Procrastination Nation

The procrastinator returns!

2011-08-23T21:36:00.000-04:00

Well well, look who's back! It's been over a year since I posted, so naturally I don't expect anybody to actually visit and read this. But perhaps in time, as I begin to rebuild my presence here. Why the hiatus? I don't have one clear answer - events conspired against me, but I was also just kinda lazy. I haven't really done a very good job of chronicling my year in my personal journal either, although that's another area where I'm trying my best to keep up to date. Especially as I go through this particularly trying emotional period.

On the plus side, I have been busy with both my work and my reading. I've still been reading, and some wonderful stuff too, especially over the last few months. James Salter, Peter Stamm, Tessa Headley, Philip Roth (some re-reading of him, which is a project I'm continuing) - all have made appearances on my reading nightstand. I'll start to write more about some of these books over the next couple of months.

I'm also engaging in another intellectual exercise: I'm preparing a proposal to deliver a paper at next year's Humanities Congress in Waterloo. Let's face facts: I'm no academic, and the paper I'm pitching is certainly not breaking new academic or intellectual ground. That said, I do think I have a decent idea for a presentation. Part of it is giving myself a project to work on through the winter. (I'm also doing some book reviewing, although that's more my speed than an academic paper.) I need to challenge myself, to get outside my comfort zone. Wish me luck.

In the meantime, since I'm sure not to have anybody say it to me, I'll say it to myself: welcome back! Watch this space.

Yes, I am a procrastinator!

2010-07-04T13:28:00.000-04:00

Not that we need additional proof of how wonderful of a procrastinator I am, but the fact I haven't written on my blog in over a month is a clear indication of how lazy I can get with respect to my writing. It's probably why being a journalist for the first part of my career actually suited me: I needed that looming deadline to really buckle down and concentrate. I'm discovering this deadline need with respect to a newsletter I'm supposed to be putting together for a literary society. I had hoped to finish it up by the last week of June, but here we are, entering the first week of July, and it's still in an embryonic state. It's partly procrastination, but also fear: that perhaps I'm just not cut out to put this thing together, that I'm not really qualified. The job was thrust upon me by my current boss, and didn't feel I could really say no (particularly since it was presented under the guise as "resume building). Anyway I know I shouldn't fret much, especially since I get the impression that the membership of this society doesn't really read the newsletter anyway! Crank it out, and do better on the next one (in the fall) - that should be my immediate goal.

I'm also suffering under general restlessness of late. I'm struggling to concentrate on my reading. Should I chalk it up to the summer heat? Maybe what I need is something light and fun, perhaps a mystery. Yes! See, this is why I need to write more often (even if I don't have an audience): it does help to clarify my own thinking.

Back home

2010-06-02T15:43:00.000-04:00

I'm back from la belle province. The trip turned out mostly ok, particularly yesterday when I started to feel more comfortable with the society I'm a part of (I haven't been a member for too long, nor am I an academic like the majority of members). I've got a ways to go before feeling like I truly "belong" - but of course I need to remind myself that I rarely feel like I belong anywhere. I was also reflecting yesterday morning on the difference between people that are high achievers and are seemingly supremely confident in their abilities and intelligence (ie., pretty much almost everybody that presented a paper, including a 28 year-old librarian who does a similar job to mine but will far exceed my career achievements - she probably already has!) and middling achievers like myself. So much of it seems to come down to focus and discipline. I seem to have little of either: my mind is constantly wandering (I'm an inveterate day dreamer), and my work habits can best be described as "he gets work done in those ever-rare intervals when he's not procrastinating." I'm actually determined to work on these nasty habits, to improve my self-discipline, to add rigour to my work and thinking life. My big fear is that it's already too late: the proverbial dumb horse is already out of the barn.

Although, in a nice touch, I did have someone - a PhD candidate whose research area (around a private library and what it reveals about the collector) is totally fascinating - come up to me while I was in line waiting to grab a sandwich prior to the association's AGM yesterday afternoon. "I wanted to compliment you on your paper," she said. "You made some excellent observations." I thanked her, of course, but then added, "but I think you might be confusing me with someone else as I didn't deliver a paper." I guess all us men look alike. (Actually I did take it as a compliment because the guy she was confusing me with was quite good looking!)

A homecoming (of sorts)

2010-05-31T11:51:00.000-04:00

So I'm in Montreal as I write this, here since Saturday late afternoon (after enduring a three-hour delay courtesy of Porter Airlines), and leaving tomorrow evening. I'm attending the Congress of the Humanities and Social Sciences (still remembered by many as the Learneds) at Concordia, primarily under the guise of some extra-curricular work I do for a humanities-based association (I edit its newsletter, and thus attend both the council meetings and events it sponsors). While I was somewhat looking forward to getting out of town for a few days, not to mention coming to Montreal (the city of my wonderful youth), my heart and mind isn't truly involved here. It's not that I'm having a bad time - a friend of mine delivering a paper is also here, so I've been hanging out with her, and some of the sessions I'm attending look interesting - but I'm not all that keen on venturing too far outside of Concordia's campus (ie., heading out to the east end to hang out along St. Denis, etc.). Which is odd, since I usually tend to take advantage of these increasingly fewer business-related ventures to engage in some fun and frolic activities and to help decompress. I think it's a lingering hangover from the malaise I've been feeling of late, that I'm not much motivated to do anything that gets me out of my comfort zone. I still feel like I'm in minor recovery mode, if that makes any sense.

These conferences, and the council meeting of this humanities association in particular, also tend to be tough for me, largely because they make me feel terribly inadequate. I tend to feel like I'm on such a steep learning curve with my supposed area of expertise, and forever fearful I'm going to be caught out as an intellectual fraud! So I'm always more on edge as I truly feel outside my comfort zone. (That's been the phrase of the week, actually, "comfort zone," beginning with a long conservation this past weekend with the lovely A.) But onward I go. And I have some "real" work to do, so I feel I can justify my non-presence at some of the less-than-interesting sessions scheduled.

A partial return

2010-05-24T21:17:00.000-04:00

For those few of you that read this blog: no, I haven't died. (You probably figured that out, since the few that do visit here actually know me.) I haven't been much in the mood to write on this thing, however. I went through a fairly difficult melancholic stretch a few weeks back, which I still feel like I'm recovering from. Just your garden variety existential angst, nothing to be overly concerned about. I was in a bit of a reading slump too - still am, sort of, although I'm on the cusp of finishing Richard Ford's Independence Day, his 1995 follow-up to The Sportswriter, both of which are narrated by the protagonist Frank Bascombe. These novels, The Sportswriter in particular, have been eerily prescient in terms of shadowing my current mood and state of mind. At times, I feel a little like Frank: self reflective, mostly happy, but also seemingly in search of something - a connection, a sense of fulfillment, all the while knowing that it's not necessarily attainable. But yet we continue to search.

Short(ish) life (and other assorted thoughts)

2010-04-19T19:20:00.000-04:00

Even though Yann Martel's new book, Beatrice and Virgil, is but a slim volume, and I'm about two-thirds of the way through it, I've decided to stop reading it. I read Martel's Life of Pi a few years back, and loved it. And while I do consider myself a patient reader, and willingly to give complex works the benefit of the doubt, this book is leaving me cold. There's still a lot to like about Martel's writing - he's a wonderful prose stylist, and he makes the craft of writing seem easy and effortless - but there's much to hate about Beatrice and Virgil. It's almost as if Martel set out to write something that would be contemptuous toward his readers. Or maybe fables about the Holocaust just don't turn my crank. In the end, life is too short to waste on something that's really doing nothing for me, even if I was almost finished. (I flipped through the final 40 or so pages and got the gist of it. That seems good enough.)

This is the second book in a row that has left me disappointed. Priorly, I read Ian MacEwen's latest, Solar, which was also a disappointment. (Actually that's not entirely true: Roberto Bolano's Monsieur Pain was sandwiched in between. It's tier B Bolano, but it's still great fun, and takes some joyously surreal turns for good measure.) Again, MacEwen is one of those writers who I admire (but don't necessarily "love"), and I'm also one of the few who thought his last work, On Chesil Beach, was a small masterpiece. But Solar was, overall, a fairly weak effort. The writing is, as always with MacEwen, sharp, but I found the story flabby and, at times, downright silly. Moreover, the main character felt a little too much like Philip Roth's Mickey Sabbath. In the hands of Roth, despicable characters are three dimensional and (almost) likeable; MacEwen, however, doesn't seem to have the immoral balls to pull it off.

So as you can see, I'm in something of a reading slump. A bit of a mirror on my life, actually, since I feel like I'm in a personal slump as well. Nothing to be concerned about: just your regular garden variety melancholy that strikes me every few weeks or so. (I was also battling a nasty head cold for a week, which wasn't fun.) I'm struggling to write, which is frustrating. I get into these periodic, existential "what the hell are you doing with your life" moods, but then I find some degree of purpose and snap out of it. First world problems, of course. I'll get beyond this. And hopefully I'll soon be taken with a great novel.

Happy Earth Day

2010-03-27T21:09:00.003-04:00

So if I'm writing on my unplugged laptop during Earth Hour, is that ok? Well I suppose it'll have to be since that's exactly what I'm doing. I figured I'd be skipping Earth Hour this year because I was going to be out in Mississauga with the parental unit. But I made good time on the way home, so I walked in the apartment door just around 8:20 - plenty of time to light a few candles and prepare myself for this hour where we pay tribute to our lovely planet Earth. (I know, it's easy to be cynical about the idea of turning off the lights for one hour out of the year, but I'll resist the temptation. For one, my footprint is pretty tiny for much of the year anyway as I'm not a huge energy consumer.)

My week of reading neglected New Yorker short stories has turned out quite well. (There were also a couple of non-fiction pieces that I had set aside, so it was good to complete those.) I was able to throw into the recycling bin about seven issues, not to mention enjoying some wonderful stories in the process. One, "Awake" (available free online, and not even from the New Yorker) by Tobias Wolff, was, amazingly, from an issue way back in 2008! I have no idea why I've held on to it for so long - not to mention how since I was living in a different apartment back then, meaning I must have moved the issue with me. What folly! There were two glorious pieces which I'm glad I hadn't discarded before getting around to reading them (and both, interestingly, appear to be novel excerpts): "The Gangsters" by Colson Whitehead (whose fantastic novel The Intuitionist was one of my favourites from a few years back), and Jennifer Egan's "Ask Me If I Care." Egan is not a writer I've read before, but based on the strength of this fantastic piece of writing, I'll be seeking out more of her work. And I most certainly will read both the Whitehead and Egan novels.

It actually was a good New Yorker week all around for me as I was lucky enough to deal with one of the editors of its book blog, Book Bench. Results of my help/work should appear sometime in the coming week. It was quite heady for me to deal with someone that carried the newyorker.com e-mail address, not to mention the anticipation of seeing my small contribution appear online. I've been a New Yorker magazine fanatic (and oft subscriber) for about 20 years, so it's always been a dream to have some contact or connection with it. (In my early 20s, it was my dream to one day work at the magazine.) I'm actually quite giddy about it! It allowed me to end the week - which was already a pretty darn good one, what with seeing both Norah Jones and Catherine MacLellan in concert, as well as catching up with an old high school friend - on a wonderfully high note. (And adding to the general excitement is that I'll be back to being a city cyclist, courtesy of my parents who have given me an old but rarely used bike that was taking space in their condo locker. It just needs a few modifications: new tires, fenders, a bike rack, and some front and rear lights. I should be up and running - and thus freed from the Toronto Transit Commission - by the end of the week. Happy days indeed are here again.)

This and that

2010-03-23T14:35:00.001-04:00

(Of course I started writing this post yesterday morning, but only now - on Tues. - am I actually getting around to finishing it and posting...)

Not sure I mentioned this at the beginning of the year, but I've decided to keep a list (and, thus, a tally) of the books I'm reading this year. It's something I've never done - and, as a result, whenever I'm asked at the end of the year by various literate friends (it's a small list...) how many books I've read over the course of the year, I usually do a best guess-estimate. But I figure by compiling a list of completed books - I'm also maintaining a list of books I haven't managed to finish, as well as a film list - I'll be armed with meaningful, irrefutable stats!

I was steaming along quite nicely through the first two months of the year, completing about (I'm not at home as I write this, so I don't have access to the list) 11 books. (I think there were two books I started but never finished.) But I seemed to have slowed down considerably since the beginning of March. For example, just this past weekend, I turned the final page on Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, which took me a full two weeks to read. It's not even *that* long of a book, but I had quite a bit of social stuff over the past couple of weeks that took me away from my reading couch. And this week, I'm not going to start a book until toward the end of the week, which will slow down my progress. Good thing I'm not obsessed with the final tally.

But why no books this week? Well, I'm presenting myself with another reading goal: to (finally!) get through about eight or nine New Yorker short stories that have been piling up in the apartment. It's funny, when I first subscribed to the wonderful magazine as a teenager, I used to begin with the fiction. However, since I resubscribed about three years ago, I've mostly devoured the excellent journalism, and left the fiction until last. (Except those rare occasions when one of my fave authors, such as Bolano or Murakami, would have a story.) But since it usually takes me the full week to get through an issue, another would arrive in the post before I had a chance to read the fiction. (It might also reflect my current reading interests: I seem to be more partial to longer fiction than shorter.) As a result, I've been stockpiling issues with the intent of eventually reading the short stories. Since I've been in purge mode, the accumulated magazines are getting on my nerves! (I'm a good candidate for an e-reader, as long as the New Yorker offers an e-subscription - which I'm sure it will.) Thus, I feel it's finally time to reduce the pile. I'm aiming to read one story a day - so basically a week or so to be done with the pile - before I start a novel.

In the queue (courtesy of the TPL, where both are "in transit"): Bolano's Monsieur Pain and the new Ian McEwan, Solar.

Rearranging

2010-03-15T20:32:00.000-04:00

So I spent part of yesterday doing what I call the "big purge": essentially, attempting to clear out the clutter in my apartment. I'm actually not much of an accumulator - when I moved almost two years to this place, I was fairly merciless in chucking stuff out while packing. In an ideal world, I'd pare my life down to about six or seven boxes. I like the concept of minimalism, of only having the bare essentials on hand. (I'm also partly inspired by the performance artist's Marina Abramovic's living spaces, gloriously photographed recently by the NYTimes.) Yet, it ain't easy! I look around my home office and I still see stray pieces of paper, books, ticket stubs, business cards, vinyl LPs - what the heck is all this stuff doing in here?

I began the purge with my bookshelf. I'm a reader, but I'm not a collector of books. I once was, and had two full-to-bursting bookshelves to offer up as proof. But when I moved out of the living space I shared with my then-partner M., she said she wanted to keep the books that she had accumulated from her participation in a monthly book club, many of which I had bought and also read. She had an emotional attachment to the books, so I left a whack of them with her. My new apartment wasn't so accommodating with space, so that's when I first started to get rid of books. My philosophy was fairly simple: I would truck the books that I had still yet to read with me, as well as books that personally meant something. Still, even a few years later, the messiness of my one bookshelf was a constant annoyance. So I engaged in yet-another book sort and purge yesterday.

Basically, I'm holding on to a handful of books from authors who mean something to me: Philip Roth, Roberto Bolano, Haruki Murakami, Iris Murdoch, John Updike, J.D. Salinger, Mavis Gallant, Milan Kundera, Margaret Laurence (well, just one Laurence: The Diviners, a book I've bought several times for a number of different friends; even today I still have two copies), along with a few "one offs" like Anna Karenina and James Salter's A Sport and a Pastime (perhaps the sexiest book ever written). These are the authors and books that have inspired me and, dare I say (for fear of hyperbole), changed me. I'm also holding on some non-fiction, primarily journalism that originally inspired me many years ago to be a magazine writer: a couple of Gay Talese books, Ian Brown's fantastic Man Overboard, two Joan Didion collections, among a few others. I also have some books of poetry and books about writers and writing on a shelf above my desk, as well as some music books (biographies of jazz musicians primarily) in the office, but I'm not "counting" those right now since I'm toying with the idea of purging those as well. (But not yet - I'll admit to struggles with nostalgia...)

Interestingly, I still have one entire shelf of my main bookshelf to deal with: it's the reading queue. These are books I've accumulated over the last few years, largely from secondhand sales, that I've been meaning to read. (Some, like a couple of the mysteries, are earmarked for a camping trip I'm sure to do at some point this summer.) I'm hoping to get through them eventually, but even those might have to be dealt with in a purge moment if I don't get to them in the next year or. This is how that shelf looks:

But let's be serious: am I really going to be reading David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest?

the poet

2010-03-11T08:33:00.000-05:00

Came across this decade-old quote from Alberto Manguel the other day while at work: "In our time, the role of the poet has declined from that of fearful soothsayer to that of eccentric provider for the remainder tables."I'd say it's even worse today - that one is lucky to find poetry books in the shops at all, let alone the remainder tables. So that will be my book-buying goal of the month: to purchase at least one book of poetry, preferably a Canadian poet.

Not much to report otherwise (hence the paucity of posts). About a third of the way through Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment (it's a classic!), a book I originally read when I was in high school. I long pointed to C&P as the first "serious" book I read on my volition - that I picked it up from the library simply because I wanted to read it, and not because it was part of my schoolwork. However, I'm not entirely sure I ever finished it. So technically this doesn't come under the banner of re-reading (a theme from last year, and one I hope to continue through 2010). It's been a fun ride so far. One forgets how much of a page turner the big Russians novels can be!

Wanted: One clever person

2010-03-04T16:47:00.002-05:00

I know my readership isn't massive - not to mention I've asked this question to at least two people who I know read my blog (neither of whom could help me; not that they're aren't clever in their own right, of course) - but maybe a stray, smart reader can help me decipher this cartoon in the current issue of the New Yorker. I mean, sure, New Yorker cartoons aren't necessarily supposed to be bust-a-gut, laugh-out-loud hilarious, but at least they tend to be on the droll side. And, at the very least, comprehensible. But this one has me totally stumped. Can anybody help?

Reward to be considered. Not to mention my gratitude (which, if you think about it, is a reward in itself).

Katrina Onstad's How Happy to Be: A mini-review

2010-03-02T23:17:00.001-05:00

There was an online review - and I apologize, I'm not much in the mood to seek it out (lazy city!) - that compared Katrina Onstad to Nick Hornby. How apt, then, that I read Hornby's Juliet, Naked just prior to reading Onstad's How Happy to Be. And it's true, there are comparisons to be made between the two. Both write in an easy, breezy and accessible (in a very good way) style. Both also write sharp, snappy dialogue, and there's an overall attentiveness and care to the craft of writing. In short, both are wonderful and natural writers. They are very easy to like.

Like most Hornby books I've read - with the exception of High Fidelity, which still remains a touchstone for me (although that might also be because I love the movie so much, although the circumstances of reading the book - on a long-haul Paris-to-Toronto flight - are also memorable) - Juliet, Naked was fun and entertaining, but largely forgettable. It had the requisite (stock?) Hornby characters, who function largely as caricatures. Moreover, I'm not sure he really "gets" women - his female characters seem to be one dimensional - but my more-astute female friends are more than welcome to disagree with me. It was good to spend 300 pages with Hornby, but I was also ready to move on when done.

I hadn't intended to dip into the Onstad this past week, but was instead prepared to read Wild Geese as my next Canada Reads Independently book. But it was a whim pick up last Friday, when I realized I had a long-ish commute ahead of me and no book in my bag for the trip. I read the first 20 to 30 pages on said commute, and thought, "Geez, there's no way I'm going to finish this." It didn't seem very serious or astute: did I really want to read a novel that centred around a boring national newspaper with a self-absorbed and unappealing narrator that covered the deadly dull topic of popular culture? It immediately reminded me of my attempt last year to read Russell Smith's How Insensitive - and a poor attempt it was, as I only made it through 40 pages. My head space just isn't into novels centred around un-selfaware, immature and shallow twentysomethings. I lived that life a decade ago, and it's not something I really wish to revisit.

Ah yes, but the narrator Maxime isn't in her 20s, but is in her early 30s - quelle difference! In truth, I decided to persevere because it was a Sunday morning where I was not in my own apartment and near my bookshelf, and thus had nothing else to read. I was trapped. And then, miraculously, about 60 or so pages in, I got hooked. The novel moved away from the world of pop culture - it started to mock it as well, which always helps - and the navel-gazing realm of the Toronto newspaper media (which I was once part of, albeit mostly peripherally) and began to develop more depth and complexity. If it wasn't for the gold medal hockey game that afternoon, I would have finished this book in one sitting (save for that original Friday commute).

As other reviewers have remarked, this is a coming-of-age story - and it's true, one can experience epiphanies in their 30s (I certainly did; I still experience them, in fact). This is a novel that perfectly captures the early (pre-twitter, pre-iPhone, pre-9/11) 21st century: the dot.com boom is about to go bust, and most of us (I include myself here) are avoiding commitment of any sort. Maxime is drifting through life: she hates her job, she's lost her long-term boyfriend, and she hasn't yet confronted her childhood "demons" (I put that in quotes because they aren't really demons, but issues). The novel becomes a story about self discovery and, ultimately, redemption.

This is not a perfect book by any stretch. (What book is?!) The narrative, particularly as it hits the halfway point, becomes overly conventional, and the ending is pat and predictable. There are scenes toward the end which shout "Here's the catharsis!" Still, I kept reading - and, really, I hate to nitpick on matters of plot and structure since I'm an amateur and hardly one to judge - and wanted to know how it would all unfold. I "got" Maxime, maybe because I could understand her dilemmas, her struggles. Ultimately, however, what makes it shine is Onstad's prose: she's a natural, seemingly effortless, writer. It's easy to forgive and forget certain plot contrivances when the writing is skillful and fun.

I'm not sure when I'm going to read Wild Geese. I read the first few pages and wondered if it's up my alley. I may read a couple of books in the interim. In the end, getting through four of the five Canada Reads Independently books feels somewhat like an accomplishment. I'll pat myself on the back.

Ray Smith's Century: A mini-review

2010-02-21T21:58:00.006-05:00

The great thing about this Canada Reads Independently challenge (is that the right word?) is that it exposes me to books that I normally would never been have aware of. This is certainly true of Ray Smith's Century, originally published way back in 1986 by Stoddart, but republished by Biblioasis last year as part of its Renditions Reprint Series. (My apologies to Biblioasis as I ended up reading the Stoddart version, borrowed from the library. I couldn't find the reprint at my local bookstore.) Not only was I not aware of this book, I've never heard of the author Smith. (After reading Century, and trying to find out a bit more about the author - there isn't even a wikipedia entry on him - I have this picture in my head of Smith as this ultra-reclusive writer, a little bit of Salinger in him. Sorry, Ray, if I've got you pegged all wrong.) But I suppose that's the great thing about being an inveterate reader: there's always going to be a writer yet to be discovered.

Reading this on the heels of Bellow's Augie March, it was, at first, a mite jarring. Unlike Bellow, who delights in wonderfully long, lyrical and often ribald sentences, Smith's style is by comparison much more spare, direct. But upon completion of the opening story, "In the Night, Heinrich Himmler...," I was seriously hooked. For one, I've always been attracted to works where the unseen writer introduces himself - in Smith's case, subtly - and toys with the reader and the notion of artifice. He admits that the character of Jane Seymour might be nothing more than a figment of his imagination: "I have not managed to give Jane flesh, though I think the nape of her neck was not too badly done."

I won't bother to recount the entire "narrative" of this book - and narrative is purposely in quotes since this is not a conventional novel. In fact, is it even a novel? The first part of the book, Family, consists of four linked stories dealing with the Seymour family: the children Jane and Ian, the parents Bill and Gwen. (Is Seymour a nod to Salinger and his own linked stories of the Glass family?) Death permeates the stories: one suicide, one tragic, and the other by cancer. There's a wonderful complexity to these characters, particularly the parents in the last two stories: for one, despite a long shared life together, we discover that Bill really doesn't know his wife at all. This struck me as particularly perceptive: even though we often share our lives within various relationships, many of us often retain a "secret," hidden life that we don't share even with our closest loved ones. We're all mysterious cats.

The last story in this section, "Serenissima," revolving around the wife Gwen, was absolutely devastating for me. It was wonderfully measured, exquisitely executed and contained a shocking scene of humiliation. It's perhaps one of the best single stories I've read in a long time. (I finished the book a few days ago and waited to write this mini review, to see if that particular story would still resonate. It does.) The book is worth reading for this one story alone.

