For those of you who posted and emailed me your condolences, please know that I'm now in active recovery from the loss of my last post. I moved very quickly past denial and am still angry, but I'm no longer this angry, and I'm moving forward into the next stage of grief -- bargaining -- before the following stage -- depression -- kicks in and leaves me weeping in the corner. So this is my deal with you, Blogger gods: you let me post this entry and I won't come over there and kick your collective ass.
I was about to kickstart this brand-new post by writing that this past weekend was the Weekend of Sam, but then I realized that EVERY weekend is the Weekend of Sam, and every weekday is the Weekday of Sam. Every day is Sam Day, in other words, and frankly he's still shocked that they're not all statutory holidays. And don't even get him started on the dearth of ticker-tape parades.
Anyway, when we weren't chasing Sam (who WALKS now, by the way, and this is every bit as terrifying as you can imagine -- not so much for us as for Dobbs and the cats, who seem to utterly lack whatever instinct preserves other animals from getting pinched and "hugged" from excitable young primates)...
Jesus. That paragraph got away from me. I'm not sure if it was a grammar malfunction or a punctuation malfunction, but there you go.
Let's begin again.
When we weren't chasing Sam, and feeding Sam, and changing Sam's record-breaking volume of poopy diapers, we were reading to Sam, because books are his Big Thing these days. And I don't care if what I'm about to say makes me sound like a snob, because dude, I have to tell you: most board books are mindblowingly boring. Your only defence is to have a lot of them on hand, combined with the persuasive powers necessary for convincing a toddler that he doesn't want to read the same book ninety-nine friggin' times in a row. (On the plus side, I've gotten a chance to refresh my counting skills, as well as study the basic colour spectrum in a fair bit of depth. Go ahead. Quiz me on any number between one and twelve. Ask me to name three things that are orange. I dog-dare you.)
Thank god for Value Village and its 49-cent book bin, is all I can say. With just a bit of rummaging, we scored about a dozen tomes for the pre-verbal set, some of which are cute, some kind of lame, and some downright spooky in their ability to freak my shit out, deja vu-style. A few highlights:
The Poky Little Puppy
Like every other English-speaking kid in the western world, I had a copy of this book when I was a wee one, but I didn't know till just now that it was published in 19-frickin-42. A couple of things I can tell you about kids' books in 1942:
1. They had lots and lots of words and didn't shy away from complex sentences. Grammar-wise, The Poky Little Puppy is more intricate than a Hemingway novel, though I suspect -- perhaps erroneously -- a bit lighter on subtext.
2. Talk about your sanctions for misbehaviour. Back in '42, if you dug a hole under the fence and ran away, you got properly schooled. No strawberry shortcake for dessert, and you went to bed feeling sorry for yourself. The end.
Greg's Microscope
Rusty claims that this book represents the highwater mark of American culture, the pinnacle of reason and science, and who the hell am I to argue? Greg's Microscope is more of an early reader book, but I couldn't resist the story: a boy named Greg wants a microscope, but rather than just tell his parents to get him one, he has to make a reasoned case to his dad as to why he needs one of his own rather than just borrow one from a friend. He also has to sell his dad on how much he's going to use it. Greg presents his argument, then his dad goes away to think about it, research the types of microscope available, do some comparison shopping. When Greg is presented with his hard-won microscope, he is thrilled and proceeds to learn some cool stuff with it.
Not surprisingly, this book was published in 1963 -- as Rusty points out, the height of the Kennedy years -- a decade before overly permissive parenting became rampant and spoiled little monsters like you and me came along. Ah, Greg, you and your exuberant, yet thrifty, intellectual curiosity... we hardly knew ye.
The Lovely Day
This is actually from a set of three books that I picked up, all about a family of bunnies who live in the vernal metropolis of Honeywood Village. These rabbits inhabit a universe not unlike that in Little Women or the original Bobbsey Twins books. If you're not familiar with this universe, I can best sum it up by saying that pinafores and eiderdowns feature prominently. Rusty absolutely loathes this kind of book, which I can appreciate, but I think that a certain amount of treacle is an essential part of a juvenile literary diet. Rusty's just lucky that Value Village didn't have any of Enid Blyton's books or we'd be chest deep in talking golliwogs by now.
I Am a Bunny
When I first saw this book in the store, it seemed vaguely familiar, but when I brought it home and read it to Sam, I got slapped in the face with wave after wave of insane deja vu every time we turned the page. At some point in my long and storied babysitting career, I must have read the living shit out of this book to some young 'un. I sure hope that wherever they are now they still appreciate it, because now that I've revisited this book I can't get the words out of my head. "I am a bunny!" "My name is Nicholas!" "I live in a hollow tree!" "I chase the butterflies, and the butterflies chase me!" Ack! Get the net!
Stuart Little
This is another book for when Sam's older, so I've put it aside for now. It did result, however, in the following conversation between me and Rusty, who's never read it:
Rusty: So this book is about a mouse that lives with a family of people?
Me: Sort of. It's about a mouse who's part of a family.
Rusty: What do you mean?
Me: He's one of their sons.
Rusty: But he's a mouse, right?
Me: Yes.
Rusty: He's born a mouse?
