could’ve found something better to do, but maybe I was babysitting my neighbours, or something. Whatever. This isn’t about me. This is about Michael Margules, who turned up on Electric Circus (Toronto-based music dance show). Now, mind you, he wasn’t really on the show. Electric Circus was filmed inside some club that MuchMusic set up, and only attractive young pods were allowed in to dance in new and interesting ways to new and interesting music. Festooned in a full Adidas track suit, Michael Margules was in the mob of people outside the club who could not get in, hoping to be let in when one of the A-listers got tired, or at the very least, appear on TV and catch Ontario’s eye for a split second. And Michael Margules, being an expert in the art of playing to the attentive gaze, used his two seconds of exposure to “raise the roof” as vigorously as he could. Now, mind you, there was a time when “[raising] the roof” was still something people did, and indeed was fondly encouraged. However, this was not that time. If it was, it was the exact end of that time. It was as though Michael Margules had socially infected the “raise the roof”, and it was forced to join him in the ranks of the faded and embarrassed.

Now, I feel very bad for Michael Margules these days. The reason for this is not simply because he has horrible luck in attempting to do things. Rather, the bulk of my pain is felt because Michael Margules works so hard to overcome the hurt he feels. He is not graced with the ability to simply not feel uncomfortable or sad about his failings – were this the case, he would have already become a sort of William Hung, or other horrible, self-unreflexive semi-celebrity. No, Michael Margules feels every barb, every sting, and every tear, yet he still soldiers on. He refuses to lay down and sacrifice his dreams of accomplishing those things he has failed to do – rather than give up basketball, I suspect he began practicing every day. Rather than give away his Adidas suit, he probably worked to “raise the roof” higher than anyone had ever done before. The catch, though, is that he has not, to my knowledge, ever improved at any of these things. It could be that he does move on to new pursuits after failure, but fails again. I don’t know for sure. However he does it, he manages to stay locked in a limbo of agonizing self-torment, where he continues grabbing for attention with whatever tools he has available to him, only to realize too late that it is he, not the audience, that is in their underwear.

He was wearing a suit. Not a silly clown suit, or something, but a regular, even stylish suit, when he took to the Canadian Idol audition platform. He was taller, and had gained weight such that he was no longer “gangly”, but the repressedly forlorn look hung unmistakably on his face. Up to this point the judges had spent most of the episode trying to be creative in their belittling of mediocre singers. I could smell the blood in the water when the bottom of the screen flashed “Mike Margules – 23, Toronto”. When he began singing, my stomach rose into my chest, knocking my heart into my ears, and I could not hear how he sang. I was too nervous and uncomfortable. He had found a way to get an even bigger audience, even more attention, and amazingly, an even more vulnerable way to make them cringe and look away. He had found “Can You Feel The Love Tonight”. The thing is, with Canadian Idol, if you’re awful and lucky, they’ll only show you sing in a montage of people who sucked. If you’re awful and unlucky, they crucify you up on camera for even longer, and they grill you about your lack of talent and make you feel bad for trying. Michael Margules is not lucky. Yet, ever the embattled soldier, he fought back, accusing the judges of being mean, and of trying to make themselves feel good by making others feel bad. His point, however true, was overruled by the judges’ sassy backtalk, wise-crackery, and in one case, censored middle finger. He was upset enough to walk out on them, with a camera tailing, until Ben Mulroney’s chirpy shitheadedness segued into a commercial.

I have tried to find a cosmic reason Michael Margules exists, and all I can think up is some far-reaching, past-life karmic punishment. He may have been Hernan Cortez, or Mussolini, or he may be the Wandering Jew – his agony is such that I’m willing to buy into vast mythologies to explain it. I find this more comforting to believe, because without it, Michael Margules could happen to anyone, or anyone’s child. If you have to draw a moral from this tale, make it this: give your children hobbies, and give them hobbies early. If you cannot do this, then move far away from civilization. I do not personally subscribe to this teaching, but then, I am still not sure that Michael Margules exists as a physical entity, rather than as an embodiment of all our unconscious anxieties. His example is one to be feared, and every precaution should be taken to avoid its repetition.

