In a desperate bid for comments, any comments, any one out there? I'm giving you a new poem, "Deer Lake, 2006," and I swear to God that the inspiration for this poem came from a very "infamous" person they played on the radio up north. And then turned ugly when it obviously became about something else—wanna guess what's the inspiration behind the poem? And then feel free to trash it or not, but likely yah...I know it kind of sucks, but I can feel Ken Babstock saying to me, "Just put a little pressure on it."
Deer Lake, Summer 2006
The odd contrast of barge on a small body of water,
his sound carries, like helicopters in the night.
Noise of beer and pine needles, stripped now of the
intensity of the 1970s, it sounds oddly theatrical.
Soundstages and Broadway, all things misplaced on this lake,
here where loons call deep into the night
and the water always seems warmer when you're in it.
And you want him like you want another beer,
knowing that it's better not to imbibe too much too soon,
or your secrets come bawling out in the spider-infested outhouse,
where the sound is undeniably the best.
First kisses and lost nights to poker, pinochle and Moscow mules,
nothing changes except you, you who tells nothing of us to them,
taking the words right out of my mouth, just as I inch towards singing them:
out loud, not forgotten, this place, our place, your choice,
you took the words out, which meant you took me out, leaving me, there
beside the dock, watching for the sound to carry.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
To Chick Lit Or Not To Chick Lit
Ever since Bridget Jones tottered in on her spiky shoes ten years ago, the merits of chick lit have been argued and debated among women writers on this here interweb. Oddly, I've never seen a debate over "serious" writers like Cormac McCarthy and, just for the hell of it, John Grisham, regarding the "merits" of law fluff and all its implications on contemporary literature. I mean that doesn't get people all in a flurry. Where are the blogosphere debates about why one sells so much less than the other and who out there is complaining about the lack of literary merit in "male"-centric popular fiction?
And yet, we (the royal we, the "women" we) seem to be unable, as a group to just let each other write whatever the hell we feel needs to be written. It's like taking the school yard chatter of the popular girls (the non-chick lit writers) and consistently forcing the less-than-popular girls (the chick lit writers) to eat at the table next to the cafeteria while pointing and laughing at them. Is a chick lit author any less of a writer because her cover is pink and maybe features shoes in a stunningly sexy way? I don't think so...oh, and isn't that baby pink lettering I spy on the cover of This Is Not Chick Lit? To me, it all just sounds like people are upset more about how popular chick lit has become more than anything: the whole idea that if everyone in middle Canada or America is reading The Devil Wears Prada that must mean the book is crap, because the masses are always wrong with a capital "W" when it comes to culture.
Yet, I think that championing women writers, of all kinds, is important, especially in the day and age where less books are being read by less people, and it becomes harder and harder to find good fiction no matter what side of the debate you end up on. I'll read Jennifer Weiner in an afternoon and cry my eyes out, and then pick up something heftier the next day and have an equally enjoyable experience. There's room in my cafeteria for all kinds of writing and I don't see why one has to make the very important point of crying in all caps that you are, by definition, not a chick lit anthology helps matters any. Seems to me that the editor is simply trying to draw attention to herself by abusing the very thing she purports not to be, and that's the worst kind of attention. How to make yourself feel better by putting other people down, now, isn't that first sign of not having enough self-confidence? How very Mean Girls of her.
In short, me thinks the pink doth protest too much. Proclaiming to be the "best" of anything makes me cringe, I mean, not even Google lets you use that word in an ad because nowadays it means absolutely nothing.
And yet, we (the royal we, the "women" we) seem to be unable, as a group to just let each other write whatever the hell we feel needs to be written. It's like taking the school yard chatter of the popular girls (the non-chick lit writers) and consistently forcing the less-than-popular girls (the chick lit writers) to eat at the table next to the cafeteria while pointing and laughing at them. Is a chick lit author any less of a writer because her cover is pink and maybe features shoes in a stunningly sexy way? I don't think so...oh, and isn't that baby pink lettering I spy on the cover of This Is Not Chick Lit? To me, it all just sounds like people are upset more about how popular chick lit has become more than anything: the whole idea that if everyone in middle Canada or America is reading The Devil Wears Prada that must mean the book is crap, because the masses are always wrong with a capital "W" when it comes to culture.
Yet, I think that championing women writers, of all kinds, is important, especially in the day and age where less books are being read by less people, and it becomes harder and harder to find good fiction no matter what side of the debate you end up on. I'll read Jennifer Weiner in an afternoon and cry my eyes out, and then pick up something heftier the next day and have an equally enjoyable experience. There's room in my cafeteria for all kinds of writing and I don't see why one has to make the very important point of crying in all caps that you are, by definition, not a chick lit anthology helps matters any. Seems to me that the editor is simply trying to draw attention to herself by abusing the very thing she purports not to be, and that's the worst kind of attention. How to make yourself feel better by putting other people down, now, isn't that first sign of not having enough self-confidence? How very Mean Girls of her.
In short, me thinks the pink doth protest too much. Proclaiming to be the "best" of anything makes me cringe, I mean, not even Google lets you use that word in an ad because nowadays it means absolutely nothing.
#52.5 - The Last Juror
Again, The Last Juror by John Grisham isn't really the book I'd read anywhere other than maybe, and let's just say maybe, on a beach in Mexico because I'd finished all of my other books and it's the only thing left lying around the room. That said, it makes a truly engaging audio book, and I thoroughly enjoyed listening to it.
All tolled, it took most of my time in the car for the last week to get through it, but as it finally ended, I sat in the car for about five minutes listening to the end before going in to the office.
The sprawling story of Willie Traynor, a small-town newspaper owner who befriends Miss Callie, the matron of a large black family in Mississippi, The Last Juror opens with a violent murder, one that has the entire community of Clanton up in arms. As the next ten years unfold, the story of the paper, and of its owner, Traynor, comes to life beside the story of Miss Callie and her incredible family. The trial of the murderer, Danny Padgitt, becomes the focal point for the meat and potatoes of the book. The story sprawls like an old plantation porch, filling in the lively details of country, small-town life, and I suppose it'll be made into a movie at some point (isn't that a Grisham pre-requisite?).
And I'd give it one and a half solid thumbs up in terms of keeping you awake on a long drive. One thing's for certain, you'll be drawling in your sleep and longing for a cup of sweet tea before the book's finished.
All tolled, it took most of my time in the car for the last week to get through it, but as it finally ended, I sat in the car for about five minutes listening to the end before going in to the office.
The sprawling story of Willie Traynor, a small-town newspaper owner who befriends Miss Callie, the matron of a large black family in Mississippi, The Last Juror opens with a violent murder, one that has the entire community of Clanton up in arms. As the next ten years unfold, the story of the paper, and of its owner, Traynor, comes to life beside the story of Miss Callie and her incredible family. The trial of the murderer, Danny Padgitt, becomes the focal point for the meat and potatoes of the book. The story sprawls like an old plantation porch, filling in the lively details of country, small-town life, and I suppose it'll be made into a movie at some point (isn't that a Grisham pre-requisite?).
And I'd give it one and a half solid thumbs up in terms of keeping you awake on a long drive. One thing's for certain, you'll be drawling in your sleep and longing for a cup of sweet tea before the book's finished.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Kick It!
So even though my Summer Reading challenge has catapulted into a steaming pile of nothingness, my Page A Day has carried on quite well. Here are the stats:
Word count: 36,431
Page count: 162
Not so bad even if much of the story is filler until I can do some much-needed research. I'm going to try to finish a draft that I think will come in around 225 pages and then start editing and re-writing.
Whee!
Word count: 36,431
Page count: 162
Not so bad even if much of the story is filler until I can do some much-needed research. I'm going to try to finish a draft that I think will come in around 225 pages and then start editing and re-writing.
Whee!
#52 - Veronica
Mary Gaitskill's Veronica (yes, yes, I KNOW, not on my Summer Reading list, let's just give up the ghost now on that, ahem, agenda) came highly recommended by Crabby Kate, who enjoyed it a great deal. I read this book on Friday, after a particularly gruelling few days of writing myself, where I added about fifty-odd pages to my latest story. The point? That my mind wandered a lot during the tale, which probably has more to do with my own state of mind than in Gaitskill's storytelling.
Veronica follows the life of Alison, a once young and beautiful model whose life and career is left in ruins after an accident. During the almost-height of her success, she befriends an office worker/"fag hag" whose tempestuous relationship has left her with AIDS and a broken heart. The novel tracks the peaks and valleys of their odd friendship as it develops Alison's story, from high school dropout to Parisian runway model, from New York fashion model to West Coast victim, as she comes to terms with her own illness, hepatitis C. The novel has no conventional storyline, no true narrative held together by the constraints of time, but it seems to work as a series of memories that serve to take the reader from one page to the next.
The discombobulated state of the narrative obviously echoes Alison's own fragile psyche, and being a girl with a disease herself, I identified with the "sick" part of the book: Veronica's slowly decaying body, Alison's tattered wreck of an arm from a car crash, both of their diseases a result of choices they made, but not necessarily on their own—more a sign of how desperately unhappy they both were, that unhappiness somewhat tying them together in the end.
It's a terribly melancholy novel, but I didn't really mind that considering I watched Before Sunset and Shakespeare in Love to balance out the feeling of wanting to dive off the dock and never surface in the evening after I finished the book ("Oh, baby, you're going to miss that plane!", LOVE IT), all in all I think it truly deserves the kudos its received (National Book Award nomination, etc.). Not as fascinated by the life of an ex-model, or by modelling in general, that whole "Gia-on-paper" bit is a tad overplayed, the book is a consistent example of creative writing at its novelistic best.
Veronica follows the life of Alison, a once young and beautiful model whose life and career is left in ruins after an accident. During the almost-height of her success, she befriends an office worker/"fag hag" whose tempestuous relationship has left her with AIDS and a broken heart. The novel tracks the peaks and valleys of their odd friendship as it develops Alison's story, from high school dropout to Parisian runway model, from New York fashion model to West Coast victim, as she comes to terms with her own illness, hepatitis C. The novel has no conventional storyline, no true narrative held together by the constraints of time, but it seems to work as a series of memories that serve to take the reader from one page to the next.
The discombobulated state of the narrative obviously echoes Alison's own fragile psyche, and being a girl with a disease herself, I identified with the "sick" part of the book: Veronica's slowly decaying body, Alison's tattered wreck of an arm from a car crash, both of their diseases a result of choices they made, but not necessarily on their own—more a sign of how desperately unhappy they both were, that unhappiness somewhat tying them together in the end.
It's a terribly melancholy novel, but I didn't really mind that considering I watched Before Sunset and Shakespeare in Love to balance out the feeling of wanting to dive off the dock and never surface in the evening after I finished the book ("Oh, baby, you're going to miss that plane!", LOVE IT), all in all I think it truly deserves the kudos its received (National Book Award nomination, etc.). Not as fascinated by the life of an ex-model, or by modelling in general, that whole "Gia-on-paper" bit is a tad overplayed, the book is a consistent example of creative writing at its novelistic best.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Deja Vu
My week up at the cottage has been super productive. I have written 156 pages on my story, made a very small start on my next abridged novel and have gone swimming every day. My crackberry works in some places enough to text my RRHB, which is cool and I've watched a few of my favourite movies.
Today I am sitting in The Windmills Cafe in Kingston. I haven't been back here since I graduated from university 10 years ago. Funny thing too, the last time I ate here, I had food poisoning. And when Hannah went back to complain for me as I threw up for two days, the fellow TOOK A BITE and said, "Seems fine to me."
Ah, Kingston.
Today I am sitting in The Windmills Cafe in Kingston. I haven't been back here since I graduated from university 10 years ago. Funny thing too, the last time I ate here, I had food poisoning. And when Hannah went back to complain for me as I threw up for two days, the fellow TOOK A BITE and said, "Seems fine to me."
Ah, Kingston.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Procrastination Eventually Becomes Productivity
Oh so I'd like to think. So far, my goal of writing a Page A Day has been going okay, even though I can't remember now where I started, but I'm at 91 pages and have over 20,000 words. That's the longest I've consecutively written in my life. Generally I write series and series of short stories that never link together into anything remotely resembling a longer piece. Anyway, the longer I sit here, the more that I seem to write, even if it feels like I've wasted an already gone day.
Keep Feeling Procrastination
I should be packing. I should be pulling the weeds out of our massively overgrown vegetable garden. I should be reading or working on my pages or starting my two new books or redeeming my iTunes gift certificate Zesty gave me for my birthday.
What am I doing instead? Reading spoilers for Gilmore Girls next season, catching up on bad celebrity gossip and reading way, way too much into my horoscope for this month.
And yet, I feel so guilty for doing, well nothing, even though we've been so bloody busy so far this summer and haven't really stopped to well, even grocery shop (which, when I told my RRMIL [rock and roll mother-in-law] that we hadn't bought groceries in close to a month, she gasped, audibly), that I should be catching up on something—and yet I can't pull myself out of this chair to even wash my face or brush my teeth.
Now aren't you embarrassed for me?
What am I doing instead? Reading spoilers for Gilmore Girls next season, catching up on bad celebrity gossip and reading way, way too much into my horoscope for this month.
And yet, I feel so guilty for doing, well nothing, even though we've been so bloody busy so far this summer and haven't really stopped to well, even grocery shop (which, when I told my RRMIL [rock and roll mother-in-law] that we hadn't bought groceries in close to a month, she gasped, audibly), that I should be catching up on something—and yet I can't pull myself out of this chair to even wash my face or brush my teeth.
Now aren't you embarrassed for me?
#51 - Literacy And Longing In L.A.
Yes, I know this book isn't on my Summer Reading list, but I've been so brain dead I wanted some chicklit. It's the story of Dora, a 35-year-old, almost-twice divorced woman who lives in a book-induced stupor and, for many reasons, this novel doesn't ever really get off the ground for me. In fact, I have precious little to say except I quite agree with John Allemang's Book A Day review.
I'm heading up to the cottage tomorrow for a week and a bit—fingers crossed I get some real reading done up there.
I'm heading up to the cottage tomorrow for a week and a bit—fingers crossed I get some real reading done up there.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Stating The Obvious 101
So, the headline for this article in the Canoe books section is: "Reference books offer useful info."
Huh. You'd think that was, well, the point or something? I mean OF COURSE they do they are REFERENCE books. That's the only reason THEY EXIST. Sigh.
Huh. You'd think that was, well, the point or something? I mean OF COURSE they do they are REFERENCE books. That's the only reason THEY EXIST. Sigh.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
TRH Movie - Clerks II
Aw, you have to be a true Kevin Smith fan to love this movie, which I am, which I did. And it's nice to be pleasantly surprised by it...I didn't laugh so hard I peed my pants like when I saw Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, but I did find myself giggling like a silly fool and gasping at a couple of the truly shocking moments. And it's nice to see Jason Mewes so tanned, fit and healthy-looking.
Clerks II has an indie feel to it, lots of cameos, not much of a storyline (Dante and Randal BFF, they break up, they're BFF, there's a love triangle, we see Kevin Smith's wife's boobs, Jay dances), but it was sweet, and even kind of generous in a strange sort of way. And you know, not to spoil it, but doesn't every movie need a good throw down over the counter of a Mooby's with Wanda Sykes? Oh yes, I think it does.
If I have one small criticism is that I'm getting a little tired of the boy-who-refuses-to-grow-up storylines that seem to be dominating so many of the men in my age group on screen. I think EW had something about that in the magazine this week. Especially after seeing the atrocious You, Me and Dupree, if I ever hear, "30 is the new 20," or "40 is the new 30," one more time, I will not be responsible for the hair I might rip out. What's wrong with acting your age, which isn't the message of this movie (rather, be who you are and be happy that you can, well, be happy), but I mean really how many aging playboy/partyboys can there be in the current mainstream?
But I guess that's sort of what this movie has in common, to some extent, with The Break-Up, which was kind of Vince Vaughn's character's evolution out of that whole man-boy trap. Because in the end, it's nice to see how the ten years have actually changed the men in this movie, beyond the (slightly) thinner hair, beginning wrinkles around the eyes and world-wearied expressions.