Me: Yes.
Rusty: To a family of ordinary humans?
Me: Yes.
Rusty: So what you're telling me is that he came out of a human vagina?
Me: YES. He's a MOUSE who entered the world through a HUMAN VAGINA. Are you SATISFIED?
I just spent ages writing a post that -- not to blow my own horn -- was fairly funny, and of course Blogger crashed while I tried to post it. You always hear about this happening to other people, but you never think it's going to happen to you.
I'm going to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day. Right?
Have you ever noticed how certain words creep into your vocabulary despite your avowed hatred of them? No, I'm not talking about vile corporate-speak like "impacted" or "prioritize." I'm talking about words from the fleeting vernacular that is our shared, entertainment-derived lexicon. I'm talking about words like "chillax" and "whatevs" and "coolio" and "dude."
When I first heard these words in their separate contexts, I swiftly administered the sound mocking they so clearly deserve. And then I started using them sarcastically, as a way of both ridiculing the words themselves and intentionally irritating the person I was addressing.
And then, at some point, the irony disappeared, and I found myself participating in exchanges like this one:
"Fuck. I just fucking stepped on my fucking sunglasses."
"Whatevs, dude. Just chillax."
"Coolio."
Book Buried in Irish Bog Is Called a Major Find:
Ireland's National Museum said on Wednesday that a 1,200-year-old Book of Psalms found last week by a construction worker in a bog was so archaeologically significant that it could be called an "Irish equivalent to the Dead Sea Scrolls."
The museum said in a news release that "in discovery terms this Irish equivalent to the Dead Sea Scrolls is being hailed by the museum's experts as the greatest find ever from a European bog."
I wish I were smart enough to appreciate this in properly reverential academic terms, rather than in Onion magazine terms -- the latter precipitated largely by the word "bog."
These are the only circumstances under which it is acceptable to admit that you've watched the "romantic" "comedy" Must Love Dogs:
- Your partner has gone on a rare and deserved men's night out.
- You neglected to procure video entertainment for yourself before he left, and now are unable to do so because of the sleeping baby in your care.
- You have (temporarily) exhausted the charms of the internet, and besides, your laptop is making your lap sweat, something you DON'T need in addition to this bloody heatwave. (Speaking of which... hello, weather? Satan called. He's sorry you two fought, but he really wants to patch things up, so you should RETURN TO HELL IMMEDIATELY.)
- And your book (whose name I don't want to give away, but let's just say it rhymes with "Grapes of Math") is a bit of a downer, so you need to take a break.
I have asked this question of many a movie, and I'll ask it again now: Who greenlights this dreck?
If you haven't seen Must Love Dogs, here's what you must do to approximate the experience:
Go find a carpenter's level. Place the level on a table. Bolster the table's legs with sugar packets, old handbills, matchbooks, and grains of sand until the level indicates that the table is precisely even. This will help give you an appreciation of the utter flatness of Must Love Dogs. Scientists could calibrate their instruments on this movie.
It's not just that the performances were wooden... or that I was forced to watch John Cusack once again dredge up his wounded "Lloyd Dobler ten/fifteen/twenty years later" schtick... or that even the DOGS weren't convincing in their roles... or that the fabulous Stockard Channing is relegated to a dead-end role in which her secondary character arrives at a moment of semi-crisis, WHICH IS NEVER RESOLVED... or that I'm expected to believe that the original Actor of Wood, Dermot Mulroney, has a freakin' PhD in history... or that the requisite pair of gay friends' only function in the movie is to take Diane Lane out for, I shit you not, a midnight manicure... or that the entire movie is built around the irritating premise that the main characters must pair up as quickly as possible or else they've failed as humans... and for the love of all that's holy, CHRISTOPHER PLUMMER, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE?
Or maybe it is those things after all.
Must love dogs. If you like this movie, you'd have to.
So, on June 8th of this year, I wrote an entry entitled "What's in Your Loo-brary?" in which I itemized the various books I keep in my bathroom.
Fast-forward to yesterday, when I happened across a piece in The New York Times Sunday Book Review. Entitled "Chamber Plots," it's an essay by Henry Alford that's all about, you guessed it, bathroom reading.
Coincidence? No sour grapes here, though. One man's copycatting is another woman's homage.
Alford's piece makes for an interesting read, as he chronicles the history of powder-room literature (going as far back as the ancient Romans), and speculates as to why we like to read in the bathroom (to distract us from the urge to hurl our poo around, apparently). He also visits the bathrooms of nine willing interviewees, in order to find out what they keep on the back of the loo, and why.
But the highlight of Alford's piece, for me, was when he discovered one of his own books "retired" in someone's can. Yowch.
There was a book lover named Kim,
Whose outlook for the weekend seemed grim.
She made a request,
And at this bequest,
I wrote her this poem on a whim.
What do you do with those books that you can't sell, give away, or otherwise get rid of? If you're anything like me, the thought of chucking books in the garbage makes your pacemaker act up like crazy. And if you're anything like me, this means you have a fair number of literary albatrosses taking up precious real estate on your shelves.
So how about a plan for taking those books and using them to create MORE SHELF SPACE?