The second section of the book, The Continental, was more puzzling. Despite sharing certain themes, there doesn't seem to be any relation to the first part. Unless, of course, I totally missed something (which is always a possibility). It tells the story of American Kenniston Thorson, first in late 19th century Paris, then 30 years later on a train rumbling through Europe. Thorson is an odd character: his name is lost to history, yet he also seems to float among noteworthy events and be involved with many important historical figures. It's a perplexing story, but fascinating nonetheless.

In the end, however, I didn't quite understand its inclusion as I couldn't intellectually - and emotionally - link this latter section with the first. (I plan on reading some reviews of the book to give me some additional perspective. Perhaps it's simply an unsophisticated reading on my part.) Still, because I found the first half of this book so strong and compelling, I didn't feel cheated that I was confused with this section. Morever, taken on its own, the Thorson tale is enjoyable.

Ultimately, the real strength of this work is Smith's assertive and limpid (a word he actually uses at least three times!) prose. There's a confidence in his style, a writer who's totally in command of the language. Quite a contrast from my reaction to the Ray Moody book - while Moody can certainly spin a good yarn, Smith's sentences shimmer. While I didn't plan on rating the Canada Reads books, I will admit that it's going to be tough to top my experience of reading this stunning book.

Family day fun

2010-02-15T11:59:00.003-05:00

Happy Family Day! (As somebody at work said to me the other day, "Brought to you by sex." I think she read it on a greeting card.) Unfortunately, it seems most of my family is travelling - namely, the lovely A., who is in Cuba for the week - so I'm spending the day without family. I couldn't have swung the trip because of my lack of vacation time, although the excursion was never really on offer to me: it was a long-planned trip with a friend of hers. Besides, as she said to me, "I don't see you as an all-inclusive resort-type guy." She's probably right, although I'm sure I could be tempted by the sunshine, warmth and mojitos. So my Family Day will be spent mostly on the couch, surrounded by a book, long-put-off magazine articles, and perhaps a film or two on DVD. Accompanied, of course, by the only family member of mine seemingly not out of the country: my cat. I'll toast the day when the sun sets with a glass of Irish whiskey.

So it seems I'm struggling to post as often I'd like on this blog. And writing more in general. Without getting into too much detail - I promised this blog would not be a confessional about my personal life - it's been an emotional couple of weeks. It's sapped much of the energy I'd use for personal pursuits, like writing. Even reading has been difficult: my one-book-a-week pace was broken. But things have calmed, the sails are no longer flapping in the wind. I've found some emotional ballast.

Much of this emotional turbulence can actually be summed up in a line from Saul Bellow's The Adventures of Augie March, which I just finished this morning. "An independent fate, and love too - what confusion!"

My reading history with the great Bellow is spotty. I read my first Bellow, More Die of Heartbreak, when I was around 18 or 19. I can't remember what compelled me to pick that book up: my guess is that John Updike, who I was reading quite a bit of at the time, probably made a reference to Bellow in an interview, and figured I should read his work. I don't remember much about Heartbreak, except that I read it during my breaks on my summer job at a golf course and genuinely enjoyed it (although I probably didn't "get" it all). I then read Seize the Day, which was short, powerful and wonderful. After which, I remember telling a friend, "Bellow is my favourite writer!" Hyperbole, to be sure, considering I'd only read two of his books, and had yet to tackle the real masterworks. I ended up buying three more of his books - and don't ask my why this particular detail is remembered - at Village Book Store, the fantastic (but now long-departed) secondhand book store on Queen St. run by Marty Ahvenus: Henderson the Rain King, To Jerusalem and Back, and The Adventures of Augie March.

At this point, I imagine I knew Augie March was one of the classics, so that was going to be the Bellow book I would next tackle. To that end, I brought it with me on a train ride to Montreal. (Again, not sure why I remember these details, but they are emblazoned.) Unfortunately, even though it has one of the great opening sentences in 20th-century literature ("I am an American, Chicago born - Chicago, that somber city - and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent"), I don't think I got much farther than 20 pages. The writing was too dense and impenetrable for my still-developing 19 year-old brain. I figured I would eventually try again, and carried that particular paperback copy with me as I moved apartments over the years, but I never did pick it up. I eventually ditched it during one of my periodic book purges, along with the other Bellow books in my collection.

Fast forward 20 years, and now suddenly I "get" Bellow, especially now that I've read the three acknowledged classics in the last six months: Herzog, Humboldt's Gift and, finally, The Adventures of Augie March. In some ways, these three books blend together for me, largely because their narrators share many similarities: namely, a propensity for wild, wonderful and dazzling semantic pyrotechnics. I think it's safe to say that nobody writes sentences like Bellow: they often have flash to spare, yet they're also rooted in a sometimes-coarse street vernacular. He can also be hilariously funny and rowdy. It takes some time and patience - at least it did for me - to dial in to Bellow's style and sensibility, but once locked in you're hooked.

Ultimately, however, what hooks me more than the language is the general tone and melancholy that seems to surround the characters in his books. Yes, many of the characters are painted broad and wide, even larger than life, but the narrators themselves seem to be weighed down by endless self reflection and, often, disappointment. They tend to one catharsis to another, and rarely learn from their mistakes. In fact, at least in Augie March's case, they will repeat these same mistakes. They're flawed, probably much like Bellow himself (the man did marry five times, after all), but admirable nonetheless. There's also a genuine optimism that abounds in his works, that despite all the struggles and conflicts, there's still a hopeful jauntiness.

Without making too big a deal, and for fear of overstating matters, I see a lot of myself in these books. That I live, for the most part, a happy and content life, full of good humour and surrounded by interesting people. Yet, I can't help escape from a seemingly chronic state of melancholy, that there's something more out there, something that's missing. It doesn't weigh me down nor do I suffer from depression (I tend to refer to it as a harmless case of the "blues"), but it's a constant presence. It's there, although perhaps it's also something I welcome from time to time. It helps to ground me.

Ok, enough about me. I'll be back on the Canada Reads Independently wagon this week, hopefully reading two of them back to back (I took them from the library): Ray Smith's Century and Martha Ostenso's Wild Geese. Reviews to follow.

Ray Robertson's Moody Food: A quickie review

2010-02-02T21:41:00.004-05:00

Last week wasn't a banner week for me in terms of reading and writing. The writing part is obvious: I haven't posted in a week. The reading part is less obvious, but suffice to say I struggled to find a book I could sink my teeth into. Maybe I needed a week to simply veg. It was a busy one at work - yes, let's use that as my excuse (lame as it may be). (I did, however, read Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed, the much-anticipated sequel to her mega-hit Eat, Pray, Love. Yes, Virginia, I'm probably not the intended audience for this book. But I was a fan of Gilbert's writing before she struck it rich, largely because of this piece she wrote for the NYTimes, which has everything a humour article should have (ie., yuks). And I read Eat, Pray, Love while I was in the midst of my own break-up, so it had definite resonance. Anyway I will eventually write more about this book and Gilbert, hopefully in my long-promised post about memoirs. Particularly since I'm halfway through another sort-of memoir: Michael Greenberg's Beg, Borrow or Steal - what's with these three word titles?! - which is such a great, fun read, particularly if you've ever tried to make it as a freelance writer.)

I've never been accused of being a decent reviewer. I love my books and films, without a doubt, but that doesn't necessarily translate into being thoughtful in words when I'm done. This truth is particularly evident when I read insightful and incisive reviews by others. (For example, Kerry Clare's more thorough review of Hair Hat put mine to shame!) But I'm ok with this because the reviews that I conjure in my head are enough for me. Something seems to get lost along the way when I try to convey the jumble in my head to the tips of my typing fingers. Put another way: "What we have here is a failure to communicate."

All that preamble aside, I do want to write a few words about Ray Robertson's Moody Food, the second book I've read for Canada Reads Independently. I had high hopes for this book based on the backcover blurb: "... is a critically acclaimed sex, drugs, rock'n'roll-suffused modern tragedy." Sign me up! There aren't enough rock-and-roll novels, after all (although my friend P. is trying to get one he wrote published). Not to mention I'm fascinated by the novel's setting: Toronto's Yorkville in the mid-1960s, when hippies and folk music ruled the neighbourhood. (I can barely stand to walk through Yorkville these days, except when I visit the Pilot on a Saturday afternoon for jazz.)

There is certainly much to enjoy in this novel. It has a fairly strong narrative thrust. The book is narrated by Bill Hansen, a charming and idealistic hippie who works at what sounds like the coolest bookstore in the world (located on Harbord St. no less). He's somewhat adrift until he meets Thomas Graham, who introduces the impressionable Hansen to roots-based music. Eventually the two, along with Hansen's girlfriend Christine, form a band called The Duckhead Secret Society (Hansen is the drummer, even though he's never played drums before), first playing locally before they're "discovered," after which they set out on tour through the U.S. on their way to L.A. to record an album. Hansen and Graham, however, eventually get hooked on cocaine, and the two veer toward self-destruction, all the way Graham is working on music that he hopes will transcend the time.

This book is a proverbial page-turner, to be sure, propelled forward by the narrative. The journey, beginning with the Toronto scenes and proceeding through various towns and dives through the U.S., is fun and engaging. This is a dialogue-heavy book, which makes it accessible and easily digestible. But for me, there was just something ... missing. There's not time spent on introspection or reflection: more like "this happened, and then this happened, and then this happened." I love plot, of course, but I like something more than just plot. My real beef however is with the writing itself, which I found fairly sloppy and clumsy in spots. (Was this deliberate, I wonder? Maybe someone can enlighten me.) It's been a long time since I read so many run-on and jumbled sentences. This book could have used a strong editorial hand.

But hey, what the hell do I know? I'd recommend this book since I found it a frolic, but it doesn't have near the same depth as Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat. (It's also one that will not take a permanent place on my book shelf. It's up for grabs, basically, for anybody that wants to borrow it - on "long term loan.")

I'm still not sure what Canada Reads Independently book I will next take up. I couldn't find either Ray Smith's Century or the Katrina Onstad in my local bookshop - and I couldn't remember the title of the fifth book nominated - so I'm sort-of in a holding pattern. This has been a fun exercise, and one I will continue. Despite my less-than insightful reviewing.

Monday morning, you sure look wet

2010-01-25T07:52:00.005-05:00

Just a quick note before I head off to work on this rainy Monday morning. It was a good weekend - a nice blend of activity (dinner out on Friday night, a matinee of Avatar on Saturday, which I'll write about in a future post) and low-key relaxation, which included finishing my second Canada Reads Independently book, Ray Robertson's Moody Food. I'm going to write more about this book in a post later this week - I want a day or two to properly digest it. The quickie review: good but not great. Perhaps my expectations for this book were too high, and it didn't deliver. Still a fun read though, and worthy of my time. I'm not sure what to read next. I'm going to take a break from the Canada Reads Independently books - mainly because I don't have any of them here in the apartment! - and instead tackle something unrelated. Once this post is done, I'm off to the reading queue in my bookshelf to pick something out. Maybe some Saul Bellow. Or perhaps Atwood's Year of the Flood.

I'd also like to point readers toward an interesting article about the memoir in last week's New Yorker. I want to write more about this - for one, Elizabeth Gilbert's follow-up to the immensely popular Eat, Pray and Love, Committed, is awaiting pick up at the Spadina TPL (closed on Mondays, unfortunately), and Gilbert is an author (and narcissist) I want to touch upon more on the topic of memoirs (since I'm also probably one of the few men that has actually read Eat, Pray and Love!) - as well as touch on my favourite type of fiction, what I call "confessional fiction."

All these promised blog posts - can I possibly deliver? Stay tuned.

R.I.P.

2010-01-21T21:17:00.004-05:00

Wow, it's been a tough week in the CanLit community. First the death of the legendary P.K. Page, who lived a long and prosperous life. And today, the passing of Paul Quarrington. While I discovered P.K. Page much later in my own life - although I quickly recognized her incredible talent - Quarrington has long been a favourite writer. As I said to a colleague today, humour writing is often undervalued, yet Quarrington was a master of the form. My friend H. bought me King Leary way back in the early 1990s, and it's a safe bet that there will never be a better novel about hockey ever written. And I read Whale Music shortly thereafter, and devoured it. I never got the chance to meet the man, but I'll still miss him.

Not much else to report. Was out with one of my dearest friends this evening, someone I've known since high school. There aren't many of those still kicking around! But it was great fun. She admitted that she's not in a good place right now, but we still laughed like mad. "It's because I like you so much," she said about her cheerful disposition, which made me feel all a-flutter. Long-time friends truly are irreplaceable.

Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat: A quickie review

2010-01-19T22:38:00.001-05:00

So I've been a good Canada Reads Independently boy: not only did I buy Ray Robertson's Moody Food from my local bookstore this weekend, I also sat and read (in almost one sitting - I was about 20 pages from the end when the lovely A. wanted to watch a movie: the surprisingly delightful Julie & Julia, but of course I'm a sucker for anything starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams) Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat. As mentioned in a previous post, I cheated and ended up picking this book up from the library - going against my original plan of buying all the Canada Reads Independendly books - but I will poke around for it at my local secondhand shop. (I want to keep them in business too.)

What a wonderful work this is: whimsical, sad, profound, and it captures the not-so-ordinariness of many seemingly ordinary lives. The extraordinariness of ordinariness, in other words. It brings to mind (but just a mite) of Carol Shields: the characters themselves live, on the surface, these somewhat mundane lives, but there's such a richness behind the facade. Just one example: the character of Aunt Lucy, who we're introduced to in the first story, "Yellow Cherries." As narrated by young Francie, Lucy is largely faceless: she's efficient - taking care of Francie at night, making breakfast in the morning, pitting cherries - but she's also seemingly lacking personality. Yet, in "Comfort," which I think is the strongest story in the collection, when the same scenes play out from Lucy's narration/point of view, she reveals depth and sadness and regret. (The classic cliche, I suppose: still waters run deep.) Most of these characters are lonely, which probably explains why it spoke to me: my life is wonderful and full, but sometimes I tend to experience a profound sense of loneliness. It's always a nice confirmation knowing I'm not alone.

I was worried after reading the first couple of stories that the recurring character of the man with the hair hat would be overly "gimmicky" - especially after reading the jacket blurb: "Different to each of them, he makes perfect sense to them all. By turns a figure of forgiveness, of threat, even of love..."; ugh - it eventually played itself out and worked. (I wonder if the story "Chosen," in fact, should have been the final one in the book?)

What really stands out, however, is Snyder's prose. It's luminous and limpid. No trickery, no showing off, but clean, crystalline. Which has got me asking: Carrie, when are you going to publish your novel, as promised in the author blurb?! Well, it only said you were working on it. I guess with four kids, maybe finishing a novel isn't your top priority.

I doubt I'm going to "rank" the Canada Reads Independently books, but if I did, this would be an early favourite. (Note: I'm about 100 pages into Ray Robertson's Moody Food - so far it's good, but not great. The novel is, surprisingly, a mite sloppily written. But the story itself is engaging, so onward we go.)

In other news, I note the death of Robert B. Parker, he of Spenserfame. I was introduced to Parker's writing by my friend H., who during our last year of undergrad went through a detective and mystery writing phase. Many felt Parker was an heir to the writings of the acknowledged masters of the genre, Hammett and Chandler. The early Spenser books are wonderful: expert narrative, tautly written, and also fun as hell. While the later books are still good, something of the magic is missing. But it's a small quibble. Interestingly, Parker also wrote one of my favourite romantic novels of all time: Love and Glory. It's tough to find (outside of Amazon, of course), but well worth it grabbing if you see it secondhand. In his honour, I'm going to read this coming weekend a Spenser book that I bought at the Vic College sale in the fall: Ceremony. It's supposed to be one of the best.

the adaptation

2010-01-14T22:05:00.007-05:00

So after my rave of the Denis Johnson book Jesus' Son (I haven't returned the book yet to the library, but instead continue to steal away a few moments here and there to re-read various passages; I don't want it to leave the apartment just yet), I naturally wanted to see the film. While obviously it isn't as near the genius of the book, it's pretty damn good! The director, Alison Maclean (a Canadian!) has created something not only faithful to the source material - not always an easy feat (cue up the pretty dreadful Witches of Eastwick as Exhibit A) - particularly with respect to the book's episodic nature, it even managed to bring something fresh: she truly captured F.H.'s inherent innocence and goofiness. Of course I was disappointed that my favourite story, The Other Man, didn't make the cinematic cut, and the film drifts a mite about halfway through, but these seem like minor quibbles. Oh, and an additional treat: to have Denis Johnson himself in the film! And not just some throwaway cameo, but playing Terrance Weber, the guy with the knife in his eye! Sweet.

In other news, it's felt like a long week, largely because I had a deadline for a freelance piece due today. Naturally I should have written the damn thing during the holidays - especially with the main interview fresh in my head (I don't tape record my interviews, but rely on my notes and memory) - but, as usual, I left it to the 11th hour. I'd like to understand why I still procrastinate on the majority of my journalism work. Or on most of my writing assignments (even my journal, and this blog). Maybe I like the deadline pressures. I probably should have gone into writing for radio, with its daily deadlines.

I'm also planning on participating in Canada Reads 2010: Independently. (I will most likely be a silent observer...) My reasoning is twofold. I figure it's a good opportunity to read some CanLit that I missed (and that are not necessarily on the "grid') but it also gives me a chance to buy these books at my local book retailer(s) (to support them and the publishers/authors of the books). Of course I've already cheated: I saw Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat at the Spadina branch of the TPL, so I grabbed it. (Sorry Carrie!) So, that'll be the first one up for me.

Short and precise

2010-01-10T16:05:00.002-05:00

Reading Rose-coloured's recent thoughts on the film Up in the Air, where she eventually brings Denis Johnson's collection of stories from the book Jesus' Son into the conversation, brought to mind the mid-1990s. Why? Simple: Jesus' Son was once a proud tenant of my bookshelf. It was the original paperback, with the wonderful black cover. Yet, despite its occupancy, I never read the book. More scarily, I can't exactly remember why I didn't read it, and how it came to disappear from my shelf. To the best of my recollection, I think I lent it to a work colleague, who never ended up returning it. I can't say that I blame him: now that I've finally read the book, I too probably would have made off with it.

Jesus' Son has long been a book that has been in my consciousness - it just hasn't been in my actual brain. I had, naturally, heard the great things said about it - phrases like "a modern masterpiece" tend to get thrown away in discussion of the book - but I usually look toward my well-read friends as guides. My friend H. claimed that it was one of the five best books he had ever read. Another friend also said it was unforgettable, to the extent he read it twice in two days to help him not forget it. It's one of those titles that, over the past couple of years, I look for when I'm browsing secondhand book stores. I never could find it, however, which perhaps also attests to its legacy: once in a reader's possession, it remains a treasured companion. I ended up taking my copy out of the TPL, and, after spending Friday and Saturday reading it (I could have probably read it in one sitting, but I wanted to spread it out over a couple of days, to better fully take in the stories), I'm even more determined to find my own copy. Yes, this book is pretty much perfect.

"Spare" tends to be the word ascribed to Johnson's prose, but I think I prefer the word economical. His phrasing is precise and often lyrical, but there's also a wonderful rawness, a hardness, about it. For example, I love this sentence from the story "The Other Man":

"I'm sure we were all feeling blessed on this ferryboat among the humps of very green - in the sunlight almost coolly burning, like phosphorus - islands, and the water of inlets winking in the sincere light of day, under a sky as blue and brainless as the love of God, despite the smell, the slight, dreamy suffocation, of some kind of petroleum-based compound used to seal the deck's seams."

Powerhouse! He's also fair and generous with his characters: yes, many of them live on the fringes, but there's a genuine caring and honesty about them all. These are stories that will inhabit me for a while.

I should probably break up these male authors I've been reading of late with some female writers. (I've also started reading the Tim Winton book The Turning, but I'm not planning on reading it through straight; the stories are overlapping, but I don't get a sense there's a narrative arc that requires me to read it like a novel.) There's a few in my reading queue: Atwood's Year of the Flood, Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook, Jane Austen's Emma. I'll make my decision this evening.

What's not to like about the library?

2010-01-07T20:58:00.005-05:00

A quick shout out to Martha Baillie and her wonderful book, The Incident Report, which I finished this evening. (I should also probably apologize to her: I should have read this book in one sitting, considering its diminutive size, but it took me three days to read because of other commitments. It hasn't been a great stretch of personal reading since I went back to work this week. But I'm slowly getting back up to speed.) Perhaps the best praise I can provide this work is that I want to meet Miriam Gordon, the seemingly whimsical employee of the Toronto Public Library who "narrates" the book. I use quotation marks since there's no real narrative, but a wonderful series of vignettes - some running several pages (but rarely more than two), others a few sentences, most a few paragraphs - that eventually cohere into a story. The technique is ideal - it captures the often disparate nature, sometimes chaotic and confusing world, of the public service librarian. Yet, there's enough there to give shape to the characters: the various patrons (including the "regulars"), her co-worker Nila, her lover Janko. It's also made me think about making a trip to to Allan Gardens - but not until the spring when I can cycle there (although it's probably quite lovely in the winter).

And hey, what's not to like about a book that makes heroes out of librarians and library workers? (This copy of the book belongs to the TPL's Malvern branch. Might as well give a shout out to it.)

Let's face facts: I like whimsey.

Roth and his prose

2010-01-06T13:23:00.001-05:00

No real reason to post this except that I copied it down the other day. But I find it quite apt to my own life and experiences. It's from Philip Roth's Sabbath Theater:

"The goofiness you must get yourself into to get where you have to go, the extent of the mistakes you are required to make! If they told you beforehand about all the mistakes, you'd say no, I can't do it, you'll have to get somebody else, I'm too smart to make all those mistakes. And they would tell you, we have faith, don't worry, and you would say no, no way, you need a much bigger schmuck than me, but they repeat they have faith that you are the one, that you will evolve into a colossal schmuck more conscientiously than you can possibly begin to imagine, you will mistakes on a scale you can't even dream of now - because there is no other way to reach the end."

Jumbling thoughts

2010-01-05T22:27:00.003-05:00

Much on my mind tonight, and no way do I have the mental stamina to make proper sense of it all to make me sound even semi-coherent. So just a few random, disjointed thoughts:

- Even I'm impressed with my preparedness for tomorrow. I'm determined to get into a weekday routine that involves a morning run on the track, so that involves some strategic planning. Namely, ensuring my lunch is packed and ready to go, but tomorrow it means bringing provisions for the week: seven-grain bread and almond butter to make myself a quickie breakfast at work in the kitchen (I found out today the toaster is broken, sadly), orange juice (in a water bottle), and some toothpaste and a toothbrush (which I can leave at the gym as I rented a locker for the four-month duration of my membership; I'm also bringing some shirts and shorts to store in my locker). If all goes well, I should be out the door by 7:00 a.m. and on the track by around 7:20.

- Though no longer much of a hockey fan, I have the World Junior Hockey Championship on the tube, but really only keeping one eye on it. I'm mostly catching up on some magazine and Sunday NYTimes reading, including this interesting piece on sex and major male American authors. I'm going to write more on this topic at a future date, particularly since Philip Roth, one of the main "protagonists" of this piece, has been much on my mind of late - including his sex scenes. (Hockey update: it's in sudden-death overtime. Fun game. Ah, game over: the Americans have beaten the mighty Canadians. So on goes the music - Schubert, I think, on this cold winter night.)

- While reading the obituaries in today's Globe and Mail, I came up with the germ of an idea for a narrative that has me excited. Stay tuned! I need to remind myself: 300 to 400 words a day...

- Microsoft strikes again! I was quite excited to give the Toronto Public Library's Online Downloads a try. After all, if I'm going to be keeping to a strict running schedule, I'll need plenty to listen to on my iPod Nano. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about listening to a book online, but I figure it's worth a shot. Unfortunately, after downloading the necessary software and "borrowing" a couple of books (Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Shore and Richard Russo's A Bridge of Sighs) and getting frustrated about why it wasn't working, I discovered that the format (WMA) is not Mac compatible. So now I'm in search of audiobooks in mp3 format that I can actually listen to on my ipod. Very frustrating. (There's certainly a lot of Arthur Conan Doyle available. Can anybody offer up a recommendation? I've never read any Sherlock Holmes, yet it sounds like it could be ideal running accompaniment.)