Clerks II has an indie feel to it, lots of cameos, not much of a storyline (Dante and Randal BFF, they break up, they're BFF, there's a love triangle, we see Kevin Smith's wife's boobs, Jay dances), but it was sweet, and even kind of generous in a strange sort of way. And you know, not to spoil it, but doesn't every movie need a good throw down over the counter of a Mooby's with Wanda Sykes? Oh yes, I think it does.
If I have one small criticism is that I'm getting a little tired of the boy-who-refuses-to-grow-up storylines that seem to be dominating so many of the men in my age group on screen. I think EW had something about that in the magazine this week. Especially after seeing the atrocious You, Me and Dupree, if I ever hear, "30 is the new 20," or "40 is the new 30," one more time, I will not be responsible for the hair I might rip out. What's wrong with acting your age, which isn't the message of this movie (rather, be who you are and be happy that you can, well, be happy), but I mean really how many aging playboy/partyboys can there be in the current mainstream?
But I guess that's sort of what this movie has in common, to some extent, with The Break-Up, which was kind of Vince Vaughn's character's evolution out of that whole man-boy trap. Because in the end, it's nice to see how the ten years have actually changed the men in this movie, beyond the (slightly) thinner hair, beginning wrinkles around the eyes and world-wearied expressions.
Małe kobietki
Do you know what that means? Well, neither did I until yesterday when a Polish edition of my abridged version of Little Women showed up in the mail. How awesome is that?
Can I now refer to myself as "Ragdoll, Blogger and International Author"? Or is that just a tad too pretentious?
Can I now refer to myself as "Ragdoll, Blogger and International Author"? Or is that just a tad too pretentious?
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Oh, No, You Didn't
Okay, remember when I said that having ecoli in my pee was the grossest medical thing that ever happened to me? Yeah, well, not even two weeks later, let me tell you—something even grosser.
I threw up IN MY SLEEP the other night.
And I woke up feeling totally off centre and right disgusted. And it wasn't a dream because, well, it wasn't (and that's all I'm going to say about that).
I threw up IN MY SLEEP the other night.
And I woke up feeling totally off centre and right disgusted. And it wasn't a dream because, well, it wasn't (and that's all I'm going to say about that).
#50.5 Girl, (Nearly) 16: Absolute Torture
Now, I'm calling this #50.5 because I didn't actually read the book but rather listened to it on CD. Sue Limb's cute YA novel about Jess, a totally overly dramatic, dark-haired pixie of a girl with self-described 'podge,' is forced to go on a vacation with her librarian of a mother just as her relationship with her boyfriend Fred heats up, could be described as "ultimate" girlie fiction. It's got a cute, Gilmore Girls-like tone, tells the story of British Jess with panache and humour, and actually made me laugh out loud a couple of times. The story, while predictable, was still somewhat fresh, and I liked listening to it.
It's taken a bit of time to get used to the idea of audio books, but now that I've started, I'm totally addicted. I listened to half of The Husband by Dean Koontz (I KNOW!) and it was awesome and now I'm on to John Grisham's The Last Juror. It's funny how fiction I would never, ever in my life admit to reading, I'm more than happy to pop into the CD player in the car. It's the auditory equivalent of watching Law & Order or some other cop drama, or what that stands for in my life, something passable to make the time fly by as I'm getting from one place to the other (usually from being awake to being asleep).
Anyway. Do audio books even count toward my final reading goals? I don't know and don't much care, for now, I'm always going to count them as point fives.
It's taken a bit of time to get used to the idea of audio books, but now that I've started, I'm totally addicted. I listened to half of The Husband by Dean Koontz (I KNOW!) and it was awesome and now I'm on to John Grisham's The Last Juror. It's funny how fiction I would never, ever in my life admit to reading, I'm more than happy to pop into the CD player in the car. It's the auditory equivalent of watching Law & Order or some other cop drama, or what that stands for in my life, something passable to make the time fly by as I'm getting from one place to the other (usually from being awake to being asleep).
Anyway. Do audio books even count toward my final reading goals? I don't know and don't much care, for now, I'm always going to count them as point fives.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Things That You Think About On A Long Drive
Or so I thought on our way home yesterday:
1. That I probably shouldn't have had that one last glass of wine at the awesomely cool Tribeca Grand hotel bar because it made me very cranky.
2. Why do many people no longer use the passing lane as, well, a passing lane and insist upon driving in it therefore slowing traffic down to a halt?
3. New York City is so large that it's even hard to imagine when you've driven pretty much from one end to the other. And you can walk for hours and still be in a part that's considered downtown. And there's so much to see and to do that even though you've walked through Soho, the East Village, Greenwich Village, the Upper East Side, Alphabet City, a small part of Brooklyn, and the Financial District, you've barely scratched the surface.
4. Silence is good. As well as the "mix tapes" from a friend in Ireland. How fun is music by people you've never heard of?
5. You should really be driving a hybrid car but that doesn't stop you from giving obnoxious Hummers the finger—even if your mother did teach you to be polite.
6. Running around Brooklyn in high heels, playing "find the person" and sliding down a slide really seemed like a good idea at the time. Honestly, it did.
7. The border people are much nicer on the Canadian side.
8. Travelling truly messes up your sense of days. We got home on Sunday night and watched our usual shows but we both had to keep reminding ourselves that it was Entourage night and not Brotherhood night.
9. I wish I had a camera for all of the cool things I saw on the side of the road.
10. There is a limit to the amount of junk food one can eat.
1. That I probably shouldn't have had that one last glass of wine at the awesomely cool Tribeca Grand hotel bar because it made me very cranky.
2. Why do many people no longer use the passing lane as, well, a passing lane and insist upon driving in it therefore slowing traffic down to a halt?
3. New York City is so large that it's even hard to imagine when you've driven pretty much from one end to the other. And you can walk for hours and still be in a part that's considered downtown. And there's so much to see and to do that even though you've walked through Soho, the East Village, Greenwich Village, the Upper East Side, Alphabet City, a small part of Brooklyn, and the Financial District, you've barely scratched the surface.
4. Silence is good. As well as the "mix tapes" from a friend in Ireland. How fun is music by people you've never heard of?
5. You should really be driving a hybrid car but that doesn't stop you from giving obnoxious Hummers the finger—even if your mother did teach you to be polite.
6. Running around Brooklyn in high heels, playing "find the person" and sliding down a slide really seemed like a good idea at the time. Honestly, it did.
7. The border people are much nicer on the Canadian side.
8. Travelling truly messes up your sense of days. We got home on Sunday night and watched our usual shows but we both had to keep reminding ourselves that it was Entourage night and not Brotherhood night.
9. I wish I had a camera for all of the cool things I saw on the side of the road.
10. There is a limit to the amount of junk food one can eat.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
NYC - Day 4
The wedding was phenomenal. The weather—still hot—the city—still looming—Brooklyn, absolutely smashing, and I cannot believe I am still awake.
The giant blister on my foot atests to what a great f*cking day it's been.
The giant blister on my foot atests to what a great f*cking day it's been.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Day 2 - NYC
There is no relief from the unrelenting heat in NYC. We drip the moment we step outside and smog-filled humidity has a hard time pumping oxygen into my scarred lungs.
Isn't amazing how so many people live in such a small place? We walked through the Lower East Side tenement museum today. The apartment looked so much like our own apartment in TO - the same walls, the same windows between the doors.
Then we took a cab to the MOMA because my work badge got us free admission. There's a fascinating DaDa exhibit going on at the moment. Then we walked around 5th Ave (we went in some stores - but only for the air conditioning.
We meet our friends for dinner at the Oyster bar in Grand Central station, something I had never done before - truly amazing even my $30 fish was a wee, wee bit dry, it was still awesome food and service.
But I think I need to come to NYC in the fall with some female friends and shop because I am missing all the shoes - my one birthday treat to myself (well that and Jackson).
And we missed the free exhibit at the NYPL, but I am hoping we can squeeze it in tomorrow before the wedding.
Walked past the Empire State and the flat iron buildings. And saw at least three Mies van der Roew (sp) chairs that I have been coveting for years in the MOMA. Aren't Clooney et al making an 0cean's 12?
Isn't amazing how so many people live in such a small place? We walked through the Lower East Side tenement museum today. The apartment looked so much like our own apartment in TO - the same walls, the same windows between the doors.
Then we took a cab to the MOMA because my work badge got us free admission. There's a fascinating DaDa exhibit going on at the moment. Then we walked around 5th Ave (we went in some stores - but only for the air conditioning.
We meet our friends for dinner at the Oyster bar in Grand Central station, something I had never done before - truly amazing even my $30 fish was a wee, wee bit dry, it was still awesome food and service.
But I think I need to come to NYC in the fall with some female friends and shop because I am missing all the shoes - my one birthday treat to myself (well that and Jackson).
And we missed the free exhibit at the NYPL, but I am hoping we can squeeze it in tomorrow before the wedding.
Walked past the Empire State and the flat iron buildings. And saw at least three Mies van der Roew (sp) chairs that I have been coveting for years in the MOMA. Aren't Clooney et al making an 0cean's 12?
Day 2 - New York Hotties
There is no relief from the unrelenting heat in NYC. We drip the moment we step outside and smog-filled humidity has a hard time pumping oxygen into my scarred lungs.
Isn't amazing how so many people live in such a small place? We walked through the Lower East Side Tenement Museum today. The apartment looked so much like our own apartment in TO - the same walls, the same windows between the doors.
Then we took a cab to the MOMA because my work badge got us free admission. There's a fascinating DaDa exhibit going on at the moment. Then we walked around 5th Ave (we went in some stores - but only for the air conditioning.
We meet our friends for dinner at the Oyster bar in Grand Central station, something I had never done before - truly amazing even my $30 fish was a wee, wee bit dry, it was still awesome food and service.
But I think I need to come to NYC in the fall with some female friends and shop because I am missing all the shoes - my one birthday treat to myself (well that and Jackson).
And we missed the free exhibit at the NYPL, but I am hoping we can squeeze it in tomorrow before the wedding.
Walked past the Empire State and the flat iron buildings. And saw at least three Mies van der Roew (sp) chairs that I have been coveting for years in the MOMA. Aren't Clooney et al making an 0cean's 12?
Perhaps they can swap some furniture as their next heist and donate it to the ragdoll needs to renovate her house and will make mad deals with any one willing to capitolize on her mad skills.
HA!
Kick it! We saw "a" Paul's Boutique today as well.
Okay off to bed. Must rest my 30 - 40 blocks walking legs.
Isn't amazing how so many people live in such a small place? We walked through the Lower East Side Tenement Museum today. The apartment looked so much like our own apartment in TO - the same walls, the same windows between the doors.
Then we took a cab to the MOMA because my work badge got us free admission. There's a fascinating DaDa exhibit going on at the moment. Then we walked around 5th Ave (we went in some stores - but only for the air conditioning.
We meet our friends for dinner at the Oyster bar in Grand Central station, something I had never done before - truly amazing even my $30 fish was a wee, wee bit dry, it was still awesome food and service.
But I think I need to come to NYC in the fall with some female friends and shop because I am missing all the shoes - my one birthday treat to myself (well that and Jackson).
And we missed the free exhibit at the NYPL, but I am hoping we can squeeze it in tomorrow before the wedding.
Walked past the Empire State and the flat iron buildings. And saw at least three Mies van der Roew (sp) chairs that I have been coveting for years in the MOMA. Aren't Clooney et al making an 0cean's 12?
Perhaps they can swap some furniture as their next heist and donate it to the ragdoll needs to renovate her house and will make mad deals with any one willing to capitolize on her mad skills.
HA!
Kick it! We saw "a" Paul's Boutique today as well.
Okay off to bed. Must rest my 30 - 40 blocks walking legs.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
On The Road And In The City
We ate breakfast in Scranton. Can you believe it? I was this-close to my dream of eventually being on "The Office."
The giant map of NYC sucked us in and we got wicked lost. The best part? It didn't end up a full-on fight.
Our hotel is steps away from Ground Zero. We walked by and I can help but think of it as grave yard to some extent.
Then we spent 4 hours walking around. We had dinner at the mac & cheese place I read about on Tara's site (holler! Taraariano.com).
This city is amazing. It's sweltering. You sweat just by stepping one beat down the road.
I love that we drove though. I thought a lot about Kerouac and the long trips they made. Damn I love a good road trip. Last night we stayed in rub-down motel off hiway 81 - there was a bug in the bed.
Heh.
The giant map of NYC sucked us in and we got wicked lost. The best part? It didn't end up a full-on fight.
Our hotel is steps away from Ground Zero. We walked by and I can help but think of it as grave yard to some extent.
Then we spent 4 hours walking around. We had dinner at the mac & cheese place I read about on Tara's site (holler! Taraariano.com).
This city is amazing. It's sweltering. You sweat just by stepping one beat down the road.
I love that we drove though. I thought a lot about Kerouac and the long trips they made. Damn I love a good road trip. Last night we stayed in rub-down motel off hiway 81 - there was a bug in the bed.
Heh.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
I Was Born Today
It's such a strange thought to think of my mother in labour, pressing me out into the world, as if she or I had any choice in the matter. Birthdays generally make me more sad than jubilant, for the most part because they make me think of losing my mother, and now as this year I pass the her fatal age (last year I turned the age she was when she had the accident), it's kind of hard to even think about getting older.
I think there's some psychological breakdown when you lose a parent at a youngish age (I was 14). They become suspended in time for you, of course, but you also have a hard time imagining yourself getting past that age. You simply assume your life is going to end somewhere around that time too. It's not logical and maybe it's a product of a sort of grief. Who knows.
But I've had a lovely birthday so far (starting yesterday): my work colleagues got me a gorgeous cake and a cute little present, I got a nice card from my father and stepmother, I'm having brunch with my friend Tina and tonight we're going to NYC.
And now the year starts again—a kind of new year revolution for me: what do I want to accomplish this year? A first draft of one of my novels, finish the house, be an extra in a movie, read lots, write more, and most of all, be healthy.
I think there's some psychological breakdown when you lose a parent at a youngish age (I was 14). They become suspended in time for you, of course, but you also have a hard time imagining yourself getting past that age. You simply assume your life is going to end somewhere around that time too. It's not logical and maybe it's a product of a sort of grief. Who knows.
But I've had a lovely birthday so far (starting yesterday): my work colleagues got me a gorgeous cake and a cute little present, I got a nice card from my father and stepmother, I'm having brunch with my friend Tina and tonight we're going to NYC.
And now the year starts again—a kind of new year revolution for me: what do I want to accomplish this year? A first draft of one of my novels, finish the house, be an extra in a movie, read lots, write more, and most of all, be healthy.
#50 - I Was a Child of Holocaust Survivors
Bernice Eisenstein's book is important, there's no doubt about that, and it's got that charming, graphic novel style that reads more like a series of memories than a pure narrative. Her illustrations are charming and I liked learning more about life in Toronto for her Jewish immigrant parents. Especially reading about Kensington Market thirty or forty years ago.
But, and isn't there always a but, I wasn't blown away by it as I probably should have been, and I might put that down to the fact that I'm not entirely convinced I like graphic novels.
But perhaps I'm just reading the wrong ones?
And, well, I might as well give up my Summer Reading challenge—it's totally gone to pot. And Page A Day? Well, I'm doing a bit better—I'm at 82 (double spaced) and am hoping to break a hundred by mid-August. Now that's not too bad!
But, and isn't there always a but, I wasn't blown away by it as I probably should have been, and I might put that down to the fact that I'm not entirely convinced I like graphic novels.
But perhaps I'm just reading the wrong ones?
And, well, I might as well give up my Summer Reading challenge—it's totally gone to pot. And Page A Day? Well, I'm doing a bit better—I'm at 82 (double spaced) and am hoping to break a hundred by mid-August. Now that's not too bad!
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Blackberry Birthday
It's now moments from birthday and I have now discovered how to use my new Blackberry to blog. I just finished watching Underwold: Evolution, and am blissfully on the couch in the company of John Cusack & Diane Lane.
Only hours to NYC.
Oh, and the grossest health-related crap yet: I have ecoli in my pee.