We all feel bad for Michael Margules. We all see ourselves, or fear seeing ourselves, in him. Were it not for a bit of aptitude or applied self-consciousness, we could all be Michael Margules. Most of us spend our entire lives avoiding being Michael Margules – dodging the spotlight when it will shine unflatteringly on us, or staying in avenues where we feel comfortable and capable. But without those avenues, and with no flattering spotlights, what would we do? Would we glumly retreat into a mid-level job, or would we take yet another chance and audition for Canadian Idol? I guess that as far as broken men go, Michael Margules is a dynamo, and perhaps a hero of sorts. It’s some consolation, but not much – while he may thrive in the dim light of the underworld, Michael Margules was simply not designed for the discriminating, sunlit world. I’m ending this piece here, not because I’ve run out of ways of attempting to fit Michael Margules into my worldview, but because I can only think about him for so long before I feel uncomfortable. Plus, I’ve really been painting him with a shitty palette. Whatever. Maybe he’s good at chess.

God bless us assholes, every one.

EDWARD’S BABY

Like Rosemary’s Baby, But Without Rosemary or the Baby or John Cassavetes

by Edward Petrenko

A little while ago, dear reader, I was a happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care, let’s-get-drunk kinda guy. The sort of person who never really worried about that much, had a smile plastered to their face, and all that stuff that becomes a problem during exam season. Case in point, one day I had finished a paper in a rather half-assed fashion, and proceeded to berate my roommate with a more intense exam schedule than me with this fact for some time. Eventually, I grew weary of this, and headed out to get loaded in celebration.

Six beers later, I stroll on home, figure I’m out of sorts enough to enjoy some Kraft Dinner that has adorned the cupboard for a while, and then fall asleep. Little did I know that the happy guy who passed out had seen the last of his smilin’ daze dwindle away from him with the waning light. You see, people, and I swear to you about this, I woke up in the middle of the night and saw the fucking GRIM REAPER floating in my doorway.

Now, this may not have been a big deal to most people. I can easily see Ernest Hemingway seeing ol’ G-R hanging out in his room, and react only by hurling whiskey bottles at him until sunrise. But you see, I have what is known in psychological circles as a fear of Death. One day, many years ago, the wee Petrenko you read before you was watching some shoddily-produced daytime Discovery Channel special on ghosts, and in this special that no child should have been left alone to watch was an image of a ghoulish apparition floating in the doorway of some person who was tossing and turning in their bed. And I don’t know what mumbo-jumbory happened to my brain as it saw this, but it petrified the shit out of me. I couldn’t sleep for two nights, I couldn’t turn a corner in my own house without being deathly afraid that some hideous monster was waiting to… well, scare me some more, I guess. It was like that moment when you jump because a misleading camera angle in a horror movie doesn’t reveal the psycho killer until they’re right there, but preserved for sixty hours.

Jump forward, back to a few weeks ago. I’m twenty-two now, about as old as the actor in that ghost sequence that has scarred itself into my brain, and in the middle of the night I wake up completely alert, confronted with an even WORSE ghoul – this is the GRIM REAPER, in case I didn’t capitalize it before, and it’s way worse than some no name beastie. They sent the big guns in on this one.

Now, perhaps there are calmer ways for a quasi-adult to react to an apparition of imminent death floating before you than to pull the blankets over your head and start bargaining with yourself – but I didn’t pause to consider them. Closely guarded by a comforter that failed to adequately comfort, I grasped at straws: “Okay, shit. SHIT! No more drinking, okay? I’ll go easy at the birthday party tomorrow, I promise, okay! I don’t want to die! I’ll even be a bastard and tell other people not to drink, so they don’t die. Is that enough? Please?”

Peeking my head out from under the covers to find out if that was enough to appease the as-yet un-fully-contemplated fucking devil outside my door, I see it obviously was not a sufficient resolution, and immediately fling the sheets back over my head, Ebenezer Scrooge visitation-style.

Perhaps, again, I could have acted in a wiser fashion. But lo and behold, my very next thought to myself was the question “What do I have to do, man!? What’s it gonna take!? I don’t want to die! Couldn’t I just run up and shove it down, or something?”

My mind presented a counterargument almost immediately.

“No, man! You can’t do that! You can’t just walk up to the Grim Reaper and slap him around and have him go away! If he touches you, you’re dead!”

“Yeah, but what if I touch him? Maybe he’s like one of those animated skeletons who crumbles into dust when you punch him.”

