Auld Lang Why?

My apartment is freezing around the perimeter, so I have burrowed into the middle. Fortunately, that's where the TV is and my computer is portable, but I fear that I've become some crumb-speckled stereotype. I'm wrapped in a blanket, I'm checking Facebook and I've re-discovered the Christmas can of Pringles.

I swore I wouldn't eat all my Christmas candy in a few days. Oh well, I perjured myself, but I did so deliciously.

I'm currently enjoying being a hermit, but a certain very social day is coming up and I'm feeling a little concerned. Yes, it's almost New Year's Eve, or as I like to think of it, the night I get all maudlin and start to cry over drink specials about all the things I didn't do that year. After a few sloppy nights, including one awkward one with just the parents and a bottle of sparkling wine, I had decided that I would stay home every year from now on, but now I'm wondering if maybe I shouldn't go out.

After all, wouldn't the best way to ensure this decade is very different from the last would be to try something different? If I do go out, watch out if I'm drinking beer. Than the forecast of me getting weepy and treating you all to a boozy rendition of a Bruce Springsteen song gets very, very good.

Three For Three

Somehow I made it through the holiday season and unto the other side with no eggnog poisoning or family drama. I also missed every single broadcast of It's A Wonderful Life, A Christmas Story and the Alistair Sim's A Christmas Carol, which rather makes me feel like Christmas shouldn't be over yet... but I'm watching Boxing Day ads on TV, so it is.

Before I left for my Grandma's house, I saw three movies in three days. First, I caught a preview screening of Sherlock Holmes on the 16th. Sure, it would have made sense to blog about it then, but packing had to be done. So, now the movie's come out and you've gone to see it (or Avatar), but if you haven't let me tell you that it's worth a Cheap Tuesday ticket price. It won't please any true Holmes fan, since it's pretty much Iron Man in a homburg, but it's never boring. It is occasionally confusing, especially the frantic cuts during a lot of the fight scenes, but the chemistry between Downey and Law keeps things humming.

Then, the day after, I went to the Dollar Cinema to see The Hurt Locker, which was worth a lot more than the $2.00 I paid for that. After that, it was Precious, which just kind of wrings you out. Both Mariah Carey and Monique are surprisingly good, although Gabourey Sidibe is even better. After that, I meant to see even more movies, but I grabbed a book instead. After all, if I kept that schedule up by February I would probably run out of movies to see and be reduced to something like Valentine's Day.

Ewwwww.

City of Coughs

I'm sick with... something. It feels like an annoying hybrid of cold and flu. Fluld, if you will. I tried to go in to work this morning, but after flulding it up for an hour and a half - and spelling "scholarship" as "scholar schip" in my germ-addled haze - I went home to rest.

I've been indoors since on a steady tea and lentil diet, alternating between watching the Hustler, knitting, reading and Facebook stalking my friends who have the good sense and strong immune system not to get sick. It's all left me feeling a little gamey.


The reading material hasn't helped much either. It's The New York Trilogy, by Paul Auster. The prose moves quickly, it has some kind of plot, but in the end I'm left feeling hungry for something meatier. Between the linguistic games and painfully postmodern flourishes, it made me want a real detective story like nothing else. Like a lot of pomo fiction, it doesn't have the courage of its own genre convictions. Things start out well, and then plots deflate upon themselves, the characters veer between sounding like NYU professors and private dicks, then - wham- it's done. Still, when it's good, it's very good, so I'll put on my pile of "Books I Would Enjoy More If I Was A New Yorker," beside Motherless Brooklyn.

I do find that Penguin Classics cover by Art Spiegelman to be charming though. And maybe I would have liked it better if I hadn't been flulding my way through part of it.

Emotional Knitting

Last night some of my neighbors decided to have a hoedown at what felt like 2am in the morning. I don't think i was in French. I don't think it was in English. I think it was just in yelling. And I kept on waiting for someone to yell at them to shut up, BUT IT NEVER HAPPENED. Seriously, I thought Quebecois folks would bitch at someone past 11:30, but apparently not in my neighborhood.

And then the snowplows came.

Since it felt like they were coming through my room at 6 in the morning, I am left to conclude that it's more than my windows being painfully thin - that, somehow, they've been engineered to magnify sounds. All this is to say that I'm not the perkiest of chaps this morning. So I've decided to respond by doing something I haven't done in a long time: KNIT!

Well, okay, I've been knitting plain socks, but those don't count. Those are necessity to survive a Montreal winter. I am, however, short on cardigans, especially since my last knitted one has been pulled and stretched quite out of shape. So, I've cast on for an Elizabeth Zimmerman pattern. Since it's an Aran knit in the round (read: looong rows) it's not that exciting, but I have high hopes.

At least until I get to the steeks.

Book Covers I Have... Found Interesting

Due to technical difficulties, the already-delayed cover post will be delayed even further. Until then, I want to talk about something I noticed while book shopping.

If you're a woman of a particular socioeconomic background, you might have noticed that a little movie called Julie and Julia came out over the summer. Sure, it didn't make bank the way Transformers 2 did, but it had decent legs, a lower overhead and at least 100% less Shia LaBoeuf. It had hardback copies of Mastering The Art of French Cooking selling like hot brioche and people - often mother-daughter combos - lining up for tickets.

The critical response was pretty harsh on the Julie side of the equation. They found her whiny and narcissistic, which made me feel bad for Julie Powell. Sure, she's guilty as charged, but so would anyone be if you compared them to Julia Child. And, unlike many of us, Powell brings some self-deprecation and occasionally witty writing to the modern condition of chronic navel gazing.

Now she's got another book out, all about how she learned to be a butcher while... cheating on her husband, last seen being canonized as the saintly eater and cleaner of the earlier book. Speaking of moms and movies, you should have seen my Mom's face fall when, after we had just finished taking a screening in, I told her what Powell's latest book was all about. And while the butchery might sound suitably Child-esque, let's just say that some S&M and rough sex makes it in. I don't think that was ever a chapter in Mastering The Art of French Cooking.

So, how do you sell a book that trades in the cheerful self-fulfillment of the first, successful book for something much darker? Let's see:Wait a minute, that looks curiously familiar:Okay, so it's more of a similar colour scheme thing, but don't tell me there isn't a resemblence. Check it: the fleur-de-lys motif of the cookbook and the hearts at the corner of the memoir. I guess the answer is "Make it look as similar to what inspired the first book as possible, and just hope that people get really confused."

An interesting thing to note though. The styling of Powell's book is more self-consciously retro than the older cookbook. Maybe that's to provide a visual cue that the monogamous, heterosexual couple will be comfortably repaired to 50s sitcom perfection, a conclusion the book apparently avoids.

O Tannenbaum

The 'Tron tree has been purchased and put up. Look at the awesomeness:I walked to the tree lot that's at the corner of Frontenac and... Sherbrooke, I think? Anyway, it's open 24h and run by these two delightful men who were hilariously surprised that someone had come walking up to buy a tree. I was surprised that they were, because they were tons of houses around, but maybe I'm the only shiftless sort without a car. One of them told me to come back and buy my tree there next year.

I wonder if I will be.

20 Years After December 6

Hello, friends. Sorry about the absence. Between the mom's visit and an office Christmas party, I was either acting too much like a teen, or drunk like a teen, to do too much blogging. Even the book covers thing didn't get done. I've had a lot of things on my mind lately, from the banal (Christmas presents) to the tragic (the 20th anniversary of the Polytechnique massacre.) A great prof posted this video:

Reframing the Montréal Massacre from Maureen Bradley on Vimeo.

I had started watching it earlier in the day, after reading this Babylon, PQ editorial. I was intrigued by the photo Jamie O'Meara described and the controversy behind it. I wanted to see it for myself, so I could decide whether it was moving or just grotesque. Oddly enough, this video critiquing its placement on the front page the morning after the massacre also appears to be the only place you can see the photo online.