Yes, you read that correctly.
Sigh.
Only hours to NYC.
Oh, and the grossest health-related crap yet: I have ecoli in my pee.
Yes, you read that correctly.
Sigh.
The Green Butt Is Best
I'd really like to buy a pair of Del Forte Denim jeans, especially after reading this interview where owner/designer Tierra Del Forte explains that it takes two-thirds of a pound of pesticides to make one pair of jeans. But I doubt they'd have sizes that would fit my rather ample behind...
Thursday, July 20, 2006
The Office & The Work Boyfriend
I've been obsessed, ob-sessed, with NBC's The Office. I've been Faux-voing all of the episodes each week, as well, I've been watching the webisodes (brilliant I say, brilliant) and have re-played, analyzed and re-watched the Pam and Jim kiss about a million times (well, three). And I'm wondering why I'm so overwhelmingly enthralled by the show? I know it's because the environment is just so much like my day-to-day job (not the people, just the idea of the job) that I find so much humour in how ridiculous life can be at Dunder-Mifflin.
And then at the cottage this weekend, I kept referencing The Office wherever I possibly could. We were sitting around at the dinner table talking about movies and I mentioned Desert Island (My five movies? It's so hard to choose because it's not only movies that you like but movies you can watch over and over again. I picked The Godfather II, Badlands, Tully, Underworld [I know!] and Unforgiven). In the end, that sort of spiraled into a discussion of other movies, but no one at the table got how funny it was that Jim's girlfriend picked Legally Blonde as her first movie (and not a bad choice by my estimation, but still...).
Absolutely stunned by the BBC version and delighted by the Christmas episodes, the American show resonates perhaps more because I relate so much to the Pam/Jim storyline. Long before my present job, before I went to graduate school and found a love for all things online, I worked as a receptionist at a big financial company here in Toronto. It was my first job out of university. It was awful. But I had a work boyfriend, not unlike Jim, and he was awesome—the very first instance of my abuse of work email, and most certainly not the real boyfriend I had at the time (who, by chance, also worked there). And I miss him to this day.
It was that stereotypical best-friend, eat lunch together every day, know more about them than you do most of your girlfriends that kept me going through that awful job where everyone got my name wrong, commented on my girlie voice and basically hit on me non-stop from nine-to-five. And then when I went to the big fancy media company, I brought the idea of the work boyfriend with me, and wanted that same experience. Alas, there were fun work boyfriends at the new place but no one that actually grabbed my heart and made me wish for things I had no right to think about.
But it kept me going: I had crushes, I mean, as a girl obsessed with chicklit and happy endings, of course I had crushes. And as the job got worse, and as unhappy as I was, it kept me going. If Trip Fontaine (the nickname for one of the massive crushes), talked to me, well, I glowed. If the other boy I fancied dropped by my office and chatted for a minute, I blushed for hours. And lately, I've been mulling over a chicklit story in my head and have kept coming back to the idea of how work boyfriends came into existence and how to spin it into a story that someone other than me would like to read.
For the majority of my adult life, from my mid-twenties to my now-married state, I've been involved with my RRHB. Now, let's take for granted the fact that I love him dearly, or else I wouldn't have married him. Still eight, nine years is a long, long time to be with someone and there are only so many Ethan Hawke movies one can watch before her eyes start to wander and her heart aches just to prove she's still, well, a girl.
So, I crave the quasi excitement of a crush, of something that makes me feel attractive no matter how bad I look or how much weight I've gained or how bad my skin is from the meds. Oddly enough, there are no suitable work boyfriends where I am currently, but that's okay because I'm still going on the old ones, thinking of how nice it would be to run into them again or wondering what they're doing. But without that daily dose of work boyfriend-ness, I find that maybe I've grown out of the work boyfriend stage? I mean, I've entered non-stop adulthood at this new job. I mean the signs are everywhere: I listen to CBC in the morning, I find myself craving good literature online (what?) and I forget everything if it's not written down. Should I mourn the passing and just accept that real life means growing out of my adolescent style crushes?
But I'll forever miss the work boyfriend drive-by, the butterflies from when he stops by your office (now cubicle, sniff), the fun, flirty emails—it all just makes the time go by so much faster at work. Hence, The Office, and why it's the epitome of my life these days, and why I'll obsessively wait to see what happens to Pam and Jim, perhaps mistaking them, ever so slightly for real people, ones that I see everyday.
Okay so 'fess up? What are your desert island movies?
And then at the cottage this weekend, I kept referencing The Office wherever I possibly could. We were sitting around at the dinner table talking about movies and I mentioned Desert Island (My five movies? It's so hard to choose because it's not only movies that you like but movies you can watch over and over again. I picked The Godfather II, Badlands, Tully, Underworld [I know!] and Unforgiven). In the end, that sort of spiraled into a discussion of other movies, but no one at the table got how funny it was that Jim's girlfriend picked Legally Blonde as her first movie (and not a bad choice by my estimation, but still...).
Absolutely stunned by the BBC version and delighted by the Christmas episodes, the American show resonates perhaps more because I relate so much to the Pam/Jim storyline. Long before my present job, before I went to graduate school and found a love for all things online, I worked as a receptionist at a big financial company here in Toronto. It was my first job out of university. It was awful. But I had a work boyfriend, not unlike Jim, and he was awesome—the very first instance of my abuse of work email, and most certainly not the real boyfriend I had at the time (who, by chance, also worked there). And I miss him to this day.
It was that stereotypical best-friend, eat lunch together every day, know more about them than you do most of your girlfriends that kept me going through that awful job where everyone got my name wrong, commented on my girlie voice and basically hit on me non-stop from nine-to-five. And then when I went to the big fancy media company, I brought the idea of the work boyfriend with me, and wanted that same experience. Alas, there were fun work boyfriends at the new place but no one that actually grabbed my heart and made me wish for things I had no right to think about.
But it kept me going: I had crushes, I mean, as a girl obsessed with chicklit and happy endings, of course I had crushes. And as the job got worse, and as unhappy as I was, it kept me going. If Trip Fontaine (the nickname for one of the massive crushes), talked to me, well, I glowed. If the other boy I fancied dropped by my office and chatted for a minute, I blushed for hours. And lately, I've been mulling over a chicklit story in my head and have kept coming back to the idea of how work boyfriends came into existence and how to spin it into a story that someone other than me would like to read.
For the majority of my adult life, from my mid-twenties to my now-married state, I've been involved with my RRHB. Now, let's take for granted the fact that I love him dearly, or else I wouldn't have married him. Still eight, nine years is a long, long time to be with someone and there are only so many Ethan Hawke movies one can watch before her eyes start to wander and her heart aches just to prove she's still, well, a girl.
So, I crave the quasi excitement of a crush, of something that makes me feel attractive no matter how bad I look or how much weight I've gained or how bad my skin is from the meds. Oddly enough, there are no suitable work boyfriends where I am currently, but that's okay because I'm still going on the old ones, thinking of how nice it would be to run into them again or wondering what they're doing. But without that daily dose of work boyfriend-ness, I find that maybe I've grown out of the work boyfriend stage? I mean, I've entered non-stop adulthood at this new job. I mean the signs are everywhere: I listen to CBC in the morning, I find myself craving good literature online (what?) and I forget everything if it's not written down. Should I mourn the passing and just accept that real life means growing out of my adolescent style crushes?
But I'll forever miss the work boyfriend drive-by, the butterflies from when he stops by your office (now cubicle, sniff), the fun, flirty emails—it all just makes the time go by so much faster at work. Hence, The Office, and why it's the epitome of my life these days, and why I'll obsessively wait to see what happens to Pam and Jim, perhaps mistaking them, ever so slightly for real people, ones that I see everyday.
Okay so 'fess up? What are your desert island movies?
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Ever Have One Of Those Days?
Where everything seems to go wrong? I called Sears today to see about the whole brand-new washer that doesn't work issue—and they were rude and completely and utterly unhelpful. Quite possibly the worst customer service experience I've ever had. So not only do we have to pay to fix the lemon of a washer, we might not even be able to return now—even if it doesn't WORK.
Yesterday, I put some cranberry juice in a glass and carried it, with my dinner, into the TV room to watch Coronation Street. The bottom fell out of the glass. Cranberry juice all over the floor. Forty minutes later of mopping up, mopping down and wiping up, my feet were still sticky. And the reason for the cranberry juice? I'm pretty sure I have a UTI from either the meds or the disease, but that will be confirmed today by the super-fancy disease doctor (I hope).
Today, I found out that a package I was sending to the US via FedEx couldn't go because I needed to fill out different paperwork. That package? Has now disappeared into the ether—no one knows where it is. Apparently, a driver picked it up and brought it to Customer Service. Which is where? Well, that's anyone's guess. I've been on the phone all morning with FedEx and Kinkos, where I dropped it off, and no one can find it.
And today I have to go see the super-fancy disease doctor, I'm hoping all of the crappy-ass crazy things that are happening don't translate to my visit with him because it could take hours anyway as he'll be so behind by the time I get there at 4 PM.
What do you guys to do cheer yourself up when the entire day seems to be working against you?
EDITED TO ADD: I just checked my bank statement and noticed that I've got a whopping $0.44 to my name until payday? How did that get so out of control on top of everything else?
EDITED TO ADD TO ADD: That I've just found out that my RRHB has to work on the eve of my birthday. So instead of working during the day, he's got to work at night, which means no birthday dinner for me.
Now, I'm just trying not to cry because it's been kind of an annoying day and I can't even see the humour in it. Oh wait.
No, still not funny.
Now?
No.
Sniff.
EDITED TO ADD TO ADD TO ADD: That my own personal suffering and utter sense of being totally self-involved today does nothing to downplay how serious and troubling the events are in the Middle East.
Okay, I'm now going to end the longest blog post ever and stop feeling sorry for myself.
Yesterday, I put some cranberry juice in a glass and carried it, with my dinner, into the TV room to watch Coronation Street. The bottom fell out of the glass. Cranberry juice all over the floor. Forty minutes later of mopping up, mopping down and wiping up, my feet were still sticky. And the reason for the cranberry juice? I'm pretty sure I have a UTI from either the meds or the disease, but that will be confirmed today by the super-fancy disease doctor (I hope).
Today, I found out that a package I was sending to the US via FedEx couldn't go because I needed to fill out different paperwork. That package? Has now disappeared into the ether—no one knows where it is. Apparently, a driver picked it up and brought it to Customer Service. Which is where? Well, that's anyone's guess. I've been on the phone all morning with FedEx and Kinkos, where I dropped it off, and no one can find it.
And today I have to go see the super-fancy disease doctor, I'm hoping all of the crappy-ass crazy things that are happening don't translate to my visit with him because it could take hours anyway as he'll be so behind by the time I get there at 4 PM.
What do you guys to do cheer yourself up when the entire day seems to be working against you?
EDITED TO ADD: I just checked my bank statement and noticed that I've got a whopping $0.44 to my name until payday? How did that get so out of control on top of everything else?
EDITED TO ADD TO ADD: That I've just found out that my RRHB has to work on the eve of my birthday. So instead of working during the day, he's got to work at night, which means no birthday dinner for me.
Now, I'm just trying not to cry because it's been kind of an annoying day and I can't even see the humour in it. Oh wait.
No, still not funny.
Now?
No.
Sniff.
EDITED TO ADD TO ADD TO ADD: That my own personal suffering and utter sense of being totally self-involved today does nothing to downplay how serious and troubling the events are in the Middle East.
Okay, I'm now going to end the longest blog post ever and stop feeling sorry for myself.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
The Good, The Bad, The Totally Frustrating
Another busy weekend, well, Sunday anyway, I spent much of yesterday just reading and trying not to fall totally asleep because of the heat. At least I finished Until I Find You and have now started Of Human Bondage. As well as trying to get started on my two new abridgments.
Annnywaaay. So my lovely and generous aunt and uncle had bought us a brand new washer and dryer a while back, when we first bought the house. They've essentially been in storage because we didn't want to hook them up in the gross old basement but now that it'll be a lot longer until our main floor is renovated, I was very tired of spending two hours waiting for the old dryer to finish. Today, my RRHB hooked them all up, after spending yesterday and today re-wiring and re-tubing the basement. My father-in-law came to help him cart around the appliances, which was very sweet of him. They're shiny. They're brand new. All good, right?
Wrong.
The washer doesn't work. We keep getting some sort of electrical error F11, and I should have known anything called Elite would have problems. So, it's brand new, the box has never been opened, but it's been in storage for the past 18 months. What does that mean? Oh, the warranty has expired (of course) and we have to pay to get it fixed. Isn't that awesome?
Oh, and we can't return it either, because it's been too long, so no matter what we do, we're screwed.
And I'm so tired of annoying "customer service" people who are so condescending and absolutely assholey saying things like, "That's a lesson learned the hard way."
Really? Really farkwit? And you think that's helping me?
Sears sucks ass.
Annnywaaay. So my lovely and generous aunt and uncle had bought us a brand new washer and dryer a while back, when we first bought the house. They've essentially been in storage because we didn't want to hook them up in the gross old basement but now that it'll be a lot longer until our main floor is renovated, I was very tired of spending two hours waiting for the old dryer to finish. Today, my RRHB hooked them all up, after spending yesterday and today re-wiring and re-tubing the basement. My father-in-law came to help him cart around the appliances, which was very sweet of him. They're shiny. They're brand new. All good, right?
Wrong.
The washer doesn't work. We keep getting some sort of electrical error F11, and I should have known anything called Elite would have problems. So, it's brand new, the box has never been opened, but it's been in storage for the past 18 months. What does that mean? Oh, the warranty has expired (of course) and we have to pay to get it fixed. Isn't that awesome?
Oh, and we can't return it either, because it's been too long, so no matter what we do, we're screwed.
And I'm so tired of annoying "customer service" people who are so condescending and absolutely assholey saying things like, "That's a lesson learned the hard way."
Really? Really farkwit? And you think that's helping me?
Sears sucks ass.
Urban Wildlife
When we got home later on Friday night after seeing Pirates, my RRHB was outside in the backyard for a minute, when he shouted, "Come here and look at this! It's an animal with a long, thin tail!"
I told him it was probably a small raccoon and to leave the damn thing alone. But ever-curious, he snapped open his tool case, found his mega-flashlight, and went back outside to shine a light on our grape vine. What did we find? A Virginia Opossum. They are North America's only marsupial. Also, they like to eat fruit and berries, hence the grape vine, and I certainly hope he feasted well that night, because I have no idea what we're going to do with the wealth of grapes we've got this season.
Much, much more exciting than a raccoon!
I told him it was probably a small raccoon and to leave the damn thing alone. But ever-curious, he snapped open his tool case, found his mega-flashlight, and went back outside to shine a light on our grape vine. What did we find? A Virginia Opossum. They are North America's only marsupial. Also, they like to eat fruit and berries, hence the grape vine, and I certainly hope he feasted well that night, because I have no idea what we're going to do with the wealth of grapes we've got this season.
Much, much more exciting than a raccoon!
Saturday, July 15, 2006
TRH Movie - Pirates of the Caribbean 2
Whee pirates! Whee Jack Sparrow! Whee big stunts! Whee silly ending! Whee fun summer movie. But the biggest opening of all time? Really?
#49 - Until I Find You
After almost three weeks of reading (among other things), I've finally finished John Irving's latest novel, Until I Find You. It's quite a tome, not only in length but in scope as well, as it tells the life story of Jack Burns, a successful actor and rather unhappy person, from age of about four until he's in his late 30s.
Much of the story of Jack's life is defined by what's missing, namely, his father, and the first half of the book roughly deals with this absence from his mother's point of view. But once Alice, a tattoo artist, dies, Jack goes about finding the truth about his life and his father, and not suprisingly, it's quite different from the tales she told him when he was small.