“Naw… just hide here until sunup, so he’ll go away.”

“That’s vampires, idiot! Why’s he a vampire and not a skeleton man?”

It was at this point that a third, silent partner in my mind’s deliberation spoke up.

“Hey, is the door even open?”

Like the clarion voice of Wisdom itself, or possibly Moe instructing Larry and Curly in the proper method of tuning a piano, this voice brought a stop to the idiotic cacophony.

“…maybe… what of it?”

“Don’t you hang your jacket and towels on hooks on the inside of said door, and couldn’t they look pretty much like a grim reaper in poor light?”

After the other two opinions in this internal debate argued over who should take the first look to check it out, I snuck a peek, and sure enough, the spectre of my imminent demise was gone. In its place were my dark blue winter jacket and a dark red towel with surprisingly little power of absorption that I hated, but used nonetheless.

People, my brain was like Apollo Program Mission Control at this realization. People were hugging, popping champagne, applauding wildly, and I was elated. I realized then that my heart was beating like I’d just run a marathon, I’d broken out in a cold sweat (but not in the romantic James Brown way), and I’d woken up at this ungodly hour not to receive the knowledge of my passing, but because all the alcohol in my system when I fell asleep had turned to sugar and been digested somehow. Still bursting from the rush, I couldn’t fall back to sleep, and decided to write this whole saga down in the rising glow of the new day.

At the time of publication, I still have not considered or accepted the fact that I am 22 years old. Nor have I figured out if you could in fact push the Grim Reaper down and run away from him.

PS: This is also not the first time I have been scared shitless by mistaking coats for ghosts.

POKE BACK!

with Edward Petrenko

Wake up, citizens – it’s FASCISM O’CLOCK!

You’re probably wondering what’s gotten my goat. Well, lemme tell you – totalitarianism turns up in the least likely places. Erie, Pennsylvania – a funny thing happened to me while attending a recent family reunion. We ran out of tonic water, so I went to the grocery store to get some more – upstanding member of society that I am. As I’m standing there in line, I glance over at the magazine rack – more specifically, the Marie Claire. “Reese Witherspoon’s hot summer bod” – now, I’m only human here, people, so I go in for a closer look.

Now, as far as I know, erections predate laws. I haven’t done any research on it – yet – but I’m pretty sure that a healthy, natural erection fits in better with Mother Nature’s scheme than do Big Brother’s hired goons, the police. But that sure didn’t stop them from slapping me and my erection with a hefty, war-funding fine for something as absurd as “Being Visibly Erect in a Public Place”. Is this a crime now!? When did this happen?!

“Fuck that!”, I said to myself, and tore the ticket up once the cops left. I wasn’t going to take this violation sitting down. I had to rise up and fight this erection-bashing system of ours. First, I went to the library to look up this law, and see just how constitutional it is. The place was closed, so I went to the internet, and boy did it have a lot to say about the subject. Did you know that the British tried to tax erections before the revolution? You do now. Did you know that Thomas Jefferson had an erection when he signed the Declaration of Independence? You do now. Did you know that the Nazis flat out banned erections from 1936 to 1944? Welcome to the harsh realm of The Truth.

After this preliminary research, I found a database of men in a similar situation to mine, and all had a story to tell. Some had been to jail for their erections, some lost their jobs, their wives and children, and some, their lives. One man had been in the running to become an Oregon state senator before his erection mishap cost him the election, his family, his friends and his self-respect. He took his own life – but for what? For having an erection when he kissed a baby. He was arrested, the flags he waved were burned, mothers frantically cleaned their babies where he kissed them. That’s not my America, people. My America is free. My America, with her vast prairies and open skies, has room for all the erections in the world.

Erections can happen anytime, anywhere, in any situation. So why the fear? Why the hatred and discrimination? That’s right, I said it – race and gender and religion and whatever are totally protected and sacrosanct, but erections are left high and dry in our narrow-minded political correctness. Did you know you can’t even say “correct” without saying “erect”? You do now – too bad no one else does. “Visible erection”? Invisible minority, I say.

Fight for me, world. I’m going to fight this ticket in court tomorrow, and I fully plan on “dressing appropriately”. I suspect the judge will lock me up in contempt, so it’s up to you to build up support for me and my erectile difficulties. Send your emails of support to getupstandup@mumia.org.