Book Covers I Have Loved: Put Out More Flags, Evelyn Waugh

I think my apartment hates British literature. I bought a copy of Brideshead Revisited so I could do a cover post on it, but the book's been missing for the past month. Wait a minute- Brideshead Revisited? Could my apartment be a homophobe? Well, I never.

Anyway, this was a Penguin edition of the title, designed in the 1970s by Bentley/Farrell/Burnett. However, I didn't like it nearly as much as this cover for Put Out More Flags, so maybe misplacing the book isn't such a bad thing.


Just like Graham Greene, I ended up reading Waugh because of a cover. This one in particular, which cuts the whimsy with something sinister. I also like the barely maintained tension between the 20s-style font and the purely 70s illustration. It makes Waugh's work seem timeless in a way the actual content often is not.

This didn't end up being my favorite Waugh novel - that's totally the Loved One - but it's still my favorite cover.

Next week: I try and bring this back to regular feature-dom with a more current cover. Wish me luck.

Confession For My Film Professors

I've been obsessed with movies since I was 14 and majored in Cultural Studies (glorified Film Studies) at University, but that hasn't stopped me from having large, embarrassing gaps in my film watching.

For example, until this weekend I had never seen Network. I have only seen a few brief snippets of Un Chien Andalou. Birth Of A Nation? I've probably spent more than its running time reading about it in textbooks, but have never seen the movie itself. I could name more, but I've probably pretended I've seen some of those movies in front of people reading this blog.

It's not that kind of public shame that's driving me this week to stop up as many of these gaps as possible, though. They've probably seen me bowl. I'm sure I've already lost their respect. It's that I haven't seen most Ozu films, or Belle de Jour, or Aguirre, but I've seen The Cutting Edge - a 1992 romantic comedy about the unlike pairs figure skating team of a rich bitch and a blue collar hockey player - about three times instead. So, I'm watching Taxi Driver tonight and tomorrow... probably The Cutting Edge again just to cleanse the palate.

Feel free to weigh in with what you've somehow dodged in the comments.

Power Knitting

It's the weekend, when my thoughts often turn to knitting. When it comes to the week, I'm either tired of lugging around knitting projects, only to open my bag and see that the needles have fallen out and I have a crowd of dropped stitches to pick up, or I'm just tired straight-up. Last week was the latter.

So far I've finished the body of that stupid cabled sweater I've started. Now I just have to do the sleeves.

As I contemplate what would motivate me to do the sleeves, which are just like the body except more annoying, I've cast on for birthday socks for a friend. They're the thing on top that has the same color scheme as a '70s rec room. Now, there's got to be something about that Monkey pattern. It seems to knit up 3x as fast as plain socks, probably because I feel like I have to finish at least one pattern repeat before putting them down. I cast on this morning and worked away while watching Network and in between cleaning up after Borschfest '10. Now I just have one and half pattern repeats to go before I turn the heel. I am knitter. Hear me roar.

This Post Brought To You By 1999

I really like The Onion AV Club. It's educational while being accessible and snarky, but not snide. Basically, it's the anti-Pitchfork, if Pitchfork was ever interested in more than music. So, I read it often, which means I've been following their Then That's What They Called Music feature. It looks at those weird, annoying Now! compilations that were ubiquitous around the time I was buying my first Bonne Bell Lip Smacker.

The most recent column, on Now! 2 reminded me of the existence of this little pop gem.

Is it me, or does the music video have some frighteningly sinister undertones? And how painful millennial are the clothes? Christ, I remember it all, from the bucket hats to the baggy pants/short tank top combos.

Now, I used to have this theory that it takes 20 years for things to become delightfully retro again. However, clearly things have speeded up and with all the '90s parties I've been to, it's more like 10-15. Keeping that in mind, we should be experiencing the bucket hat renaissance any day now. So, which of the following fashion statements do you think will become acceptable again?

-Tearaway pants
-Bowling-style shirts
-Knit hats and tank tops on the fellahs
-Excessive metallic eyeshadow
-Chunky shoes
-Men's hair that's mid-length and parted down the middle

I'm hoping the last one, because it is flattering on no one and is thus fair to all.

O Canada: Kids Publishing Edition

You know what made me proud to be Canadian recently? Not Sidney Crosby's gold-medal goal or Joannie Rochette's short program skate, but the fact that we, as a nation, are comfortable enough with our history to let books like these be published:
Actually, this book is still going easy on John A. It could have just as easily be called The Boozehound Who (Sort of) Built Canada . This one's getting a little better:
Why, it's even calling him a bully! Although he still looks awfully heroic. No, for a true warty portrait, nothing can top the bathos of this book title:
C'mon, kids! Let's read about a wuss who couldn't even manage to stay alive, much less enact meaningful legislation! Shockingly, it seems as if the publisher, JackFruit Press, might have gone out of business before they could publish Stephen Harper: The Bloated Douchebag Who Hated Democracy. At least, their website now sends you to a spammy domain expired page.

However, I think their idea is perfect for transferring to the American marketplace, seeing how as it's overs saturated with glowing books about the marquee presidents. So, Protagitron Press is pleased to announce the publication of the first three books in the American Presidents- Yuck! Series:
-Zachary Taylor: The Soldier Done In By Milk
-Grover Cleveland: The Mustache Who Couldn't Keep It In His Pants
-Andrew Jackson: The Crazy-Eyed One Who Would Probably Gut You

American Psycho Is Leading To My Psychosis

American Psycho had been on my list of books to read (actually, that's several lists now and organized by themes - Classics, CanCon, books of the 90s, etc) for a while now, so of course I bought it when I saw it on the shelf at Cheap Thrills. Finally, I thought, maybe I could understand the '80s, at least in a deeper way than just listening to Sussudio on repeat. Although I'll swear the answers to that decade lie deep within that song, somewhere in the cryptic lyrics.