I started watching it, and while I agreed with what she was saying about Barbara Frum's line of questioning, I couldn't agree with her on the McInnis photo. Partly, it's because I'm generally disposed to think that a society should be assaulted with graphic depictions of the violence it's played a part in.

And it's also because, on a human level, it's such a revealing photograph. I doubt taking down the holiday decorations would have helped the police in their investigation. Instead, they probably just couldn't stand the cruel contrast between the banner and the bodies they were dealing with. That's the emotional level, there's also the social one. If this had been a photo of domestic violence instead, they probably would have left them for the cleanup crew to deal with. That they wanted to change the space show just how much this was a public massacre and mourning, from the location in a school to the vigils, and how its interpretation would be negotiated in that area.

So I was annoyed that she kept on going back to the photo, cropping out the newspaper and even the rest of the photo even as she decries its graphic and pointless nature. She's trading on the same visceral, gut reaction that she accuses the paper of exploiting and it's feels, well disingenuous. It also removes the context that most of the people would have been receiving this image as part of a news story. Still, it's an interesting video that reminds us, if a little flatly, how media frames stories and manages our reactions.

Never Forget: Geneviève Bergeron, Hélène Colgan, Nathalie Croteau, Barbara Daigneault, Anne-Marie Edward, Maud Haviernick, Maryse Laganière, Maryse Leclair, Anne-Marie Lemay, Sonia Pelletier, Michèle Richard, Annie St-Arneault, Annie Turcotte, Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz.

Things That Have Hindered My Productivity In The Past Week

The Most Recent Batch:

1. Crappy webcomics that turn all twentysomethings into glib caricatures but remain oddly addictive
   
2. Writing out Christmas cards, because for some reason I think they must be ready by the last week of... November
   
3. The consumption of wine gums
4. The constant battle of my knife versus those onions
5. Pointless crushes on unsuitable gentlemen

Currently, the only thing in my corner aiding productivity is my chain-drinking tea habit. I remain optimistic, however.

Laura Branigan, Again and Again

Finally, my life is complete! Two of my favorite things in the world are Branigan! and covers. And I found out that not one, not two, but three covers of La Branigan's classic slice of 80s cheese, Self Control, exist. Witness:
1. From an album entirely composed of covers, Guilt By Association Vol. 2, The Bloodsugars do their take on Self Control. This one is my favorite.

2. And here's another, by some outfit called Project Jenny Project Jan.

And then I found out that, in fact, the Branigan song is a cover itself! No wonder I liked it so much. Although she - or, more likely, her producer - really, really made the right choice by ditching the tragic rap near the end.

Book Covers I Have Loved: The Unwritten, Mike Carey and Peter Gross

I was all set to write about certain Bukowski covers, when I made a trip to the comic book store. Well I thought, holding a stack, don't comic books come with covers? By God, there's even book in the name. And to make a more salient point, there's one reason why I keep on buying issues of The Unwritten: the covers!

The Unwritten 4-7. Written by Mike Carey, Illustrated by Peter Gross and with covers by Yuko Shimizu.

Sure, the story's not bad either. However, parts of it have a warmed-over Gaiman feel, and I'm a little done with meta-fiction and po-mo legends for the... mo'. But the covers by Yuko Shimizu are superb. I almost want to have them framed, but that wouldn't be too useful for the "book" part of the equation.

They are the photo negatives of our favorite childhood illustrations. The lines and shading are conventionally darker than the fill, but that's not the case here and it fits in with a story where the writing process is always on display. I just love them.

Modern Living

I'm not sure why I keep on using the self check-outs in grocery stores. I am a child of the Internet, so it's true I avoid personal interaction like the plague. There are so many potential pitfalls, especially when you're living in a city whose major language you speak in sort of a garbled Babelfish translation... at best. Bags? No bags? How to pay? All questions requiring more involved answers than the quebecois oui I've perfected the right quack for.

So this automated thing works fine... until it doesn't. Some veggies can't be found on the menu, some need a clerk for some reason and somethings won't just scan once. No, they scan over and over again. And then the soothing lady voice tells you firmly, but repeatedly to put the item in the bag. But there's no item! No delete button! NO ITEM GODDAMNIT, maybe you'll just RUN and get ANOTHER can of tomatoes so she'll SHUT UP.

Which is to say that I battled the forces of technology yet again tonight. A can of tomatoes was already in the bag when the thing beeped and scanned a second time. But then as I helplessly looked on, the second, phantom can mysteriously disappeared from my bill. Looks like the machines have learned empathy before learning how to maim, kill and overthrow their human masters. Take that, James Cameron.

Expozine 2009

Yesterday I went to Expozine with Caroline, my pure and good friend. We started out the day with an epic brunch at The Sparrow. Frodo and company had nothing on us as we bravely attacked banana and chocolate doughnuts and then a full English breakfast. From the black pudding to the homemade baked beans and crusty bread, I ate every single thing on my plate. There wasn't a crumb left, because I needed them all to mop up the tomato sauce and bacon grease. By the end, my fingers were shining with butter and my belly was deliciously full as I washed it all down with the best coffee you'll probably get in this town. The grease must have gone straight to my head, however, because I didn't realize I had just dropped all of my cash as well.

To be fair, neither did Caroline. Which is a problem with zinesters. They're not a group traditionally noted for their ability to support all major credit card companies and both swipe and chip debit cards. So we decided to just to check out the tables, make a note of what we liked, and then come back once we got cash. That lasted about one row before I turned to Caroline. "You know what," I said, "let's get money now. I'm tired of seeing things that I want and then walking by them." And since we're young, lady professionals on the way up and out on the town - or rather, postgrads just barely covering our debts and obligations - that's just what we did.

Two prints, one book and four zines later, I'm down a decent chunk of my paycheque and pretty goddamn happy about it. Here's the zine part of the damage:
From left to right, we've got a huge tribute to Roger Corman, old horror comics with re-written captions, a film zine's love letter to cheap horror movies and a wordless comic about a cat's day out.

Trashy movies, trashy comics and cats. I'm not about to surprise you.

One of the best parts of Expozine was running into one of my favorite professors. She's still kicking ass and taking names and it turns out she reads my blog sometimes. So, if she happens to be reading it right now, a big electronic wave to her. Woo!

From Australia To New York To You: Mary And Max

If you're wondering what kind of movie an animated film about alcoholism, adultery and Asperger's - and I'm just hitting the A's here, people - can be, just look at this trailer for Mary And Max.

Mary's a lonely kid in Australia, Max is an even lonelier adult in New York City. Mary's world is brown and Max's is grey. But in both of their lives, there are flashes of color. A bright barette, a red scarf, a homemade pompom and more keep what we're seeing on screen from becoming too dull.

That's what the movie ends up doing with their lives too. Sure, there's the odd note of quirky whimsy. It's narrated by Barry Humphries - you should probably expect that. But it's not scared to show the horror that some people have to suffer through. At different points in the movie, Max ends up in a mental hospital and Mary wants to kill herself, but the movie somehow manages a graceful and happy ending. Mary and Max don't overcome their problems, they just accept them. Anything from a chocolate bar, to a package, to a child has given them just enough happiness to get by.

This storyline is more convincing than something like Adam, where any problems are sewn up so tightly the characters have to smile smugly over the final montage. Real life, where a lot of us end up spending most of our lives in greyscale, isn't like that. But most of us are lucky enough to find enough little things, even if they're not mismatched penpals from overseas, to make it worthwhile. Mary and Max was one of the best movies I've ever seen to capture this. Once you see it, you'll agree.

If you're in Montreal, check out Mary and Max at the AMC-22. It started this weekend and will hopefully stick around for a few weeks.

