Your Vocabulary Score: A- |
 Congratulations on your multifarious vocabulary! You must be quite an erudite person. |
(prop's to Kate's Book Blog for the link, although I'm not quite as smart as she is...)
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Good To See That Education Really Works
(prop's to Kate's Book Blog for the link, although I'm not quite as smart as she is...)
Damn You Studio 60
Okay, I'll admit it: I am totally and shockingly hooked on Studio 60. The episode on this week was actually pretty damn good and that kiss (whew!) between Matt and Harriet, well, I'm not even ashamed to say that I rewound it a couple of times before carrying on with the episode. Hot!
Apoc-o-crap-to
So, do you know anyone who'll see this Mel Gibson extravaganza? I probably won't even watch it when it comes to TMN a year from now, for free. Especially after reading this, and I almost dropped my EW right into the recycling bin when I saw Gibson on the cover. I mean really? Shut up Mel Gibson. Shut up already.
Brushes With Greatness
Okay, so I'm going to do a six degrees of separation type post, which is not really exciting for anyone, but, well me:
1. Today Madhur Jaffrey is in our offices. She is lovely, delightful and kindly signed some books for me. I am dying to read her memoir Climbing the Mango Trees, which is now on my giant to-be-read pile toward the top right after I finish Before I Wake (am one subway ride away from being done) and after I read Consumption. Anyway, she was a supporting player in last year's sweet Prime with Uma Thurman and Bryan Greenburg (whom I will always refer to as Jake! from my time recapping One Tree Hill for TWoP), which means I'm one degree from both of them, cool eh?
2. Yesterday, my stepmother was sworn in as the Councillor for Ward 10 in Mississauga. It was a very prestigious ceremony with Hazel McCallion, "Madame Mayor" herself in attendance, natch, which means I'm one degree from her as well. In her opening address she laid out her plans for her term: deconstructing the region of Peel, stopping the tax payouts to Toronto (never mind the whole idea that how many Mississauga residents use Toronto roads, Toronto highways, Toronto services while they're at work, but whatever), and continuing to have the cleanest, crime-free city in Canada. You go Hazel; you're a right-winged spitfire of a woman, and even if I don't believe in your policy 100%, I certainly admire your honesty, dedication and servitude.
3. Also yesterday, my online book club had a chat with author Steven Hayward about his first novel, The Secret Mitzvah of Lucio Burke. It's a great read, and my full review is to follow, but when asked if he had a hard time re-writing the novel in a different way (he changed it from first to third person), he said, "The re-write was easy, the write was hard." And it made me heart the book (and its author) even more. It also gives me hope, because the write of any first draft is so difficult at least it's good that once an editor or someone else sees the potential, the hard work of creating the characters and doing the first draft isn't lost time.
4. I have an ARC of Gemma Townley's latest book on my nightstand at this very moment. I bet you are ALL jealous. I have also completed Shopaholic and Baby and Forever in Blue from our spring lists, with full reviews to come once the books are on sale. After reading all three, plus seeing The Holiday, I might be surprised if I don't grow even bigger boobs because of all the estrogen in my system.
1. Today Madhur Jaffrey is in our offices. She is lovely, delightful and kindly signed some books for me. I am dying to read her memoir Climbing the Mango Trees, which is now on my giant to-be-read pile toward the top right after I finish Before I Wake (am one subway ride away from being done) and after I read Consumption. Anyway, she was a supporting player in last year's sweet Prime with Uma Thurman and Bryan Greenburg (whom I will always refer to as Jake! from my time recapping One Tree Hill for TWoP), which means I'm one degree from both of them, cool eh?
2. Yesterday, my stepmother was sworn in as the Councillor for Ward 10 in Mississauga. It was a very prestigious ceremony with Hazel McCallion, "Madame Mayor" herself in attendance, natch, which means I'm one degree from her as well. In her opening address she laid out her plans for her term: deconstructing the region of Peel, stopping the tax payouts to Toronto (never mind the whole idea that how many Mississauga residents use Toronto roads, Toronto highways, Toronto services while they're at work, but whatever), and continuing to have the cleanest, crime-free city in Canada. You go Hazel; you're a right-winged spitfire of a woman, and even if I don't believe in your policy 100%, I certainly admire your honesty, dedication and servitude.
3. Also yesterday, my online book club had a chat with author Steven Hayward about his first novel, The Secret Mitzvah of Lucio Burke. It's a great read, and my full review is to follow, but when asked if he had a hard time re-writing the novel in a different way (he changed it from first to third person), he said, "The re-write was easy, the write was hard." And it made me heart the book (and its author) even more. It also gives me hope, because the write of any first draft is so difficult at least it's good that once an editor or someone else sees the potential, the hard work of creating the characters and doing the first draft isn't lost time.
4. I have an ARC of Gemma Townley's latest book on my nightstand at this very moment. I bet you are ALL jealous. I have also completed Shopaholic and Baby and Forever in Blue from our spring lists, with full reviews to come once the books are on sale. After reading all three, plus seeing The Holiday, I might be surprised if I don't grow even bigger boobs because of all the estrogen in my system.
Friday, December 01, 2006
TRH Movie - The Holiday
So I went to a preview screening of the girliest of all girlie movies The Holiday. I won't post my full review because I have to write it still for Chart, but I will say the following: this is an unabashed chick flick, so if you go in thinking "I really need a dose of fantasy" than by all means, get thee to the theatre next weekend.
Full review tk.
Full review tk.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
TRH TV - Intelligence
Okay, you all know I'm obsessed with watching television. I'm convinced it's because my mother never let us watch TV when we were small kids and so I grew up blissfully unaware of the truly addictive aspects of the little blue box. And all through university we didn't have cable, and even up until I started living with my RRHB, I didn't have cable. What did I need it for? I didn't watch television.
Oh, what a fool I am.
Anyway, what I did watch was tonnes of the CBC. North of 60, Rita MacNeil, you name it, I watched it. And then, once I discovered the glorious joy of cable, I sort of left the CBC behind. I even (as she says in a hushed tone) stopped watching the news. Gasp!
But now, I'm getting older. I listen to Andy Barrie in the morning. I have the CBC on in the background most days at work and have come back into the fold with the new show that's been on this season called Intelligence. Never a Da Vinci fan, I watched the short tv movie that the series is based on last year by accident (meaning I flipped the channel, answered the phone, and the show was on, and it was interesting enough to keep me watching until the end. I think too, the RRHB was away so we weren't compromising in terms of the evening show tally).
The story of a third generation dope slinger turned millionaire, Intelligence follows Jimmy's involvement with the RCMP's special crime unit, both in terms of giving them information and being a suspect they're looking to take down. Balancing out the crime with the punishment as we also get Mary, the head of said crime section, whose own agenda involves positioning herself for a sweet promotion over to CSIS (who, by the way, would never have their parking spots noted "parking for CSIS," art directors please take note). It's a fascinating little show, a bit Sopranos, a bit The Wire, a bit Can Con, but it kind of works. So much so it's on a permanent tape-to-watch later status on my Faux-Vo.
However, now that I like it and am actually telling y'all to watch it, sure as it will eventually snow here in Toronto, the CBC will cancel the show and start airing something equally dismal like Air Farce in its place.
Oh, what a fool I am.
Anyway, what I did watch was tonnes of the CBC. North of 60, Rita MacNeil, you name it, I watched it. And then, once I discovered the glorious joy of cable, I sort of left the CBC behind. I even (as she says in a hushed tone) stopped watching the news. Gasp!
But now, I'm getting older. I listen to Andy Barrie in the morning. I have the CBC on in the background most days at work and have come back into the fold with the new show that's been on this season called Intelligence. Never a Da Vinci fan, I watched the short tv movie that the series is based on last year by accident (meaning I flipped the channel, answered the phone, and the show was on, and it was interesting enough to keep me watching until the end. I think too, the RRHB was away so we weren't compromising in terms of the evening show tally).
The story of a third generation dope slinger turned millionaire, Intelligence follows Jimmy's involvement with the RCMP's special crime unit, both in terms of giving them information and being a suspect they're looking to take down. Balancing out the crime with the punishment as we also get Mary, the head of said crime section, whose own agenda involves positioning herself for a sweet promotion over to CSIS (who, by the way, would never have their parking spots noted "parking for CSIS," art directors please take note). It's a fascinating little show, a bit Sopranos, a bit The Wire, a bit Can Con, but it kind of works. So much so it's on a permanent tape-to-watch later status on my Faux-Vo.
However, now that I like it and am actually telling y'all to watch it, sure as it will eventually snow here in Toronto, the CBC will cancel the show and start airing something equally dismal like Air Farce in its place.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
#64 - Everything Is Illuminated
Finally, after almost seven weeks, a pathetic showing on my part, I limped to the finish line and finished Everything Is Illuminated last night before going to bed. The good, the bad, and the ugly about the book is as follows:
1. The Good
Jonathan Safran Foer is a brilliant bloody writer. He has a wonderful gift for humour, for the absurd, and for a meta-self-referential-po-mo stylist, an ease with prose that seems so natural that it's as refreshing to read as a swim in the lake on a hot July day.
2. The Bad
The disjointed narrative style, while cute, was very distracting. It took away from the fact that no aspect of the story actually get resolved. The novel bites around the story like a sandwich with the crusts cut off, and never really lets you in to the meat until the very end, and even then, it's hard to figure out exactly what happened. But maybe that's because it took me weeks to finish the novel and picking it up over a longer period of time makes it harder for me to put all the connections together.
3. The Ugly
I know it's wrong of me, but I couldn't help feeling like Sacha was Borat, or at least a version of that stereotypical character that comes across more caricature than anything else. And while I enjoyed his malapropisms, I felt the author used him more for comic relief and to show off than actually contributing to the story in any way.
Overall, I can see what all the spilled ink was about, but I wasn't as blown away by this novel as the rest of the ladies in my bookclub, but I'm sure as hell happy with being able to add a new book to my 1001 Books score. And with Persuasion, that brings my total to 122. Whee!
1. The Good
Jonathan Safran Foer is a brilliant bloody writer. He has a wonderful gift for humour, for the absurd, and for a meta-self-referential-po-mo stylist, an ease with prose that seems so natural that it's as refreshing to read as a swim in the lake on a hot July day.
2. The Bad
The disjointed narrative style, while cute, was very distracting. It took away from the fact that no aspect of the story actually get resolved. The novel bites around the story like a sandwich with the crusts cut off, and never really lets you in to the meat until the very end, and even then, it's hard to figure out exactly what happened. But maybe that's because it took me weeks to finish the novel and picking it up over a longer period of time makes it harder for me to put all the connections together.
3. The Ugly
I know it's wrong of me, but I couldn't help feeling like Sacha was Borat, or at least a version of that stereotypical character that comes across more caricature than anything else. And while I enjoyed his malapropisms, I felt the author used him more for comic relief and to show off than actually contributing to the story in any way.
Overall, I can see what all the spilled ink was about, but I wasn't as blown away by this novel as the rest of the ladies in my bookclub, but I'm sure as hell happy with being able to add a new book to my 1001 Books score. And with Persuasion, that brings my total to 122. Whee!
Sunday, November 26, 2006
TRH Movie - The History Boys
Last night Tara and I went to go see The History Boys. After having brunch with Sam, then going to my Restorative Yoga class and starting the housework, it was the perfect way to end the day.
Having not even heard of the Broadway play (shame on me) nor knowing anything about the film with the exception of having seen the trailer before Little Children, I'm glad to report I was pleasantly surprised. It's a sharp, witty drama about a group of boys in their last year of school in England who are all vying for spots at university. And not just any school, but Cambridge and Oxford.
The boys have a wonderful relationship with a teacher, whom they dub "Hector", played by Richard Griffiths, who teaches them not only about literature, but about the importance of learning in life. Hector's place among the boys is challenged by the arrival of Mr. Irwin, hired by the headmaster to get the boys prepared for their admittance exams. The struggle between Hector's old-fashioned methods of teaching and Irwin's inspirational new way influences the boys in different ways.
A true coming of age tale that romanticizes the entire last year of school for the various different boys, the film celebrates the value of knowledge simply for the joy of learning. Like Wonder Boys, it's a movie that doesn't talk down to the audience, that throws in Thomas Hardy, Anne of Cleves and an odd French lesson taking place in a brothel and simply expects you to get it. Gladly, the crowd out last night was up for the challenge.
Having not even heard of the Broadway play (shame on me) nor knowing anything about the film with the exception of having seen the trailer before Little Children, I'm glad to report I was pleasantly surprised. It's a sharp, witty drama about a group of boys in their last year of school in England who are all vying for spots at university. And not just any school, but Cambridge and Oxford.
The boys have a wonderful relationship with a teacher, whom they dub "Hector", played by Richard Griffiths, who teaches them not only about literature, but about the importance of learning in life. Hector's place among the boys is challenged by the arrival of Mr. Irwin, hired by the headmaster to get the boys prepared for their admittance exams. The struggle between Hector's old-fashioned methods of teaching and Irwin's inspirational new way influences the boys in different ways.
A true coming of age tale that romanticizes the entire last year of school for the various different boys, the film celebrates the value of knowledge simply for the joy of learning. Like Wonder Boys, it's a movie that doesn't talk down to the audience, that throws in Thomas Hardy, Anne of Cleves and an odd French lesson taking place in a brothel and simply expects you to get it. Gladly, the crowd out last night was up for the challenge.
Friday, November 24, 2006
What To Do?
So I'm a band widow this weekend and can't make up my mind about what to do. Reading would be a good place to start, I'm halfway through Before I Wake and really, really must finally finish Everything is Illuminated, and I need to do some grocery shopping and house cleaning, oh, and some laundry too. But what to do for fun? I'm up for suggestions...
Team Karen or Team Pam?
Looking for the perfect holiday "secret Santa" present? Yeah, I'd go for Team Karen just to piss off all of the obvious Team Pam supporters.
I'm all for Pam and Jim, OF COURSE, but a little love triangle never hurt anyone. Except maybe Lorelai because that sh*t's been going on for eight seasons.
Oh, and other TV news? I had an episode of 30 Rock on the Faux-Vo to catch the last few minutes of The Office while I was in Vancouver last week and I ended up watching it. I was doing the absolutely crazy go through the taped shows and watch them in alphabetical order on Wednesday night after pilates. I started with 30 Rock, ended up on Coronation Street, then Grey's Anatomy, but I skipped a couple in between. Okay, back on topic. 30 Rock, you know, it's totally funny. Tracy Morgan is good, and Alec Baldwin truly kills. There was this whole meta-thing about him being a broadcast head playing himself in a sketch but he couldn't act. And the ham-bone Baldwin pretending not to act all while acting bit? Hilarious.
But the best part of both Studio 60 and 30 Rock? Other than their numerically challenged titles, they're both kind of about writers, and I really like writers.
I'm all for Pam and Jim, OF COURSE, but a little love triangle never hurt anyone. Except maybe Lorelai because that sh*t's been going on for eight seasons.
Oh, and other TV news? I had an episode of 30 Rock on the Faux-Vo to catch the last few minutes of The Office while I was in Vancouver last week and I ended up watching it. I was doing the absolutely crazy go through the taped shows and watch them in alphabetical order on Wednesday night after pilates. I started with 30 Rock, ended up on Coronation Street, then Grey's Anatomy, but I skipped a couple in between. Okay, back on topic. 30 Rock, you know, it's totally funny. Tracy Morgan is good, and Alec Baldwin truly kills. There was this whole meta-thing about him being a broadcast head playing himself in a sketch but he couldn't act. And the ham-bone Baldwin pretending not to act all while acting bit? Hilarious.