"You should read this author. You'll like him"

2010-01-03T11:30:00.003-05:00

About a year and a half ago, my friend R. brought over a book as an apartment-warming gift: Tim Winton's The Turning. He had told me about this book a few years back and how much he loved it. Naturally, he figured I'd adore it too. I had heard a lot about Winton but had never read him, and appreciated R.'s gesture in buying me one of his favourite books. I had a couple of other books on the go at the time, so I didn't end up picking it up for about a month.

Now I had half-a-feeling that the Winton book would be tough for me. For one, according to the back-cover blurb, the stories were "set in small-town Western Australia." That was an immediate red flag: while I do try my best to read things outside of my comfort zone, I'll admit that I've always struggled with stories based solely in rural settings. It's a bias, for sure, but a bias nonetheless that is difficult for me to overcome. (I guess that's the inherent nature of a bias...) Moreover, it's a book of short stories, albeit "overlapping," which is also not my default reading pleasure. I much prefer the full-length novel - something I can truly sink my teeth into. Still, this was a gift, and my friend R. is a learned and curious reader, so I was willing to unshackle my natural inclinations to ignore this type of work and give it a shot. More important, interesting and well-wrought characters and stories should be interesting and well-wrought regardless of the setting, yes?

Well, I only made it to page 19 (the book mark is still there), so not even two complete stories. I figured my mood at the time wasn't right for this book, so I put it down, determined to give it another go later in the year. However a whole slew of other books got in the way, so the Winton was left to gather dust on my "to read" shelf. R. asked me a couple of months after giving me the book whether I had read it and enjoyed it, and felt the need to come clean and said that I tried it but just "couldn't get a handle on it." I then admitted my struggles with books set outside urban areas (I think I might have used the phrase "in the bush"), but that I would eventually read it.

Anyway I was out at R.'s last night - we brought over a wonderful late harvest Riesling along with some cheese, pears and apples - and we got to talking about the Philip Roth book, Sabbath's Theater, I had just finished about 30 minutes before arriving at his place. I was waxing (probably not very eloquently though) on how wonderful the book was - Tier A Roth, which in my eyes is Tier A literature. To my surprise, R. admitted that he didn't much like Roth! "So now we're even!" I said, recounting my struggles with the Winton. When we thought about it some more, it made some sense that we didn't like each other's favourite authors: despite our friendship and apparent similarities, we don't have shared sensibilities when it comes to literature.

But we did end up striking a deal: that I would give a more earnest attempt at the Winton if he would give Roth a fighting chance. I'm picking one of the easy Roth books for him: The Ghost Writer. It's the one I tend to recommend for those who have never read Roth since it's fairly short, tightly written, and doesn't meander off into crazy flights of prose and narrative as other Roth novels are wont to do. (Of course that's one of the things I love about his work, but recognize it's not something others tend to enjoy.) It's a pure pleasure from beginning to end, at least for me. (My friend H. told me he reads this book every second year, and he's not the biggest Roth fan.)

So it's onwards to Tim Winton's The Turning! Once I start and finish Martha Baillie's The Incident Report first, of course. It's due next week at the library.

Hello 2010!

2010-01-02T11:59:00.003-05:00

So a new year has begun. Farewell 2009! You were good to me, and I hope the good continues into 2010. The year ended nicely (and predictably): eating a well-prepared medium-rare steak (it was a nice night to BBQ), quaffing a $50 bottle of a California Zinfandel, enjoying a post-dinner glass of single malt scotch while watching Fellini's wonderful 8 1/2 (ok, maybe that last part wasn't as predictable). We missed the official ringing in of the new year, however, as the lovely A. was intent on watching the end of Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" on MuchMoreMusic's Retro Dance Party. No biggie: we still opened up a bottle of (faux) champers and toasted a new calendar for the wall.

We also created a list of resolutions, although I prefer the term "goals I hope to achieve." Basically, there were three, all revolving, unsurprisingly, around the theme of self improvement (which tends to be my theme every year; who knows if I'm actually getting closer to a personal nirvana!). I'm doing these from memory (since I left the sheet at A.'s house):

1. To make better use of my spare time. I tried to qualify this by adding items like using my free and available time to write more often (and look, a blog post so early in the new year, so I'm trying!), not rushing home straight from work but to take a few more seconds out of my day to sit at a cafe to read, or to browse the city streets, to see a film, etc. (That's actually another one of my unstated goals: to see more films this year, including catching up some long-neglected classics.) I hope this goal will lead to another one: making better use of this wonderful city I live in and its cultural amenities.

2. To play more guitar and learn how to use the program GarageBand. I've left my acoustic guitar on its stand unattended for far too long. One reason is that I desperately need to buy new strings! I'm going to buy some today and get cracking on this goal. I'm not a great player, by any stretch, but I do enjoy fooling around with chords, and conjuring melodies and lyrics.

3. To be more honest and open, both with myself and my friends. This is a tough one to properly explain, but it essentially means being more self-reflective, to really examine the things that make me tick, including what makes me happy (and sad). I might use this blog for some of that self reflection, so stay tuned! But I want to use it primarily to help fuel some of my creative writing. The second part, to be more honest and open with friends, will be put up to the test tomorrow when I go out with a friend who I've been resisting seeing - I want to explain why I haven't been making of an effort to stay in touch (it's a long story, but it involves her cutting out early the last time I saw her to see a guy who I think has been using her; I want to have the kind of friendship with her that allows me to be honest and direct with her).

Actually, that third resolution was also tested yesterday morning and early afternoon when the lovely A. and I had a chat about her difficult year and my lack of understanding of how tough it really was. It revealed some painful truths: in a nutshell (again, the story is way too long to recite here, not to mention I feel I need more time to process it and ruminate on it), that I have a tendency to be too selfish, that I'm not as giving as I should be. It was a tough, sad, but necessary eyeopener. Which basically adds one more goal to the mix: to discover selflessness, even to see if I have the means within me.

I'm looking forward to an emotional and exciting 2010!

2009, we hardly knew ya

2009-12-31T10:54:00.003-05:00

Dec. 31, the end of the 2009. The end of the decade to boot. I wish I had the energy (and time) to do a proper rundown of the past 10 years - it would also require me to be in the proper reflective mood, which I'm not this morning - but suffice to say it's been a largely wonderful, eventful and important decade for me. It involved my first (and still to-date only) "shacking up" relationship, as well as an extremely difficult dissolution partway through the 2000s. I changed careers, which was of course a momentous (and successful) decision. I travelled to a few destinations: England, Ireland, Spain, Portugal, Japan, Argentina, not to mention visiting my favourite cities on a few occasions: London (England), NYC, Montreal. The love life was active after the break-up: I dated a number of different (and mostly terrific) women, had a one-night stand, and, as the decade draws to a close, found myself involved in what is probably the best romantic relationship of my life (with the lovely A.).

There have been some significant "downs," to be sure - the aforementioned break with M., which still haunts me from time to time (that's a whole other blog post), the constant mental battle I have of living a life that's "right and proper" (ie., kids, a mortgage, the white picket fence) versus one of my own making (and that tends to be disparaged, even by myself!) - but I feel mostly good and happy about where I am in my life. I really do feel I'm getting better as I get older.

This past year didn't involve any life-altering events. Well, unless you include a milestone birthday (ie., one that ends with the number zero), which I initially struggled with a few months before the actual b-day. In the end, it passed rather innocuously (and, thankfully, in NYC; it was a real treat to be eating a pie at John's Pizzeria in Greenwich Village on the afternoon of my birthday). But overall, the year was more marked by "steady as she goes." The highlights revolved, of course, around our various travels. Our two weeks in Argentina this fall, where we enjoyed much tasty food and wine and general fun and frivolity (particularly in Buenos Aires, which is now high up on my cities to revisit), were glorious. As well as a wonderful week at Sandbacks in the fall and a long weekend earlier in the year to do some serious snow shoeing. (That was a great discovery: how much I love to snow shoe! I'm actually looking forward to the first big snow dump of the winter to indulge.) It was also a generally good year for my body and health: no serious illnesses, thankfully, and I managed to keep up a fairly regular running schedule from early spring to early fall (after which it dropped off because of travel and time constraints, although I'm back up to running at least three times a week; that will go up in Jan. when I join the gym and can indoors). 2009 was also the year of the "big book" and of re-reading. Big books included Anna Karenina and Bolano's stupendous 2666, and re-reads included Roth's first Zuckerman books and Bolano's The Savage Detectives. I'm (hopefully) going to continue both trends in 2010. I have War and Peace awaiting, and I'd like to re-read some Haruki Murakami. My reading habits have improved considerably over the past year or so, for which I can thank my friend M. He's helped to rekindle my passion for reading, which had been somewhat dormant in the mid-2000s.

Not all is cookies and cream, of course. For one, there are still some lingering work issues involving my status (still on contract, still not making as much money as my colleagues, etc.), but I'm largely content with the job. Seemingly in comparison to many of my friends who can't stand their work: while out with D. last night for drinks, he said, "Aside from you, I don't know anybody that likes their job." And I'm disappointed in my lack of writing over the last year, whether it's here on this blog or in my journal or other endeavours. (I did manage to publish some of my work this year, however: some paid freelance pieces, as well as some work- and research-related articles, which are important to my career.) That's one of my "resolutions" (as much as I hate that word) for 2010: to better carve out time (which mostly means making better use of my time, which mostly means not procrastinating as much) and energy to write more. I'm setting a goal of getting a "creative" piece published in the next two years - wish me luck!

So I feel like the year is ending on a good and positive note, which I hope to carry through to 2010. Happy New Year to you all!

So this is Christmas

2009-12-23T09:40:00.003-05:00

Indeed, only two days until Christmas. I've been off work since Friday, and while I love the two-week break afforded by the holidays, I'm not feeling particularly festive this year. Admittedly I haven't made much of an effort to decorate the apartment: I did dig out the xmas ornaments and requisite CDs (Charlie Brown Christmas, A Big Band Christmas, the great holiday album by Barenaked Ladies, etc.) and hung up the stockings (one for me, the other belonging to my cat), but I still haven't been infested with holiday cheer. (I also didn't end up doing much with the ornaments as I didn't end up buying a tree.) Perhaps I'll feel different in the next couple of days when things truly slow down and I get to spend some quality time with the lovely A. (Last year we spent the four days before the 25th in Washington, DC, which was great fun.) She's been super-busy with work - namely wrapping a job up and starting a new(ish) venture in the new year - so we haven't been able to indulge too much in each other's company. We did, however, see Handel's Messiah on Monday night, and we're off to The Nutcracker this afternoon, so it's not like we're not trying to get into the holiday spirit!

All that being said, it's a welcome relief to not have to drag my ass to work until the new year. It's been an arduous couple of months on the job - thankfully nothing unpleasant, just a heavy workload. It's one reason for the paucity of posts on here - I'm just too damn bagged when I get home to do anything other than make dinner and vegetate. (I've been watching a lot of the Toronto Raptors too, although that's been more aggravating than relaxing...) So I'm using this downtime to indulge in some serious ... well, downtime. I've already been reading like a fiend: began and finished the fascinating A Terrible Splendor, polished off Roth's middling and slight (but still readable) The Humbling in two sittings, as well as getting to some short stories from The New Yorker - including works from some "big name" authors such as DeLillo, McEwan and David Foster Wallace - that I had put aside when I had more leisure time to fully engage with the stories. And although The Humbling was a mild disappointment (not a huge one though I had low expectations going in), it has led me to pick Roth's Sabbath's Theater, which the recent novel has been compared to - and which many people feel is Roth's masterwork. So I'll be reading that over the next few days, after which I may finally begin my winter reading project: Tolstoy's War and Peace. Wish me luck.

Watch this space for a 2009 wrap-up, and some thoughts on the coming year.

writing and moods

2009-12-01T22:19:00.004-05:00

So it's been a while since I posted. I haven't been overly busy - I had a couple of tight deadlines to meet at work, for sure, but since I hardly ever write when at work, I can't use that as an excuse - but I haven't had the requisite energy to put together a decent blog post during the evening hours. I also chalk it up to my mood: the frequency of my posts tends to go up when I'm in a more depressed state of mind, or at least when I'm going through some extreme emotions. My life right now, however, is rather dull. In a good way, thankfully. No high drama, no histrionics, but more tranquil satisfaction. It's a nice headspace that seems to suit me, at least for the time being.

It hasn't always been like that. In fact, I've just spent the better part of 45 minutes poking through my external hard drive and re-reading some blog writing from my past. (I was in search of my favourite post that I wanted to pass on to a friend of mine who never read the blog.) For those that don't know, I've had about four different blogs over the years, with my original 2005 Procrastination Nation blog standing as perhaps my finest of all. I certainly had more energy back then for writing, but that's directly related to my emotional state at the time: I was going through a serious break-up, and then re-entering the dating world. Is it any wonder I had a lot on my mind to share? (I was also probably more into sharing back then. I've become more gun shy about revealing too much of me on the web.)

In some ways I miss having that energy and will to write and share my life - I'm proud to say it was a popular site - although I don't necessarily miss the turmoil that accompanied it. I'm better off in 2009 than I was in 2005. I'm happier, and more importantly I'm more content. Still, it's nice to revisit some of those old posts. For those that are interested, this is the kind of stuff I was writing:

At work the other day, I was reminded of a scene from Carol Shields’ The Stone Diaries. I don’t actually remember much about the book – I think I enjoyed it, but it doesn’t resonate. (Her last novel, Unless, left a greater impact, probably because a big chunk of it took place in Toronto.) But what I do remember is the two pages or so where the narrator, Daisy, lists all the things that she’s never done in her life. (I don’t have the book in the house to list them all, but I do remember one of the things she listed was oral sex.) From what I recall, she doesn’t register judgement on those things she’s missed out on, but simply notes them impassionately.

I’m in the mood to undertake a similar exercise. I’ll make two lists: the things that I’ve done that might be somewhat out of the ordinary (or at least memorable for me), and those that I’ve not done or accomplished. In some cases, I’ll provide a small explanation.

Things that I’ve done:

Held an Oscar; won three tennis tournaments; given multiple orgasms (or so I was told…); broken both my wrists (the right one one year, the left one the next); torn my rotator cuff in a bike accident; won a broadcast award in university; published approximately 400 articles (many of questionable quality); flown over the date line; paid for porn in a Japanese hotel; cheated on a partner (only once, and to my shame); spent New Year’s Eve alone; spent my birthday alone (and worried that I’ll be doing that this year); “made out” with a girl when I was 8 years old; travelled to almost every major American city; flown first class; finished in the top ten in scoring one year in hockey (when I was 10; I finished eighth); assisted on a championship-winning goal; thrown up from too much booze on someone else’s carpet; shot, processed and developed my own black and white photos; been hit in the balls with a tennis ball while playing goal in a street hockey game; hit someone in the balls with a slap shot in a street hockey game; cried at the end of the film Fields of Dream (it’s the whole “father-son” thing); had three one-night stands.

Things I haven't done:

Gone bungee jumping or sky diving; had a threesome; read Moby Dick, War and Peace or Ulysses; gone skinny dipping; made a woman pregnant (at least as far as I know); had anal sex; travelled to India, New Zealand or Argentina (three places I’d like to visit); used any drug harder than hash; seen a dead person at an open-casket funeral.

--

Re-reading this, I wonder if this was a draft. After all, the list of things I haven't done seems awfully small! More important, I can actually cross three things off the list and add them to things I've accomplished (travelling to Argentina is one; I'll allow others to speculate on the other two). Also, maybe it's time to get back to that type of confessional writing. Of course it won't be that scandalous: after all, nobody's here reading!

Revisiting, reevaluating

2009-11-17T18:01:00.007-05:00

There are two themes to my reading this year. The first is that I've been reading a lot of "big" books. That was especially true early in 2009 when I read Roberto Bolano's 2666 and Tolstoy's (no first name necessary) Anna Karenina, pretty much back to back. I used to joke that I have the attention span of a gnat (without knowing, of course, if a gnat indeed has a limited attention span; but it sounded good), and that I was never much good at reading anything above, say, 300 pages. Although I've read large-ish tomes in the past - Norman Mailer's Executioner's Song comes to mind (all 1000 pages or so of it!), and as a teen I read Stephen King's massive It (it was a b-day gift from my parents, who figured because I enjoyed reading that I'd like the book that was #1 on the best-seller's list that year) - I tend toward more manageable works. You know, the ones around 200 to 250 pages.

I expanded my horizons this year though and pulled off the shelf some larger works. Bolano's 2666 was a no-brainer. Since devouring his Savage Detectives (yes, it's a long novel!) during the 2007 xmas season, I was hooked on the guy's work. I bought 2666 (at my local bookstore - remember to support your local book shop) about a week after it was released, with the intent of saving it for the 2008 xmas season when I had two full weeks off to devote to nothing more than reading and loafing (two of my fave activities). What a joy it was to spend time in Bolano's world for approximately 950 pages. (I can't fact check the exact page count; I've lent the book to a friend.) And reading Anna Karenina ... well, what could I possibly add to the far-more intelligent insights already out there on the novel? As I've said many times since: "That Anna Karenina, I think it's a classic."

Which brings me to the second theme of my reading year: re-reading. After I finished 2666, and after reading an article (sorry I can't link to it since I don't remember where I saw it) that suggested a clue to the 2666 title could be found toward the end of Savage Detectives, I decided to re-read Savage. Although I consider myself a somewhat-serious reader, I've never been one to re-read a work. My argument? There are far too many books to read once, so why bother picking up something I've already finished?

Upon reflection, and as I continue to read for the second time the wonderful first Zuckerman trilogy (+ the final Zuckerman book, Exit Ghost, which I'm about halfway through) by Philip Roth, I realize how shortsighted this "no re-read" strategy is. The Zuckerman books mean so much more to me now than they did on my first read over 10 years ago. For one, I'm in a better space to better understand the works - I have more life experience (I almost used the word "maturity," but fear it might be a misuse of that word...), for one, and I'm far-more self-reflective. The novels speak to me in ways they couldn't when I first read them while in my early 20s. The reading experience is totally different - it's more fulfilling in so many ways.

All hail to the re-read!

Thoughts on, among other things, poetry

2009-11-09T07:35:00.004-05:00

From Nicholson Baker's The Anthologist:

Tim leaned forward. "I work away at this book, and I describe how the Queen oversaw this huge system of plunder and destruction that wrecked people's lives all over the globe, and I've raked together all this knowledge, and I enjoy doing it because I feel I'm getting at the truth-"

I nodded.

"But it means so much less to me," Tim went on, "than if I were sitting on a couch talking to a woman of grace and intelligence who was wearing an attractive sweater."

*****

This passage is a nice summation of my own thinking. That, on one hand, I love the idea of the life of the intellectual - pursuing knowledge for knowledge's sake, to mine books and other sources to reveal a new truth, some new understanding about the world, about ourselves, about me. Yet, all that pales in comparison to just hanging out with a wonderful woman on an autumn evening, an open bottle of wine at the ready, to share stories of our respective days, trade tales of our lives lived, revealing our secrets and passions. Can this same level of intimacy be found within the covers of a book?

That said, I finished the Baker novel a few days ago. Sure, it was somewhat slight - more a novella, and without much narrative thrust - but still great fun. I haven't read a Baker novel for many years - the last was most likely The Fermeta, at least ten years ago. (And who can forget his classic "phone sex" novel Vox, which I read at a necessary time in my life: when I was single and going through a dating drought.) I was reminded, reading The Anthologist, how funny he can be. Some of his throwaway lines had me laughing aloud with delight. Also, it's fairly difficult to dislike a book that is so passionate about poetry.

I have an interesting relationship with poetry. For years, I never really "got" it. It seemed impenetrable, or a form of language that was beyond my understanding, like hieroglyphics. (I certainly was quite lousy writing it as well!) Still, I've flirted with poetry at various times: I went through an ee cummings phase when I was in my last year of undergrad (I used a poem to help woo a woman, which was quite wonderful). And then I read some Rilke after reading the wonderful Letters to a Young Writer. Even music lyrics, which many say is our first exposure to poetry, didn't draw me in. I love listening to the rhythm of lyrics, but I never really read them. But it's only in the last few years, and largely through my work, that I've started to really make sense of poetry. My mind can now better decipher the language of poetry, that I'm more attuned to it. I now buy the occasional book of poetry (most recent purchase: Don McKay's Night Vision) and even dabble with it in my journal (although I'm still a terrible poet). Still, despite this newfound appreciation and understanding, it's doubtful you'll find me at a poetry reading anytime soon. I'm not sure I'm ready to take that leap.

In other news, I'm off to Montreal later this week, ostensibly for a meeting, but mostly to bum around for a few days. I was born in la belle province and lived there for many years. Even though it doesn't feel like I'm going "home" when I venture to Montreal - my life is decidedly in Toronto - it does feel like a return to my roots. (I still have a few friends there as well.) It's also been ages since I took the train, so that should be fun too (despite the inevitable delays).

the return

2009-11-02T08:06:00.003-05:00

(Photo taken during a trip through the Andes.)

So I'm back - been home for a week, actually, but it's taken me much of that time to readjust back to a routine. Thankfully, the two-week vacation felt like a long two weeks, which I take as a sign that it was a restful respite. For those curious: yes, do put Argentina on your list of places to visit. (Do others create those lists? Argentina was long on mine. Other locales still on that list: Brazil, South Korea, New Zealand, Greece.) It's a wonderful country, one I'm sure I'll be revisiting in the next decade or so as there's just way too much to see in two weeks. I felt we barely scratched the surface, although that's largely because we decided we didn't want to be on the move too much. As a result, we stayed a full week in Buenos Aires (in a fantastic studio apartment to boot in a great neighbourhood), after which we made our made to the Mendoza region. Anyway I don't want this to be a travelogue - I've already bored enough people with tales of our trip.

Whenever I'm travelling, I always vow to change some of my habits and routines upon return. I try to set achievable goals, usually revolving around making better use of my free (ie., non-work) time. When I travel, I tend to take note of how others live. In Argentina (in fact, in most places I've visited outside of North America), there seems to be greater emphasis on socializing (or reading or whatever) over coffee at a cafe. I love cafe culture: the social part, sure, when I'm with a friend, but I also love to carve out time by myself, lingering over a coffee or beer with a book or a journal. It's something I tended to do much more when I was in my early 20s and living alone for the first time in the city. Sadly, it's also something I've got away from over the past few years. I can't even pinpoint a reason - maybe it's because there sometimes seems to be too much demand on my time that I seek out solitude within the confines of my apartment instead. (Not to mention that I've been running more after work rather than in the mornings, although with the time change this weekend it should be easier - and brighter! - to hit the streets and the park in the a.m.) I want to get back to that "me" from my early 20s. It shouldn't be too difficult: a quick walk to a local cafe or bar after work, with book and journal in my (new leather, bought in a Buenos Aires market!) bag is an easy task. I'll let you know how I progress.

Speaking of books, read the new Bolano, The Skating Rink, while in Argentina, which was short and wonderful. Also re-read Philip Roth's The Ghost Writer, part of my plan to re-read the first Zuckerman trilogy. (I ploughed through Zuckerman Unbound last week. I'm going to read couple of new books, Nicholson Baker's The Anthologist and Atwood's Year of the Flood, before I tackle The Anatomy Lesson.) I'm going to write about re-reading in another post since my experience with The Ghost Writer was quite different this time around than first reading it about 15 years ago. It's about being a new level of life and maturity to the work.

bon voyage!

2009-10-09T10:57:00.000-04:00

I'll be in a couple of weeks!

Notions

2009-10-04T22:29:00.003-04:00

Every so often, I get these notions. Once, many years ago when I worked at home as a freelance writer, I had this idea that I'd listen to my entire CD collection from A to Z (yes, at one time my CDs were in alphabetical order; they're still sort-of in that order, but not quite): so start with a CD I picked up in Prague at this jazz club (it was a collection of live songs played at the club), and end with John Zorn's incredible Spy vs. Spy. I don't remember how far I got - the optimist in me likes to think that I made it to at least Vic Chesnutt's About to Choke, but I fear I only made it as far as, say, The Beatles' White Album - but it was a futile attempt. Who knows, perhaps I might revive that challenge. (I can always attempt it on my iPod, although I tend toward the shuffle feature when listening to music on it.)

