Technology wins, technology losses

I'm not a technology nut by any stretch. Yet, I do like the joys and benefits that certain technologies have brought to my life. For example, armed with a 14.4 modem and a Mac Classic back in 1993, I was an early Internet adopter. It was mostly for browsing on various bulletin boards and for sending both messages and software via a cool tool called zTerm - the web was in its infancy - although I also did a stint on AOL (until I realized how much it was costing me; I ended up taking a hammer to the 3.5" floppy disk that one required to access the system, lest I be tempted to jump back on). I was also one of the first among my friends to have an e-mail address. This facility (although I'm still something of an idiot when it comes actually fixing anybody's computer problems, although I'm usually the first at work to be queried about a glitch with someone's PC) and comfort with technology went a long way when I landed a full-time journalism gig: I was a staff writer (and eventually an editor) at one of the country's leading computer newspapers. (Thankfully I wasn't covering nuts-and-bolts techie stuff, but the business end of the IT world.)

My (marginal) tech savvy also means I'm the first phone call when my mother is experiencing problems with her iMac. Lately it feels I've been on speed dial with her: she's been issues with her e-mail and connecting to the Internet. I think my visit there yesterday should be the last necessary one for the foreseeable future as I installed their new wireless modem and set up their new iBook (which my parents won, if you can believe it; they always seem to be winning things).

The technology I really want to write about, however, is the iPod. I've always been a fan of portable music players. I was one of the first on my block to have a Sony Walkman. (For fear of dating myself, I remember the first time I ever tried a Walkman: at the CNE in the early 80s, just before they went mainstream.) I had my first Walkman in grade 9 (around 1983), and have rarely been without some portable music device since. I went through several Walkmans during high school and university years - I used it pretty much every day, and they'd eventually die - and then into my working life. I finally graduated to a portable CD player at the end of the 90s (a little late, actually). When I lost it on St. Patrick's Day in 2004, I replaced it with my first iPod.

The iPod changed the way I listened to music. I went from being an album snob - essentially listening to every song on an album, and in the order the artist meant you to listen - to embracing the shuffle. This was a big shift for me; after all, I was never one to create "mix" tapes, yet essentially this is what the shuffle function was doing. I came to enjoy it for the novelty alone: it was like listening to the radio, never knowing what song was coming next, yet it was only songs/artists that I liked. (I started to play a game as well, to see if the iPod could "guess" the mood I was in and choose the ideal track for that mood.) I still listen to complete albums/CDs on my kick-ass stereo system (I also still enjoy buying CDs, although it's something I'm doing less of), but the iPod - and shuffling the tunes on it - has become a wonderful complement to my music listening.

The iPod can also be credited for creating the podcast, which is another staple of my listening diet. I bought an iPod nano almost two years ago to exclusively accommodate my podcasts, which I listen to when running. In fact, running without a podcast in my ear (I tend toward the news and political programs) is almost drudgery - in many ways, podcasts can take a big chunk of credit for my good fitness. Yet, the nano (at least the generation I have) has been a terrible machine. I'm already on my third (I have Apple Care, thankfully), and my current one died this weekend. So I'll be back at the Mac store this week to get yet-another replacement.

And, sadly, my white 20GB iPod that I bought back in 2004 has finally played its last tune. It decided on Friday that it no longer wanted to fire up any music - all I got was a pathetic looking empty battery and a message saying I needed to recharge it (even though I had just recharged the night before). As luck (fate?) would have it, Apple was having a one-day sale, so I went to the Apple store after work and replaced my 20GB machine with the 120GB "classic" iPod. I'm loading it up as I write this - it's taken a few hours to transfer nearly 5000 songs. Because I'll have about 100GB more to play with, I'm going to be spending the next couple of weeks exploring new music by taking out a slew of CDs from the library and loading them on the new machine. Exciting musical days for me! )Naturally I take any and all music recommendations.) And because it plays video, I'll be exploring some video podcasts.

New horizons.