But the best part of both Studio 60 and 30 Rock? Other than their numerically challenged titles, they're both kind of about writers, and I really like writers.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
TRH Movie - Fast Food Nation
While in Vancouver last week, we ended up going to see a preview screening for Richard Linklater's new film Fast Food Nation. Based on Eric Schlosser's nonfiction book of the same name, Fast Food Nation weaves three very different stories together to examine the food industry in America. The first thread finds fast food chain Mickey's marketing executive Don Anderson (Greg Kinnear) who is charged with finding out why there's fecal matter in the meat they're serving in their Big One burgers. While he's investigating, he meets the young Amber (Ashley Johnson) who is working at a Mickey's in small-town Colorado. Her story, that of innocence to social action, forms the second storyline in the film. The last thread, that of immigrant Mexican workers working at an abattoir in the same Colorado town where Amber lives, is perhaps the most poignant. Wilmer Valderrama (That 70s Show) and Catalina Sandino Moreno (Maria Full of Grace) play young lovers who escape the poverty of their homeland to work awful jobs in the meat processing plant / slaughterhouse.
It's a full-on indie movie, complete with pretty poor art direction (please, please could someone attach the laptop in the Mickey's exec's office to some power outlet or at least an internet cord to make it somewhat realistic?) and that slow, sprawling narrative style that fits both the storylines and the subject matter. The film is well written and well acted, with standout performances by just about all in the cast, but I'd have to say that Bobby Canavale, who I think is one of the most underrated gems out there as the stupendously arrogant plant supervisor, and Catalina Sandino Moreno as an immigrant working for a better life, give particularly poignant performances.
Linklater saves the most gruesome bits for the end, which I don't want to spoil by going into too much detail about, but to say that I think anyone who eats meat should see this movie. Not to be preachy and/or all high and mighty, but knowing where your food comes from and how it comes to your table should be mandatory for anyone who eats a burger at a fast food joint. All in all, I don't think this film will do gangbusters at the box office, but it's an important film, not only because of its message but also to show the studios that you don't have to spend millions to capture the essence of a good picture, that all it takes is a good cast, a solid script and a bit of heart. It's not the best movie I've seen all year but it's certainly a memorable one.
It's a full-on indie movie, complete with pretty poor art direction (please, please could someone attach the laptop in the Mickey's exec's office to some power outlet or at least an internet cord to make it somewhat realistic?) and that slow, sprawling narrative style that fits both the storylines and the subject matter. The film is well written and well acted, with standout performances by just about all in the cast, but I'd have to say that Bobby Canavale, who I think is one of the most underrated gems out there as the stupendously arrogant plant supervisor, and Catalina Sandino Moreno as an immigrant working for a better life, give particularly poignant performances.
Linklater saves the most gruesome bits for the end, which I don't want to spoil by going into too much detail about, but to say that I think anyone who eats meat should see this movie. Not to be preachy and/or all high and mighty, but knowing where your food comes from and how it comes to your table should be mandatory for anyone who eats a burger at a fast food joint. All in all, I don't think this film will do gangbusters at the box office, but it's an important film, not only because of its message but also to show the studios that you don't have to spend millions to capture the essence of a good picture, that all it takes is a good cast, a solid script and a bit of heart. It's not the best movie I've seen all year but it's certainly a memorable one.
#63 - Persuasion
Thank goodness the reader's block is over. I didn't know what to do with myself not being able to blog about the books that I've read because I hadn't actually finished a book in about five weeks. The dry spell is over! Over my two plane rides (to Vancouver and back again) I managed to finish Jane Austen's Persuasion, the inaugural choice of our newly formed 1001 Books To Read Before You Die club at work.
Persuasion is yet another classic that reminds me that I can't believe I haven't enjoyed the talents of Jane Austen in my life before now. It's the story of Anne Elliot, the middle daughter of Sir Walter Elliot, a vain, pompous, yet totally harmless man, who finds herself marginalized by her family, left out in the cold by love, and saddled with the fact that she's morally superior to many of her relations. Anne overcomes her trials (of course) and eventually finds happiness. The persuasion part of the novel comes in many forms: Anne's betrayal of her heart when she refuses the proposal of Captain Wentworth on the bidding of her great friend and mother stand-in, Lady Russell; Wentworth's upwardly mobile abilities regarding his own social standing throughout the novel; and Anne's in-between position in terms of her meddling, hypochondriac sister and her many other frustrating relations.
The most shocking aspect to reading Jane Austen at this point in my life is how she crafted completely and utterly addictive books, and Persuasion is no exception. It's an early 19th-century page turner, and I'm not really why that surprises me, but it really does.
Plus, the more of Austen I read, the more I find that she's so responsible for many of the tropes and/or plot devices that we find in modern-day chicklit novels, the charming cad, the mistaken affection and/or personality assumptions, the awkward parental units, the unsatisfying love lives, and then I feel dumb that it's taken me this long to get with the, ahem, program.
Persuasion is yet another classic that reminds me that I can't believe I haven't enjoyed the talents of Jane Austen in my life before now. It's the story of Anne Elliot, the middle daughter of Sir Walter Elliot, a vain, pompous, yet totally harmless man, who finds herself marginalized by her family, left out in the cold by love, and saddled with the fact that she's morally superior to many of her relations. Anne overcomes her trials (of course) and eventually finds happiness. The persuasion part of the novel comes in many forms: Anne's betrayal of her heart when she refuses the proposal of Captain Wentworth on the bidding of her great friend and mother stand-in, Lady Russell; Wentworth's upwardly mobile abilities regarding his own social standing throughout the novel; and Anne's in-between position in terms of her meddling, hypochondriac sister and her many other frustrating relations.
The most shocking aspect to reading Jane Austen at this point in my life is how she crafted completely and utterly addictive books, and Persuasion is no exception. It's an early 19th-century page turner, and I'm not really why that surprises me, but it really does.
Plus, the more of Austen I read, the more I find that she's so responsible for many of the tropes and/or plot devices that we find in modern-day chicklit novels, the charming cad, the mistaken affection and/or personality assumptions, the awkward parental units, the unsatisfying love lives, and then I feel dumb that it's taken me this long to get with the, ahem, program.
Friday, November 17, 2006
TRH Does Vancouver
Damn time change on the west coast!
I am really enjoying my vacation. Despite the truly crappy weather (Hannah told me yesterday that I flew in during a tsunami warning), Vancouver has been great. Went to see the Emily Carr exhibit, shopped a bit on Robson Street, had a great breakfast in Kitsilano, went to see a screening of "Fast Food Nation," and am enjoying the blissful Pan Pacific Hotel at this very moment.
More details to follow when I'm back and not blogging from my crackberry.
I am really enjoying my vacation. Despite the truly crappy weather (Hannah told me yesterday that I flew in during a tsunami warning), Vancouver has been great. Went to see the Emily Carr exhibit, shopped a bit on Robson Street, had a great breakfast in Kitsilano, went to see a screening of "Fast Food Nation," and am enjoying the blissful Pan Pacific Hotel at this very moment.
More details to follow when I'm back and not blogging from my crackberry.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
TRH Version 2.0
Well, to some extent. I upgraded my template here at blogspot and can't figure out how to change the metadata so that it doesn't show up "notify blogger of objectionable content" when I search for the blog on Firefox or IE.
But I do love the labels. Aren't they fun?
But I do love the labels. Aren't they fun?
Monday, November 13, 2006
The Slow Movement
Over the past few Saturdays, I've been taking Restorative Yoga class at the Liberty Movement Studio in Liberty Village. The space is gorgeous and the teacher awesome but I wasn't expecting it to be so utterly relaxing. I've always been a smash-up and down kind of exercise-doer, from the early days of dance classes to crazy-ass aerobics to biking like a maniac, so the idea of slow movements for the benefit of my health never really occurred to me, like ever. To me, exercise has always meant lots of sweating, moving and high kicks.
But that's not always the case. The benefits of restorative yoga include the highly important act of resting the brain. True rest, something where my mind isn't going a mile a minute and I'm not bouncing from topic to topic, isn't something I've ever done before. And considering my disease is completely stress related the idea of quieting my mind is an important one.
And it's strange that restorative yoga, where you hold supported poses for long periods of time, makes me far more tired than my pilates class does; it makes me so relaxed that I actually rest, something I most certainly do not do enough of in my real, hectic life.
But that's not always the case. The benefits of restorative yoga include the highly important act of resting the brain. True rest, something where my mind isn't going a mile a minute and I'm not bouncing from topic to topic, isn't something I've ever done before. And considering my disease is completely stress related the idea of quieting my mind is an important one.
And it's strange that restorative yoga, where you hold supported poses for long periods of time, makes me far more tired than my pilates class does; it makes me so relaxed that I actually rest, something I most certainly do not do enough of in my real, hectic life.
Weekend Update
What a crazy busy weekend! It's always fun when that happens. It was Remembrance Day. The holiday always makes me think of my grandmother, a war bride, my grandfather, a World War II vet, and my great-grandfather, who fought in the First World War.
I guess it was kind of fitting that I went to see the psychic/clairvoyant on Remembrance Day, considering the person that came through the most was my maternal grandmother, my Nanny, who came from London when she was a young married woman to make her life in Canada. The whole reading was totally surreal: apparently, I'm a 'diamond' soul, have got angels around me, and, um, the grandmother of God, one St. Anne, sits with my dead relatives watching over them and me.
Yeah, that kind of totally freaked me out, especially considering that the psychic knew nothing about me or even my name before I walked in the room. Oh, and on top of all that, I was born on St. Anne's Day, as my father-in-law is always telling me. But the cutest part of the reading? The psychic telling me that my grandmother thinks my RRHB has a cute butt. I mean, he does, but really?
It's hard to know what to believe and what not to believe but when you've been without your mom and your grandmother for so long, maybe even just the little reassurance that they're there, somewhere, is a good thing. Then, I went to restorative yoga, which I'll explain in the next post.
After all of that spiritual stuff, I collapsed on the couch and watched TV before falling asleep at 9:42 PM. Why was I so tired? Oh, because I stayed out too late after going to see a reading on Friday night. Kevin Patterson (Consumption), Robert J. Wiersema (Before I Wake) and Giles Blunt (By the Time You Read This): all three men gave excellent readings in the Hart House Library at U of T. All three books are now on my 'to read' pile (after ordering them), and I have to say that Patterson totally gets the über-hot author award. Wow! Smoking! AND, he eats caribou eyeballs. Fascinating.
Then, on Sunday I went for brunch with a friend who is spending her first year teaching. She's got a grade 3/4 split class and has been reading my abridged version of Frankenstein. Apparently, the kids are quite upset about the ending that I wrote (they found it unsatisfactory) and are going to be writing me some letters about what they think happens to the monster. Oh, and I've also been asked to reply to them, which I am more than willing to do. How fun is that?
I guess it was kind of fitting that I went to see the psychic/clairvoyant on Remembrance Day, considering the person that came through the most was my maternal grandmother, my Nanny, who came from London when she was a young married woman to make her life in Canada. The whole reading was totally surreal: apparently, I'm a 'diamond' soul, have got angels around me, and, um, the grandmother of God, one St. Anne, sits with my dead relatives watching over them and me.
Yeah, that kind of totally freaked me out, especially considering that the psychic knew nothing about me or even my name before I walked in the room. Oh, and on top of all that, I was born on St. Anne's Day, as my father-in-law is always telling me. But the cutest part of the reading? The psychic telling me that my grandmother thinks my RRHB has a cute butt. I mean, he does, but really?
It's hard to know what to believe and what not to believe but when you've been without your mom and your grandmother for so long, maybe even just the little reassurance that they're there, somewhere, is a good thing. Then, I went to restorative yoga, which I'll explain in the next post.
After all of that spiritual stuff, I collapsed on the couch and watched TV before falling asleep at 9:42 PM. Why was I so tired? Oh, because I stayed out too late after going to see a reading on Friday night. Kevin Patterson (Consumption), Robert J. Wiersema (Before I Wake) and Giles Blunt (By the Time You Read This): all three men gave excellent readings in the Hart House Library at U of T. All three books are now on my 'to read' pile (after ordering them), and I have to say that Patterson totally gets the über-hot author award. Wow! Smoking! AND, he eats caribou eyeballs. Fascinating.
Then, on Sunday I went for brunch with a friend who is spending her first year teaching. She's got a grade 3/4 split class and has been reading my abridged version of Frankenstein. Apparently, the kids are quite upset about the ending that I wrote (they found it unsatisfactory) and are going to be writing me some letters about what they think happens to the monster. Oh, and I've also been asked to reply to them, which I am more than willing to do. How fun is that?
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Aphra Behn
Is it strange to say that a 17th century woman is one of my heroes? That my goal has always been, just like Behn, to be a woman who makes a living by her pen. And these past few weeks something has actually been happening on that front. A royalty cheque arrived for the first three of my Classic Starts (Little Women, Frankenstein and Robinson Crusoe), and yesterday a cheque arrived from Taddle Creek for my poem "April" that appeared in their last issue.
Getting paid for poetry is awesome. Getting paid for writing I did five years ago is also kind of thrilling. But being able to pay for my Humber course without going into debt? Awesome.
Getting paid for poetry is awesome. Getting paid for writing I did five years ago is also kind of thrilling. But being able to pay for my Humber course without going into debt? Awesome.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Seen Reading
Love this new blog by Julie Wilson (links via Bookninja & Quill and Quire).
Makes me wish that I took the TTC more often so I could take a peak at what page people were on...
Makes me wish that I took the TTC more often so I could take a peak at what page people were on...
Now That It's On Your Mind
Do something about it. Ipsos-Reid tells us that Canadians are now more concerned about the environment than any other social issue. It tops the list, with health care (natch) and international war/conflict coming up next. Do you think Harper will listen?
Oh, and while we're on the subject, here's a top 10 list from George Monbiot, the author of Heat:
1. Cut your flights. Nothing else you do causes so much climate change in so short a time.
2. Think hard before you pick up your car keys. On average, 40% of the journeys made by car could be made by other means - on foot, by bicycle or on public transport.
3. Organise a "walking bus" to take the children to school.
4. Ask your boss to devise a "workplace travel plan" which rewards people for leaving their cars at home.
5. Switch over to a supplier of renewable electricity. You don't have to erect your own wind turbine, but you can buy your power from someone who has.
6. Ask a builder to give you an estimate for bringing your home up to R2000 standards.
7. Ditch your air conditioner.
8. Turn down your thermostat: 18 degrees is as warm as your house ever needs to be. You just have to get used to it.
9. Make sure every bulb in your house is a compact fluorescent or LED.
10. Do NOT buy a plasma TV: they use 5 times as much energy as other models.
How am I faring? Not too well I'm afraid. We're trying to keep the heat down, we've switched a lot of our lightbulbs, we don't own a plasma tv, we rarely (read three times last summer) turn on the air conditioning, and we're going to do as much environmentally friendly renovating as we can possibly afford when my RRHB starts fixing the house up full-time in January, but I'm going to Vancouver next week (flying) and drive to work most days. We've also been thinking about switching to Bullfrog, but it's so expensive. I know, I shouldn't complain.