I'm not ashamed to admit how much I adore John Irving's writing. I count The Cider House Rules and A Prayer for Owen Meany among my all-time favourite novels. I've had more than one drunken bar argument over the fact that I believe that Irving might just be one of the greatest American writers alive. That's a lot of expectations to bring to his books, for sure. Of the latest novels, A Widow for One Year and The Fourth Hand, I wasn't as impressed, likening them to more the idea of midlife crisis on the page rather than the great books I know Irving is capable of writing. But in finding them weak, maybe, like so many books, it just wasn't the right time to read them. Who knows. And so when it came to read the over 800 pages of Until I Find You, I almost couldn't do it. What if it was more of the Fourth Hand Irving vs. the Owen Meany Irving?
Granted, it's the longest book I've read in forever, Until I Find You, pretty much held my interest to the end. I know Irving went on ad nauseam about how autobiographical the novel was, about how he plumed the depths of his own life in the writing of this book, and that turned some people off. But I find that was where the novel was excruciatingly human because Jack Burns, while preternaturally gorgeous, excessively talented, and utterly miserable, he's always a man searching for that essence of himself, that little bit of something that's going to explain why he's here or what he's supposed to be doing. And even though the novel could have been shorter, I didn't begrudge him the length, and I didn't even mind that he told and retold the same stories (each with differing perspectives because of Jack's age).
And not unlike Joan Clark's An Audience of Chairs, I found the ending so utterly satisfying that it was worth the weeks upon weeks of reading to get to. All in all, I think Irving absolutely deserves drunken defenses and consistent recommendations, and judging by what little I heard of his next novel last year at Harbourfront, I'm glad to see him find a bit more comfort with his words, because I, for one, couldn't tell that he'd written the last sentence first.
Much of the story of Jack's life is defined by what's missing, namely, his father, and the first half of the book roughly deals with this absence from his mother's point of view. But once Alice, a tattoo artist, dies, Jack goes about finding the truth about his life and his father, and not suprisingly, it's quite different from the tales she told him when he was small.
I'm not ashamed to admit how much I adore John Irving's writing. I count The Cider House Rules and A Prayer for Owen Meany among my all-time favourite novels. I've had more than one drunken bar argument over the fact that I believe that Irving might just be one of the greatest American writers alive. That's a lot of expectations to bring to his books, for sure. Of the latest novels, A Widow for One Year and The Fourth Hand, I wasn't as impressed, likening them to more the idea of midlife crisis on the page rather than the great books I know Irving is capable of writing. But in finding them weak, maybe, like so many books, it just wasn't the right time to read them. Who knows. And so when it came to read the over 800 pages of Until I Find You, I almost couldn't do it. What if it was more of the Fourth Hand Irving vs. the Owen Meany Irving?
Granted, it's the longest book I've read in forever, Until I Find You, pretty much held my interest to the end. I know Irving went on ad nauseam about how autobiographical the novel was, about how he plumed the depths of his own life in the writing of this book, and that turned some people off. But I find that was where the novel was excruciatingly human because Jack Burns, while preternaturally gorgeous, excessively talented, and utterly miserable, he's always a man searching for that essence of himself, that little bit of something that's going to explain why he's here or what he's supposed to be doing. And even though the novel could have been shorter, I didn't begrudge him the length, and I didn't even mind that he told and retold the same stories (each with differing perspectives because of Jack's age).
And not unlike Joan Clark's An Audience of Chairs, I found the ending so utterly satisfying that it was worth the weeks upon weeks of reading to get to. All in all, I think Irving absolutely deserves drunken defenses and consistent recommendations, and judging by what little I heard of his next novel last year at Harbourfront, I'm glad to see him find a bit more comfort with his words, because I, for one, couldn't tell that he'd written the last sentence first.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
#48 - What Was She Thinking (Notes On A Scandal)
Zoë Heller's totally engrossing novel about a teacher who has an illicit affair with a student and then ends up living with a spinster friend of hers (who narrates/writes the story) was a perfect summer read. I know, again, it's not on my Summer Reading challenge, but it was given to me by a friend and I wanted to finish it so I could give it back. And just to update, my own Summer Reading has stalled at page 593 of Until I Find You (not that I'm not enjoying it but, please, it's 820 pages long, I've got hundreds and hundreds still to go).
Annnywaaay. What Was She Thinking. I love how Heller choose to tell the story—it's kind of an old-school narrative in the sense that Sheba's (said teacher having the affair) life story is told entirely by Barbara, the aging spinster who has saved her from utter desolation. I wish I could remember the name of the narrative convention, but suffice it to say, I found it fascinating that Barbara's own relationship (read: obsession) with Sheba somewhat echoes the younger woman's own illicit affair (read: obsession) with 16-year-old Steven. And what's even more smart, is how echoes of Barbara's own instability creep into what she feels is the "true" account of Sheba's actions.
One of my favourite passages, in which Barbara tries to psychoanalyze a fellow teacher, reads:
Of course, it doesn't end well, affairs between teachers and students rarely do (unless you're Pacey), but what's great about What Was She Thinking is that you never, ever truly know what Sheba was thinking, you only get Barbara's interpretation of her actions, her words and her affair. All in all, it's a quick, yet still absolutely satisfying read. Oh, and I think the casting for the movie is totally spot on.
Annnywaaay. What Was She Thinking. I love how Heller choose to tell the story—it's kind of an old-school narrative in the sense that Sheba's (said teacher having the affair) life story is told entirely by Barbara, the aging spinster who has saved her from utter desolation. I wish I could remember the name of the narrative convention, but suffice it to say, I found it fascinating that Barbara's own relationship (read: obsession) with Sheba somewhat echoes the younger woman's own illicit affair (read: obsession) with 16-year-old Steven. And what's even more smart, is how echoes of Barbara's own instability creep into what she feels is the "true" account of Sheba's actions.
One of my favourite passages, in which Barbara tries to psychoanalyze a fellow teacher, reads:
There are certain people in whom you can detect the seeds of madness—seeds that have remained dormant only because the people in question have lived relatively comfortable, middle-class lives. They function perfectly well in the world, but you can imagine, given a nasty parent, or a prolonged bout of unemployment, how their potential for craziness might have been realised—how their seeds might have sprouted little green shoots of weirdness, or even, with the right sort of antinurture, blossomed into full-blown lunacy.Barbara might just as well be describing herself, her own quiet, staid middle-class life as a teacher challenged by the unconvincingly, beautiful and deeply troubled Sheba, whose friendship has allowed her own seeds to sprout into a strange kind of voyeur who brings us this story.
Of course, it doesn't end well, affairs between teachers and students rarely do (unless you're Pacey), but what's great about What Was She Thinking is that you never, ever truly know what Sheba was thinking, you only get Barbara's interpretation of her actions, her words and her affair. All in all, it's a quick, yet still absolutely satisfying read. Oh, and I think the casting for the movie is totally spot on.
TRH Movie - You, Me and Dupree
So I went to a screening of You, Me and Dupree last night. Coasting off the glow of The Break-up and wondering how The Lake House even got made, I thought maybe, just maybe, this film might be a bit of funbadness. Boy, was I wrong. And, I should have known better.
First off, not a single person I knew wanted to go with me. Not one. And the one person I did find to go had to bail at the last minute because she had too much work to do—work was a better option than this movie. After seeing it, I can wholeheartedly agree.
I'm going to try not to include any spoilers, not that there's anything to spoil in this damn film anyway, you can pretty much judge what's going to happen from the trailer, but there are a couple of 'twists' on the genre that they attempt, which fall flat no matter how you look at it.
So, Molly (Kate Hudson) and Carl (Matt Dillon) are getting married in Hawaii. Oh, they are frolicking the beach. They are making gushy lovey faces at each other in the hotel room. They're annoyed that a super-awesome Seth Rogan interrupts them to declare a "Dupree (Owen Wilson) emergency." Apparently, the affable, lovable lunkhead landed on the wrong island. Oops. Yawn.
As Dupree sees that his best buddy, well into his thirties, I'll add, has made the move from eternal fret boy to responsible adult, he kind of mourns the end to their freewheeling days of bachelorhood. This mode, quasi-hippie, no job, just 'liven' life' is Dupree's standard of living, which shortly gets on the stereotypical Molly's nerves. Never in my life am I so disappointed in Hollywood as when it portrays marriage in the staid terms that it does: Molly gets upset at a boy's night of them watching sports (whatever); Annie (Seth Rogan's character's wife) refuses to let him stay out past 9 PM; in fact, not a single woman in this film is something other than a 'type'. Double yawn.
After the usual antics (Dupree has sex in their living room with a Mormon librarian, just him, an expensive leather couch and some butter, and then sets the house afire), the tables turn and it's Molly who wants duper around. Of course, Carl gets jealous, and assumes that Dupree's after his wife. This is the plot people. In the end, the grand blessing of dipper's giant heart ends up making everyone happy. Triple yawn.
Everyone else in the theatre laughed. And granted, I cracked a smile a couple of Owen Wilson's prat falls, but the spice of a movie like Wedding Crashers just isn't here because there's nothing new. And despite my old-man crush on Michael Douglas (love him for some reason, I can't explain it), I feel bad that he's relegated to these silly roles. In the end, I'm still dying to see a good, no, make that great, summer movie, and Superman Returns sure as hell wasn't it either.
First off, not a single person I knew wanted to go with me. Not one. And the one person I did find to go had to bail at the last minute because she had too much work to do—work was a better option than this movie. After seeing it, I can wholeheartedly agree.
I'm going to try not to include any spoilers, not that there's anything to spoil in this damn film anyway, you can pretty much judge what's going to happen from the trailer, but there are a couple of 'twists' on the genre that they attempt, which fall flat no matter how you look at it.
So, Molly (Kate Hudson) and Carl (Matt Dillon) are getting married in Hawaii. Oh, they are frolicking the beach. They are making gushy lovey faces at each other in the hotel room. They're annoyed that a super-awesome Seth Rogan interrupts them to declare a "Dupree (Owen Wilson) emergency." Apparently, the affable, lovable lunkhead landed on the wrong island. Oops. Yawn.
As Dupree sees that his best buddy, well into his thirties, I'll add, has made the move from eternal fret boy to responsible adult, he kind of mourns the end to their freewheeling days of bachelorhood. This mode, quasi-hippie, no job, just 'liven' life' is Dupree's standard of living, which shortly gets on the stereotypical Molly's nerves. Never in my life am I so disappointed in Hollywood as when it portrays marriage in the staid terms that it does: Molly gets upset at a boy's night of them watching sports (whatever); Annie (Seth Rogan's character's wife) refuses to let him stay out past 9 PM; in fact, not a single woman in this film is something other than a 'type'. Double yawn.
After the usual antics (Dupree has sex in their living room with a Mormon librarian, just him, an expensive leather couch and some butter, and then sets the house afire), the tables turn and it's Molly who wants duper around. Of course, Carl gets jealous, and assumes that Dupree's after his wife. This is the plot people. In the end, the grand blessing of dipper's giant heart ends up making everyone happy. Triple yawn.
Everyone else in the theatre laughed. And granted, I cracked a smile a couple of Owen Wilson's prat falls, but the spice of a movie like Wedding Crashers just isn't here because there's nothing new. And despite my old-man crush on Michael Douglas (love him for some reason, I can't explain it), I feel bad that he's relegated to these silly roles. In the end, I'm still dying to see a good, no, make that great, summer movie, and Superman Returns sure as hell wasn't it either.
#47 - I Capture The Castle
Dodie Smith's I Capture the Castle, originally published in 1948, tells the story of Cassandra Mortmain, whose very eccentric family lives in a rundown castle (of the book's title) in rural England. Now, I know this book isn't on my summer reading challenge, and I read it for different reasons which I'll explain once the plans are fully set in motion (new project, very much fun), suffice it to say that I enjoyed this book immensely. I think it's because Cassandra, who is the book's narrator and main character, tells the story with such an immediacy (oh, how she swoons) that I got sucked right in and, despite the fact that it took me so long to finish, enjoyed every word.
Oh, and I watched the movie a while back when I was recovering from my hip surgery. It was on TMN and I have to say that I also enjoyed it a great deal (although I didn't remember that I had seen the movie until I was halfway through the book...). Mainly, the movie will have a soft spot in my heart because of Romola Garai, who will forever be Katey Miller from Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, quite possibly the best fun-bad movie I've seen in ages. Cuba!
Oh, and I watched the movie a while back when I was recovering from my hip surgery. It was on TMN and I have to say that I also enjoyed it a great deal (although I didn't remember that I had seen the movie until I was halfway through the book...). Mainly, the movie will have a soft spot in my heart because of Romola Garai, who will forever be Katey Miller from Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, quite possibly the best fun-bad movie I've seen in ages. Cuba!
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Too Fast...
Things have been moving at a breakneck speed:
1. I got two more book contracts from Sterling. Am very excited to be starting.
2. Have seen a lot of movies (Superman Returns, You, Me and Dupree, (oh boy), as well as a host of others)
3. Have finished one book and am in the process of being almost-finished Until I Find You—my thoughts on both are not complete (are they ever)
4. Am seeing the Super-Fancy Disease doctor on Tuesday. Fingers crossed.
5. I bought a red dress for a wedding we're going to at the end of the month. The size that usually fits? It's too big! And even though I haven't lost an ounce with my 'ragdoll aerobics', I'm feeling great and am up to 37 minutes of exercise at least 3 times a week. Oh, and I sweat, a lot. Isn't that fun? I forgot how much fun that is...
/quick update. Am too tired not to use pretentious internet conventions.
1. I got two more book contracts from Sterling. Am very excited to be starting.
2. Have seen a lot of movies (Superman Returns, You, Me and Dupree, (oh boy), as well as a host of others)
3. Have finished one book and am in the process of being almost-finished Until I Find You—my thoughts on both are not complete (are they ever)
4. Am seeing the Super-Fancy Disease doctor on Tuesday. Fingers crossed.
5. I bought a red dress for a wedding we're going to at the end of the month. The size that usually fits? It's too big! And even though I haven't lost an ounce with my 'ragdoll aerobics', I'm feeling great and am up to 37 minutes of exercise at least 3 times a week. Oh, and I sweat, a lot. Isn't that fun? I forgot how much fun that is...
/quick update. Am too tired not to use pretentious internet conventions.
Friday, July 07, 2006
I Saw The Signs
But I didn't necessarily open up my eyes, hence the three signs I really should have stayed in bed today:
1. I broke my office chair. That's right. I sat down too hard on my chair this morning and snapped off one of the roller balls. Yet another sign that I need to kick the exercise routine up a notch.
2. I dropped my favourite chicken soup bowl on the kitchen floor. Magically, it's fine. My toes however...
3. Are another story as it landed on them and I tripped more than once today going up the stairs.
Oh and just when we were so pleased that we'll be out of town for the final World Cup game, the Grand Prix started in the city today. I can hear the cars whizzing around the track from my house. So much for peace and quiet.
1. I broke my office chair. That's right. I sat down too hard on my chair this morning and snapped off one of the roller balls. Yet another sign that I need to kick the exercise routine up a notch.
2. I dropped my favourite chicken soup bowl on the kitchen floor. Magically, it's fine. My toes however...
3. Are another story as it landed on them and I tripped more than once today going up the stairs.
Oh and just when we were so pleased that we'll be out of town for the final World Cup game, the Grand Prix started in the city today. I can hear the cars whizzing around the track from my house. So much for peace and quiet.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Shhhhh....
There's a very good reason why my neighbourhood is quiet tonight. And I'm listening to Edith Piaf to celebrate. Vive le France!
The Drug That Keeps On Giving
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I don't want to complain too much about how awful it is to have to take prednisone, considering that it's probably saved my life (in combination with the other disease meds) at least three times in the last (has it really been that long?) fifteen years. But I'm very frustrated with taking only 5 mgs of the damn drug and still having these side effects: pimples, lots of pimples; huge (and I mean huuugggeee) appetite, and not for good foods, but for bad thinks like chips and candy and muffins and donuts and anything else that contains terrible ingredients like sugar, white flour and oil; and "water" weight to the tune of about fifteen pounds (I'm just sayin' it's water to make myself feel better).
But, on the plus side, I've got so much more energy now that I don't even feel like the same person I was even three months ago. I can now go all day long and do a whole bunch of things, include my "exercises," and not want to collapse on the bed in total and utter exhaustion by the end of the day.