I have a new goal: to watch every film listed on Sight and Sound's top film list from 2002. Quixotic? Perhaps. I could make it easy on myself and confine myself to the Top Ten critics' and directors' lists, but that seems too easy. (I've also seen most of them - just missing Lawrence of Arabia from the directors' list, Sunrise and Battleship Potemkin from the critics' list.) To get me going, I figured I'd rewatch most of the top ten, so I took out the DVD of Citizen Kane from the library. It's been about a decade since I last saw the film, so it was great to revisit. (It also came with the DVD of The Battle Over Citizen Kane, which was interesting.)

So how am I going to attack the Sight and Sound list? Not quite sure yet, actually. I haven't had much success going from A to Z with music, so it's probably not the best approach. I think I'll just do it randomly: print the list out and cross out films when and after I seen them. I'll do it by whim. If all goes well, watch this space for updates.

TGIF

2009-10-02T19:44:00.003-04:00

A rare Friday evening post! I'm actually waiting for the lovely A. to brighten my apartment - she's probably close by now, shifting her way through the rain on the QEW - and since I'm importing some CDs to iTunes (in a google chat conversation with M. this morning, I realized my iPod was missing some essential albums, including John Coltrane's Blue Train and Charlie Parker's wonderful Dial recordings) I figured I'd jot down a few thoughts.

My thoughts, not surprisingly, revolve around my upcoming vacation and trip to Argentina. In exactly one week, we should be at the Miami airport, awaiting our overnight flight to Buenos Aires. (Amazingly, my close friend D. left today for South America, to Bolivia on a trek. And with Rio winning the 2016 Olympics - well, South America is obviously the place to be right now.) A friend said to me the other day, "You always seem to be going away," but I had to remind her that I actually haven't had an extended vacation (ie., anything over a four days) since I was in Portugal last Spring (and when I say "last Spring," I mean 2008.) And that was only for 10 days - this is the first time in many years I'm taking a full two weeks to travel.

A few people have asked, "Why Argentina?" My response: "Why not Argentina?!" I've long been enamoured of the idea of travelling to Buenos Aires, although I can't pinpoint why. It's not like I've read Borges, for example. Yet the city, and the country, has long had a hold on me. Maybe it stems from an article I wrote about 7 years ago on the film industry in Argentina, when one of the people I interviewed said to me, "Come to Argentina!" He said I could get a wonderful steak dinner, replete with a bottle of wine, for about $10. (That was around the time the Argentinian peso was devalued, so my guess dinner is going to be more expensive in 2009 - although I've been told it's still going to be fairly inexpensive. Argentina sounds like a very meat-intensive country.)

Let's face it: I need to get away. The lovely A. probably more so! She says it make take her a few days to decompress (she's had a stressful summer) which may mean a day or so by myself, haunting the various cafes. (We've rented an apartment for the first week, which should help with the decompression.) Not to mention checking out this book store. I'm also going to give this urban running tour a go, even though it seems terribly overpriced. (It's rated #1, however, on trip advisor's things to do in Buenos Aires.)

Those looking for postcards - and really, who doesn't want a postcard written while I'm sitting in some wonderful Buenos Aires cafe, sipping a coffee and/or beer - you know where to find my e-mail to send your address.

The lovely A. is now here, so I will sign off...

Books, books, books!

2009-09-29T08:09:00.005-04:00

As some of you know, I'm into purging. It's (sort-of) part of my job, but I've tried to bring that same sense of culling to my own life. When I moved a year ago, I undertook a major downscaling of my possessions. Despite my best efforts, however, I still wasn't happy with the number of boxes I was carting to my new apartment - to the extent that I vow I will downsize even more the next time I change abodes. (In an ideal world, I'd be able to cart all my possessions in about six or seven boxes. That's of course fairly unrealistic, but a worthy goal nonetheless.)

One of the biggest areas of purging was my book collection. I'm a reader - I have an unabashed and passionate relationship with the written word. But I realized a couple of years ago that that doesn't necessarily translate into being a collector. Because of my work, book collectors are a species I'm all-too familiar with. And while I admire many of them, the simple truth is that I ain't one of them. I don't have the financial resources, the inclination or quite simply the space to be a serious collector. A few years ago, I was looking at my bookshelf and thought to myself, "Why the hell do I still have that copy of John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany when I have no intention of ever reading it again?" I seem to remember enjoying it, for sure, but not enough to re-read it. Yet my bookshelves were rife with similar books. They were relics of my reading history, trophies. But they didn't serve much purpose except to take up space.

Since then, I've been ruthless about getting rid of books. I still read, of course, probably more than I ever have. But I use the library for most of my books. And when I do buy books (usually secondhand), I tend to pass them on to friends when I finish. This is not to say I don't keep any books. There are some authors that are special to me (Roth, Murakami, Kundera, Lawrence) and that I suspect I will re-read at some point. And I've kept pretty much all the books that have been given to me over the years as gifts. Most important, I still maintain a shelf of books I've bought that I'm eventually going to read, the so-called reading queue.

For many years now, I've indulged in an orgy of book buying delight at the various University of Toronto fall book sales, most prominently the one at University College and Trinity. I've gotten much smarter, however, which each passing year (and some years I haven't gone at all) - namely, not buying books that I feel I should read (Moll Flanders tends to be the example I like to use) but books that I'm almost certain I will (eventually) read. It's resulted in a lot less books being bought by yours truly (with the added benefit of having less strain on my shoulder from lugging my purchases home).

I'm going to be away for both the UC and Trinity sales this year, so I made a special effort to make the book sale at Victoria College. In fact, I went twice: on Saturday, and yesterday (Monday) when books were going for half price. I did well this year, and bought a lot more books than I had intended. So in no apparent order - well I guess the order I stacked them next to me to note them - these books are being added to my reading queue shelf:

The Sportswriter by Richard Ford. He's an author I've never read but who's been on my radar for years, largely because writers I like respect his work.

The Middle Stories by Sheila Heti. It's a series of small and seemingly quirky stories; she herself, from what I understand - I don't know her personally, but we're probably not too far removed sixth-degree of separation wise - she's personally quirky. I don't think I need to read this from cover to cover, so I'll probably put it on my bedside table and pick up from time to time.

Zinger & Me by Jack MacLeod. A colleague of mine loves this book, and it's about the academic world and journalism, so figured I'd give it a shot; and it only cost me $1.

The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing. The favourite author of another colleague of mine. She lent me books of another series Lessing wrote (the name escapes me) but I just couldn't get into it. So I figured I'd try the Nobel Laureate's most renowned work.

Ceremony by Robert Parker. Bought for next year's camping trip; the book is small, portable and most likely fun to read.

Paris Notebooks by Mavis Gallant. I've been doing a lot of proseltizing of Gallant lately, telling people that they should be reading her wonderful short stories. This is her great work of non-fiction. It would be ideal for taking on a trip to Paris - maybe I should plan one of those...

Picked-Up Pieces by John Updike. As much as I love Updike's Rabbit series of books and his short stories, his essay writing (particularly about sports) and book reviews are fantastic. This collection gathers his mid-1960s to early 1970s non-fiction.

Anil's Ghost by Michael Ondaatje. Can one really go wrong spending a mere $2 on Ondaatje?

Night Field by Don McKay. Perhaps Canada's greatest living poet, this was a steal at $1.50. I met McKay a couple of years ago, just as he was planning his big move from BC to St. John's, Nfld. Talk about moving cross country!

Dangling Man, The Victim, Seize the Day by Saul Bellow. This is a Vantage Press hardcover that collects Bellow's earliest novels. I've read the novella Seize the Day, but not the other two works. One of the real attractions, however, is the groovy retro book jacket. It's going to look great on my book shelf!

A Love Supreme by Kent Nussey. An impulse buy since I've never heard of the book or the author. But he lives in Toronto, and the story is set in and around Little Italy. Also, the story seems to revolve around jazz, one of my loves, so it's worth taking a flyer on. (It was only $1, so hardly much of an investment.)

Hugging the Shore by John Updike. More essays and reviews, this time covering the mid-1970s to early 1980s.

I should add one more book to the list, bought outside the confines of the Vic College Book Sale: The Skating Rink - Robert Bolano. This is going to be the first book I read on my vacation (leaving next Friday!) to Buenos Aires. I know, Bolano is a Chilean and lived in Mexico City, but it's still sort-of South American. Yes? No? I don't care.

The quandry

2009-09-24T21:55:00.003-04:00

So this is where I'm at tonight: procrastinating on a freelance assignment that was due today (I've already extended the deadline until tomorrow, and fear it'll extend through the weekend due to terrible apathy), and pondering some microwave popcorn. But, is it right to eat popcorn without also watching a film? (Popcorn doesn't seem appropriate snack food to accompany the evening news, for example.) And while I have two DVDs on my kitchen table, they're both French movies - and am I in the mood to read subtitles as 10:00 approaches?

Yes, this is my life. Keep your arms inside the ride at all times.

Autumn meanderings

2009-09-16T21:46:00.004-04:00

Ah, there's a chill coming through my office window. Autumn is approaching, which is wonderful news. I was out of town last week - Sandbanks Provincial Park, to be specific, where the sunsets are out of this world (see photo) - with my lovely companion, who loves the sun as if its ... well, her son. Me, I tolerate the sun and heat, but I don't necessarily seek it out. It's ok when it finds me, but only on a temporary basis. Give me cooler, long-sleeve temperatures any day.

But the few days out of the city, away from the smog and the general stresses of work and life, were a wonderful tonic. I had hoped to get quite a bit of reading done, but only partially succeeded. I mostly read in snippets: a few Mavis Gallant stories, a wonderful Orhan Pamuk story in the New Yorker, as well as a few other magazine articles. I also needed something for the beach, so I brought up an Elmore Leonard novel, 52 Pick-Up. I can see why Leonard is a darling of other writers: his prose is snappy, his narrative sense keen, and his characters (usually) original. The novel ends rather abruptly - as well as mildly predictable - but it was still a fun read.

Now I'm on to Peggy Atwood's Oryx and Crake, in anticipation of her new novel Year of the Flood, where I'm high-up on the holds list at the Toronto Public Library. I'm 50 pages in, and struggling a mite. I'm not a big fan of science fiction, although Atwood calls her work "speculative fiction." But a close friend of mine swears that the book is wonderful, and that one needs to read it whole to fully "get" what she's doing, so I will persevere. Although I reminded said friend today over gchat that we don't seem to have a similar literary sensibility.

Oh, and good news for those interested: I found a secondhand copy of Bellow's Adventures of Augie March that I'd been seeking. I bought a companion for it at the same time: Philip Roth's Zuckerman Unbound. Yes, I have too much to read. And yet I still haven't decided what I should bring with me to Argentina. Borges seems a little too heavy for a trip. I'm of course open to suggestion.

The Periphery

2009-09-03T21:20:00.005-04:00

Let's face facts. Or, in this case, the fact: I'm a periphery guy. I've never been in the middle of things, in the "thick of it." That's certainly true of my involvement in the CanLit world.

This evening I was hanging out on the wonderful bp nichol laneway, attending Coach House Press' Wayzgoose Party. It was a fun affair: I went with three wonderful friends, spoke for a bit with one of my closest friends, had a couple of beers and a sausage, and then ran into my poet/soon-to-be novelist friend on the way to the subway (she was on her way to the Coach House), who I reminisced with about the same CH party two years when we stayed until midnight. (I should admit to being too shy to say hi to a couple of people I sort-of know, but don't really know. Damn this innate shyness.) The highlight of the evening was the great Michael Ondaatje introducing himself to my friend D., when Alana Wilcox, managing editor at Coach House, told people to introduce themselves to the person next to them and say what their connection was to Coach House. I think D. loved his brush with CanLit royalty, although he admitted he wished he could have something something profound.

While my connection to Coach House is a lot more solid than D.'s - I was actually given a printed invite by legendary Coach House founder Stan Bevington, and I've also been asked to write a small story about Stan being awarded the Order of Canada - I still feel like something of an outsider. Much of it has to do my personality: I'm not terribly outgoing (one day I'll write about my childhood when I was a total chatterbox, and the event that turned me inward), and thus have trouble working a room. And when I get in a crowd of more than two people, I become too self-concious of what I'm saying, and end up not saying much of all. I also wonder about my level of "cool" - or in this case, my lack thereof.

Yet sometimes I ponder my CanLit role, and think: sure, I'm on the periphery, but it's an important role nonetheless. And maybe it's not so bad to walk anonymously, unassumedly (is that a word?), around that crowd. Be content.

Maybe not the "mighty," but they've definitely fallen

2009-08-24T17:32:00.007-04:00

On my walk home from the subway after work, I took note of the marquee at Hugh's Room: Hothouse Flowers. My first thought: Geez, I haven't heard of those guys in a long time. My second: No wonder, if they're playing a small-ish venue like Hugh's Room. (In fairness to them: better at Hugh's Room than a Holiday Inn in Sarnia.) I mention this because it relates to yesterday's post about the big rock concert experience - since I saw Hothouse Flowers at such a show! It must have been ... hmm, mid-1990s maybe, at Molson Park in Barrie for one of those Another Roadside Attraction concerts that the Tragically Hip promoted and headlined. My friend (and ex-girlfriend) T. bought tickets and asked if I'd go. Strange, since: a) we were no longer dating, and b) she knew I didn't much like the Hip. Not to mention what a bloody drag it would be to get to Barrie on the bus.

But I went, endured tremendous heat and sun, and a lot of rabid (and drunk) Hip fans. The highlight was Daniel Lanois playing a typically wonderful (and low key) set that didn't seem to fit in with the the rest of concert. The other bands that I remember: Pursuit of Happiness (yet-another connection to yesterday's post: PoH's frontman Moe Berg was at the Gabriel SkyDome show - with seats behind me, I might add...), Hothouse Flowers, Midnight Oil, and I think Crash Vegas. It was probably at that show that I thought I might be outgrowing the big concert experience.

Or maybe it was because I just don't like Hip.

Bits and Bobs

2009-08-23T16:44:00.005-04:00

Just settling in for a couple of hours to write a freelance piece - my main source of income is no longer journalism, but I like to keep up my writing "chops," not to mention make a bit of extra money on the side (which is going into my Argentina travel fund) - but thought I'd warm up the hands and the brain with a quick post. Nothing in particular I want to rant on, just a general clearing of the mind. (Sadly, it takes me much longer than in the past to write these freelance stories. I just don't do enough of them to keep me nimble. But I do my best, at a slower pace, and my editor is usually pleased with the result.)

(For those curious, I'm still making my way through Humboldt's Gift, and it's still great fun. Should be finished by mid-week. And then ... well, haven't yet decided. I'd like to continue the Bellow canon and read The Adventures of Augie March, considering by many to be Bellow's true masterpiece. I've become terribly picky about the editions of the books I read: I tend toward trade paperbacks, one that isn't heavily thumbed. There's a Penguin re-issue of Augie March with an introduction by Christopher Hitchens I'm in search of. I suppose I can just order it from Amazon.)

I've been listening and re-listening (re-listening again; in fact, I'm going to listen to it while I'm writing this paragraph) to Peter Gabriel's incredible tune San Jacinto, specifically the live version from his wonderful Plays Live! CD. It's been a long-time favourite, a song I usually re-discover about once a year and play continuously for a few days. (It was actually one of the first ringtones I used when I bought my first cell phone about a year ago, but then realized it wasn't loud enough and kept missing calls.) While I truly dig the original track from Gabriel's eponymous fourth album (sometimes dubbed Security), I absolutely love this particular live version, recorded during Gabriel's 1982 tour. Many have cited this tour, in support of the fourth album, as his very best. I was a mite too young to catch it, but I did see him on the next tour: in 1986 when he came through Toronto to support the album So.

I've been thinking of this concert, and concerts in general, after I read this New Yorker magazine article (my apologies that only the abstract is available online; here's a link to an interview with the author that gives the basics of his article) about the current state of the big-ticket concert industry. It prompted a discussion on Slate's Culture Gabfest the following week (you have to scroll down to the Aug. 12 edition) where the cultural "experts" (for what they're worth) were basically derisive of the big concert experience. One of them couldn't remember a single big concert they had enjoyed.

Now I'm not going to defend Ticketmaster, Live Nation or the big rock show experience. After all, I rarely go to big, popular concerts anymore. Expense is one reason, lack of interest in most major rock bands that can fill a stadium is another. Still, if I had plenty of disposable income, I wouldn't think twice about dropping some big bucks to see certain bands: U2 for sure (I spoke to a friend of mine at a patio party last night that went to see them in Dublin, which is something she's always wanted to do), possibly others like Pearl Jam... hmm, I'm struggling to think of currently active bands that I like and still do arena/stadium shows. In fact, I have dropped major ducats to see a rock concert: The Police a couple of years ago (which was a great show), and The Who back in 2002 (this was the infamous tour where the bassist John Entwistle died in Las Vegas a day before the tour began, after which they recruited the bassist Pino Paladino to fill in). There shouldn't be much of a surprise for these two shows: both are two of my favourite bands. And while I'd seen The Who back in 1988, it wasn't really The Who. (Pete Townshend played acoustic guitar for most of the concert, and they had added horns and a back-up singers. It wasn't terrible - for one, they played quite a few songs from Townshend's solo albums, which I was very much into back then - but it was hardly close to a typical Who experience.) And the Police ... well, I love them, and had long wanted to see them perform live.

Yet for years and years, particularly when I was a teen and even into my early 20s, I loved the big rock concert experience, and have fond memories of some memorable shows. My first: Rush at Maple Leaf Gardens - sort-of a rite of passage for boys of a certain age and musical bent. I went with my friend Dave (RIP), and I remember the rush of us getting off at College subway, these two 13-year olds from the suburbs, alone in the city for the first time. (Talk about trusting parents!) Our seats were pretty lousy, but we didn't care. It was loud and somewhat intimidating, but we had a total blast. There were other wonderful arena/stadium shows in the next decade: Sting, Pink Floyd, Roger Waters, Genesis, U2 (Joshua Tree tour). (Some memorable Massey Hall shows too, including Tears for Fears in support of Songs from the Big Chair, when through connections via my mother I ended up with sixth row seats.)

Which, of course, brings me back to Peter Gabriel. I've seen him a number of times in concert, including twice on that So tour: a winter show in 1986, followed by a summer visit at the CNE. I actually don't remember much of the latter, but the former, at Maple Leaf Gardens, where my friend D. and I had floor seats (a total fluke: I skipped a class and used the school pay phone to call Ticketmaster), was by far the more memorable. The lights turn off (always one of the great events at a big concert), a song from his Birdy soundtrack is blasting from the PA, it starts to fade, replaced by the familiar, wonderful strains of San Jacinto. He comes out, wearing nearly all white, and proceeds to dazzle with his voice and minimalist stage settings and movements, utilizing a small crane holding three lights that stalk him (almost like a beast), that he stares into, eventually both playing and "lifting" the lights with his hands. Amazing to think, even after 20 years, it's stuck with me. (I found a YouTube clip of a similar performance from Philadelphia.) A few years later, I saw Gabriel at the SkyDome during his Secret World tour. And while not nearly as memorable as the Gardens show, it did contain the unbelievable opening, using some original Robert LePage theatre direction, of Come Talk to Me. (Here's a YouTube clip, containing a very young Paula Cole. The performance I saw had the equally wonderful Joy Askew singing the female bits.)

My point? Not sure I really have one. Except nice memories.

the heat, the books

2009-08-18T06:48:00.003-04:00

Ah, so this is what we've been missing all summer: hot, sticky, uncomfortable evenings because of the humidity. Let's just say, that crazy rain aside, I can live without this summer weather. Give me cool, fresh summer nights anytime. Humidity blows.

Since I couldn't sleep this morning, I thought I'd cobble together a quick post. I've been going through a variety of moods of late. Some of it is because of job-related stress and continued frustrations in my workplace. I've also been dwelling (too much, I think, and probably irrationally) on aging, feeling life is starting to proverbially "pass me by." It's always dangerous and foolish to compare one's life to others, but sometimes I can't help observe the activities of the friends and acquaintances around me and wonder if they're doing it "right." They're buying houses, getting married, having children. There's a sense of progress there, while it seems my life has been somewhat stagnant.

Anyway I don't mean this to be a lament. But I figure it was on my mind this morning (and of late), so I thought I would share it. (For those of you that might be worried, don't! As per usual, this will pass.)

In other news... I've decided, after reading 123 pages of TC Boyle's The Women, that I'm going to return it to the library without reading the last 200 pages. It's not that I wasn't enjoying the book per se - Boyle is a great craftsman, and the narrative is engaging - but I realized when I was about 100 pages in that I didn't really care all that much about these characters. Nor did the book seem to have any relevancy and insight to the particular moods and thoughts I'm currently experiencing. It made me realize how important that type of relevancy and immediacy is to me when I read. I don't read to escape; I read to understand, to involve, to make some sense out of my own life. That doesn't mean I require a narrative that's comparable to my life and circumstances, but I need something I can relate to. Perhaps offering some wisdom into solitude, or relationships, friendships, family. The Boyle just didn't have that going for me (as entertaining as the story was), so I'm giving up on it. Life is too short to spend with a book that just isn't working for me.

Instead I picked up another Saul Bellow: Humboldt's Gift. I was hooked from the first few paragraphs! It's not nearly as complex as Herzog, but it contains all the elements I love about Bellow, namely the richness and wonder of both his language and the characters. It's going to be an engaging read. And the thing that resonates (which is why it has relevancy for me) is the theme of literature (and its so-called purity) vs. crass commercialism. More on this in another post, after I finish the book.

Is it a fact of life that CBC's Metro Morning has to play the same crappy music almost daily?

15 Toronto Books in 15 Minutes

2009-08-11T13:29:00.003-04:00

In the spirit of participation, but mostly because my postings on here have been both sporadic and anemic, I'm taking up the 15 Toronto Books in 15 Minutes meme, which I first read about on Rose-coloured; her list is here (make sure you read the comments because there are some excellent suggestions for further reading), and which she read about on Kate's Book Blog, with her list here. My first thought to this was, There's no way I'm going to be able to come up with 15 books that are set in Toronto, never mind 15 books that I like. Yet, within about five minutes I was able to rattle off about 10. (My rules weren't too strict: if I thought some of it was set in Toronto, it could be listed.) In the end I was able to conjure around 20 titles, which I've whittled down to these 15 (in no particular order):

Cat's Eye/The Robber Bride/Alias Grace – Margaret Atwood
I'm lumping these three together under the banner of "Atwood Corporation." (I suppose one could also include The Blind Assassin, but I'm not a big fan of that work.) Interestingly, perhaps, Cat's Eye was the first book I remember reading that used Toronto extensively as a backdrop, just as the city itself was entering my consciousness. I was still a teenager at the time and living in the suburbs, but would go downtown often to shop at Sam The Record Man (R.I.P.). About two years later, I became a full-flown Toronto resident when I started my undergrad studies. If memory serves, the main character in Cat's Eye worked for a time at Swiss Chalet, most likely the one that used to be across the street from the Royal Conservatory (which was, I believe, the first one in the city; I heard Robertson Davies used to eat there). It's since been demolished to make room for a condominium. Blah. Of these three books, Alias Grace, with its mid-1800s Toronto setting, is the one I enjoyed the most (although Robber Bride comes a close second).

Unless – Carol Shields
My personal favourite of Shields' work. The Toronto scenes involving her daughter take place in the neighbourhood I was living at the time (Bathurst/Bloor), making things that much more immediate.

The Rebel Angels – Robertson Davies
While the university setting is fictional, it's supposedly based on the University of Toronto's Trinity College (with a further nod to Massey College, where Davies was the Master for many years). This book is great fun, and contains the best character Davies created, Parlabane.

King Leary – Paul Quarrington
I read this and Quarrington's other great comic novel, Whale Music, back to back. I was playing a lot of shinny hockey on a makeshift, primitive rink on Brunswick Ave. when I read this, which added to the fun of reading a book about the sport.

The Romantic – Barbara Gowdy
Truthfully, I don't remember much about this novel, except how much I enjoyed it when I read it. I was also single at the time and most likely believed in an idealistic, romantic love, so I was probably an easy target for this kind of book. Oddly, and this is something I should correct, it's the only Gowdy book I've read.