Hence the goal to buy most of our Christmas presents in the form of hand-made gifts, donations to charities and stuff from the Red campaign.
Oh, and while we're on the subject, here's a top 10 list from George Monbiot, the author of Heat:
1. Cut your flights. Nothing else you do causes so much climate change in so short a time.
2. Think hard before you pick up your car keys. On average, 40% of the journeys made by car could be made by other means - on foot, by bicycle or on public transport.
3. Organise a "walking bus" to take the children to school.
4. Ask your boss to devise a "workplace travel plan" which rewards people for leaving their cars at home.
5. Switch over to a supplier of renewable electricity. You don't have to erect your own wind turbine, but you can buy your power from someone who has.
6. Ask a builder to give you an estimate for bringing your home up to R2000 standards.
7. Ditch your air conditioner.
8. Turn down your thermostat: 18 degrees is as warm as your house ever needs to be. You just have to get used to it.
9. Make sure every bulb in your house is a compact fluorescent or LED.
10. Do NOT buy a plasma TV: they use 5 times as much energy as other models.
How am I faring? Not too well I'm afraid. We're trying to keep the heat down, we've switched a lot of our lightbulbs, we don't own a plasma tv, we rarely (read three times last summer) turn on the air conditioning, and we're going to do as much environmentally friendly renovating as we can possibly afford when my RRHB starts fixing the house up full-time in January, but I'm going to Vancouver next week (flying) and drive to work most days. We've also been thinking about switching to Bullfrog, but it's so expensive. I know, I shouldn't complain.
Hence the goal to buy most of our Christmas presents in the form of hand-made gifts, donations to charities and stuff from the Red campaign.
Monday, November 06, 2006
1001 Books Redux
Baby got Books has posted a spreadsheet that calculates how many of the 1001 books you've read; it's pretty sweet.
My score: 113.
I'm a bit ahead of where I was last summer simply because a couple of the classics I've now abridged for Sterling.
My score: 113.
I'm a bit ahead of where I was last summer simply because a couple of the classics I've now abridged for Sterling.
Reader's Block
So the cold mutated into a bad sinus infection, which laid me up for another, truly non-eventful, weekend. But the worst part of it? I'm totally and utterly unable to read. I can't concentrate and even looking at a page (or a computer screen) hurts my eyes (it does not, however, stop me from lying on the couch, collecting dust, and watching hour after hour of television).
I've been reading Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer for the past four weeks. I'm on page 154. Other books I can't seem to crack are Marie Antoinette: The Journey, The Communist's Daughter by Dennis Bock, and about 17 others sitting on my night table. I should be starting a November challenge, I like Sassy Monkey's idea of doing one 'from the stacks,' but I am also attracted to the idea (c/o Kailana) of reading war-inspired or themed books because of Remembrance Day, but considering I haven't finished a single challenge yet (I came close with the RIP one for October), I might simply have my goal for this month to "get over my reader's block" and actually finish a damn book.
Tomorrow is another day: tomorrow I will decide upon a challenge. Tomorrow, I hope, I will be feeling better.
I've been reading Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer for the past four weeks. I'm on page 154. Other books I can't seem to crack are Marie Antoinette: The Journey, The Communist's Daughter by Dennis Bock, and about 17 others sitting on my night table. I should be starting a November challenge, I like Sassy Monkey's idea of doing one 'from the stacks,' but I am also attracted to the idea (c/o Kailana) of reading war-inspired or themed books because of Remembrance Day, but considering I haven't finished a single challenge yet (I came close with the RIP one for October), I might simply have my goal for this month to "get over my reader's block" and actually finish a damn book.
Tomorrow is another day: tomorrow I will decide upon a challenge. Tomorrow, I hope, I will be feeling better.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The Cold Is Killing Me
I have been on the couch all day. Not even Oprah can cheer me up. My voice? Gone. My energy? Gone.
I did, however, get caught up one every single show on my Faux-Vo.
Man, being sick is boring.
I did, however, get caught up one every single show on my Faux-Vo.
Man, being sick is boring.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Good Grief
Here is the number one reason why traditional marketing and/or advertising models are failing: this guy.
The whole thing is just wrong. Or is it me? Being one of the 'target' market he's talking about, I can honestly say I've never been interested in: catfights, freakish people turned into fabulous people, train wrecks (unless it's in Unbreakable), or dates gone horribly wrong unless they involve Michael Vartan, Jennifer Garner, and some kick-ass spy gear.
I read, I watch movies, and I do a lot of shopping for shoes, but that doesn't mean a fellow who admits to smoking, drinking and gambling in his first corporate post can "reach" into my "untapped" market.
Sigh.
The whole thing is just wrong. Or is it me? Being one of the 'target' market he's talking about, I can honestly say I've never been interested in: catfights, freakish people turned into fabulous people, train wrecks (unless it's in Unbreakable), or dates gone horribly wrong unless they involve Michael Vartan, Jennifer Garner, and some kick-ass spy gear.
I read, I watch movies, and I do a lot of shopping for shoes, but that doesn't mean a fellow who admits to smoking, drinking and gambling in his first corporate post can "reach" into my "untapped" market.
Sigh.
Monday, October 30, 2006
TRH Movie - Little Children
It's no secret that I love going to the movies, the popcorn, the big screen, the big, comfy chairs. What I hate about going to the movies? Everyone else at the theatre. If there's one thing I truly despise, it's when the other people in the theatre ruin the movie-going experience for me. The jerks. If it wasn't the woman who arrived three minutes to screen time looking for 4 seats together, it was the knuckleheads beside me who talked through the entire movie.
"There's Kate Winslet!"
Yes, and there are her nipples. I don't need a running commentary of what they look like, I can also see them on the screen there, 40 feet tall and pointing directly at me. Oh, and if you're going to wear a giant parka, please take it off before the movie starts, not during, and then please don't lie it across me so that I'm wearing it as a blanket. And then, if you could be so kind, please don't HIT ME THROUGH THE WHOLE MOVIE as you eat your popcorn. Seriously, my left arm is black and blue.
So. Annoying.
Annnywaaay. Tara and I went to go see Little Children on Saturday evening. Todd Field's second movie, the follow-up to In the Bedroom, Little Children deals with some of the same themes, characters with fatal flaws, families in crisis to an extent, illicit relationships with violent consequences, etc. It's also loooong, like In the Bedroom, which I wouldn't have minded if the movie going experience didn't make me want to lose my mind.
Kate Winslet plays Sarah Pierce, an unsatisfied housewife with a toddler who isn't necessarily convinced she should be a mother. She and house-husband, failed lawyer, ex-football star Brad Adamson (the truly hunky Patrick Wilson) begin an affair that for better or worse, brings them to conclusions about their own lives that will change them forever. The second interweaving storyline involves a pedophile, Ronnie McGorvey (Jackie Earle Haley), an ex-cop Larry Hedges (Noah Emmerich), and the furor over the convicted sex offender returning to the quiet Massachusetts town to live with his mother.
The characters interact, but on a very small basis, they slip in and out of each other's lives, more to keep them glued together and relevant than any other reason. I guess the film is more of an exploration of human nature when it's pushed into extreme situations, what happens when happiness is tied to deceit and turns into unhappiness, the state of modern marriage, society's obvious and necessary fear of sexual predators, and so on.
I'm batting two for two in terms of seeing films in the theatre that I both like and respect, first The Departed, and now this one. If I have one criticism of Field's directing, it's that he's always looking for that one cool shot, you know, the shadow in the picture frame-type stuff that is more to prove to the audience that he's cool than anything else. He could have shot the film clean, with none of the fancy-dancy camera moves that pulled me out rather than kept me in the picture, but on the whole, that's a small criticism of an extremely well acted, well scripted and well directed movie.
"There's Kate Winslet!"
Yes, and there are her nipples. I don't need a running commentary of what they look like, I can also see them on the screen there, 40 feet tall and pointing directly at me. Oh, and if you're going to wear a giant parka, please take it off before the movie starts, not during, and then please don't lie it across me so that I'm wearing it as a blanket. And then, if you could be so kind, please don't HIT ME THROUGH THE WHOLE MOVIE as you eat your popcorn. Seriously, my left arm is black and blue.
So. Annoying.
Annnywaaay. Tara and I went to go see Little Children on Saturday evening. Todd Field's second movie, the follow-up to In the Bedroom, Little Children deals with some of the same themes, characters with fatal flaws, families in crisis to an extent, illicit relationships with violent consequences, etc. It's also loooong, like In the Bedroom, which I wouldn't have minded if the movie going experience didn't make me want to lose my mind.
Kate Winslet plays Sarah Pierce, an unsatisfied housewife with a toddler who isn't necessarily convinced she should be a mother. She and house-husband, failed lawyer, ex-football star Brad Adamson (the truly hunky Patrick Wilson) begin an affair that for better or worse, brings them to conclusions about their own lives that will change them forever. The second interweaving storyline involves a pedophile, Ronnie McGorvey (Jackie Earle Haley), an ex-cop Larry Hedges (Noah Emmerich), and the furor over the convicted sex offender returning to the quiet Massachusetts town to live with his mother.
The characters interact, but on a very small basis, they slip in and out of each other's lives, more to keep them glued together and relevant than any other reason. I guess the film is more of an exploration of human nature when it's pushed into extreme situations, what happens when happiness is tied to deceit and turns into unhappiness, the state of modern marriage, society's obvious and necessary fear of sexual predators, and so on.
I'm batting two for two in terms of seeing films in the theatre that I both like and respect, first The Departed, and now this one. If I have one criticism of Field's directing, it's that he's always looking for that one cool shot, you know, the shadow in the picture frame-type stuff that is more to prove to the audience that he's cool than anything else. He could have shot the film clean, with none of the fancy-dancy camera moves that pulled me out rather than kept me in the picture, but on the whole, that's a small criticism of an extremely well acted, well scripted and well directed movie.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
#62 - One Good Turn
A few months ago, Publisher's Lunch noted that of all the fall books coming out this year, Kate Atkinson's new novel One Good Turn was among the most highly anticipated. And for once, the hype has substance behind it (ahem, The Historian I'm looking at you, I couldn't even finish that abysmally written thing). In fact, Atkinson, like Ishiguro (although not as literary), is such a deft novelist that by the end of the book you're marveling at her skill with a story as much as you are her ability to write in the stream of consciousness form in such a controlled and subtle way.
One Good Turn weaves and bobs through the life of Jackson Brodie, the hardhitting cop from Case Histories. Now in Edinburgh for his lover Julia's play during the Festival (she's also from Case Histories), he finds himself embroiled in a case and now stands on the other side of the law, more a criminal than a cop. With the same keen eye for detail and remarkable skill at creating realistic yet completely distinct characters, Atkinson's novel is much more than your typical bash-'em-on-the-head and solve the crime kind of mystery.
Don't be disappointed, there are dead bodies, lots of intrigue, plenty of coincendences and a pile of action to keep you interested. In fact, I'm not going to say any more except treat yourself and read this novel: you won't regret it.
One Good Turn weaves and bobs through the life of Jackson Brodie, the hardhitting cop from Case Histories. Now in Edinburgh for his lover Julia's play during the Festival (she's also from Case Histories), he finds himself embroiled in a case and now stands on the other side of the law, more a criminal than a cop. With the same keen eye for detail and remarkable skill at creating realistic yet completely distinct characters, Atkinson's novel is much more than your typical bash-'em-on-the-head and solve the crime kind of mystery.
Don't be disappointed, there are dead bodies, lots of intrigue, plenty of coincendences and a pile of action to keep you interested. In fact, I'm not going to say any more except treat yourself and read this novel: you won't regret it.
IFOA V - Margaret Atwood
The cold is hanging on for dear life. It's highly annoying and I am quite sick of it. So as much as I wanted to see Margaret Atwood, there was still a part of me that longed to crawl up in my bed and not leave until Monday morning.
I am very glad I went to the reading though. Atwood read from her latest book, Moral Disorder, and told a lovely story about how she borrowed or used the title from Graeme Gibson - it was the name of one of his novels, but as he had stopped writing fiction, the title had languished until Margaret Atwood asked if she could have it. It's nice to note that even creative (and I am loathe to use the word) geniuses still look around for inspiration and/or input.
Annnywaaay, the story she read was about a high school English teacher, two students (the female protagonist and her boyfriend), and a Robert Browning poem called "The Dutchess". It was hilarious and she cracked up in the middle of reading it, both because it was a funny story and, I would imagine, because she was talking about a real person. The audience giggled when she giggled. We were giggling with Margaret Atwood.
The rest of the night followed suit. Margaret Atwood, sharp as a tack, laughed all the way through the interview, cracked up, made jokes, mimed smoking dope and generally proved she is one of the smartest people, well, ever. I had never seen or heard her in person before so I never realized the extent of her grand old sense of humour. Of course, she was serious too, but in the end her wit won me over—dry, brittle as a bone but not quick to break, it was kind of like watching your favourite kooky aunt do a comedy routine after having one too many glasses of wine. It was bloody brilliant. She had the audience eating out of her hands.
I can't get over how great the festival was this year.
Now, I must stop blogging with the Blackberry as my thumbs are about to fall off. Damn internet isn't working at home.
I am very glad I went to the reading though. Atwood read from her latest book, Moral Disorder, and told a lovely story about how she borrowed or used the title from Graeme Gibson - it was the name of one of his novels, but as he had stopped writing fiction, the title had languished until Margaret Atwood asked if she could have it. It's nice to note that even creative (and I am loathe to use the word) geniuses still look around for inspiration and/or input.
Annnywaaay, the story she read was about a high school English teacher, two students (the female protagonist and her boyfriend), and a Robert Browning poem called "The Dutchess". It was hilarious and she cracked up in the middle of reading it, both because it was a funny story and, I would imagine, because she was talking about a real person. The audience giggled when she giggled. We were giggling with Margaret Atwood.
The rest of the night followed suit. Margaret Atwood, sharp as a tack, laughed all the way through the interview, cracked up, made jokes, mimed smoking dope and generally proved she is one of the smartest people, well, ever. I had never seen or heard her in person before so I never realized the extent of her grand old sense of humour. Of course, she was serious too, but in the end her wit won me over—dry, brittle as a bone but not quick to break, it was kind of like watching your favourite kooky aunt do a comedy routine after having one too many glasses of wine. It was bloody brilliant. She had the audience eating out of her hands.
I can't get over how great the festival was this year.
Now, I must stop blogging with the Blackberry as my thumbs are about to fall off. Damn internet isn't working at home.
Friday, October 27, 2006
The Pull Of The Girlie Movie And Other Random Links
1. As discussed by Tara, as relating to Kirsten Dunst, on Fametracker. I giggled so loudly at work yesterday that one of my coworkers said, "Are you okay?" I have one thing and one thing only to say: "Cuba!"
2. Even though it's not stated explicitly, but it was me who actually sent this package to George at Bookninja, and this post makes me feel good. I know, I'm not supposed to blog about work but how often do you get a shout out on Bookninja?
3. So Misguided also links to Heat, which I'm reading right now too. And she even adds to the awesomeness of the post by linking off to the WWF's current Living Planet report. I heart this blog very much.
2. Even though it's not stated explicitly, but it was me who actually sent this package to George at Bookninja, and this post makes me feel good. I know, I'm not supposed to blog about work but how often do you get a shout out on Bookninja?