Listening to: Best of Bud Powell on Verve, Nick Drake's Bryter Layter, Kevin Drew's Spirit If...
Watching: Quantum of Solace (B-level Bond, but Dan Craig's remarkable remake of the Bond character, not to mention his chemistry with Judi Dench's M, made it fun), Douglas Sirk's Imitation of Life (hope to watch it tonight), the rain/snow outside my window
Reading: V.S. Naipaul's A House for Mr. Biswas (I keep hearing about this fabulous new biography on him, and figured now is a good a time as any to read him), Doris Kearns Goodwin's No Ordinary Time (bio on Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt)

Too old for the social scene?

Went to see Broken Social Scene last night at the Sound Academy (formerly the Docks; I'd like to know whose bright idea it was to build a venue that's not transit friendly - the taxi union, maybe, if there is indeed such a thing?). It was a great show by a very good band. I like their recordings, but seeing them live was a totally different and fantastic experience. These guys and gals are true musicians, and quirky songwriters. Not only that, I like the "collective" idea behind them: that the band is fluid and can cycle different musicians in and out yet keep the true BSS "spirit." (No Feist last night, unfortunately.) Or maybe that's what precisely gives them that spirit. I was telling a colleague this morning that what I like best about them is how they create a wonderful "wall of sound" (and not, not a Phil Sector one).

The one thing I didn't enjoy last night was the concert's venue and having to jostle with many younger, drunker people for space. (Those all-ages shows are the worst because they shoehorn those looking for a beer into one sliver of the room.) I was thinking how much more I would have enjoyed the show if it was at, say, Massey Hall, where I could sit and really groove to the tuneage. (That's a made up word, but a good one.) It makes me think I'm getting too old for those shows. But maybe it isn't an age thing at all since I don't think I've ever enjoyed standing to watch a concert! On the plus side, I enjoyed wandering the city streets afterward - I love the city at night. (I'm paying for it today though since I'm going on about 5 hours sleep.)

Crazy, frustrating (and largely unhappy) work week that I'm glad is coming to an end. Wish I could have blogged more about it (hopefully next week), but I just didn't have the time to put together any sensible, thoughtful words.

Crazy (crazy) on you

Funny how certain musicians remind me of Montreal.

While at work today, Heart's "Dreamboat Annie" popped into my ears via my trusty iPod. (Not sure how much longer it's going to be trusty - it's over 4 years old, and the battery only lasts for about 4 hours before it conks out for good.) Immediately, it conjured up memories of my wonderful West Island upbringing. I even remember the cover of that Heart double album my brother owned - in white, with a photo of the band looking rather menacing. Heart is not the only artist that can bring back the flood of memories. Let's not forgot Hall & Oates, particularly the song "Sara Smiles." I can still see myself sitting in the back seat of my mother's crappy Vega, with that playing through the even-more crappy speakers via AM radio. I think I'm holding a badminton racket.

Montreal, you were damn good to me.

Random jottings

The head space isn't there for a well-reasoned and full post, so just a few scattered thoughts on this lazy, hazy Sunday.

Before Night Falls: Why did I think this film was about a visual artist?! I suppose because the director, Julian Schnabel, is a well-regarded artist, not to mention his first film was the (mostly) wonderful Basquiat (an artist I like; one of my favourite prints is one I bought of his from the MOMA many years ago). Rather it centres around Reinaldo Arenas, the Cuban writer who eventually left Cuba because of continued persecution due to his openly gay lifestyle. Films about writers (particularly poets) are far too infrequent, in my opinion! Although I recognize how difficult it can be to manufacture drama out of something as mundane (and sometimes dreary) as writing. (Still, I think there's a great film to be made from Gwen MacEwen's life. Hell, I even have the ideal casting: Ellen Page.) It's got me jazzed about checking out some of Arenas' work. I'll add it to the reading queue.

Re-reading: What are others views on re-reading novels? It's not something I do often, my view being that there are too many books to read to pick up one I've already seen the last page of. Yet, I'll revisit other favoured artistic items: a film (I've lost count on how times I've seen Woody Allen's Manhattan, as well as the Before Sunrise/Sunset movies, although often they serve as "comfort" films), music (obviously), a painting. Why not, then, a book? I'll reread favourite passages, for sure, but, outside of books from my childhood, I can't ever remember reading a whole book that I've already been through once. I'm beginning to reconsider this stand, especially since I'm anxious to re-read Roberto Bolano's The Savage Detectives. I bought it in paperback this past summer (after I had read it last winter in hardcover, taken out from the library), and it's been staring at me for the past few days from the bookshelf. It strikes me that I'll find it even richer and more satisfying the second time around.