Is that not the most brilliant idea you've ever seen? The genius behind it is crafty Craftster member McJulie-O, who suffered from exactly the dilemma described above. Not one to complain (unlike, say, me), McJulie-O designed and built her own custom solution. She provides instructions piecemeal on the Craftster discussion boards, but for your ease of use, I've compiled her directions here in (hopefully) easy-to-follow steps. - Well, you start with books that have nice covers but no future, and you're going to want to "gut" them (except for the two end books, which need to have pages showing on the end to verify that they are real books).
- Use a band saw to cut the pages and then a craft knife to separate them from the spine.
- [The shelf is] attached to the wall by a pair of picture hangers placed stud distance apart, so the anchoring screws can be attached to studs behind the sheetrock. The books cut into supports on the bottom are mostly decorative although they might prevent the shelf from torquing or twisting off the wall.
If you're more of a visual person, then the step-by-step photos that McJulie-O provides here may be more useful. Even I get how it all goes together. The hard part is going to be convincing Rusty that he wants to make it for me. And then buying a cottage to put it in.
(Thanks to Kat for the link!)
"What's that you're humming?"
"That song from Donnie Darko. You know, it goes 'I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams I have of flying are the best I've ever had.' I love that song."
"I think you've got it wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"It goes 'The dreams I have of dying are the best I've ever had.'"
"Oh. Well. That's much worse."
The books have been piling up on my bedside table, so I figured I'd cover them all in one mondo recap. Two things I've noticed: I seem to be on a Canadian fiction mini-bender, and don't underestimate the power of a novel's title.
JPod
by Douglas Coupland (#23)
A while back, after I'd read Hey Nostradamus! and before I'd read JPod, I told DoppelSis that I think Douglas Coupland has at least one great novel waiting inside him. I don't mean a really good novel. I'm talking about a truly great novel, one that's destined to become a classic of Canadian literature. JPod is not that novel.
That doesn't mean I didn't devour JPod faster than a music pirate downloading tunes the eve before Napster was shut down. I did. But ultimately the story felt flat to me, particularly after my experience with Hey Nostradamus!
JPod is not a sequel to Coupland's 1996 novel Microserfs. Where Microserfs was all about the idealism and big thinking of the early days of the internet, JPod is a satirical follow-up that mocks the cynicism of the technology-saturated second rising of the tech bubble. While Microserfs followed a group of twentysomething programmers with a dream of re-imagining the world through Lego, JPod follows another group of twentysomething programmers with a dream of creating a videogame that embodies pure carnage through a subverted Ronald McDonald character. And whereas Microserfs is a moving, generous-hearted story, JPod sadly is not. Oh, it's funny and clever, ridiculously clever, and that cleverness fuels you through much of the book (and probably warrants it as a read despite my petty criticisms). But at around the halfway point, when I realized that the story wasn't going to offer me anything other than amusing send-ups of west-coast stereotypes (the main character's dad is a movie extra, his mom runs a grow-op, his brother's business partner brings illegal Asian immigrants to Vancouver in shipping containers, his former boss becomes a heroin addict), I wondered what the point of this novel is. I'm still wondering.
I haven't lost faith in Coupland. I still think he has that great novel in him. And lord knows, after writing Hey Nostradamus!, he can't be faulted for wanting to dab in goofier fare.
Blue Shoes and Happiness
by Alexander McCall Smith (#24)
After finishing JPod, I felt in need of a story with some soul to it, so despite the fact that I know I really should be pacing myself with the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency novels, I seem to have developed a quiet addiction to them. And since I had Blue Shoes just sitting on my shelf... well...
I don't really have anything new to say about these books. I've said it all here and here. I'll just mention that these books are getting better and better as McCall Smith develops the character of Precious Ramotswe -- her dignity, her generosity, her compassion, her humour, her innate sense of justice. There were a couple of points while reading this novel that I found myself moved almost to tears, something I would never have anticipated when I found myself slightly underwhelmed by the first novel in the series a couple of years ago.
If you haven't read any of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency books yet, don't feel like you need to read all of them in a row, or even start at the beginning. They stand well alone, or read out of sequence. This is good news for me, because I think I've missed one, and now I've got to go back, figure out which one it is, get my hands on it, then manage not to read it right away. Pace yourself, Doppelganger. Pace yourself.
Bachelor Brothers' Bed & Breakfast
by Bill Richardson (#25)
I'm pretty pleased with myself. At the beginning of 2006, I told myself that I'd try to read as many new books as possible and cut down on the re-reads. I made an exception for The Rachel Papers, which I was happy to do because it's a really good novel, and I was equally happy to make an exception for The Bachelor Brothers, because it's a truly charming novel that deserves numerous visits.
Having known me all our lives and all, DoppelSis recommended this book to me years and years ago with the one hundred percent conviction that I'd love it. She was right. Told from the alternating perspectives of twin brothers Homer Hector and Virgil (bachelors, as you might guess) who run a bed and breakfast (as you might also surmise), not much actually happens in this novel. It's pretty much the Seinfeld of fiction. Book-lovers themselves, the brothers run their establishment, hidden in a valley on one of British Columbia's Gulf Islands, almost solely as a retreat for other bibliophiles, who occasionally write guest entries.