So I'm blessed that drugs even exist because they save me from the Wegener's every day. But I'm also cursed because the treatments are always so much harder than the disease. I can see the fat, cottage cheese on my legs; I can hear my inner voice telling me not to eat that last Timbit; and I can see the roll of chubb on my hips that makes all my clothes look that little bit more awkward than they did with my usual roll of chubb.
And in 3 solid weeks of exercise, I've lost and gained the same 2-5 pounds. However, I'm still 3 solid weeks away from my 6 week goal of trying to get in some sort of shape, so I'm ever-hopeful that in two weeks, the super-fancy disease doctor will kindly let me stop taking the prednisone, so I can at least make some sort of attempt to curb my diet along with my good choices of making my body move every day.
It's all a battle, isn't it?
Oh, and I've decided my song for this summer is "I'm Always In Love" by Wilco. It's the perfect summer song. Now you? What's your perfect summer song?
But, on the plus side, I've got so much more energy now that I don't even feel like the same person I was even three months ago. I can now go all day long and do a whole bunch of things, include my "exercises," and not want to collapse on the bed in total and utter exhaustion by the end of the day.
So I'm blessed that drugs even exist because they save me from the Wegener's every day. But I'm also cursed because the treatments are always so much harder than the disease. I can see the fat, cottage cheese on my legs; I can hear my inner voice telling me not to eat that last Timbit; and I can see the roll of chubb on my hips that makes all my clothes look that little bit more awkward than they did with my usual roll of chubb.
And in 3 solid weeks of exercise, I've lost and gained the same 2-5 pounds. However, I'm still 3 solid weeks away from my 6 week goal of trying to get in some sort of shape, so I'm ever-hopeful that in two weeks, the super-fancy disease doctor will kindly let me stop taking the prednisone, so I can at least make some sort of attempt to curb my diet along with my good choices of making my body move every day.
It's all a battle, isn't it?
Oh, and I've decided my song for this summer is "I'm Always In Love" by Wilco. It's the perfect summer song. Now you? What's your perfect summer song?
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Rush
Rush home. Rush to the cottage. Clean 10 years of mouse poop up. Throw out years of crap. Rush into town. Buy eggs at a roadside stand in Mamora. Eat a dripping ice cream cone. Rush back to the cottage. Clean up more mouse poop. Discover my grandfather's Second World War helmet. Rescue it from the dust-ridden closet. Rush the vacuum around. Rush it around again. Throw out more furniture. Toss out some really old bathroom products. Jump in the lake. Play cards. Drink a beer. Rush back to the city (no traffic!). See Superman Returns (eh, more on that later). Rush to the hairdresser. Now to the hospital for bloodletting. Then back home to clean the house, after leaving a spotless cottage. At some point, will it start feeling like a vacation?
Got only 150 pages read of Until I Find You. Am very, very behind in my summer reading.
Got only 150 pages read of Until I Find You. Am very, very behind in my summer reading.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
TRH Movie - The Lake House (Spoilers, Beware!)
Wow. What a stinker. Tara's already relayed how hard it was for us even to get to the theatre to see this piece of crap, so I'm not going to go over it again. Suffice it to say that The Lake House wasn't even funbad. And I was disappointed.
In short, it's the love story between Kate (Sandra Bullock) and Alex (Keanu Reeves), who both live in a gorgeous glass house on, you guessed it, a lake. Here's the trick though, they're each living in separate realities—two years apart. Kate's in 2006, while Alex is in 2004. How do they have a love affair then? Well, they communicate through a magic mailbox beside the lake house. You heard me right: a magic mailbox.
Yes, magical mail fairies come and deliver the letters (because computers and/or the internet simply don't exist in the film's reality) from one to the other across the space/time continuum. Because they have flowery prose and delicious scripted personalities, Kate and Alex fall deeply in love. But here's the catch (spoiler alert!), because Alex is two years behind, he can try to find Kate in his time, and he does, multiple times. He chases after her train, has the same dog, oh, and hell, they even make out at some party—and she doesn't remember. Keep in mind that Kate's a lonely doctor in Chicago whose only had two boyfriends, so you know, making out with some hot random stranger at a party is just something that would slip her mind. Noooo, she wouldn't play it over and over again in her mind, having some, ahem, private moments at home or anything, noooo, it just slips right away from her because she's miserable. There's only room in her brain for doctor stuff and unhappiness.
Then, all kinds of other silly sh*t happens that's totally implausible, Alex doesn't show up for a date, she doesn't even bother to look in the newspaper to find out why, or even bother to do anything except break up with him, in a letter of course, because their love cannot overcome the boundaries of time.
Yawn.
Oh, and Alex dies in one of the scenes in the first third of the movie, only you don't know that it's him and, because Kate's a doctor, she rushes to save him, only, again, after making out with him two years ago, she still doesn't recognize him. Oh, and he's not wearing any ID either, and no one at the hospital tells her that it's him.
See, confusing and silly right?
And why do all miserable female doctors in the movies these days have to have paranormal love affairs (Reese, I'm looking at you)? What's wrong with a good old-fashioned romance where the couple actually lives, eats and breaths in the same city? It's a shame too because I like that both Sandra and Keanu are 'of a certain age' and they've got great chemistry, but my goodness, it's a mess of a movie.
There's a happy ending though. Take some solace in that.
(And I'm sorry if I spoiled the movie for you.)
In short, it's the love story between Kate (Sandra Bullock) and Alex (Keanu Reeves), who both live in a gorgeous glass house on, you guessed it, a lake. Here's the trick though, they're each living in separate realities—two years apart. Kate's in 2006, while Alex is in 2004. How do they have a love affair then? Well, they communicate through a magic mailbox beside the lake house. You heard me right: a magic mailbox.
Yes, magical mail fairies come and deliver the letters (because computers and/or the internet simply don't exist in the film's reality) from one to the other across the space/time continuum. Because they have flowery prose and delicious scripted personalities, Kate and Alex fall deeply in love. But here's the catch (spoiler alert!), because Alex is two years behind, he can try to find Kate in his time, and he does, multiple times. He chases after her train, has the same dog, oh, and hell, they even make out at some party—and she doesn't remember. Keep in mind that Kate's a lonely doctor in Chicago whose only had two boyfriends, so you know, making out with some hot random stranger at a party is just something that would slip her mind. Noooo, she wouldn't play it over and over again in her mind, having some, ahem, private moments at home or anything, noooo, it just slips right away from her because she's miserable. There's only room in her brain for doctor stuff and unhappiness.
Then, all kinds of other silly sh*t happens that's totally implausible, Alex doesn't show up for a date, she doesn't even bother to look in the newspaper to find out why, or even bother to do anything except break up with him, in a letter of course, because their love cannot overcome the boundaries of time.
Yawn.
Oh, and Alex dies in one of the scenes in the first third of the movie, only you don't know that it's him and, because Kate's a doctor, she rushes to save him, only, again, after making out with him two years ago, she still doesn't recognize him. Oh, and he's not wearing any ID either, and no one at the hospital tells her that it's him.
See, confusing and silly right?
And why do all miserable female doctors in the movies these days have to have paranormal love affairs (Reese, I'm looking at you)? What's wrong with a good old-fashioned romance where the couple actually lives, eats and breaths in the same city? It's a shame too because I like that both Sandra and Keanu are 'of a certain age' and they've got great chemistry, but my goodness, it's a mess of a movie.
There's a happy ending though. Take some solace in that.
(And I'm sorry if I spoiled the movie for you.)
Monday, June 26, 2006
Moments of Regret
The other day I had a strange allergic reaction to the sun. Earlier in the day, I had stood outside for less than a half-hour, basking in the warm weather, feeling the heat right deep down into my bones. It's a shame that the medication has negative side effects with the sun—I blew up to the size of a balloon and turned a bright, patchy red all over. And my skin didn't itch so much as it stung under the surface. The same thing happened over the majority of last summer too, although instead of hives, I ended up with a strange rash where the sunscreen either wore off or I forgot to apply enough.
And then I had a moment of self-pity. One of my favourite things to do in the summer is lay out in the sunshine, all hot and sweaty, wearing enough protection that you don't burn (and I don't tan anyway: I go from white to off-white) but still feeling like a sun goddess even if I don't end up looking like one. I started to be angry with the disease, frustrated that it seems to take all of the things I love to do away from me.
I used to dance when I was a teenager, and then my hip died. And deep down I knew I'd never be a dancer (with shoulders like a brick sh*thouse and a giant ass), just about everything was wrong with me, but I miss the freedom I felt, and I miss the constant movement. Still, in my dreams, I jump around, race about to the music and I still love to go out dancing, but for years my hip prevented me from doing any kind of aerobic exercise.
For a while, I sort of considered myself a not-bad looking girl too. It was funny, we were joking about the peak moments of youth at breakfast a while back, and I sort of half-goofed that I climaxed at 24, 10 years ago now. And then I got mad that the best years of my youth were sort of robbed by the disease too, and I started feeling sorry for myself all over again.
Getting past the negative thinking is the hardest thing to do when it comes to living day-to-day with the disease. Mourning the idea of who I am or what I should be and coping with the reality that my life has turned in a direction I didn't quite expect. In a few years, I'll have lived longer with the disease than without, but I still can't quite bring myself to accept the fact that I can't do everything I want to do because my body has kind of put a stop to it.
Plus, feeling sorry for myself doesn't really get me anywhere. It doesn't get my Page A Day done, it doesn't get my Summer Reading books finished, and it sure as hell doesn't make my RRHB's life any easier. In the end, it gets easier every time the disease flares and now that the meds are actually working, I'm thankful for my life, even if it means staying out of the sun. Hell, it's better for my skin that way anyway.
And then I had a moment of self-pity. One of my favourite things to do in the summer is lay out in the sunshine, all hot and sweaty, wearing enough protection that you don't burn (and I don't tan anyway: I go from white to off-white) but still feeling like a sun goddess even if I don't end up looking like one. I started to be angry with the disease, frustrated that it seems to take all of the things I love to do away from me.
I used to dance when I was a teenager, and then my hip died. And deep down I knew I'd never be a dancer (with shoulders like a brick sh*thouse and a giant ass), just about everything was wrong with me, but I miss the freedom I felt, and I miss the constant movement. Still, in my dreams, I jump around, race about to the music and I still love to go out dancing, but for years my hip prevented me from doing any kind of aerobic exercise.
For a while, I sort of considered myself a not-bad looking girl too. It was funny, we were joking about the peak moments of youth at breakfast a while back, and I sort of half-goofed that I climaxed at 24, 10 years ago now. And then I got mad that the best years of my youth were sort of robbed by the disease too, and I started feeling sorry for myself all over again.
Getting past the negative thinking is the hardest thing to do when it comes to living day-to-day with the disease. Mourning the idea of who I am or what I should be and coping with the reality that my life has turned in a direction I didn't quite expect. In a few years, I'll have lived longer with the disease than without, but I still can't quite bring myself to accept the fact that I can't do everything I want to do because my body has kind of put a stop to it.
Plus, feeling sorry for myself doesn't really get me anywhere. It doesn't get my Page A Day done, it doesn't get my Summer Reading books finished, and it sure as hell doesn't make my RRHB's life any easier. In the end, it gets easier every time the disease flares and now that the meds are actually working, I'm thankful for my life, even if it means staying out of the sun. Hell, it's better for my skin that way anyway.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
#46 - Thirty-Three Teeth
Chris Cotterill's Thirty-Three Teeth fits the idea of summer reading to the tee. It's a fun mystery with supernatural elements whose main character is the national coroner of Laos, Dr. Siri Paiboun. There's the usual cast of supporting characters, the quirky nurse, the police officer who isn't an idiot, and a colourful amount of spirits, all making themselves integral to the procession of the plot.
Thirty-Three Teeth kind of feels like Alexander McCall Smith's No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series. It has the same kind of light tone, even though there are actual murders in Cotterill's novel. Unlike a typical mystery, this book is more character driven than pure plot, and I kind of like that. Plus, it's not often you have a septuagenarian main character, which is interesting too.
I got a bit confused in terms of the actual mystery because there were several strains happening all at the same time, and I was reading the book mainly before bed, so I was already tired, but on the whole I enjoyed it.
And that's number 2 from my summer reading list! I'm still way, way behind my goal of 30 books by August 30th though.
Thirty-Three Teeth kind of feels like Alexander McCall Smith's No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series. It has the same kind of light tone, even though there are actual murders in Cotterill's novel. Unlike a typical mystery, this book is more character driven than pure plot, and I kind of like that. Plus, it's not often you have a septuagenarian main character, which is interesting too.
I got a bit confused in terms of the actual mystery because there were several strains happening all at the same time, and I was reading the book mainly before bed, so I was already tired, but on the whole I enjoyed it.
And that's number 2 from my summer reading list! I'm still way, way behind my goal of 30 books by August 30th though.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
#45 - Strike/Slip
My RRHB, after hearing "Slips and Tangles," a song from Left and Leaving, said, "That's it, I'm done." Meaning that there was nothing he could create, write, perform that could even approach how much he loved that particular song.
In a way, that's exactly how I feel about Don McKay's latest book of poetry, Strike/Slip. I might as well stop even attempting to write poetry at this moment in time because I'll never come close to putting the words together with such an exacting elegance as McKay, one of Canada's foremost poetic masters.
Strike/Slip burst open any silly lit crit that nature poems, or the idea of exploring the relationship between humans and the world we inhibit is taboo, over, or even close to being done with. Each poem meditates to some extent on the natural world and McKay's talent brings it all back to an intensely human experience, a human condition, if you'll allow me the existential indulgence.
And they are perfect. Perfect in their forms in their metaphors in their similes in their imagery in their substance and in their impact. I read and reread many of them on the streetcar over the past few days, savouring every word like a smartie I wish would never melt in my mouth.
But one of my favourite lines, from "Song of the Saxifrage to the Rock", goes like this:
Who is so heavy with the past as you,
Monsieur Basalt? Not the planet's most muscular
depressive, not the twentieth century.
Or "Abandoned Cables", where "tangles" of overgrown, massive wires are "unshriven entrails", remnants of our industrial society, and now meant to rust by the side of the road, forever abandoning both their function and use, but still a constant reminder to those "po-mo cappuccinos" that real work exists.
Brilliant. It's a book of poetry that I'll keep close to my heart, beyond the subtle self-indulgence of Plath, beside the calculated whimsy of Gwendolyn MacEwan, and way, way up there above everything I long to be.
And that's #1 off my Summer Reading List. Whee! Only 29 to go...
In a way, that's exactly how I feel about Don McKay's latest book of poetry, Strike/Slip. I might as well stop even attempting to write poetry at this moment in time because I'll never come close to putting the words together with such an exacting elegance as McKay, one of Canada's foremost poetic masters.
Strike/Slip burst open any silly lit crit that nature poems, or the idea of exploring the relationship between humans and the world we inhibit is taboo, over, or even close to being done with. Each poem meditates to some extent on the natural world and McKay's talent brings it all back to an intensely human experience, a human condition, if you'll allow me the existential indulgence.
And they are perfect. Perfect in their forms in their metaphors in their similes in their imagery in their substance and in their impact. I read and reread many of them on the streetcar over the past few days, savouring every word like a smartie I wish would never melt in my mouth.
But one of my favourite lines, from "Song of the Saxifrage to the Rock", goes like this:
Who is so heavy with the past as you,
Monsieur Basalt? Not the planet's most muscular
depressive, not the twentieth century.
Or "Abandoned Cables", where "tangles" of overgrown, massive wires are "unshriven entrails", remnants of our industrial society, and now meant to rust by the side of the road, forever abandoning both their function and use, but still a constant reminder to those "po-mo cappuccinos" that real work exists.
Brilliant. It's a book of poetry that I'll keep close to my heart, beyond the subtle self-indulgence of Plath, beside the calculated whimsy of Gwendolyn MacEwan, and way, way up there above everything I long to be.
And that's #1 off my Summer Reading List. Whee! Only 29 to go...