The Grey Cup: I'm not a fan of North American football. (I love, however, the sport that everybody else outside of this continent calls football. The "footie.") Earlier this year, I vowed to a friend that I would not watch one down of the NFL this season (including the Super Bowl). So far so good. That said, I am going to sit myself in front of the set this afternoon and watch the Grey Cup. (For those few American readers, it's the championship of the Canadian Football League. The match-up is Montreal vs. Calgary.) I'm sure my attention will waver, so I'll have some reading material to keep me occupied during the lulls. I suppose I'm still a sucker for the Grey Cup, largely because I remember it being such a big deal when I was a youngster and teenager. (I even went to a Grey Cup, way back in 1981. I don't remember much except that Edmonton won and it was very cold. And that I wore a big galoot-ish hat...) When I was in high school, I'd go to my friend J.'s house where we'd eat greasy food, and go out during halftime to play touch football on the road. Simpler days.

Listening to: Best of Horace Silver, Kevin Drew's "Spirit If" (in anticipation of seeing Broken Social Scene this coming Thurs.)
Reading: Nov. 24 issue of The New Yorker
Watching: the usual Sunday-morning political shows, the Raptors get embarrassed by the Celtics

Opportunity, and hopefully not death, knocks

Death and dying have been much on my mind. Don't worry, I'm not depressed - although the dwindling economy, and (the hopefully irrational) fear of losing my job because of it, is getting me a mite down - but only that there's been quite a bit of death around me, both real and imagined.

Last weekend, my uncle's wife (I never referred to her as my aunt – it was his second wife, and she had an abrasiveness that really turned me off) died. It was somewhat expected, yet sad: she's basically been drinking herself to death over the last year. She's always been a heavy drinker, but at some point she decided that her only friend was the bottle. I feel for my uncle - a wonderfully outgoing, unpretentious man - but in some ways I'm sure it's a relief. It must be a painful to watch a loved one basically kill oneself.

This week, my close friend R.'s cousin died. She was young (early 20s), and from the sounds of it her death was totally unexpected. A young person dying always seems more tragic: it's the snuffing out of potential. It's after those deaths that we try to remind ourselves to live every day to its fullest, since we never know when we too are going to be struck down. Although our day-to-day realities and challenges (whether financial, emotional or otherwise) seem to prevent us from taking this advice to heart and actually living every day like it's our last.

Lastly, on Wednesday, my aunt (my mother's sister) died. She was diagnosed with cancer late last year, and though she seemed to be putting up a good fight earlier in the year and through the summer (when my mother went over to England to visit), her health slipped precipitously over the last couple of months, to the point where I think she was willing herself to die. The death has hit my mother quite hard - it was her closest relative outside of my dad and my brothers (she only has a brother left, and I don't think she's particularly close to him) - but she also sounded philosophical about it. She told me she reminded her sister when she visited in the summer that, at age 75, she had had a wonderful life (including a doting and loving husband, two wonderful daughters, super grandchildren) with few regrets. I have some fond memories of my aunt, particularly in how she encouraged me a few years back to go back to school and pursue a graduate degree. She spent much of her life as a teacher, and was forever preaching the merits of a good education. When I think about it, outside of my immediate family, she was probably my closest relative. I will miss her.

Will all these deaths - and let's hope it stops at three for the time being - perhaps Andrew Pyper's The Killing Circle was not the ideal book to be reading... So yes, I did end up persevering and finished it. Frankly, I was just curious to see how the thing would play out - which I guess means it was successful in drawing me in. But the subject matter (serial killings within a writer's group) really did leave me cold. (I feel somewhat misled about this book. I thought it was going to revolve around writing and the Toronto literary scene. I guess I didn't listen as closely as I should have to the Pyper interview on CBC that got me interested in the first place.) And maybe reading some of David Foster Wallace's non-fiction so soon after his suicide is another reminder of living vs. death.

So why am I writing about this? Truthfully, I started this post with the intention of hitting some upbeat and optimistic tones!