The book's chapters read a lot like blog entries, actually, as the brothers tell their shared history as well as talk about current goings-on in the valley. One of my favourite aspects of this book are (surprise!) the lists of recommended books that are interspersed between chapters, including "Virgil's List of Books for When You're Feeling Low" and "Hector's List of Favourite Authors for the Bath" and "The Top Ten Authors Over Ten Years at the Bachelor Brothers' B&B." Over the years, I've gleaned a number of recommendations from this novel -- everyone from A.S. Byatt to M.F.K. Fischer to Mavis Gallant.
There have been sequels -- Bachelor Brothers' Bed & Breakfast Pillow Book and Bachelor Brothers' Bedside Companion (now out of print) -- and while I've read them both, they veer into twee territory a little too much for my taste. Unlike the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, the first book in this series remains the best.
If you managed to read this entire post and not question my lucidity while writing it, I have only the blog gods to thank. My neighbours have been operating heavy machinery right outside my window as they remove the stucco from their house. I feel like there's a tiny jackhammer in my brain that's being operated by small talking Flintstones animals. This has been going on for days. Help me.
I realized over the weekend that I'm getting so behind on logging the books I've read that I'm starting to forget which ones they are. Clearly, I need to catch up, so I'm working on a big-ass post about that. Which will not go up today.
Instead, let me dazzle you with my provocative insights about some items that have tickled some of the other nerve centres in my brain. Someone once called me "cerebral." I think they meant it as a compliment, but as a result, every so often I feel a compulsion to brag about how well my other senses are functioning.
Taste
Rusty and I made the recent decision that we would stop buying our morning coffee drinks (usually supercharged mochas from the Italian coffee shop around the corner), and would instead learn to be self-sufficient in the ways of caffeine. This decision was precipitated by the realization that we spend (conservatively) about three grand a year on coffee. If I multiply this number by how many years we've been doing this, it makes me throw up a little, so I'm not going to go there.
But we decided that, if we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. And so I tagged along with my pal Kris, aka my official coffee guru, when she bought some coffee beans from this company. I bought a grinder. Also copycatting Kris, I picked up some high-quality cocoa and raw sugar made by this company, as well as some organic milk for a fully feel-good coffee experience. And then I dusted off our Bodum, did a bit of reading, consulted Kris some more, and then spent hours in the lab perfecting my technique. And now, if I do say so myself, I make a pretty goddamned good cup of joe, or devil's brew as Rusty calls it.
All you people who make your own coffee will be nodding your heads in agreement when I tell you that it's indescribably sensuous to make your own brew. Taking the icy foil package of beans out of the freezer. The clatter of beans being poured into the grinder. Making an extremely satisfying racket for ten seconds while you grind. The smell of freshly ground coffee and the feel of the gritty, chilly grinds. Pouring the hot water over the beans in the Bodum and watching the mixture froth and create minor eruptions at the surface of the liquid. The tantalizing wait before you press. And then the pleasurable futzing with cocoa powder and sugar, trying to concoct the perfectly proportioned blend of elements. And then -- as if all that weren't great enough -- you have this mind-blowing beverage that you get to DRINK.
I'm not a religious person, but I finally feel like I've found something in this crazy old world that I can believe in.
Touch
All of my other friends already know this and have judged us for it, so you guys may as well join them, but our cat Lulu has hygiene issues. We're not sure if the underlying problem is that she's fat, or that she's lazy, or both.* All we know is that, once or twice a year, Lulu just gives up and decides that it's too much trouble to groom the back half of her body. I imagine it's sort of how Anna Nicole Smith feels from time to time, and hey, who am I to judge?
We do our best to brush her (Lulu, not Anna Nicole), but there's no substitite for self-cleaning, and so inevitably the dirty matted hair starts to form clumps that are not unlike stubby dreadlocks. And then we make a vet appointment, the vet checks Lulu out and declares her healthy (if fat), and proceeds to gently shave off all the kitty dreads.
Without the back half of her body to worry about, Lulu develops a renewed zest for hygiene and does a not-entirely half-assed job of keeping her front half presentable. We resume our efforts on the back half, which looks not unlike a clearcut on the side of a mountain, and between all of us Lulu starts to look -- and more importantly FEEL -- like a normal cat again. Once again, it's a pleasure to stroke her, and it's an evident pleasure for her to be stroked. Her fur is short but very thick and plush, and when it's clean it's a delight to touch.
Each time we're in this phase, we try to will it to last. Keep your fingers crossed. Half-shaved cats are not part of god's plan.
See
We recently got a membership at the Vancouver Art Gallery, and we're kicking ourselves for not doing this years ago. Not only does the thing pay for itself in just three visits, but as members we automatically get to skip the line to get in, and let me tell you something: I love jumping lines. In my defence, let me add that I try really, really hard not to think, Haha! See ya inside... SUCKERS! as we scoot past everyone standing in line.
The gallery changes its exhibits often enough that we can always count on going at least four times a year, and having a membership card already in hand eliminates the mild psychological hurdle that always comes up for me when I'm trying to weigh the benefit of going someplace against the trouble and time and expense. Plus, if you want to go back and see stuff again, you can. Bonus!