Playing Catch Up
Life has gotten a little crazy this week. Here's a breakdown of what's gone on:
1. We visited with the family for Father's Day and then drove like mad up to Guelph to see The Weakerthans, who were opening for The Tragically Hip (do you think they'll sue me for breech of coolness re: the name of this blog?). My RRHB sang on "Dedication" (the Sarah Harmer part) and we watched the rest of the show from backstage. Very Almost Famous, sort of.
2. I've been doing my Page A Day challenge; it's going well. I've almost written a whopping 12,000 words. Not bad for a story I only started three weeks ago.
3. My summer reading challenge has gone down the toilet already. There's just too much to do other than read these days. I'm trying not to be too hard on myself.
4. I met, had lunch with and then interviewed Curtis Sittenfeld today: a totally wicked and awesomely fun experience. She's super smart, has a very dry, ironic sense of humour and is as fabulous as her writing. I love it when that happens. Oh, and the ladies we lunched with from Chatelaine were equally charming, lovely and funny. I love it when that happens too.
5. Tomorrow is Needle Day, Week Seven. So far, and keep those fingers crossed, I'm not feeling any overwhelming side effects from the new drug. I'm dancing a jig as we speak.
See, see why I have no time? And it's only going to get worse as the summer progresses...
1. We visited with the family for Father's Day and then drove like mad up to Guelph to see The Weakerthans, who were opening for The Tragically Hip (do you think they'll sue me for breech of coolness re: the name of this blog?). My RRHB sang on "Dedication" (the Sarah Harmer part) and we watched the rest of the show from backstage. Very Almost Famous, sort of.
2. I've been doing my Page A Day challenge; it's going well. I've almost written a whopping 12,000 words. Not bad for a story I only started three weeks ago.
3. My summer reading challenge has gone down the toilet already. There's just too much to do other than read these days. I'm trying not to be too hard on myself.
4. I met, had lunch with and then interviewed Curtis Sittenfeld today: a totally wicked and awesomely fun experience. She's super smart, has a very dry, ironic sense of humour and is as fabulous as her writing. I love it when that happens. Oh, and the ladies we lunched with from Chatelaine were equally charming, lovely and funny. I love it when that happens too.
5. Tomorrow is Needle Day, Week Seven. So far, and keep those fingers crossed, I'm not feeling any overwhelming side effects from the new drug. I'm dancing a jig as we speak.
See, see why I have no time? And it's only going to get worse as the summer progresses...
Saturday, June 17, 2006
TRH Movie - Dedication
We spent a lovely evening last night down at the Art Bar, attached to the fancy new Gladstone Hotel, watching Kathleen's film Dedication. It's a beautiful little piece based on one of her poems and set to a lovely score by Paul Aucoin. Two manic days of shooting turned out exceptionally well with some brilliant editing and a grand old vision by Kate herself. Oh, and it was her birthday to boot. But the most exciting thing? Seeing my name in the credits as the Assistant Director and remembering how much fun it was to yell, well I mean, keep everyone organized so Kate could her job done. And seeing it up there on the screen looking so vivid and remembering how long it took them to get the shots, gives me a new appreciation for anyone who makes movies, because the work is the same, no matter how bad the end product is...
Thursday, June 15, 2006
TRH Movie - The Devil Wears Prada
And she wears it well, and she wears Chanel, and Manolos and all kinds of other things...
The Devil Wears Prada is a faithful and fun interpretation of Lauren Weisberger's bestselling novel of the same name. The super-cute Anne Hathaway plays Andy, the ever-fresh journalism student who lands the job of a lifetime at Runway magazine. There's just one problem: Andy's not really a fashionista. In fact, she's just the opposite and, to add insult to injury, she's never even heard of the she-devil herself, Miranda Priestly (a pitch-perfect Meryl Streep), editor-in-chief and fashion icon.
Andy wants to be a journalist and takes this job as a stepping stone. Only it's a serious job in an industry where people take fashion seriously, who seriously know the difference between Prada and Club Monaco (Andy's sweaters of choice). And when she doesn't fit in, Andy becomes the fashionista she never knew she could be, which changes her world forever. Once Andy enters the world of Miranda Priestly, she finds it's hard to get out. Long hours, impossible requests and ridiculous cutdowns, Andy's own life starts to suffer. She goes from 'working to pay the rent' to living, defending, and even dieting for Miranda.
The movie is kind of silly in a fun, chicklit sort of way, and even though the peformances are all very good, I found it a bit boring. Reading about someone being abused and watching repeated patterns of abuse in the workplace just isn't all that fun. And there's some pat scenes (I'm so tired of the uber-makeover scenes in movies like this, as if Andy realizing her inner fashion queen would solve all of her problems, yawn), along with some really cheesy dialogue, but the players rise above it and damn, if Anne Hathaway isn't just charming as all hell.
In the end, I enjoyed it, but not as much as I thought I would. But then, that's how I felt about the book too. But the shoes, well, they are remarkable. All in all, it's good summer fun. I'd give it three highkicks out of five.
The Devil Wears Prada is a faithful and fun interpretation of Lauren Weisberger's bestselling novel of the same name. The super-cute Anne Hathaway plays Andy, the ever-fresh journalism student who lands the job of a lifetime at Runway magazine. There's just one problem: Andy's not really a fashionista. In fact, she's just the opposite and, to add insult to injury, she's never even heard of the she-devil herself, Miranda Priestly (a pitch-perfect Meryl Streep), editor-in-chief and fashion icon.
Andy wants to be a journalist and takes this job as a stepping stone. Only it's a serious job in an industry where people take fashion seriously, who seriously know the difference between Prada and Club Monaco (Andy's sweaters of choice). And when she doesn't fit in, Andy becomes the fashionista she never knew she could be, which changes her world forever. Once Andy enters the world of Miranda Priestly, she finds it's hard to get out. Long hours, impossible requests and ridiculous cutdowns, Andy's own life starts to suffer. She goes from 'working to pay the rent' to living, defending, and even dieting for Miranda.
The movie is kind of silly in a fun, chicklit sort of way, and even though the peformances are all very good, I found it a bit boring. Reading about someone being abused and watching repeated patterns of abuse in the workplace just isn't all that fun. And there's some pat scenes (I'm so tired of the uber-makeover scenes in movies like this, as if Andy realizing her inner fashion queen would solve all of her problems, yawn), along with some really cheesy dialogue, but the players rise above it and damn, if Anne Hathaway isn't just charming as all hell.
In the end, I enjoyed it, but not as much as I thought I would. But then, that's how I felt about the book too. But the shoes, well, they are remarkable. All in all, it's good summer fun. I'd give it three highkicks out of five.
jPod Redux
Boing Boing takes on jPod and wins. A very apt and quite persuasive critique of Coupland's book. Still, as much as I might like the mini-review, it doesn't take away from how much I enjoyed reading jPod.
Especially after being one of those droids forced into bad corporate internet chop shops run by bosses from hell who really should end up chained to a factory addicted to heroin. However, maybe that's the main difference between mega-blog Boing Boing and little ole me, he sees the bigger picture and I just make everything about me. Because, well, I'm not setting out to make an impression on the state of the net, at least, I don't think I am.
And no offense Seattle Weekly but there are far, far worse books out there. What's the bee stuck in your bonnet?
Especially after being one of those droids forced into bad corporate internet chop shops run by bosses from hell who really should end up chained to a factory addicted to heroin. However, maybe that's the main difference between mega-blog Boing Boing and little ole me, he sees the bigger picture and I just make everything about me. Because, well, I'm not setting out to make an impression on the state of the net, at least, I don't think I am.
And no offense Seattle Weekly but there are far, far worse books out there. What's the bee stuck in your bonnet?
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Am I On Happy Street?
Okay, so the streetcar that I happened upon to carry me home from work tonight contained the happiest TTC driver I have ever encountered in my life. Here are the signs by which I was able to discern this:
1. He sang the street names like thus: "Spaaa-dinna, oh, Spaaadinnaa."
2. He stopped the streetcar at a green light, held up all the traffic behind him, so he could help a blind woman out of the streetcar, across the street and safely to the other side of the intersection. It was rush hour people. Magically, no one honked.
3. He laughed about the annoying World Cup Wonkheads honking and hooting and generally making a menace of themselves and announced, "Aw, here we go!" like driving down Dundas was an adventure we were all going to partake in.
4. He said please, thank you and you're welcome to everyone.
5. He happily flirted with cute girls as they stepped on and off the trolley car.
Honestly. Next to the Asian kid in the $5000.00 suit who said on his cell phone that he's looking for a career in "idea consulting," it's the strangest outdoor experience I've had this month.
1. He sang the street names like thus: "Spaaa-dinna, oh, Spaaadinnaa."
2. He stopped the streetcar at a green light, held up all the traffic behind him, so he could help a blind woman out of the streetcar, across the street and safely to the other side of the intersection. It was rush hour people. Magically, no one honked.
3. He laughed about the annoying World Cup Wonkheads honking and hooting and generally making a menace of themselves and announced, "Aw, here we go!" like driving down Dundas was an adventure we were all going to partake in.
4. He said please, thank you and you're welcome to everyone.
5. He happily flirted with cute girls as they stepped on and off the trolley car.
Honestly. Next to the Asian kid in the $5000.00 suit who said on his cell phone that he's looking for a career in "idea consulting," it's the strangest outdoor experience I've had this month.
Summer Reading
I'm twelve days too late to join this Summer Reading Challenge 2006. The main gist of the challenge is to try and read 2 books a week from a self-decided list, classics, books that have been on your pile forever, or any other fun theme you decide upon.
As it's now June 13, I should already almost be 4 books into the challenge. However, I'm going to start this week, which means I've got a lot of reading to do by next Monday. And how am I going to decide upon my list? Well, I've got some ideas. I figure between now and the end of the summer, that should equal a total of about 30 books (at least that's what I'm going for). So, here's my list, let me know what you think!
THE SUMMER READING 2006 CHALLENGE BOOK LIST:
1. I'm going to take the following titles from the 880 I still have left to read: The Sea, John Banville, Slow Man, J.M. Coetzee, The Master, Colm Toibin, Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell, City of God, E.L. Doctorow, and Captain Corelli's Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres.
2. I'm going to read more poetry this summer, in big chunks instead of here and there: Beowulf, Seamus Heaney, Whetstone, Lorna Crozier, Strike Sparks, Selected Poems 1980-2002, Sharon Olds, Strike/Slip, Don McKay, Airstream Land Yacht, Ken Babstock and Inventory, Dionne Brand.
3. I'm going to catch up on the up next Canadian classics that have been on my to read pile forever: Runaway, Alice Munro, A Map of Glass, Jane Urquhart, Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood, Cease to Blush, Billie Livingston, A Perfect Pledge, Rabindranath Maharaj and Until I Find You, John Irving (I know he's American, technically, but the book is set partially in Toronto so I'm counting it).
4. I'm going to read some classics: Of Human Bondage, W. Somerset Maugham, Pale Fire Vladmir Nabokov, The Good Soldier Ford Maddox Ford, Howard's End, E.M. Forster, The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton and The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky.
5. Lastly, I'm going to read some mysteries just for fun: Thirty-Three Teeth by Chris Cotterill, Before the Frost, Henning Mankell, The Poe Shadow, Matthew Pearl, Affinity, Sarah Waters, The Children of Men, P.D. James and The Historian, Elizabeth Kostova.
And if I finish all of these, I'm going to throw in some nonfiction: London: The Biography, Peter Ackroyd, Miracle in the Andes, Nando Parrado, Anna of the Russians: A Life of Anna Ahkmatova, Elaine Feinstein and Being Caribou, Karsten Heuer.
Add all the reading I've got to do for work and I should be super busy between now and September 1st. Oh, and I've got to get my Page A Day finished as well.
Go big or go home, I always, ahem, say.
As it's now June 13, I should already almost be 4 books into the challenge. However, I'm going to start this week, which means I've got a lot of reading to do by next Monday. And how am I going to decide upon my list? Well, I've got some ideas. I figure between now and the end of the summer, that should equal a total of about 30 books (at least that's what I'm going for). So, here's my list, let me know what you think!
THE SUMMER READING 2006 CHALLENGE BOOK LIST:
1. I'm going to take the following titles from the 880 I still have left to read: The Sea, John Banville, Slow Man, J.M. Coetzee, The Master, Colm Toibin, Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell, City of God, E.L. Doctorow, and Captain Corelli's Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres.
2. I'm going to read more poetry this summer, in big chunks instead of here and there: Beowulf, Seamus Heaney, Whetstone, Lorna Crozier, Strike Sparks, Selected Poems 1980-2002, Sharon Olds, Strike/Slip, Don McKay, Airstream Land Yacht, Ken Babstock and Inventory, Dionne Brand.
3. I'm going to catch up on the up next Canadian classics that have been on my to read pile forever: Runaway, Alice Munro, A Map of Glass, Jane Urquhart, Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood, Cease to Blush, Billie Livingston, A Perfect Pledge, Rabindranath Maharaj and Until I Find You, John Irving (I know he's American, technically, but the book is set partially in Toronto so I'm counting it).
4. I'm going to read some classics: Of Human Bondage, W. Somerset Maugham, Pale Fire Vladmir Nabokov, The Good Soldier Ford Maddox Ford, Howard's End, E.M. Forster, The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton and The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky.
5. Lastly, I'm going to read some mysteries just for fun: Thirty-Three Teeth by Chris Cotterill, Before the Frost, Henning Mankell, The Poe Shadow, Matthew Pearl, Affinity, Sarah Waters, The Children of Men, P.D. James and The Historian, Elizabeth Kostova.
And if I finish all of these, I'm going to throw in some nonfiction: London: The Biography, Peter Ackroyd, Miracle in the Andes, Nando Parrado, Anna of the Russians: A Life of Anna Ahkmatova, Elaine Feinstein and Being Caribou, Karsten Heuer.
Add all the reading I've got to do for work and I should be super busy between now and September 1st. Oh, and I've got to get my Page A Day finished as well.
Go big or go home, I always, ahem, say.
Monday, June 12, 2006
The Page A Day Challenge
Aw, I'm a big fan of my own self-imposed challenges. This summer, it's the Page A Day Challenge. I'm going to try to write one full page every day (as the title, ahem, suggests), in one story without editing from now until the end of August. If I miss a day, I can choose to write two pages, as long as I keep it up for the majority of the working week (weekends excluded, but good for making up missed pages).
Anyone out there with me?
Anyone out there with me?
1001 Books
I got a very fun book today: 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. Damn, who doesn't love lists? I just finished going through it, and I've read 121 of the titles. It's got a heavily British focus in terms of the modern literature (does every single book by Ian McEwan deserve to be read?) and any list that doesn't include Margaret Laurence, probably my favourite Canadian author, isn't complete in my mind. I've listed all the books I have read, more for my own sanity than anything else.
I'm not sure if I'll use it as a guide to what classics I should be reading, but maybe. There aren't enough African writers, nor Canadian, and they're missing the best of Faulkner in my mind, As I Lay Dying, but hey, if you have to start somewhere, it's a pretty cool book to go through in terms of making sure you've read the best literature the world has ever produced.