Actually, the one thing that death does clarify is the importance of the here and now. This came up with R. when we were e-mailing about her cousin's death. As per our usual exchanges - we keep up a daily conversation pretty much exclusively through e-mail (to the point where I probably know her better than people I actually speak to!) - we used the discussion about the sad death as a launch into other topics. She mentioned her husband, who is not happy in his work and would like to try his hand at something else. Unfortunately, she wrote, "it's just not feasible right now."

So if not now - particularly when a young person's death is so fresh in the mind and serves as a reminder of how fragile and sometimes short life can be - when is the right time? I then told her about the article I just finished reading: David Remnick's excellent piece about Obama in the New Yorker. Naturally he touches upon race, and how many people felt that Obama's candidacy, not to mention him actually winning, was a longshot given his race, that the U.S. wasn't yet ready to elect an African-American as president. Remnick interviews one of the leaders of the 1965 march from Selma to Montgomery, who compared those who discouraged Obama from running for the highest office to the white ministers who told Martin Luther King a half century ago that the time was not ripe for civil dissent. "Martin said the people who were saying 'later' were really saying 'never.' The time to do right is always right now."

Perhaps that's something we need to remind ourselves more often. The time to do right is always right now.

Listening to: Oscar Peterson's Best of the Verve Songbooks
Watching: rented Lars and the Real Girl and Before Night Falls
Reading: not sure what novel to pick up next... I think a "classic" is in order. Stay tuned.

Tired city

Had started to write a post about snow, family, friends, death, opportunities, scotch, Thelonious Monk, ex-girlfriends, ex-lovers, futons, clean dishes, toothpaste, mirrors, turntables, 8km runs, and, ultimately, the meaning of life. But too fatigued to finish the thing.

"And you're an author, you say?"

This evening, if things work to plan (and if I feel properly inspired), I'm planning on attending a book launch. Two, in fact. The first, being held at 5:00 at one of the colleges here on campus, is out of sheer curiousity: I’ve seen the thing (it's a memoir) in various manuscript states, so it'll interesting to see it in between real book covers. (I never thought it would find a home with a "real" publisher, frankly. But of course happy it has.) I've never met the author either, although feel I know him all too well... The second is a launch party for the fall/winter titles of one of the more interesting small presses in the country, BookThug. I promised the publisher last week that I'd buy a book!

I'm not usually one for launches – not because I don't like to read (heaven forbid!) or enjoy the readings (although my attention span isn’t what it used to be), but it's because I struggle to find someone to drag with me to these events. If I’m lucky, I can find a familiar face among the crowds, but often I end up on my lonesome. And since I’m not the most outgoing of people (I'm not one to "work the room"), I usually just stand there, libation in hand, looking like a socially awkward dofus.

But I've been thinking lately how important it is for me to get out to more literary events. For one, I find they help provide inspiration for my own writing (meagre as that may be). Perhaps more importantly though, it could be useful and helpful for my work (ie., my full-time paying gig). I need to be in contact with more writers, particularly younger writers, to develop professional relationships which prove beneficial to both my workplace and to the writers themselves (think tax benefits!). I have a small stable of writers that I’m touch with, but they are primarily close friends who just happen to be writers. I need to cast the net out wider, and figure these launches and readings are the ideal means.

So at your next literary event, if you see a guy standing alone at the bar, nursing a drink, it might be me. Come over and say "hi."

Listening: Red House Painters’ Retrospective, Beastie Boys’ "Funky Boss" (… "get off my back")
Watching: HBO mini-series John Adams (partly in prep for a planned jaunt with the lovely A. to Washington, DC over the xmas break)
Reading: A poem (in translation) by Heinrich Heine:

You are just like a flower
So sweet and fair and pure,
A melancholy power
Lies in your sight's allure.

I feel that I should lay
My hands upon your hair,
And pray, God keep you always
So pure and sweet and fair.

Throwing in the towel

When is it acceptable to give up on a book? 50 pages in? 60? 75? Or should one feel obliged to stick out what one was started until the bitter end?