The City Man – Howard Akler
Yes, the author is one of my oldest, closest and dearest friends. (I think he might have bought me King Leary, actually. And the rink on Brunswick where we played hockey was across the street from his dive-y basement apartment.) Yes, the author was passing me bourbons bought for him at the launch of this book (he had an open tab for his own bourbon). Despite all that, this book is flat-out wonderful. Beautiful, spare, hard-boiled language, and a fun story to boot. Who knew there was so much to know about pick pocketing?

Fugitive Pieces – Anne Michaels
After struggling through the first 50 or so pages with Michaels' poetic prose, it finally "clicked." And even though about half (I think) of the book takes place in Toronto, the scenes in Greece are the most beautiful and memorable.

Typing in 26 Keys – Matt Cohen
I read two memoirs back to back dealing with similar time frames: George (formally Doug) Fetherling's Travels By Night: A Memoir of the Sixties, and Cohen's book, and much preferred Cohen's. (And any book that pisses off Robert Fulford must be doing something right.) It made me wish I was around in the late 1960s and hanging out with the Rochdale College crowd. (It also made me wonder: when is Dennis Lee, who is perhaps the most influential person from that whole period, going to pen a memoir?) Even though I enjoyed this book, I've still yet to finish one of Cohen's novels. And I probably never will.

Shadowmaker: The Life of Gwendolyn MacEwen – Rosemary Sullivan
I really should put a Gwen MacEwen poetry collection here instead of this fantastic biography, but MacEwen's work doesn't necessarily seem rooted in Toronto. It doesn't need Toronto, in other words – MacEwen's poetry lives and breathes in some other mystical, magical place. Yet Sullivan's book truly evokes the city, particularly the 1960s when the Bohemian Embassy played such an important role in the development of this city's literary culture. A fascinating study of a poet whose stature will only continue to grow with each passing year. (MacEwen died in her apartment on Robert St., the same street I lived on for about four years.)

In the Skin of a Lion – Michael Ondaatje
Not much to say except that it's perhaps the greatest of all Toronto books, particularly Ondaatje's wondrous descriptions of the construction of the Bloor St. viaduct and the Harris Filtration Plant. A book that's essential to understanding the immigrant experience of early Toronto.

Consolation – Michael Redhill
Enjoyable for a glimpse into early Toronto, as well as early photographic techniques! Redhill nicely weaves the two separate narratives into a cohesive whole. (Yikes, does that sentence sound pretentious?)

1978 – Daniel Jones
I got interested in this novel because of some correspondence I came across in my work from Jones (who was known primarily by that one-name moniker). He's one of the most interesting figures in the Toronto small press literary scene, and his poetry readings, from my understanding, would sometimes feature his penis. He struggled with depression and committed suicide in 1994. This novel captures the punk-fueled Toronto scene in the late 1970s. It's lively, energetic and chaotic, much like the years it depicts. You can read an excerpt here.

Save Me, Joe Louis – MT Kelly
I put this on the list because Kelly captures the tawdry, somewhat depressing world of boxing so evocatively. Also, the author gave me an autographed copy of a book about cats and a nice bottle of red wine about two years ago. I'm easily bought.

Raymond and Hannah – Stephen Marche
A wonderful and unconventional love story. Not to mention it explores the modern romance, where e-mail can play a significant role in the wooing process. Parts of this book are set in my workplace as well, which breeds familiarity. Other parts are set in Israel, which is not as familiar.

Once – Rebecca Rosenblum
No, I'm not including this because her blog gave me the idea for this post... But because it's the most recent book set in the city that I enjoyed. Perhaps oddly, given how I consider myself an urban dweller, my favourite scenes in the stories tend to take place in the outer reaches of the city, such as the buses that reach out to the more distant Toronto and the extended city's strip malls. (That being said, I found myself on the 123 Shorncliffe route last night at 10:00, which was a somewhat surreal experience.) Besides, she gives good blog.

Please note: no Russell Smith.

randomness

2009-08-03T22:14:00.003-04:00

A few things rattling in my brain this evening:

- I forgot how different camping is in the US versus Canada. I spent many summers in my youth in a Coleman trailer in the wonderful United States of America - living in Montreal, the folks confined our travels to the eastern seaboard, primarily Maine (which I'd love to visit again) - but have camped almost exclusively in the last 10 years (when I rediscovered the great outdoors) in Ontario. I had an extra-long long weekend this past weekend camping in upstate NY, at Letchworth State Park. It was a spontaneous trip planned on the fly, and was largely quite wonderful. It helps that I have a thing for running water and water falls. Yet, spoiling the experience was some terribly unruly campers from NY who were intent on speaking very loudly at midnight ("quiet time" was supposedly 10 pm), hitting the car with a soccer ball, and walking through our site to visit the loo. I don't remember experiencing the same type of camper in Ontario's Provincial Parks. More important, was I loud and obnoxious when we camped in the Adirondacks when I was a kid?

- It's fun to read a Spenser novel by Robert Parker after so many years. Ideal campsite reading. (For those curious, it was Looking for Rachel Wallace. I have the 1980 Dell paperback if someone wishes to borrow it. A fun read.) I brought Jane Austen's Emma as well, but didn't get around to breaking the spine. (Well, I broke the spine when I was supposed to read it in my Introduction to the Novel class during my first-year undergrad, but never got past page 30 or so. I'm determined to finish all the books in my various syllabuses from years past.) I think it might be next in the queue, particularly since I don't have any books waiting for me at the TPL. I also bought Leonard Michaels' The Collected Stories, which I'll dip into over the next few weeks.

- Hiking really is a great stress reliever for me. File that under "note to self."

- Hooray for Argentina! I booked an Oct. flight to Buenos Aires on Thurs. Nice to have some travel to look forward to.

- You have to love the post-camping shower.

what's happening at the 'nation?

2009-07-22T07:54:00.006-04:00

So it seems I've made another one of my periodic disappearances from the blogging world. Not sure why I can't see to sit down for more than 10 minutes to craft a post. For example, I started writing a review of Saul Bellow's Herzog, got about three paragraphs in, had to stop (because I was writing at work and began to feel guilty about blogging rather than, you know, working), and then just haven't had the motivation to return to it. I've been rather busy socially, which is a good excuse not to be spending time in front of the computer when I'm away from work. And on those days when I don't have after-work or evening plans, I find I just don't have the mental stamina to sit down and craft something interesting. I've been working on some writing projects during the day at my job, and it appears I only have a limited amount of writing in me on a given day. Which is somewhat sad since at one time, back when I was a full-time freelance writer, I really used to be able to crank it out.

I was recently reflecting on my most fruitful blogging days: about two or three years ago when I was going through some tremendous emotional upheaval, and when the blog served as part-therapist, part-catharsis. It was a lifeline, a way to assemble the crazed jumble of thoughts and emotions I was experiencing. I had a lot more readers back then as well - they helped provide some necessary support and feedback. My life is much more settled these days, so my blog writing suffers as a result. And while I wouldn't want to go back and relive those turbulent days, a part of me misses experiencing those emotions, when things were so raw and uncertain and provided grist and fuel for my addled brain. When writing didn't seem frivilous, but a necessity.

It's a trade off. And sometimes (perhaps naively and stupidly) I miss those moments.

BTW, that Bellow review? I'll get to it, eventually. The mini, mini review: it was good.

Mini-review: Lauren Kirshner's Where We Have to Go

2009-06-28T13:55:00.011-04:00

After taking a few days off from novel reading upon finishing Anna Karenina - I'm usually anxious to pick up the next book in my reading queue after turning the last page on a book, but I wanted to digest AK, and not muddy my thinking with a new work - I took the library-loaned hardcover of T.C. Boyle's The Women from my bedside table, laid on my bed, and turned to the first page. I had read a review of it a few months back, and it sounded like an ideal read (largely because I'm fascinated about the life and work of Frank Lloyd Wright). I'd also read a couple of Boyle's short stories in the New Yorker, and figured I should give one of his novels a shot. Unfortunately, I was barely able to get through the first few pages. I chalked this up to simply not being in the mood for it - it's nobody's fault, sometimes that happens with me with books. (Not to compare Boyle to a legend, but it's my usual routine with Hemingway. My readings of Hemingway are "do overs," after I've barely managed to make it through the first 20 or so pages on my first attempt.) So I'm not-yet giving up The Women; in fact, I may give it another shot this week.

I then tried Arthur Phillips' new novel, The Song is You. Again, this is another book I'd heard much about, and again the subject matter seemed to be in my wheelhouse: any book that relies so heavily on music, one of my great loves, to help propel the plot must be interest. Not to mention that Phillips is a much-lauded stylist. The opening of the novel, about the protagonist's father attending a Billie Holiday concert just before being shipped out to the Pacific theatre in the second world war, is a wonderful little introduction. Yet, it's been downhill from there. I've managed to make it to page 87, but I've since put it down. Not only is the story a disappointment - it reads too much like a middle-aged man's fantasy, of being a muse to a young, beautiful and up-and-coming Irish singer/songwriter - but Phillips' writing style does nothing for me. (I was warned early on when he twice refers to the arm of a turntable as a "tone arm." Ugh.)

Giving up on one book is acceptable; two in a row, and I'm ready to dial 911.

Mid-week, Toronto writer Lauren Kirshner's first novel Where We Have to Go was waiting for me at the Lillian H. Smith branch of the TPL. I didn't know much about Kirshner or the book, except that she was a graduate of the MA Program in Creative Writing at the University of Toronto, and I have a very minor association with the program (as well as Kirshner's mentor from the program, Margaret Atwood.) But I enjoy reading books set in my city, Toronto, so I figured I'd give it a shot.

It's been a joy to spend a few days with the narrator, Lucy Bloom, and a good way to cleanse my system after two disappointing efforts at reading a new novel. Kirshner's voice is wonderfully assured, and her Lucy leaps off the page from our first introduction to her at age 11. She goes through some typical (but not trite) growing pains, including an eating disorder, that revolve around acceptance and the eventual discovery of self (aided by her high school friend Erin). It brought me back to my own adolescence - while I didn't suffer from an eating disorder, I did struggle with issues dealing with popularity (or lack thereof) and finding my place and "voice." (It wasn't easy at a school that reeked of old money, that had fraternities and sororities, and where one's popularity was often defined by how well you played football.) The big difference in Lucy's life is, while she's having to cope with these adolescent issues, she's also dealing with a family that seems to be falling apart. I was especially captured by her father's story: a one-time photographer who was now working as a travel agent in a dreadful office in a nondescript strip plaza. It got me thinking of that thin wedge between success and failure, and how high aspirations can give way quickly to crushing disappointment. The theme that kept replaying in my head was hope and promise vs. defeat and dead-ends. Even though Lucy suffers through a tough adolescence, there's still so much hope and promise in her future. It's never stated in the novel, but I imagine her biggest fear is ending up like her parents. The novel's conclusion, however, doesn't suggest that: as a reader, I felt Lucy was going to make it.

The novel is not perfect. (What novel is?) There were some over-wrought metaphors and some details that left me wanting (how was it, for example, that Erin was living alone in the city when she was around 15?). But these are minor quibbles. One major quibble: McClelland & Stewart needs to employ some better proofreaders. I caught at least three glaring errors, including this groaner on page 318: "But Mom never sped. You know, she would press the break when she went through the intersection, even when the light was green." Also, what's with not having numbers on the verso pages?

Highly recommended.

So in case you're curious, I'm going to make book reviewing a regular feature of this blog. For the two or three of you that actually read it... Next in the queue: Saul Bellow's Herzog.

Something to add to the "what an idiot I am" scrapbook: I thought I was taking out a Sigur Ros CD from the TPL. (I thought to myself, "Hmm, I've never seen this CD of theirs.") But I misread the cover: instead, it was a recording from the band Sugar Ray! Whoops. I'll give it a listen though, out of sheer curiousity.

The big book

2009-06-23T21:25:00.002-04:00

It wasn't a deliberate strategy, but it appears 2009 is becoming the year of the "big book." I've tackled a number of hefty tomes so far, most recently turning the last page (over 800 of them!) on Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. This is the second time I've tackled the classic novel. A few years back, I read about ten pages of the Penguin version, but my heart just wasn't in it. But I bought the new translation (the husband and wife team of Pevear and Volokhonsky, who seem to be tackling the major Russian works; I had intended to buy their Crime and Punishment at the Strand in NYC, but ended up leaving the store without it, although I did walk out with their translation of War and Peace), and I was hooked from the start. A proverbial page turner! The true definition of a classic! A timeless masterpiece! Well, you get the picture. This reading comes on the heels of other lengthy novels, primarily Roberto Bolano's wonderful works 2666 and The Savage Detectives (which was a re-read). I'm coming to the conclusion that I'm a novel reader, not a short story reader.

This actually is difficult for me to admit, that I love the long novel over the short story. For years, I thought I was a true short story aficionado. The evidence, while not overwhelming, was there. I had a subscription to the New Yorker when I was 17, largely because I loved the idea of having a new short story to read every week since, at the time, I fashioned myself to be an aspiring writer. And how does one "break in" to the business? By writing short stories, I reasoned. Yet, I barely remember any short stories from those early reads, although I can rattle off a good number of excellent non-fiction pieces. And even today, while still a faithful New Yorker reader (there was a several-years gap when I barely glanced at the magazine on the newsstand), the short story tends to be the last thing I read. (Unless, of course, they publish a new Haruki Murakami or Roberto Bolano story. I'm not sure David Sedaris counts, but of course I faithfully read him too. And Woody Allen, although his "casuals" are becoming increasingly lame.) I'm not outright dissing the short form - after all, I love John Cheever and Mavis Gallant and Alice Munro short stories, and there was a recent John Updike piece that blew me away; and Salinger's Nine Stories is still such an important book in my reading history - but I think I prefer the sprawling, sometimes messy, aspect of a novel over the "perfection" of the shorter work. Maybe because my own life is so messy!

That being said, I'm currently reading The Song is You by Arthur Philips.

(This post was going to be about my own attempts at writing short stories, but it morphed into something else. Which is a good clue as to why I never become much of a writer...)

The number game

2009-06-08T10:10:00.002-04:00

So, I've gone and done the big milestone b-day. It was rather effortless, actually. I was in one of my preferred spots, and indulging in a preferred activity, when the clock struck midnight: at a jazz club in NYC, holding a glass of red wine with one hand and the hand of a beloved with the other. In the end, I'm ok with the aging process. I like to think I'm getting better as I get older. I'm in a good head space, I have money in the bank, I have a job that I enjoy (and, perhaps more significantly, is important), I have a (small) group of wonderful friends. I have my foibles and faults, to be sure, but they seem to be manageable.

And let's face it, it's true what they say: age really is nothing but a state of mind, especially when one has health on their side.

a return

2009-06-02T20:22:00.003-04:00

Despite my inactivity - a combination of factors, but mostly just plain ol' apathy/laziness and lack of motivation - I am still here. Sort of. Barely. Just about. Well, you get the picture. It's not that this hasn't been a particularly interesting time for me either. I'm bursting with mental acuity and philosophical musings, but they've largely been confined to the swirl in my head. (I've engaged in some writing, but nothing I feel is appropriate for public consumption. Although, let's be serious here, it's not like I had much of a public to begin with! And those that were with me a couple of months must surely have left the building.) Which is not good - I forget that it's healthy for me to get these thoughts down, to make sense of them. It doesn't necessarily make me more happy, but more content.

Some of the swirls include:

- a milestone birthday (fast approaching)
- better looks (largely the result of straightened teeth!)
- the next half of my life (at least I hope it's only half over)
- crushes and infatuations (both real and imagined/virtual)
- a genetic disposition toward melancholy

All of which to be examined, in due course. Right now, there's Anna Karenina to continue. Only about 400 pages to go...

To Spain and beyond

2009-05-03T19:49:00.000-04:00

I still think of travelling with you to Spain.
Since we've seen the Moors,
we should next travel to Madrid.
Yet because of our estrangement
you'll never know of this desire.

For the love of reading

2009-05-01T13:12:00.003-04:00

"Oh, how different my life would have been had I not grown up in the same house with my grandmother, how much narrower and blander! She was the reason I was a reader, and being a reader was what had made me most myself; it had given me the gifts of curiosity and sympathy, an awareness of the world as an odd and vibrant and contradictory place, and it had made me unafraid of its oddness and vibrancy and contradictions."
- American Wife, Curtis Sittenfeld (p. 321)

I'm beginning to re-emerge from my silence. Stay tuned!

tendencies

2009-04-07T12:35:00.001-04:00

I have a tendency toward (false? misdirected?) nostalgia
which often leads to melancholy
Thankfully the low-grade kind.

Happy Earth Day

2009-03-28T21:33:00.003-04:00

Spent the hour between 8:30 and 9:30 in thought, with a journal by my side, writing three poems, various ramblings, and a postcard. And watched the cat nearly set her fur on fire with the candle. (What's that smell? Ah yes, singed cat fur.)

A rethink

2009-03-23T20:41:00.005-04:00

Once again - and I know this is tiresome for the two or so people that actually visit here - I'm rethinking my relationship to this blog. Not only do I not have many readers (and I have to remind myself that's not necessarily the reason I started this in the first place; it was to serve as a writing exercise, a place where I can gather the jumble of thoughts continually revolving in my brain and attempt to make some sense of them, to give them some coherency; yet, it would be nice to add a few more eyeballs), but I re-read some of these posts and think, "ugh." As I was telling my friend M. today (via e-mail), I think I've become intellectually lazy over the last couple of months. Yes, I'm reading wonderful, thought-provoking books (finished my re-read of Bolano's The Savage Detectives last week; not surprisingly, it was a richer experience, although the ending is still puzzling; on to Anna Karenina!), and my work is still (at times) challenging and intellectually stimulating, but I'm getting complacent outside of it. (Maybe it's stumbling upon this site that is providing the proverbial food for thought. After all, if I'm going to do this, I might as well do it right. She has.)

Thus, a temporary pause while I figure out what the heck it is I'm trying to accomplish here.

In the meantime, a couple of links to read. One on the Kindle, a device I'd love to get my hands on (despite the fact I'm an unabashed fan and supporter of the printed book; but hey, I'm open to conversion), and an older article on the future of the book (via an interview with Umberto Eco, sent to me by M.)

Security

2009-03-18T22:37:00.002-04:00

Strange day today. A big chunk of it was doing what I would call grunt work: essentially mindless work that a chimp could do (except it required some knowledge of Spanish; reading Bolano in English translation hasn't helped much). But toward the end of it, despite some uneasy feelings leftover from yesterday when a colleague said "pink slips" (that was not related to job losses), I was told that, despite the continuing economic woes, my job is guaranteed for at least another two years. Two-year tenure - woo hoo! Of course I'm still up for another job, and will continue to follow through on that. (If nothing else, it's always good experience to go through the job interview process.) And who knows, I may still be tempted to leave. But it's nice to have some sense of security. Plans can be made.

Is it fair to be happy?

You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead

Listening to: Let it Be (Naked) - The Beatles

Melancholy

2009-03-18T16:07:00.002-04:00

"The Man who is alone and waits is seen in every cafe in Buenos Aires - a symbol of the city's essential melancholia." - Alberto Manguel

Essential melancholia - perfect.

Just five more things

2009-03-10T20:56:00.005-04:00

Why do we like lists so much? Is it because most of us like some semblance of order? A way to make sense of our crazed world? Hmm, even though that's hardly philosophical, it seems too much for my tiny brain to ponder this evening. (My head is full of archival theories - like, how does an organization handle electronic records? If only I knew.)

I took a couple of days to ponder the last five albums that changed my life - even though, as I explained below, not all of these were life altering. Some are just kick-ass.

21. Greatest Hits – James Taylor. I used this album to comfort me back in the early 1990s when I struggled to find work. Even when I was feeling down and low (or should I “down and blue,” as James sang in “Something in the Way She Moves”), this CD would always lift my spirits a mite, and made me realize that better days lay ahead. And they did.

22. A Charlie Brown Christmas – Vince Guaraldi Trio. The best holiday recording of all time. I can listen to this in July and it makes me yearn for the holiday season. Has it changed my life? Of course not, but it always brings a smile to my face and warmth in my heart. That should be enough to merit inclusion on this list.

23. Songs for Swinging Lovers – Frank Sinatra. This recording is important for two reasons: it was the first album my parents owned (they bought it for their Blackpool honeymoon 50 years ago) and it was the album that introduced to me Sinatra, who is my favourite singer of all time. Beginning with “You Made Me Feel So Young” and ending with “How About You” (a song that was sort-of a theme song for me and my second serious girlfriend), it's the quintessential romantic Sinatra album. (I knew a relationship was doomed many years ago when the woman I was seeing told me, “I don't like his voice.” Not exactly shared sensibilities.)

24. Check Your Head – The Beastie Boys. P. Introduced me to this fantastic CD while I was visiting him in Japan back in 2001. Not only is it a great album (“Funky boss, funky boss, funky boss, get off my back”), but it will forever remind me of those weeks I spent in the land of the rising sun (that's Japan, right?). (I should also give a shout-out to The Best of Sade, another great CD which accompanied me on many a train ride in Japan.)

25. Let it Die – Feist. While compiling this list, it made me realize how few recent releases were included. I sort-of lost interest in new music a few years ago, largely because I thought the music scene wasn't talking to me anymore. Not that I was unaware of some interesting bands, but I wasn't proactive enough to seek them out. But this remarkable album by Feist, which blew me away on first listen, really got me galvanized to explore some new bands, particularly those coming out of Canada. Now I'm forever seeking out new music (via the Toronto Public Library – it's a fantastic resource for Canadian bands). Thank you, Leslie.

Honourable mentions:

Body and Soul - Joe Jackson (actually, I'm shocked there's no JJ on the list since he's still one of my favourite artists; he'd be in the top five of my all-time favourite musicians, to be sure)
Everybody Digs Bill Evans - Bill Evans
Grace – Jeff Buckley
Fumbling Toward Ecstasy – Sarah McLachlan
The Complete Blue Note Recordings (Vols 1 & 2) – Thelonious Monk. (Because a day without Monk, is like a day without sunshine.)
Selling England by the Pound - Genesis
Charlie Parker's Complete Dial Recordings
Pretty much anything by my one of my favourite composers, Antonio Carlos Jobim

Ah, lists. Tailor-made blog posts. I'm sure there's another one in me, and soon. Mind is obviously pre-occupied right now with other matters.

More 25 things

2009-03-08T22:31:00.004-04:00

Awoke this morning with my voice a nice cross between Lauren Bacall and Barry White (everybody is like me and wakes up singing, yes?). Still not 100 per cent, but feeling better tonight (despite the rainy weather outside my window and "losing" an hour because of daylight savings time). It's been something of a lost weekend while I tend to this cold/flu - and my throat is still raw - but it's good and healthy to have the occasional low-key, nesting weekend. I'll be back to the grind tomorrow.

I've been working on my list of the 25 albums that changed my life which my friend P. tagged me on facebook. I've cheated a bit and created a list of what I consider the most significant albums from my life. Some did change my life, others didn't. But they all conjure up a time and place.

I'm still 5 short (and they are more or less in chronological order), largely because I fear I'm missing several important ones - I need a night to sleep on it. But here are the first 20:

1. The Roaring Silence – Manfred Mann. The first album I ever purchased with my own money. My dad picked it up for me from the downtown Montreal Sam the Record Man on St. Catherine's (long since gone). I wanted it because I loved the song “Blinded by the Light.” Naturally, I had no idea at the time it was a Springteen composition. I still have the album (it has a great cover).

2. The Beatles greatest hits (the two volumes with the red and blue bordered covers). I listened to these two albums non-stop when I was around 8 or 9. I particularly loved the son “Lady Madonna,” and would play “air piano” to it. And “Paperback Writer.”

3. YMCA – The Village People. Conjures up memories of both early mornings in the living room in our house in Dollard des Ormeaux, where I'd listen to the VP on headphones, but also roller skating at Caeser's Palace in Pointe Claire. Carefree days indeed when one had to summon up the requisite courage to ask a girl to skate the last song with you...

