Side Effects

So I am now officially puffy from the prednisone. The side effect is awkwardly called "Moon Face." Which makes it sound so lovely. In essence, my cheeks are all puffed out and I look kind of like a chipmunk. Kind of fitting for this time of the year.

My skin has also erupted into some strange acne too. Which means, of course, that I'm washing it, using toner, using masks, anything to try and control it. This sometimes results in me picking away it for hours, squeezing things that I should honestly leave alone.

Today, my throat is super-sore, and I've been working from home the past few days to try and feel better. Thank goodness I've got an awesomely understanding boss and workplace. I couldn't cope with it otherwise. There are some small blessings. If I was still working for the Boss From Hell, I think I would have lost it.

I went to school last night, which was fun, but too exhausting. I came home and just about collapsed on the couch. I've made another appointment with the doctor for Thursday to see if there's anything they can tell me about the disease and whether or not it's actually getting any better.

My spirits are falling, and my RRBF keeps asking me if I want the pillow. It's kind of funny, he's such a romantic, offering to smother me so I'm out of my misery. In jest of course, ah, the things we do for love.

It's brutal that I'm too tired even to read. And you all know how unlike me that is...

Wegener's Weekend

There are so many things about the disease that I can't handle these days. The whole psychology behind it, the idea that it's living in my body, working against me, turning my immune system inside out, is hard to grapple with on a daily basis. But more then that, what's worse is not being able to stop thinking about it either. I've spent the past few days at home, working from home, but I have so little energy that even resting this much isn't making much of a difference.

And then you start to get self-critical, blast yourself for watching too many episodes of Felicity that Zip.ca has sent you, and feel guilty for not getting enough work done.

But the truth is that I can barely get out of bed these days and my head is in such a fog that I'm surprised I can concentrate on anything for more than 10 minutes. How do people cope with this?

Wegener's Granulomatosis

If the disease is only 'grumbling' and not full-blown, I'm am afraid to know what a massive attack might look like at my age. I am so tired I can barely move. My sinuses are killing me. It feels like there's a log on my chest. It's all so very strange.

Today I Remember

Today is for my great-grandfather, G.H. Copeland, who crossed the border from Ohio, signed up in Windsor and was shipped off to England. He carried a Ross rifle that didn't work, fought at Ypres (the second time) and Passchendaele. He helped the Allied forces win the First World War.

Today, I think about my grandfather, G.H.'s son, James Copeland. He marched in Italy, lived with shrapnel in his foot and liberated Holland. He spent his war in a tank and came back a changed man for two reasons: his new family and the war itself.

But most of all today I think about my grandmother, Janet Mardon, a war bride, born in Angel in London. The story goes that she met my grandfather during an air raid, falling in love in the dark, almost instantly. They got married in a fever. She wore an expensive wedding dress she sort of inherited (she was a seamstress) when the wealthier woman's nuptials got cancelled. My grandmother came to Canada on the Letitia, landed at Halifax, and then took a train to Toronto with my aunt, a toddler.

After I lost my mother, my grandmother became a beacon of strength in my life. She lived a hard life, but she loved us too. She was proud, fierce and beautiful to me, a role model on the importance of family and the fury of love.

Today I'll close my eyes and remember the mud, the horror, the terror of the First World War. The bravery of my great-grandfather and hundreds of thousands of young men like him. Today I'll close my eyes and think of my grandfather meeting happy Dutch faces waving ribbons upon their arrival. Today I'll close my eyes and think of my grandmother walking the streets of a bombed London wearing her Wren uniform, helping out where she could, building the strength that defined her character for years to come. Lest we forget.

My Boyfriend's Back...And There's Going To Be Trouble?

There's a strange adjustment period when my RRBF gets back from being away on tour. Of course I'm glad to see him, but after about a month by myself, I'm also set in a new routine. So it's strange when he's back and I'm all grumpy because he's in my way, but not in my way. And he's all out of sorts because he's been on the road for a month and not used to going to bed, getting up and going to work.

But because now I'm so tired from the disease, and barely making it through the days, I'm glad he's home, if only to help me get through my life for the next little while. It's the small mercies.

Next step: our non-wedding in December.

Je Suis L-a-a-a-me

So I had my first story workshopped last night in class. It was gut-wrenching and heart-breaking. My fellow students are quite amazing, and all really good readers, which means they put the story through the gears and it will be the better for it. But I am so super-sensitive that it's almost impossible for me to not take everything personally.

Here's what I discovered:

1. I make up lame names. For some reason, the male protagonist is called Christian Meadows, and the female protagonist is called Eve. Yes. Christian Meadows. Eve. I did not even see the problem with it when I was writing it. Perhaps I should be writing Harlequin romances instead.

The names will need to be changed.

2. My sentences are too long. And I love long sentences. But shorter might be better, hence I'll have to edit. We all know how I feel about editing.

3. I am no genius. This is of no surprise to anyone. Heh.

On the whole, it was a very positive experience, and one I'll be repeating six or seven times during the course of the class, but ouch—if I could only get over my pathological shyness and actually not take the constructive criticism to heart. It hurts. Like a band-aid that comes off too early. Ouch.

Jarhead

I bit off more than I can chew this weekend. I'm so tired and achy tonight that I'm glad I'm finally home and can put on my pajamas. I'm actually all shook up, and not in a good way. First off, I went and had brunch with some friends, which was nice, and not too stressful. Then, I worked for a while on my book for Sterling. Then, Wing and Glark picked me up and we went to see Jarhead.

Welcome to the suck, indeed. Despite a solid cast with excellent performances by just about every young man there, despite some innovative and interesting direction, despite a story that's actually kind of timely, despite all this the movie's still terribly mediocre. Nothing happens. Now, I know that's sort of the point, all the build up, hundreds of thousands of troops in the Gulf, and then a war that only lasts for 4 days, but still, something should have happened.

Instead, we get a sort of stream of consciousness film that plays more like it should be on stage than anything else. And it got me thinking, about how it's Remembrance Day next week, about how war has changed so much in my lifetime that even the glorification of it has been deconstructed to the point where it's hard to see the ins and outs of obvious right and wrong. Sam Mendes had a chance to make a statement with the film. He didn't take that chance. He played it real safe, sort of flew under the radar so much that the movie isn't about war; it's not about the oil; hell, it's not even about the soldiers—it's a coming of age story wrapped in the context of war that works as an allegory for Swofford's (Gyllenhaal's) broken soul. And you know, what's even worse is that the film isn't bad, it's just seriously mediocre.

I guess that's why I'm disappointed. There are boys, Canadian boys, American boys, over there now dying senseless deaths, and Mendes filled up his film with a hell of a lot of quasi gay porn and bombastic male posturing. Perhaps that's what it was really like, but then that makes what's happening today even more futile. And with the current war in Iraq turning out to be more like Vietnam than even Bush himself gathered it could, I'm disappointed that in this day and age of media cynicism, the likes of Michael Moore, and the big Hollywood machine, that Mendes didn't stand up and shout at the top of his lungs with this film. Who knows? Maybe he did and I just missed the point. Oorah, indeed.

Now I'm overtired and feeling really quite ill. I wanted to get more done on my book, but it'll have to wait until tomorrow. There's always tomorrow.

Spare Cash?

Somehow I don't think that this was what the Barenaked Ladies had in mind when they listed off all the things they could and/or would do if they had a million dollars.

The next step in this utterly ridiculous "joke" is to then film a reality television show that exhibits all the crackpots who actually take him up on the offer. Oh. Wait. Maybe he's making a movie out of it all instead.

But it's all art for art's sake, isn't it? And in that sense, the ridiculous becomes the sublime because to have it any other way would mean the entire system would collapse.

So Glad I Went

Life always surprises you at the strangest moments. My cousin's wedding was wonderful, and I had a great time. The food was incredible, and it turned into a celebration of the best order.

I am very glad I stopped feeling sorry for myself. My eyes are still sore and puffy, though.

Totally Frustrating Day

I woke up this morning with a red, puffy and irriated eye. It pretty much kept me up half the night. I spent the other half tossing and turning. There are books, clothes and pillows on the side of the bed usually occupied by my RRBF. It was an awful night.

Today my cousin is getting married. The wedding is very small, just a handful of people at a restaurant, but I wanted to have a productive day before I went. I got three pages, if that, written on my latest book for Sterling. The rest of the day was spent trying in futility to rest. The first time I went back to bed, the neighbours were building something: loud banging, the odd power tool. The second time I went back to the bed, the cat wouldn't stop whining for his dinner. I gave him said dinner, then he whined some more—for more dinner. As if. Oh, and I did I mention the loud rock music coming from next door and the phone ringing?

My eye is still red and sore. I've got new clothes to wear, but no nice shoes and I was too tired to go shoe shopping. Between the meds, the sore throats popping up like bad ex-boyfriends, the absolute frustration with feeling so weak and tired all you can eat all day is frozen waffles but being utterly unable to sleep, and the complete and exacting sadness from the disease on the whole, I'm having a rough day.