3. So Misguided also links to Heat, which I'm reading right now too. And she even adds to the awesomeness of the post by linking off to the WWF's current Living Planet report. I heart this blog very much.
Does the "A" Stand For Awesome?
The true title of this post should be "IFOA IV - Thursday" but that's so boring when last night was probably the best evening of readings I've ever had the pleasure of attending (with the exception of John Irving, which shall stand alone as the single most literary inspiring event I've seen; oh wait, and I saw Michael Ondaatje once, and he inspired me to write this, oh, nevermind).
Like the all-girls event Zesty and I went to last year, last night four inspiring, talented and lovely women read from their latest books of fiction: Madeleine Thien, Claire Messud, Jane Hamilton and Janet Fitch. All four of the readings were complimentary, three of which had more traditional themes of war (Second World War, Terrorism, War on Terror, respectively), and the forth, set in the heyday of the punk rock scene in LA, is perhaps war of a different kind (mosh-pit inspired), and all four women were great readers.
More often than not, I've read the book when I've gone to see an author at the IFOA. I'm thinking that maybe next year I'll do the opposite and go and see people where I haven't read their work. It's a fresh perspective, so inspiring to hear what books actually make the leap from the page into your imagination as told by the author herself. It's impressive, and I would absolutely read every single one of the books from last night.
And I really like how the IFOA balances the commercial-type fiction, like Fitch's, with the more literary fiction, like Thien's, showing that as diverse as the subject matter and styles actually are, the books fit together on that imaginary shelf like peas in a pod. And hell, going and supporting authors at the IFOA makes me feel good, like they deserve the giant round of applause at the end just for sitting in a room for hours, weeks, months, days, years, with their thoughts and a pen, maybe a keyboard, just toiling away to create something that matters.
Tonight, it's Margaret Atwood, one of my own personal literary icons, which should also be inspiring and all that other touchy-feely stuff I mentioned above.
Like the all-girls event Zesty and I went to last year, last night four inspiring, talented and lovely women read from their latest books of fiction: Madeleine Thien, Claire Messud, Jane Hamilton and Janet Fitch. All four of the readings were complimentary, three of which had more traditional themes of war (Second World War, Terrorism, War on Terror, respectively), and the forth, set in the heyday of the punk rock scene in LA, is perhaps war of a different kind (mosh-pit inspired), and all four women were great readers.
More often than not, I've read the book when I've gone to see an author at the IFOA. I'm thinking that maybe next year I'll do the opposite and go and see people where I haven't read their work. It's a fresh perspective, so inspiring to hear what books actually make the leap from the page into your imagination as told by the author herself. It's impressive, and I would absolutely read every single one of the books from last night.
And I really like how the IFOA balances the commercial-type fiction, like Fitch's, with the more literary fiction, like Thien's, showing that as diverse as the subject matter and styles actually are, the books fit together on that imaginary shelf like peas in a pod. And hell, going and supporting authors at the IFOA makes me feel good, like they deserve the giant round of applause at the end just for sitting in a room for hours, weeks, months, days, years, with their thoughts and a pen, maybe a keyboard, just toiling away to create something that matters.
Tonight, it's Margaret Atwood, one of my own personal literary icons, which should also be inspiring and all that other touchy-feely stuff I mentioned above.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
You Want Me To Do What?
I have caught the cold. I'm running a fever, have a sore throat, and my chest feels weighted down by lead balloons. What can you do? It was bound to happen. I've been hyper-lucky with colds this year (read: I haven't really had any) so I suppose I was due.
But, of course, it comes on the heels of other more pressing issues. I can tell you shuffling around the house in my pajamas is one of my favourite things to do. Shuffling around the house while having a cold in my pajamas, not so much. You can't enjoy anything when you have a cold: not TV, not a book, not the internet, nothing.
You really can't enjoy peeing in a jug for 24 hours when you have a cold. Yes, you read that right, I'm peeing in a jug. It's the most hated of all the clinical tests I have to do for my damn kidneys: the 24-hour urine test. While I understand that they need to see how much protein is being leaked from my poor, beleaguered organ, I absolutely hate this test. I mean, who wants a jug of their pee in their fridge for 24 hours? Who?
Wait, don't answer that.
But, of course, it comes on the heels of other more pressing issues. I can tell you shuffling around the house in my pajamas is one of my favourite things to do. Shuffling around the house while having a cold in my pajamas, not so much. You can't enjoy anything when you have a cold: not TV, not a book, not the internet, nothing.
You really can't enjoy peeing in a jug for 24 hours when you have a cold. Yes, you read that right, I'm peeing in a jug. It's the most hated of all the clinical tests I have to do for my damn kidneys: the 24-hour urine test. While I understand that they need to see how much protein is being leaked from my poor, beleaguered organ, I absolutely hate this test. I mean, who wants a jug of their pee in their fridge for 24 hours? Who?
Wait, don't answer that.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
IFOA - Sunday III
Aw, Sarah Waters is brilliant, in that top-notch sort of British way. She's very open and down to earth, and had a lot of really wonderful things to say about The Night Watch and her other novels. It makes all the difference when there's an interviewer who can penetrate the subject and then let the question stand for itself, then realize that it's not about them and just let the author answer. There's patience and authority in that kind of a voice, and that's what Susan G. Cole brought to the table.
After hearing Waters talk about the agenda, if I should use such a loaded word, behind Tipping the Velvet, maybe I could have been a bit more forgiving in my original impressions of the novel.
Today was inspiring, as I usually find the IFOA, urges me toward working even harder to get something finished.
After hearing Waters talk about the agenda, if I should use such a loaded word, behind Tipping the Velvet, maybe I could have been a bit more forgiving in my original impressions of the novel.
Today was inspiring, as I usually find the IFOA, urges me toward working even harder to get something finished.
IFOA Sunday II
We're sitting in a roundtable at the moment with Nicole Krauss, Colson Whitehead, Deborah Eisenberg and the "moderator" David Eddie. I'm a little disappointed with the benign nature of the questions and the conversation, billed as a investigation of the lines between fiction and non-fiction, and they are stumbling in the mire of such over-discussed issues in the publishing world like James freaking Frey.
I do applaud the authors, especially Nicole Krauss, who had some very enlightening things to say around the idea that the novel is an exchange between the reader and the writer that should be authentic, which is an interesting way to look at a book in terms of both the writer and the reader. And as Zesty put it so eloquently, would her husband really be getting the questions about what's it's like to live with her great talent, somehow, I think not. She's pretty astute, that Zesty. Enough of who Krauss is married to, how about you let her work stand for itself?
But man, after the glowing brilliance of Sarah Waters and Rosemarie Sullivan, the ineptitude of this poor moderator is painful.
I do applaud the authors, especially Nicole Krauss, who had some very enlightening things to say around the idea that the novel is an exchange between the reader and the writer that should be authentic, which is an interesting way to look at a book in terms of both the writer and the reader. And as Zesty put it so eloquently, would her husband really be getting the questions about what's it's like to live with her great talent, somehow, I think not. She's pretty astute, that Zesty. Enough of who Krauss is married to, how about you let her work stand for itself?
But man, after the glowing brilliance of Sarah Waters and Rosemarie Sullivan, the ineptitude of this poor moderator is painful.
IFOA - Sunday I
The first two readings Ami McKay (The Birth House) and Bernice Eisenstein (I Was The Child of Holocaust Survivors) did not dissapoint. Both women told incredible and sincere stories, Ami about women, childbirth and the Halifax Explosion; Bernice about her father, as introductions to their readings. It gives the material another dimension, hearing the stories in the voices that must at least be close to how they sound in their heads.
I've read both books (links will be added later), and hearing them now, makes me think back with a different opinion of both. It's a pretty full crowd too, which is positive as well.
Next up, Rosemary Sullivan and the star power of Sarah Waters...
I've read both books (links will be added later), and hearing them now, makes me think back with a different opinion of both. It's a pretty full crowd too, which is positive as well.
Next up, Rosemary Sullivan and the star power of Sarah Waters...
Saturday, October 21, 2006
IFOA = CMJ
My RRHB over the past couple years has gone down to NYC for the big music festival. But to me, the week that the authors are in town, for me, kind of represents that sort of a week. Tomorrow we'll be seeing an entire day of authors events and I am going to live blog via my crackberry throughout the day. So, forgive typos, forgive the small screen grammar, but love the words.
Oh, and if anyone else is heading out there tomorrow - please say hello. I'll be the girl in the giant knitted scarf.
Oh, and if anyone else is heading out there tomorrow - please say hello. I'll be the girl in the giant knitted scarf.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Today
My application was accepted by the Humber School for Writers. I will be doing their 2007 correspondence course. Fingers crossed I work hard enough to get the value from the experience. But, yay!
Once I start expect me to resurface in about six months...
Once I start expect me to resurface in about six months...
TRH Movie - Marie Antoinette Redux
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
TRH Movie - Marie Antoinette
Last week while I was in my abridging hell, I went to see a screening of Marie Antoinette for Chart (review will be up this Friday). Sometimes, I kind of wish I did more freelance, because the idea of seeing a movie first-thing in the morning with no one but other writers in the room, kind of appeals to me. It's funny, we're all the same with our little notebooks and pens sitting on our laps, scrawling in giant, illegible writing because it's hard to see in the dark, obviously.
So, Marie Antoinette. Yeah, I can't make up my mind about this film, whether I liked it or hated it, whether its genius or ridiculous, which doesn't bode well for a coherent review. It's pop culture history stripped of the more juicy bits (we don't even get a beheading) leaving behind a music video that tries to recreate the social and emotional journey of the movie's main character.
But I really like Sofia Coppola. I've seen The Virgin Suicides more times than I can count on my fingers and toes, and love, love, loved Lost in Translation. She has a way of pulling out great performances from actresses who, for the most part, get by on being gorgeous rather than insanely talented. She does the same with Kirsten Dunst in this picture: she's good.
But parts of me just can't get over the non-historical aspects of the film. I'm aching for a British accent and a good bit of Elizabeth. I'm dying to see inside Antoinette in terms of looking beyond her wardrobe and flirty fashion sequences. I'm wanting to be more engaged, I guess, with the subject matter, wanting more BBC and PBS, and, goodness help me, maybe even a dose of Keira Knightley inspired Jane Austen.
I know Coppola was trying to bring the relevance of Marie Antoinette's life to audiences of this centry, to boldly re-tell her story in her own particular way, but I'm not quite there with her. Who knows? I can't make up my mind. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel differently.
So, Marie Antoinette. Yeah, I can't make up my mind about this film, whether I liked it or hated it, whether its genius or ridiculous, which doesn't bode well for a coherent review. It's pop culture history stripped of the more juicy bits (we don't even get a beheading) leaving behind a music video that tries to recreate the social and emotional journey of the movie's main character.
But I really like Sofia Coppola. I've seen The Virgin Suicides more times than I can count on my fingers and toes, and love, love, loved Lost in Translation. She has a way of pulling out great performances from actresses who, for the most part, get by on being gorgeous rather than insanely talented. She does the same with Kirsten Dunst in this picture: she's good.
But parts of me just can't get over the non-historical aspects of the film. I'm aching for a British accent and a good bit of Elizabeth. I'm dying to see inside Antoinette in terms of looking beyond her wardrobe and flirty fashion sequences. I'm wanting to be more engaged, I guess, with the subject matter, wanting more BBC and PBS, and, goodness help me, maybe even a dose of Keira Knightley inspired Jane Austen.
I know Coppola was trying to bring the relevance of Marie Antoinette's life to audiences of this centry, to boldly re-tell her story in her own particular way, but I'm not quite there with her. Who knows? I can't make up my mind. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel differently.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Oh, Shut Up Studio 60
No, wait, shut up Sting. A lute? Seriously?
It's all so good, except it's not, and that's frustrating.
It's all so good, except it's not, and that's frustrating.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
TRH Movie - The Departed
After being totally burned out with the two manuscripts I have due (the past four weeks have been intense), and getting nowhere with the second one that I need to hand in (one's already gone, yay!), my RRHB convinced me to take a break and we went to see a movie this afternoon. And before you ask, yes, I'm back to editing right now.
Annnywwaaay. We tried to go see The Departed last night and it was sold out, so this afternoon we left early for the theatre. And I am thankful we did. It's probably one of the best films I've seen this year, if not the best, and I'm so happy not to be disappointed. I love Martin Scorsese, I mean, I even dug Gangs of New York as surprising as that might be, but this film, well, this film kind of sort of blew me away. I watch so many movies that already knowing what's going to happen, or at least having some idea when it comes to cops and mobsters, of the intended endings, isn't surprising. Here, in The Departed though, I had no idea, and that was so refreshing.
William Monahan's script is stupendous; it's not good in a contrived kind of way, doesn't want to pull on your heartstrings and make a big, righteous point (ahem, Crash), but it gets there nonetheless. And like Clint Eastwood's Mystic River a lot of the reasons why the film works is because it's not set in New York, as Lisa Schwarzbaum points out, but in the streets of Boston. Not unlike Brotherhood something happens when you take the mob out of the mean streets, there's an edge that seems kind of akin to the cool kids at that table in high school, the more interesting and grittier individuals are probably holding court out back in the smoking area.
And the smoking area it is, The Departed brings Shakespeare to a new age, a drama that has classical implications, the pairing of Matt Damon and Leonardo DiCaprio as two cops, total opposites in terms of integrity and coming from parallel but still inverse backgrounds, coupled with the slow disintegration of their worlds and their identities , tossed around with the very real threat of, well, death, really and truly works.
There's a line that Matt Damon says to the pivotal lady in the film, Vera Farmiga, who plays a state shrink, as his world starts to crumble (and I'm paraphrasing, because I'm damn tired) that sort of sums up the entire pathos of the film: "If this has to end, you've got to be the one to end it. I'm Irish, we I can live in a bad situation for the rest of my life."
It's a world where self-preservation seems more profound with the silences, where Jack Nicholson, who reigns as the big, bad Boston boss, can frolic at the opera (wha?) as easily as he can at a Southie bar, and still come out without necessarily breaking character. It's a world where good equals bad, equals good, equals totally farked up until the utterly satisfying ending, of which you'll find no spoilers here (see, see when it's a movie I like, I won't give away the ending). There's value in watching the story unfold, as each man discovers who the other one is (mole, meet rat, rat meet mole), they find themselves in ever-increasingly morally problematic situations. And we're the richer for them.
My only criticism? That there's no mob wife, no lady other than the doe 'caught in the middle' of Farmiga's Madolyn. Even if Laura Linney's Lady Macbeth-like Annabeth seemingly comes out of nowhere, she's at least at the table. She's not the dressing; she's actually at the table, part of which the non-existent female characters in this male-centric movie are missing.
But still, the more I think about it, the more I like this film. Hell, I'd even pay to see it again.
Annnywwaaay. We tried to go see The Departed last night and it was sold out, so this afternoon we left early for the theatre. And I am thankful we did. It's probably one of the best films I've seen this year, if not the best, and I'm so happy not to be disappointed. I love Martin Scorsese, I mean, I even dug Gangs of New York as surprising as that might be, but this film, well, this film kind of sort of blew me away. I watch so many movies that already knowing what's going to happen, or at least having some idea when it comes to cops and mobsters, of the intended endings, isn't surprising. Here, in The Departed though, I had no idea, and that was so refreshing.