4. Scoop – Pete Townshend. The Who's Townshend started the Scoop series back in the early 1980s. Basically it was a project that collected his demos for The Who, as well as assorted oddities. I bought this as a cassette on a grade 8 school trip to Quebec City – at the same everybody else was buying the Kinks live tape (there was a cult around the song “Lola,” started by one of the “cool” popular kids at school – and listened to it over and over again on the long overnight bus ride back to Toronto. Started my own obsession with Townshend, particularly with some of his more obscure and creative endeavours. He's since released two more Scoop recordings. (My favourite Townshend album: Empty Glass.)

5. Tommy – The Who. I tend to do things in reverse, so after discovering Townshend, I began my exploration of The Who. This was the first recording I bought of theirs I bought, which is why it's so special. Began my life-long love of the band. (My favourite album(s): Who's Next and The Who by Numbers.)

6. Synchronicity – The Police. Only on this list because I adored this recording when it first came out. And still do. Finally got to see The Police a couple of years ago.

7. Grace Under Pressure – Rush. If I had to pick a favourite Rush album, it would obviously be Moving Pictures. But GUP means more to me, if only because it was the album I listened to over and over before going to my very first rock concert: Rush at Maple Leaf Gardens, touring in support of GUP. The opening act: Red Rider (before they were Tom Cochran and Red Rider). My seat mate: DG (RIP).

8. Greatest Hits – Simon and Garfunkel. Some of these songs helped me survive the darkest days of high school: “America,” “I Am a Rock,” “Kathy's Song.”

9. A&M Classics – Cat Stevens. A collection of Cat Stevens' greatest hits. On the list less for the music (although there are still songs on this I listen to frequently: “The Wind,” “On the Road to Find Out,” “Oh Very Young”) than for the memories it conjures of the summer of 1988 with my first “serious” girlfriend, S. I don't think there was a night when we fell asleep before 3:00 in the morning. (We also listened often to Bruce Cockburn's greatest hits that summer.)

10, Astral Weeks – Van Morrison. Like many, I discovered Van the Man through the album Moondance. (My dad, for one, loved the song “Into the Mystic.” I'm more partial to “Caravan.”) Astral Weeks was a whim buy at Sam the Record Man after class. I probably should have known more about this recording – particularly since I was in the throes of discovering jazz (and the album has heavy jazz influences) – but I was largely ignorant of this masterwork.

11. 'Round About Midnight – Miles Davis. The very first jazz recording I bought on CD, when I was about 17. I knew about jazz since my dad was a fan, and I began my own exploration via the library (where my friend P. and I would go every week to take out music cassettes), but this was the first jazz album I owned. Naturally I enjoy Davis' Kind of Blue more, but one never forgets their first...

12. The Koln Concert – Keith Jarrett. I bought this album and KJ's Standards Live during a lazy afternoon at a fantastic secondhand store (long since out of business) on Dundas, east of Church. I didn't know much about Jarrett, except by reputation. (And, strangely, he's mentioned in the linear notes on one of Townshend's Scoop albums.) What revelation this album was! I only found out later that the success of this album basically funded ECM Records for about 25 years. It started me on my continuing journey through Jarrett's incredible music. The Standards album is great too (I've only since purchased the CD version).

13. Powaqqatis – Philip Glass. Probably the strangest one on this list. For one, many consider this soundtrack (and the film) far inferior to the first one in the series, Koyaanisqatsi. But I still love the hypnotic repetitiveness of the score. This album would often keep me company during my first and second year of undergrad, especially when I was wandering through the city streets before and after class.

14. The Ninth Symphony – L.V. Beethoven. Can't remember precisely which “album” I first discovered this monumental piece (although I first heard snippets of it in Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange), but this was the first piece of classical music that I absolutely fell in love with, when I was about 21. Naturally there's also an association with a woman: the wonderful red-headed PMC. I wrote her a love letter while listening to the wonderful fourth movement, which still moves me (especially the quieter passages near the beginning).

15. Hot Rocks – The Rolling Stones. I'm not a huge Stones fan (although “Gimme Shelter” is one of the all-time great rock songs), but this makes the list because of a wild, fun weekend (full of quickie one-off romances) with five of my then-closest friends to celebrate the end of our undergrad years. We danced endlessly to this album, while drinking terrible white wine (Black Tower from Germany). The weekend also spawned the classic line while dancing: “Come on, take off your pants!”

16. Gordon – Barenaked Ladies. Still fresh today, but back then it was a recording I listened to often when travelling to the Beach to my very first job out of undergrad (at a small publishing house). It was such a novelty to be out of school and making money (it still is, actually), and this album will forever remind me of those heady days.

17. Madman Across the Water – Elton John. Recorded in 1970 when Elton was great (and svelte). I think I listened to this CD every day for six months when I first moved into my very first bachelor apartment on Walmer Rd. It conjures independence, and discovering how I was going to lead the life of an adult.

18. The Beatles (The White Album) – The Beatles. The only band that gets two entries. Along with the above Madman, I listened to this almost everyday for many months, usually when I was making dinner and drinking a beer. I'm still hoping to name a daughter Prudence.

19. Us – Peter Gabriel. The most underrated of PG's recordings. It's also his most personal and emotional album (coming on the heels of the breakdown of his first marriage). Like many on this list, however, it also comes with a vivid personal memory: a five-week sojourn in England. I put this on, and I can't help but reminisce about walking the streets of London in a November light rain. Ah, the light. (Two other recordings which also remind me of that time in England, largely because I bought both of them secondhand in London: Sarah McLachlan's Solace and I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got by Sinead O'Connor.)

20. The United Artists Collection - Gordon Lightfoot. There was a very cold winter when H. and I drank cognac and I listened to this collection almost every night on the headphones. Just listening to the first strains (the acoustic and Lightfoot coming in with "Going to buy me a long white robe, yes lord to help me home." It brings me home too, to my early 20s which, upon reflection, were glorious years (albeit with not very much money!).

More to come...

Happiness is...

2009-03-07T11:23:00.004-05:00

... listening to the new Neko Case

... Saturday mornings with the windows open

... luxuriating in Bolano's literary genius

... finding a triple-letter square for my J (the word: "jeer")

... two cups of hot tea (that helps to soothe a still-tender throat)

... catching up on some long-neglected e-mail

... new acoustic guitar strings

... four chatty kids under the age 8 telling me about sleeping near the dinosaurs at the ROM

... listening to the new Neko Case (did I mention that already?)

... a pile of magazines set aside for recycling (signifying a successful day off work, catching up on my periodical reading)

... a clean kitchen

... discovering a jazz musician named Rudresh Mahanthappa

... mechanical pencils with freshly loaded lead

... a thriving plant near the window where I like to write

... knowing I have one more sleep where I don't have to get up for work.

Some things (including the 25 variety)

2009-03-06T10:16:00.004-05:00

I'm on the couch this morning, taking a seldom-used sick day to tend to a low-grade cold/flu thing I've been battling for the last couple of days. It's basically a bothersome throat, an annoying cough, and feeling tired and achy. I was in bed last night by 9:30, but woke up this morning still feeling like crap, so I figured my body could use the rest from work. Funny though, I always feel guilty about phoning in sick to work. I blame my father, who I never remember taking a day off work because of illness. Of course it eventually caught up with him: he had to take eight weeks to mend a quadruple bypass in the early 1990s. (Even then, he was afraid to tell his employers that he needed the whole summer off work! I think he viewed being sick as a kind of weakness that could and should be avoided. Probably less-so today, thankfully.)

It's a lovely warm day today, so it's nice to open the windows and allow some fresh air into the apartment. Ah, spring, you will be upon us shortly!

So I've been getting the various "25 things" memes that have infected facebook over the last couple of months. I haven't bothered to answer them via facebook, largely because I consider myself a somewhat private person (this blog notwithstanding... although this is still sort-of a secret blog in that many of my friends are unaware of its existence) and don't want some of my facebook "friends" (ie. acquaintances) knowing more about me than the bare superficialities of what I choose to report on FB. I also don't want my mother (who is an avid Facebooker, largely for the Scrabble app) knowing my business - I love her dearly, don't get me wrong, but I've never been one to share my innermost thoughts with her. I wonder if this reflects poorly on me? But I sort-of like these self-indulgent exercises - in fact, it'll be my first random thing about me! So here we go...

1. Despite evidence to the contrary, I tend to enjoy these self-indulgent, narcissistic exercises - sometimes I even learn a thing or three about myself.
2. I often wish I was about 2 or 3 inches taller (although, oddly, I don't really consider myself short).
3. I wish I could sustain a weight that's about 10 pounds less than my current weight (I tend to carry more in the winter because I don't run near as much).
4. Despite evidence to the contrary, I don't dwell on my physical attributes.
5. I was an early and avid blogger - my first blog was called "Letters to Harry" way back in 1999 - and my "classic" blog from 2004, which documented a break-up and my forays back into the dating world, had a very devoted and loyal readership.
6. My current blog is not very well read (because even the people that know about it don't visit it often - or maybe it's just not very good).
7. I consider myself a crush-aholic.
8. Although I haven't lived there for many, many years (but grew up there), I still consider myself a Montrealer at heart.
9. Toronto feels like home.
10. While I treasure my CD collection, I've pretty much made the transition to buying my music digitally.
11. I once did a list like this when I was doing the online dating thing.
12. While I consider myself an excellent ice skater, I always seem to be slipping and falling on icy sidewalks.
13. I have fond memories of every woman I've been in a relationship with, even with the ones that ended badly.
14. Regrets, I have but many.
15. Every time I go see a live event (concert, theatre, the opera), I almost-always say to myself, "Why don't I go see more live events?"
16. Money, and the lack thereof, is a constant source of concern (even though I'm not living near the poverty line, which I have to remind myself).
17. If someone said to me "Name your ideal occupation," I'd answer, "Staff writer at the New Yorker magazine."
18. I long obsessed about my imperfect teeth (which is why I'm wearing braces - thankfully near the finish line!)
19. I rarely have problems falling asleep at night (sleeping through the whole night is another matter).
20. I sometimes shake my head in amazement at the quality of people who consider me a friend (I don't think I have many friends, but the ones I have are wonderful and special).
21. I've only ever really been in love twice.
22. I'd go out to more social events, particularly on my own, if I wasn't so shy.
23. I hate street festivals.
24. Although my friend H. insists there's no such thing, I like closure.
25. When I discover a new song that I like, I can listen to it over and over and again.

Hmm, pretty bland list. Oh well. To come: 25 Albums that changed my life!

General thoughts on reading

2009-03-02T17:06:00.004-05:00

My apologies to my reader(s?) for not updating the blog in a while. It's been a bit of a crazy couple of weeks, largely with writing a cover letter (yes, it takes me that long, particularly since I used the intelligence of many different people to help me craft something appropriate and that will stand out amongst many, many letters) and updating my CV (an exercise I haven't done for three years) for a new job. Cross your fingers and wish me well.

In my spare time, I turned the last page on Robert Bolano's 2666. There's always a sense of accomplishment, finishing a neary 900-page tome. It's quite a wonderful work - in fact, upon completion, I was tempted to pick up the first book (I bought the three-volume paperback, figuring it would be easier on my back when carrying it in my bag) and start it all over again. It will be a book I'll reread, I'm sure of it. In fact, it did inspire me to pick up Bolano's The Savage Detectives, which I read during my 2006 xmas holidays. I'm actually not one to revisit a book when I'm done, my reasoning being that there are so many other great books to gorge on, why waste my time reading something I've finished? Yet, I'm still attuned to the Bolano sensibility right now, I don't feel ready to leave him yet. And while I can pick up one I haven't yet read (Amulet is an obvious choice), there was something drawing me back to The Savage Detectives. Maybe it was my friend M., who recently finished it and was effusive in his praise. Also, now that I'm in tune with Bolano, it would allow me to pick up some things I missed on the first go-around with the novel, when I was totally new to the author. Anyway I'm 100 pages in and very happy I picked it out of the book shelf.

I wish I had the energy to write about why I prefer the novel to short stories, but I'm feeling a mite wiped from the day's activities. Watch this space (hopefully tomorrow) for a post about shorter works, John Cheever, and more on Bolano. I really just wanted to get something on here, for fear that my reader(s?) will no longer visit here.

Ch, Ch, Ch, Change?

2009-02-15T17:53:00.003-05:00

A lazy late Sunday afternoon. It's been a quiet Valentine's Day weekend for me, largely because the lovely A. has been out of town. She's scheduled to be back in a couple of hours, so that'll signal the end of a weekend filled with considerable solitude. In fact, it's served as a reminder - both the good and bad - of my bachelor days. I haven't been a total recluse: I met the fabulous R. for a latte yesterday morning at Lit, and later that afternoon I hit The Pilot to catch a set of Richard Underhill. (Whenever I see him, I have the urge to yell, "Get out of my house, roach.") But otherwise I've been laying low, although I did get in a couple of good runs in the park. (My leg seems to have healed from that nasty tumble I took the other morning on the icy sidewalk.)

So the only news to report is that I'm applying for a new job. As many of you know, I like my current gig - it's (for the most part) intellectually stimulating, challenging and fun. One of the drawbacks, of course, is that it's not a permanent, guaranteed position. (And I know I can hear some of you saying, "Well what job is?" Well, my colleagues are safe and secure because they have a form of tenure.) I've been going from contract to contract since Sept. 2005 - the first contract was renewed 8 months later, and I've been on a yearly renewal since. After the first year, I was moved from "casual" to "permanent," which basically meant I received benefits and other assorted goodies (union rules for contract workers who have worked in the same position for 16 months). Still, just around this time ever year for the last three years, I get on tenterhooks and begin to fret about my status come April. Given the current state of the economy, I've been especially worried about the fate of my position. After all, cuts are being made to the budget, and what easier way to trim costs than to jettison the sole person in the department that doesn't have guaranteed employment? I'm the proverbial low-hanging fruit.

Perhaps it's fate that a great job was posted mid week this past week. I've resisted the temptation to apply for other positions I've seen posted in the past couple of years, largely because I was confident (and hopeful?) that my current job was fairly secure. But as I told my boss the other day - I didn't want to apply without her knowledge (for one, I'd like her to be one of my references!) - this new posting is too good to not apply for since it requires my essential skill set. Obviously, I'd love to stay where I am - change is difficult, for one, and I like the environment (I'm a natural fit to the department's "culture") - but I can't keep passing up potential opportunities. It seems especially important since I could well be out of a job in just over two months.

It's funny how this opportunity has allowed me to reflect on my current job, and it's made me realize that a move would be beneficial. And not just because of the uncertainly of my contract. In some ways I've been stale, particularly since the fall when my colleague (and, technically, "supervisor") came back from a half-year sabbatical. While she was away, I was in charge of our little corner of the department - I made decisions, I did all the paperwork, I was the "expert." It was a good feeling, and one I think I handled well. My colleague and I, while we get along well, have some fundamental differences in how we view our work, about what we consider the most important part of the job. Moreover, since she's been back, she seems to be making the extra effort to show she's the boss. Just before the xmas break, for example, just after we had a discussion about our respective workloads and what I felt were the priorities, she sent me an e-mail headed "Your workplan" which spelled out the tasks she wanted me to do over the next few months. It rubbed me the wrong way, particularly since it directly contradicted what I felt were some of my priorities. It served as a stark reminder that, perhaps, I'm at something of a career dead-end with my work and position. As long as I'm under her - and she's extremely protective of her turf - there's no obvious career advancement for me.

Of course there's no guarantee I'll secure this job that was posted. And, in an ideal world, the fear of my leaving would galvanize the department and the overall administration to make me an offer I couldn't refuse. But those things never seem to happen to me - nobody has ever fought over me for a job. And on the plus side, if I don't get the job, my contract might yet be extended and I'll still have employment.

But once one starts looking, it's hard to think about going back to where one currently is. I wonder, in some ways, because I'm applying to leave, I've already left.

The early hour

2009-02-11T06:26:00.004-05:00

I love the calm and quiet of the early-morning hours, so I'm never too frustrated when I awake early. (Unless, of course, I have a late night and then have to drag my ass to work.) Usually if I'm up early and the weather is co-operating, I'll put on the running togs and head out for 40 minutes. But because I seemed to have done a number on my right leg when I wiped out yesterday morning on the slippery sidewalk, I decided to jot down a few words before getting out of bed.

(Quick aside: listening to an interview and performance by Laila Biali, a jazz singer and pianist now living in New York City. Funny, I used to see her often playing at the Pilot, where she was the basically the house pianist. Nice to see that she's making a serious go as a professional musician.)

In fact, for a period of time a few years ago, I was trying to get up a little early every morning to write what I called the "morning papers." It was an idea expressed in the book The Artist's Way. Not that I had any pretensions or grand illusions that I was an "artist," but I was hoping it would at least open my mind every morning, get the creative juices flowing before sitting down to the work that paid the rent. And at least that work - I was a freelance writer - had a creative element to it, although toward the end I was doing crap (writing marketing brochures and the like) that felt like the most uncreative work there was. (I can't tell you how many boring business-y type guys I had to chat with on a daily basis. Marketing and sales people, yuck.) The morning papers I would write - very free-flowing, sometimes totally non-sensical stuff - was my one daily lifeline to creativity.

I still get the occasional jones to get back to writing in the morning, although I find I need to use the computer now rather than write longhand. So maybe that's something I'll be sharing on here in the near future. Watch this space.

Sunday snapshot(s)

2009-02-08T19:43:00.004-05:00

Oddly, given that Mondays can be such a major drag, Sunday night used to be my favourite evening of the week. Even in high school I used to enjoy it - with my Sony Walkman as my companion, I'd usually go for a long walk on Sundays after dinner. I rarely partake in the Sunday night stroll (particularly in winter), but I do still view the evening as a contemplative one. Basically, I like to use Sundays as a means to contemplate on the week that was, and speculate on the week that will be.

About mid-way through this past week, I realized I was getting into a rut, that I was falling into a dull trap: get up in the morning, eat my breakfast, head to work, work until 5:00, and then head back home to eat dinner, maybe I'd read or watch something on tv, and then I'd go to bed. Only to start that routine all over again the next morning. I'm not sure why I haven't been out too much this year. Well, I can probably guess: I've been consumed with money concerns, and fearful of spending too much lest I don't have a job come April. I'm on contract, and so I'm feeling a mite vulnerable, given the economic uncertainties. I retain some confidence that I'll be safe - and my boss, who essentially created the position for me and has been my champion assured me she'd fight to the bitter end to retain me - but there's always that minor uncertainty. And while I do have a fairly strong and diverse - and, thus, employable - skill set (not to mention I'm somewhat self sufficient: I'll always be able to pick up some freelance writing to tide me over), I dread the thought of having to look for work, particularly in this shitty economy. Pounding the proverbial pavement is a soul destroying exercise, and one I'm sadly too familiar with.

But all that said, I'm doing my best to break out of this rut, finances be damned. To wit, I decided I was going to take myself out on Thursday after work: to treat myself to dinner, a drink or two, and hang out with a book. As luck would have it, my friend M. was free, so instead I went out with him to hoist a beer. And last night, the lovely A. and I hit Gate 403 for some food and music. I'm laying low today (I did get out for a nice run though, and I'm going to throw in a DVD once I finish off this post), but we're doing a winterlicious dinner on Wednesday. And I'm going to take myself out to see Slumdog Millionaire, probably Tuesday (leaving work early to catch a 4:20 show). Yes, these are still somewhat loner-ish activities, but let's face facts: I'm a loner! Not a recluse, but someone that enjoys time to myself, but out in public, and perhaps with one friend.

Wow, a dull post. Thank god I have no readers.

Reading: Finished the second book of Bolano's 2666 - the fourth part (which was very bleak) - and going to read something easily digestible before tackling the last part, so I'm going to pick up Dupont Circle by Paul Kafka-Gibbons. I bought it in a bookstore while in DC's Dupont Circle, so it should be a nice reminder of my trip. Interestingly, he has a web site with some of his unpublished work available for free download.
Listening: Sade's Best of (finally bought a copy of it from iTunes - my original copy was basically unplayable; funny, it always conjures up Japan since I listened to it obsessively, particularly while riding the trains, when I was visiting a few years back), misc. songs that I'm burning into iTunes (I have so much space to use up on my iPod, so I might as well use it with the bulk of my CD collection).
Watching: Triumph of the Will, Breathless, The Leopard (DVDs taken from St. Mike's Library).

some random thoughts

2009-02-01T15:42:00.002-05:00

Sunday afternoon, and am debating between going for a run or napping. (I was up early this morning to watch the finals of the Aussie Open between Nadal and Federer, and I'm starting to feel the effects. Great match though, although almost marred by Fed's incomprehensible collapse in the fifth set.) I'm leaning toward a run - and then maybe a nap... although the thought of running without my iPod is troublesome (I left it - I hope! - at the lovely A.'s house yesterday.) But it would be a shame to not take advantage of this lovely weather, especially after we've been brutalized with terrible winter weather.

I'm also a mite tired because been a busy day of cleaning for me. I'm dealing with something of a moth problem, the result (I think) of not tending properly to my wool and cashmere sweaters last summer. They seemed to gorge on my clothing, and then decided to make the move with me to the new apartment. (Why have I never had this problem before, you ask? Largely because I never owned such nice sweaters in the past! The lovely A. is the queen of Value Village, and found some great bargains for me.) So I've been throwing my clothes in garbage bags and dumping them upside, allowing the cold to kill off the moths. (Unfortunately the good weather hasn't helped in this effort.) And I just undertook a major vacuuming and mopping. Cross your fingers on my efforts being successful.

Not much to report otherwise. I took Friday aft. off work to have lunch with R., and then hit the Frank Gehry redesigned Art Gallery of Ontario. It actually exceeded my expectations. It's not only wonderful to look at inside, but Gehry has paid wonderful=, detailed attention to the actual gallery spaces. I only spent a couple of hours wandering, but I bought a membership, which means I'll be spending much more time there over the next year.

Ugh, I think maybe a nap rather than run... I'm fading.

My goodbye to a literary hero

2009-01-27T21:15:00.004-05:00

John Updike died today. It was actually quite a shock when I popped on the to NYTimes web site while at work and saw the photo of Updike, along with the obit. I even yelled out, "Wow, John Updike is dead," although I didn't receive much in the way of response from my colleagues. I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised: for many, Updike is probably more of a literary dinosaur than a true, lasting legend. But he means so much more to me.

I first read Updike back in the mid-1980s. I had stumbled upon a copy of Rabbit is Rich at home in the book case - amazing to think I found it it there since I didn't grow up in a literary household. It must have been a book my dad bought at the airport before a business trip. My guess is that he probably read about a quarter of it and then put it aside. Or maybe he was just seeking out some of the dirty bits... (although I wouldn't consider Updike a great prose stylist when it came to sex scenes; in fact, his sensuality seems to rely too much on gynecological descriptions). But still, there was the book. And for some reason, I took it out of the shelf and decided to give it a read.

Some historical context might be necessary here. I was about 15 or 16, and I had recently discovered a new Sunday afternoon pastime: travelling to the main branch of my city's library system to read old and current issues of The New Yorker magazine. (Yes, I was that kind of teenager. In my defense, I was at the the library to borrow cassettes of music.) It was exciting: I had my license and my mother's car at my disposal. It was a touch of freedom, of (very minor) rebellion. I was always something of a loner, and this was the ideal loner activity. (It was better than taking drugs, after all.) So I was already showing a predilection for reading serious, interesting prose and journalism. (It was around this time that I ended up getting a New Yorker subscription as a b-day gift. So even though I wasn't born into to parents interested in reading, at least they tried to nurture it in me.)

Rabbit is Rich was probably the first serious piece of literature that I read on my own, without prompting from an English class or teacher. (There was one other: Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment.) Of course there are those that will take issue with calling Updike serious literature - Mailer, for one, was a notorious Updike hater - but, to me, there's no question. Updike is one of the pre-eminent men of letters of the last 50 years. The guy's output is astounding: novels, short stories, poetry, non-fiction (including the excellent piece on Ted Willams' last game). His book reviews are also wonderful - there are few more intelligent and perceptive readers. (Ah, sorry: were.)

Despite the fact I was really too young to fully "get" it - it was about middle-aged couples, after all, and had pretty much zero experience with women/girls - I found Rabbit is Rich a proverbial page turner. But there was something there I did get - basically, the drama (often unspoken) of middle-class suburban living. I was living that life, albeit as a teenager. It was in my blood, I suppose. I started to read other Updike works, primarily the short stories. In time, I read the novels, primarily the Rabbit series. (I read the first, Rabbit Run, at the perfect age: in my early 20s when I too wanted to flee my life.) In many ways, I consider Updike my first introduction to serious literature.