#56 The Secret Life of Bees

Sue Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees follows the life of Lily Owens, a young white girl growing up in South Carolina during the height of the Civil Rights Movement. Living with an abusive father, T. Ray, and cared for by Rosaleen, her black housekeeper, Lily has never known the truth about her mother, who died in a shooting accident when she was four. Lily killed her, and has lived with the grief ever since.

A number of events drive Lily and Rosaleen out of town. Armed with a few possessions of her mother's, including a honey label with Tiburon written on the back, Lily and Rosaleen make their way there. Lily hopes finding out who makes the honey will help her find out about her mother, and it's this goal that finds them living with a trio of sisters, August, June and May Boatwright. Lily's instincts are correct—there is a connection between her mother and the sisters, but it takes much of the book to work it all out.

There are so many reasons why I liked this book so very much. Kidd's prose is sparse, but direct, lean without a hint of aggression, and simple without being simplistic. The story is tight too, the whole book happens over a summer, but it doesn't feel rushed or forced.

And it's about a motherless daughter searching for the truth about herself and her mother, so it drives hard into my own heart like the last few hours of a road trip when you're so close you can taste being home. Lily finds so much more than she thought possible, first love, a home, kindness, honesty, truth and a sense of purpose.

Knowing can be a curse on a person's life. I'd traded a pack of lies for a pack of truth, and I didn't know which one was heavier. Which one took the most strength to carry around? It was a ridiculous question, though, because once you know the truth, you can't ever go back and pick up your suitcase of lies. Heavier or not, the truth is yours now.

Prime

The weather has turned so very strange in the past couple days. It's super-hot for November, more like the end of September, and people are turned out in the oddest ways. I saw a man tonight at the movies wearing a French-inspired black and white striped long sleeved shirt with a pair of black racing shorts. This was his date attire. He got up this morning, felt the sun come in through the window and decided to cross dress between Lance Armstrong and the mime on the corner in Montreal.

Annnywaaay. I went to see Prime tonight with Wing Chun. You know, I was totally afraid that it would be another complete let-down, but it wasn't. It's not a great picture by any means, but it's solid, and has a funny script. Bryan Greenberg (ah, Jake!) is super-hot, and Meryl Streep is excellent as per usual. Uma's a bit flat, but I'm not her biggest fan (Kill Bill obviously excluded).

The film turns the whole May-December romance stereotypes inwards as a much older woman (37!), just divorced, falls for a very young man (23!), and they have a complex, but rewarding relationship. He's in love for the first time; she's in love after a very long time. The one problem? His mother is her therapist. But it's not slapstick, even though it could be. It's kind of tender and sweet, and it shows how love sort of happens and then you have to deal with the fall out. I liked it even better than P.S., which has the same theme: young artist falls in love with older, influential woman.

Hell, and Bryan Greenberg is super, duper, duper hot. I don't care what EW says.

So, It's The Other Way Around?

Is it wrong of me to think of this as somehow anti-Canadian in some way? I can understand how thinking that Harry Potter might have some sort of fallout for the Winnipeg band in terms of how huge a machine it actually is, but is it really going to adversely affect their careers in any way? And so what if it does?

The whole thing reeks of money grubbing to me, but that's just me—I suppose they're really worried about their artistic integrity. But that's a big supposition, in my opinion...

Oh. My. Eye.

Ouch. This re-design sort of scares me, and was it necessary?

Aw, He's So Famous...

That someone put him up on wikipedia. How cute is that? He'll be so happy to hear that Austin Powers is number one and he's number two. So. Cute!

#55 When in Rome

After having a pretty interesting discussion over at Chicklit about the genre chicklit, I decided to knock back an easy read today: When in Rome by Gemma Townley. I heart Gemma Townley. She's totally underrated in terms of the phenoms of chicklit (Sophie Kinsella, Melissa Banks, Lauren Weisberger, Ms. Weiner, Ms. Keyes, etc), but I think she rises to the top, for more reasons than one.

1. The plots might be predictable, but they're never contrite and don't have obvious holes, like so many books I've read in the genre lately.

2. The heroines often have the same problems (two boys, one love; bad job, like shopping) as many chicklit books have, but they seem to rise above and use their wits to get them out of situations vs. their acumen when it comes to men.

3. She's a fun, flirty writer, and that's hard to achieve.

4. There are a lot of cute pop culture references that I love, and that seem to fit, which means they don't feel forced in any way. They just work. Like in this book, the heroine, Georgie, is obsessed with Roman Holiday. It just feels right for the character, even when she ends up in Rome and cuts her hair off, all stereotypical products of a good Audrey Hepburn movie, but it works both for the character and for the book.

5. I love books that I can read in two subway rides: one to work, one home from work. It's a minor pleasure in a busy life.

The Shakespeare Debate

One of my favourite quasi-academic topics is Shakespeare, or rather, the debate surrounding his identity. Who was that masked man, allegorically, of course? Bookninja sent me over to a fun article in the NY Times this week that puts forth a newish-oldish debate about Shakespeare's religion, and that he was a closet Catholic. Considering he wrote in Elizabethan England, that's actually kind of interesting to think about.

If I had any inclination to go back to grad school, I might actually think about examining some of his plays in light of the theory. How differently might they be read? I know, it's early in the morning. Just ignore me if I've already put you back to sleep.

Oh, and just for fun, here are a couple of articles I've written about the Shakespeare question, two of my favourites: one from my old work and one on Chicklit.

Happy Halloween?

We had one kid come to our door last night. One poor lonely little ghost with a plastic pumpkin. I almost gave him the entire bowl of candy because who wants it hanging around the house?

I suppose it's my own fault, considering I had an appointment during prime Halloween trick-or-treating time. But still, one kid? Now I'm stuck with 150 pieces of candy and no RRBF to eat them.

Next year I'll do it up right. Maybe I'll even remember to change the outdoor light bulb so they know I'm sitting there on the steps with a big bowl of candy for them.

Bless The Small Mercies

My very first royalty cheque arrived in the mail today. What a welcome surprise. Especially because today I started crying spontaneously at work because I felt so bad. I'm working from home tomorrow. And I think I might call the doctor and see if he has any suggestions as per why I'm feeling so rotten.

In An Attempt To Reach Out

I have emailed long lost friends, answered the phone every time it rings (three calls from my RRBF, three other calls (two wrong numbers and one firm doing market research). All in an attempt to avoid writing. How do you procrastinate?

I've been actively grading the songs in my iTunes Party Shuffle as well, pretending that's work. The last few to come up:

1. Mr. Brightside, The Killers (four stars)
2. Take It Or Leave It, The Strokes (three stars)
3. Hey Ladies, The Beastie Boys (two stars [I'm in a mood!])
4. The Future Hangs, Cuff the Duke (five stars)
5. Please Don't Make Me Cry, UB40 (four stars)
6. Countdown Our Days, Fembots (five stars)

I've watched a couple episodes of Coronation Street, and a half an hour of Veronica Guerin.

I've vacuumed some, washed the tub, dusted and put away my clothes.

I've danced around my office to The Strokes and The Pogues. I bought Joy Division's Love Will Tear Us Apart. Fond memories of bad high school dances.

I've written quite a few silly blog posts.

In fact, the only thing I haven't done is take a nap—but don't count that option out.

Today's Inspiration

Comes via a link from Bookninja:

In the end, it didn't quite put me off. Now I know where my novel is heading, I don't panic when a first draft is drivel (and it is always drivel), and most of all I understand that writing is mostly a question of hard work.

That's the part that I have trouble with, the hard work part, most of the time I want to write it and have it be done, sort of like it is with the blog.

(She says as she's been sitting at her computer for hours revising the story for her creative writing class, looking over two poems and changing one or two words and writing more of her abridged classics).

Confidence Builder II

In the attempt to procrastinate even more regarding my abridged versions, I've just sent off some poems to Contemporary Verse 2. Judging from the big, fat rejection I got from The Fiddlehead, I'm not hopeful, but am going through the motions if only to develop a thicker skin. I sent 4 poems off: "January (My Violent Heart)", "April", "Born in the Sign of July" and "October's Teenage Wasteland." I'll keep you posted if and when I hear anything.

Confidence Builder

I think I forgot to mention that I'm taking a creative writing class this fall. It's a 'graduate level' course that focuses on workshopping fiction with a goal that by the end you've got 50 pages or so that are in good shape to shop around. After reading the first stories by two of my classmates last week, I had a shiver of self-doubt that I'm ready for something so polished. However, I'm sticking with it, and just sent off my first story for discussion in our next class, which is November 7th (we're skipping Hallowe'en, for the parents in the group).

The story I sent off is one of a series I've been working on about the time I spent in Banff during university. Looking at it before sending it off left me on a crazy trail of procrastination, trying to find out about people I used to know (one ex-boyfriend who I treated terribly and regret to this day what I jerk I was), googling different places I remember, trying to recall things that happened 10 years ago now.

But most of all, trying to capture the irony of Banff itself, rich playground for wealthy folks, pitstop for kids running away, easy summer money, beautiful landscape, unreal life, all of those things that make for good fiction. If only I could figure out how to write it properly. Fingers crossed they don't hate it, and fingers crossed I actually make it through class without throwing up. Shyness really is a disease, isn't it?

