History Lives... ish

Much like other things in my life - *cough* lady business *cough* - my reading is on a cycle. CanLit followed by a contemporary novel, then a classic, and finally some non-fiction before we're right back to Canadian again. My dedication to this system is irrational, and limiting, but I can't abandon it. I am, however, open to manipulating it. Books can be from both categories, which comes in handy if there's another I would really like to get on with.

Recently, I tried being strict about the categories, which meant I read Esi Edugyan's Half Blood Blues (Canadian) and Hilary Mantel's Bring Up the Bodies (Contemporary) close together. They're both historical novels with pedigrees. Blues won the Giller, and Bodies is the sequel to the Booker-winning Wolf Hall. It would have been hard not to compare them while reading - objectively. Or to avoid finding the comparison more flattering to one than the other - subjectively.

Because, in spite of this powerful one-two punch of historical fiction, it's a genre I typically avoid. Why? A writerly tic I call the research dump. Here's an example:  

"It was the beginning of the western offensive. The Krauts hurtled through Belgium, Holland, Luxembourg. Every hour the lines of the map was changing. Day after the Coup, Lilah reported to us that the British ain't got a government, that some damn joker named Churchill taken over. Then the Frogs sent their armies north, and the Limeys opened up a front against the Krauts." (Half Blood Blues)

I suspect writers do it either because they want to get back to their characters and out of historical context, or they just want to show that all that time with the microfiche really meant something. Whatever the cause, it tends to make the narrative hurtle off its path (and into Belgium, Holland, Luxembourg.) But there is another way, as Mantel shows in Bodies:

"8 January: the news arrives at court. It filters out from the king's rooms then runs riot up staircases to the rooms where the queen's maids are dressing, and through the cubby holes where kitchen boys huddle to doze, and along lanes and passages through the breweries and the cold rooms for keeping fish, and up again through the gardens to the galleries and bounces up to the carpeted chambers where Anne Boleyn sinks to her knees and says, 'At last God, not before time!' The musicians tune up for the celebrations."

It takes Mantel at least 30% more words to give less than 0% of the hard facts Edugyan provides. The point of this passage -  that Henry VIII's first wife has finally died - is not even explicitly stated. But it says plenty about the social makeup of Tudor England, and the crooked path of its gossip, as well as how Catherine's death will be something less than mourned. This is all more interesting than the data of her death. That difference is why we pick up an historical novel, and not an encyclopedia. And why I'll probably return to one of these books, before the other.

Frugal Living

I sometimes entertain notions of starting a Tumblr called "Lifestyle Tips for the Depressingly Frugal." It would feature your usual lifestyle blog photography (macro lens!) and tips for people who are comfortable admitting that even the simulacra of luxury - the how-to's of real lifestyle blogs -  are still out of their league. For example, my recent tip: when you can't afford the spa, or even the cheap nail bar down the street, you can always read descriptions of expensive spa services online, while rubbing your back as best you can. Unfortunately, my targeted readership probably can't afford weekly yoga classes (which are like $17 a pop), so they should probably prepare for the back rub by... reading descriptions of yoga classes online. Sadly, those are pretty much my only tips (except for my dissertation on the merits of various President's Choice products), so it would be a brief affair.

The Bus Reader

A few weeks ago, I started a new job in Mississauga. For those of you not versed in Toronto geography, picture a postcard with the CN tower. Roughly, that is the center of Toronto. Now, start going west until you fall off the edge of a postcard and into a strip mall. That is Mississauga. Next, go east, past the other edge and into a concrete parking lot. That would be where I live now. The journey from point A to point B requires a long subway ride and an even longer bus ride, each trip taking an hour and forty minutes. 

Fortunately, this gives me over three hours, total, of prime reading time a day. That's at least 100 pages, unless I'm reading Saul Bellow's Herzog. For reasons unknown, my Mississauga bus gets suddenly re-routed over the Khyber Pass before it shudders into Islington Station. It's hard to concentrate on beautifully-wrought sentences while your ride is clearing two metre wide craters, so I gave up. Yes, the ride would probably be smoother if I didn't insist on sitting in the accordion part of the bus, pretending it's the same thing as a free ticket to Canada's Wonderland, but maybe Bellow could have written shorter sentences. It's called compromise.

And there's an art to picking out the perfect bus book. Either it's respectable enough to read cover-art, or it's a paperback so you can curl the cover around. But don't be too pretentious - you don't want to be that person reading Kant on the bus, because then you're likely that asshole putting their bag on the empty seat too. Then there is the question of value vs. volume. I favour a hefty book, but not so thick that it won't fit in my side bag. Unfortunately, I've started to feel like I've already read nearly every book meeting those criteria, which means I'll soon start in on Fifty Shades of Grey, which can only end in the gutter. That is, Metro, the free daily newspaper, or more accurately, "Stock Photo Daily."