Moral Uplift, Dad-Style

Conversation I Just Had With My Dad:

Dad: I sent you a really cute picture of a really cute dog that had to be put to sleep.
Me: BuuUUH?!? But why?
Dad: Because he just looked so cute in the picture.
Me:BUT NOW HE IS DEAD.
Dad: Any your mother cried so much while reading it.
Me: WHY?!?!?
Dad: He looked a bit like a female lion...

This kind of reminds me of the time he picked me up from a movie theatre because I was sick, and spent the ride home telling me about a pet store that burned to the ground, roasting all the lovable beasties inside with it. Then he proceeded to list exactly which kinds became charcoal.

Setting The Paper Of Record Straight

This Sunday morning was spent like many others. I woke up, shoved the nearest edible item in my mouth and turned on my computer to read the New York Times. Not to follow the passage of the health care bill or learn about Iran's nuclear program. Instead, I clicked on the Styles tab and got right to the fluff, namely Modern Love. I don't know whether I like the column better when it's something touching and original (this article about being a lonely Mormon missionary) or an emotional train wreck I'm reading about at a safe distance (almost everything else.)

So imagine my joy to find out from Pop Culture Junk Mail that Slate has been running a series of Modern Love rebuttals, where the subjects of the essays finally get their revenge and get to see their side in print. It's funny to imagine the possibilities of a feedback loop here. Someone writes an article about how they had to ditch their emotionally stunted boyfriend, that boyfriend writes about what it felt like to see his life in print, then the original author can write about what it felt like to read the reaction, and then... and so on and so on until somebody makes a movie or at least gets a book deal.

But the reality is actually more interesting. I particularly liked the first one, which reminded me of the intro to this recent episode of This American life, which pointed out that - unlike pretty much every other section of the paper - the weddings and celebrations page doesn't have to present a fair and balanced take on the facts. Or even try. The first husband is not called for comment when his wife marries the man she left him for, he becomes an anecdote. The drug-addicted daughter doesn't get to give her reasons, no when she's just the mechanism for personal growth.

So when you read Modern Love, you begin to feel as if the authors are piggybacking off the objective reputation the rest of the paper has earned. Their hope that if they're published, their version of the break-up or the parenting crisis will become definitive, almost sweats off the page. It's nice to see that torn down in messy essays that don't have the Times polish and which remind us that someone's got to pay for our emotional epiphanies.

Obscure File Categories, 3

From the Files of "Perfect Songs To Play Over A Shitty Car Radio On An Empty Country Road":

Jolene, Dolly Parton. I think it's the creepy mix of erotic fascination and jealousy. And the waver in the divine and bust Dolly's voice. It kind of makes the goosebumps come out, even when she's wearing a hell of a lot of purple polyester.

Book Covers I Have Loved: Clea By Lawrence Durrell

The last post about the Graham Greene cover got me thinking about vintage covers. From the Night Watch cover I mentioned there, to the hardcover edition of Philip Roth's Indignation, printing a pastiche seems to be the way to go for period books.

And I understand the appeal. Sure, I could bullshit some reason about how mid-century literature represented a peculiar confluence of critical taste and popular appeal that has polarized since, where being middlebrow wasn't a bad thing and Norman Mailer was writing in Playboy, and we're all a little nostalgic for a time when the bestsellers weren't just Twilight and whatever Glenn Beck barfed up on paper. Actually, I'm not so sure that reason is total bullshit, but I'll admit that my personal reason boils down to "They look classy."

No designer credit, circa 1960

Which brings me to this cover for Lawrence Durrell's Clea. My Dad gave me the 75% of the Alexandrine Quartet he owns and I've been trying to make my way through them ever since. The problem is, Durrell knows he can write but he doesn't know where to stop. Still, if I'm not in love with the contents, I'm very fond of the covers. All of the titles share the same font and image of a hand, but come in different colours. I took a picture of Clea only because it happens to be the one I'm reading now and it's in the best shape. The others have all been living pretty rough lives in my backpack.

The fonts used on the cover almost look the same, but they aren't. The slight differences actually end up making the cover look more unified, because using the exact same one would have been noticeable in its banality. It's interesting how the imprint on the side doesn't throw the book out of balance, but keeps it from becoming too open and plain. With too many new books, that just becomes another distraction in an already busy design.

You can't see it in the photo, but the handprint is pretty detailed. You can even see bits of the whorl of skin, a nice human touch. This cover is spare, elegant and perfectly edited. It's what I wish the book inside could be.

Max And The Mopers

There's a way of effectively killing childlike whimsy in about three lines of dialogue, and Spike Jonze has found it. Basically, you get your furry and imaginative critters, faithfully rendered from the delightful Maurice Sendak illustrations, and then you give them more neuroses than the patient list of a New York psychiatrist. It's kind of like seeing a dinner theatre troupe act out a Woody Allen movie; weird, sad and too chatty.

But Where The Wild Things Are isn't always like that. At the beginning of the movie, we get a fleshed-out Max. Instead of the simple and happily destructive character of the book, he's a kid with divorced parents, a sister who's ditched him to be a teenager and seemingly no other friends. But still, his joy at making a snow fort, and then his sadness when it's destroyed, are intense and imaginative in a way that's not present when Max meets the Wild Things, for all the expert production design.

It's sad, because most of the film is beautifully shot. Sometimes the images aren't quite in focus and feel like hazy dream. But before you can get too dreamy, it's back to the monsters processing, telling Max they're "downers" and asking if he "can keep the hurt away." Which left me with one question: Why bother filming a children's book if you're just going to turn it into an adult's therapy project?

365 Days of Something

I know this whole x- in a year thing has been building up on blogs for a while. Whether it's living biblically, living sustainably or just cooking your way through a lot of butter, it seems like we can only be productive people - or at least earn a book deal - if we're doing it in a calendar year. I noticed it, but didn't really care until I read a little article about a NPR staffer who baked a cake a week for a year and, yes, ended up with a book deal. Something inside me broke, and it wasn't just because I was hungry.

Since there has already been tons of blog posts and newspaper articles deconstructing and analyzing this trend, I won't do that.

Instead, I'm going to try and figure out how to get my ass on this gravy train before it pulls out of the station.

1. Live like it's 1805 FOR A YEAR.
Pros: Everyone likes Austen. Ever since her pop culture revival in the 1990s, people can't seem to get enough of those high-waisted gowns and deep, deeply repressed emotions. Plus, I already have the dress.
Cons: Waiting at home because nobody careed about the "Lady Q. Protagitron will be receiving at home from 10-11" cards that I had made up might get old fast. Also, I might not be able to make rent if I quit me job because "it is beneath the dignity of the daughter of a gentleman to labour."

2. Read a Russian classic a day FOR A YEAR
Pros: If this lady can "read" a book a day for a year, I can do her one better. I'll read nothing but Russian, in the original Russian for a whole year. All the books must way 10 pounds each and end with the protagonist's soul being crushed under the wheels of their society. Book deal about books here I come (book?)
Cons: I know Russian. Except for the Russian word for refigerator, and I figure the number of books focused entirely around Firgidaires and originally written in Russian is a small, small number.

3. Eat a different animal a day FOR A YEAR
Pros: Getting back to nature is big and food writing is even bigger. I will take my reader on a adventure through my stomach and around the world as I soak up culinary knowledge and expand my horizons by butchering a different, and probably adorable, animal each day.
Cons: While January would be a breeze what with beef on the 1st and chicken on the 2nd, I feel like my commitment to the project would waver sometime around day #321 when I realize I need to cleave a steak from the back of a platypus.

4. Sleep with a different guy a day FOR A YEAR
Pros: I really need to get out more, and maybe I would meet a nice fellow. Make some babies. Get another book out of motherhood.
Cons: Herpes.