There are four exhibits at the gallery right now, but the one I like the most is called Raven Travelling: Two Centuries of Haida Art. I'm going to be honest right up front and tell you that I've never really gotten native art before, despite being part native myself. My First Nations status is purely technical. I know nothing about this aspect of my culture, and like most Canadians, haven't really had any interest in learning much about the people who were here first. This exhibit, however, was a breakthrough for me, thanks mostly to Rusty, who spent a few days on a reserve up in the Queen Charlotte Islands a couple of years ago while producing a TV segment on Haida art, and met many of the contemporary artists whose work is now in this exhibit. Rusty gave me a customized tour of the exhibit, giving me a better back story on the pieces than the gallery placards were able to do, and he peppered it with stories from his trip (like the dinner he was invited to at one artist's house, where he ate deer spaghetti, which he still raves about).
Anyway, it's a really cool exhibit. It places contemporary pieces alongside traditional pieces that are sometimes hundreds of years old, and you can learn so much by seeing the tiny differences between the two (and by reading the literature alongside the pieces). I liked it a lot and hope to go back for another look before the exhibit ends in September.
Hear
I don't know how many of you do the internet radio thing, but Rusty's gotten really into it, as have I by osmosis. The station we play about 90 percent of the time is KCRW, which Rusty has aptly dubbed "alternative adult contemporary." In other words, it's easy listening for thirtysomething hipsters. The station plays everything from ambient tracks to groovy contemporary covers of '80s pop songs. They also do smart talk radio, some of which is available as podcasts, including (my favourite) the Bookworm segments.
Smell
Hm. I'm kind of drawing a blank on this one. Yesterday, Sam made a poop that melted all the hairs inside my nose. Does that count for anything?
And on that note, the young master is awake from his nap, so I've got to skedaddle. Get out there and feast your senses, okay?
*Just so you know, Lulu came to us fat, and she's firmly resisted our encouragement that she might want to do something about it... purely for health reasons, mind you. We're not fattists in our house.
Well, I was ABOUT to write a new entry, but then I watched this short animation first, and it blew my mind. I'm still reeling. I'll check back in later.
Jesus.
What differentiates human beings from other animals is that we're able to hold two diametrically opposed opinions without having our brains explode. This must be the reason why I like Dorothy Parker and A.A. Milne, Ms. Parker's literary contemporary and mortal enemy, and list them both among my favourite short story writers.
If you've ever read any of Parker's literary criticism, you know I'm not exaggerating. She loathed Milne and his pantheon of characters, leading with Winnie-the-Pooh.
In a shifting, sliding world, it is something to know that Mr. A.A. "Whimsy-the-Pooh" Milne stands steady. He may, tease that he is, delude us into thinking for a while that he has changed; that we are all grown up now, and so he may be delicately bitter and even a little pleasurably weary, in front of us; and then, suddenly as the roguish sun darting from the cloud, or the little crocus popping into bloom, or the ton of coal clattering down the chute, he is our own Christopher Robin again, and everything is hippity-hoppity as of old.
Ouch. If you didn't feel the sting in that, take this excerpt from her review of The House on Pooh Corner:
It "seemed to [Pooh] a Good Hum, such as is Hummed Hopefully to Others." In fact, so Good a Hum did it seem that he and Piglet started right out through the snow to Hum It Hopefully to Eeyore. Oh, darn -- there I've gone and given away the plot. Oh, I could bite my tongue out.
The thing is, I can sort of see what Parker is talking about. It's like when you find out that someone whose opinion you respect feels complete abhorrance for a book or movie you love. You're sort of shocked at first, but then when they explain themselves you can see why it is they hate it, without suffering any change of sentiment yourself. I mean, I've read "Eeyore Has a Birthday" enough times to wonder how the hell it is that Pooh manages to forget that the pot of honey he's carrying is a birthday present, and then he conveniently remembers the minute after he's eaten all the honey. As a person of about average common sense, these actions trouble me. I can only imagine how someone of Parker's heightened sensitivity must feel.
In some ways, Parker is a sort of Eeyore herself, the wounded cynic who frequently has the clearest insights and gets the funniest one-liners, and who also bumps up the wrong way against happy doofuses like Pooh Bear. And much as the other denizens of the Hundred Acre Wood often find themselves intimidated by Eeyore, to the extent that they occasionally give him a wide berth, Parker writes humorously of her own occasional pariah status at parties:
It has lately been drawn to your correspondant's attention that, at social gatherings, she is not the human magnet she would be. Indeed, it turns out that as a source of entertainment, conviviality, and good fun, she ranks somewhere between a sprig of parsley and a single ice-skate.
If that isn't an Eeyore-ish sentiment, I don't know what is. Don't believe me? Compare it to the following:
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can't all, and some of us don't. That's all there is to it."
"Can't all what?" said Pooh, rubbing his nose.
"Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush."
"Oh!" said Pooh. He thought for a long time and then asked, "What mulberry bush is that?"
"Bon-hommy," went on Eeyore gloomily. "French word meaning bonhommy," he explained. "I'm not complaining, but There It Is."
Awww. I love Eeyore so. And that's probably why I'm able to like Parker and Milne simultaneously.