My Brilliant Retail Plan

Here's a thought: everyone, no matter how expansive their desk or comfy their chair, should have to work a week in retail for every two years that they are otherwise employed. Kind of like how the Swiss require military service, we should require customer service. Think of all the benefits. A humbler society, where few would loudly demand if YOU know who THEY ARE, or not tell you they are digging around for change until after you've closed the till. They would wait for you to finish stocking a shelf, or accept that sometimes a product runs out, and would keep their children in line. It's a glorious dream, isn't it? So why can't we make this happen, instead of pushing useless crime omnibus bills through? I think Stephen Harper is just squared of working at Arby's.

Some Things I Miss About Victoria, BC

I'm not a mammal who handles the heat well. So Toronto's recent wave of warm weather - and all the sweating, thirsting, and general whining it brought with it - has made me miss my old home. Victoria. Where the weather is neither too warm nor too cold, and people still wear Baja pullovers. And now that I've started missing Victoria's climate, my mind has turned to the other things I miss about that city. I did one of these for Montreal, and now it's Victoria's turn.

1. The Drink and Draw crowd: Leaving this band of interesting and talented young folks behind was the hardest thing about moving back east. Sure, they were inspiring artists, but they were also excellent people, welcoming an odd girl from Ontario into their brunch eating and bike riding lifestyle. Thanks to Facebook, I know they're all doing well, but that doesn't stop me from wishing I could know that from first-hand experience.
2. Hernande'z: Their bean burritos haunt my dreams. Sometimes I wake up with a tear upon my cheek, wondering why my mouth tastes of delicious, delicious beans when all my fridge holds is a frozen dinner I forgot to put in the freezer.
3. Legends Comics: I still haven't found a replacement in Toronto for my favourite comic book store. It wasn't just that their selection was awesome, but Gareth (one of the co-owners) is such a peach. He gave me a hug when I was preparing to leave the city, and I briefly considered never washing my arms again. I decided against that- it would be disgusting otherwise - but I did use him as an example of excellent customer service in a job interview.
4. Seeing Whales on the Way to Vancouver: British Columbians were greedy when it came to natural beauty, and it has made them weak. WEAAAAKK. They barely seem excited when a bus ride brings stunning vistas of lakes, forest and mountains. My walk in my current Toronto neighbourhood brings me to soul-stirring sight of a Popeye's Chicken outlet. Anyway, I once saw a whale and her calf off of a BC ferry, and my heart grew four sizes that day.
5. Cold Comfort Ice Cream: Ah, Saturday mornings. When I would mount my faithful Korean wonder bike, Bikegolgi, and zip down to the Moss Street Market. I always bought a few vegetables, but those were mostly out of guilt. The true goal of my mission was always an ice cream sandwich from Autumn. Favourites included sour cherry with rosemary, honey lavender and apricot.

Drawing Catwoman: Too Big Not to Fail

Image credit: Tucker Stone, The Comics Journal

That... thing comes from Catwoman #8. Now, I have a few problems with the image, but somehow it's the little ones - and not the glaring, anatomically incorrect ones - that niggle most. WHY ARE THERE TINY CAT CHARMS ON THE STRINGS OF HER BIKINI BOTTOM? First of all, the strings. The strings. Why? Now, I may not be a sexy cat burglar myself, but I think they might pose some practical issues. For example, they might unravel right over a laser sensor. That's both embarrassing and unprofessional. Then, the charms. I always figured Catwoman was a confident thirty-year-old woman with some BDSM tendencies, not somebody with the same tastes as a teenaged girl. On the other side, are there charms that express her dedication to chess club and marching band? And oh yes: I almost forgot about the breasts.

Now, talking about the depiction of women in superhero comics isn't the freshest topic in circulation. It's been so churned over, that critics and artists have reached some kind of uneasy detente over the matter. Women will continue to be drawn like they don't need rib cages, and people who don't like it can pass over the spandex for any D and Q title. That's not the point of this post. Rather, I wanted to figure out why this image bothered me more than some of the first drawings of Catwoman I saw as a young, fresh comic book fan. Those were dark years. Those... were the Balent years. For the uninitiated, Jim Balent was the main artist on Catwoman's solo title back in the late '90s, and a firm believer that female anatomy included beach balls embedded just below the neck. Here's an example of his sensibility:

And yet, swimsuit issue Catwoman irritates me more. Jim Balent's vision was so ridiculous that it could be interpreted a clever parody if you were feeling generous, harmless silliness if you weren't. But this Catwoman is just realistic enough to irritate, just realistic enough that it doesn't seem patently ridiculous. It seems achievable. Furthermore, the artist, Adriana Melo, is a woman. Female writers or artists are still a minority on mainstream titles, but when we do get representation, this is the product? I know I should take a deep breath and give Melo the benefit of the doubt. I can't fight for more female creatives, only to dictate what they can produce. And I'm not so naive as to forget Melo was probably working under certain (DD-sized) expectations. But still. At least give Catwoman a form-fitting wetsuit and lose the girly charms. Otherwise, we might have to call Balent back in, that is if he's not too busy haunting vaginas.