5. Watch an episode of the Simpsons a day FOR A YEAR
Pros: The Simpsons, although perhaps now but a shadow of its former self, might be one of the most influential and quotable shows to ever hit the airwaves. What will be revealed about our society me through as we I regard life through it's prism?
Cons: This is already my life. As well as everybody 20-30 years old with the tv on and nothing better to do.

Alright, so I can't come up with anything. It looks like all the good ones, or at least all of the tasty ones, have been taken. Or maybe I'm just starting to think that this year thing is a comforting way of keeping change clean. Of packaging our growth into convenient time periods we can plan for it to start and to end. I don't know. Give me a year to think about it.

Miss Protagi-Anne Elliot

I didn't mean to take a nine-day break from my blog. I meant to do a write-up on 10 zombies I would chill with (Bub the Zombie's overexposed ass is not on there) and an ode to Ginger Snaps before Halloween.

Instead, I studied for a standardized test, baked a cake while drunk and sewed a Regency-era gown in two days, but that was while sober. And that last bit was the hardest. I am not an accomplished seamstress and period gear isn't the easiest crap to sew. At one point, I made two of the same sleeves and had to re-sew one, because that took less time than figuring out how to amputate and then put one of my arms on backwards. But barely.

Just when I thought I would have the dress finished on time- minus the sash and the hair, but DONE- I got to last part and ended up in a pickle. The dress is held together by two drawstrings, one that goes around the neckline and the other that ties just under the bust. The first neckline threaded like butter, so I was feeling rather cocky as I grabbed my needle and went in for the bust.

And that's when things FUBARed. No matter how hard I pushed and pulled, swore and cried, jabbed a knitting needle in and, the needle wouldn't make it past the first seam allowance. Two hours and one hysterical phone call to my parents later, this had gone past making a fun costume for a fun Halloween. This dress was the litmus of my life. Fail it, and the rest of my life would be nothing but a series of well-intentioned defeats. Succeed, and there would be a 10 percent chance that maybe it would be something else.

That's when I did something I could, and should, have done hours before. I am a knitter. I live in a house of string. I threaded some thinner yarn through and got my ass to that party.

The Early Reindeer Gets The Candy Cane

I don't believe that Christmas music should be an after-Halloween, or worse, post-American Thanksgiving thing at all. Once the first snow hits Montreal, my holiday music comes out. And that could be in August. So if you ever want to re-create part of my daily routine for the next two months, here's the step-by-step guide:

1. Place a breakable object near the edge of a desk. A water glass works well for this.
2. Kill any natural sense of rhythm and gross motor control you might possess.
3. Play this:
4. DANCE DANCE DANCE
5. Sweep up shards of glass

Repeat until you've been filled with the Christmas spirit, or at least a love of synthesizers.

Book Covers I Have Loved: Graham Greene's The Power And The Glory

There are a few topics I'm passionate about, or at least a few topics that make me corner people at parties in order to delivery a lecture. Often that lecture is incoherent and drunken, but whatever. I'm that way about my hatred of Ben Stein, my love of Roadhouse and my quest for the perfect hamburger.

And book design. I'm not a designer. I have more professional training about the content of a book than its packaging. But as the daughter of two librarians who spends more on books than food - and who actually sniffs them in a semi-creepy way - I feel I'm qualified to judge. Or at least rant.

Cover Illustrations: Richard Kenworthy

I still have the book that made me realize that sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. Here's an edition of Graham Greene's "The Power And The Glory" I bought when I was sixteen just because I was fascinated by the way it looked. All this pure space broken up by a busy, scrawled crucifix. The choice of fonts for the title, a retro-looking script, let me date the story without making it seem dated. Compare it with this edition of Sarah Waters' The Night Watch. While it's perfectly tuned to the period of the story, it makes this 2006 book seem fussy.

I took a chance, hoping that anything with a cover like that would be interesting. In a month, Graham Greene was my favorite author, I had The Third Man on reserve at the library, and I was stalking bookstores hoping to collect all of these editions. I'm still working on that project, but I'm hoping this post will be the start of a new one. Every two weeks I'll post a book cover I like, whether it's something I own or something I've furtively photographed in a store. I'll babble about why I like it, and I'll make sure there's no Chip Kidd allowed. Or at least as little as possible, because I swear a lot of his stuff's for people who like Sony Stores.*


*Okay, I'm being mean. But still.

Links To Entertain and Educate

Originally, I was going to write a long post today about street harassment, male privilege and more. Yes, I had yet another creepy run-in with some guy on the street last night. But after sleeping off my spleen, I just didn't want to. Maybe next week, when my bile is back at fighting levels, I'll get around to it. Until then, enjoy photographic evidence of my Indian adventures (matar paneer - paneer made by me, bitches! - saag and rice) and a few links.

I saw Whip It about two weeks ago, and thought it was a fun but predictable movie about doing what you love. Especially if it involves kicking ass on a roller derby track. But according to some dude in Psychology Today, it's really about being a big, old, clichéd lesbian. Fortunately, there's an awesome, line-by-line critique of why that analysis is a load of privileged crap.

I have a lot of respect for Richard Dawkins. Sure, he can be a little condescending here and there, but the man knows what he's talking about. He's got a new book out that's on my to-read list and an interview in Salon. Proof you can't take the professor out of the pundit: he keeps on correcting the interviewer's terminology.

For all you Montrealers out there: How zoning laws and police crackdowns might be bleeding all the fun out of Mile End. I'm somewhat entertained that there's a "Morality, Alcohol and Drug" squad. It's like they came up with an Anti-Fun Taskforce.

Since it's the season of spooky, here's James Hynes' list of the best Halloween stories. The post itself is funny and there's some interesting-looking stuff on it. I'll cop to only having read two of the things on the list, but that just means I have my reading sewn up until October.

Jimmy's Got A Binkie

Ah, the satisfaction of finishing a knitted project. It's a satisfaction I haven't felt much in the past year, to be honest, unless you count hats and socks. And if you do, I've still only felt it... four or five times.

The knitting shame. It itches. It itches like mohair. Still, I'm pretty proud of this blanket which was knit for the adorable Jimmy. I still haven't seen the kid in person, but if he's anywhere near as cute as the photos his mom's been sending me, he's a beautiful child. Definitely Gap Baby ad campaign-worthy.

Still, it was hard giving up the blanket. Donna is a lovely, crepe-y yarn to work with, especially if you're looking for a blend. As I carried it to the post office, I kept on squeezing it. I would knit myself a cardigan, but then I wouldn't get anything done at work. I would probably keep on stopping to, say, pet my arm.

Project: Argosy Baby Blanket
Yarn: Scheepjes Donna
Needles: 3.5mm circulars
Notes: I added a single crochet border instead of leaving it plain or going for that cro-kay hybrid Kay's Blanket used. I still find the edges curl a bit, but I'm pretty sure the baby won't care. Also, this thing is impossible to fold in a neat square for mailing. Damn its slight tilt towards being a parallelogram.

Adventures In Indian Cooking

Journey with me, if you will, back in time to January 2009. The world was still in love with Obama, Michael Jackson was still alive and nobody had ever heard of balloon boy*. I made my resolutions, flush with the promise of a new year. And one of them was to learn how to cook Indian food.

Now, as 2009 limps to a finish, it's time to see how I'm doing with that. I would show you pictures, but I'm actually fresh out of leftovers at the moment. Although, perhaps, that's for the best. Indian, while the tastiest to my palate, is really not the most photogenic of cuisines. There's a reason why whatever photos do exist usually include an artfully placed green pepper or two. And that's so we know the goo we're looking at is supposed to be for eating.

Tasty, tasty eating.