William Monahan's script is stupendous; it's not good in a contrived kind of way, doesn't want to pull on your heartstrings and make a big, righteous point (ahem, Crash), but it gets there nonetheless. And like Clint Eastwood's Mystic River a lot of the reasons why the film works is because it's not set in New York, as Lisa Schwarzbaum points out, but in the streets of Boston. Not unlike Brotherhood something happens when you take the mob out of the mean streets, there's an edge that seems kind of akin to the cool kids at that table in high school, the more interesting and grittier individuals are probably holding court out back in the smoking area.
And the smoking area it is, The Departed brings Shakespeare to a new age, a drama that has classical implications, the pairing of Matt Damon and Leonardo DiCaprio as two cops, total opposites in terms of integrity and coming from parallel but still inverse backgrounds, coupled with the slow disintegration of their worlds and their identities , tossed around with the very real threat of, well, death, really and truly works.
There's a line that Matt Damon says to the pivotal lady in the film, Vera Farmiga, who plays a state shrink, as his world starts to crumble (and I'm paraphrasing, because I'm damn tired) that sort of sums up the entire pathos of the film: "If this has to end, you've got to be the one to end it. I'm Irish, we I can live in a bad situation for the rest of my life."
It's a world where self-preservation seems more profound with the silences, where Jack Nicholson, who reigns as the big, bad Boston boss, can frolic at the opera (wha?) as easily as he can at a Southie bar, and still come out without necessarily breaking character. It's a world where good equals bad, equals good, equals totally farked up until the utterly satisfying ending, of which you'll find no spoilers here (see, see when it's a movie I like, I won't give away the ending). There's value in watching the story unfold, as each man discovers who the other one is (mole, meet rat, rat meet mole), they find themselves in ever-increasingly morally problematic situations. And we're the richer for them.
My only criticism? That there's no mob wife, no lady other than the doe 'caught in the middle' of Farmiga's Madolyn. Even if Laura Linney's Lady Macbeth-like Annabeth seemingly comes out of nowhere, she's at least at the table. She's not the dressing; she's actually at the table, part of which the non-existent female characters in this male-centric movie are missing.
But still, the more I think about it, the more I like this film. Hell, I'd even pay to see it again.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
#61 - Paula Spencer
Roddy Doyle's latest novel, Paula Spencer, continues the story he started in 1996 with his superb book, The Woman Who Walked Into Doors. Told in his now-classic stream of consciousness style, Paula Spencer finds the main character sober, a widow, and on the eve of her 48th birthday. Now that she's sober, Paula faces up to all of her demons: her children and her inability to be their mother; what it means to be a recovering alcoholic; what life is like being poor but making it; and how to make it through a day with nothing to hide behind, every day is a 'real' day for her.
It's no secret how much I adore Roddy Doyle's work. A Star Called Henry might just be one of my all-time favourites, no, it is one of my all-time favourites, right up there with Jude the Obscure and On the Road. But sometimes, his dialogue is so hard to follow, which is what happened with the sequel to Henry, Oh, Play That Thing. I've tried to read that book numerous times and could never get through it. Thankfully, Paula Spencer doesn't have that problem. Not that it's a book you fly through; it's heavy in terms of 'issues', but his writing style works so much better in terms of modern Dublin than it does in terms of the America of the jazz age. Henry never really fit in there, at least not to me.
I feel Paula in this novel. The ache that comes from growing up with an alcoholic parent, and how she speaks about her daughter, Nicola, as being her child instead of the other way around, well, that's something I totally understand. But most of all, I like how this book highlights the patterns of life changing, and how hard work does truly get you somewhere in life. And when Paula takes that walk through Trinty College, makes it through another day of work, opens a bank account, you want to cheer, because even the mundane aspects of life are miraculous if you've never experienced them sober before. At least that's what I think anyway. She's a strength of character, that Paula, I'd read about her until the ends of the earth.
It's no secret how much I adore Roddy Doyle's work. A Star Called Henry might just be one of my all-time favourites, no, it is one of my all-time favourites, right up there with Jude the Obscure and On the Road. But sometimes, his dialogue is so hard to follow, which is what happened with the sequel to Henry, Oh, Play That Thing. I've tried to read that book numerous times and could never get through it. Thankfully, Paula Spencer doesn't have that problem. Not that it's a book you fly through; it's heavy in terms of 'issues', but his writing style works so much better in terms of modern Dublin than it does in terms of the America of the jazz age. Henry never really fit in there, at least not to me.
I feel Paula in this novel. The ache that comes from growing up with an alcoholic parent, and how she speaks about her daughter, Nicola, as being her child instead of the other way around, well, that's something I totally understand. But most of all, I like how this book highlights the patterns of life changing, and how hard work does truly get you somewhere in life. And when Paula takes that walk through Trinty College, makes it through another day of work, opens a bank account, you want to cheer, because even the mundane aspects of life are miraculous if you've never experienced them sober before. At least that's what I think anyway. She's a strength of character, that Paula, I'd read about her until the ends of the earth.
#60 - Sharp Objects
Let's just get the confessions out of the way off the top: I heart Entertainment Weekly. Ever since Tara left a copy in the lunchroom of the magazine where we both used to work, I've been hooked. So, when I found out that Gillian Flynn was publishing her first book, Sharp Objects, I already came to this novel already wanting to love it, because by proxy, I obviously heart the snarky goodness she brings to the magazine each week as its television columnist/reporter/reviewer.
Anyway, here's a short synopsis, it's commerical, rather than literary fiction, so keep that in mind: Camille Preaker, a cub reporter with a Chicago daily, is called back to her hometown, Wind Gap, Missouri, to cover the story when two pre-teen girls end up dead. The infamous cliches of small town life are explored as Camille tries to uncover who has killed the girls and why. Born to a teenage mother and an unknown father, Camille has never really bonded with her family, add in a stepfather and a half-sister who puts Thirteen to shame, and the word outcast hardly seems competent.
As Camille's world unravels, she drinks. As she drinks, we uncover deeper secrets in her past, and one by one, the pieces fall into place. The plot's a tad predictable, but it doesn't matter because Flynn's writing is so sharp (yes, the title, I know) that the book rips along at a feverish pitch. I read it in one sitting like a swift first drink up north and must say: it's the perfect book for a rainy sky as the sun starts to set.
Oh, and 'cause it's also super-creepy, with lots of dead bodies and freaky things happening, I'm going to count this book in my October reading challenge. I know it's not on the original list, but that makes three! Yay! It's the closest I've been to finishing a challenge yet...
Anyway, here's a short synopsis, it's commerical, rather than literary fiction, so keep that in mind: Camille Preaker, a cub reporter with a Chicago daily, is called back to her hometown, Wind Gap, Missouri, to cover the story when two pre-teen girls end up dead. The infamous cliches of small town life are explored as Camille tries to uncover who has killed the girls and why. Born to a teenage mother and an unknown father, Camille has never really bonded with her family, add in a stepfather and a half-sister who puts Thirteen to shame, and the word outcast hardly seems competent.
As Camille's world unravels, she drinks. As she drinks, we uncover deeper secrets in her past, and one by one, the pieces fall into place. The plot's a tad predictable, but it doesn't matter because Flynn's writing is so sharp (yes, the title, I know) that the book rips along at a feverish pitch. I read it in one sitting like a swift first drink up north and must say: it's the perfect book for a rainy sky as the sun starts to set.
Oh, and 'cause it's also super-creepy, with lots of dead bodies and freaky things happening, I'm going to count this book in my October reading challenge. I know it's not on the original list, but that makes three! Yay! It's the closest I've been to finishing a challenge yet...
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
#59 - The Hunchback of Notre-Dame
Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre-Dame is creepy, fascinating and utterly terrifying. But like all classics, it's a bit too wordy, and I found the many pages of the lessons in the history of Parisian architecture a bit hard to take. However, some of the traditional conflicts in the novel, man vs. religion (oh, the powerful beauty of a gypsy girl), man vs. beast (oh, Quasimodo, how misunderstood you are), and man vs. man (oh, the upper class takes a crack at the lower classes), are still powerful.
Sorry for the mini-review, but I'm knee-deep in abridging and will probably not surface until this time next week. But, I'm damn glad I can cross one title off my October reading challenge. Let the bells sing!
Sorry for the mini-review, but I'm knee-deep in abridging and will probably not surface until this time next week. But, I'm damn glad I can cross one title off my October reading challenge. Let the bells sing!
Friday, October 06, 2006
My Interview With Curtis
Awhile back, I interviewed Curtis Sittenfeld, author of Prep (a book that I urge everyone to read, EVERYONE) and The Man of My Dreams, which I also loved. It was a work thing, and I enjoyed it immensely, but I was so freaking nervous that I think I sound like a complete moron. Anyway, the interview is now up in its quasi-podcast form here. It's in the Audio & Video channel, down towards bottom, underneath Robert J. Wiersma and just above Alice Munro.
It's a membership-only site, so you'll have to register, and if you're not down with that, I completely understand. But I can't bring myself to listen to it (I'm terrified it's bloody terrible), so if anyone else can get through it, please let me know what you think.
It's a membership-only site, so you'll have to register, and if you're not down with that, I completely understand. But I can't bring myself to listen to it (I'm terrified it's bloody terrible), so if anyone else can get through it, please let me know what you think.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Love In The Grocery Aisle
So, I totally just finished up with my very inspiring writer's group, and stopped into the grocery store for (I am not going to lie) some rice chips. I am always fascinated by other people's groceries: what's in the cart, on the list, how it figures into their lives. The fellow in front of me had an awesome selection, yams, broccoli, spinach, lactose-free ice cream.
And he was as delicious as his items, the perfect chicklit hero, tall, almost-Matthew-Fox, with short dark hair and these sweet freckles. Just seeing him made me want to write a story about an unlucky in love heroine who sees the perfect man in the grocery store (sans list, therefore single, of course) and lives happily ever after.
See, writer's group totally rocks.
And he was as delicious as his items, the perfect chicklit hero, tall, almost-Matthew-Fox, with short dark hair and these sweet freckles. Just seeing him made me want to write a story about an unlucky in love heroine who sees the perfect man in the grocery store (sans list, therefore single, of course) and lives happily ever after.
See, writer's group totally rocks.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
#58 - I Feel Bad About My Neck
Even after finishing Nora Ephron's supremely cute I Feel Bad About My Neck, I'm not really sure if I'm a fan of hers or not. I'd have to say that I found Hanging Up to be one of the worst movies I've ever seen, and even if she's only partially responsible for that atrocity, I'm still going to hold it against her. Her meditations on aging are cute and funny, more like tiny vignettes strung together with Ephron herself as the only common thread.
Roll-your-eyes kind of mom wisdom mixed up with tidbits about the non-joys of growing older, I Feel Bad About My Neck reads more like a magazine you'd read in the doctor's office than "literature" of the highest order. Which I think is totally fine—it's all my brain could withstand this week. In some ways, I guess I'm lucky. I'm about half Ephron's age, so at least I know now to stock up on the black turtlenecks for when I do feel bad about my own neck. It's bound to happen someday.
Although, I'd be interested to see what she thinks about something other than cabbage strudel and her apartment couches. There's a sweet chapter on Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (and I agree, it's an awesome novel), but for the most part, the oh-wise-sage moments are a little too endearing.
Watch out for cute overload: People who spend too much time in front of the computer, "Mouse Potatoes." Heh.
The best piece of advice: If you're under 34 put on a bikini and wear it all the time. Don't take it off until you turn 35.
The second-best piece of advice: Never marry someone you wouldn't want to be divorced from...now that's an interesting way to look at love in the modern world.
Roll-your-eyes kind of mom wisdom mixed up with tidbits about the non-joys of growing older, I Feel Bad About My Neck reads more like a magazine you'd read in the doctor's office than "literature" of the highest order. Which I think is totally fine—it's all my brain could withstand this week. In some ways, I guess I'm lucky. I'm about half Ephron's age, so at least I know now to stock up on the black turtlenecks for when I do feel bad about my own neck. It's bound to happen someday.
Although, I'd be interested to see what she thinks about something other than cabbage strudel and her apartment couches. There's a sweet chapter on Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (and I agree, it's an awesome novel), but for the most part, the oh-wise-sage moments are a little too endearing.
Watch out for cute overload: People who spend too much time in front of the computer, "Mouse Potatoes." Heh.
The best piece of advice: If you're under 34 put on a bikini and wear it all the time. Don't take it off until you turn 35.
The second-best piece of advice: Never marry someone you wouldn't want to be divorced from...now that's an interesting way to look at love in the modern world.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Flashdance
Oh yeah, I went by myself to dance class tonight. I was terrified. But it was (and continues to be) a wonderful experience. Tonight, the teacher, Helen, involked Martha Graham, "Ms. Graham", she said, as we did contractions and high releases on the floor. My hip is still totally stiff but I am exhilerated by the end of the 90 minutes.
It makes me want more, more, more. And I don't think it's a bad thing.
Other milestones reached? I read 2 books (updates to come), finished the first draft of one of my abridged books and took the last of the prednisone for the foreseeable future.
I am exhausted but elated all in the same breath.
It makes me want more, more, more. And I don't think it's a bad thing.
Other milestones reached? I read 2 books (updates to come), finished the first draft of one of my abridged books and took the last of the prednisone for the foreseeable future.
I am exhausted but elated all in the same breath.
Monday, October 02, 2006
He's Got My Vote
Of course he does. Rock on Mayor Miller, rock on! He likes reading AND he likes beer. Isn't that all you need in a politician?
Now, Here's A Sentence...
...I never thought I would write. My RRHB is obsessed, OBSESSED, with So You Think You Can Dance. It's on his Faux-Vo list of shows he absolutely must watch. In fact, at this very moment, he's watching the top 20 contestants compete in pairs (he's still on the season currently airing on MuchMusic, I think it's Season 2). We almost missed the beginning of The Wire last night because he wanted to see Stanislav finish his ballroom dance.
October Reading Challenge
Okay, so I read somewhere that one of the challenges floating around is to read 4 scary books before Hallowe'en. Now this is a challenge I might be able to finish. I'm totally including The Ruins on my list because, well, I am. And then I'm reading The Hunchback of Notre-Dame (totally creepy), The Children of Men (I am half-way through and am totally enjoying it—it's leftover summer reading), and one more mystery, probably The Thirteenth Tale, because I've already started it three times (gave one copy away, left another on a plane, have a third at home) and think that it's about time I finished it.
Like Sassymonkey, I can not go a month without a challenge. And since I failed so miserably at my Summer Reading challenge, I thought I'd make this one easy.
Like Sassymonkey, I can not go a month without a challenge. And since I failed so miserably at my Summer Reading challenge, I thought I'd make this one easy.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Bleary-Eyed And Tired
I have been abridging since eleven AM. I am on a roll but also have turned bleary-eyed. My fingers are aching. My wrists are on fire, like the poor woman in the commercial. And, I must confess, I'm a little smelly because I haven't had a shower. But it's one big push today and I'm trying to get as much done as I possibly can. Tomorrow, it's back to work. And then I have all of next week off to finish everything up. It seems that time will fly by, which is exactly what I do not want.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Falling Behind
I have fallen behind in just about everything this fall: my abridgings, my own writing, my reading, and I just don't know where the time goes. Except I do, kind of, television, working, doing stuff, trips, anything but sitting on my ass and doing the stuff I'm supposed to be doing. But now that it's getting colder, I'm hoping that things calm down a little.
