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.
of its stomach and giving it a twist. He was that crazy. He was that bursting with life. From that night on he made it his habit to jump off roofs, ever higher, while clutching an umbrella. After a while he got pretty good at it, too. He saw that by kicking his legs and twisting his back a certain way, he could actually prolong his flight, coasting all over the place, sometimes landing only after several daring minutes aloft. It came to pass that The Penguin started hearing more and more about
themselves on marksmanship, yachtsmanship, or even penmanship, Howard prides himself on steaksmanship—the ability to eat vast quantities of steak. He orders the largest one on the menu and I do the same. Everything is so rich and heavy. Even the salad seems soaked in a dressing made of mercury. While waiting for the steak, we chomp away at handfuls of bacon bits like they’re peanuts. During the meal I try to match Howard, eating whatever he does. Across the table, he stares at me over a steak
attractive a nap starts to feel. In sleep things are simpler. No regret over the past. No worry for the future. Only the present. And as bad as a dream gets, at least you get to sleep through it. MONDAY. In the dream, I am able to fly. I haven’t had a dream like this since I was a kid.The only problem is that I’m only able to fly half a foot above the ground. Also, I can only fly about a quarter of a mile an hour. Still, I am flying. I head to Montreal’s Olympic Stadium, but after several
back have all gone home. Oh sure, now that I’m an adult, I could get myself a wig—something blond and floppy like Alexander Godunov’s mane. But with friends like mine, it’d end up torn from my skull and hackysacked about the room. Of course I could move to a new city and start over, but it takes so long for me to make new friends. Even terrible ones. THURSDAY. I’m halfway through the new Philip Roth book. My progress is slow, because every couple paragraphs I turn back to the author’s photo
we promenade, we keep passing the same fanny-packwearing senior citizens over and over. Every time we pass them, they nod to my father and he nods back. “Everyone’s going in the opposite direction,” I point out. “I like to go clockwise,” he says. “It’s the right way.” “But we’re going counter-clockwise.” My father disagrees and we argue the point over the course of two full counter-clockwise laps. Finally, he stops and closes his eyes. He imagines he is above us, floating in the clouds,