My 1001 List: 121 Down, 880 To Go:
Oroonoko, Aphra Behn
Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe
Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
David Copperfield, Charles Dickens
Moby-Dick, Herman Melville
Uncle Tom's Cabin, Harriet Beecher Stowe
Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot
Great Expectations, Charles Dickens
Crime and Punishment, Fodor Dostoevsky
Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
Around the World in 80 Days, Jules Verne
The Yellow Wallpaper, Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy (probably my all-time favourite book)
The Awakening, Kate Chopin
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
The House of Mirth, Edith Wharton
Sons and Lovers, D.H. Lawrence
The Rainbow, D.H. Lawrence (another of my all-time favourites)
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce (as above)
Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence (do you see a pattern emerging? I went through a Lawrence phase after I finished my undergraduate degree)
A Passage to India, E.M. Forster
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway
To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
Lady Chatterly's Lover, D.H. Lawrence
The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner
Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
Miss Lonleyhearts, Nathanael West
Tender is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald
Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller (I heart Henry Miller and all his yummy, dirty goodness)
Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neale Hurston
Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck
Tropic of Capricorn, Henry Miller
The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck
Native Son, Richard Wright
The Stranger, Albert Camus
Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell
The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
Wise Blood, Flannery O'Connor
Junkie, William S. Burroughs
Lord of the Flies, William Golding
Lolita, Vladmir Nabokov
On the Road, Jack Kerouac (all-time, all-time favourite)
Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe (see above)
The Naked Lunch, William Burroughs
To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
A Clockworld Orange, Anthony Burgess
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey
The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
The Spy Who Came In From the Cold, John Le Carre
Everything That Rises Must Converge, Flannery O'Connor
The Crying of Lot 49, Thomas Pynchon
Wide Sargasso Sea, Jean Rhys (love, love, love that book)
In Cold Blood, Truman Capote
One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Tom Wolfe
The Godfather, Mario Puzo
The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison
Surfacing, Margaret Atwood (the first Canadian I've seen)
Sula, Toni Morrison
Ragtime, E.L. Doctorow
Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison
The World According to Garp, John Irving
Burger's Daughter, Nadine Gordimer
Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie
Waiting for the Barbarians, J.M. Coetzee (another favourite)
The Colour Purple, Alice Walker
The Life and Times of Michael K., J.M. Coetzee
The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera (given to me by Katie, in Banff, at a time when my life was neither light nor bearable, will always be close to my heart)
Perfume, Patrick Suskind
The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood
The Cider House Rules, John Irving (probably my favourite Irving)
Oranges are Not the Only Fruit, Jeanetter Winterson
Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Foe, J.M. Coetzee (see above; he's my one of my favourite writers)
Beloved, Toni Morrison
The Bonfire of the Vanities, Tom Wolfe (I hated every word of this book)
Oscar and Lucinda, Peter Carey
The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie
Cat's Eye, Margaret Atwood (her best novel, in my opinion)
A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving (my second-favourite Irving)
Possession, A.S. Byatt
The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje (I own four different copies of this book, that says it all, doesn't it?)
Jazz, Toni Morrison
The Robber Bride, Margaret Atwood (never really understood what the fuss was about)
The Virgin Suicides, Jeffrey Eugenides (honestly? The movie is better)
The Stone Diaries, Carol Shields
Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh
The Shipping News, E. Annie Proulx (love, love, love her)
The Master of Petersburg, J.M. Coetzee
A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry
Morvern Caller, Alan Warner
Alias Grace, Margaret Atwood
Fugitive Pieces, Anne Michaels
Jack Maggs, Peter Carey
Memoirs of a Geisha, Arthur Golden (aw, the movie, so bad)
The Hours, Michael Cunningham
The Poisonwood Bible Barbara Kingsolver
Tipping the Velvet, Sarah Waters
Disgrace, J.M. Coetzee
The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood
White Teeth, Zadie Smith
Life of Pi, Yann Martel
Fury, Salman Rushdie (awful, awful book)
The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen
Atonement, Ian McEwan
Youth, J.M. Coetzee
Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides
Unless, Carol Shields
Fingersmith, Sarah Waters
Family Matters, Rohinton Mistry
Elizabeth Costello, J.M. Coetzee
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mark Haddon
On Beauty, Zadie Smith
Saturday, Ian McEwan
Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
I'm not sure if I'll use it as a guide to what classics I should be reading, but maybe. There aren't enough African writers, nor Canadian, and they're missing the best of Faulkner in my mind, As I Lay Dying, but hey, if you have to start somewhere, it's a pretty cool book to go through in terms of making sure you've read the best literature the world has ever produced.
My 1001 List: 121 Down, 880 To Go:
Oroonoko, Aphra Behn
Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe
Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
David Copperfield, Charles Dickens
Moby-Dick, Herman Melville
Uncle Tom's Cabin, Harriet Beecher Stowe
Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot
Great Expectations, Charles Dickens
Crime and Punishment, Fodor Dostoevsky
Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
Around the World in 80 Days, Jules Verne
The Yellow Wallpaper, Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy (probably my all-time favourite book)
The Awakening, Kate Chopin
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
The House of Mirth, Edith Wharton
Sons and Lovers, D.H. Lawrence
The Rainbow, D.H. Lawrence (another of my all-time favourites)
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce (as above)
Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence (do you see a pattern emerging? I went through a Lawrence phase after I finished my undergraduate degree)
A Passage to India, E.M. Forster
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway
To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
Lady Chatterly's Lover, D.H. Lawrence
The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner
Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
Miss Lonleyhearts, Nathanael West
Tender is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald
Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller (I heart Henry Miller and all his yummy, dirty goodness)
Their Eyes Were Watching God, Zora Neale Hurston
Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck
Tropic of Capricorn, Henry Miller
The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck
Native Son, Richard Wright
The Stranger, Albert Camus
Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell
The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
Wise Blood, Flannery O'Connor
Junkie, William S. Burroughs
Lord of the Flies, William Golding
Lolita, Vladmir Nabokov
On the Road, Jack Kerouac (all-time, all-time favourite)
Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe (see above)
The Naked Lunch, William Burroughs
To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
A Clockworld Orange, Anthony Burgess
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey
The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
The Spy Who Came In From the Cold, John Le Carre
Everything That Rises Must Converge, Flannery O'Connor
The Crying of Lot 49, Thomas Pynchon
Wide Sargasso Sea, Jean Rhys (love, love, love that book)
In Cold Blood, Truman Capote
One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Tom Wolfe
The Godfather, Mario Puzo
The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison
Surfacing, Margaret Atwood (the first Canadian I've seen)
Sula, Toni Morrison
Ragtime, E.L. Doctorow
Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison
The World According to Garp, John Irving
Burger's Daughter, Nadine Gordimer
Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie
Waiting for the Barbarians, J.M. Coetzee (another favourite)
The Colour Purple, Alice Walker
The Life and Times of Michael K., J.M. Coetzee
The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera (given to me by Katie, in Banff, at a time when my life was neither light nor bearable, will always be close to my heart)
Perfume, Patrick Suskind
The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood
The Cider House Rules, John Irving (probably my favourite Irving)
Oranges are Not the Only Fruit, Jeanetter Winterson
Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Foe, J.M. Coetzee (see above; he's my one of my favourite writers)
Beloved, Toni Morrison
The Bonfire of the Vanities, Tom Wolfe (I hated every word of this book)
Oscar and Lucinda, Peter Carey
The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie
Cat's Eye, Margaret Atwood (her best novel, in my opinion)
A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving (my second-favourite Irving)
Possession, A.S. Byatt
The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje (I own four different copies of this book, that says it all, doesn't it?)
Jazz, Toni Morrison
The Robber Bride, Margaret Atwood (never really understood what the fuss was about)
The Virgin Suicides, Jeffrey Eugenides (honestly? The movie is better)
The Stone Diaries, Carol Shields
Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh
The Shipping News, E. Annie Proulx (love, love, love her)
The Master of Petersburg, J.M. Coetzee
A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry
Morvern Caller, Alan Warner
Alias Grace, Margaret Atwood
Fugitive Pieces, Anne Michaels
Jack Maggs, Peter Carey
Memoirs of a Geisha, Arthur Golden (aw, the movie, so bad)
The Hours, Michael Cunningham
The Poisonwood Bible Barbara Kingsolver
Tipping the Velvet, Sarah Waters
Disgrace, J.M. Coetzee
The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood
White Teeth, Zadie Smith
Life of Pi, Yann Martel
Fury, Salman Rushdie (awful, awful book)
The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen
Atonement, Ian McEwan
Youth, J.M. Coetzee
Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides
Unless, Carol Shields
Fingersmith, Sarah Waters
Family Matters, Rohinton Mistry
Elizabeth Costello, J.M. Coetzee
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mark Haddon
On Beauty, Zadie Smith
Saturday, Ian McEwan
Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
TRH - The Test Kitchen
In the hopes of avoiding the "what are we doing for dinner fight", I've been trying to build our daily repertoire of recipes with "new" and "exciting" dishes. For the most part, I'm passable in the kitchen. My mother, who had a real talent with and for food, didn't pass all the good cooking genes down to me. But I do enjoy cooking, which is good, right?
I've started making meal plans for us during the week (shot to hell because my RRHB was out on tour a couple nights this week and now he's working nights, sigh) and have bought everything I need beforehand. We've got a good library of cookbooks, but I've mainly been going through Simple Suppers, the latest Moosewood Restaurant tome. So far, I've made Asian Braised Fish with Greens (verdict: good, but the sauce was too sweet for the RRHB). The recipe called to serve it on rice, but I used potatoes instead, and used tilapia as the fish. One thing I'm not sure of though, are scallions green onions or something different entirely?
And last night, I made Pine Nut-Crusted Fish. Now, I went to a nice grocery store, not too, too expensive, but definitely more pricey than going to Kensington Market, where we do a lot of shopping. I walked up to the fish counter (only recently starting to cook fish on a regular basis with both of us starting up again after many years being almost complete veggies [the RRHB especially]) and asked the nice fellow (butcher? fisher?) for tuna. He showed me a couple of steaks, one quite large and one much smaller—perfect for the both of us. And when he hands them back, I'm shocked to find the cost of said tuna is $19.23! Wha? We might as well go out at those prices.
Hence the Pine-Nut Encrusted Fish recipe coming to life last night. It calls for bread crumbs, garlic, oregano, and lemon peel (whizzed in the blender) along with the pine nuts. Then you fry the fish. And holy crap, if it's not the yummiest thing I've ever cooked. In fact, with the exception of one pasta recipe, all of the thing we've tried from the Moosewood cookbook have been exceptional.
I also tried to make a spinach dish with raisins and the rest of the pine nuts. It didn't turn out as well, mainly because I mistakenly dumped all of the water I had already drained from the veggies out into the pan and had to start all over again...but the fish was good!
I've started making meal plans for us during the week (shot to hell because my RRHB was out on tour a couple nights this week and now he's working nights, sigh) and have bought everything I need beforehand. We've got a good library of cookbooks, but I've mainly been going through Simple Suppers, the latest Moosewood Restaurant tome. So far, I've made Asian Braised Fish with Greens (verdict: good, but the sauce was too sweet for the RRHB). The recipe called to serve it on rice, but I used potatoes instead, and used tilapia as the fish. One thing I'm not sure of though, are scallions green onions or something different entirely?
And last night, I made Pine Nut-Crusted Fish. Now, I went to a nice grocery store, not too, too expensive, but definitely more pricey than going to Kensington Market, where we do a lot of shopping. I walked up to the fish counter (only recently starting to cook fish on a regular basis with both of us starting up again after many years being almost complete veggies [the RRHB especially]) and asked the nice fellow (butcher? fisher?) for tuna. He showed me a couple of steaks, one quite large and one much smaller—perfect for the both of us. And when he hands them back, I'm shocked to find the cost of said tuna is $19.23! Wha? We might as well go out at those prices.
Hence the Pine-Nut Encrusted Fish recipe coming to life last night. It calls for bread crumbs, garlic, oregano, and lemon peel (whizzed in the blender) along with the pine nuts. Then you fry the fish. And holy crap, if it's not the yummiest thing I've ever cooked. In fact, with the exception of one pasta recipe, all of the thing we've tried from the Moosewood cookbook have been exceptional.
I also tried to make a spinach dish with raisins and the rest of the pine nuts. It didn't turn out as well, mainly because I mistakenly dumped all of the water I had already drained from the veggies out into the pan and had to start all over again...but the fish was good!
More Embarrassing Things...
That I'll confess online and nowhere else...
So, because I've got more energy, I want to exercise. Said exercise is also the key to losing some of the prednisone weight and allowing me to be able to indulge in the odd bag of rice chips.
However, I am far too chubby and out of shape a) to put a bathing suit on and head to a pool and b) to go to the gym. So, I've been jumping around, literally, in my house to, you guessed it, Mariah Carey.
Yes, I realize this totally blows the cool, RRHB lifestyle of going to see kick ass shows (he opened for Amy Millan this weekend, very fun) and turns me into a person who is too embarrassed by the state of herself to actually go to a gym like a normal person, but at least I've got the energy to do something.
Like everything else, it's a start down the path to good health, something which I'm desperate to enjoy for the next thirty-odd years of my life.
So, because I've got more energy, I want to exercise. Said exercise is also the key to losing some of the prednisone weight and allowing me to be able to indulge in the odd bag of rice chips.
However, I am far too chubby and out of shape a) to put a bathing suit on and head to a pool and b) to go to the gym. So, I've been jumping around, literally, in my house to, you guessed it, Mariah Carey.
Yes, I realize this totally blows the cool, RRHB lifestyle of going to see kick ass shows (he opened for Amy Millan this weekend, very fun) and turns me into a person who is too embarrassed by the state of herself to actually go to a gym like a normal person, but at least I've got the energy to do something.
Like everything else, it's a start down the path to good health, something which I'm desperate to enjoy for the next thirty-odd years of my life.
World Cup Watch
These are the farkwits in my neighbourhood. There were two, count them, two parades on the weekend celebrating the soccer. Well, perhaps not soccer entirely but because I don't know anything about said parades I'm making assumptions. Yes, that makes me assy.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
#44 - Swapping Lives
Jane Green's latest novel, Swapping Lives reads like reality television on the page. A fairly flimsy premise: 35-year-old journalist Vicky Townsley, looking to make changes in her life, says off-handedly that she'd love to swap lives with someone who's married with kids. It's the life she's always dreamed of and what she wants more than anything. Her editor thinks it's a fab idea and off they go, trying to find the perfect Swap-mate.
They find her in Amber Winslow, a 'Desperate Housewife' from suburban Connecticut, bored and frustrated with her own 'keeping up with the Joneses' (Green honestly uses that phrase at least six times throughout the manuscript). Amber's husband is old money whose family has been broke for generations; now he's a successful trader on Wall Street. They're fabulously wealthy—the epitome of the American dream.
The moral of the story: the grass isn't always greener on the other side. However, both women make changes in their lives based up on their experiences in the swap. Green's prose is repetitive and the characters, especially Amber, are kind of one-dimensional (there are playboys, bitchy suburban housewives, and not one but TWO friends named Deborah [she couldn't pick a different name?] on either side of the ocean). But I read the book to the end, and, on the sliding scale of chicklit, Green's new book comes in somewhere on top of Plum Sykes but nowhere near our beloved Gemma.
Edited to add: The one thing that I did like about this book was that the heroine, Vicky, started off single and ended up single, still looking for love but happy and fulfilled by her life. Now that's a twist in chicklit, one that I'd like to see more of...
They find her in Amber Winslow, a 'Desperate Housewife' from suburban Connecticut, bored and frustrated with her own 'keeping up with the Joneses' (Green honestly uses that phrase at least six times throughout the manuscript). Amber's husband is old money whose family has been broke for generations; now he's a successful trader on Wall Street. They're fabulously wealthy—the epitome of the American dream.
The moral of the story: the grass isn't always greener on the other side. However, both women make changes in their lives based up on their experiences in the swap. Green's prose is repetitive and the characters, especially Amber, are kind of one-dimensional (there are playboys, bitchy suburban housewives, and not one but TWO friends named Deborah [she couldn't pick a different name?] on either side of the ocean). But I read the book to the end, and, on the sliding scale of chicklit, Green's new book comes in somewhere on top of Plum Sykes but nowhere near our beloved Gemma.
Edited to add: The one thing that I did like about this book was that the heroine, Vicky, started off single and ended up single, still looking for love but happy and fulfilled by her life. Now that's a twist in chicklit, one that I'd like to see more of...
McClelland & Stewart 100th Birthday Party
Last night, on the eve of BEC, McClelland & Stewart celebrated its 100th birthday. The gala (complete with a couple people wearing pretty fancy dresses, not me I'm afraid) was at the Distillery district, in a great room called The Fermenting Cellar. A host of infamous Canadian literary talents were there, including Margaret Atwood, who, after Avi Bennett and Doug Pepper, gave a keynote speech.
Of course, I was the only one not to catch a glimpse of her, but instead wandered around aimlessly searching for her, trying to fulfill my authorlust. Peter C. Newman, Adrienne Clarkson, and many more, authors, authors everywhere.
