ELEVEN
FIFTEEN MINUTES
Kneejerk
In amongst the requests for dog walking and basement cleaning, which all seemed to only pay in creepy foot massages and tins of cookies, Milton replied to a Craigslist ad during a daily visit to the library: “underground music mag looking 4 writers.”
underground music mag… looking 4 writers… send samples
If Milton was going to become a famous poet, this was how it was going to go. This was to be his Kansas City Star. The steady onslaught of Mile End douchebags and noise bands was to be his Western Front. The Green Room and the Diskotek and the Club Musique Bar, with their pukey dance floors and busted bathrooms and two-for-$7 beers were to be his mustard-gassy trenches.
hey
i found your ad looking for writers on craigslist i have just moved here and i am looking for opportunities to write i am very excited to work with your publication i have a diverse range of musical interests from indie rock pop to country to jazz and classical bands that please me include bleed december legitimate businessmens social club future creature oakleaf cowboys sunset standard time potholz double yous moms from mars tornadoughnauts and many others i am interested in doing music reviews and also writing feature articles i am not sure what else to tell you so i will stop now hope to hear from you soon
milton ontario
He heard back right away. His first acceptance letter, his first try. He didn’t know what all the fuss was about, this writing stuff was a breeze. A guy named Wayne Willet replied with one of those e-telegrams written by a semi-literate:
cool… wanna review some cds… meet me at javajean on milton… im there most days til 6 working on shit… im the guy in the hornrims… like every other guy in the plateau… lol… ww
The Java Jean on Milton was McGill Ghetto Ground Zero. It was a half hour on foot from Milton’s apartment. Back down Parc, through the park across Des Pins and into the Ghetto.
When Milton arrived, the place was full to the frothed- milk gills. The my-senator-father-is-paying-for-my-lit-degree-at-McGill was so thick in there it steamed up the windows. He had to running-back his way to the counter.
“Tay, see-voo-play?”
“What?”
“Tea. Please.”
Wayne was in the middle of the crowd; Milton guessed it was him because he had about 15 years on everyone in the place, and he was the only one with a stack of 40 CDs on his table.
“Wayne?”
“Hey, man.”
They shook clammy hands.
Wayne closed his laptop, and Milton sat down with his tea behind Wayne’s pile of CDs.
Wayne looked about 45, but he could have been 30 or 60. His horn-rims were the most assertive thing about him. The rest was softness and defeat. His hairline crept up his forehead. His face, body, and personality were all round and soft. Sitting there, through the thick London fog of steamed milk and flat white privilege, he looked a lot like the busted-up mattress Milton had been sleeping on.
Wayne was the editor of Kneejerk. Actually, Wayne was Kneejerk. He called it an Underground Music Magazine. But anyone else—had anyone else ever seen it—would call it a blog. A blog whose owner had convinced enough small record labels to waste postage sending records for Wayne and his cadre of Craigslisters to review.
“So, you like Future Creature?”
Wayne wasn’t much for small talk. He jumped right into business.
“Yeah, they’re pretty good.”
Wayne mumbled something about Future Creature being derivative of Galaxy Wax from Austin, or Athens, or something and asked if Milton was into Twee.
“You into Twee?”
“Yeah, they’re pretty good.”
Milton had no idea.
“You might dig some of these then.”
Wayne shoved a stack of CDs across the table at Milton.
“Take whatever you want.”
Milton flipped through the stack. He didn’t recognize a single band but he picked four CDs. One because the case was an elaborately folded piece of brown cardboard with a dick drawn on it, two because the band names were funny puns of Canadian bands—Gordzilla Bigfoot, and Steven Page Turner Overdrive—and one because Wayne said, when he picked it up, “You heard that? It’s sick.”
“Uh, no, but I like their other stuff.”
Assuming Wolf Knuckle had other stuff.
Milton slid the four CDs in his pocket and blew on his tea. Wayne looked at his long-empty cup with distant eyes and raised eyebrows like someone looking at their watch as a way to hint it’s time to get going. Except he wasn’t moving.
“So, uh, when do you want the reviews?”
“Whenever, man.”
“How long do you want them to be?”
“Whatever, man.”
“Any advice? I’ve never reviewed CDs before.”
“Nah, man. Just go for it.”
“Okay.”
They sat staring into their mugs for a while.
“Do you pay per review or per word?”
“Aw, nah, man, no pay. It’s good exposure though, and you can keep those discs.”
“How many people read the magazine.”
“Aw, nah, no magazine, man. It’s all online.”
“Oh. How many people read it online?”
“300 hits last month.”
“Cool.”
“…”
“Well, I’ve got a… uh… thing.”
Milton patted the square bulge in his pocket.
“Thanks for these. I’ll get you the reviews right away.”
“Cool, man.”
Milton headed home, through the park, and back to the library where he went in and googled “twee.”
Goosehumps
Milton didn’t have a CD player to listen to his new CDs and didn’t have a laptop to write up the reviews.