The other thing I'm missing? My annual sojourn of the band widow. For the first time in about 6 years my RRHB is actually home in the fall. He's never home in the fall. I'm missing the few weeks I have to myself in this season to regroup, figure myself out and get organized for the winter. Hell, I haven't made a meal plan all summer. What's wrong with me? AND, I can't even blame it on my health, because I truly am feeling much better and far, far less diseased.
The other thing I'm missing? My annual sojourn of the band widow. For the first time in about 6 years my RRHB is actually home in the fall. He's never home in the fall. I'm missing the few weeks I have to myself in this season to regroup, figure myself out and get organized for the winter. Hell, I haven't made a meal plan all summer. What's wrong with me? AND, I can't even blame it on my health, because I truly am feeling much better and far, far less diseased.
#57 - Lullabies For Little Criminals
A friend gave me this book while we were in Winnipeg because I left my copy of The Thirteenth Tale on the plane (yet another in a long line of problems plaguing our otherwise totally awesome trip). Now, I never leave home without more than one book, like, never. I hate being stuck reading something that I might not like and not having any options. Generally, this means I have books stashed all over the place: in suitcases, carry-ons, purses, RRHB's backpack, you name it, I'll put a book in there. Of course, this time, the only time I leave the house with one book, is the moment I choose to leave my book on the airplane from hell. Whatever. I was stranded with nothing to read. It's like being left out from your favourite party, not having a book, and I really hate that.
Annnwwaaay. Instead of going to a bookstore, said friend loaned me Heather O'Neill's first novel, Lullabies for Little Criminals. Set in Montreal, I'm thinking in either the late 1970s or early 1980s, the novel tells the story of Baby, a girl who turns 13 over the course of the story. But this is no average bildungsroman, as Baby's journey takes her as far away from the normal kid on a bike, Hollywood troubled teen, as you can possibly imagine. Her father, Jules, who was only 15 when she was born, is a heroin addict; totally incapable of parenting, even after he gets out of rehab, Baby is forced to grow up on her own, painfully noting time and time again, about what not having a mother means to a girl that age. Her own mother, who we hear very little about in a concrete way until the end of the book, died when she was a baby.
The novel falls into the cracks and crevices of the seedy Montreal streets as Baby and Jules move from one rundown apartment to the next. Constantly in and out of social service situations (group home, neighbour's house, juvie), Baby has no one to guide her, and making her own way truly isn't making anything better, as she falls into a terribly destructive relationship with a pimp named Alphonse. And every time Baby makes a bad decision, your heart breaks just a little; she's smart, she's beautiful, but she has no chance or opportunity to take a different path.
O'Neill's writing tumbles down into simile upon simile, which sometimes had my head spinning, but it's so lovely and absolutely engaging that it didn't matter to me that it might be a little bit too much. The story rushes along, sometimes breaking back into Baby's memories, and almost crashes into the redemptive ending, like the end to a really good rock song. Of the 50-odd books I've read this year, this one got caught in my throat (all motherless daughter stories do, dammit!) and I related to it on many levels, not because I had anything in common with the protagonist, but because O'Neill does such a good job of creating her world that you immediately empathize with Baby, all you want is for her to succeed. I'm not going to spoil the ending, in fact, I'm not going to say much more at all, except for a first-time novel, it's pretty damn outstanding.
Annnwwaaay. Instead of going to a bookstore, said friend loaned me Heather O'Neill's first novel, Lullabies for Little Criminals. Set in Montreal, I'm thinking in either the late 1970s or early 1980s, the novel tells the story of Baby, a girl who turns 13 over the course of the story. But this is no average bildungsroman, as Baby's journey takes her as far away from the normal kid on a bike, Hollywood troubled teen, as you can possibly imagine. Her father, Jules, who was only 15 when she was born, is a heroin addict; totally incapable of parenting, even after he gets out of rehab, Baby is forced to grow up on her own, painfully noting time and time again, about what not having a mother means to a girl that age. Her own mother, who we hear very little about in a concrete way until the end of the book, died when she was a baby.
The novel falls into the cracks and crevices of the seedy Montreal streets as Baby and Jules move from one rundown apartment to the next. Constantly in and out of social service situations (group home, neighbour's house, juvie), Baby has no one to guide her, and making her own way truly isn't making anything better, as she falls into a terribly destructive relationship with a pimp named Alphonse. And every time Baby makes a bad decision, your heart breaks just a little; she's smart, she's beautiful, but she has no chance or opportunity to take a different path.
O'Neill's writing tumbles down into simile upon simile, which sometimes had my head spinning, but it's so lovely and absolutely engaging that it didn't matter to me that it might be a little bit too much. The story rushes along, sometimes breaking back into Baby's memories, and almost crashes into the redemptive ending, like the end to a really good rock song. Of the 50-odd books I've read this year, this one got caught in my throat (all motherless daughter stories do, dammit!) and I related to it on many levels, not because I had anything in common with the protagonist, but because O'Neill does such a good job of creating her world that you immediately empathize with Baby, all you want is for her to succeed. I'm not going to spoil the ending, in fact, I'm not going to say much more at all, except for a first-time novel, it's pretty damn outstanding.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
TRH Movie: An Unfinished Life, Pride & Prejudice Redux
Okay, I'm not feeling too well, as you've probably gathered from the lack of posts and the, ahem, too many trips to the ladies, so last night as my RRHB went out for his usual Wednesday night drinks, I stayed home supposedly to "work." I wrote one sentence, quite a good sentence I thought, a metaphor about how this man (who knows what man or what character) is slow to love like a car that takes time to start (okay it sounds cheesy when I write it here) and then put the pen down, gathered up the cat and watched two girlie movies in a row—on a school night, gasp.
The first An Unfinished Life has been on the Faux-Vo for a while gathering dust (along with Water, Wallace and Gromit and a few others) and after the stern talking to I got from said RRHB about allowing said films to gather said dust, I decided to watch it, J-Lo be damned. And it was meh. But I have to say, I enjoy Robert Redford and Morgan Freeman, and I'd watch them in just about anything. You can tell this was adapted from a slow, writerly novel, one that I have not read so I can't comment on the page-to-movie translation, because the film is slow yet precise, just like good literature. It's a bit too over-told, especially the bad boyfriend "girl doesn't deserve better" storyline that J-Lo seems utterly drawn to (how many movies has she been in where her fellow knocks her about, seriously? enough already, we don't believe it, you could kick their asses with your bitchy looks anyway and no one believe your "acting"). Also, the overwhelmingly obvious bear as symbol (yawn, and didn't Brad Pitt kill that thing, like, years ago?) of Robert Redford's past locked up and needing to be set free was tiresome, but I got a bit teary at the end.
Then I became an absolute mess; the weeping and gasping for breath kind of puddle as I watched Pride and Prejudice for the, um, third time. I can't help it—that film is like girlie crack, it's a sugar high when I'm off the sweets, and I bawled like a baby in between pausing for the aforementioned visits to the bathroom (is that TMI?). Annnywaaay. I erased it just so I wouldn't sit down and watch it a half-dozen more times and therefore get absolutely no abridging work done this week, which honestly is so hard-going that I'm getting quite disheartened about the fact that I'll probably miss my deadlines.
I picked hard books this time around. Dummy.
The first An Unfinished Life has been on the Faux-Vo for a while gathering dust (along with Water, Wallace and Gromit and a few others) and after the stern talking to I got from said RRHB about allowing said films to gather said dust, I decided to watch it, J-Lo be damned. And it was meh. But I have to say, I enjoy Robert Redford and Morgan Freeman, and I'd watch them in just about anything. You can tell this was adapted from a slow, writerly novel, one that I have not read so I can't comment on the page-to-movie translation, because the film is slow yet precise, just like good literature. It's a bit too over-told, especially the bad boyfriend "girl doesn't deserve better" storyline that J-Lo seems utterly drawn to (how many movies has she been in where her fellow knocks her about, seriously? enough already, we don't believe it, you could kick their asses with your bitchy looks anyway and no one believe your "acting"). Also, the overwhelmingly obvious bear as symbol (yawn, and didn't Brad Pitt kill that thing, like, years ago?) of Robert Redford's past locked up and needing to be set free was tiresome, but I got a bit teary at the end.
Then I became an absolute mess; the weeping and gasping for breath kind of puddle as I watched Pride and Prejudice for the, um, third time. I can't help it—that film is like girlie crack, it's a sugar high when I'm off the sweets, and I bawled like a baby in between pausing for the aforementioned visits to the bathroom (is that TMI?). Annnywaaay. I erased it just so I wouldn't sit down and watch it a half-dozen more times and therefore get absolutely no abridging work done this week, which honestly is so hard-going that I'm getting quite disheartened about the fact that I'll probably miss my deadlines.
I picked hard books this time around. Dummy.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
#56 - The Friends Of Meager Fortune
I am completely fascinated by the subject matter of The Friends of Meager Fortune, David Adams Richards's latest novel. It's about New Brunswick loggers right before their industry evolves from man to machine powered. The story revolves around Jameson family, who own one of the three logging companies in town, the two sons, Will and Owen, are being raised by their widowed mother Mary. Early on in the story, great tragedy that happens is foretold by a prophecy Mary receives that the Jameson dynasty would be destroyed by the rash actions of the second son (Owen) despite the great reputation of the first (Will).
The story of Will's life and subsequent death, along with how his brother Owen, who is ill-fit to run the business but has good intentions, makes up the bulk of the first part of the story. Backdrop to this is the cut itself, the time that teams of honest, hard working spend atop Good Friday Mountain, the most dangerous cut in the in the history of area's logging. Then, there's a love triangle between Reggie, Will's best friend and the company's Push (a sort of camp manager for the loggers), his wife Camellia and Owen that comprises the impetus for a lot of what propels people into action within the story.
There are problems with the novel though. And despite how much I wanted to like it, and how much I did like it, I found it slightly verbose. There's an element of foretelling that starts to get frustrating after a while, when you've heard the same details about the same characters repeated ad nasueum, which serves no purpose to the underlying story. The telling and re-telling has an almost magical element, kind of like how great stories develop in terms of an oral tradition. But it just didn't quite work for me.
The story itself is epic and tragic, the stuff of great literature, and it's a tale that deserves to be told. I'm fascinated by the idea of lumberjacks, especially those on the verge of extinction and what that does, by its nature, to the idea of a story. But on the whole, this novel is too dense for its own good, and could use a bit of lightening up to get it moving faster because it's a great tale.
After I finished reading the book, I spent a night out with my father-in-law, who was a lumberjack in New Brunswick just as industrialization was changing the industry forever. I liked reading it for this personal aspect; it gave me a level of understanding about what his life might have been like. He was just fourteen when he went into the bush and when he came out, just like the characters in the novel, the entire world had changed.
The story of Will's life and subsequent death, along with how his brother Owen, who is ill-fit to run the business but has good intentions, makes up the bulk of the first part of the story. Backdrop to this is the cut itself, the time that teams of honest, hard working spend atop Good Friday Mountain, the most dangerous cut in the in the history of area's logging. Then, there's a love triangle between Reggie, Will's best friend and the company's Push (a sort of camp manager for the loggers), his wife Camellia and Owen that comprises the impetus for a lot of what propels people into action within the story.
There are problems with the novel though. And despite how much I wanted to like it, and how much I did like it, I found it slightly verbose. There's an element of foretelling that starts to get frustrating after a while, when you've heard the same details about the same characters repeated ad nasueum, which serves no purpose to the underlying story. The telling and re-telling has an almost magical element, kind of like how great stories develop in terms of an oral tradition. But it just didn't quite work for me.
The story itself is epic and tragic, the stuff of great literature, and it's a tale that deserves to be told. I'm fascinated by the idea of lumberjacks, especially those on the verge of extinction and what that does, by its nature, to the idea of a story. But on the whole, this novel is too dense for its own good, and could use a bit of lightening up to get it moving faster because it's a great tale.
After I finished reading the book, I spent a night out with my father-in-law, who was a lumberjack in New Brunswick just as industrialization was changing the industry forever. I liked reading it for this personal aspect; it gave me a level of understanding about what his life might have been like. He was just fourteen when he went into the bush and when he came out, just like the characters in the novel, the entire world had changed.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
A Wedding In Winnipeg
Despite the difficulty in getting to Winnipeg, we really did have a grand old time at the wedding on Saturday. And one of the best reasons? My super-fly tragic hip turned two over the weekend—which is a milestone in terms of my health.
Then, it all came crashing down as I caught the mortal illness from my RRHB. Sunday night, as we were watching The Wire at a friend's house, I became very, very ill. And there's nothing worse than having the runs at someone else's house; I'm mortally embarrassed by bowel movements as it is, lord, I can't even bear typing it.
Anyway, the same crap happened on our return flight where, because I didn't pre-buy the seat selection, we were going to get bumped. I started to cry. The gate attendant took pity and bumped us up to Executive Class. I shivered and huddled my way through the flight and crept into bed the minute we got home.
My body still isn't right, which means I'll miss dance class.
Then, it all came crashing down as I caught the mortal illness from my RRHB. Sunday night, as we were watching The Wire at a friend's house, I became very, very ill. And there's nothing worse than having the runs at someone else's house; I'm mortally embarrassed by bowel movements as it is, lord, I can't even bear typing it.
Anyway, the same crap happened on our return flight where, because I didn't pre-buy the seat selection, we were going to get bumped. I started to cry. The gate attendant took pity and bumped us up to Executive Class. I shivered and huddled my way through the flight and crept into bed the minute we got home.
My body still isn't right, which means I'll miss dance class.
Friday, September 22, 2006
#2 Reason I Make A Terrible Housewife
I totally miss the fine print and don't pay the extra $25 for confirmed seats. We get bumped. That in itself isn't so bad, we got a voucher and had to waste 3 hours at the airport, which is annoying but not brutal...except for the fact that my RRHB is deathly ill. He woke up this morning throwing up and feverish so waiting around the airport was not something he wanted to do. He was so ill that he slept on the floor the whole time. He couldn't even sit in the chair.
Now we're cloistered in our hotel room and have just had some room service. I've been making up my bad wife-ed-ness all day. It's hard to watch someone you love suffer.
Now we're cloistered in our hotel room and have just had some room service. I've been making up my bad wife-ed-ness all day. It's hard to watch someone you love suffer.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Wha?
Can someone explain to me why this Canadian Encyclopedia entry (the only one of its kind I might add) about Calgary doesn't really tell me anything other than the musical history of the city?
Had I wanted to know the history of music in Calgary, I would have searched for said topic. But truly, who cares? Shut up Canadian Encyclopedia. You suck.
Had I wanted to know the history of music in Calgary, I would have searched for said topic. But truly, who cares? Shut up Canadian Encyclopedia. You suck.
TRH TV - Totally Out Of Control
Last night's episode of Rescue Me on Showcase was so overwhelming that I'm not sure I can accurately reflect my thoughts, but I'll try anyway. For months, I'd unwittingly read the spoilers about how Tommy rapes his wife during a particularly heated moment.
But knowing it's coming and seeing it on the television are two totally different things. My RRHB likes Rescue Me a great deal, if only because, as he says, it reminds him of my family (personally, I don't see the resemblance, but whatever); and I like it too. I mean, it's right up there with Brotherhood, another show that hits me in the guts and pulls tight, especially this week's episode, and The Wire as my one of my current favourites, but it's a show that I find deeply conflicted.