The man had his detractors, to be sure. I got into an argument many years ago with a friend's partner, who insisted Updike was the most overrated writer of his generation. (Never mind the fact this guy had never read Updike. I'm still angry at the guy.) And I've only read Updike in spotty patches over the years - the last novel of his I read was Terrorist - and, of course, I've been reading his short stories and reviews since I resubscribed to the New Yorker a couple of years ago. But even if I never read another word of his again (very doubtful), he holds a unique spot in my evolution as a reader.

So Mr. Updike, RIP. I look forward to a comprehensive review in next week's New Yorker, along with any outstanding stories in the pipeline.

Reading update: I'm not doing so well with War and Peace. In fact, I'm back with the second volume of Bolano's 2666.

Dawn of a new era

2009-01-20T21:24:00.002-05:00

It would be impossible for me to craft a poignant post that would capture my feelings on the Obama presidency. (It would be a lot easier to write about how I feel about the outgoing administration. But I want to look forward, not behind - and, really, I can't quite capture the moment as well as a sign that was held up when Bush was getting on the helicopter that would take him out of the capital: "Heck of a job, Bushie." Pithy, and perfect in the denunciation of the worst presidency of my life.) This is a man I've been following for over 4 years, even before he gave the famous speech at the Democratic National Convention. I remember seeing him interviewed pre-speech, and thinking, Wow, this man is impressive. And after watching the speech, I remember telling my then-partner M., "That man is going to be the first black president in the United States in our lifetime." Of course even I couldn't predict it would be so soon!

Everything he's done since the election has done nothing to diminish my hope. And yes, let's not be afraid to use that word, hope. Let's not expect miracles, but there's nothing wrong with having some hope in the future. There's such a wonderful sense of optimism right now - it's infectious. Let's ride it out for a while, see how it fits.

The one thing I took away from his speech was a two-word phrase: non-believer. He included the scores of us who are not affiliated with any religion, saying we are part of the mosaic. It was nice to be included, so thank you President Obama. I look forward to eight years of your presidency.

Hail to the chief.

Friday musings

2009-01-16T13:51:00.003-05:00

Maybe it's because it's Friday, or because the city is in a mild state of paralysis from the west-end blackout (amazingly, despite the fact that pretty much every home and building around my apartment was without power, my electricity hummed through the night), or that we're still experiencing terribly cold days (serving as a reminder of why I'm not much of a fan of winter; I've become a cold-weather wimp), or that my immediate supervisor is away until mid-next week, but I can't quite get my work mojo going. My pilot light must be out.

... and now it's a few hours later, and I'm home from said work environment. I actually managed to cobble together a few productive hours - and then celebrated the feat by having a glass and a half of red wine at 4:00 in the kitchen. (It was leftover from the staff xmas party; somebody had opened it, so naturally I felt compelled to indulge. I don't want the stuff to go bad, after all.) Ah, the weekend, and waiting on the lovely A. to come over.

So I finished reading All the Sad Young Literary Men last night. Not bad, but I had higher expectations. Not sure why, of course, since it's the author's first attempt at a novel, and the book screamed of self absorption. It was engaging, and it did bring me back to memories of my mid-20s. I have a ton of warm feelings around that period of my life, not to mention enough distance to realize it was important to my development. I think if things would have been overly stable and easy - I spent a chunk of it toiling away in near-poverty as a freelance writer - I might be a different person today. And since I generally like the person I am, it must have been important. (Ah yes, dime-store psychology again. One of my specialities.)

I guess the only big news on the reading front is that I'm going to tackle a beast next: War and Peace. Yes, that War and Peace, the one by Tolstoy, the one that's supposedly a classic. The one that, from the looks of it (I checked it out yesterday from the university library where I work) is going to put my back and shoulder out if I carry around it my bag. My friend M. was the one that convinced me to give it a shot. Over beers the other night, we got to talking about Obama and leadership (he seems far-less enamoured of the president-elect than me) . He says there are some "essays" in W & P pertaining to leadership that might be relevant to our time. (Ah, I get it, that's what makes something a classic: it's timelessness.) Anyway I'm somewhat daunted by the endeavour - I think the longest book I've ever read is Norman Mailer's The Executioner's Song, and the Tolstoy seems to have about 300 more pages - but also figure that winter is a good a time as any to read the tome. Wish me luck... I also have a couple of short story collections also on the go, to help break up any potential monotony.

Reading: War and Peace (most likely for the next year...), the Penguin Book of Canadian Short Stories
Listening to: in a 1970s mood of late, so some Jackson Browne, Fleetwood Mac, etc.
Watching: the doc Man on Wire

Guilty Pleasures

2009-01-13T14:41:00.001-05:00

Two songs that have played on my iPod today while at work: Culture Club's "Time" and "Rise Up" by the Parachute Club.

Shh, don't tell anyone.

The forgotten post

2009-01-11T20:41:00.005-05:00

Although I no longer consider myself a professional writer, I'm almost always writing in my head. That tends to be my internal dialogue: bits and pieces of words, sentences, fragments that I eventually hope to jot down. That's but one of the reasons why I wanted to revive this blog: I was hoping to get some of those words into some coherent form. The last few days, for example, I've been carrying around a post in my head about money. It's meant to be an expository piece about my feelings about the filthy lucre. It's partly inspired by a couple of lines from the first page of the novel I'm currently reading, All the Sad Young Literary Men:

"To be poor in New York was humiliating, a little, but to be young - to be young was divine. If you'd had more money than they had that year, you'd simply have grown old faster."

Basically this reminds me of my early days living in the city, post-undergrad: I was 22, had little money, didn't necessarily aspire to have big money, and struggled. Happily, however. I have wonderful memories of that time in my life, despite the struggles. Or maybe because of them?

Yet, I'm still struggling to find the requisite time and energy to craft interesting posts. (I'm also struggling somewhat with motivation: my readership is pretty much anemic. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm doing this blog for myself, and that any outside eyes is icing.) I should make more of an effort to write in the mornings when I first awake (I'm one of those annoying morning people), although since the holidays I've been going to bed later than usual, and thus struggling to drag my head off the pillow when the radio turns on in the early hours of the day.

So the post about money will be coming soon. I have such an evolving relationship with money, so stay tuned!

On the plus side, it's been a good weekend. Two wonderful meals with the lovely A. (chicken in the slow cooker on Friday - I'm going to buy my own slow cooker, mostly to make a stew - and tasty fish last night), a couple of films (Atonement, which is a good adaptation of one of a great novel, and Rachel Getting Married last night at the Revue), some face time with the family (my brother came over with my dad this morning to pick up the computer I'm giving to my niece, so we went to the bluegrass brunch at the Dakota Tavern), a good run in the park this afternoon, put some furniture and electronics on craig's list (I'm continually purging, in the hopes that I'll be a minimalist) and now relaxing this evening. Not sure yet what this coming week will bring.

Listening to: Godspeed, You Black Emperor (I'm still disappointed I didn't get to see them play at the Bloor St. Cinema a few years back)
Reading: All the Sad Young Literary Men
Watching: See films above.

In "a bit of a mood"

2009-01-08T11:03:00.004-05:00

I've struggled with my mood these past couple of days. Maybe this is retribution for writing about my general optimistic attitude about life. ("You think you're a happy person, do you? Well let me prove to you otherwise!") Or for raising the issue of politics (where, most of the time, I'm probably talking out of my ass). I've been feeling sad and bitter, and fighting off what I would call a low-grade depression. Probably - and hopefully - just a case of the blues.

Where is this mood coming from? It's partly the job. Maybe two weeks wasn't enough recovery time from a stressful December. More to the point, I'm somewhat bored and frustrated with the gig. Of course there are parts of it I absolutely love, but lately they seem to be outweighed by the less-savoury bits. Like feeling like the low person on the totem. Having no power or authority, that my day-to-day duties are dictated by someone other than me. You get the gist. This is something I'll have to work through.

I'm also feeling a mite annoyed that I have all these little chores to do over the next few days (get my new iPod fixed - yes, it took less than two months to break down - remove a hard drive from my old computer, reformat it for my niece, buy milk) that, for some reason, are getting me down.

I'm also feeling nauseous, which doesn't help.

So rather than bore and frustrate you silly with these annoyances of mine, I'll end this here.

Reading: Keith Gessen's All the Sad Young Literary Men. (Gessen is the founding editor of the interesting literary journal n+1.)
Watching: nothing, really.
Listening to: NPR's Fresh Air on my nano.

A political thought

2009-01-04T15:30:00.003-05:00

I don't normally like to use this space to discuss politics. Not because I don't like the topic - I'm something of a political junkie, in fact - but because I hate to rant on a subject that is usually best enjoyed around a table, in the company of friends, preferably with a cup of coffee/pint of beer/shot of whiskey (pick your poison) close at hand. Also, it's nice to be challenged immediately if my opinion is ignorant or stupid - political discussions by their very nature are ripe for intelligent and healthy disagreement. Yet, a comment on a friend's facebook site has really stirred me to write a few words about the current situation in the Middle East between Israel and Hamas. (No need for me to recap the news to my readers. My guess is that you're all pretty up-to-date on world affairs - all three of you that visit this site, of course.)

I wouldn't necessarily call S. a friend but rather a good acquaintance. She's a classic facebook friend in that regard: someone I see only a couple of times a year (at most), never speak to on the phone, only occasionally exchange e-mail with, but who, except for her periodic updates on facebook, I've largely lost touch with. Although we used to work together, today we basically we travel in very different circles.

Her facebook update yesterday really got under my skin. Essentially it was a call-out to the Israeli soldiers in Gaza. "Stay safe," she wrote, "but go get 'em. We've gotta take care of our own first.'" My first reaction - after showing it to the lovely A. to use as an example of why I rarely if ever discuss Middle Eastern politics with friends, particularly as it relates to Israel (it's just too contentious) - was quiet acceptance. As long as I've known S., she's been a fervent, passionate and militant believer in the Jewish state. In fact, when I first started working with her about a decade ago, I took note of a bumper sticker affixed in her office cubicle: "My Israel includes the Golan." I'm never surprised when she takes a strong anti-Israel view of the world.

I too am a strong believer in Israel. I find it sad that there continues to be opposition to Israel's right to exist as a state, and that peace and stability in that region is so elusive. I can also understand its need to defend itself, particularly against an organization that seems intent on provoking Israel. All that said, this is not the place to argue what I feel is Israel's disproportionate response to the rockets fired into the southern part of its country. (As stated earlier, the Israeli issue is too massive for this feeble blog to properly debate.) Rather, it's the whole idea of S. using the phrase "our own" that really rubs me wrong.

I remember reading a wonderful Talk of the Town obituary in the New Yorker magazine many years of a long-time UN diplomat. He was American, and he said he often was queried by his fellow citizens why he was spending so much of his time trying to help those in other regions in the world rather than helping his fellow Americans. His response (and naturally I'm paraphrasing) was "I'm a member of the human race before I'm a citizen of any country." That simple phrase has stayed with me - in fact, it's something I've appropriated for myself many times!

In S.'s eyes, does being Jewish - or being a member of any race, religion, sect, sex, whatever - take precedence over the shared commonalities we all have as fellow human beings? Is it possible to be so cold and dispassionate about the loss of 500 Palestinian lives? Can there be no remorse? It strikes me that if seemingly reasonable and rationale people like S. have such an unhealthy view of "the other side," what chance do those in the belly of the region have of ever finding compromise?

I don't feel I've done a great job of explaining my point of view. Chalk it up to Sunday evening and having to go back to work tomorrow after a wonderful two-week break.

History lessons

2009-01-03T16:52:00.002-05:00

I spent a big chunk of yesterday afternoon on my older PC desktop, moving files to a separate hard drive. I bought a MacBook earlier in the week, so I no longer need the Dell machine (which is becoming increasingly slower with each day - in fact, I think I heard it wheezing the other morning). I'm clearing it out so I can pass it on to my 16 year-old niece, who doesn't have her own computer. It's nice to be able to keep the thing in the family.

Anyway it's been an interesting exercise, to gander at some of the stuff on that machine. Tons of music, of course, and photos and videos. Most interesting, however, are the various snippets of writing that I've saved over the years: a few lines of poetry here and there, for example, or an idea for a prose piece that never came to fruition (my speciality, it seems), as well as various drafts of blog posts (some of which I never published for fear of embarrassing myself). I also stumbled upon a couple of "about me" things for those online dating sites (an exercise I've chronicled at length in other blogs, so no need to retrace that path!), along with drafts of e-mails to women who I was flirting with via the dating sites.

And how do I feel about revisiting that past? Surprisingly, it wasn't as depressing as I thought it might be. In fact, even though much of that whole period was marked by big change and emotionally wrought events - going to grad school (more than 10 years after my undergrad degree), a career change, the dissolution of a long-term relationship, venturing back into the dating world - I have fond memories of those topsy-turvy years. (It's also good to have some chronicle of those years.) It's similar to what I was telling the lovely A. the other day: whenever I harken back on my history, I only ever seem to remember the "good" and largely forget the depressing bits. I wonder if that says anything about my general outlook on life, which I've discovered veers toward optimism.

Ask me tomorrow, of course, and you're liable to get a different response.

Listening to: various NPR podcasts
Watching: Pride & Prejudice (the 1995 BBC version) on New Year's eve (watched the whole thing, so we were up until 3:00; so low-key evening, but still late), Brief Encounter and Days in Heaven are in the queue
Reading: Bolano's 2666 (about a third of the way through!)

Speculating on the year that will be

2008-12-31T16:56:00.005-05:00

Back when we were in our early 20s, my best friend H. and I used to have the same resolution every new year. Simply, it was "less fretting, more fucking." (I think the two were intertwined: it reasons that we were probably fretting because we weren't doing enough fucking. Ah, such simple times...) Over the past few years, I've resisted creating a laundry list of new year's resolutions, probably because they seemed to be so cliche. (Lose weight! Eat healthier! Live every day as if it's your last!) Still, putting up a new calendar on the kitchen wall does seem like a good opportunity to set a few (hopefully attainable) goals. So in that spirit...

But before we get to that, perhaps a recap of last year's goals and my success at attaining them. Unfortunately, I can't remember them! Thinking back, I'm not even sure I indulged in the exercise last December. If I did, they probably revolved around things like taking better advantage of the city's pleasures, such as its music, its theatre, its bars, etc. I think I was partially successful: I attended more live music shows in 2008 than in past years, attended the opera (including finally seeing my favourite of all time, The Marriage of Figaro; thankfully it was a great production), and tried some new bars. I'm also sure exploring new music was on there too. I'm happy to report that my knowledge of interesting Canadian music has skyrocketed since the end of last year. Oh, I'm sure "less fretting and more fucking" was somewhere on the list. I think I did ok there...

I'm sure there are some goals I set that I didn't meet. Writing more, for one, immediately springs to mind. And running a marathon (which I think I've put as a goal every year since I started running seriously), although I was in some previous serious shape by the end of the summer. But overall, I think 2008 was one of my better years. I'm feeling very positive and (yes) happy as we approach the last few hours of the calendar year. I can honestly say that, as I look back on the year, there's nothing that I feel bad about not accomplishing.

That said, I've been thinking about some of my 2009 goals. (This year is also shaping up to be a somewhat momentous one, largely because I'm approaching a "milestone" birthday - ie., one that ends in zero - and because I'll finally get these braces off my teeth, resulting in the straightest teeth I've ever had. Watch for those incoming, full-toothed smiles. Topics for another post, however.) It's probably best to split these into categories like "easily attainable," "more difficult" and "geez, that's a longshot, but you never know." (I reserve the right to revisit this list, of course, as more come to my head.)

Easily attainable:
- Writing more. I feel good about my personal writing going into 2009, that I'm gaining some momentum both with this blog and my writing outside it. I've even been writing some poetry, although it's mostly hackneyed garbage. But fun to write, nonetheless.
- Reading more "classics." I think this is a holdover from a couple of years ago when I had this idea that I'd split my reading equally into contemporary works with acknowledged classics that I "should" (bad word) read. Like Tolstoy or Dickens or Proust or Cervantes. The problem is that I get intimidated by the huge tomes many of these great writers produced (not to mention they ain't easy to carry in a shoulder bag), but I'm hoping to conquer that fear.
- Discovering more "contemporary classical music." Since this year was about new Canadian music, next year should be about more challenging modern music. Reading Alex Ross' wonderful The Rest is Noise fueled my interest.
- See more theatre. A holdover from this year. Except for the opera, my theatre viewing in 2008 was pathetic.
- To make better use of my immediate after-work hours. This could mean indulging myself at a cafe or bar for an hour or so immediately after work rather than rushing home. This falls under another long-held (and partially achieved) goal of taking better advantage of the city's offerings.
- Throwing away socks the minute I discover a hole. Along with this, cutting my toenails more often...
- Keeping a clutter-free, more minimalist home. Moving helped since it allowed me to cull a lot of junk, but I can still do better.
- To exhibit more patience.
- To make a new friend or two. Odd how difficult it is to make new friends as we get older, although that's also a reflection on me: it takes me some time to feel comfortable with a newcomer.
- To play more guitar. I need new strings.
- To take more photos. I'm going to carry my camera around more often.
- Less fretting, more fucking. (An old chestnut.)

More difficult goals:
- To travel more. This is not out of desire, but more out of finances. The big excursion plan for the year is Argentina. Stay tuned!
- To publish a creative work of writing. Or, at the very least, to begin sending out some of my work. Ah yes, to end up in a slush pile.
- Write some songs. I usually get embarrassed when I try to attach a melody and some lyrics to the chords I like to strum, but I need to get over it and just give it a go. (Hello GarageBand on the Mac!)

Longshot goals:
TBA.

Happy New Year to one and all! See you in 2009.

It was a very good year

2008-12-30T12:13:00.006-05:00

(What fun to be able to be out and about with my MacBook! This is not my first laptop, but it's my first since wireless became the norm rather than the exception.)

You have to love the end of the year - it makes coming up with a blog post topic so much easier. Two topics, in fact: one to reflect on the year that was, a second to speculate on the year that will be. I'll focus this post on 2008, and save 2009 for tomorrow or Thurs. (I won't necessarily be reciting a list of resolutions, but more like "things I'd like to achieve and/or accomplish by year's end." Yes, there's a distinction.)

Without mincing words, 2008 was good to me. It was marked by two wonderful trips - Portugal in April, DC this past month - as well as a backwoods camping excursion in Sept. (Hooray for swimming naked!) More important, it marked the first full year of my relationship with the lovely A. There were some trying times, to be sure (I don't want to revisit that whole period, but I thought we were going to split soon after coming back from Europe), but we came out of the emotional difficulties stronger as a couple. I also moved this year, and am living in a part of town much more conducive to my personality. (I can't figure out why it took me so long to find this area; I should have moved out there years ago when my relationship with M. ended.) And though I've had some recent troubles at work, I'm still employed in a great job. (Many of my work-related issues revolve around feeling powerless, largely because I had so much power for the first part of the year when my supervisor was on sabbatical and I was, effectively, in charge. I'm sure to cover this ground in a future post. I'd also like to make more money, but that's a pretty familiar rant for most.) Perhaps most important of all, I'm healthy and feel good about my inner, emotional life.

Sure, there are some things I wish I could have accomplished. More personal writing, for one. My photography has also dropped off since the spring - it's only recently my flickr site has been (somewhat) revived from life support. I didn't see as many films in the theatre as I would have liked. (And the film fest was a total bust for me; I can't remember a year where I was so disappointed by the endless line-ups and sold-out shows.) I wish I could have kept up my fanatical summer of running through the fall and winter, and my bike-riding was too sporadic (owing to my crappy bike; I never did recover my beloved Marin, stolen last November), but those are really minor quibbles.

On the plus side, I read some great books (a lot of really fine non-fiction as well), enjoyed some good concerts, and discovered a whack of new music. (That was one of my "resolutions" for the year that I really did accomplish.) There were many wonderful evenings spent with friends at various bars/pubs/cafes. And while I didn't get as much personal writing as I had hoped, I did manage to make some extra cash with some freelance work (it tends to go to a good cause: an expensive dinner with the lovely A.) and took on some writing assignments at work. My intellectual health is fairly reasonable, although of course it could always be better.

It's good to feel so optimistic about my future - knowing, of course, that things can change in an instant. But let's give a positive shout-out to 2008!

Whee, this is fun

2008-12-29T18:31:00.002-05:00

So here I am, typing away on my new Apple MacBook. It's a sweet little machine. Hey, maybe my enthusiasm for the new toy will get me writing more. Well, it's always a possibility... For now, I'll be happy when I complete the final transfer of my itunes library from my PC to this machine. We're only about a quarter of the way there so far - although thank god I finally figured out how to get the damn local area network working to do the transfer.

The holiday edition of PN

2008-12-27T17:33:00.004-05:00

Well, I have returned. (BTW, has anybody else noticed that the incoming president of the United States begins many of his answers to questions with the word "well"? Take note.) It's been a wonderful week of Washington (there's that alliteration again) and family xmas cheer. And while I love my family, I have to admit that I'm sort-of glad that the familial obligations are over. Particularly since I now have a full week to enjoy the peace and solitude of leisure life.

What's on the agenda? Not really sure, actually, although I have a stack of movies on DVD awaiting, and various books scattered around the apartment. Shopping too, specifically for a new computer. My nearly six-year old Dell desktop is running veerrrryy slowly of late and periodically makes some strange noises. Time to move on and head back into the Apple world (after a several-years absence) with the purchase of a new 13-inch MacBook. (I also messed up when printing out itunes gift certificates for my nieces, so now I have $30 to spend. What hardship.) Basically I'm going to be in serious chill-out mode.

For those wondering about Washington, it was a great, fun-filled trip. We had to scramble to get out a day earlier than anticipated because of the storm that was about to hit the city, but it worked out perfectly. It was a hoot to wake up on Friday morning in the hotel's comfy king-size bed, the travelling portion complete, and able to begin our trip in earnest. The city totally rocked - I suppose not too surprising given my passionate interest in US history and politics. (It's something of a shock that I've never visited.) The "touristy" sites were grand, particularly the Lincoln Memorial (go at night, when it's really majestic and awe-inspiring), the Archives (natch), the Library of Congress and the Supreme Court. (About the only disappointment was the Capital Hill tour. What a dud.) We also loved wandering the various neighbourhoods, such as Adams Morgan (go in the evening when the nightlife is lively) and Dupont Circle, and spent Sunday afternoon at the Kennedy Center to watch and listen to a performance of Handel's Messiah. And of course we ate wonderfully well - that's always one of the highlights when the lovely A. and I travel. Much seafood was consumed. Photos of the trip to come soon on my flickr site, although I (perhaps suprisingly) didn't take too many. (That's also on "to do" list: to spend some serious time updating my flickr site, which is beginning to grow cobwebs from inactivity. I'm getting the itch to venture out with the trusty Canon to do some snapping.)

So it seems I'm in something of a short story mood of late. This is something I'm going to write about - and will include my own recent attempts at writing a couple of stories! It's been a while since I indulged in some fiction - I basically gave up writing "creatively" a few years back when I realized I didn't have as much talent as I'd like - but I'm feeling increasingly inspired. It's probably still crap, but hey, at least it's good for the soul.

Holy crappy weather, batman

2008-12-18T11:14:00.003-05:00

So I'm on hold, waiting to talk to someone at Air Canada. My flight to DC tomorrow has been cancelled, so I'm trying to arrange alternate plans. What a pain. Cross your fingers that I can sort this out soonest - and hopefully get out tonight before the weather hits.

Update: Flight has been changed for tonight at 20:45. It's going to be tight for the lovely A., but she thinks it's still doable. Cross your fingers...

flirtations

2008-12-16T14:13:00.002-05:00

It's days like today - slow, restless, ponderous, wistful - that I wish I had a good, old-fashioned e-mail flirtation going.