And it's nice to see the lovely people that you work with out and about being themselves, kicking back with some wine, and having the guy from Google (awesome!) tell you that he only got his job by being a sharpshooter.
Now where can I sign up for lessons? I'd love to work for Google. Heh.
Of course, I was the only one not to catch a glimpse of her, but instead wandered around aimlessly searching for her, trying to fulfill my authorlust. Peter C. Newman, Adrienne Clarkson, and many more, authors, authors everywhere.
And it's nice to see the lovely people that you work with out and about being themselves, kicking back with some wine, and having the guy from Google (awesome!) tell you that he only got his job by being a sharpshooter.
Now where can I sign up for lessons? I'd love to work for Google. Heh.
Friday, June 09, 2006
"Funbadness"
I heart Scott Brown. He has invented a word that completely and utterly encapsulates why I see so many bad movies: fundbadness.
Funbadness brought me (and my dear friend Tara) to many a movie on opening weekend, including Dirty Dancing: (wait for it) Havana Nights. Cuba! I can't list on my fingers and toes the number of truly bad movies I've actually seen in the theatre—all by my own choice with no expectations they'll be any good.
Now what funbadness would that be?
And yes, I'm seeing an advance screening of The Devil Wears Prada next Wednesday. How jealous are you? It's no Nicolas Cage on fire while riding a hog, but it's something. Oh, and Scott Brown? I too marveled in the wondrous funbadness of Reign of Fire. It's Matthew McConaughey fighting dragons for heaven's sake, dragons! It's awesome.
Funbadness brought me (and my dear friend Tara) to many a movie on opening weekend, including Dirty Dancing: (wait for it) Havana Nights. Cuba! I can't list on my fingers and toes the number of truly bad movies I've actually seen in the theatre—all by my own choice with no expectations they'll be any good.
Now what funbadness would that be?
And yes, I'm seeing an advance screening of The Devil Wears Prada next Wednesday. How jealous are you? It's no Nicolas Cage on fire while riding a hog, but it's something. Oh, and Scott Brown? I too marveled in the wondrous funbadness of Reign of Fire. It's Matthew McConaughey fighting dragons for heaven's sake, dragons! It's awesome.
#43 - Terrorist
I'll say one thing for Terrorist, John Updike's new novel, it's certainly the perfect book for the current climate. Considering the media fury over the death of al-Zarqawi and the young men they arrested here in Canada, not to mention the ongoing efforts of George W. and company in Iraq, a novel about an 18-year-old boy who becomes embroiled in a terrorist act seems rather timely. What's odd then, is that's all the book truly has going for it: a good hook.
I'm embarrassed to say that I've never read any other Updike. I started Rabbit Run years ago and it remains sitting unfinished on the shelf. And perhaps it's just my own personal taste, but he's not really a writer for me. I found this book to be trying too hard, to have angry, awkward and not entirely believable characters. The story is fascinating, but Ahmad's (the teenager in question) faith doesn't come across as authentic, nor does his dissent into the crucial act that defines the book feel real. Not to mention the fact that he's stiff and speaks in such muted, oddly writerly tones that Ahmad's almost a caricature.
But what bothered me the most were the lack of truly redeeming female characters, Ahmad's mother was an artist who was not particularly prone to childrearing, Ahmad's quasi-crush ends up being a hooker, and the two other women, one a spinster, the other an obese librarian, were so one-dimensional that I had a hard time finishing the book.
I had a teacher write on an essay once, "You are certainly a good writer, but this is not well written." That's very close to how I feel about Terrorist. It's, of course, the job of the novelist to be consistently challenging our ideas of stereotypes, our ideas of the world around us, but in the way the Updike presents the Muslim faith, he does nothing to dispel the very misconceptions that exist in the world. And I know that's not the point, that he's writing about fundamentalism from the point of view of said fundamentalist, but Ahmad's speeches, his thoughts, his actions all feel so put-upon that I have a hard time imagining him in the real world.
There is no doubt that Updike remains one of the great modern literary giants of American books, and so much of his latest speech at BEA points to this fact (where he, ironically, rails against the internet, the very tool used to disseminate his speech, um, whatever), but just because he can write doesn't mean that everything he does write will automatically be great fiction. Despite how much it wants and/or tries to be.
It's an interesting book to read after finishing Sweetness in the Belly considering how much deft and talent Gibb shows when discussing the same faith (albeit in two very different ways). Because I think the point of a book like this should be understanding, at least that's my humble opinion, and it's a shame that Updike presents me with the same dogged images/characters I hear about in the news every day. There's no underlying enlightenment, like in Gibb's novel, to make me feel like this book has changed my world. All in all, I'm just glad I managed to get through it.
I'm embarrassed to say that I've never read any other Updike. I started Rabbit Run years ago and it remains sitting unfinished on the shelf. And perhaps it's just my own personal taste, but he's not really a writer for me. I found this book to be trying too hard, to have angry, awkward and not entirely believable characters. The story is fascinating, but Ahmad's (the teenager in question) faith doesn't come across as authentic, nor does his dissent into the crucial act that defines the book feel real. Not to mention the fact that he's stiff and speaks in such muted, oddly writerly tones that Ahmad's almost a caricature.
But what bothered me the most were the lack of truly redeeming female characters, Ahmad's mother was an artist who was not particularly prone to childrearing, Ahmad's quasi-crush ends up being a hooker, and the two other women, one a spinster, the other an obese librarian, were so one-dimensional that I had a hard time finishing the book.
I had a teacher write on an essay once, "You are certainly a good writer, but this is not well written." That's very close to how I feel about Terrorist. It's, of course, the job of the novelist to be consistently challenging our ideas of stereotypes, our ideas of the world around us, but in the way the Updike presents the Muslim faith, he does nothing to dispel the very misconceptions that exist in the world. And I know that's not the point, that he's writing about fundamentalism from the point of view of said fundamentalist, but Ahmad's speeches, his thoughts, his actions all feel so put-upon that I have a hard time imagining him in the real world.
There is no doubt that Updike remains one of the great modern literary giants of American books, and so much of his latest speech at BEA points to this fact (where he, ironically, rails against the internet, the very tool used to disseminate his speech, um, whatever), but just because he can write doesn't mean that everything he does write will automatically be great fiction. Despite how much it wants and/or tries to be.
It's an interesting book to read after finishing Sweetness in the Belly considering how much deft and talent Gibb shows when discussing the same faith (albeit in two very different ways). Because I think the point of a book like this should be understanding, at least that's my humble opinion, and it's a shame that Updike presents me with the same dogged images/characters I hear about in the news every day. There's no underlying enlightenment, like in Gibb's novel, to make me feel like this book has changed my world. All in all, I'm just glad I managed to get through it.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Weekend Antics
This was how my weekend went:
Friday night attended the launch party for Taddle Creek's latest issue. Celebrated my poem with my weekly half-pint and sat in the rain. It was lovely. Heard one really great poet and then left.
Saturday during the day I fought with my RRHB, then we went grocery shopping, made a meal plan for the week, came home, did the laundry, made a really yummy dinner of tilapia and bok choy, and went out to see Christine Fellows. It was an amazing show. She had an artist using an old school overhead projector drawing and illustrating her gorgeous songs. She wins the award for best use of old school technology: the last time I saw an overhead projector at an artsy-type event was Dave Eggers. He only drew pretentious stick figures, which we all adored, even if they were more to be cool than to be an artist, per se. At least that was my impression.
Sunday I had lunch with the girls, we laughed, at a ridiculous amount of delicious food at the Rude Native, gossiped, and enjoyed each other's company. I came home and within the hour had to go out for dinner with my RRHB and his family for his birthday. More gluttonous eating at The Swan. Watched the season finale of The Sopranos. Fell asleep totally exhausted and thoroughly amazed that for the second weekend in a row I didn't collapse with disease-inspired exhaustion.
I'm on the right track.
Friday night attended the launch party for Taddle Creek's latest issue. Celebrated my poem with my weekly half-pint and sat in the rain. It was lovely. Heard one really great poet and then left.
Saturday during the day I fought with my RRHB, then we went grocery shopping, made a meal plan for the week, came home, did the laundry, made a really yummy dinner of tilapia and bok choy, and went out to see Christine Fellows. It was an amazing show. She had an artist using an old school overhead projector drawing and illustrating her gorgeous songs. She wins the award for best use of old school technology: the last time I saw an overhead projector at an artsy-type event was Dave Eggers. He only drew pretentious stick figures, which we all adored, even if they were more to be cool than to be an artist, per se. At least that was my impression.
Sunday I had lunch with the girls, we laughed, at a ridiculous amount of delicious food at the Rude Native, gossiped, and enjoyed each other's company. I came home and within the hour had to go out for dinner with my RRHB and his family for his birthday. More gluttonous eating at The Swan. Watched the season finale of The Sopranos. Fell asleep totally exhausted and thoroughly amazed that for the second weekend in a row I didn't collapse with disease-inspired exhaustion.
I'm on the right track.
Read With TRH
Okay, I want to try something different, something that I haven't done before—everyone who knows me knows that I love to read. And I want to share that love. And then I want to talk about that love to anyone who'll listen. So, I've picked a book I'm going to read over the next few weeks. It's called Cease to Blush by Billie Livingston.
It looks like the perfect summer read: saucy, fabulously fun and kind of sexy. What could/would be better for a hot afternoon in the city?
So, I've got extra copies of the book to giveaway in the hopes that someone, anyone, might want to read it with me, and then I'm hoping the author will be available to answer any questions in this space that we might have.
I don't want to call it a book club because, well, you know. But I do want to experience a shared reading of the novel online through my blog.
Email me if you want a copy of the book. I've got three that need homes.
It looks like the perfect summer read: saucy, fabulously fun and kind of sexy. What could/would be better for a hot afternoon in the city?
So, I've got extra copies of the book to giveaway in the hopes that someone, anyone, might want to read it with me, and then I'm hoping the author will be available to answer any questions in this space that we might have.
I don't want to call it a book club because, well, you know. But I do want to experience a shared reading of the novel online through my blog.
Email me if you want a copy of the book. I've got three that need homes.
Sweetness in the Belly - Camilla Gibb Chat
So, I totally gushed and gushed about Camilla Gibb's Sweetness in the Belly, which means I'm way, way excited to participate in Chicklit's chat with the author tomorrow afternoon. If you're not busy, join us.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
TRH Movie - The Break-Up
So, I had the chance to see an advance screening of The Break-Up last night and I have to say I was pleasantly surprised. I went in fearing the curse of the Hollywood romance, which tends to ruin every single film if its two stars are linked, demolished by Hollywood gossip and destroyed by the glee of reviewers taking utter delight in condemning the product on the basis of said curse. And it's frustrating because it ruins many a decent film, with Gigli being the obvious exception, oh and, Proof of Life, which is terrible, and Eyes Wide Sh*t, I mean Shut. Well, maybe there's something to the curse after all.
All this means is that it's next to impossible to evaluate the film on its merits alone, what with the ridiculous amount of media attention the two stars have gotten, despite their attempts otherwise. Even knowing how wrong it is to search for clues of Anistan's personal pain in her performance, you find yourself (well, myself) doing it anyway, and then feeling hella-guilty afterwards.
Annnwaaay. The Break-Up, touted as the anti-romantic comedy of the summer, certainly succeeds in what it sets out to do. Gary and Brooke, Vaughn and Aniston respectively, meet at a Chicago Cubs game, fall in love and buy an awesome condo. After a particularly stereotypical dinner with their respective families coming together as one, the two have a massive argument and break up. Well, at least Gary thinks that they do; Brooke is under the impression she's 'teaching him a lesson' in how to be a better partner.
Funny business ensues as they both refuse to move out of their fab condo. And the ensuing situations all result from the fact that each is staying put until they absolutely can bare it no longer. The forced encampment, a staple of situation comedies, feels a bit cliched, but Vaughn and Aniston are both good, and have great chemistry, so it sort of works. It's not a great movie, but it's definitely better than I expected.
Both main female characters are stereotypical (Brooke plays head games; she wants Gary to go the ballet [and to "want to want to do the dishes"] but come on, any woman in that relationship would have given up that dream long ago, slapped on her Manolos and gone with a girlfriend anyway; Addie, her best friend, counsels and consoles with the best of them, yawn), but the movie is really about the evolution of Vaughn's character. In that sense, again, it's an anti-romcom, which is kind of nice.
Justin Long is hilarious as the obviously out receptionist at the art gallery where Brooke works, and the always terrific John Michael Higgins plays her Tone Ranger-loving brother, whose a cappella bursts annoy Gary to no end. And it's even good that most of the bits in the commercials don't necessarily represent the extent of hilarity in the movie—always a pleasant surprise. But in the end, the film succeeds because of Vaughn, his chemistry, his charm, his comic timing, and his ability to capitalize on the greatest casting coup of all times, Aniston, who is just coming off the world's most publicized break up of her own, and plays exceptionally well off of him.
All in all, I enjoyed it, and was glad to see it, despite the knuckleheads who are always at these free preview thingys. Even a half an hour into when the screening was supposed to start, they wander into the theatre looking aimlessly for seats, bothering people who are obviously saving them because they're the best in the house, munching on popcorn and speaking at the top of their lungs. How many ways can you say annoying?
All this means is that it's next to impossible to evaluate the film on its merits alone, what with the ridiculous amount of media attention the two stars have gotten, despite their attempts otherwise. Even knowing how wrong it is to search for clues of Anistan's personal pain in her performance, you find yourself (well, myself) doing it anyway, and then feeling hella-guilty afterwards.
Annnwaaay. The Break-Up, touted as the anti-romantic comedy of the summer, certainly succeeds in what it sets out to do. Gary and Brooke, Vaughn and Aniston respectively, meet at a Chicago Cubs game, fall in love and buy an awesome condo. After a particularly stereotypical dinner with their respective families coming together as one, the two have a massive argument and break up. Well, at least Gary thinks that they do; Brooke is under the impression she's 'teaching him a lesson' in how to be a better partner.
Funny business ensues as they both refuse to move out of their fab condo. And the ensuing situations all result from the fact that each is staying put until they absolutely can bare it no longer. The forced encampment, a staple of situation comedies, feels a bit cliched, but Vaughn and Aniston are both good, and have great chemistry, so it sort of works. It's not a great movie, but it's definitely better than I expected.
Both main female characters are stereotypical (Brooke plays head games; she wants Gary to go the ballet [and to "want to want to do the dishes"] but come on, any woman in that relationship would have given up that dream long ago, slapped on her Manolos and gone with a girlfriend anyway; Addie, her best friend, counsels and consoles with the best of them, yawn), but the movie is really about the evolution of Vaughn's character. In that sense, again, it's an anti-romcom, which is kind of nice.
Justin Long is hilarious as the obviously out receptionist at the art gallery where Brooke works, and the always terrific John Michael Higgins plays her Tone Ranger-loving brother, whose a cappella bursts annoy Gary to no end. And it's even good that most of the bits in the commercials don't necessarily represent the extent of hilarity in the movie—always a pleasant surprise. But in the end, the film succeeds because of Vaughn, his chemistry, his charm, his comic timing, and his ability to capitalize on the greatest casting coup of all times, Aniston, who is just coming off the world's most publicized break up of her own, and plays exceptionally well off of him.
All in all, I enjoyed it, and was glad to see it, despite the knuckleheads who are always at these free preview thingys. Even a half an hour into when the screening was supposed to start, they wander into the theatre looking aimlessly for seats, bothering people who are obviously saving them because they're the best in the house, munching on popcorn and speaking at the top of their lungs. How many ways can you say annoying?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
My Boy is Ten
My friend Heather took this photo a couple of weekends ago. We went for a walk in the woods. It was a bit cold at first, neither my boy nor ...
-
The last few weeks of my life have been the most terrifying and joyful I have ever known. The purpose of this blog has never been to documen... -
After a long and extremely profound illness stemming from a car accident over twenty years ago, my mother passed away. She had been incapaci...
-
Last week I was excited to try Shortcovers -- I've been reading manuscripts and classics on my Sony eReader for over a year, and now wa...