I was thinking about that this morning on the streetcar ride into work. (Note to self: perhaps the College streetcar isn't the ideal transit route to work after all. The first couple of times was great: it wasn't crowded, and the thing streamed quickly through the city. The last two times were hell-ish, and one time I missed my stop because I couldn't get to the doors in time.) I've started to read Andrew Pyper's The Killing Circle, and while I'm sort-of enjoying it - it's easily digestible, for one, and fiction set in Toronto will always hold some interest (see post below) - yet it doesn't feel like a book I'm in the mood to fully enjoy. Truthfully, I'm rarely in the mood for narratives that deal with killings and dark, shadowy characters with names like "Sandman." I'm through about 80 pages. I think I'll give it another 20 or so, and if it's still not turning my crank I'm going to toss it aside. I have plenty of other fiction in the queue. (I think Antal Szerb's Oliver VII might be up next while I await on an Amazon order of the new Bolano. For those of who I haven't bored yet with the recommendation, please go out and read Bolano's The Savage Detectives.) It's nothing against the book per se, but more about my current state of mind.

I'm having similar troubles with the non-fiction I have on the go: Susan Neiman's Moral Clarity. I heard Neiman on NPR's On Point and thought I'd give the book a whirl. But, again, my head space isn't quite there. Since it strikes me as a book that I don't need to read from cover to cover, I'm picking my spots. Which is maybe why David Foster Wallace's Consider the Lobster and Hendrik Hertzberg's Politics: Observations and Arguments, two other books I have on the go, have been more easily digestible. They allow me to read bits and pieces (particularly the latter, which I've been reading in bed) without having to put too much commitment to a narrative.

Still, I'm at loose ends, trying to find an interesting non-fiction work to sink my teeth into. Any and all suggestions are welcome. (Although since I only have about two readers, I won't be expecting the recommendations to be flowing in!)

Listening to: Brad Melhdau's Live in Tokyo
Watching: myself lose games in both Scrabble and chess on facebook
Reading: A quote from a broadsheet: "Give me twenty-six soldiers of lead & I will conquer the world" - Benjamin Franklin; yesterday's NYTimes

what's a beautiful girl?

Last night I watched the film Beautiful Girls. I've been hearing about this movie for years, courtesy of my friend D. He loves it - it may even be his favourite of all time (no Citizen Kane for him, obviously) - but it's not a film that ever registered in my consciousness. In fact, I'm not sure I'd ever heard of it until he started to rattle on about it. But in my defense (or maybe his), it was released in 1996, which was not a fruitful film-viewing period for me (for reasons that I'm sure I'll blog about one day). Because D. periodically quotes from it, and because I like and respect the guy, I felt a certain sense of responsibility to finally see the damn movie. (In the same way my friend P. in Singapore got me jazzed to see one of his favourite films of all time, Apartment Zero. Say this about my friends: they're out-of-the-box when it comes to faves...)

Beautiful Girls was ... ok. It's your fairly typical mid-1990s independent film - think decent script, quirky casting, small epiphanies. I'll grant it one victory: it's better than any Ed Burns film I've seen. (He represents the worst of 1990s independent film, at least for me.) But it got me thinking as to why D. enjoys the film so much. If one will allow me to play dime-store psychologist for a brief moment, it's because D. is lonely and unhappy. More to the point, he's forever attracting himself to women that are, for lack of a better term, unattainable. (I use this word with hesitation - my explanation would involve a whole new post.) As long as I've known him, he follows a familiar pattern: he attracts himself to women that are outgoing, somewhat "arty," outwardly confident, but also aloof. When I query him about his attractions, it's usually the same response: he insists he likes women that possess qualities he feels he doesn't have.

There's a monologue from the film that basically encapsulates everything D. sees in these "beautiful girls": (This is not from memory, but cut and paste from imdb.)

"A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. She can make you feel high full of the single greatest commodity known to man - promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it's going to be okay."

It should be noted that that bit of dialogue is spoken by the biggest loser in the film.

I feel for D. because he's a good guy with bad taste in women. Ok, "bad" is not the right word. How about "misguided"? I think part of his attraction pattern has to do with fear: he becomes slightly (I put this modifier in here to not make him seem like a total leech) obsessed with women that he knows are not going to reciprocate his feelings, thus saving him from having to potentially engage in a real relationship with a perfectly wonderful and "normal" (again, not a great word) woman. Or, attracting himself to these "unattainables" is a defense mechanism - it basically allows him to never have to confront real rejection.

