Take An Open Letter, Ms. Jenkins
April 7, 2000

Hey you!

Things have been going crazy since I told Leah McLaren to suck my dick on national television. Needless to say the kids at CBC were a little angry about the brouhaha that followed -- sure, the Air Farce runs a weird little racket doing third-rate imitations of politicians, but put "suck" and "dick" in the same sentence and Mother Corpse gets scared shitless.

But that's neither here nor there. Then where the hell is it? you might ask. Who cares? is the more appropriate question. I mean sure, trapped somewhere between the cleavage of Electric Circus hopefuls and the artist-run gallery circuit lies the truth, but who wants to buck the free beer and fat-free, low-cal cocaine by discovering it? Not this cowboy. All I know is that I'm finally living in a city full of people worth schmoozing.

There's shit-talking and rumours flying across town, up Bathurst, across to St. Clair and down Yonge, but who has time to catalogue it all? I mean, I'm a writer, a god-damn, freelance writer, the most romanticized anachronism of the 21st century, and quite frankly who am I to say if X is fucking Y or if P.M. has broken up with C.D.? All I know is the narrow little world that is my veranda -- now with a propane b-b-q, bring by some veggie burgers the next time you're in the area -- and sometimes even that seems beyond my frail grasp.

I know you're anticipating a glib list of reasons why Toronto is better than Vancouver, but after living here for nine months, I can give you every assurance I'd need a novella, not a laundry list to explain the superiority complex properly. True, the city isn't as clean as Lotusland, and their parks are the botanical equivalent of tenement housing -- trees so sparse you'd think they were imported from Finland -- but I'm earning money for a change, so damn the scenery all to hell until money starts growing on trees.

Speaking of money, there's this magazine that I ... well ... I promised not to kiss and tell.

OK, OK I'll spill a bit -- but only anon, see? I need to alleviate some irritations regarding the sickly and incestuous circle-jerk more commonly known as the Toronto publishing community. What I've discovered thus far: every mag and newspaper has a sordid little affair simmering on some back burner. My advice -- don't open any closets in that biz or you'll find two skeletons going at it, if you understand my drift, and you usually do.

However, I try to avoid most of the office politics and concentrate on the last minute phone calls from editors who want things yesterday, quoting me number$ that would make you sick. Too often I feel like a firefighter, not a journalist, and I ain't really either. Still, until they figure out what I don't know, I'm making a killing.

But enough about me. I'll let you get back to whatever it is you're doing out there. Send me news from Vancouver and rest assured that I'm resting assured in this six-horse town.