He had to sneak into Noddy’s room while he was at work, kick the beer cans and trash out of the way, eject the Rush or Mötley Crüe or Ron Hynes or Figgy Duff from his CD player, and listen to anonymous dick band, or Gordzilla Bigfoot or Steven Page Turner Overdrive, or Wayne’s favourite, Wolf Knuckle.
The anonymous dick band was actually called Goosehumps. And they were terrible.
First of all, it took a good three minutes to figure out how to get their CD out of the elaborately folded cardboard package. Once entirely unfolded it was just a picture of a penis, drawn with a Sharpie, and a handwritten Goosehumps: Duck the Police.
Milton listened to the CD three times in a row. Sitting on the floor next to Noddy’s bed (he was afraid to sit on the actual bed—he, more than anyone other than maybe Joey Flipchuk, knew the dangers of STD-enhanced super bedbugs), hunched over with his head in his hands.
The entire CD was about 18 minutes long. It contained four “songs,” one of which was 12 minutes long.
It landed somewhere on the map of musical genres between jazz, rap, folk, and twee Brit-pop, with some hints of techno and Norwegian death metal. It was like a soup of wounded animal, jellybeans, and shards of glass, all in a chocolate-gasoline broth.
The overall effect was a migraine headache and a sneaking feeling of what might be regret, not just for what Goosehumps does to one’s ears, but for everything, ever, always.
But Milton had a job to do. Fame to pursue. Dreams to make come true. He was intent on reviewing every CD. Intent on finding something to say about the shit soup that was Goosehumps.
The result was about four rolls of double-roll SuperSorb paper towels’ worth of scroll-style typewritten gibberish about, primarily, R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps series of children’s horror novels with wild tangents going off in all directions at all times, all loosely in the style of Roch Carrier’s children’s book The Hockey Sweater reimagined as a bad epic poem acid trip-slash-doomsday cult-leader manifesto.
the industrial revolution
and its consequences
made the winters of my childhood
long
long
seasons
they have greatly increased
the fact that
we lived in three places
the school
the hockey rink
and curled up under our blankets with a
flashlight reading stories about zombies
murdering
families
not unlike our own
Milton barely slept for three days writing it. Up until the wee hours crashing away on his typewriter, causing several cursing bouts from Georgette.
“Putain, Miltan! Shut up your typing!”
When he was finally finished, he ran down to the library and began transcribing the rolls, riddled with spelling and grammar mistakes, into some form he could email to Wayne.
The transcribing alone took him an entire day.
Wayne responded with a very concise: ‘thx,’ and within minutes it was live on the Kneejerk website, unedited. Milton sent the link to his mother. He’d never been so pleased with himself. He was truly, at last and finally, a published poet.
Within two days, Milton’s record review of a bad record in the form of a 35,000-word epic poem about childhood horror-book trauma and a meditation on small-town Saskatchewan life, condiments, international finance, movie theatre vs. microwave popcorn, and 75 other unrelated things had gone viral.
. . .
Viral
9:08 p.m.: Milton sends the review, titled “Duck, Duck, Goose and Other Traumas” to Wayne for editing.
9:11 p.m.: Wayne posts it on the Kneejerk website, unedited.
9:14 p.m.: Milton sends the link to his mother via email.
9:42 p.m.: Milton’s mother forwards it to everyone in her church prayer group email chain, and all of their children who are cc’d on the chain by their mothers, who all think they need more Jesus in their lives, including Joey Flipchuk, aka Horace Khack, the adult film megastar.26
11:17 p.m.: Horace Khack shares the article on his Live Journal (bigdink6669), which is followed by hundreds of thousands, with the comment: “nerdzzz got werdzzz lol 8=========D”
12:17 a.m.: Within an hour of being shared by Horace, the article hits one million views.
1:32 a.m.: Myron Linkletter, a writer for Late Night with Brett Carmichael, unable to sleep, checks on Horace’s Live Journal and clicks the link to Milton’s article thinking it will be some hardcore pornographic content to help him sleep.
2:14 a.m.: Myron Linkletter sends an email to the entire writing staff for Late Night with the note: “wow!”
6:47 a.m.: Brett Carmichael checks his email before heading into his office in Manhattan. He clicks the link.
7:13 a.m.: Brett Carmichael sends an email to his writing staff, in response to Myron Linkletter’s original note, simply saying: “top10”
9:17 a.m.: During their morning production meeting Brett Carmichael and his senior staff decide to make Milton’s article the subject of today’s daily top ten list feature.
9:53 a.m.: During the writers’ meeting, senior writing staff instruct Myron Linkletter and Alex Dolittle to prepare the evening’s Top Ten list inspired by Milton’s article.
12:47 p.m.: Milton wakes up.
1:13 p.m.: During the Late Night writer’s check-in meeting, Myron Linkletter and Alex Dolittle share their first draft of their “Duck, Duck, Goose and other Traumas”-inspired Top Ten list.