Saturday Afternoon at the IFOA

We went to the last IFOA reading we had tickets for yesterday. There were four women reading: Lisa Moore (from her Giller-nominated Alligator), Allison Pick (from her new novel The Sweet Edge), Melissa Bank (The Wonder Spot) and chicklit belle of the ball, Lauren Weisberger (Everyone Worth Knowing).

Lisa Moore's book was by far the best of the bunch, from what I could gather from the readings. She had one line about how a windshield reached out and punched the character during an accident that stopped me in my boots. I've got the book at home and might move it to the top of the 'to read' pile, that is after I've got through the three book club books I'm behind on these days.

I admire Lauren Weisberger, and Melissa Bank's book read quite funny, and I'm glad to see 'chicklit' become kind of accepted at such a high-brow event as the IFOA. It's a nice change, and maybe a necessary one...

Testing, Testing

The Dr. Mr. Fancypants had me go for CT scans yesterday, of my head (sinuses) and chest (lungs), to see what the disease is doing. My appointment was for 5 PM. On a Friday. There's nothing more discouraging than having to be at the hospital when everyone else in the world is on their way home for the weekend. On top of that, I'm so tired these past few days that I'm having trouble paying attention to anything.

In fact, I'm so tired that I can barely take care of myself. Today I'm kind of grumpy that I'm a band widow, and I'm missing my RRBF, but it'll all pass once I get some sleep and rest for the majority of the weekend. My only plans are to watch bad TV (24 on DVD) and read. Oh, and to do my abridged versions. I'm so behind!

Isn't my life thrilling?

You know, the worst part of days like this, disease days, is honestly thinking that it might be easier just to let the Wegener's have its way with me. I know it's not a rational thought, probably a side effect of the maddening prednisone, but today I'm even too tired to think about fighting.

But that'll all change this afternoon. I've got one more IFOA reading to go to, and I'm hoping that it'll perk me right up.

Brick Books

Tonight I went to Brick Books' 30th anniversary party. They were celebrating the launch of four new books of poetry, and with one of the authors being a friend of a friend, I decided to go along with Kate. I have such a love-hate relationship with poetry: love the form, love the medium, love language; hate the form, hate the pretension, hate the language (kidding).

The first two poets were mediocre, and one was downright nuts, but that sort of made the evening fun. The last two poets, David Seymour (aforementioned friend of friend) and a truly fantastic poet named Karen Solie, made the whole evening worth while.

Well, then there was the fun "philosophic" walk home with Kate, the truly funny idea of starting the Anti-Poets Poetry Club, and seeing some people I hadn't seen in a long time. Oh, and then being too shy to say hello to my ex-poetry teacher. All in all, a pleasant continuation of my quest to lead a more cultured life.

Popwatch, Bitch!

Because there are few places on the web where the words "apocalyptic gloom" and Ashlee Simpson work better than on Popwatch. Oh this poor, poor man who is unable to realize that little in the world of pop music has to do with anything other than the world ending.

Because I wake up to it every damn morning as I listen to the asinine morning team berate someone for having leaking rectums or something equally disgusting, and then am forced to listen to the second worst song I've ever heard in my life: "Photograph" by Nickelback:

Look at this photograph
Every time I do it makes me laugh
How did our eyes get so red?
And what the hell is on Joey'’s head?

'How did our eyes get so red'? Seriously? Did he actually write that down and get all excited because he then took the whopping huge next step of then rhyming "red" with "head." The man's a bleeding genius of rectal leakage.

See, you can't listen to radio in a vacuum.

James Frey...

...was on Oprah yesterday to talk about his book in terms of her book club pick. The whole episode felt a bit Oprahfied, with the poor woman being saved from her addictions and seeing James Frey today with his happy family, but it also felt real. And it felt real because Frey himself seems very real, very honest and very explicit about his own story.

My favourite part of the whole hoopla surrounding the book? How many people this morning woke up thinking about that book, about that man, about his struggle and about his one simple piece of advice: hold on.

Maybe that applies to people with diseases like Wegener's Granulomatosis too. And not just people with addiction.

Bad Disease Day #1328979654

So I'm starting to feel the side effects with the prednisone, in particular, craving rich bad-for-you foods like cheese and ice cream. I'm waking up at all hours of the night, worrying about silly things, crying and feeling sorry for myself. This morning, I woke up at 4 AM and started putting our mail into different files. I was sort of looking for something that I couldn't find, but that's not really the point.

And then I had kind of a sh*t day at work, managed to feel even more sorry for myself, all the while wanting just to go home, crawl into bed, and ignore the rest of the day.

Now I'm sitting here about to get read to go to a Brick Books party at the Gladstone, happy to be getting out of the house, but miserable because in order to get out of the house, I actually have to leave.

Tuesday Night At The IFOA

Last night we saw Julian Barnes, David Baddiel and Michael Crummey. It was another good evening of readings. And funnily enough, Zadie Smith and Nick Laird sat one row down and across the aisle from us. I had to try hard not to watch them, and keep concentrating on the task at hand.

Now I'm totally exhausted and must sleep.

Happy Birthday To You!

We've got a niece! My RRBF's sister had her baby two days ago, and she's lovely. I went to see her this afternoon. So small...I've never seen a person whose only 1.5 days old before. She has amazing facial expressions: yawning, open eyes, scrunchy face, half-smile (probably gas?), and more. How amazing is that?

North Country

Oh, they had me, they really did—right up until the very end, when a giant, zit of a Hollywood moment ruined the film for me.

To cap off my incredibly culturific weekend, I went to see North Country with Glark and Wing Chun on Sunday afternoon. That makes it: two IFOA readings, one film crew, one rock and roll show, and a feature film—all in one teeny, tiny weekend. It's amazing what having 35 odd people you don't know in your house will make you do...

Annnywaaay, I hate to admit how hard the film grabbed me in the first two thirds. The story was good, the acting was solid, the relationships didn't ring false, the politics were honest, and they had me. Blubbering, sniffling, bawling and batting away the tears at one pivotal moment in particular.

And then it went all MOV on me. And the ending was spectacularly cheesy without having to have to be, and I was mad that I got sucked in at all, because being cheated at the end of a film is like being cheated by the first really hot boyfriend you have—it comes totally out of the blue emotionally, even though you were half-expecting it because he's so good looking you know it'll never last.

In the end, glass ball predictions mean that Charlize Theron will probably be nominated for an Oscar. As long as everyone stops talking about her appearance and let her talent stand for itself, but wait, what am I saying, that's a pipe dream that'll never come true.

Rock And Roll On A Saturday Night

So after Zesty and I left the IFOA, we headed over to Lee's Palace for my RRBF's show. Thankfully, Lee's was pretty full, and people were actually standing in the front section near the stage, looking expectantly up at where he and the rest of the band were setting up. It was a relief to see a good crowd, especially a crowd full of people I don't know and/or recognize.

While we were waiting for the band to start, I overheard the conversation of a couple girls standing sort of on top of us. They were talking about my RRBF's bandmate, how one of them tried to talk to him at Hillside and he was very shy, but polite, not necessarily encouraging any further conversation. Which, being a girl who has a fellow in a band, I can completely see and understand.

Then she said, "And I also met the one in the hat." My ears perked up, "For the FemBots / Weakerthans tour, I was standing outside having my smoke, and he walked right up to me and said, 'Hey! How's it going!'" What? "And then he got closer and totally apologized saying, 'Oh! Sorry, I thought you were someone else.'" Whew. "When he got on stage and I saw he was one of the FemBots, I thought cool." Yeah, well that's where it ends honey. Heh. I'm only kidding. Well, sort of. Okay, yes, I'm kidding.

It's always a bit surreal to listen to people talk about my RRBF in that whole 'rock star' manner. But it's also funny to hear how his rock star sort of lives out in the world too, two different people: one at home, the one I live with, and the one he wants the world to see, the independent rock guy (ie, getting super-excited to see someone he knows, but knowing that he needs glasses so he probably didn't even recognize her until he was almost standing in front of her sort of thing). In the end, it was a good show and the end of a very full night, full weekend, of, ahem, culture?

IFOA On A Saturday Night

So last night, like Friday night, Zesty and I went to see an IFOA reading. There was only one author reading, but when that writer is John Irving, I suppose he's kind of a hard act to follow. Irving read from a new novel, a story about a cook and his son living in a logging camp in rural New Hampshire. The events of the chapter follow from the death of a young French Canadian lumberjack in a logjam, and extrapolate from there into the lives of the two main characters, as I said, the cook and his son.

I leaned over to Zesty and said, "[My RRBF's] father was a lumberjack, and he's French Canadian." Not seeing many similarities other than thinking that my RRBF would probably really like the book, once it's completed.

It was nice hearing something new, something fresh that Irving's working on; his poised delivery, his brilliant articulation in terms of preparing his reading, all contributed to what I'm thinking was a sort of once in a lifetime opportunity to see a sort of genius (and I do hate to use that word) at work.