Speaking of sluts, you all know that I'm a total list whore, which is obviously why Data Bunny knew exactly what magic buttons to push when she recently emailed me:
A list! A list! We must have a list!
If you would please, list in order of importance the top five things I must see when I visit Vancouver in August. Since I am living in the land-locked Midwest (MN), the ocean is on the top. However, the ocean does not three days fill.
Oh, but sister, in these parts you actually could fill three days with visiting the ocean:
Day 1: Walk around the Stanley Park Seawall. It's 10 kilometres long (or about six of your Yankee miles), and since Stanley Park is on a peninsula, the Seawall is always next to the water. There are several beaches along the way, the biggest being the one at English Bay.
Day 2: Go to any of the beaches in the neighbourhood of Kitsilano. Kits Beach. Jericho. Spanish Banks. They're all pretty nice, especially if you dig the classic volleyball/frisbee/barbecue vibe.
Day 3: Now that you're properly warmed up, head to Wreck Beach, the only recognized nude beach in the country. It's a bit of a trek to get to, involving a trip to the University of British Columbia and a hike down a long flight of outdoor stairs, but it's well worth it. The beach is clothing optional, so you don't have to peel if you don't want to. The vibe is low-key and friendly, not skeevy. I've always felt comfortable at Wreck. The best part of this beach, to me, is the variety of wares being peddled here. From Stormin' Norman's wild meat burger stand to the various vendors walking up and down the beach selling everything from shooters to watermelon to shiatsu massage to jewelry to various illicit substances, it's the weirdest assortment of goods and services you can expect to find in one place... all delivered straight to your beach blanket. As an added bonus, since many of the vendors are naked, you can get a firsthand chance to see how a fanny pack can be worn as a codpiece.
So that's how you could, feasibly, spend all three days in Vancouver near the ocean and have completely different experiences. But if you want to mix in some non-beachy activities and destinations, here are some other things you can do and places to go:
If you're downtown, you can take the Aquabus (a tiny foot-passenger ferry) from one of its many ports to Granville Island. It's about a 10-minute ride, and when you get to the island, you can stroll around and check out the many, many artist and artisan studios that are open to the public. There are a couple of cool public markets, too, including the Net Loft and the huge Granville Island Market. If you're hungry, the Market has a really funky food court, as well as a great outdoor space right on the water where you can eat your lunch. Or you can do what I prefer to do and go to the Sandbar for lunch (which is served all afternoon). This is a really nice restaurant with a fabulous outdoor deck, where you can watch the boats come in and out of the harbour. During the summer, there are buskers all over the island. Consider this either a plug or a warning, depending on your feelings about buskers.
The Vancouver Aquarium is really cool and definitely worth checking out. It's modern and well-designed, and you can tell the animals are very well cared for. The aquarium has larger mammals such as belugas, dolphins, sea otters and sea lions, all of which were born in capitivity. There are regular instructional lectures and stuff, or you can just stroll around. The aquarium is on the grounds of Stanley Park (which is more like a huge forest than a park), so you can combine a visit with a stroll on the park's trails and/or a walk around the Seawall.
The Seawall actually extends for miles and miles around the city. (If you look at a map of Vancouver, just picture the Seawall running along pretty much the entire perimeter where the ocean meets the city.) You could spend three days on a bike (you can rent bikes downtown, by the hour or by the day) just visiting various sites along the Seawall. All the beaches (with the exception of Wreck) are found along the Seawall. Stanley Park and the Aquarium? On the Seawall. Granville Island? Also on the Seawall. Another cool destination is Science World, which also houses an IMAX theatre. Right now, Science World has a major exhibit all about ancient Egypt... rendered in Lego. It's pretty nifty.
Vancouver's Chinatown is small, but as one of the oldest areas of the city, it's worth checking out, especially if you like authentic Chinese cuisine. Because it's small, you can make your trek to Chinatown more worthwhile by visiting neighbouring Gastown, an equally old neighbourhood. Most of the shops are of the tacky tourist variety, and definitely don't eat at the restaurants, but the architecture is cool. On one block of Cordova Street are some great little shops -- such as Dream and The Block -- featuring clothes and accessories by Vancouver designers, as well as one of my favourite vintage/consignment clothing shops, Deluxe Junk Co.
Ooh, I should also recommend some restaurants. Vancouver is FULL of great restaurants at all price points, so there's no need to ever suffer a bad meal. Apparently, Vancouverites eat out more than residents of any other city in Canada, which probably explains why we have so many great dining choices. A few of Rusty's and my favourites (you can look them up, as most have websites): Feenie's, Memphis Blues, Vij's, Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, Vera's Burger Shack, Rime, Ouisi Bistro, Clove, Deserts Falafel, Monsoon, The Reef, Moderne Burger, Barney's Caffe, Waazubee, Rodney's Oyster Bar, Bin 941, Bin 942, All India Sweets, The Afghan Horseman, and Stella's.
If you like sushi (or if you've always wanted to try it, but it's too expensive to experiment with, as is often the case in land-locked cities), you can get good, cheap sushi all over the city. A tip: If you walk into a sushi joint and you can smell fish, walk back out. A good sushi restaurant shouldn't smell like a fish market.