2:34 p.m.: Milton returns to the library to check his email: no messages.
3:28 p.m.: Brett Carmichael reviews the third draft of tonight’s Top Ten list and signs off, with a few changes.
4:17 p.m.: Brett Carmichael reads the Top Ten list during rehearsal.
5:49 p.m.: Brett Carmichael reads the Top Ten list during the live taping of Late Night.
6:03 p.m.: The New York Times entertainment reporter Lloyd Palooka, who was attending the Late Night taping in an attempt to get some time with celebrity guest Tom Cruise for a retrospective on Days of Thunder, ducks out of the studio and phones the editor’s desk, urging them to stop the presses. He tells managing editor, Bob Merkin, he’s just been tuned onto a major breaking news story that will likely bump the latest on the forthcoming presidential primary from the front page.
“Stop the presses, Bob. I’ve just been tuned into a major breaking news story that will bump whatever bullshit National has for A1.”
He tells Bob Merkin to check the website kneejerk27. angelfire.com.
6:22 p.m.: The New York Times managing editor Bob Merkin calls the production desk and tells them to bump the previous front-page story about upstart Senator Obama’s burgeoning campaign for president to below the fold to make room for a new story; he can’t say what the story is just yet.
“Just make some goddamn room, this is really something.” 6:23 p.m.: Bob Merkin calls Lloyd Palooka back.
“All right you sonofabitch, you’ve got A1. I need the story. And I need it yesterday.”
Lloyd suggests, instead of him writing a new story, why don’t they just run an excerpt from “Duck, Duck, Goose, and Other Traumas.”
“Fuck it, we’ll do both. Give me 400 words to put this cock-up in context. Otherwise the world will think we’ve lost our goddamned minds.”
6:24 p.m.: Bob Merkin calls Josiah Gritzwald, The Times’ assistant legal counsel.
“I need you to get me the rights to this blog thing from Canada. We’re running it on A1 and I need it done last week. Palooka is working on the story.”
6:25 p.m.: Josiah Gritzwald calls Lloyd Palooka and they agree to divide and conquer. Josiah will try and track down the editor of the website where the article appeared, and Lloyd will attempt to track down its author.
6:26 p.m.: Josiah Gritzwald emails the address on the Contact page of kneejerk27.angelfire.com, kneejerkwayne27@free mail.ru, asking someone to call him immediately.
6:26 p.m.: Lloyd Palooka emails the address listed under the author’s name on the article, miltonortanio@hawtmale.com, asking for Milton to call him immediately.
6:27 p.m.: Josiah Gritzwald’s email bounces back with a note: “The account you are trying to reach is over its quota.”
6:27 p.m.: Lloyd Palooka’s email bounces back with a note: “The address you are attempting to reach does not exist.”
6:28 p.m.: Josiah Gritzwald calls The Times’ Assistant IT Director Janet Hooschow to ask her to trace the IP address of kneejerk27.angelfire.com. She determines that “Duck, Duck, Goose and Other Traumas” was posted in Montreal.
6:29 p.m.: Josiah Gritzwald texts “blg frm mntrl” to Lloyd Palooka.
6:31 p.m.: Josiah Gritzwald calls Michelle Boulanger, a Montreal freelance journalist who sometimes writes stories for The Times, with a request to help find Wayne.
“I need your help finding the guy who runs this website. I need you to find him in the next half-hour. It’s urgent.”
6:31 p.m.: Lloyd Palooka calls his ex-girlfriend Michelle Boulanger, a Montreal freelance journalist who sometimes writes stories for The Times, with a request for help finding Milton. The call goes straight to voicemail.
Lloyd thought their break-up, which happened several years ago, was amicable enough, and enough time had passed, that she wouldn’t be blocking his calls, so what the hell?
He leaves a frantic voicemail.
“Hey, Mish, this is Lloyd. Look, I’m sorry if you are still harbouring some anger or whatever towards me and don’t want to talk to me right now, I get it. Part of me wishes it never ended. It was intense and carnal and, well, pretty great in a lot of ways. But I’ve moved on with my life and thought you had too. Look, I really need your help right now. It’s important. I need you to…”
His message was cut off by the voicemail lady saying “END OF MESSAGE” and disconnecting.
6:32 p.m.: Lloyd calls Michelle back. It goes straight to voicemail again. “THIS MAILBOX IS FULL. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.”
He throws his cell phone against the wall of the Late Night studio lobby, leaving a large dent. The security guard comes over and asks him to leave and escorts him out of the building.
. . .
Parapluie de nouilles
6:35 p.m.: Lloyd, with his flip phone broken in two, finds a payphone in Times Square. He picks up the receiver, plugs in a half-dozen quarters, and holds the receiver to his ear with his shoulder while dialing Michelle’s number, which he knows by heart.
He gags at the distinct smell of feces coming from the phone receiver and drops the phone and starts coughing.
A homeless man sitting against the wall nearby says to him, “That there’s the ass-wiping phone, my dude. That one on the other end there, that’s the talking phone.”