As Lucy from Peanuts would say, "Five cents please." (I've decided to give a 50% discount on the dime-store psychology.)


Listening to: Keith Jarrett's Standards Live
Watching: Beautiful Girls (see above), Raptors Game in an Hour
Reading: The Killing Circle

work and apathy

It can be a struggle for me at work. Not because I don't like my job - this is career #2 for me, and it's working out much better than misguided career #1 (although I don't regret the years I spent toiling away in that profession - well, not really) - but because of prevailing negative and cynical attitudes held by a majority of my co-workers. I like them all, that's not the problem: in fact, I think it's the best office environment I've ever worked in. (And maybe one reason is because we don't consider ourselves an office in the traditional sense.) But there seems to be a lamentable amount of apathy and stagnation in my workplace, and at times I find it frustrating.

Those who know me know I'm not exactly the "rah rah" type when it comes to ... well, pretty much anything (particularly since my beloved Expos uprooted and moved to Washington, thus depriving me forever of a World Series championship for my native city, Montreal). Not to mention I often display a fierce and muscular sarcasm, bordering on the (yes, I'll admit it) cynical. (I prefer the less-offensive sounding word "realist" - in fact, one of the stock phrases I've used to describe myself in the past is "optimistic cynic.") Still, sometimes I'm in conflict: there's a side of me that wants to be excited about things that others find easily dismissible, such as my work and pride in (for lack of a better expression, although it probably sounds lame city - see, I'm already sounding conflicted) "professional development." Maybe it's because I finally found something that I truly enjoy and feel is important.

To wit, I've started to volunteer for some extra-curricular duties outside of my normal work. The projects largely involve writing, which is, of course, something I enjoy, so in that regard does not seem overly onerous. A couple of the projects in particular should be great fun since I'll be digging into manuscripts and archives. I feel I need the intellectual stimulation and challenge these projects will require. My regular work is mentally taxing, to be sure, but sometimes I wish it is was even more mentally exhausting.

Perhaps not too surprising, some of my colleagues couldn't believe I was taking on these extra duties. I suppose it's easier for them to be complacent in their work - they've been in their jobs far longer than me (one day I'll have to write another post on how frustrating it is to be in an environment where people have essentially worked for their entire working life), their jobs are secure (I'm still only on contract, after all), and probably feel they have nothing to prove. Because of this negative attitude, it's hard for me to get totally jazzed about some of the extra work I've signed up for. It would be nice to have a little more support from my direct and closest colleagues. I need to do something I've often struggled with: find some self motivation.

Still, maybe you should send me a shout out of "good luck."

Listening to: Kaki King's Everybody Loves You
Watching: The Agenda (panel discussion about Toronto architecture, focusing primarily on the Gehry addition of the AGO; I think I'll take a weekday afternoon off soon to take a look for myself)
Reading: the Nov. 17 New Yorker (great post-election wrap-up), about to break the spine of Andrew Pyper's The Killing Circle, and about to buy Roberto Bolano's latest 2666 from Amazon

Consider my reading

Feeling at loose ends tonight.

I (finally!) finished The Robber Bride (and I promise that's the last time I'll write that title again – it was a good book, for sure, but I'm unsure how long it'll stay with me), and not really in the mood to start any new fiction for a day or two. Unfortunately I'm in a bit of non-fiction reading slump. (For those that don't know my reading habits, I try to have both a fiction and non-fiction book on the go at the same time. I'm a bit of a multi-task reader, although I think it has more to do with my increasingly limited attention span. When I bore of one, I can move to the other...) Well, less a slump than a quandary. For a while – some might say too long of a period – I was reading books on the miserable, horrible, disgusting, pitiful, embarrassing, stupid, silly, spiteful (there's too many possible adjectives to use) Bush Administration. Some might call it an obsession. I read two of the biggies back to back: Jane Mayer's superb The Dark Side and Ron Suskind's The Way of the World. And on my bedside table are two more: Angler (about the evil Dick Cheney) and Philip Shenon's book about the 9/11 Commission.

