I'll Seize the Day Tomorrow
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I’ll Seize the Day Tomorrow is the story of Jonathan Goldstein’s journey to find some great truth on his road to forty.
In a series of wonderfully funny stories, the host of CBC’s WireTap recounts the highs and lows of his last year in his thirties. Throughout the year, Goldstein asks weighty questions that would stump a person less seasoned. For example: What is it about a McRib that drives people crazy? Can we replace extending an olive leaf with extending an olive jar? How much wisdom can we glean from episodes of Welcome Back, Kotter? His friends and family, many of them known through their appearances on WireTap, weigh in with hilarious results as Goldstein eats, sleeps, and watches bad TV all the way to his date with destiny.
the woman was feeling something, too. She was in fact feeling something indeed. For as the man spoke, as he leaned towards her, closer and closer, the smell of his coffee breath was slowly turning her stomach. And with the smell crept spiders of memory. His morning breath. The way he would speak so close to her that she’d have to wipe spittle from her glasses. “So much is coming back to me,” she began. Yes, the woman thought. I’m certain this must be why we broke up. Those noises he makes
a posture that’s meant to convey filial loyalty peppered with a touch of what Vietnam vets call the thousand-yard stare. In the back room, I imagine the saleswoman conferring with the manager, a bedraggled, shiny-jowled man, as he stares at my mother through a security cam, watching with a look of recognition that quickly turns to panic. 10:55 A.M. The saleswoman returns, immediately offering store credit. That’s a mistake.Weakness. “Credit? So you can unload socks on us?” my mother asks.
Man. In one scene, Lewis’s character, Herbert H. Heebert, is being force-fed baby food while strapped into a high chair. The scene has the look of something that’s been directed by a thousand monkeys seated behind a thousand movie cameras.While the movie proves not to be very good, it is, in parts, stunningly beautiful to watch—the sets, the colours—and there are moments of almost perfect absurdity. Beginning to feel guilty about not getting enough rest, I stop the film, but just before I do,
has a dagger earring hanging from his ear and pleather pants. Despite all this outlaw stuff, he asks the woman at the counter if he can have a “mocha jazz” flavoured coffee. I figure that for Do-rag, everything must be flavoured. Never the regular kind of anything. Never plain potato chips—always barbecue or salt and vinegar. I envy how everything for him is a showcasing of the brightly burning soul within himself. When it’s my turn, I ask what mocha jazz is. “The ‘mocha’ part I get,” I say to
consult his great book of death and, flipping back and forth between pages, finally utter, “That’s odd. I have no listing here for Chalchas the Greek. It would seem you do not die. How weird is that?” And so the days passed and the day of Chalchas’s death grew nearer just as the day of all of our deaths draws nearer. Except Chalchas was able to count down to his. Each morning he would awake and think, “2764 to go. 1873. 922.” As the days dwindled, what once felt like a vast number of days—an