But I digress. Between graduating and moving, I didn't start on this resolution until a couple of months ago. Since then I've tried my hand at chicken korma, chana masala, safaid keema, dum aloo and tari aloo. Right now my dum aloo is awesome, my chana masala is pretty good and both my tari aloo and chicken korma are tasty but could use a thicker sauce. The less said about the unfortunate safaid keema incident ("It looks like finely spice baby diarrhea!"), the better. My spice collection has expanded and the limits of my cooking abilities have never been clearer. So here are my helpful tips, in case you want to clip n' save for your own Indian adventures.

1. That mystery bag of spice you've had in your kitchen since forever could be many things, but it is probably not garam masala. No matter how much you may wish it to be or even use it as such. The smart money is on it being nutmeg or cinnamon though.
   
2. To get real garam masala, you should head to a spice store or at least one of those tiny Indian food markets. If you're in a hurry and the only place you can hit on your lunch hour is the Provigo, you'll probably end up with a less than satisfactory substitute. I'm to embarassed to say what I'm using, but the initials of my shame are "C" and "H."
3. Trust the salt in Indian recipes, but no necessarily the oil.
   
4. Sometimes there simply isn't enough cornstarch in the world to fix a cooking mess
5. Cooking naan bread is never going to happen, so just grab the stuff from the fine folks at President's Choice and call it a night.
   

But I'm becoming more and more ambitious. Tomorrow I'm making a plain saag to use up some spinach in the fridge. Then I'm braving what will surely be the treacherous lands of paneer making as the first step towards matar paneer. And then- who knows? Maybe you'll see me building a real tandoori oven in the shared courtyard.


*Neither had I until I checked Twitter earlier today.

Zombieland: You Must Be This Dead To Ride

My Sketch Of Zombieland

I had an idea while watching Zombieland. Only two kinds of people are going to survive in the event of a zombie apocalypse. Those who kick ass, and those who are actuaries. Since actuaries spend all their time assessing risk, they'll know just what to do to avoid being chomped on.

The main character of Zombieland, Columbus, is a university student, not an actuary. But he may as well be one. In the prologue, he explains that America has become overwhelmed by zombies, but he managed to stay alive by following his system of rules. With points underlining the importance of cardio and not being a hero, he minimizes you chances of yelling "Don't do that stupid thing, stupid!" at the screen.

Eventually he meets up with Tallahassee, who has all the balls Columbus needs. Played by Woody Harrelson, he's on a mission to kill zombies and find Twinkies, and Columbus is along for the ride... or at least until they hook up with a set of grifter sisters. That's about where the movie comes to stop, even as the older sister catapults Columbus on his long-delayed trip through puberty.

After that, it feels like the spirits of George Romero and Judd Apatow are fighting for control of the body of director Ruben Fleischer. And Apatow wins, but in all the worst ways. In a long middle passage, almost no zombies have their heads bashed in - and absolutely NONE get disemboweled - while only one human becomes ground beef in a leaden celebrity cameo. Instead the group bonds together and tosses out one-liners. Following all the steps in the Apatow manual, they're the kind of lines that are only funny when delivered by the painfully awkward.

But that doesn't stop the little crew from making it to a theme park. And with the bright lights and loud noises, not to mention the shambling corpses, things become fun again. But it's a little too late to save this movie. I think it was bitten by something - an undead Seth Rogen? - and it's feeling a bit bitey, but very, very talky.

Rating: 3.5/5 zombie-bashing banjos

A Protagitron Brown Thanksgiving

It's turkey time here in Canada, which means I've already fired up the Christmas carols and started spamming my American friends in defense of holding Thanksgiving in October. At work we were supposed to say what we were thankful for, and the only thing I could come up with at the time was "Wine gums and reported rapes in the U.S. hitting a 20 year-low." But I was just being difficult. There's been plenty to be thankful for, in the past year and just in general.

So, in no particular order, here are 10 things I'm thankful for. I would feel guilty eating pumpkin pie without mentioning them.

1. My stinkmaster general cat for all the many joys he brings, but especially because he falls asleep against my arm while I type on the computer.
2. Coffee
3. My friends for being entertaining and educational good eggs with good fashion sense. Also, for frequently putting up with my bullshit.
   
4. My Dad, for doing the same while keeping me in letters and clippings
   
5. Smitty The Wonder Sheltie
6. Jimmy, the adorable new son of a couple of wonderful people
7. The amnesiac properties of beer
8. Feminist blogs like The Sexist
9. Gainful employment
   
10. But perhaps most of all, wine gums.
    

Wherever you are, even if it's someplace where Thanksgiving doesn't come around until November, I hope you have a good weekend with good friend, good people and plenty of gravy. Now if I could just perfect my wine gum stuffing recipe, I would be all set.

Fail On The Ice

So, remember how a few weeks ago I was all "Oh, I'm TOTALLY going to watch The Battle of the Blades because I love my cheese TV?" Well, Canada, I tried to. I tried to, but it was the most amateurish and awkward ten minutes I had ever wasted on any show. And I watched the entire season of Bachelorettes in Alaska: Looking for Love, so I know of what I speak.

It's hard to pick just one way in which the show failed. Maybe it was the Dancing With The Stars-like move of having the practiced, female partners gyrate suggestively to mask the fact that the male partners can't dance, or rather, skate? That Kurt Browning and Ron MacLean seemed perpetually out of breath?

No, it would be that Dick Button's scoring monitor didn't work. Yes, this crucial part of the show wasn't checked before the CBC put this thing live to air. No 6.0 for you, CBC.

The Good, The Bad and the Funny

And another good thing: this amazing birthday present I got from my old roommate Katie*. The books are A Tale of Two Cities, Jane Eyre, The Maltese Falcon, Ghost World, Anna Karenina, Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. They're on top of a pile of birthday books from another amazing friend. Am I that predictable? Yes.

Man, sorry to let my angry screed about Roman Polanski stay up there for so long. I meant to post something else, but I then life kept on getting in the way. Except for Thursday, since that was Day 4 of Project: Protagitron becomes a hermit and there was just no excuse. So without further ado, three little things about last week:

1. The Good: There's been a lot of this lately. I did nothing but knit and watch movies, curled up next to my cat, for four days. I had an amusing run-in with an old crush object, proving I am genetically incapable of pretending not see one convincingly. And pretty much the whole weekend so far has been awesome, from having curry with friends to seeing one of them kick ass playing lacrosse. Those girls aren't quite as nasty as womens rugby, but they're still pretty fierce. But so far, the biggest "good" has been seeing Dragonette with the delightful Poli and Amanda. We danced. Oh, how we danced. Except to music that was more like this. When I grow up, I want to have cheekbones like Martina Sorbara.

2. The Bad: I always thought the catty bitch thing was just a high school movie trope. And even then, the catty bitch always gets hers in the final act. But no! When I was on the bus, this horrendous girl behind me tore into some friend's girlfriend in a way that made me feel as if I had fallen into a John Hughes movie. It started off with "I just don't think her personality is sparkling enough to make up for how fat she is. I really think he's a chubby chaser," and then went on for ten minutes of the most vile shit I had ever heard. It was hard to choose which was the biggest turd sentence: "But personality comes in a lot of sizes. Why couldn't he get one that was thin?" or "She's like the pair of pants that're too big for him but he still wears." Really, honey? It's not like women don't get enough shit about their bodies already from the media, so just go on ahead and do the dirty work for them.

3. The Funny: I tend to speak quickly and somewhat sloppily. Usually this just leads to people asking "What?" a lot and my mom imploring me to speak properly. But the other day at work, my adorable desk neighbor asked: "Is that an accent, or is it just the way you talk?" Heh. The next time someone asks me "What?" I'm just going to plead it's my impenetrable Southwestern Ontario accent. Thick as pea soup, it is.

*She ordered from an Etsy seller, SophiesBeads, if you want to get your own.