RIP Pistache

Other things Pistache loved beside human affection: lying on a plate for no discernable reason.

My favourite foster cat, Pistache, had to be put down a few days ago. I guess I've truly become the crazy cat lady I had feared was my destiny, because the news has put me in a funk. The funk is incomprehensible to my friends and family. Pistache had nearly every disease known to cat, from FIV to a brief bout with ringworm. Of course, this didn't stop him from trying to force his physical affections onto any conveniently located human. He was remarkably affectionate. According to the shelter, where he once held the record of most obese inmate, he was rescued from a cat colony in Rosemont, circa 1999. I doubt he was born into that colony, because the call of the wild had long ago been put on mute to his ears. He once escaped from my apartment in Montreal, only to immediately enter the open door of the apartment next to mine. He couldn't even kill an ant. I saw him try. And then fail. But although I couldn't trust his skills as a mouser, he was just a big bag of unconditional, rather smelly, love. He would curl up beside me as I read a book, watch me type on my computer, and attempt to sleep on my collarbone as I watched The National.

Life events and an ill-timed move meant I never got to adopt him permanently, but he spent the last two years of his life perfectly content with a friend. And although she replaced me in his heart, nothing could ever push him out of mine. Because, though I've never met another cat who smelled so bad, I also haven't met one who loved so much.

Why You Should Read William Langewiesche

Every week, or at least whenever I can remember, I link to one piece of non-fiction writing on my Twitter. I try to vary the authors and magazines as much as I can, which is hard. Because all I want to do is share William Langewiesche's work, and that would take the better part of a year of faithful linking. I guess I'm a Langewiesche fangirl, in the way other people geek out over G.R.R. Martin or Neil Gaiman. He has a beautiful style, without being a beautiful stylist. His prose is direct and his diction rarely surprises, but he's a genius at presenting the facts at their proper facets, so they can illuminate each other. He's at his best when he describes the failures of machines - shuttles that explode, ships that sink, airplanes that collide with each other - or of the men who run them, and at his worst with one-subject profiles. Profiles are all about the colour and texture of the notable they're describing. They circle instead of heading straight for the problem. As a former pilot, Langewiesche is more direct. He describes the circumstances of every collapse, then works through to the end with clarity and grace, so that it almost seems like fate. Here are the final sentences of my favourite piece, "Columbia's Last Flight," from the November 2003 issue of the Atlantic:

As had happened with the Challenger in 1986, the crew cabin broke off intact. It assumed a stable flying position, apparently nose high, and later disintegrated like a falling star across the East Texas sky. 

And now you have something to read for the rest of your Sunday.

Domestic Thursday: Blind Owls

When it comes to knitting sweaters, I have a pattern. No matter how energetically I start, two years later I'll only have the back, front, and lonely sleeve of a painfully dated sweater. Kate Davies' Owls Sweater is the exception. The more I knit, the more I liked knitting it, until I gave myself a wrist injury cabling the owls on the yoke. But now I have to sew on 40+ wee button eyes to a stubbornly fluid piece of fabric, all so my decorative owls can see. This seems like the kind of tedious work in the service of twee that should be contracted. Who would be an appropriate party? The missing third Deschanel sister?

News from a Social Media Hermit

For my few dedicated readers out there, I'm sorry I disappeared so suddenly and abruptly. For reasons I won't go into here, I thought scaling back my Twitter and my blog were necessary for a short period of time. Of course, I missed serving up my loopy thoughts on everything from the Tebow trade to Mad Men on a semi-frequent basis. My poor friends were stuck listening to me ramble on in person. But I had made a vow, and by gum, I would stick with it. But yesterday I realized that deleting my blog and disappearing from the Internet were the wrong decisions, and choosing to stick with them was kind of like keeping your foot on the gas and hoping the brick wall would bend to your will. Now my Twitter's back, and so's this blog, so expect a post on those playoff ads for the Hockey Hall of Fame in the near future, and more beer. Facebook will remain dormant though, becuase - ew.