“What about the middle one?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
Lloyd spits out the shit smell stuck in his mouth and digs in his pocket for more quarters. He’s all out. He trades the homeless man a $10 bill for a dozen quarters he’s collected in a paper coffee cup. The pay phone “on the other end” still smells awful, but not quite shit awful. Lloyd plugs in some quarters and dials Michelle’s number.
6:36 p.m.: Michelle picks up.
“Michelle, it’s Lloyd, please don’t hang up.”
“I’m sorry. Lloyd who?”
“Lloyd Palooka.”
“Excuse me? Palooka?”
“Lloyd… Palooka… From The Times… The New York Times… From New York. From the NAAJ Conference in 2001… Remember? The Bed-In at the Queen Elizabeth?”
The 2001 edition of the annual National Association of Arts Journalists conference was held the week of September 10, 2001, in Montreal at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. The attacks of 9/11 occurred on the second day of the conference, and, unable to travel, the NAAJers, as they called themselves, were sequestered in the hotel.
The emotional rawness of that moment, the expense accounts, and the well-stocked hotel bar all added up to a number of impromptu trysts, including two days that Lloyd and Michelle spent, like John and Yoko did 32 years before in the same hotel, confined to their room.
Lloyd kept calling it a “Bed-in for peace” and going on about how if they didn’t love one another with their full hearts at that exact moment the terrorists would win.
Michelle found him incredibly annoying and regretted everything. Immediately.
“OH! Lloyd. My god! Your last name is Palooka? You work for The Times?”
“Yeah. I’m an editor.”
Technically he was the Junior Entertainment Editor—a made-up position for a junior beat reporter who happened to walk in on his boss and his boss’s boss’s wife necking in the executive bathroom during a Christmas party.
“I need your help, it’s urgent.”
6:39 p.m.: Michelle phones her friend Julie, a night dispatcher with the Montreal police, asking for a favour.
6:42 p.m.: Josiah faxes a 19-page contract to the Kinkos at the corner of St. Dennis and Sherbrooke for Michelle to pick up to get Wayne to sign.
6:49 p.m.: Michelle picks up the contract.
6:59 p.m.: Wayne, who’d fallen asleep in Java Jean is roused from his sleep by a teacup smashing on the tile floor, dropped by a trainee barista. He wipes the sleep from his eyes, the drool from his chin, closes his dead laptop, packs his bag, and sets off for home.
7:12 p.m.: Wayne stops at Parapluie de Nouilles for some take-out chow mein.
7:16 p.m.: Bob Merkin calls Lloyd Palooka, the call goes to voicemail.
“What the fuck is going on over there, Palooka?”
7:17 p.m.: Bob Merkin calls Josiah Gritzwald and asks.
“What the fuck is going on over there, Joe?”
7:18 p.m.: Josiah Gritzwald calls Lloyd Palooka, the call goes to voicemail.
“What the fuck is going on over there, Lloyd?”
7:24 p.m.: Times publisher Larry Gleckman calls Bob Merkin and asks, “What the fuck is going on over there, Bob? I heard you’ve pulled A1.”
“We’ve got something big, Larry, just hold on to your ass.”
7:29 p.m.: Wayne arrives at his apartment, a tiny studio off of Square St. Louis, to find the door slightly ajar. He pushes it open slowly and finds Michelle Boulanger sitting in his kitchen, on the foot of his bed. She snaps his picture with a small point-and-shoot digital camera. He drops his Parapluie de Nouilles in fright and chow mein spills across the floor.
“Aw man! My mein!”
“Wayne Willet, I’m Michelle Boulanger, from The New York Times. Are you the owner of the blog kneejerk27. angelfire.com?”
“It’s a magazine.”
“Sorry, magazine.”
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
“I need you to sign this, and give me the number for Milton Ontario, right away.”
Wayne wasn’t the swiftest, and it took him a moment to get over the spilled chow mein and grasp the situation.
“How much do you pay?”
“It depends upon the licencing agreement the author has with the website.”
There was no such agreement, only a clammy handshake and four CDs.
“Oh, the site owns the rights.”
“Then you’d get $10,000.”
“I’ll need payment in cash before I can sign anything.” 7:31 p.m.: Michelle calls Josiah Gritzwald from Wayne’s living room/bedroom/kitchen with the news.
“This Kneecap twerp is a real pain in the ass, he won’t sign until he’s paid.”
“In cash.”
“In cash.”
7:37 p.m.: Michelle and Wayne pick up a $10,000 money transfer from the Kinkos at the corner of St. Denis and Sherbrooke.
7:41 p.m.: Wayne cashes the $10,000 money transfer at May Day Loans on St. Denis. Less their cashing fee, Wayne gets $6,000 cash in $100 bills. He signs the contract in May Day Loans.
“Ok, where’s Ontario?”
“A couple blocks up that way, why?”
“No, you idiot, where is Milton Ontario, the author of the article?”