For THE best gelato in the entire city -- and possibly the continent -- go to La Dolce Amore on Commercial Drive. There may be a line-up, and while I don't normally advocate standing on line for anything, I'll make an exception here.
If you're a coffee fiend, there are Starbucks locations everywhere. I mean that literally. They just opened up one in my basement, which is already in fierce competition with the Starbucks located in my neighbour's basement. I'm not a Starbucks basher, but while it'll do in a pinch, I think there are better coffees to be found in Vancouver, a city dedicated to the mighty bean. In my neighbourhood (the aforementioned Commercial Drive area), I love both Abruzzo and Turk's. Further afield, Caffe Artigiano makes gorgeous "artisan" coffees and has a few locations downtown.
And to end this post on a bookish note, if you're strolling around downtown and you find yourself in the neighbourhood of Robson and Hamilton Streets, look up and take note of the (relatively) new Vancouver Public Library. Designed by reknowned architect Moshe Safdie, this edifice has created controversy since before it was even built. People either love it or hate it. Let me know what you think.
Whew. That's all I can think of for now, though I'm sure more will come to me. If anyone has any tips they'd like to offer Data Bunny, fire away.
I've been trying to figure out why lately I just don't feel that spark in my keyboard that I usually feel when I write.
Is it that I haven't read any books to blog about? No, I'm actually reading tonnes these days.
Is it that I'm tired? Dude, I'm always tired. It rarely slows me down.
Is it that life is busy, blah blah blah? That may have been the reason up until last week, but things are pretty smooth this week, so strike that one.
No, I think the problem is that I'm (temporarily, I hope) sick of my own words. Has this ever happened to you? You've spent all night chatting it up at a party, or all day presenting a workshop or lecturing to a group of people, and you get home and realize you're sick to death of the sound of your own voice? And worse, when you replay your mental tapes, you become increasingly convinced that everyone else must be sick of it, too. And then, in order to overcome the crippling delayed embarrassment that this realization has triggered, you resolve to change your ways and become... well, still yourself, but the best, quietest, most subdued version of yourself.
Do any of you know this phenomenon of which I speak? I'm not the only one, am I? (This is where you smile kindly and sympathetically and pretend to commiserate.)
While I'm sadly accustomed to experiencing word-shame due to my, er, verbal loquaciousness, this is the first time I've felt this way because of my writing. Between all the reports and presentation notes and other work-related writing AND the blogging, I just wish I'd shut up already.
And by now you're wishing the same thing.
This whingefest -- and not-so-thinly veiled cry for help -- has been brought to you by the letter Y and the number 0. And now back to your regularly scheduled internet.
Soccer Slut #1: I can't believe I came out to celebrate the World Cup final and I forgot to wear a slutty top.
Soccer Slut #2: No problem. Just unzip your hoodie so that your bra is fully exposed for everyone to see, then use body paint to draw an Italian flag on your cleavage.
SS #1: You are a genius.
SS #2: Thank you.
Okay, I didn't actually hear that, but something has to explain the sartorial issues I witnessed yesterday.
And for the record, I'm using the word "slut" in the non-pejorative sense. I love sluts. Sluts rock. Sometimes they make poor fashion choices, is all.
I don't know about the rest of you, but I my very own self am getting the hell out of Dodge for the weekend. Some of my fellow Bored Housewives and I are packing up our boys and men and heading for the wilds of Whistler. But before I take off, I wanted to leave you with a little Rx for a summer reading weekend.
A Boy of Good Breeding
by Miriam Toews (#22)
I considered Toews's novel A Complicated Kindness one of the best books I read in 2005, which makes me unsure why it took so long for me to look up her earlier books. But we all know how the tortoise fared in that infamous race, and thus it was with me. I win!
If you're like me, you like the idea of fun, goofy, Tom Robbins-esque stories, while the actuality of his novels bugs the living shit out of you. So imagine a Tom Robbins novel, minus the laboured, fey, irritating, Tom Robbins-y element, and you've pretty much got A Boy of Good Breeding. It isn't as heavy as Kindness (which is an amazing book that you should read if you haven't already), but that's A-OK, because it's summer, dude. You can save the heavy lifting for October.
The story follows the overlapping narratives of two characters. Knute has just returned to her hometown of Algren, Manitoba, with her four-year-old daughter, Summer Feelin', to figure out what to do with the rest of her life. She gets a job as secretary for Algren's mayor, Hosea Funk, who, for reasons that become apparent, is obsessed with keeping the town's population at an even 1500. Hijinx ensue.
I already hate myself for the adjectives I'm about to use to describe this novel: Funny. Quirky. Charming. Heartwarming. Urgh. Well, read it anyway, and I'll promise to buy a better thesaurus.
And I'm out of here. Catch you on Monday, comrades.
If you're looking for a way to combine two of your favourite things -- shopping for books and being an awesome person -- might I suggest that you donate a book to the Hurricane Katrina-beleagured Harrison County library system? The Dewey Donation System makes it oh-so-easy, and Glark has created extra incentives with draws and prizes through Glarkware and TWoP.