Just before he read from the chapter, he introduced the new work, giving a sort of insight into his process by explaining how he thinks of 'landscape.' It's in the details, the research, the history, the background, everything that surrounds the plot, the characters. And I'm paraphrasing (of course), so forgive me if it's slightly off exactly what he said. The analogy struck me for some reason, and I'm still thinking about it this morning.

After the reading, and it was a good 40 minutes at that, he sat with a journalist and answered some of her questions. I'm not going to trash the interview here, but suffice it to say that everyone, including Zesty and myself, were complaining about her as we left the theatre. Annnywaaaay, the subject matter of the interview was about his latest published tome, Until I Find You, which again, I have at home but haven't started yet. It was well-treaded territory, Irving talking about his experiences in terms of not knowing his own father and his own very early sexual introduction. And then he finally took questions from the audience, well, 2 questions to be exact. The first was a prototypical literary "event" question; the second was a more pointed query asked to steer Irving into talking politics, which he did with humour, dignity and grace.

All in all it was a kind of surreal night, something that's so inspiring that you find it hard not to want to change your life (but in my case, I'm too damn lazy to make any substantial changes). Heh.

#54 The Lost Painting

Jonathan Harr's latest nonfiction title, The Lost Painting, is an interesting and elaborate little book about the art world's uncovering of a Caravaggio painting entitled, "The Taking of Christ". The book reads like fiction, which is probably why I got through it so quickly, and it's an engrossing story, for both those obsessed by art and those (like myself) who just like to look at pretty pictures. And that's really all I have to say about that...

Well, except maybe this: I'm a bit sad now that we didn't go to the National Gallery of Ireland when we were there this summer, now that I know that's where the painting lives. I always like to see the piece of artwork after reading about it, finding the pieces very interesting sort of bookends to the written word. It was serendipitous when the RRBF and I were in Paris two Februaries ago. I had just finished Tracy Chevalier's The Lady and the Unicorn and we actually got to see the Lady and the Unicorn tapestry at the Cluny Museum, one of my favourite museums in Paris.

Maybe it's just the idea of inspiration that intrigues me, seeing first-hand how one object inspires a writer to create a work of their own art.

IFOA On A Friday Night

Last night, Zesty and I went to see Diana Evans, Nick Laird, Helen Oyeyemi and Zadie Smith read at the International Festival of Authors. The IFOA was always one of those cultural institutions of Toronto that I've always wanted to go to, but never got around to getting tickets and/or organizing my lazy as to attend. This year, I've rectified that by getting a bunch of tickets for a few different nights, and as the readings start at 8 PM and are often over by 9.30 PM, it makes for much better entertainment then sitting in front of the television.

Annnywaaay. The four readers were presented as the best and the brightest young writers from Britain, all being thirty or younger (I guess? I could be wrong about that), but real "up and comers." With the exception of Zadie Smith, who came, arrived, flourished and now headlines. All four readings were very good, but the only book I was motivated to actually buy was Laird's, if only because I've already got 26a and On Beauty at home. His reading was very funny, that cutting Irish humour, and his writing seems fresh and lively, not unlike a drunken attraction at a party that you can't stop from happening, ending up hands all over each other in the company of people already sobering up, but you just don't care.

I stood in line to get my book signed, which I don't normally do, as I'm not much for the autographs, but wanted to see what he looked like up close, always interested in seeing the person so I can imagine them writing when I read the book. But I lost my sticky note with my name and then had to go through the normal rigmarole about how to spell it / say it, which is the bane of my existence. After three different trys, and me spelling it out like a grade-school teacher, he said, "That's a nice name." Heh.

His wife's reading was amazing, powerful, poised, and almost perfect in her delivery, and it's easy to see why Zadie Smith is the belle of the literary ball these days. All in all it was a great night, not too long, not too short, supporting the arts and all that jazz.

In fact, it's a weekend of supporting the arts: tonight it's John Irving (whee!) at the IFOA, then I'm going to Lee's Palace to see my RRBF's only Toronto stop on his whirl wind tour of Canada. And I can't wait. If you're not doing anything tonight, come out, it'll be a great show.

Hot Set!

Friends of ours are shooting a movie in our mess of a house this weekend. That means our entire downstairs, the main area of our house, has been transformed into something I wouldn't even recognize. The amount of work that goes into a film from the backend seems quite incredible, and I've never seen anything quite like it. There are so many people I don't know in my house, it's kind of an extreme feeling: like having that awesome kegger at university where half the cool kids show up, and you know nothing about them, only that they're cool and have graced your party with their presence.

They finished dressing the room on Thursday night and declared that it was now a "hot set." Which means, I guess, that no one can go in without fear of being burned. Different props were "in play" and the whole thing is a vivid use of words that I had no idea existed in that manner.

Now, it's early, and they've been here for a couple of hours already. I'm waiting for the RRBF to wake up so we can leave, because I don't want to go without him, but I don't want to be in the way either, so I'm sort of sitting in limbo typing away at my virtual world that seems far more real than what's going on downstairs for some reason.

Things You Notice When You're Too Tired

To do anything except notice things.

People search for the strangest things. I love looking through the Site Meter to see how people are getting here, the few that aren't my friends who end up here somehow, but I'm shocked at the number of people searching for information about George Stromboloupolous, and am even more shocked that they're looking for information about his height. What's up with that?

I have started having side effects from the prednisone. I'm hungry all the time and am all wired when I try to sleep. I feel like I'm covered in a layer of puff. And the crying, oh the bloody crying, for no reason and all the time. I'm half-ashamed of myself.

Well, not a very exciting post. No links. No love. Not much of anything except a girl battling with a dumb disease that she didn't ask for and doesn't much want.

Something Inspirational?

I've started crying, which means the depths of despair might be headed my way. I'm trying not to think about it, so instead, am posting a little bit of inspiration from John Updike. I can't remember which newsletter it came in last week, so apologies for the lack of proper credit:

"You imagine a reader and try to keep the reader interested. That's storytelling. You also hope to reward the reader with a sense of a completed design, that somebody is in charge, and that while life is pointless, the book isn't pointless. The author knows where he is going. That's form. As to style, you find words that will deliver the image without stopping the action entirely. Writing ficiton is like music. You have to keep it moving. You can have slow movements but there has to be a sense of momentum, of going someplace. You hear a snatch of Beethoven and it has a sense of momentum that is unmistakably his. That's a nice quality if you can do it in fiction."
--John Updike in a Q&A with Jeffrey A. Trachtenberg in last weekend's Wall Street Journal.

Elizabethtown Redux

I wrote a long post yesterday about seeing Elizabethtown. Then I read the EW review and agreed, and then read what the imdb.com overview had to say, and thought some more. And then Zesty came over last night, and we watched Monster-in-Law, and I started talking more about the film with her as well.

And I finally put my finger on what I really thought went wrong. Cameron Crowe's always looking for that boom box moment. You know you know it, that moment in Say Anything when Lloyd Dobbler stands in the rain, Peter Gabriel blaring, professing his undying love for Diane and it immediately turns into something iconic. See, he's been searching for that boom box moment ever since, and while it might be the perfect moment in a truly great film, it's one of those things that can't and shouldn't be forced. And boom box moments aren't needed in every single movie to make them great; it's not a formula that works. It was a bit of magic that happened when no one expected it to, and that's what made it great. For now, Cameron Crowe needs to take a step back and stop trying to choreograph his next great, iconic moment and let his story breathe, and maybe then the film wouldn't feel so flat.

Huh, and I've spent just about enough time thinking about this picture. I should be abridging. I've got two books due next month.

Aw, Freak Out!

So, being a band widow means now sleeping alone in our big, empty house. That's by myself. No one else around, well, no humans around, we've got two cats that keep quite good company. Annnywaaay. I watched Underworld on TMN last night, and I'm not saying it's the best movie in the world, but it's certainly one that I'm fond of and tend to watch over and over and over and, well, over again.

The movie is about vampires and werewolves, and I hate scary movies usually, but this one is different—and don't hate me for saying this—almost mythical. And Scott Speedman ends up a combination of a vampire and lycan, which makes him, like, the strongest, strangest creature in the whole bloody underworld. How cool is that?

Okay, so then I decide to go to bed, and take Emma Donoghue's latest (I think) book with me. She writes semi-scary Victorian thrillers. And then, just as I turn out the light, I hear, "BANG BANG BANG BANG." Ohmigod, someone's freaking banging on the front freaking door!

I jump out of bed and race to the window, which I know you should NEVER do when you're already scared to death, lest someone actually see you and know you're in the house, but it didn't matter, because you can't see anything anyway. There's a roof in the way. Stupid roof!

Then, I look up and notice there's a full moon. A. Full. Moon. Just sitting there all scary and glowing and sh*t.

Something else crashes downstairs and I'm on the verge of calling 911 when I look outside and there's already a cop car parked across the street. So, of course, my next logical thought is that there's a serial killer on the loose and they've tracked him to my neighbourhood. I stand there wearing my sweatshirt and no pants (my legs get too hot), totally freaking out because I think I'm about to die, which is just silly because no one was breaking into the house.