The local retailers

2008-12-15T12:02:00.011-05:00

I haven't been buying too many books over the last year, largely because I'm such an ardent user of the library. This shouldn't come as much of a surprise - after all, I work in a library! It wouldn't make sense not to use its immense collection. I'm also a big fan of the Toronto Public Library, although lately I've been using it for CDs rather than books. (One frustrating aspect of the TPL is that it doesn't send out e-mail reminders when my material is due, which means I'm usually incurring overdue fines. Thankfully, they only charge $0.30/day - although when one has about 10 items charged out, it can add up quickly...)

I also made a decision when I moved this past fall that I would pare my library (such as it is) down, so I ended up culling about 10 bankers boxes worth of books (I donated them to one of the university fall book sales; I probably bought most of them from there anyway). I was quite pleased that, once I moved, I could fit the majority of my permanent collection (consisting primarily of my favourite writers such as Roth, Murakami, Murdoch, et al., along with "genres" such as books about Toronto, various short story collections and cherished books from my childhood or gifted to me by friends) in one Ikea bookshelf. (There were a few that I couldn't fit, mostly my books about music and about writers on writing, so I relegated them to the office.) I did leave room for some new purchases, but I didn't have immediate plans to go on a book spending spree. For one, I already had quite a backlog of books I was reading.

But this weekend, I finally caved and bought two new books. I actually wrote about these a while back, but I only just this Saturday got around to purchasing them: 2666 by Roberto Bolano (perhaps my current favourite author) and Rebecca Rosenblum's collection of short stories, Once. These were easy purchases to make. Since I discovered Bolano with last year's wonderful The Savage Detectives, I'm hoping to purchase all his books for my personal library. And of course it's always good to support young Canadian writers, hence the Rosenblum purchase. (I read the first story, ContEd, which was quite good - a harbinger of the rest of the stories, I hope.) Even better, I bought from my local book retailer, Another Story Books.

My dad was forever preaching to me on the merits of buying local, reasoning that if one didn't buy from the local retailer, they might not be there when you do need them. Since I've been living in the city from age 20, coupled with the fact that I've never owned a car, it's been fairly easy to stick to this dictate. I've evolved and refined the local rule as well: in short, if it's at all possible, I'll buy from the smaller, independent retailer. (I was telling the lovely A. this weekend that only once have I visited a Wal-Mart: about 8 years ago at Square One in Mississauga. I bought a roasting pan - which I no longer have as I lost it in my last break-up).

I worry, however, that this rule will be harder to maintain as the years pass and the small, local retailer struggles to compete against the behemoth chains. I've even noticed it in terms of my book buying (slight as it is these days). For years and years, my main retail stop for new books (I used to buy a lot of secondhand stuff as well) was the Annex's Book City. It was so easy to spend an hour browsing through the store. Its staff were also among the most intelligent readers in the city - largely because so many of them were also writers - and always ready with helpful recommendations. Buying from them was guilt free. (Of course it also helped that my closest friend worked there for many years, so I'd usually get the 40% staff discount. How I miss those days!)

I'm saddened to report that Book City is no longer as wonderful as it once was. Sure, its selection is still strong, but it's a lot less thorough. For example, the Annex shop no longer has a second floor (where they used to have a fantastic selection of music, film and travel books, among other subjects). I also couldn't find Once. My main beef, however, is that its staff is not nearly as good or as knowledgeable. I find many of them aloof and unfriendly, and often they aren't that familiar with the store's stock. But maybe this says more about me, that as I get older I'm becoming more of a curmudgeon with respect to service. Or maybe I just miss the discount...

The past couple of years, I've found myself shopping occasionally from the Chapters/Indigo chain. (For the Americans that visit this site, it's akin to Borders. For UK readers, Waterstones.) And also Amazon. In fact, as I chronicled a couple of weeks back, I was prepared to buy the two books I just purchased this weekend at Amazon. I would have saved some money: it would have cost around $35 instead of the $53 I paid at Another Story. (Of course I would have had to add something else to reach the magic $39 to enjoy free shipping.) But my friend M. sort-of made me feel guilty about buying from Amazon, so I held off.

I'm glad I did since it allowed me to discover the wonderful Another Story shop. They even have a loyalty program: if I spend $200, I get a $10 credit. Ok, it's not much, but it's something! (And as I pointed out to the woman punching in my purchase, I'm already a quarter of the way there.) There's also the great secondhand shop She Said Boom just up the road, if I'm in the mood for some used fare.

Pity the wonderful music shop Soundscapes can't open a second location in my neighbourhood. Then I'd really be set. Oh, and a local liquor store.

Watching: Word Play (fun film), Fallen Angels (disappointing, but I chalk that up to the crappy film-to-DVD transfer, which basically dulled the look of the highly stylized cinematography).
Reading: see above.
Listening to: Ornette Coleman's Sound Grammar, Margaret Atwood's Massey Lectures (on my iPod while running).

How to define "gossamer disaster"?

2008-12-12T16:24:00.004-05:00

My job is great, but like any job there are some tasks that are dull and downright depressing. To wit, I've spent the past week or so archiving the manuscripts and related editorial material of a Canadian literary publication. I don't mind working through the files of an actual issue – and kudos to the production editors that box the stuff up since it always arrives in great and well-organized shape – but there's an unsavoury aspect to one part of the collection: the slush-pile of rejected manuscripts.

Firstly, let me give full props to any and all that volunteer for a literary publication, particularly the slush-pile readers. I can only imagine how mind-numbing the exercise must be, having to wade through the seemingly interminable pile of short stories, creative non-fiction and poetry. (It's hard enough sorting them all for the archives.) It's thankless, difficult work. I'm actually quite shocked at the sheer number of manuscripts the journal receives – or maybe not, since many people consider themselves "writers." Geez, even a hack like me has been known to refer to myself as a writer! Although now I consider myself a 'hobbyist' with respect to my writing (BTW, there was a great piece in the NYTimes last Sunday about authoring a book. You can read it here.) And while there are a number of talented writers sending their manuscripts, much of what the journal receives can be considered dross or turgid. (Better still, feel free to insert your our own adjective here: _______.)

Truthfully, when I first worked on this journal's archive a couple of years, I got a mild kick out of the rejections. Naturally, it was way too tempting to read bits and pieces from manuscripts that a reader declared was 'terrible' or 'dreadful.' More often than not, the reader's assessment was dead on.

I've since changed my tune, however, to the point where I wish the journal would shred the rejects rather than ship them here for posterity. It's not just the sheer overload of bad material that gets me down – for one, not all of it is dreadful (although some submissions really have me questioning the author's judgment in sending it out for review) – but it's the slush-pile readers comments and general attitude on the manuscripts that is also wearing on me.

The comments cover a wide range, from the simple, declarative 'no,' to something like this: 'These stories are Kafkaesque allegories (like The Hunger Artist) which should be great especially since ideas like free-market capitalism and spectacle are so ripe for allegory and ironic introspection. However in their brevity these stories fall flat.' Talk about a considered reading - although I have no idea what he means.

Some of the readers – one in particular, actually – can be particularly mean-spirited. A few examples that I've seen today:

'This could have been a great story but the author spoiled it with MFA wussiness.'
'No – hard to get past the first 3-4 pages for the error-ridden, rambling prose!'
'There are two stories here, neither of which are as profound as the author believes. NO'
'A few more writing classes would do him good.' (Incidentally, this is from the same person that complained about the MFA wussiness.)
'This is actually a biography – a boring, boring biography.'
'11465 words of awful.'
'A gossamer disaster.'
'Utter crap. Apparantely we’ve published her before, which does us no credit.'
'Well, at least it was short. NO.'
'I had high hopes for this going in, but it became flabby and unco-ordinated. It was a Britney Spears story.'
'So slight that you gotta squint to see something. NO.'
'She should have sent a different excerpt: an interesting one.'
'This reads like all the other stories scrawled by the untalented dregs of every community college writing class. Ultra-no.'

Not all of the comments are so nasty. In fact, some of the readers are sensitive and willing to give something a chance, even if an author's voice is not-yet well developed and the story/poetry needs some work. There are some readers that will almost never declare a firm "no" without at least a look-see from another reader. (It's been particularly difficult coming across negative comments of manuscripts from friends/acquaintances of mine.)

What I'm left thinking is how much of getting published is pure chance. Of course there needs to be some ability, but what happens when a reasonably good piece first lands in the hands of a nasty reader? Maybe s/he just isn't attuned to a particular story or style of writing. Or is having a particularly bad day?

I'm starting to think that if you don't have anything nice to say...

Listening to: the Metric’s Live it Out (pity I won’t get a chance to see them play tonight)
Reading: the Dec. 15 issue of the New Yorker; the Rough Guide to Washington, DC
Watching: Wong Kar Wai’s Fallen Angels, Wordplay (the doc about crosswords)

The Office (party)

2008-12-11T08:00:00.009-05:00

We had our staff holiday party yesterday afternoon. It's not exactly a wild and crazy event. We close an hour early, set up shop on site, and allow the seasonal jocularity to take its course. It's pot luck (I, naturally, contributed some tasty red wine), Christmas tunes are played at an acceptable volume (one woman complains every year that the music is too loud), and there's plenty of cheese and crackers and other snick-snacks to help absorb the wine. In short, it's a civilized affair. The thing usually lasts for just over a couple hours - then it's a quick clean-up, and home by 7:00.

One reason for such a somnambulistic party is that, while we all get along quite well at work, I wouldn't necessarily consider any of us all that close. We're friendly, but not friends. I'd say there's really only one person on staff that I would consider a "friend" - I'll confide about my personal life, for example - but we rarely socialize outside of the confines of the building. I don't necessarily mind this set up - work is work after all, and my social life is a separate entity.

It wasn't always like that, however. At one time, back in the mid-1990s, much of my social life revolved around my work life. It was a different time, a different job. (In my case, a totally different career.) I happened to be in an environment where there was a lot of shared sensibilities: the majority of us were young, in our first "real" jobs, single and poor. The work - it was a publishing company that put out about six newspapers/magazines - was interesting, for the most part, but the pay was lousy. It pretty much bordered on slave wages. (The commute too was a killer.) Still, I earned enough to pay the rent on my tiny bachelor apartment in the Annex, and have enough disposable dosh to enjoy the pleasures of the city. (There was also one great perk to the gig: considerable business travel.)

For the 2+ years I worked there, it was (mostly) great fun. Friendships began and were cemented. I socialized often with my colleagues. I can count two of my closest friends - one of whom I knew before I worked there, but who I really got to know well, largely from our commute - from that workplace. I also found love there. The relationship only lasted for a year, but it turned my world upside down (both for for good and bad, although the passage of time has allowed for only the good to remain in memory). It was a heady time, and even though I don't reflect back much on the actual work, I have nothing but good memories about the environment itself. (There have been two or three "reunions" over the past year or so which I've attended, but I prefer to hang with those that I still consider friends.)

Do I ever yearn for that type of work environment? Not really, no. I'm glad I experienced it, but my outside life is so much richer and interesting that I don't need a work environment to fill in any holes and gaps. I like my job - but I also like when the workday is done and I can leave my job here, in the building.

The theme of community continues to be playing itself out in my head and on my blog.

Random musings

2008-12-09T22:53:00.004-05:00

I've long been a fan of the two-beer buzz. Tonight, I've become a fan of the four-beer buzz... Ah yes, it's the holiday season. Was out with my friend M. tonight, chatting about books and miscellany. (He gave me a nice compliment, saying that I was one of the few friends he knew that was a ferocious fan of fiction. And maybe alliteration.)

I was telling him I picked up a Michael Ignatieff book from the library today, to better acquaint myself with the person that might well be our Prime Minister. (He can't be any worse than the awful Stephen Harper.) I have a mild soft spot for Igantieff, mainly because I saw him in line at the Indigo book store in Manulife Centre a couple of years ago after he lost the Liberal Party leadership. He was just standing there, in this huge holiday-season line, like everybody else - like a Canadian, in other words. (That was a strange day for me because, about an hour before that, I ran into a woman I had dated and then a woman I lusted after in high school. And then chatted with a woman I had a huge crush on, who has since become a friend. Yes, it was one of those days.) Rather than read one of his non-fiction works, I took out one of his novels: Scar Tissue, which was shortlisted for the Booker back in the early 90s. (How many politicians can claim that on their resume?) After all, there's more truth in fiction than non-fiction, no? What better way to get some insight into the guy's soul.

It's been added to the queue.

People in your neighbourhood

2008-12-08T20:45:00.005-05:00

I was writing a post yesterday afternoon, but got sidetracked by a freelance piece due today (she was happy with the draft, so no rewrites were necessary; hooray!), and then a somewhat surprising visit from A. in the evening. (I knew she was coming over, but wasn't sure when. I thought it was going to be much later.) And tonight, the hours have flown by, largely with watching Chungking Express. (Why did I think I'd seen this film before? I hadn't - and I can't figure out why because it's astounding. If you've never seen it, check out the new Criterion release of this wonderous, beautiful film. For those romantics in the crowd, be prepared to smile at the end.) But I want to jot a few words down before carting my books and magazines to the bedroom to read for an hour.

I was out with T. (joined later by A.) on Friday night, and we got to discussing "community." Namely, how I don't feel like I'm part of a community here in the city. A few years ago, he moved from Toronto to a small(ish) city in the province. He's since become a part of the artistic community there. He says it's easier to find a sense of community when the pool of interesting and intelligent people is not a large one to drawn upon.

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed here in the city. I love Toronto, don't get me wrong. I like that I both live and work in wonderful parts of the city. Yet, at times I feel lost. I think I'd enjoy being part of a community outside of my circle of friends. It could be literary, it could be something else. It could even be a virtual community, something I've been a willing participant in the past with past blogs.

Anyway I'm going to explore this issue further. It's too late to give this learned discussion. Stay tuned.

Reading: "Waiting" by Amos Oz in this week's New Yorker; I'm also considering ditching House for Mr. Biswas (I'm about 200 pages in, but my head space isn't fully there to enjoy it); I also took out Malcolm Gladwell's latest, Outlier, from the library.
Listening to: Amy Millan's Honey from the Tombs, Belle and Sebastian's The Boy with the Arab Strap.
Watching: enjoyed Enchanted, loved Chunking Express, have the documentary Wordplay in the queue.

Trying times

2008-12-05T11:17:00.007-05:00

Apologies (to the two or three of you that actually visit this blog) for being silent for a few days. It's been a particularly trying week at work - without getting into specifics, it basically revolves around issues of feeling under appreciated and being powerless (not to mention continuing fears about the economy and whether that's going to mean my contract won't be renewed) - and it's made me a mite dispirited. (For those that know me, it usually takes quite a bit to make me feel down and depressed. I seem to have largely conquered the crazy mood swings I used to suffer from.) I'm also falling behind on some of the extra-curricular stuff I've committed to (including a freelance magazine piece, which pays me some real money), so that's been preying on my mind.

Needless to say, three cheers for the upcoming weekend! Although part of is going to be spent working on various writing projects. I'm also planning on attending the Guernica Editions book launch on Sunday aft. at Bar Italia.

I'm also trying to figure out my relationship with this blog. I promised myself that I wouldn't be too upset if it didn't find a lot of readers since I was using it primarily as a writing-exercise tool. Still, it's not always easy to come to grips that one is mainly writing only to oneself! Yet I'm also not being overly proactive in terms of "marketing" the blog. I've told a couple of friends, but not many. I suppose what I really need to do is begin commenting on other's blogs, and perhaps they'll come visit me.

But it did get me thinking about the "types" of blogs that I enjoy reading. I've long been a fan of reading artists' blogs, particularly those that take the time and energy to craft thoughtful, intelligent posts. It's a great way for admirers to feel a little closer to the artist. For example, Pete Townshend used to have a kick-ass blog years ago. It was classic Townshend: intelligent, witty, confessional (maybe sometimes too confessional), and it provided a handy update on his musical projects. He'd even post the occasional video of him playing guitar, which was always a treat. I think he still posts a blog, but it's now under the auspices of the authorized The Who web site. The last time I checked, one to had to subscribe (and pony up some ducats) to access it, so I haven't read him in awhile. (I just went to check out his blog: it costs $50 to become a member! I love your music, Pete, but no thanks.)

The violinist Hilary Hahn has one of the best online journals of a musician. She's a good writer, which of course is a bonus, but the blog is a great window into the life of a working professional musician. She usually has some great travel stories - she used to post photos of the cities she's visiting, but she seems to have dropped that feature - and gives us insight into the pieces she's playing and/or preparing to play. I've read interviews with her on the importance of this type of outreach - she recognizes that the web is a good venue for her to promote both herself and classical music in general.

Another blog I've been reading of late is that of Toronto writer Rebecca Rosenblum. I stumbled upon it via work one day, and have since become a devoted reader. Again, it helps that she's a terrific, intelligent (and fun!) writer. It also reminds me a lot of Hilary Hahn's journal - providing a glimpse into the brain and life of an artist - but with a twist: namely that Rebecca (not that I'm on a first-name basis with her...) is an emerging talent, and that her first recently launched book is getting great buzz. It's been great fun reading her thoughts on her reviews, her readings, and her (sort of) celebrity, even the role of her blog. It's served a useful PR function too: I'm planning on buying the book. (I actually went to my local Book City the other day to pick it up but couldn't find it. Blah.)

Listening to: too many tunes to mention on my new 120GB iPod - nothing like a new toy to play with!
Watching: Hopefully two DVDs this weekend - Enchanted (the Disney film) and the new Criterion release of Wong Kar-wai's Chungking Express
Reading: continuing the V.S. Naipaul, but also the new issue of the New Yorker (which carries a profile of Naomi Klein, who I once chatted with very briefly before a Don Ross show in Toronto)

Technology wins, technology losses

2008-11-30T15:32:00.004-05:00

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?

2008-11-28T08:03:00.006-05:00

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

2008-11-24T18:48:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-23T13:50:00.003-05:00

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

2008-11-22T10:40:00.009-05:00

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

2008-11-19T22:31:00.002-05:00

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?"

2008-11-18T15:40:00.003-05:00

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

2008-11-17T13:41:00.008-05:00

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?

2008-11-16T22:31:00.007-05:00

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

2008-11-13T18:23:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-12T22:23:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-11T08:19:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-10T22:43:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-09T20:57:00.000-05:00

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.

Good fortune!

2008-07-21T20:14:00.000-04:00

So today got off to a good and unexpected start: I won tickets on a radio show! Even better, it's actually something I'm interested in (the men's tennis final here in Toronto on Sunday), and it allowed me to utilize some of the arcane tennis trivia knowledge I've stored since I was a teenager (I knew it would come in handy one day...). I was probably more excited than I should have been, but it's a big moment for me. For one, I've never actually won anything in my life. More important, I actually had to earn it by answering the trivia question. A nice start to the work week.

As a result of my good fortune, I decided to head down to the police station holding those stolen bikes they recovered from a downtown store. (For those of you who missed it, the police busted up a long-renowned bicycle theft scam run out of a "shop" in the city.) As many of you know, my bike got ripped off late last year from my front porch. (So much for the supposedly impenetrable German lock I bought.) At the time, I filed a police report, even though I had lost the serial number (it was on the sales slip, which I had misplaced). It was a crazy scene: they had about 30 to 40 bikes on display, but the rest were stacked up in three separate warehouse-style rooms. Basically if one didn't have a serial number, you were basically screwed in terms of finding your stolen wheels. One of the police women mentioned that this set-up was only temporary, that they were planning on moving the bikes into another location where they could all be spread out and organized by make. At this point, I'm not all that hopeful, but I retain some faith.

The good news is that, when I got home, I suddenly remembered where I had put my sales slip and the serial number. So at least now I can give that to the police - that might help in identifying my bike, if it was one of the found ones.

Needless to say, if I manage to recover my beloved bike, I'll be buying a lottery ticket. Things come in threes, don't they?

Self education

2008-07-10T20:19:00.001-04:00

I've been pondering the word autodidacticism. (Yes, sometimes I do think about seven-syllable words.) Why? Primarily it stems from how I view my intelligence (or, more appropriately, lack thereof) among my work colleagues. Sure, I have some smarts: I can point to good grades in high school (not that that is necessarily a qualifier), I have two university degrees, I can string a few sentences together in a paragraph. Often, however, while in the work room, surrounded by people who whip off historical references, or read latin, or will easily knock off the NYTimes crossword during a morning coffee break, I'll begin to feel out of my element, that I don't belong. I worry I'm going to be sussed out, that they're going to discover I'm really nothing more than a fraud. In short, they'll finally figure that I'm a complete dunce. (Unfortunately, the topics where I can show some mental dexterity - 1970s American films, jazz, tennis, where to find the best secondhand CD stores in NYC - rarely, if ever, come up.)

To that end, I feel I'm always in learning mode, that much of my life is spent self educating myself. It's not a chore, nor is it a competition: I like to learn (I almost wrote "I love to laugh," which is something of an inside joke...), and almost nothing gives me more pleasure than having hours of leisure time at my disposal to indulge in a book. Or, in my case, several books.

It's taken me a while to figure out my natural reading habit, but I think I finally have it down. In short, I need to have a few books (and usually a magazine; these days that's the latest issue of the New Yorker) on the go at once. Let's face it, my attention span is nothing to brag about. I'm a bit of a "flitter" (if that's even a word). I used to feel bad about this, that it was something to be ashamed of. Sure, every now and then I get so ridiculously involved in a book that it becomes something of a preoccupation, the proverbial "page turner" that keeps me awake at night. It's rare, however, so what usually happens is that I crack open a book (these days primarily from the library; I've stopped buying books, for the most part) while I have a couple already on the proverbial bedside table (or, much to the dismay of my back and shoulder, in my bag).

Let's take stock of my current reading projects as an example.

I've got two main books on the go, both non-fiction: Conversations with Woody Allen by Eric Lax (pretty much self explanatory), and The Rest is Noise by the New Yorker music critic Alex Ross (which examines 20th-century "classical" music, although it's really more of a look at various historical periods of the 20th century as seen through the filter of modern music and composers such as Stravinsky, Berg, Copland, etc.; it's a fantastic piece of work). Both are long-held interests of mine, although I'm much-better versed in one subject (Allen) than the other. I've also dabbled a little in a book about the Lincoln-Douglas debates, which I took out of the library after Obama was the presumptive Democratic nominee and McCain started floating the idea of doing Town Hall debates through the summer. Obama instead suggested they should do a reprise of the Lincoln-Douglas debates from the 1850s, so naturally I wanted to find out more about them. (Lincoln displayed his oratory gifts and essentially made his name during these debates, which were widely covered by the press, even though they were competing for the state legislature. Lincoln also lost the election.) I finished last week's New Yorker last night in bed, so I'm waiting for delivery of the next issue (hopefully tomorrow so I'll have it for the weekend). And I read the cover story about Rush Limbaugh from Sunday's NYTimes Magazine.

Not to worry, I'm also working through some fiction. My friend R. bought me a collection of Tim Winton short stories, so I've read the first two of those. I was in a bit of a fiction slump (I tried and failed to get into Cormac McCarthy's The Road; I think it might be a better winter read), so I found something easily digestible at the library: The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler. I'm pleasantly surprised to discover it isn't trash or overly chick-lit-ish, although I'm only about 60 pages in. I have Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto on the (ha ha) kitchen table and in the queue. I also want to re-read Robert Bolano's wonderful The Savage Detectives, which recently came out in paperback, this summer.

So where does autodidacticism fit in to this discussion? Well, I can't help but use my reading material as launching pads to learn even more. For example, because of the Woody Allen book, I've reserved a few of his films from the library to re-examine in light of some of his views. I've been taking out CDs of some music that I'm reading about in the Ross book (primarily Berg and Schoenberg since I'm pretty weak on 12-tone music). I've also been trying to discover some new music, out of sheer boredom with the current tuneage on my ipod. (Recommendations are heartily welcome. I've been listening to some Sleater-Kinney, New Pornographers, Great Lake Swimmers, Iron and Wine, so anything in that general vein.) I also realize I need to read (and re-read) more Jane Austen. (And I haven't even mentioned some of the movies and DVDs I'm watching: the second season of the Sopranos, the 20th anniversary edition of Heathers, Flags of Our Fathers... it just never seems to end. Thankfully.)

Years ago I remember reading that one can take one book and, simply following the references it mentions within it, create an entire syllabus for one's own self education (since each subsequent new book or film or piece of art will come with its own references). It's something I so totally get and will continue to pursue while I'm lucky enough to be sentient.