“Oh, I have no idea. He just emailed me through Craigslist.”
If Michelle had a gun, she’d have shot Wayne in May Day Loans.
“Thanks for nothing, asshole.”
Michelle walks out. Wayne heads out back towards Parapluie de Nouilles.
. . .
No Name Brand™ Pasta Spread
7:42 p.m.: Michelle calls Julie, asking for help locating Milton Ontario. After a few seconds of clarifying that it was a person’s name and not a Toronto suburb or either of two Montreal streets, Julie checks her system.
“No one by that name in here. I can check credit card and phone records, but I’m supposed to have a warrant.”
“I don’t have time for that, Jules.”
Michelle and Julie had been friends since high school; Michelle laid it on thick.
“Pleeeeeease! I need this for a story. It’s a big deal. I just need to talk to the guy. He’s just a source. It’s nothing sinister.”
“I’ll get in so much trouble, Mish.”
“Who told your mom that bag of weed in your room was theirs in high school, Jules? You owe me.”
“Ok, fine.”
7:45 p.m.: Julie has checked all databases she can access without special clearance. No one named “Milton Ontario” has a cellphone in the entire country. But there is a Milton Ontario with a Saskatchewan driver’s license, with an address from some place named, “Get a load of this: Bellybutton, Saskatchewan. There’s also a Milton Ontario with a long maxed-out Visa with payments far overdue. The most recent purchases were all for under $4 from Fruiterie Parc near the corner of Parc and Bernard. $4 almost every day last month. Also, someone with that name has 27 books checked out of the Mile End Library, and they’ve listed 707 avenue de l’Épée as their address. He owes $80 in late fees.”
“Why didn’t you open with that, Jules, jeez?!”
“It’s a guy named Milton Ontario from a place called Bellybutton, Saskatchewan, who buys $4 of stuff almost every day from the same fruit stand and has 27 books checked out, including How to Draw Breasts, Behinds, and Other Erotic Forms and Who Needs College?: A Drop-Out’s Guide to Dinner Party Conversation, and like 30 R.L. Stine novels. His address is the least interesting thing about him. I should probably report him to counter-terrorism.”
7:56 p.m.: Milton is in his room—still refusing to be in the same room as Noddy—tucking into a bowl full of overcooked spaghetti with a splash of 99 cent No Name Brand™ Pasta Spread, courtesy of Georgette’s pity over his ongoing hunger strike. Through the wall he can hear Ava and Ruddy smoking cigarettes and rehashing their misunderstandings of the Habermas–Gadamer debate as misunderstood breakfast metaphors.
“Bacon and eggs can’t be separated from their cultural and historical contexts, you tool! That’s why all-day breakfast is an abomination!”
And Noddy chewing giant mouthfuls of fried horsemeat with his mouth open and talking loudly about the history of the Newfoundland Fishermen’s Union towards Larry, who was over to visit Georgette and stayed to hang out even though she left for a date with Chris hours ago. All this over a blaring QHL game, when Michelle Boulanger bangs on their door.
Larry answers the door. Michelle snaps his picture.
“Hi, Mr. Ontario. I’m Michelle Boulanger from The New York Times. Did you write an article for a blog called kneejerk27.angelfire.com titled ‘Duck, Duck, Goose and other Traumas’?”
Noddy, Ava and Ruddy all stop talking mid-sentence and crane their heads towards the door.
“Uh, Ontario? Just a minute. Ruddy! Door for you.”
Michelle snaps Ruddy’s picture.
“Hi, Mr. Ontario. I’m Michelle Boulanger from The New York Times. Did you write an article for a blog called kneejerk27.angelfire.com titled ‘Duck, Duck, Goose and other Traumas’?”
“Aw, I’m not Mr. Ontario. I’m from Ontario though. What’s up?”
“Are you the author of the blog article ‘Duck, Duck, Goose and other Traumas’?”
“Nah, that might be Milton. MILTON!”
Milton ducked into the hall. Michelle snapped his picture.
“Thank you, Mr. Ontario. We don’t have much time. I’m Michelle Boulanger from The New York Times. Did you write an article for a blog called kneejerk27.angelfire.com titled ‘Duck, Duck, Goose and other Traumas’?”
“Uh… Yeah, that’s me.”
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Uh… what about?”
“You, your article, it’s for a story I’m writing for tomorrow’s paper.”
“For tomorrow’s paper? Like The New York Times New York Times? From New York? New York City, New York?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Look, there’s not much time, my deadline is in just a few minutes.”
8:24 p.m.: The phone rings at the desk of managing editor Bob Merkin, who had gone home two hours ago when the headline was settled as “Upstart Senator to Presidential Hopeful,” and wasn’t thrilled to be back at the office, missing his only daughter’s flute recital:
“This better be Palooka and you better have 400 words that don’t need a lick of red.”
“Hi Bob. It’s Michelle Boulanger.”
“Mish! Hi. How are you? It’s been a long time. How have you been?”
“I have your story.”