The cat was banging on the litterbox.

How silly am I?

Oh, and I slept with the phone all night, just so I could call 911. I'm that ridiculous.

Elizabethtown

There's that moment at the beginning of a movie where you just know in your gut whether or not you're going to like it or feel it's just a waste of your time. That moment never really comes in Elizabethtown. It's a movie that just screams, "meh." It's not great, but it's not terrible, either. It's not particularly moving, but it's not a complete joke either.

Cameron Crowe's latest film stars Orlando Bloom as Drew Baylor, a man who has just stepped into a colossal fiasco, not a failure, and lost his job (because he cost the company close to 1 billion dollars). On top of everything, his father dies suddenly and he's forced to go to Elizabethtown, Kentucky to gather up the body. On the way, he meets a plucky stewardess Claire, who changes his life (of course she does).

See, there's so much potential there: fish out of water in the South, estranged family coming together to celebrate a beloved figure, meeting the girl of your dreams just as your life implodes. But there's something about the film that just doesn't work; it falls into deeply contrived situations that would be better spent in a second-rate TV movie than in a Hollywood blockbuster (what am I saying, I actually went to see Pearl Harbor in the theatre).

Don't get me wrong, I love a bit of cheese every now and again, but this movie just hovers and never quite gets there. Maybe because the main characters forge the basis of their relationship on cell phones. Maybe because the whole situation with Drew's job is just so ridiculous it's unbelievable. Maybe because Kirsten Dunst just doesn't pull off a "Southern Belle" as she should. Who knows? Orlando Bloom was great, and there's a wonderfully heartfelt scene with Susan Sarandon that almost makes the movie.

Oh, and there's a road trip that's pretty spectacular, if the ending of the movie didn't blow so bad, it might have actually saved it. I did adore one thing about the film, and that's Paul Schneider, who might just be my next big crush. Yummy!

In the end, I'm still holding on for that one movie that shakes me up this year, and I haven't found it yet. Where's Tully when you need him?

The Worst Lyrics On The Radio, Like Ever?

Do you agree or disagree, are these the absolute worst lyrics you've ever heard? Honestly, I know I've complained about OLP before, but seriously:

"Are you happy now?
Are you happy, tonight?
Or did Punk Rock get it right?
Is there no future in sight?"

Sid Vicious is rolling around in the pointy-toed elf shoes he was probably buried in.

Oh, but it gets better:

"Is it different now? Is it different, tonight?
Or did Jesus get it right?
Or is the devil behind the light?
Are you happy now? Are you happy?"

Is he honestly serious? Why are these clowns on the radio? Why?

#53 The Bronte Project

Another sweet chicklit read that I came upon by reading the review in Entertainment Weekly. Jennifer Vandever's story revolves around main character Sara, who studies the letters of Charlotte Bronte, and the lives of her siblings, working towards a PhD. When her fiance, also a scholar, leaves her to pursue a fellowship in Paris, her life sort of falls apart.

Sara's attempts to put it back together take her from New York to LA, to Paris and in between. A funny cast of supporting characters includes Claire, a Princess Diana, Naomi Wolf-inspired "scholar"; a hilarious gadabout Denis whose life is a consistently evolving poem; and her new lover Mr. Emmons, a semi-recovered coke addicted Hollywood producer.

It's a sweet book, and a good quick read, although I did find myself scanning, which tends to happen when I'm so tired that I can't entirely focus on the page. Granted, I caught myself most of the time and went back to actually read what I'd slipped over.

All in all, one of my favourite chicklit reads of the year. Funnily enough, I generally abhor anything that reminds me of Victorian literature (the genre has not been kind to me), but the Bronte connection seems to work well in this novel.

Working From Home

Means the freedom to wear your ugly-ass sweatpants and sweatshirt all day long.

Means the fun of not having to take a shower—right away.

Means listening to iTunes all day long on Party Shuffle (the last 5 songs were "Feel Much Better" by Jim Bryson, "Like a Hurricane" by Neil Young, "In My Place" by Coldplay, "Va Danser" by Edith Piaf, and "Turkish Song of the Damned" by The Pogues). What an eclectic mix!

Means getting up early and getting right to work, none of that time wasted commuting or any of that crap.

Means really, really trying to get a handle on your internet addictions. Ahem, I'm trying to take a sabbatical from gossip. It's hard. But I've only slipped twice today, and does the imdb.com gossip even count? It's news, right?

Pills And More Pills

So, the total number of meds I'm taking in a day has rocketed up to 7.5. Whee-hoo! Now, if only they were fun at the same time, and not just the usual slog, which I'm hating a bit these days.

Other than that, the funniest sentence I heard the doctor say was, "Her organs are not in danger!"

Whew, I wouldn't want them to be caught walking under a ladder or over an open manhole. I'm glad they're not being held at gunpoint or caught in a bad case of road rage. Heh.

That's Dr. Mr. Fancypants...

So I went to see a fancypants doctor today who specializes in auto-immune diseases like the one that I have. The inside of the waiting room reminded me of Nip/Tuck for some reason, even though I've only ever seen one episode of the show. It was all Doric columns, peach paint and walnut stain.

Turns out the treatment of the disease this time around hasn't been as effective as the doctor's might have hoped. Up until now, my kidney doctor hadn't prescribed prednisone because in his view, the Wegener's was just grumbling, and not fully active. But I've been having symptoms for a year now, and the imuran isn't enough. Apparently, studies have shown that you can't just treat the disease with one drug (imuran up until now), you need both (imuran plus prednisone). So now, after seeing another specialist, I'm back on the steroids, which I hate for many reasons.

They make you crazy. They make you gain weight. They give you acne and "unwanted hair growth". They keep you up at night. It's a nasty bit of business, prednisone, even though your body makes it naturally.

I'm upset today because the last time I took prednisone, I fell into the worst depression of my life. I heard voices telling me to jump off of buildings. I cried all the time. I had two years of serious therapy to try to pull me out of my head. I spent obsessive compulsive weeks where I wouldn't be able to leave the house until I'd scrubbed it with bleach. And I don't want to go back to being that person. I don't want to hide in my closet because I'm afraid to leave the house. I don't want to be afraid of the streetcar because I can't stand everyone staring at me. But most of all, I don't want to hate myself with a passion that could truly be used for some thing better.

In Her Shoes

I went to see In Her Shoes this afternoon with two dear friends. Funnily enough, the two friends have so much in common (they both love pop culture) that I knew they'd get along even though they'd never met. It was kismet, and I like that.

Annnywaaay. The movie is based on Jennifer Weiner's novel of the same name. Weiner, reigning queen of intelligent, sassy chicklit, has a cameo in the picture, and it's kind of cute. It's a faithful interpretation of the book, with some tiny plot points adjusted for the sake of the medium, but it didn't matter, because I was going to love this movie even if it was mediocre. And I did love it, maybe for all the wrong reasons, for the fact that I miss my own mother (Rose and Maggie's mother is dead) and grandmother (my own maternal grandmother died fifteen years ago and I still miss her every day) so much that even a hint of that in a film brings me to tears. Throw in a smart girl whose life just seems out of control with sibling issues, and well, you might as well hand me the cold pack for my eyes because I'm not going to be able to see when I exit the theatre.

I'm glad I saw it on an afternoon as a band widow. It's the perfect film for the day that my RRBF has left. And I'm spending the first night alone in the house we bought almost a year ago.

Off The Cuff iTunes Purchase...

"Come on Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runners.

Why? Well, because my high school boyfriend loved the song. He used to dance around to it in his parents' truly hideously dirty basement. It is a memory I cherish for some reason. (The later ones of him acting like a freak and then an asshole, I try to forget, but I am not blameless by any means.)

Why? Because we've gotten in the habit of using it to get whatever bad-ass radio song we have in our heads out of them.

And it's good to listen to music when you're at home by yourself truly enjoying the first minutes of Band Widow-dom.

#52 Eleanor Rigby

In the back of my paperback edition of Douglas Coupland's Eleanor Rigby, he says that Liz Dunn is his favourite character. There's an actual person named Liz Dunn in his life, but the character bears no resemblance to his real-life friend. And I can see why, she's a wonderful character and the novel is sweet, short, and fun to read. It's been years since I read anything by Douglas Coupland, after Generation X, I never went back, maybe dismayed by the pop culture relevance in his books. But I sort of regret that now, having enjoyed this novel so much.

My First Afternoon As Band Widow

Has been spent still reeling from the stupid pneumonia, but enjoyable for the following reasons:

1. Cuddling with my RRBF before he goes away for the first leg of his Canadian tour.

2. Laughing as I noticed that he forgot his suitcase. Calling to tell him that he forgot his suitcase, and then laughing as I handed it to him.

3. Watching Reese Witherspoon and Joaquin Phoenix on Oprah. Seriously considering seeing Walk the Line even though it sort of goes against my own personal mythology surrounding Johnny Cash.

4. Playing "Stressed Out" by A Tribe Called Quest, while dancing around and generally shaking, well, you-know-what, and knowing that I'm the only one home (hence I won't get caught listening to my bad pop music).