I think, however, I'm (finally!) fatigued with U.S politics. I've been so caught up in this past election – and I've been following Obama (with joy and amazement) since 2004 after he gave that scintillating speech at the Democratic National Convention – that, now that it's over, a letdown seems inevitable. Maybe even necessary. The lead-up to this year's election involved my continued frustrations at the last eight years of the Bush rule, and the petty, corrupt politics it represented. With a new administration coming in, maybe it's time to put aside the Bush books and look toward the future – something more hopeful, optimistic. More to the point, do I really need to be continually reminded of how sickening the last 8 years have been? In the end, I'm spent.

Listening to: the soundtrack from Once, Charlie Haden's Rambling Boy.
Watching: the Toronto Raptors (another loss)
Reading: David Foster Wallace's Consider the Lobster, the Nov. 17 issue of the New Yorker.
(I'm thinking of making this a new feature of the blog – a quick survey of my music, reading and tv/movies habits.)

my city and its fiction

Every now and then, I get a jones on to read fiction set in my city of residence, Toronto. The positive corollary of this, of course, is that I'm reading more Canadian authors. (The negative corollary of this, of course, is that I'm getting away from a reading "plan" I had formulated months ago, which was to split my fiction choices between current, contemporary fiction and the "classics." There's been far more of the former, and a disgraceful lack of the latter. Maybe, instead, I'll make it a new year's resolution.) I seem to be in one of those moods right now, one that began with the current Atwood on my plate, The Robber Bride. (No, I did not finish it last night, but promise I'll turn the last page on it at some point today. I have a longish streetcar ride ahead of me in about an hour, so I'm penciling completion on that journey.) The novel's been fun to read, although I'm going to have to ask some of my female friends whether characters like Zenia (soulless, manipulative, cruel) really exist. I thought it was only men that acted so nastily... Thumbs up to Peggy for creating such a wonderfully vile character!

Part of the fun was recognizing various Toronto settings. The University of Toronto, of course, played a prominent role, as did the Toronto Islands. (Was Charis based on my favourite Canadian poet and Atwood's friend, Gwen MacEwen? There were some parallels.) As did a restaurant she called the Toxique, which sounded suspiciously like Peter Pan on Queen. A high-end Mediterranean restaurant she placed on Queen East could well have been Joso's, the fantastic seafood place on Davenport. I find it's easier for me to visualize the settings in a novel when there's some familiarity with the actual buildings and venues, although perhaps that says more about me and my feeble imagination...

Next in the queue (mainly because it's a library book and will have to be returned in a couple of weeks) is another Toronto-centric novel: Andrew Pyper's latest, The Killing Circle. And I'm planning on buying Rebecca Rosenblum's new book of short stories, Once. I'm guessing, since she lives in Toronto, she sets at least a few stories in the city. (Of course that's a total guess.) Hell, maybe I'll even read a Russell Smith novel next... Or write my own Toronto tale.

Possibilities.

well, so much for that early night and reading in bed

A wonderful discovery tonight: I have full access to the digital archives of the New Yorker magazine! Of course I probably already have it through work, but there's something special about being able to access it through my own means. Unfortunately it has its flaws, namely that printing off articles is pointless (there's no way to alter the image on the screen to get a full and readable page). But hey, why carp? (Why salmon? Why tuna?) But what it means is that I've been playing around with the damn thing, typing in authors I'm interested in (Murakami, Roth, etc.) and checking out their stories as they originally appeared in the magazine. (It's almost as interesting to look at the layout of the magazine back in the 1950s, not to mention the ads.) So my grand plan to get to bed early tonight to (*finally*) finish Atwood's The Robber Bride hasn't been realized.

But tomorrow's lunch needs to be made (I'm hoping to get up early for a run), so I'm signing off. Until tomorrow.

Another appearance

If a man types a few words and sentences onto a web site – what the tech savvy call a "blog" - will anybody read? Or even care?

So I can't promise the inspiration and energy to write has completely come back, but it's bubbling close to the surface. The nerve endings are tingling, the fingers are itchy. The brain is feeling engaged and a light switch has been flicked in the brain. It's all good!

Why do I seemingly fall in and then out of love with writing? Why can't I continually be compelled to tap out these meagre words every day, rather than once every few days (or, in my case, every few months)? Is the requisite energy playing a game of mental hide and seek? Does it require I count to ten?

Anyway I'm hoping this is the rebirth. Stay tuned. I have much of my mind.