ETC: It's... It's... It's Alive!

So it turns out I'm not dead after all. I'm in the wilds of Ottawa visiting DoppelSis and the charming entourage that is her family. I've been MIA on the blog front because one of the myriad things my doctor also warned me about was spending any time sitting in front of a computer. Which, if you ever saw how my posture goes totally Monty Burns (it's doing it now!) within 30 seconds of me getting online, you'd figure is solid advice.

So following the most excellent tip meted out by a few kind souls (shout out to Tuckova and Laura and Stacy!) in the comments section of my last whinge-saturated post, I managed to get in to see a massage therapist for 45 gloriously masochistic minutes last Friday, and seriously, I can't believe what a difference it made (shout out to Gabriella at Grandview Massage Therapy!). I had been considering cancelling my trip to Ontario, a trip I've been looking forward to for two months, but I couldn't fathom how I was going to wrangle squirrelly Sam by myself throughout the two flights needed to get from Vancouver to here. But when I woke up on Saturday morning, my departure mere hours away, my neck felt -- if not fully restored -- markedly better.

And Sam was perfect -- PERFECT -- on the plane. Busy, yes. Interested in everything, also yes. But that's his way, and frankly I'd respect him less if he weren't. But he was happy to while away the time reading all the library books I'd checked out but hidden from him till we boarded the plane. He was equally interested in the small television screen placed conveniently inches away from our faces in the seat ahead of us. Oh, glory be. All you naysayers who are down on TV for toddlers: I don't want to hear about it. And did I tell you about the two-hour nap? I didn't even have to drug him, which was a total waste of the baby roofies I brought along, but oh well. (Er, P.S. That was a joke.)

And. AND. The scales of whateverness balanced out. Remember my bitching about the sour cow in my doctor's office who let me struggle out a spring-loaded door with a babe-in-arms, a heavy bag, and a stroller? Well, Zod above heard my pitiful screed (because whiners are Zod's chosen people) and sent me this woman's counterpart on the plane. The only other occupant of our row was an absolutely lovely middle-aged man who made it seem like not only was he not chagrined at having to share a row with us, but quite the opposite: being seatmates with a slightly frazzled mom and her wiggly toddler was his idea of the perfect flight. Somebody nominate this man for an Oscar, or at least a nighttime Emmy.

At any rate, here am I, safe and, if not sound, not entirely unsound. I probably won't be posting much between now and Labour Day, though. There's the neck thing, of course, but more importantly, I'm trying to maximize my time with this happy crew. I'll just share a couple of the highs and lows of the tip so far:

High: Eating the best fucking tomatoes I can remember eating. Like, tomatoes so red and juicy and firm and flavourful that all you need is a knife, a fork, and some salt, and you've got yourself a meal.

Low: Seeing the biggest fucking spider I've ever seen outside a wildlife exhibit, just hanging out -- hanging out! Like it owned the place! -- under the trampoline. I'm talking big. But I'm not even going to try to convey how big this goddamned thing was, because you'd just assume I'm exaggerating, and I kind of couldn't blame you, but I wouldn't be. It was that big. I didn't like trampolines to begin with, and this has done nothing to improve my opinion of them.

So I'll see you all back here on the first day of school. I hope you have your "What I Did Over the Summer Holidays" essays ready. And yes. Spelling counts.

ETC: A Tall Glass of Rage with a Vitriol Chaser

I just got back from my doctor's office. I've been having weird, painful muscle spasms in my neck, and every so often I'll do something extravagently taxing, such as flip my hair out of my eyes, which will cause my entire neck to seize up, rendering me temporarily blind. When I come to, I'll find myself on the floor and speaking in tongues. (I am somewhat exaggerating for comedic effect. Is it working?)

So thanks to the power of advanced 21st-century medicine, here's what I've learned:

• I've strained a neck muscle. Surprise!
• There are muscle relaxants that could help, but I can't take them because I'm still nursing Sam, and I have no desire to add the stress of cold-turkey weaning to either of our lives.
• I could try massage therapy, but it won't yield results before Sam and I are scheduled to fly across the country this Saturday.

One thing my doctor adamantly advised: Absolutely no lifting or carrying heavy objects. At this point in the visit, I started laughing hysterically, then went blind, fell to ground, spoke in tongues, etcetera etcetera. But after that I went through the motions of pretending that this had been a fruitful medical appointment and not an utter waste of both of our time, because there was no need for BOTH of us to feel bad.

Then I went out to the reception area, picked up my 28-lb toddler, who had rendered himself temporarily weightless for my benefit (he's thoughtful that way), and who certainly DIDN'T kick and writhe and arch his back in fury when I tried to strap him into the stroller, resulting in me carrying him and our tote bag and pushing the stroller out the door. (Oh, and memo to the sour-faced dink who sat stonily in her seat and didn't offer to help because the blank spot on the wall she was staring at was clearly so fucking fascinating that she didn't want to miss a minute of it: THANK YOU. I hope that, someday, someone extends the same courtesy to you, toots. And while I'm dictating memos, here's one to the guy who almost mowed over me and Sam as we were heading to my appointment: I'm sure the glare coming off the hood of your shiny new Hummer must've temporarily blinded you, causing you to not even SLOW DOWN as you careened past the stop sign and into the pedestrian walkway, and I'm SO SORRY I startled you when I yelled just in time for you to come to a screeching stop a mere foot away from my baby. I sure hope the rest of your day has been swell. But seriously... a Hummer? You've got to be fucking kidding me. I really want to stop ascribing stereotypes to people, but why do people make it so hard?)