5. Going to see a matinee when I really should be at home cleaning the house. Thus procrastinating the house cleaning for another day.

Friday Doomsday

So, when you're grumpy and sad on a Thursday, and it turns into Friday morning, here's what happens (as told to Zesty in an email this morning):

I had to drop off my RRBF and my brother, and then go to work. Keep in mind it was at opposite ends of the city.

1. Got up extra early to drive them. We were on the road by 7.09 AM.

2. My brother gets in the car, clothes smelling like smoke, and I cough for a few minutes. And then I stop feeling sorry for myself and open up a damn window. Problem solved.

3. They stop at Tim Horton's. I get a gross bagel that I didn't even really want in the first place.

4. We drive to some obscure neighbourhood in North York. I pay no attention to details a) because it's morning b) because I'm tired c) because I'm just not thinking. (Here's the part where it becomes my fault, even though I won't admit it.)

5. They try to explain to me how to get back to somewhere I might recognize.

6. I start off and get lost on the FIRST TURN.

7. I am lost, crying in a Country Style parking lot, talking to my RRBF on the phone because I had somehow ended up at Bayview and Finch when I should have been at Dufferin and Wilson.

8. Continue to cry.

9. Cry more and have my RRBF sort of yell at me to calm down.

10. Go the right direction, make it to the 401, which is a parking lot.

11. Get to work almost 45 minutes later than I normally would.

12. Immediately realize I don't have a lot to do today, and didn't have to worry about being late in the first place.

Sigh. It's a damn good thing it's a long weekend.

So there.

I Have Nothing to Say Today

So I'm going to do the dishes and order some pizza for dinner. Why? Because it's what this Thursday demands. Feeling broken down and beat up because of my lungs, my bad cold, my broken heart, and I'm just not in the mood to talk. Okay?

Pause for the Beats

According to the San Francisco Chronicle (link via Bookslut), today is the 50th anniversary of the beat movement, or more specifically, the first performance of "Howl". When a drunk Allen Ginsberg took to the stage and catapulted an entire generation into a frenzy with his lines:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical naked...

Imagine what it would have been like to be there, dressed in black, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, hearing Kerouac egg him on, and then hitting on some wonderful blonde woman whose grooving and digging it and thinking about changing the world and loving them and wanting to go home with them and taking a trip, hopping a freight car, sleeping with Henry Miller in Big Sur and then collapsing from laughter after remembering it all only to start from the beginning again.

Doctor's Orders

So, because my cough was much, much worse the past couple days, I hung my head in shame and called the doctor. I hate calling the doctor all the time, but when you're taking immuno-suppressant medication, the smallest infection can turn into something huge, and my recent illness is no exception.

Sooo, it could be pneumonia, but it doesn't sound like it per se when he listens to my lungs. But I've still got the same symptoms and judging from how it always TURNS into pneumonia, he's going to treat it as if it actually is pneumonia. Clear as mud, eh?

I might be taking antibiotics (the super-serious kind, none of this easy-peasy sh*t) for me, but at least it saves me from yet another round of bloodwork and x-rays. Tests are so tiresome.

Today Being Tuesday

I started two new books, and found this wonderful quote in Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland:

Sometimes, at my office, when the phones aren't ringing, and when I've completed by daily paperwork, and when The Dwarf To Whom I Report is still out for lunch, I sit in my chest-high sage green cubicle and take comfort in knowing that since I don't remember where I was before I was born, why should I be worried about where I go after I die?

It's a very zen quote, no? I guess the trick will be whether or not I a) finish the book and b) decide whether or not the above linked review in Bookslut is on the money or not.

Random Author Sightings...

Or perhaps not so random.

1. We went to Elizabeth Ruth's book launch last week. It was great fun. Does that count as a random author sighting? Perhaps not random, but certainly interesting to see someone so happy, glorious and celebrating the release of a wonderful, creative book. And my favourite part was hearing her say something along the lines, "The entire inspiration from the book came from one line in an article I read while researching." Now that's a testament to the creative process.

(Off topic - I had a similar experience lately when I was sitting at the deck at the cottage last, last weekend and a couple drove slowly up to our dock, looked around, waved and then floated away. I thought, "How neat would it be to write a thriller that started with a man floating up to a woman's dock at a cottage in Ontario." Pretty neat from my point of view. /Off topic).

2. After missing the Salman Rushdie reading because it was sold out, I was treated to the sight of him walking by in the hallway at work. He's very small. Not demure at all, just short, much shorter than I imagined he would ever be, being such a giant of the literary world. But still, how cool is that to see Salman Rushdie walk by in the hall outside the office you're camping out in? Totally cool.

Random Thoughts

How many movies is too many movies? I'd say close to 5 in one day might just be reaching saturation point. I was so sick on Saturday that I couldn't even make it off the couch, and I watched: Casablanca (do men like Bogey exist today? do they need to? What happened to that kind of "man"?), The Wedding Date (don't even say it, it's bloody terrible, and when did assumptions ever equal a plot?), Garden State (ah, I heart Zach Braff), A Slipping-Down Life (it's an independent film that's almost as good as Tully, but not quite), and Sin City (stylized, flashy, graphic goodness). Then, by the time Sunday rolled around I couldn't even see the television let along concentrate on watching any MORE movies, so I gave up and read. All. Day.

Fingers crossed I get over this ridiculous infection by the weekend. We've got hot stuff planned: it's the eve of the RRBF's biggest tour ever.

#51 Smoke

Smoke, Elizabeth Ruth's second novel, tells the story of Brian "Buster" McFiddie, a young boy who suffers from terrible burns after falling asleep drunk, with a lit cigarette and an open bottle of liquor in bed. The one thing that saves Buster from both a terrible depression as a result of his injury and, well, death, are the kind words and tender hands of Doc John, who tells the boy stories of Detroit-area mobsters to take his attention off the burns.

The novel, set in the 1950s, in a small town in Ontario called Smoke, where the majority of the inhabitants are tobacco growers. It's a rural town, but it's not your typical "small town Canada" kind of novel. It's a novel that explores outsiders in the purest sense, from Buster, now disfigured as a result of the accident, to Doc John himself, each hiding secrets as easily as they hide in the shadows of society (to an extent).

It's a brash, bold, even brilliant second novel. And one that fit perfectly into my melancholy afternoon coughing, spluttering and generally feeling sorry for myself being sick for the second time in three weeks.

#50 A Million Little Pieces

Oprah, o wise sage, picked James Frey's A Million Little Pieces as her latest book club pick. A good friend in my office highly highly recommended the book to me, loving it so, so much that we launched into a fairly funny conversation about why we both enjoy reading addiction books. Maybe because it's an experience that's so richly human, the loss of total control in the face of something that utterly consumes them.

It's a richly addictive memoir, which I think was Frey's intent, to echo the feeling and rush of his experiences as an addict, and fully explore his time in rehab. The book is written in almost a pure form stream of consciousness, with little additional punctuation other than a basic periods and commas. It's a swift read, and one that takes you right into the fever of the moment. From the instant that James wakes up on a plane missing his four front teeth, with two black eyes, a whole in his cheek and broken nose not knowing where he's going or where he's coming from, you get the feeling that it's not your typical memoir. It's an interesting choice from Oprah, who might be reeling from the lack of support her last choice failed to garner (Summer of Faulkner, wha?).

It's funny how the books in your life start to create clusters, or patterns, as you read through them. I've read three solid books about addiction this year: The Hungry Years by William Leith, Dry by Augusten Burroughs, and now A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. All three by men, all three detailing a deep and private part of their lives that forced them to change, and come out extremely different on the other end. Surprisingly interesting books whose authors have next to nothing in common except their shared experience with some form of addiction (food for Leith, alcohol for Burroughs, and drugs and alcohol for Frey).

I would highly recommend all three books, but maybe not to read them in succession for fear of falling off the high cliff of very serious topics into a pit of despair over your own addictions, be they as slight as my own addiction to sugar or more serious. All three make you think, and more importantly, make you feel.

Back to the Same Again

So I'm as pale as a cloud on a summer day. My head is foggy, my chest is thick and wet (yum!), and I'm coughing up lots of icky stuff. Hooray! I'm sick, AGAIN. So I spent yesterday morning trying to go to work, giving up by around noon, coming home and watching movies. For hours. I felt too bad to even read for that long.

I watched Things Behind the Sun, directed by Allison Anders. It's a wonderful independent film about a woman who was gang raped (I know, sounds uplifting) when she was fourteen, and has never moved past the event in her life. She's a musician, and when her record starts moving up the charts, a music magazine wants to interview her. Only the journalist is the brother of the ring leader of the boys who raped her.

The movie frankly deals with the broken nature of Sherry, and Owen, the journalist, has his own troubles sexually as a result of what happened when he was a kid. There are deep psychological implications, and they reverberate in everything the two have done since they were fourteen; the broken souls are intelligently and almost wistfully explored in the film. It stars Kim Dickens as Sherry and Gabriel Mann as Owen. Oh, and Don Cheadle, the most underrated actor in Hollywood (IMHO), plays Sherry's manager / lover, and he's excellent as well. I've been wanting to see the movie for ages, and I'm glad it was as good as I'd read it was.