“My what?”
“About the weirdo in Montreal.”
“I thought that was Palooka’s story?”
“Not any more.”
8:38 p.m.: 38 minutes after the deadline, which was a fairly normal occurrence, Production Designer Brenda Settleson hit send on an email of the final digital proof of the front page for tomorrow’s paper to the The Times’ production facility in College Point, Queens.
10:52 p.m.: After a game that saw 14 fights, the final buzzer goes with the Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu Reno Depôt Hammers beating the Sherbrooke Monsieur Chicken Fightin’ Martyrs 7-5.
Noddy’s recounting of the history of the Newfoundland Fisherman’s Protection Union, which he claims was started by his maternal grandfather, continues as the game ends and switches to La Nuit du Sport.
11:28 p.m.: “And that’s how it became the Fish, Food and Allied Workers Union.”
11:30 p.m.: La Nuit du Sport ends and Noddy changes the channel.
11:34 p.m.: News at Night ends with “one last check on the weather,” and Late Night with Brett Carmichael begins. Tonight’s guests are actor Tom Cruise, comedian Carrot Top, and pop band Arcade Fire.
11:47 p.m.: Late Night with Brett Carmichael returns from a commercial break.
Late Night With Brett Carmichael
MUSIC PLAYS
BRETT CARMICHAEL
Welcome back, uh, welcome back ladies
and gentlemen. Tonight’s Top 10, Paul,
Tonight’s Top 10 is a real doozy.
PAUL LORY
Is that so?
BRETT CARMICHAEL
It is, Paul.
PAUL LORY
Well, I look forward to it then.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
(Laughs.)
That’s good, Paul, I’m glad you’re
looking forward to it.
PAUL LORY
Very good.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
So, what happened Paul, what happened was one
of our writers, My-ron Link-letter.
PAUL LORY
Oh yeah, I know Myron.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
(Laughs.)
Oh yeah, Paul, you’ve seen him around?
PAUL LORY
Yeah, I’ve seen him around a couple times.
He’s a good guy.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
So, this Linkletter guy. He’s big into
the internet, apparently.
PAUL LORY
I’ve heard of it.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
(Laughs.)
So, last night, after we’re all in bed,
Myron is up on the internet and
he discovers this article.
PAUL LORY
Is that all he was doing?
LAUGHTER
BRETT CARMICHAEL
Now Paul, Paul, we don’t want to know that!
LAUGHTER
PAUL LORY
Well it is the internet!
LAUGHTER
BRETT CARMICHAEL
(Laughs.)
It is. It is the internet. So, Myron’s out
there on the internet in the wee hours, Paul,
and he discovers this article and reads it,
I guess, and thinks it’s quite something, Paul.
PAUL LORY
Sounds like it.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
So, he goes into the email there, and emails
it to everyone. All of us.
PAUL LORY
I didn’t get it.
LAUGHTER
BRETT CARMICHAEL
(Laughs.)
Eeeeehh… Well, almost everyone.
But I wake up this morning, and there’s this
article in my email from Myron. And I get into
the office and it’s all anyone is talking
about. All day. This article.
PAUL LORY
I’ve never heard of it.
LAUGHTER
BRETT CARMICHAEL
The article, Paul, you should really
check your email, the article is called
“Duck, Duck, Goose and Other Traumas” on
this blog from Canada, Paul.
PAUL LORY
My people!
LAUGHTER
BRETT CARMICHAEL
And it’s written by this guy, Paul,
get this, named Milton Ontario.
PAUL LORY
I have an aunt who lives there.
It’s a nice place.
LAUGHTER
BRETT CARMICHAEL
No Paul, not the place, the person.
This guy’s name is Milton Ontario.
PAUL LORY
I see. Yeah, I’ve never been there.
LAUGHTER
11:48 p.m.: Ava and Ruddy in stereo: “MILTOOOONNN!!!”
BRETT CARMICHAEL
(Laughs.)
Well maybe you’ll have to visit.
PAUL LORY
Maybe I will.
BRETT CARMICHAEL Anyway, Paul, this article by this Ontario fellow is quite something.
PAUL LORY
Is it?
BRETT CARMICHAEL
So I’m told. We’ve got writers to do the
reading around here. They just roll me out and
plug me in at 11:30.
LAUGHTER
PAUL LORY
That’s how you’ve managed to keep
your hair all these years.
LAUGHTER
BRETT CARMICHAEL
(Laughs.)
Exactly. This Ontario fellow’s article, it’s
gone, as the kids say, viral, Paul. Viral.
PAUL LORY
That doesn’t sound good.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
Not good at all, Paul. But I’m told
it’s not contagious.
PAUL LORY
Well, that’s a big relief.
LAUGHTER
BRETT CARMICHAEL
You’re telling me!
PAUL LORY
Yeah, I just told you. It’s a big relief.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
Yes. Anyway, Paul, tonight’s Top Ten list,
that shtick we do every night at this time.