Sympathy For The Director

Alright. So, when did I wake up into a world where the rape of anyone was okay, much less of a drugged thirteen year-old? As a feminist, I've come to terms with the fact that my stance on gender issues is not shared by most, but I still thought that raping a child was universally viewed as a bad thing. No matter how tragic the rapist's personal life might be, or how good his movies are.

Yes, I'm talking about the Roman Polanski mess. Everyone is, and most of them make me angry when they do. Surviving the Holocaust only to see your wife and unborn child slaughtered seems almost too cruel to be true. But that sympathy doesn't preclude from believing that rape is wrong and that he should serve a sentence. Or from thinking that a cushy life in France and an Oscar are not a substitute for jail time.

I know his judge was a nut, but that doesn't mean he wasn't guilty of a crime. The Holocaust and the Manson murders are mitigating factors. But unless he couldn't tell the difference between right and wrong at the time of the offence - and no evidence seems to indicate that - that doesn't mean he's innocent.

But here are some things that do mean something. The victim was below the age of consent, which means she could not give it. That makes it rape. She was drugged, which means she could not give consent. That's rape. And she said no. That's rape too. Any way you look at it, any definition or test you can come up with, you get the same result. And a host of other crimes or tragedies one has suffered doesn't mean it can all just go away.

Further reading: What Scorsese And All The Rest Know About Roman Polanski That Maybe You Don't - Allison Benedikt
Common Polanski Defenses, Refuted- Amanda Hess

Plant Killah

I think it's time to accept the fact that my orchid plant is dead. First I over-watered it, then I under-watered it and then I decided at the 11th hour to have a regular watering schedule and try and tend the thing.

Unfortunately the top part looks suspiciously like a Tim Burton film (curled and choppy) and the bottom isn't looking too hot either. Rest in peace, brave orchid, and at least you fared better than the Indian Rubber Plant I used to dump my orange juice into. Fermentation is only a good thing in wine and beer, people.

Anyway, I'm beginning to wonder if my inability to keep houseplants alive is a sign of some pathological inability to settle down. I've been in this apartment since July and some of the rooms still look as if I haven't fully moved in yet. I bought a curtain rod at Ikea two or three weeks ago I still haven't got around to putting up. It just sits there, mocking me with its industrious Helvetica font and easy mounting system.

But I've decided not to worry about it and buy the only solution: an aloe vera plant. Those things are nigh impossible to kill.

The WASPiest Thing Ever

Those of you who know me outside of this blog know that, in spite of being half-Ukrainian, I have one of the WASPiest names on record. My name is the mayonnaise of names. The country club. The black watch plaid blanket, etc.

So, with my pedigree, I'm sure you can imagine why the following appealed to me in a bizarre way:

Oh. My. God. Let's look at the way in which each of its WASPy qualities nest, one inside the other, to create the ultimate garment for when you're picking up cider at the local orchard.
1. It's from LL Bean
2. It's a cardigan from LL Bean
3. It's a fair isle cardigan from LL Bean
4. It's a fair isle cardigan from LL Bean with pointer dogs patterned on the yoke.

This thing makes me crave roast like none other. I would order it (and demand to be called "Betty" from then on) but it's sold out. Damn it!

I Love You, Canada

Okay, I have a maple-flavored confession: I'm kind of excited for the Battle of the Blades. Why? Let's see. I like cheesy dance competitions. I was forced to like figure skating by my Mom, although lingering bitterness towards Elvis Stojko remains. I often tolerate hockey. Combine these things and CBC's low production values and sense of earnestness, and you get something I'll definitely sit in front of when I'm eating dinner from a can.

Of course, with my luck in picking CBC shows, it will become a ratings bomb and die an unmourned death. Just like my beloved MVP: The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives. Why must Canada suffer through Little Mosque On The Prairie when that little slice of delicious cheesecake is gone from our lives forever? Sigh.

Anyway, I'm pulling for anyone but Domi and Christine Hough-Sweeney. By the way, this song is the one I've mentally choreographed an entire figure skating routine to. Oh, the dramatic hand gestures I do in my mind...

P.S. I know, for official competition it would have to be a wordless version. God.

Damn Woman Troubles: Jennifer's Body

Megan Fox: expression by Sissy Spacek, dress by David's Bridal 2009 Prom Collection

Don't go and see Jennifer's Body if you want to be scared. It's not a horror movie. Sure, it sounds like one, with half-eaten corpses and a good girl named Needy who suspects that something's gone wrong with her best friend Jennifer. Yes, Needy, she's "not just high school evil" or, to paraphase a line from Ginger Snaps, another movie full of girls gone bloodthirsty and feminist goodies, there's something wrong with Jennifer. More than her just being... female.

Yes, once again the female body is used to juice up a horror movie, to give it some edge and a veneer of social commentary. Just like a typical chiller, there's a satanic ritual that leads to the lovely Jennifer getting all chewy on some boys. But atypically, there's very little tension or gore. If you're a hardcore horror fan, you can guess when every scare is being set up.

And then you'll wait, and wait, because Karyn Kusama's just a beat off when it comes to the jump tactics. At one point, Needy suddenly sees a bloody and wild-looking Jennifer crossing the road. Then she disappears, and Needy desperately scans to the left and the right, barely giving herself time to look right in front of her. Of course you know that's just where will be. Jennifer suddenly appears on the windshield, but not before Needy looks a few more times at each side. It's hard to jump when you're checking your watch.

But should you go and see it if you're looking for something feminist to chase down your popcorn? Maybe yes, maybe no. I can see readings that work both ways. This movie doesn't shame female sexuality like most horror movies, and particularly slashers, do. But Needy's eager and awkward sex is framed completely differently than Jennifer's carnivorous lust. The consensus on female sexuality in this movie seems to be that it's just fine, as long as it's with a boy who's as quirky as you. Things go wrong when you play the field, or when you finally let the textual lesbian relationship in the open in a somewhat porny scene.

And that still doesn't get into how your enjoyment of the movie will depend on your personal thoughts on Diablo Cody: screenwriter, celebrity and lover of all things leopard print. The script definitely sounds like one of hers, sometimes funny, often annoying. If hearing "What's up, Monistat?" doesn't make you twitch, you like your feminism taken lite and you don't need to be scared, it's worth a trip to the cinema.

Happy Birthday To Me

Yesterday was my 22nd birthday. It was just me and the parents because I'm back in Guelph and lord knows where most of my OG (the G stands for Guelph) friends are now. Plus, I'm reaching that age where birthdays are a day of mourning, melancholia, and bitterness. And at my folks' house, I don't have to pay for the booze, so that gets a lot cheaper and easier.

But, that being said, it was quite a nice birthday. There was plenty of food, lots of cake- as you can see above- and two whole days off work to be slothful. Or at least, as slothful as one can be when you're knitting a baby blanket on a deadline.

But more on that later. Right now, a shout out to any readers I might have: I'm getting my Google Reader back in action, so if you have a blog, or the name of any blogs I simply *must* read, let me know in the comments.

To Guelph!

I'm off to the hometown tomorrow. I'm sure Proustian reveries set off by farmer's market bacon, or at least beer illicitly drank in the basement, are not far off.

At least I usually get some decent thrift store finds.

Until then, don't give into whatever secret Twilight lusts you've been harboring and see Little Ashes. Unless if you have an ass of STEEL because this thing is long. I would give it a longer autopsy (hero worship of Garcia Lorca? episodic nature? NOT ENOUGH NAKED PATTINSON?!?) but I think I already spent long enough on the movie.

Remember folks, just say no to the pretty.

Ideals + Sloth= Mediocrity

Between temporarily turning into one of those house-proud loons over the weekend (every big thrift store AND Ikea- my feet were ground into nubs) and my current flaking out on a movie, I'm wondering if I'm turning into one of those people. You know who they are. The ones who always say they want to go out more, but never do because they have a date with an Allen wrench and a Pflüg. Or because they're making something from the new Bon Appetit. Or because they're part of a couple and need to do boring couple-y things together. No howler monkey sex allowed.