Then I watched Maria Full of Grace, and it was okay, very disturbing, but good. By then I was almost dizzy from too much television and sort of blacked out until after dinner. Annnywaaay. I'm starting to use this crazy Zip.ca membership, but I'm not sure if it's worth the money I'm paying for it. I'll give it another couple of months and let you know.

A Healthy Pause

An important anniversary passed last Friday that I forgot to note here: it was the 1 year 'birthday' of my bionic hip. I can't believe that my tragic right hip (the body part, not the blog) is a year old already. And it's one of those rare events that sort of give pause to how much has happened in the short twelve months since I was lying in the Toronto Western Hospital puking from the anaesthetic, worrying about my job because The Boss From Hell had made my exit less than pleasurable and fretting over my creatinine levels that kept rising.

So here's a summary of what my tragic hip has endured over the last 12 months: a new house that needs serious renovations; getting fired on the first day back while still using a cane and essentially still recovering; getting a new job that's a world different from the old miserable one; finishing two abridged books for Sterling; getting contracts for two more; having the disease come back and taking the meds; going to Ireland and surviving the walking; and having more grey hair than when I started it all.

It's kind of crazy when you look at everything that happens in a year, and then reflect upon the fact that your bionic hip has managed to carry you through it all.

Happy Hip Day!

Self-Pimping Link #14795

My review of Flightplan is up at Chart. They edited out my favourite paragraph, and my line about how the airplane has obvious Titanic overtones, but that's cool.

Anyone Have a Spare $400.00?

Because I really, really want these boots.

But right now, I've got a grand total of $43.86 in my bank account until payday. It's so tight right now that I actually bought some groceries on my credit card, something I swore I'd never do.

Damn British Airways for holding my $700.00 hostage. Don't they know mama needs a pair of Frye boots?

Friday Night Belongs to the RRBF

So, my RRBF had his record release party on Friday night. They played the Supermarket in Kensington, and it was a good show, but it's a lousy venue. T-minus two weeks before he goes on tour for a month. I'll be super lonely -- anyone have any suggestions as per what I can do with myself?

Joan Clark

As you know from my previous gushing post about Joan Clark's new book An Audience of Chairs, I had a chance to meet her last week and was absolutely thrilled. She's a lovely, intelligent and kind woman who said in response to my question, "How long did it take you to write the book," the following:

"Four years. I actually started thirty years ago, but couldn't finish. It just wasn't the right time. And then I started again twelve years ago and found the same thing."

All in all, she's been thinking about those characters, that story, and that tale for thirty years. Thirty years of having the characters talk back in her head, bash around with real life, and wait to really settle. It's a wonderfully inspiring thought that time only makes the idea grow stronger, and will brings it forth, but its really the characters themselves that take time coming to life.

#48 & #49 - Rush Home Road & The Girls

I went on a bit of a Lori Lansens bender. But I just couldn't help myself, her books are like a big pile of Halloween candy, super sharp, wickedly sweet, but have a sadness to them that breaks apart like Rockets in your mouth. Rush Home Road tells the story of Addy Shadd, an elderly woman who lives in a trailer park near Chatham, Ontario, who fosters a young girl named Sharla Cody when her mother up and leaves her for a boyfriend with better opportunities. Addy comes from Rush Home, a community built on the edge of the Underground Railway, and her life meets tragic circumstance after tragic circumstance before she finally finds her way back home.

In comparison, The Girls is a novel about conjoined twins who have existed for almost thirty years attached at the head. As the world's longest surviving craniogapus twins, Ruby and Rose are now writing their autobiography. It's a wonderful bittersweet tale, and like Sharla, Ruby and Rose are abandoned at birth by their mother, left to be taken care of by an older nurse, Lovey, and her Croatian husband, Stash, they live a remarkable life in Leaford. In fact, their tale is ever-more remarkable by how different and distinct they are from one another, and yet their relationship is both tender and careful at the same time.

Both books are ridiculously well written, ridiculously addictive and are wonderful examples of storytelling at its best. I almost missed my RRBF's sister's baby shower because I started reading Rush Home Road and didn't want to stop. What good books to almost reach 50 with!

So Very Busy...

Over the past few days I met an author I'm a huge fan of, found a pair of boots that I almost spent over $400.00 on, watched Flightplan for an online review I have to write, finished two more books, and carried on with my full-time job.

So much to say, so little time.

#46 & #47 - Chicklit Easy Reads

I finished Wolves in Chic Clothing and The Journal of Mortifying Moments. I know they count towards the final number of books I've read this year, but it's like reading air, there's almost no substance although they do keep you going. They're both terrifyingly predictable, but at least the JMM had some cute segments about the main character, Kerry's, most embarrassing moments—and believe you me, I could relate.

Ahem, I once asked my grade school almost-boyfriend if he liked reading Agatha Christie (because he was really a fifty year-old housewife?), tripped and/or dropped something whenever I saw him or he walked by (including a total face/nose plant over a chained driveway on the way home as I tried to act cool), and this coming from a ballet dancer, and then convinced myself that he liked this girl Kathryn who totally tried to steal him from me and then he moved away thinking I was a total freak.

Oh boy, did I just say all that out loud?

Jason Hughes, if you're out there, I did like you when we were in Grade 8, and I was kind of a freak, but you can't blame me, I was "creative." Heh.

Things That Annoy Me #159873

Well, my RRBF has instilled a solid sense of complaining into our everyday lives. That means that I've inherited his uncanny ability to complain about everything. And I do, but I'm even tired of listening to myself.

So here's what I'm tired of complaining about:

1. The price of gas. Or rather, listening to other people complain about the price of gas. I read a post of Wing Chun's that said, you know, gas shouldn't really be so cheap, and I kind of agree with her. If the prices stay up then people will actually think twice about the resources they use. Well, until they're on the TTC like I was on Sunday with smelly perfume lady on one side and unbearable BO buddy on the other.

2. Not eating sugar. Sigh. It's been almost three weeks, and I'm doing well, I think. But I still get cravings and I totally crashed today and ate potato chips, but salt & vinegar—so no sugar.

3. The state of my non-house. Our house is barely off the ground, and even with the new windows, I'm still frustrated and grumpy because it's not nearly where I thought we'd be by now. And we're [this close] to having spent the majority of our money already. Ah, the joys of owning your own home.

Okay. That's it, no more complaining about any or all of the above things. And if I bring them up again, you're too right to wallop me over the virtual head.

Just Like Heaven

Is the perfect example of how having all the right ingredients doesn't necessary mean you'll end up with a good picture. The script is weak, and no matter how hard you try, I don't think romantic comedies between ghosts and the living work. (Sticking my fingers in my ears means I'm not listening to anyone talking about the schlock-fest that is Ghost).

Parts of the movie were hard to watch, though, but that's just because I take everything so personally. There was a girl in a coma (like my mum) and a love interest named David (like my dad), and so I cried a little. But in the end, it was a disappointingly mediocre film. I'm hanging my hat on In Her Shoes the rock solid combination of Shirley MacLaine, Toni Collette and Jennifer Weiner will not let me down. (Yes, I'm choosing to ignore the whole Cameron Diaz angle).

TIFF Bliss

Seems that a friend of mine from work ran into Ethan Hawke at a screening of Romance and Cigarettes at the Film Fest. He apparently rolled into town and then rolled up on some Toronto hottie at a party later on too. Why oh why am I always sick when all the fun happens.

Bah!

Only kidding. There was just a small part of me (love for my RRBF aside) that screamed, "Noooo, that could have been meeeee! In another life and in the chicklit novel of my choosing.

Although it would have taken all of my good sense not to tell him to stop imitating Jack Kerouac and write his own book, but I digress.

Ahem. Ahem. Calling All FemBots Fans

My RRBF's CD release party is next Friday at the Supermarket. That's Friday, September 23rd, 2005. Did I mention that he's playing? And that it's his CD release party? And that if anyone out there loves me at all, I'd be happy to have a beer with you next Friday night. At his CD release party. Where he'll be playing. In his band called the FemBots. Okay? Okay.

What's More Disturbing Here?

That they're injecting the mice with the plague, a disease that, according to the article, is caught by seven or so people per YEAR, or that the poor mice are going to be so sick that they'll keel over and die just after they've escaped their ridiculous prison?

I mean I know that there's a lot to learn about the plague, but wouldn't this money be better spent finding a cure for cancer? Or, shall I say it, Wegener's Granulomatosis?

And the Doctor Says...

That I've got a "touch" of bronchitis. Yay! No antibiotics yet, only if it gets worse, but I've got to use my puffers, which I hate. On the good news front, my kidneys are doing better with my creatinine level coming down to 120 from 131 and my ESR back to normal (it's a sign of inflammation, which in turn is a sign of disease activity). I'm tired because my hemoglobin sinking because of the meds, but I can live with that as long as the disease is going back into remission.