Any maybe that's what fuels the fire in terms of keeping the show current and in the public eye, this sense of pushing the boundaries in terms of a true 'bad' boy, one that you love to hate, in the Tommy character, but it always makes me question the idea of representing such violence against women (and he's a violent person, don't get me wrong, so you kind of expect it, but still...) on television.
Mainly, did he have to walk out of the house with a smirk on his face? What did that mean? How am I supposed to interpret that? And Janet sort of brushing the whole thing off as she holds her shirt together after seemingly enjoying it after Tommy got himself going, what does that mean? She actually liked being beaten up and the forced to have sex with her ex-husband? All in all I kind of think it went a bit too far but maybe I'm just being a prude.
But I think if you're going to represent men in that way, in that stereotypical way, where they overpower the women in their lives with violence after they do something you don't agree with, or sleep with someone you don't want them to sleep with, you should at least pull together some sense of understanding on the part of the audience. Then again, maybe we're not supposed to sympathize with Tommy at all, with his "crazy chick" ranting and wife-beating ways. I'll still watch the show and perhaps in the end that's all that matters.
Oh, and I'm loving The Wire. Aren't you?
Right now my Faux-Vo is totally packed to the gills with TV I need to watch: the WB sign off, new Law and Orders, Men in Trees (I know, but it's a girlie show, I kind of like it, even if I know it's totally trite and manipulative), and too much more to mention. AND, a lot of the new shows haven't even started yet.
I did, however, manage to watch Studio 60 and felt kind of meh about it. I adored Matthew Perry though. He rocked the small screen every moment he was there and you can't deny Sorkin writes good, if a bit hefty, dialogue. But I was never a West Wing fan so I'm not sure how long I'll hang on to that one.
So with all the TV, the two abridgings I have due, my page a day challenge that I'm keeping up and all the reading, not to mention dance class, my eyes are blurry and bloodshot on a good day.
Plus, I'm feeling totally discombobulated because usually the RRHB is away this time of year and I settle in for a good dose of band widowdom before the winter sets in. Does someone want to book them some gigs so I can catch up on all the TV I need to watch?
But knowing it's coming and seeing it on the television are two totally different things. My RRHB likes Rescue Me a great deal, if only because, as he says, it reminds him of my family (personally, I don't see the resemblance, but whatever); and I like it too. I mean, it's right up there with Brotherhood, another show that hits me in the guts and pulls tight, especially this week's episode, and The Wire as my one of my current favourites, but it's a show that I find deeply conflicted.
Any maybe that's what fuels the fire in terms of keeping the show current and in the public eye, this sense of pushing the boundaries in terms of a true 'bad' boy, one that you love to hate, in the Tommy character, but it always makes me question the idea of representing such violence against women (and he's a violent person, don't get me wrong, so you kind of expect it, but still...) on television.
Mainly, did he have to walk out of the house with a smirk on his face? What did that mean? How am I supposed to interpret that? And Janet sort of brushing the whole thing off as she holds her shirt together after seemingly enjoying it after Tommy got himself going, what does that mean? She actually liked being beaten up and the forced to have sex with her ex-husband? All in all I kind of think it went a bit too far but maybe I'm just being a prude.
But I think if you're going to represent men in that way, in that stereotypical way, where they overpower the women in their lives with violence after they do something you don't agree with, or sleep with someone you don't want them to sleep with, you should at least pull together some sense of understanding on the part of the audience. Then again, maybe we're not supposed to sympathize with Tommy at all, with his "crazy chick" ranting and wife-beating ways. I'll still watch the show and perhaps in the end that's all that matters.
Oh, and I'm loving The Wire. Aren't you?
Right now my Faux-Vo is totally packed to the gills with TV I need to watch: the WB sign off, new Law and Orders, Men in Trees (I know, but it's a girlie show, I kind of like it, even if I know it's totally trite and manipulative), and too much more to mention. AND, a lot of the new shows haven't even started yet.
I did, however, manage to watch Studio 60 and felt kind of meh about it. I adored Matthew Perry though. He rocked the small screen every moment he was there and you can't deny Sorkin writes good, if a bit hefty, dialogue. But I was never a West Wing fan so I'm not sure how long I'll hang on to that one.
So with all the TV, the two abridgings I have due, my page a day challenge that I'm keeping up and all the reading, not to mention dance class, my eyes are blurry and bloodshot on a good day.
Plus, I'm feeling totally discombobulated because usually the RRHB is away this time of year and I settle in for a good dose of band widowdom before the winter sets in. Does someone want to book them some gigs so I can catch up on all the TV I need to watch?
#55 - The Custodian of Paradise
I read The Custodian of Paradise, Wayne Johnston's companion novel to The Colony of Unrequited Dreams, in a flash this weekend for an interview I did at work this week (today, in fact). The novel tells the story of Sheilagh Fielding, the larger than life, both figuratively and literally (as she stands six-foot-three) character from Johnston's Colony, as she tells her side of the story, the side we didn't read in the aforementioned novel.
Wayne Johnston is a favourite of mine. The fall where I read the paperback copy of Colony was the first year that my RRHB and I were living together. It was a tough year, not because of that, but because of all the stuff we waded through, much of our own making, to get into our apartment (feuding friends, feuding ex-partners, crazy fall-out from the last time the disease flared, etc) and the book was a breath of fresh air; Joey Smallwood doing for me at that moment what Owen Meany had done for me in Banff, lifted me up and out of my doldrums and pushed me right back in my imagination.
The Custodian of Paradise, while not a broad, sweeping historical novel, sort of did the same thing. Although I don't recommend reading it like I did, pushing it down in a timeframe because you want to prepare for your interview, but rather savouring it like a good bottle of wine you're drinking as the sun sets at the cottage. It's an interior story, Sheilagh's story, told mainly through her own writing, her newspaper articles, her journals, her letters, which makes it thoroughly intense in terms of emotional investment.
And it's a sad story, but triumphant in that Sheilagh's a survivor: she rides the wave of her mother's abandonment, triumphs against her father's dismissal of her (he refuses to believe that he's hers), suffers a truly heartbreaking heartbreak, and is forced to give up her children. But through it all, you can see Sheilagh's delicate nature balanced with her skillful wit and her sharp tongue. It's this contrast that makes the book so engaging; and it's a rare accomplishment for a man (and I know, I'm sorry for the gender bias) to write a female protagonist where, not once, I questioned her own innate feminity and/or characterization (see Updike for any proof of how to get this wrong, wrong).
All in all, it's my favourite to win the Giller this year, but I'm not taking any bets as to what'll actually happen.
Wayne Johnston is a favourite of mine. The fall where I read the paperback copy of Colony was the first year that my RRHB and I were living together. It was a tough year, not because of that, but because of all the stuff we waded through, much of our own making, to get into our apartment (feuding friends, feuding ex-partners, crazy fall-out from the last time the disease flared, etc) and the book was a breath of fresh air; Joey Smallwood doing for me at that moment what Owen Meany had done for me in Banff, lifted me up and out of my doldrums and pushed me right back in my imagination.
The Custodian of Paradise, while not a broad, sweeping historical novel, sort of did the same thing. Although I don't recommend reading it like I did, pushing it down in a timeframe because you want to prepare for your interview, but rather savouring it like a good bottle of wine you're drinking as the sun sets at the cottage. It's an interior story, Sheilagh's story, told mainly through her own writing, her newspaper articles, her journals, her letters, which makes it thoroughly intense in terms of emotional investment.
And it's a sad story, but triumphant in that Sheilagh's a survivor: she rides the wave of her mother's abandonment, triumphs against her father's dismissal of her (he refuses to believe that he's hers), suffers a truly heartbreaking heartbreak, and is forced to give up her children. But through it all, you can see Sheilagh's delicate nature balanced with her skillful wit and her sharp tongue. It's this contrast that makes the book so engaging; and it's a rare accomplishment for a man (and I know, I'm sorry for the gender bias) to write a female protagonist where, not once, I questioned her own innate feminity and/or characterization (see Updike for any proof of how to get this wrong, wrong).
All in all, it's my favourite to win the Giller this year, but I'm not taking any bets as to what'll actually happen.
Number One Reason...
Why I would make a terrible housewife:
1. I never check the pockets, of ANYTHING, hence as I just threw my RRHB's work clothes into the washing machine, I also washed his totally expensive phone. Yes, it went in the wash. Do you think it'll survive after it dries? I don't.
Bad, bad wife.
1. I never check the pockets, of ANYTHING, hence as I just threw my RRHB's work clothes into the washing machine, I also washed his totally expensive phone. Yes, it went in the wash. Do you think it'll survive after it dries? I don't.
Bad, bad wife.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Top 10 Reasons Why I Know I Am Now Old
When I was at the kidney doctor's the other day, when he said, "How do you feel?" I replied that I felt great, except for feeling old. He was very serious for a minute and wanted to know if I felt old because I was unwell or if I was half-joking. Of course, I'm half-joking, but I do honestly feel super old these days. On the streetcar ride home I tried to think of all the reasons why I feel so old, particularly this year:
1. Because I've had the disease for over 15 years. That's almost 20 years of going through medical problems. 20 years is a long, long time.
2. I can no longer listen to pop radio. Now, I listen to the CBC in the car. Oddly, when growing up, as other parents listened to the CBC in their cars, mine always listened to pop radio. I am convinced it's because my parents were still so young when they had me. They didn't have the chance to grow out of it, to some extent.
3. I have no idea who the majority of the people are who won MTV Video Awards. No clue.
4. I bought a dress from Anne Klein to wear to a wedding.
5. I carry a purse. All. The. Time. I don't even own a non-work related knapsack.
6. My hair is grey, very, very grey.
7. I have very little patience for public transit despite being incredibly concerned about climate change.
8. Speaking of which, I found myself having a crush, for a nano-second, on Peter MacKay. And then I saw the pictures of him with Condoleeza Rice and decided that it was very, very wrong to have a crush on Peter MacKay.
9. When I meet new people they are always very shocked when they hear my age and almost always say, "You don't look [insert your age here]." My tried and true response is always, "But I sure feel it."
10. I have almost decided I will no longer wear my rock and roll t-shirts. Almost. But that begs the question, what will I wear instead? I have very few (read: none), non rock and roll t-shirts.
See, OLD.
1. Because I've had the disease for over 15 years. That's almost 20 years of going through medical problems. 20 years is a long, long time.
2. I can no longer listen to pop radio. Now, I listen to the CBC in the car. Oddly, when growing up, as other parents listened to the CBC in their cars, mine always listened to pop radio. I am convinced it's because my parents were still so young when they had me. They didn't have the chance to grow out of it, to some extent.
3. I have no idea who the majority of the people are who won MTV Video Awards. No clue.
4. I bought a dress from Anne Klein to wear to a wedding.
5. I carry a purse. All. The. Time. I don't even own a non-work related knapsack.
6. My hair is grey, very, very grey.
7. I have very little patience for public transit despite being incredibly concerned about climate change.
8. Speaking of which, I found myself having a crush, for a nano-second, on Peter MacKay. And then I saw the pictures of him with Condoleeza Rice and decided that it was very, very wrong to have a crush on Peter MacKay.
9. When I meet new people they are always very shocked when they hear my age and almost always say, "You don't look [insert your age here]." My tried and true response is always, "But I sure feel it."
10. I have almost decided I will no longer wear my rock and roll t-shirts. Almost. But that begs the question, what will I wear instead? I have very few (read: none), non rock and roll t-shirts.
See, OLD.
Good Grief
This frightens me. Who buys a Nickelback album, truly? Who walks in to the store, slams it down on the counter and says to themselves, "I just bought a classic in the making"? It's been on the charts in the top 10 in the States for a year. That's 365 days people. And I can understand the inability to get away from them in Canada because every single bloody radio station other than the CBC plays them at least 4 times an hour, but in the States they have a choice. There's no CanCon. There's nothing forcing anyone to actually listen to Chad Kroger's absolutely banal lyrics. Why? Why? Why?
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Audience Participation
So, I've been writing my pages (I'm up to 173) and feeling sorry for myself, which means I listen to sad songs over and over again.
Right now, "Wide Turn" by Greg MacPherson, before, "Hope There's Someone" by Antony and the Johnsons, before that, "Wild and Tangled" by Oh Susanna.
Now you.
Right now, "Wide Turn" by Greg MacPherson, before, "Hope There's Someone" by Antony and the Johnsons, before that, "Wild and Tangled" by Oh Susanna.
Now you.
The Tragic Left And Right Kidneys
Now that it's almost been two years since I had my right hip replaced, I can't really claim that it's so tragic any longer. It feels good, getting stronger every day, and it's the best decision I ever made (not having pain is such a revelation). So, last night, I took a dance class, and even if I was the elephant in the room, literally, it felt great to race across the room doing that modern jaunt I spent years in high school doing. The body has memory, of this I am convinced. Certain moves, Martha Graham-styles, have stuck with me, even if my mind finds triplets totally and utterly impossible to comprehend.
But what I liked most about the class was the inclusivity. It's a wide open space where you are there moving around as far or as close as you want your body to go. It's a kind of freedom I haven't felt in a long time, an exhilarating kind of joy that's been lost in the pain of my chronic hip failure for far too long, and one that, despite the stiffness in my back today, I'll be happy to continue.
But then my high came crashing down ever-so slightly after my visit with the nephrologist today. The good news? He's convinced that with my creatinine levels coming back down to 80% of normal (115) that the disease is almost in remission. The bad news? The damage the disease caused all those months is causing my kidney filters to leak too much protein through and into my organ. That means I might, depending on the results of yet another 24-hour urine test, have to take medicine for the REST OF MY LIFE.
And I cried. A lot. Because I don't want to take medicine for the rest of my life, not when everything I'm doing is to get better, and no matter what I do, I can't control what the disease has done to my body. And that's the worst thing about life, I think, in general, feeling that no matter what you do, some things will never change. I will always be diseased regardless of how hard I work to feel better.
My body is a bleak house today. Tomorrow, I'm sure, will be a better day.
But what I liked most about the class was the inclusivity. It's a wide open space where you are there moving around as far or as close as you want your body to go. It's a kind of freedom I haven't felt in a long time, an exhilarating kind of joy that's been lost in the pain of my chronic hip failure for far too long, and one that, despite the stiffness in my back today, I'll be happy to continue.
But then my high came crashing down ever-so slightly after my visit with the nephrologist today. The good news? He's convinced that with my creatinine levels coming back down to 80% of normal (115) that the disease is almost in remission. The bad news? The damage the disease caused all those months is causing my kidney filters to leak too much protein through and into my organ. That means I might, depending on the results of yet another 24-hour urine test, have to take medicine for the REST OF MY LIFE.
And I cried. A lot. Because I don't want to take medicine for the rest of my life, not when everything I'm doing is to get better, and no matter what I do, I can't control what the disease has done to my body. And that's the worst thing about life, I think, in general, feeling that no matter what you do, some things will never change. I will always be diseased regardless of how hard I work to feel better.
My body is a bleak house today. Tomorrow, I'm sure, will be a better day.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
The Giller Longlist
They announced the Giller longlist yesterday. I've only read two of the books (Friends of Meager Fortune and Jpod), which leaves me hoping they are at least both on the shortlist so I don't have that much catching up to do this fall.