But the truth is, I'm rather enjoying cocooning myself in blankets with only the cat for company for the moment. Well, on a physical level. Mentally, I'm all aboard the guilt train. What should I be doing with my time instead? Oh, I have so many ideas.

Proactive Urge: Go see Sorority Row! See friends!
Lazy Consciousness: Buh. Brain tired. Movie looks silly. Can watch old Black Christmas at home. Original The House On Sorority Row too if feeling more appropriate/masochistic.
Compromise: Watch first half of most recent Mad Men episode before the streaming video causes my computer to crash.

Proactive Urge: Find out about world! Read important-sounding article in the Times with headline "U.N. Finds Signs of War Crimes on Both Sides in Gaza."
Lazy Consciousness: Ugh. Depressing. Nobody wins, everybody loses, etc.
Compromise: Read "Habitats: Meow Spoken Here" and take notes.

Proactive Urge: Read Lost Girls
Lazy Consciousness: Ugh, Alan Moore so talky. Melinda Gebbie's art so pencil-y. Lesbian sex...
Compromise: Read about lesbian sex? Sure thing!

Proactive Urge: Get angry about Tucker Max's upcoming movie and his current legion of asshat fans. Find a way to stop this movie without somehow giving it more publicity.
Lazy Consciousness: Fighting losing battle. White, soulless straight dudes will always win. Especially when they have little people conventions to write about/ have sex at. Donate all posessions and earnings to NOW before moving to shack in the Arctic.
Compromise: Mentioning it on this blog.

3 Day Novel Fail Pt. 2

As a continuation of my 3-Day Novel Fail, I've collected some of my most misanthropic lines so you can share in the gloom.

Something I forgot to say yesterday was that, after I realized my novel was going South, South 'til it had gone all the way around and was going North, North, I made one addition. Inspired by my recent Penguin Gothic Reds kick, where the story is often presented as some kind of found manuscript within the plot, I wrote in a prologue and an epilogue that had a team of adventurers discovering the work in a Chevy Cabriolet in the backwoods and then going mad. I think I might be the only one who'll read it and get the joke though.

Here they are, the 3-Day Novel Greatest Misses

On health:
"After all, there were only so many yoga classes Allison could take before veganism and spandex blends began to seem like a reasonable lifestyle." p. 6
"Allison wondered if it counted as justified vacation if she had to go home because her feet had fallen off, and she was dragging bloody stumps along the floor to deliver Snapping Taco Dippers." p. 33


Pillow talk:
“What you’re going to need to do is cut off all the bad parts, throw ‘em in the trash, and throw all of the good parts in this sterilized bucket.” p. 14
“Oh, fuck you. You fucking cunt. You are so hung over.” p. 23
“A buddy of mine bought a condo with his harpy wife. They offered me the basement pretty cheap so they could have some help with the mortgage. But it’s still a pretty broke-ass place. I’ve got my own entrance though." p. 38

Sexy time:
"Since then, Caroline had said “cunt,” “cottage cheese cum” and “anal tearing,” but Allison had stopped caring." p. 20
"Was Caroline speaking in full sentences? Were they discussing puppet erotomania? And worse, was that going to be the note on which they were going to fuck? " p. 21
"He was, on most levels, repulsive. Allison had seen him at work once take a hand mirror and gouge out an ingrown hair on his chin. In the middle of the kitchen." p. 27
"They would fuck right against the dishwasher. No, better yet in the walk-in refrigerator. Or perhaps that would be too cold. Allison sighed. The actual logistics could be ironed out later." p. 32

On work:
"But until then, she had to get this family its food and get them out to the CN tower, the Eaton’s Center, or wherever else they were planning to buy a t-shirt." p. 17
“Unemployed freelancers. It was sort of like holding a mirror up to a mirror and seeing a small cheque in the middle.” p. 58

Deep moments:
"But his eyes seemed kind under the flashing neon sign, and he gripped her shoulder with something like tenderness. He looked her in the eye. Allison knew he was about to speak. He opened his mouth. She looked at him. And then he hurled into the gutter." p. 22
"They were genetically predisposed to failure, she supposed." p. 64

Oh, The Punnery:
"Was this how her quest would end, not with a bang but a night manager?" p. 30

Clearly, my sense of how humorous the pathetic is remains intact no matter what my intentions. Although the appreciation for terrible puns is new, and possibly porn-related.

3 Day Novel Fail

So, the novel is finished... but at what cost? I started out thinking I was writing an offbeat but endearing love story about two misfits. Instead, when I went to review my finished draft Sunday night, I realized I had instead written 76-odd pages of unrelenting misery, starring two people too miserable to be with anyone but each other.

I was finishing it up with some of my co-workers, and I would read out choice cuts of misanthropy- the hero's ingrown hair, romantic chitchat about rancid chicken, thoughts on being a freelancer- and swear that I gave them souls at some point in the story. But at page 63, I realized it was just never going to happen.

Furthermore, I had a few technical complaints about my work. It was disillusioning to see every one of the quirks of people who write but shouldn't be writers. Awkward shifts between dialogue and description, pedestrian and purple pose, telling but not showing and worse, worse my complete abuse of the word "apparently." Apparently, I trust nothing as a writer, especially not the thoughts of my own characters.

I wouldn't say this had put me off writing completely. But I am taking some time off before finishing one of my other projects. If it's also a textbook on depression and hateful people, maybe it's time to finally look into a banking jobs.

Still, I wrote 76 double-spaced pages in 3 days and packed in a breakfast at Dusty's. And all it cost me was a trip into the dark, dank and moldy reaches of my soul... bitches.

3 Day Novel Contest

In a fit of insanity I signed up for the 3-Day Novel Contest. Which means I'll be finding a state somewhere past insanity over the next few days. Post-modern insanity. Po-mosanity if you will. I will let you know how it all went on Monday. Until then, go go writing fingers.

The Generation Gap

A couple of weeks ago, I went to see Adam with my ex-roommate Iris. It was her choice. I'm generally wary of movies that try to cuddle up psychological conditions of any kind. I don't want to stigmatize them, but I also think there's a certain type of movie that beautifies them to the point where a burden is placed on real-life sufferers to be brilliant, life-changing and affirming smurflets who fart out mathematical theorems and platitudes all the time. And judging from the trailer, it was that kind of movie. But I was willing to give it a shot.

Iris, who's worked with Aspies, was loving it. I wasn't hating it, although there were a few parts, like the Magical Black Man, that made me groan. But near the end, lovable Aspie Adam has grown, as has his norm lover. And as he opens a package from her, a song wells up about how "when you were young and everything you needed done was done for you" And even Iris was like, "This is a little much," because now he's more independent, you see. And I was like "I feel like I'm in a Starbucks."

So a few days later, my Dad came up and dropped off a few CDs, probably to get me off my terrible 80s pop kick. And one of them was by a band called The Weepies. And then a co-worker was singing along to them too. Since my Dad is cooler than me, as is the coworker frankly, I decided it was really time for me to give it a listen. So I pop it in the computer and what's the first song that starts playing?

THE STARBUCKS SONG FROM ADAM.

Dad, we need to talk. And far away from venti soy cappuchinos.

Oh, For The Smell Of Overpriced Pearson Education Outputs...

I didn't realize how odd it would be, or how nostalgia-inducing, to see Froshies wandering the streets of Montreal. This whole post-grad thing kind of snuck up on me. It felt like one day it was still summer and I could maintain the illusion of being a college student on a temporary break from life. And then the next day, drunken 18 year-olds were running me down in their neon shirts while I returned to the job I might* be returning to for the rest of the year. As this is the first time I won't be buying textbooks, new pens or optimistically writing in a scholastic planner, I feel both regret and guilt at being a bad consumer. Maybe I should buy a Crayola pack at Bureau En Gros to assuage my guilt or something.