High kicks all around!

I'm starting the next of my abridged versions, so I'll be spending a lot of time on the computer working, which means I'll be wasting time reading Popwatch and watching trailers. In particular, this one over and over and over again.

I don't know what it is about war movies, but I can't get enough of them. Past the terror and past the truly horrifying things that happen in war, I think it's the intense situation that I know I'll never have to experience that I'm drawn to. And it makes me think of my grandfather and great-grandfather who fought in the Second and First World Wars respectively, what they had to sacrifice and how different my life would be if they hadn't been there in the first place.

Now excuse the digression. There are fellows in here replacing our old crappy windows with fresh new ones, and I'm kind of high on the fumes...

Feeling Sick vs. Being Sick

If there's something I've come to realize about being a bionic girl with a big, bad disease, it's that there's a very real difference between feeling sick and being sick.

As I said yesterday, I've got a bad cold. My throat's all swollen, my head is pounding. I'm sniffling, sneezing and coughing, all of which truly suck, especially when next week is so fun with the RRBF's record release and other goodies happening. I don't want to end up with bronchitis or, worse, pneumonia, which tends to happen if I get sick when I'm taking the disease medicine.

Yes, I have bad disease days, where I feel some symptoms, my sinuses hurt, I'm tired beyond belief, but the drop-down-must-get-to-bed cold feeling is certainly not the same as knowing but not seeing the disease eat away at my kidneys.

Anyway. Just a random thought for today.

I Hab a Cwold

My nose is all stuffed up. My throat is sore. My head feels like a balloon. I hate having a cold.

Oh, and the Toronto International Film Festival heats up Toronto this week. And do you know my only celebrity sighting? Dave Nichols of Loblaws fame.

Hard Liquor + Rock Show = Fuzzy Head

When you're bionic, the best thing about a rock show is being able to stand for three or four hours and not be a) tired or b) in pain. It's a blessing. It's a change in your life that you're utterly and completely aware of every second of the day. No, even from the moment six months after surgery when you don't need the cane and you're strong enough to stand on your own two feet.

So I met some friends from my old work yesterday, and because of my crazy diet, I can't drink beer, which pains me. I also shouldn't be drinking while I'm taking the Imuran, but last night being Cuff the Duke's record release party, and coming off of two very hard weekends in terms of working on the cottage, I sort of decided to let go. Armed with more than a handful of gin and tonics, I had a rip-roaring good time that's left me a bit foggy brained and tired today, but in a gloriously good mood.

It was such a fun night, Scarbie Doll met us at the pub, and then we had a drink with the boys before we walked with Nelly over to Lee's for the show. Before getting to Lee's we were asked by a lovely Russian man sitting at Future's to sit and have a drink with them. Scarbie looks so great these days, and she has such a glow about her, it's really wonderful to see.

So we ended up at Lee's Palace rather tipsy (well, loaded, if you must know), and proceeded to dance, jump, hoot and holler through the Cuffy's set. It's a great new record, and it was a great show. And for their encore, do you know what they did? They gave a heck of a shout out to other Canadian independent bands by covering one of the songs from my RRBF's new album. The one that came out on Tuesday. When it was all said and done he quipped, "Well that's that, we can never do that song again!" Heh.

We got home at 2 AM, drunk, watched Coronation Street because we're addicted and fell into bed. Ah, sleep. Ah, the life of a Rock and Roll Girlfriend where all the boys in the band know who you are, but don't really know you. It's a funny in-between life we lead.

Bad Disease Day #31586.5

Seems that no matter how well I'm doing with my diet (Day 3: no sugar, one serving of wheat per day, one serving of dairy per day, lots of veggies, some fruit), my energy levels still don't seem to rise past barely alive. Seems that no matter how I feel in my head, it's so cloudy that working a wonderfully quick work day zaps all of my energy so much so that doing anything other than putting on my pajamas and watching a bad movie is all I can truly accomplish after work.

So, I'm about to go and lie down, choose one of the upteen books I'm in the middle of, and try to stay awake until 9 PM. It's a challenge this diseased-life, I'm telling you. And it's so overwhelming to hear what's happening in New Orleans and the rest of the Gulf area, that I feel lucky just to be warm, dry and financially secure enough to donate some of my money to the Canadian Red Cross, which is what I'm going to do before I lie down on my clean bed and have a rest. There's not much else I can say about the tragedy, and my words would pale in comparison to what's already being said on blogs around the world.

Just note: the difference between "looting" and "finding" shouldn't be defined along colour lines, shame on you reporters, shame on you.

#45 The Wreckage

Michael Crummey's latest novel The Wreckage tells the story of Wish Furey, a young man from Newfoundland, who falls in love with a precocious and determined 16-year-old girl named Sadie (short for Mercedes). The bulk of the action in the novel takes place in Newfoundland during the Second World War. The most poignant source of conflict between the two lovers is their religion, with Wish being Catholic, and therefore an outsider, and Sadie being Protestant, their relationship is doomed from the start.

As fishing accidents spurn the story along, a conflict between Wish and Sadie's mother, then her brother, forces him to flee. He joins up and is soon shipped off to fight for the Brits, eventually ending up in a Japanese PoW camp. Sadie runs away from home, but arrives in St. John's only to find Wish gone, and she vows to wait for him.

Interspersed into the love story is the story of a Canadian-born Japanese soldier who eventually becomes one of the most vicious prison guards working at the camp where Wish ends up. The vicious nature of Nishino seems at odds, even in the context of the war, with Crummey's delicate, wonderful language. It's a contrast that resonates throughout the book, and he has a gift for some of the most beautiful metaphors I've read in a long time.

The willful, fully drawn natures of each of the three main characters comes across like a cup of strong coffee. Sadie breaks her vow, Wish misleads her into thinking he's dead, and Nishino finds himself unable to serve his country in the manner he feels is appropriate, each character experiencing the undeniable fact that life never turns out the way you expect it to.

Fast-forward forty years, and Crummey catches up the characters at this point in their lives. The second half of the novel isn't as tight as the first, but the end is completely satisfying and The Wreckage is quite an addictive read. Highly recommended even among the riches of this fall season, which for Canadian publishing, seems ever-golden.

No Offense, But...

...is there anywhere the Black Eyed Peas won't play? And by the way CBC, get your sh*t together and bring back your staff already. Enough of this bare bones website crap that my tax paying dollars are usually ridiculously proud to support.

The Return of the RRBF

So last night we capped off an already busy weekend (his folks and family up at the cottage, lots of work at the cottage) by racing home and then racing to Soundscapes for his in-store. As I've said a million times, my RRBF has a new record that was just released yesterday called The City. His band, FemBots, played last night to celebrate the record in the store and it was quite fun.

I made the mistake, however, of sitting to close to him, which meant that every time he made a rock face or a rock move, I giggled. Which in turn made him mouth to me, "Don't laugh at me!" and then refuse to look at me again during the half-hour performance. I felt bad, for a second, and then giggled again because it's funny to see someone you live with day in and day out, picking his nose, scratching his bum, screaming at the traffic, standing up in front of a crowd of terribly interested teenagers with his eyes closed swaying to his music. I love him dearly, but it's funny to me.

Now magazine gave the record 5 Ns as I said before, and today, the Adam Radwanski in the National Post said, "Quite possibly 2005's best Canadian album to date, The City will give the Fembots their deserved place on the national stage, if there is any justice."

If there's any justice indeed.

So, the show was fun, and then Soundscapes gave them each $30.00 in merchandise as a benefit to playing. He said, "What should I buy?" I said, "The New Pornographers." And then he proceeded to make fun of me a) for wanting the record and b) for then going ahead and buying it with my own damn money after he refused. Then he made fun of me in front of the cuties from Cuff the Duke, which embarrassed the crap out of me. Ah, being a girl.

I Never Knew They Were Out of Fashion?

So, pencils are once again hip. Who knew? Oh wait, or is it the puzzle that's hip? And when do you think the mystical "powers that be" will come up with a dummed-down Hollywood version of Sudoku?

Ireland Redux

This is one of my favourite pictures from Ireland, in Derry, well, in "free Derry." It's the site of Bloody Sunday. I love the murals in Northern Ireland, and love that the tradition is continued still. They were busy painting over Gerry Adams when Tina and I walked along Falls Road.

The Cottage "Weekend Update": My bionic hip rocked so hard this weekend. I picked up 5 bags of concrete, each weighing 66lbs. SIXTY-SIX pounds. My legs hurt like hell, but I did it. And then I re-arranged my grandmother's cottage in the "heritage" format (translation: put the furniture back to the way it was when I was a kid). And we cleared out a bunch of garbage. My lovely RRBF (in addition to receiving 5 Ns in Now magazine in terms of the review of his latest record), painted some of the windows for me. Ah, cottage life. It's a vacation no matter how long you can get away for.

The Last Long Weekend

Is almost upon us, I'm heading up north to spend the weekend with my RRBF's family at my cottage. Hopefully, I'll get some reading done! And maybe some writing too. Enjoy the sunshine. Fingers crossed I don't end up with a rash.