The first part is slow, although not so slow if you have an idea of what's coming, because you pick up on the little clues that are left about brutal stabbings and decapitations. Although Bateman's constant classification of everyone he meets by the brands of clothing that they're wearing is effective at putting you into the headspace of a status-addicted yuppie, it's also deeply boring. And dated - some of the brands don't even exist any more and others, like Pierre Cardin, have become the kind of thing that gets plastered on men's underwear boxes at Sears. I found myself hoping that Patrick Bateman would get around to killing someone soon.

Then he finally did, and I wished that he hadn't. The murder scenes started out being incredibly graphic and the more I read the more unpleasant they became. I don't think I can finish the book. I would rather watch Hostel in a damp concrete basement.

But this books is also grossing me out because it feels like the parent of all the CSIs, Law And Order: SVU and Criminal Minds. The murders on those shows are just as excessive, torturous and meaningless as the ones in the book. And since they can't really show them on TV, they're often left to describe the killings verbally. Sometimes that ends up feeling more like the book than the 2000 movie ever did. But those shows are like getting comfort food on the TV.

It's not a matter of being desensitized if the book can still shock. Maybe it's because the TV shows are better at finding the line where it's just enough, where women are brutalized just so we're titillated and not repulsed. And then they make sure the crimes get solved so we know that society's part of the solution and not the problem. Still, I would rather have that, then wonder if maybe I'm not starting to get off on the murders and executions (or mergers and acquisitions) of the book.

Baby Blues

At some point in the past year, I must have accidentally entered a time machine and was sent straight back to 1952. How else to account for the baby boom I'm currently living through? I just finished one blanket and one sweater, and now I've got three more pieces of baby gear to bang out. Instead of grabbing the needles and yarn though, I've been having a little bit of an existential crisis.

One of the moms-to-be is pretty much my age. Now, I've heard of plenty of people I knew back in high school in Guelph getting pregnant. And by "heard" I mean "seen their Facebook pic get replaced with a photo of a newborn." But, you know. As of today they haven't been friends I was particularly close to. I could still pretend to be living in a bubble of eternal irresponsibility and cheap beer! I was barely making my credit card payment AND LOVING IT!

Alright, so not really, but a friend having a baby has made me selfishly obsessed with what the hell is going on in my life. It's not that I want a kid now - I still haven't decided what I'm doing in that area, except if and when such a thing appears it will be named Butch and it will be made to skate, damnit - but it's just that I'm so far from a place where that would even be imaginable, for personal and professional reasons, that I'm worried at some point it will be a decision made by my biology and not my free will. And even if that doesn't end up being an issue, I will still end having to face at some point... reluctantly... with annoyance.... that I'm getting old.

I guess I better get back to knitting, because that's one way of working out my snarled thoughts. And it will be something like this Seamless Baby Kimono for all of them, or maybe a big blanket that has "WHY NOW?" spelled out in intarsia.

The Plague Returns

Today, which is Family Day in Ontario, President's Day in the U.S. and Monday here in Quebec, I woke up feeling sick. I went into work anyway, figuring I needed the money and would shake it off. Three and a half hours later, I had slowly muddled my way through a fraction of my work and rushed to the bathroom to throw up. Since that was a false alarm, but a co-worker had seen me rush in and out of the stall without flushing, I proceeded to tell her way more than she probably wanted to know about my potential illness.

It was at that moment that I realized I should really care less about what people think of me, or else I might just stroke out one day worrying that the waitress at the take-out didn't see me tip, and then my cause of death would somehow go down as morbid allodaxophobia (fear of opinions, according to The Phobia List.) I would rather die in a more bad-ass manner, preferably by swordfish.

Things accomplished on my sick 1/2-day:
1. Ate too many Cheez-Its
2. Knit 1" on the cabled sweater of doom
3. Finished a book
4. Realized I was better than watching short track speed skating on the TV

Music Chaser

Well, let's wash out the taste of all that righteous anger with some music, shall we? I know I blew mine off my watching Slap Shot thanks to the McGill Film Society, but if you would rather mellow out than watch the Hanson brothers check folks, give this a listen:

For some reason, it makes me want a cottage.

Post-Game Show

So, the Tim Tebow ad aired and in a fairly toned down manner. Basically, it's just his mom saying that he's her miracle baby, but although he's all grown up now she still worries about his health. Then there's a note that you can check out the full Tebow story online, along with the name of the organization and the slogan "Celebrate family. Celebrate life." You can YouTube it if you want.

I can't decide if I'm glad the ad is so toned down as to be non-confrontational, or if it's a little underhanded and sneaky. In either case, it certainly wasn't as off-putting as this ad.

What's up with the growly serial killer voice? Why is it acting as if, say, carrying around someone's lip balm is the most degrading thing ever? Christ, it's a 2 inch-long tube, just stuff it in a pocket somewhere and try and develop a sense of confidence that's not so freaking fragile.

Still, I think the pro-choice credentials of Scott Fujita were responsible for the Saints victory somehow. Well, along with the hard work of Drew Brees and that interception by Tracy Porter.