I'm not sure whether to keep up my studies on my own or give up and start watching Twice in a Lifetime on repeat**. I've already forgotten important points on de Saussure and Radway, which would seem like a reason to haul out the course packs. But then again, if I go into grad school for epidemiology, or simply spend the rest of my days as a shiftless jack of all words, will I ever really need to recap de Saussure and structuralism? On the other hand, I could keep up with my friends who are still in school.

Sigh, I'm not sure which way to go. Maybe I should pick a third path and study something I never studied before. Particle theory, here I come!
Note: I do not think it bodes well that I spelled it "particly" the first time around.

*Depending on how my latest fuck-up at work pans out.
** Was saved from doing so today by friends. Probably for the best because it started out with someone humorously slipping on a book and dying. You know, for the laffs only a low-budget, Cancon serial drama can provide.

Slaughter At The Nickelodeon

I'm beginning to think the true unsung heroes of the cinema are the trailersmiths who slaved away on the B-movies of the 70s and 80s. They had to spin shit into drive-in gold, and came up with some genius solutions. Some of my favorites:

1. Don't Use Any Footage From The Movie

Something Is Out There, 1977 Quick! We have to sell a PG-13 rated horror movie! Maybe if we just make the text larger and larger while our voiceover guy gravels it up, viewers will imagine their own gore and titties. And then we can use the rest of the trailer budget on lunch!

2. Change the Title For Maximum Tagline Effect

Let Sleeping Corpses Lie, AKA Don't Open The Window, 1975. Check out the great homage Edgar Wright made for Grindhouse: Don't. But do. Seriously.

3. Just Give It All Away, It's Not Like Anyone's Going to Find Out Until They've Already Bought Their Ticket

Dead And Buried, 1981 is a surreal movie with a couple of shocking twists. Unless, that is, you watch this trailer. Then it's just a weird, slow movie whose only good scenes you've already seen.

4. Use TITS

Dr. Butcher, M.D. (1979) Or rather, Dr. Butcher, MEDICAL DEVIATE. Sorry, the trailer voice is very persuasive. And repetitive. The trailer doesn't really make much sense, which doesn't bode well for the movie. But that's until the boobies make their appearance! Never underestimate the plot cohering abilities of your average set of breasts.

5. Embrace the Camp.

Slaughter High, 1986. Did they come up with the puns just for the movie, or did they come up with the trailer copy first and then started shooting? Because matching "rekindle old flames" to scenes of a randy couple getting electrocuted is just a little too perfect.

But sometimes, even they failed. Or didn't even bother to try. And that's when you got something like this, a series of gore scenes loosely thrown together with the title added here and there.

Burial Ground, 1981
Maybe the trailer editor had just broken up with his girlfriend and was hitting the sauce. Maybe he was late to meet someone for drinks. Maybe he was hitting the sauce and had to meet someone for drinks. I don't know, I like to imagine my trailer editors as hard-drinking, thrill-seeking adventurers. Either way, this sucks. And they could put more asses in the theater with the only shock scene they didn't use, the hilariously fake de-nippling at the end of the movie (seen here at 9:34.)

They're Coming Back!

A bee stung me today. Clearly the survivors of colony collapse are coming back and this time they're pollinating MAYHEM. Or maybe it was my fault for not checking where I was leaning my hand and pretty much impaling myself on a bee. That being said, as a bee lover and wannabe apiarist, I still feel betrayed. Just which beloved creature will turn on me next- cephalopods?

We're coming to get you, Protagitron!

Also, Caféo maintains its sterling reputation of having the dickiest waiters to ever bag a douche. I'm not sure why I go back, unless it's some weird self-esteem issue. Or I'm in the neighbourhood and want a coffee. Flip a coin, kids.

The Current Book Pile

I wanted to post my list of the greatest 70s horror movie trailers today, but it's still being compiled. Gore is serious business, you know. So instead, take a look at the diagram of my current book pile. As you might remember from the last time, this includes both books on the go, just finished and those I mean to start.
1. Classic I Will Guiltily Put Off Reading: Mountolive, Laurence Durrell
2. Future Cancon Requirement: Roughing It In The Bush, Susanna Moodie
3. Delicious Mystery I Just Finished: The Bloody Wood, Michael Innes
4. Current Guilty Reading: Blackmailer, George Axelrod
5. Current Racist Piece of Crap, er, Classic: The Lair of the White Worm, Bram Stoker
6. Oh God, This Book Is My Life And It's Sad Award: Inglorious, Joanna Kavennna
7. Graphic Novel: Goldfish, Brian Michael Bendis

And look! I still knit from time to time, too. The pile's been on a diet ever since I graduated. Now I have more time to read books at my speed, instead of picking through them to get a decent close reading. And, of course, there are no assigned books so I can be more monogamous to my reading. If not to the many, many things that need doing around the house. Alas.

The Language Question: Napoleon's Revenge

Last night, I spent an ungodly amount of time squeezing out a letter in French it would have taken me about three minutes to write in English. And if a real Francophone ever read it (in other words, anything but a product of Ontario's lax commitment to French Immersion) it would probably read like mad libs. Or some translations of anime movies. Or a Nigerian bank scam.

But after hours, or rather minutes, of double checking the gender of every second word in an online dictionary, I'm proud, damn it. Although it's yet another reason to sign up for French classes instead of Russian lessons. With French classes, I would be able to formulate a coherent letter requesting repairs to my apartment... theoretically. Or at least be able to request directions to the nearest affordable and clean hotel. With Russian, I could... read War and Peace in the original? Try and pick up a chess player in the park so we could discuss ontology as foreplay? I need someone to champion the Russian language here, people.

Hipster Love 2, Aliens 1

I've realized something over my past few weeks of movie watching. For an ex-Cultural Studies student, I kind of blow at formulating coherent interpretations of movies. At least in real life. And especially right after I watch them. Usually I just feel like grunting "Derrrrr, movie bad!" or "Derrrrr, good movie!" before lumbering out of the theatre to digest my popcorn.

Come to think of it, school was a bit of a crap shoot too, with papers ranging from the good (sociological causation in Altman's A Wedding), the bad (monstrosity in Black Narcissus) to the ugly (the cultural myth of Aran sweaters) without any kind of consistency. So, I'll just give you my unstudied, random thoughts on a couple of movies I've seen recently.

• (500)Days of Summer: Like those parentheses in the title? Don't feel they're at all precious? Then you'll probably like this movie. Otherwise you might spend most of the time muttering "Over stylized!" and "White people need to stop whining." to yourself. I felt a little bit of both. The structure annoyed me, but I found parts of it really touching and honest. See it with someone who is as secretly squishy and romantic as you are, under that carapace of cynicism. Or else rent Commando. Again.
• District 9: It grew on me a lot since I watched it on Saturday. Probably because the hangover headache I was battling while watching all the explosions wore off. The general consensus among my friends was that the movie rocked, but that the documentary-like parts were stronger than the straight-up action sequences. Still, it's that perfect blend of excitement over speculative technology that goes boom and topical political paranoia that makes great Sci Fi. Also, has more splatter than most horror movies.
  
• Paper Heart:If you checked out my quickie list, you probably have a good idea of where this is going. Sigh. It's not a bad movie, just a frequently annoying one. Charlyne Yi doesn't believe in love and her buddy's made a documentary about it. Or is it a documentary? Why, the director's played by an actor! Just what is truth and what is fiction? Do such distinctions even matter in our po-mo society? Conclusion: yes they do, if they mean I have to look at twee-ass puppets acting out someone's life story when they converge. And people should be banned from acoustic guitars once they fall in love/like/whatever.