Monday, September 11, 2006
TRH TV - The Wire
Our Faux-Vo will be working overtime in a couple of weeks, which is why I'm glad my all-time favourite show of all-time started last night on TMI, The Wire. It's such a smart, searing look at life in a major US city, in this case, Baltimore, with each season having a different focus of the wire taps (those of the shows title). This year, their focus is on the kids, the drug runners, the clean-up artists (the chilling opening has a young teenager buying a nail gun, paying for it in cash, and speaking a language I had to rewind three times just to make sure I sort of understood), and the corner rats.
It's up and down of society, from the higher echelons of politics (and not unlike Brotherhood in that respect) to the politics of the modern drug wars, it's shaping up to be quite a season. I've been saying it for a while, but to borrow a phrase from EW, it's the best show you're not watching.
Okay back to abridging. But blogging is just so much more fun.
It's up and down of society, from the higher echelons of politics (and not unlike Brotherhood in that respect) to the politics of the modern drug wars, it's shaping up to be quite a season. I've been saying it for a while, but to borrow a phrase from EW, it's the best show you're not watching.
Okay back to abridging. But blogging is just so much more fun.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
RRHB On The Big Screen
If anyone's going to see the Douglas Coupland penned Everything's Gone Green at the Film Fest this weekend, keep an ear peeled for my RRHB's "Small Town Murder Scene," a part of the soundtrack.
Fun, eh?
Fun, eh?
#54 - A Spot Of Bother
Mark Haddon's latest novel caught me off guard. Of course, the expectation that it would be good was off the charts, especially after the success of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, but if I was pushed, I might admit that I liked A Spot of Bother even better.
It's a more ambitious novel, as it attempts to tell the story of the Hall family, in the weeks leading up to daughter Katie's wedding. The patriarch of the family, George, is having a hard time coming to terms with life in its latter stages as his obsessive fear of dying moves from a quirky hypochondria to a full-blown manic attack. George's wife, Jean, has some troubles of her own, namely, an ex-coworker of her husband's named David. George and Jean have two kids: Katie, the aforementioned daughter (who has a son of her own), and Jamie, who has been involved for the last while with Tony, a man he somewhat refuses to admit he loves. No one likes Katie's fiance, Ray, well, maybe it's more that no one truly understands why they're getting married. The stories of all of these characters are interwoven as the meat of the plot revolves around the will they or won't they nuptials.
That doesn't mean A Spot of Bother is Katie's story, far from it, in fact. The book finds a delicate balance between each of the characters, allowing their own dramas, and their own daily lives, to find a way into the novel. It's a truthful, honest and biting look at family life, from a truly honest point of view. Not unlike Black Swan Green, Haddon has a way of creating characters, while defined somewhat by the plot of the novel, are also clearly drawn and intriguing. A delicate balance of Haddon's brisk prose and impressive characterizations means that A Spot of Bother is funny, intelligent and moving all at the same time. I'd highly recommend it for a Sunday afternoon read, for those hours when the house is clean, the shopping is done, dinner is planned and you have an entire afternoon to yourself to enjoy the simple bliss of wickedly written words on the page.
It's a more ambitious novel, as it attempts to tell the story of the Hall family, in the weeks leading up to daughter Katie's wedding. The patriarch of the family, George, is having a hard time coming to terms with life in its latter stages as his obsessive fear of dying moves from a quirky hypochondria to a full-blown manic attack. George's wife, Jean, has some troubles of her own, namely, an ex-coworker of her husband's named David. George and Jean have two kids: Katie, the aforementioned daughter (who has a son of her own), and Jamie, who has been involved for the last while with Tony, a man he somewhat refuses to admit he loves. No one likes Katie's fiance, Ray, well, maybe it's more that no one truly understands why they're getting married. The stories of all of these characters are interwoven as the meat of the plot revolves around the will they or won't they nuptials.
That doesn't mean A Spot of Bother is Katie's story, far from it, in fact. The book finds a delicate balance between each of the characters, allowing their own dramas, and their own daily lives, to find a way into the novel. It's a truthful, honest and biting look at family life, from a truly honest point of view. Not unlike Black Swan Green, Haddon has a way of creating characters, while defined somewhat by the plot of the novel, are also clearly drawn and intriguing. A delicate balance of Haddon's brisk prose and impressive characterizations means that A Spot of Bother is funny, intelligent and moving all at the same time. I'd highly recommend it for a Sunday afternoon read, for those hours when the house is clean, the shopping is done, dinner is planned and you have an entire afternoon to yourself to enjoy the simple bliss of wickedly written words on the page.
The Lululemon Plunge
I swore I would never do it. I would never walk into that pretty pink and blue storefront and buy ridiculously expensive, let's be honest, pajamas disguised as workout gear. And yet, today, I found myself biking down Bloor Street wondering where on Earth I was going to find some dance pants. Yes, you read that correctly. Ragdoll v. 2.0, tragic right hip-styles, is stepping back on to the sprung floor for the first time in well over fifteen years. So I broke down and bought some stuff from the dreaded Lululemon, who kindly gave me 50 cents off for not taking a bag. And I admit it, I was wrong about them. The pants I bought are super comfortable as is the dance top so, bloody hell, I hate it when the hippies are right.
All through high school and up until my second year of university when my hip first started to truly degenerated, I danced. Like so many girls I know, we ate far too little, wore ugly black leotards with pink tights, and plied with our turnouts stretched to the limits. And yet, as much as I enjoyed it, I wasn't meant for it, and my body quit on me quite early. I could blame the disease, which was a big reason why I stopped dancing. When you're taking prednisone, they don't like you do high-impact exercise because the drug is so hard on your bones (hence the tragic hip), but since then, I've never really had any form of what you would call regular exercise.
That's years, people.
Oh sure, I've spent many a summer biking all over the city, and we do walk a fair amount being urban dwellers, but the more my hip melted in my body, the less I could do. And then I got sick. And then sicker. And now almost two years of the magical hip have passed and I still haven't found any sense of regular, healthy exercise. Too afraid, with my "prednisone 25" to put on a bathing suit and jump in a pool, and with the ragdoll aerobics seriously unstructured, I need something that gets me moving, and something that carries on into the winter when it's too cold to ride my bike.
Hence, Technique I at the school at the Toronto Dance Theatre. A girlfriend of mine suggested it and we're going to go together, which makes me happy, considering we danced together all through high school. Anyway, if I'm totally crippled and exhausted on Wednesday morning when I go see the kidney doctor for yet another disease check up, at least it'll be a happy kind of tired, one that might help me finally lose some weight.
Speaking of which, I've started my annual no sugar, no wheat (where I can) and no dairy (except yoghurt) diet. Last year I failed miserably and think I lasted about two weeks. I'm already well into week one (pathetic, I know) but haven't totally cracked. I had some nachos at my first Writer's Group meeting on Wednesday and a burrito last night when I had dinner with my cousins, but have had absolutely no sugar (fruit yes, sugar, no).
If I put it all together, maybe the goal of being truly, truly healthy this year will actually be achieved. And how nice would it be to cross that mother farker off the list.
All through high school and up until my second year of university when my hip first started to truly degenerated, I danced. Like so many girls I know, we ate far too little, wore ugly black leotards with pink tights, and plied with our turnouts stretched to the limits. And yet, as much as I enjoyed it, I wasn't meant for it, and my body quit on me quite early. I could blame the disease, which was a big reason why I stopped dancing. When you're taking prednisone, they don't like you do high-impact exercise because the drug is so hard on your bones (hence the tragic hip), but since then, I've never really had any form of what you would call regular exercise.
That's years, people.
Oh sure, I've spent many a summer biking all over the city, and we do walk a fair amount being urban dwellers, but the more my hip melted in my body, the less I could do. And then I got sick. And then sicker. And now almost two years of the magical hip have passed and I still haven't found any sense of regular, healthy exercise. Too afraid, with my "prednisone 25" to put on a bathing suit and jump in a pool, and with the ragdoll aerobics seriously unstructured, I need something that gets me moving, and something that carries on into the winter when it's too cold to ride my bike.
Hence, Technique I at the school at the Toronto Dance Theatre. A girlfriend of mine suggested it and we're going to go together, which makes me happy, considering we danced together all through high school. Anyway, if I'm totally crippled and exhausted on Wednesday morning when I go see the kidney doctor for yet another disease check up, at least it'll be a happy kind of tired, one that might help me finally lose some weight.
Speaking of which, I've started my annual no sugar, no wheat (where I can) and no dairy (except yoghurt) diet. Last year I failed miserably and think I lasted about two weeks. I'm already well into week one (pathetic, I know) but haven't totally cracked. I had some nachos at my first Writer's Group meeting on Wednesday and a burrito last night when I had dinner with my cousins, but have had absolutely no sugar (fruit yes, sugar, no).
If I put it all together, maybe the goal of being truly, truly healthy this year will actually be achieved. And how nice would it be to cross that mother farker off the list.
Friday, September 08, 2006
#53 - The Ruins
Okay, I was so afraid while reading Scott Smith's The Ruins that I went ahead while only halfway through and read the bloody ending. I couldn't take it anymore. I was that scared. While I'm technically not quite finished (I have about 10 pages in between where I am and the ending I already read), I feel quite confident I can blog about it because I'm going to finish it this afternoon while waiting at the hospital for bloodletting.
So, the novel takes place in Mexico and the main characters are all, of course, on a lovely sunny vacation. Four Americans, Jeff and Amy, Eric and Stacy, are on one last hurrah after finishing university (or, I guess, college as they say in the States). When Mathius, a young German man, asks them to accompany him to find his missing brother who disappeared while chasing a girl in the title's ruins, they set off on what they hope will be a day-long adventure.
Armed with no other information except a crudely drawn map, the five of them, along with a Greek friend (who doesn't speak their language) they call Pablo, leave the resort early one morning after a heavy night of drinking. Nothing goes right, of course: they're dropped off in the wrong place; the taxi charges them too much money; they run into a decidedly unfriendly Mayan village, and soon they've moved past what I'd like to call the point of no return.
I don't want to give even a hint of what happens away because it would deter you from actually reading the book and being as bone-chilled scared as I was—I read the majority of the novel up at the cottage last weekend and was literally shaking in bed. Never a fan of horror movies or even scary books (mysteries, yes, but Stephen King-type novels, not so much), The Ruins is so well written and so literary that it's more of a character study in a truly horrific situation than a run of the mill blood, guts and gore book.
Oh, and there are no chapters, so you are sucked right in and carted along without even being able to take a breath. And the sun is hot, very, very, very hot.
So, the novel takes place in Mexico and the main characters are all, of course, on a lovely sunny vacation. Four Americans, Jeff and Amy, Eric and Stacy, are on one last hurrah after finishing university (or, I guess, college as they say in the States). When Mathius, a young German man, asks them to accompany him to find his missing brother who disappeared while chasing a girl in the title's ruins, they set off on what they hope will be a day-long adventure.
Armed with no other information except a crudely drawn map, the five of them, along with a Greek friend (who doesn't speak their language) they call Pablo, leave the resort early one morning after a heavy night of drinking. Nothing goes right, of course: they're dropped off in the wrong place; the taxi charges them too much money; they run into a decidedly unfriendly Mayan village, and soon they've moved past what I'd like to call the point of no return.
I don't want to give even a hint of what happens away because it would deter you from actually reading the book and being as bone-chilled scared as I was—I read the majority of the novel up at the cottage last weekend and was literally shaking in bed. Never a fan of horror movies or even scary books (mysteries, yes, but Stephen King-type novels, not so much), The Ruins is so well written and so literary that it's more of a character study in a truly horrific situation than a run of the mill blood, guts and gore book.
Oh, and there are no chapters, so you are sucked right in and carted along without even being able to take a breath. And the sun is hot, very, very, very hot.
Which Greek God Are You Like?
While looking around the internet for litblogs to work with, I stumbled across the Greek Mythology Personality Test (high kicks to Bookworm for the link). So, turns out I'm most like Orpheus. It's good to know that the quiz has picked up on how sissy and sensitive I actually am. Sigh. Oh, and watch out Icarus, you'd better stay out of my way and not the other way around.
Orpheus
0% Extroversion, 80% Intuition, 100% Emotiveness, 57% Perceptiveness
You are an artist, an aesthete, a sensitive, and someone who has never really let go of that childlike innocence. To you, all of life has a sense of wonder in it, and the story of Orpheus was written about someone just like you.
When the Argo passed the island of the Sirens, Orpheus played a song more beautiful than the Sirens to prevent the crew from becoming enticed. When his wife died, he ventured into the underworld to charm Hades but, in his naivete, he looked back becoming trapped there.
You can capture your unique world view and relate it to others with the skill of a master storyteller. Your sensitivity and creativity make you a treasure to the human race, but your thin-skinned nature and innocence can cause you a lot of disenchantment and pain. What's doubly unfortunate is that, if you try to lose those traits, you never will, and everyone will be able to tell that you're putting up an artificial shell to prevent yourself from being hurt.
Famous people like you: Hemingway, Shakespeare, Mr. Rogers, Melville, Nick Tosches
Stay clear of: Icarus, Hermes, Atlas
Orpheus
0% Extroversion, 80% Intuition, 100% Emotiveness, 57% Perceptiveness
You are an artist, an aesthete, a sensitive, and someone who has never really let go of that childlike innocence. To you, all of life has a sense of wonder in it, and the story of Orpheus was written about someone just like you.
When the Argo passed the island of the Sirens, Orpheus played a song more beautiful than the Sirens to prevent the crew from becoming enticed. When his wife died, he ventured into the underworld to charm Hades but, in his naivete, he looked back becoming trapped there.
You can capture your unique world view and relate it to others with the skill of a master storyteller. Your sensitivity and creativity make you a treasure to the human race, but your thin-skinned nature and innocence can cause you a lot of disenchantment and pain. What's doubly unfortunate is that, if you try to lose those traits, you never will, and everyone will be able to tell that you're putting up an artificial shell to prevent yourself from being hurt.
Famous people like you: Hemingway, Shakespeare, Mr. Rogers, Melville, Nick Tosches
Stay clear of: Icarus, Hermes, Atlas
Monday, September 04, 2006
An Old Fashioned Weekend
With the fact that my RRHB will soon be so self-employed that he'll be working just on our house, we've come to the conclusion that we'll have to make the majority of our Christmas presents this year.
Making Christmas presents has been on the backburner for a while now. For years I've wanted to get out my sewing machine, actually learn how to use it, and make pretty things; I'd love to knit fast enough that I can get presents done quicker, and in some sense just contribute in a very old fashioned way to the gift giving season this winter.
Well, we started up north this weekend. We made grape jelly, spaghetti sauce and home-made ketchup, all of which are actually super-tasty. It's hard work but feels good like I am using the products in my backyard to give life to the people I love. I know it's corny. But I felt kind of proud of ourselves none the less.
So, this year everyone is getting home-made gifts from our Brockton Berries canning company. Heh.
Making Christmas presents has been on the backburner for a while now. For years I've wanted to get out my sewing machine, actually learn how to use it, and make pretty things; I'd love to knit fast enough that I can get presents done quicker, and in some sense just contribute in a very old fashioned way to the gift giving season this winter.
Well, we started up north this weekend. We made grape jelly, spaghetti sauce and home-made ketchup, all of which are actually super-tasty. It's hard work but feels good like I am using the products in my backyard to give life to the people I love. I know it's corny. But I felt kind of proud of ourselves none the less.
So, this year everyone is getting home-made gifts from our Brockton Berries canning company. Heh.
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