PAUL LORY
Yes. I’m familiar with it.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
Tonight’s Top Ten, Paul, is about this article,
“Duck, Duck, Goose and Other Traumas.”
PAUL LORY
From Ontario!
BRETT CARMICHAEL
Just like our very own Paul Lory,
ladies and gentlemen.
APPLAUSE
11:49 p.m.: “MILLLLLLTOOOOOOOOONNNNN!!!!”
BRETT CARMICHAEL
Here it is, folks. From the home office in
Milton, Ontario, tonight’s Top Ten Reasons That
Guy Reviewing Your Debut Album on that One Blog
from Canada Might Actually be the Unabomber.
MUSIC PLAYS
11:50 p.m.: Milton emerges from his room. “What?”
BRETT CARMICHAEL
Number ten: He’s got strong opinions he
expresses at length that he really wants
everyone to read.
Number nine: It’s on the internet and it still smells like gun powder and maple syrup.
Number eight: There’s a Tragically Hip song about him.
Number seven: He knows who the Tragically Hip are.
Now hold on. Hold on, Paul. That’s not fair. Now. Now, the Tragically Hip are a great Canadian band, Paul.
PAUL LORY
From Kingston, Ontario.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
Exactly, Paul.
(Laughs.)
We should get them on the show sometime.
PAUL LORY
I’m shocked they haven’t been.
BRETT CARMICHAEL
Me too, Paul, me too.
(Laughs.)
Number six: Canada’s Parliament is a cabin
in the woods in Montana.
Number five: It’s pronounced poo–teen,
not Putin.
Number four: He’s still hosting his blog
on Angelfire.com.
Number three: He says he listened to your
entire album.
Number two: He keeps sending you bombs
by email.
And the number one reason that That Guy Reviewing Your Debut Album on that One Blog from Canada Might Actually be the Unabomber. Are you ready for this, Paul?
PAUL LORY
Am I ever!
BRETT CARMICHAEL
It’s a bad review, but he says he’s saw-ry.
LAUGHTER.
MUSIC PLAYS
. . .
The Big Times
Milton didn’t know what to make of the whole thing. He’d typewritten the rambling review, if you can call it that, on a roll of paper towel in a three-day fever dream fueled by hunger hallucinations.
After sending “Duck, Duck, Goose and Other Traumas” to Wayne, Milton slept for hours, got up, showered with Noddy’s Axe body soap, borrowed some of Georgette’s toothpaste to grind the fur off his teeth, and moped around the house until Georgette offered him a bowl of pasta.
He spent the rest of the night, until Michelle Boulanger knocked on the door, hiding from Noddy in his room, listening to the dueling conversations through the thin wall: Noddy ranting and roaring about fishermen’s unions to Larry, Ava and Ruddy bickering over Gadamer and Habermas and the hermeneutical imperative of experience vs. tradition and breakfast food.
“Like, it’s in the fucking name, Rudd. Break-fast. Like breaking the fast. Like you were just, like, sleeping and so you weren’t, like, eating or anything, and now you’re up and ‘breaking that fast’ with the first, like, meal of the day. So, like, when you eat like bacon and eggs for supper it’s not breakfast, that’s just bacon and eggs for supper. Tradition doesn’t get to trump language just because a bunch of slave-owning colonial assholes liked to eat burnt pig guts when they woke up each day.”
After Brett Carmichael’s top ten, the entire room sat in stunned silence, staring at Milton. All except for Noddy, who belched loudly, crushed an empty beer can in his hand.
Ruddy broke the silence.
“Milty, are you, like, famous now?”
“Oh my god! That’s so crazy. Like, did you really write all that?”
Milton shrugged.
“Congratulations, son. That’s a nice feather in your cap.”
Larry stuck out his hand to shake Milton’s.
“What are you going to do now, Milty?”
“I don’t know.”
He thought about Robin. He wanted to call her. He wondered if she was watching. She wasn’t. She was in Florida, getting ready to shoot her next film, making out with Chadmaxderek. He didn’t have her number. He didn’t have a phone.
“Go to bed, I guess.”
“Fuck that, b’y, let’s get shittered. You hit the big time!”
“Maybe.”
Milton couldn’t imagine getting shittered now. He couldn’t imagine anything. He just got up off the couch, walked down to his room, closed the door, turned off the light, and laid down on his bed and stared into darkness until morning.
In the morning, after Noddy’s work boots plodded down the hall and out the door, Milton got up.
He got dressed and snuck into Noddy’s room to borrow five bucks in change out of the clamshell ashtray full of change and cigarette butts on his bedside table. He ran down Parc to the newsstand past the library. It wasn’t open yet, so he sat on the curb and watched the sun come up.
The old man who ran the newsstand showed up shortly before 7:00 and unlocked the door, Milton followed him in. The old man was surprised, and/or thought he was being robbed, and hollered at Milton.
“MONSIEUR! EXCUSEZ MOI!”
“Day-sole-ay, New York Times, see-voo-play.”