I'm also sweetening the pot in my own small way. If you make a donation to Dewey (or if you already have), just post about it in the comments section of this entry. After the Dewey Drive is over, I'll do a draw of all the comments and I'll give each of ten random commenters a fine mystery offering from the boxes of books that still clutter my front hallway. Give a book, get a book. That's a pretty sweet deal, if I say so myself.
So... ready, set... well, you know.
Fellow patriots. A belated happy Canada / America / Granfalloon-of-Your-Choice Day to you and yours. May your flag always wave proudly and the ice in your mojito never melt.
Much as I'd love to say that Rusty and young Master Sam and I have been sequestered for the extra-long weekend with a two-four of Kokanee and a crate of illicit fireworks, the truth is much more mundane. Given that Rusty has been down with some kind of virus and Sam has been going through some x-treme teething lately (curse you and the horse you rode in on, molars), it was more like a four-day bender with a vat of Pepto Bismol, a bottle of infant Tylenol, and a tube of Orajel. (You wish you were me. I know you do.)
In the absence of a proper segue, let's just proceed to the bookish segment of this post, shall we?
Black Swan Green
by David Mitchell (#21)
I'm always blown away when people tell me that they have no memories of their early childhood. I'm, like, "Really? None at ALL? Not even ONE? Are you sure? How is this possible? What do you have in your brain where those memories should be?"
My earliest memory is from when I'm roughly two or two-and-a-half years old. I'm standing in my crib calling for my mom because my baby sister, DoppelSis, with whom I share a room, is crying. I'm not sure if I'm calling out of concern or just because I want her to shut up. Some memories are destined to be lost in the sands of time, I guess.
I also remember a time when I snuck into the laundry room and lifted the lid to the washing machine while the machine was running. An instant later, it started to rain right inside the room, which blew my three-year-old mind. Intellectually, of course, I know now that it wasn't raining inside the room, that it was just water spraying everywhere, but my visual memory will always be of the magical sight of rain falling from the ceiling.
Around the age of four, the memories really start heaping up.
During the spring that I turned four, there was massive flooding in the area of the Ottawa Valley that our farm was in. The floods took out the roads for regular vehicles, and families in low-lying areas had to evacuate. I remember being picked up -- along with my parents, sisters and brother -- by a hay wagon that was pulled by a pair of enormous horses. The wagon made the rounds of a bunch of farms, picking up more and more people. At points, the water was so deep that the horses had to swim. The wagon, being made of wood, floated, and water lapped right up against the edges. I remember the sensation as the wagon went from touching the ground to suddenly floating, the sudden inrush of weightlessness.
That summer, our cat killed a snake. We watched the battle, which felt like hours but was probably more like ten minutes, from a safe distance, not interfering because my father said it was only a garter snake. Our cat, whom I'd previously thought of as just another pet, was transformed into an epic hero.
Later that same year, I remember the time my older brother dared me to jump from one level of the hayloft to another. We were playing up near the top (yes, unsupervised; remember, this was the early 1970s, before safety was invented), and the next lowest level was about fifteen feet below. Trustingly (or idiotically, depending on what kind of spin you put on it), I jumped. The fall was long enough that I remember the sensation of freefall. And then I landed flat on my back and knocked the wind out of myself. If you think bales of hay are soft, you've never been dropped a full storey on to one. I was unhurt, probably due to the puffy one-piece snowsuit I was wearing, but the tragic flaw in our plan was that we hadn't factored in my escape route. I was too short to climb the ladder up and out of the hay-filled abyss, something my brother was in denial about. Accepting this fact meant that he'd have to go get our mother to rescue me. After much convincing on my part, he finally did. When I remember the fact that my extremely un-athletic mom was forced to not just climb down a sheer, vertical ladder, but then to climb back up again while carrying a four-year-old in one arm... well, it boggles the mind. Strangely, I don't remember being punished for this act of Fear Factor-esque adventuring, but I probably should have been.
The thing that strikes me about childhood memories is that there's an aura of magic or awe around most of them. I was rarely afraid as a child, but I was frequently dazzled or mystified. Obviously, this element is what gives these memories their sticking power. I'm sure that I had countless episodes of abject boredom, but I'm grateful that my brain has decided to let those moments go. I wish my adult memory behaved as admirably.
I think this is why I love children's books, or books written for adults that recapture the experience of childhood. They ignore the chaff that can clutter up grown-up fiction, and in a way, they feel realer than real. There's a straightforwardness and a heightened awareness that's like looking at a rain-splattered leaf through a magnifying glass on a sunny day. Things are bigger and brighter and shinier.
I've had this feeling while reading a few books. Roddy Doyle's Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha. Emma Richler's Feed My Dear Dogs. All of Lynda Barry's Marlys and Freddie collections. And most recently David Mitchell's Black Swan Green.
One of the things that unites all these books is that they're uncomfortable to read. They're filled with painful observations, and with cruel circumstances, and with confused reactions to those circumstances, all of which can break your heart for the characters.
But these stories are also filled with moments of magic and clarity that make me realize that when we achieve the rationality and sureness of adulthood, we lose the bewildered bewitchment of childhood, and that's a sad loss. The best we can do is try to recapture it in fleeting moments, so that we can at least appreciate what we once had.