The old man prattled off a long, angry soliloquy in French while he walked into the back and hauled in a bundle of papers, cut the straps, and handed one to Milton.
“Duh, see-voo-play.”
He handed Milton a second.
“Quatre dollars soixante.”
Milton handed the old man a handful of Noddy’s change and unfolded the top paper. There was a photo of Milton looking rather like a serial mail bomber holding up a wad of paper towel.
“Say mwah!”
. . .
Supernovice
Almost overnight Milton had become a pop culture phenomenon.
The Associated Press wrote about his post, so he appeared in every paper that didn’t write their own stories, which was most of them.
The hashtag #duckduckgoose trended on Twitter for three straight days.
The Kneejerk article became the most shared link on Facebook of all time.
He was on the front page of Yahoo!, Boing Boing, Buzzfeed, Huffington Post, featured on Slate, The Onion, and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and was the subject of a Google Doodle.
Vanity Fair was about to bump their annual Hollywood issue back a month to put him on the cover, but changed their mind after seeing a higher resolution photo of Milton.
The Canadian edition of Time magazine did put on its cover Michelle Boulenger’s poorly lit, black and white shot of a haggard and sleep-deprived Milton brandishing a paper towel manifesto with the headline, “The Face of Millennial Terror.”
He was a Final Jeopardy clue that all three contestants got wrong, leaving the winner, Roy Hobbles, a retired teacher from Denver, Colorado, with just $1.
He was featured on thousands of local and national newscasts in Canada and the U.S.—in roughly equal frequency as both a hard news story about the danger of millennials and a soft human-interest story about the stupidity of millennials.
He was interviewed remotely by Fox News, MSNBC, Larry King, Barbra Walters, Charlie Rose, 60 Minutes, Good Morning America, and Regis & Kelly, and live in-person by CBC, CTV, Global, TVO, Radio Canada, a dozen local radio shows, CSIS and the FBI.
The traffic to kneejerk27.angelfire.com crashed the Angelfire servers for the first time since a bootlegged copy of Elton John’s special Princess Diana version of “Candle in the Wind” was posted on di4ever.angelfire.com the day of her funeral in 1997.
The automated Angelfire pop-up ads on Kneejerk, which Wayne refused to pay $2.99 per month to replace with his own, made the company nearly a million dollars in the first week alone.
Unfortunately for RocketSox.com, a company that printed pictures of people’s pets on novelty socks and Angelfire’s lone advertiser, they were on the hook for the entire million dollars, and went bankrupt.
An online t-shirt seller from Chinese Taipei sold 47,000 t-shirts with a stylised likeness of Milton’s Time magazine cover surpassing their previous bestseller shirts featuring a stylized likeness of long-dead Argentine revolutionary Che Guevara.
German, Japanese, French, Portuguese, Spanish, Polish, and Russian publishers bought the translation rights to “Duck, Duck, Goose and Other Traumas” from Wayne for about $5,000 each, without royalties or residuals. The Polish hardcover edition made it to number four on the Gazeta Wyborcza’s Best Seller List.
Goosehumps, which made only 200 copies of Duck the Police originally, selling seven and mailing 12 to music blogs and magazines and blogs masquerading as magazines, were signed by EMI to re-release it. It made it to number two on the Billboard Top 40 Albums chart, but was unable to surpass Avril Lavigne.
Between that deal and digital downloads, the members of the band, which had long broken up, each made over a million dollars.
The drummer, Gary Thompson, made an extra $250,000 by selling the 181 original copies of Duck the Police in their original elaborately folded cardboard package with the hand-drawn picture of a penis that were in a box in his garage. That was until the rest of the band found out and threatened to sue. Gary relented and they settled out of court for an undisclosed amount.
“Duck, Duck, Goose and Other Traumas” also triggered an avalanche of angry hate emails to both Wayne and Milton. So much so, that they crashed the email servers of freemail.ru, the obsolete Russian email-hosting service Wayne used. Milton’s Hotmail.com account survived, but he was so overwhelmed with emails—most of them from angry investment bankers and hedge fund managers who were personally offended by Milton’s “gross and irresponsible mischaracterization of subprime mortgages and derivatives, you pathetic waste of life”—he abandoned his account.
Early in the ordeal, Milton and Wayne met at the Java Jean to congratulate one another for becoming internet famous. Wayne confessed that The Times had paid him for the rights to the post, and that Milton’s share was $100. It was the last time Milton saw Wayne.
Between The Times deal, translation deals, and appearance and licensing fees he collected “on Milton’s behalf,” Wayne had more than $500,000 cash, which was more than enough for 30 acres of Belize farmland.
In all, Milton’s meteoric rise to Trivial Pursuit answer earned him $100 and seven TV network mugs.
And as fast as it began, it ended. The world spun around, Beyoncé and Jay-Z got married, a new iPhone came out, the presidential primaries were picking up steam—”Yes We Can!” and what not—and that was that. Milton’s 15 minutes were up.