The only shining spot in my day so far was when Rusty, who is often mysteriously attuned to my moods even if he doesn't understand that any dish with the word "carbonara" in it contains loathesome bacon, called me from work and asked if I wanted a ride home from the doctor's office. Why, yes. Yes, I did.

So now I'm back home, too grouchy and consternated to write about books. I can see how misanthropes are created. If it weren't for all you nice people who live inside the internet, my faith in humanity would be, if not shattered, then at least tattered and vaguely mildewy. Give yourselves a pat on the back from me, okay?

P.S. I was searching for a visual metaphor to describe the the little bundles of pain scattered beneath my skin, and this was the closest I could find:

BOOKS: Ignorant? Moi?

Well, thank god David Mitchell's Black Swan Green is considered the front runner for this year's Man Booker Prize, because it's the only title on the long list that I've actually read.

Why is it that every year I read these lists and realize I haven't heard of most of the books on them? More to the point, why do I persist in believing myself a well-read person despite this?

BOOKS: And the Winners Are...

Thanks so much to everyone who sent a book (or books!) to the Harrison County library system, via the Dewey Donation System, to help out the libraries affected by Hurricane Katrina. When you think about how a single library book can pass through hundreds of hands -- helping people, teaching people, or just plain entertaining people -- it's astounding to think of what just one gift can do. So again I thank you.

Coincidentally, I just received a lovely note from Charline Longino, Head Librarian at the Biloxi Public Library, thanking me for my own donation. I was touched to realize that Ms. Longino is taking the time out of her schedule -- which is, no doubt, much busier than my own -- to write personal letters to book donors.

So without any further ado (unless you want more ado, because believe me, I can provide it), here are the nine* winners of the 50 Books Dewey Donation Draw:

Anna
Deb
Sweetie Darling
Michael
Random Ranter
LJ
LisaPete90
HeatherS
BetsyTacy

If each of could email me your mailing address at 50books [at] gmail [dot] com, I'll pop your mystery book prizes in the mail forthwith. And thanks again. You guys rock!

*I KNOW that more than nine of you donated books (I read all the comments in the Dewey blog), so I can only hazard that your fear and trepidation of the mystery books is what made you cautious about entering the draw. Your fears may prove well founded. Bwahahahaha!

BOOKS: Deadline! Deadline! Deadline!

Just dropping in to say that, once again, my day job is rearing its head, so all I have time to mention is that today is the final day of the Dewey Donation Drive. If you've been planning to donate books to libraries affected by Hurricane Katrina, now's the time to jump on board.

And don't forget: if you donate books or money -- or if you already have -- remember to post about it here. Next week, I'll be drawing the names of ten lucky winners who'll receive books directly from my own bookshelves. I've been pulling titles all week -- some great, some weird, some both -- so make sure you get in on the action.

And I'm off to the salt mines. Have a great weekend!

WORDS: Making Me Proud of the English Language

One of my favourite features on defective yeti is The Bad Review Revue, a regular roundup of awesome reviews of terrible movies. Since my site is about all things wordy, I couldn't not share with you the brilliance of the most recent bad review, which is for the movie Sphere:

Dustin is ashen. He keeps looking over his shoulder as if he expects somebody to rush in and tell him it's okay, he can leave, the monster won't be offended. But nobody comes.

"Hi, Dustin," the monster croaks in a screechy, raspy voice.

"I want to make another American Buffalo," Dustin replies. "Or maybe Wag the Dog."

"Whatever." The monster yawns and spreads its legs.

"Ohhhh," whines Dustin, sounding like Ben Braddock in The Graduate. "Ohhhh. I-I-I-I dunno. I dunno if I can do this."

"Don't pull the shy virgin bit with me." The monster pats the mattress. "Come over here, Rain Man. Give it to me rough this time."

So Dustin fucks the monster, holding his nose and trying hard not to gag. But after a while, he kind of gets into it. He knows what the monster likes. They go way back.

You'll have to go here to read the rest.

Mean? Yes. Magnificent? Definitely. I don't know about you, but this makes me proud to be a fellow user of the English language.

BOOKS: What Makes Canadians Canadian?

For some reason, I've been reading and writing about a lot of Canadian authors lately, so I wasn't entirely surprised that someone -- specifically Diablevert, whom I can always count on to keep me honest, book-wise -- had a thought-provoking response to it.

Dear Doppelganger,

I was reading your post about Farley Mowat a while back, and it got me thinking about the cultural differences between the States and Canada. Like how most Americans think there aren't any. (As Homer put it, "Canada? Why should we leave America to visit America Junior?")

Obviously, this is false. But, being an ignorant American, I would be curious what Canadians think the biggest difference are.

So, what should I read if I wanted to immerse myself in this foreign culture? What authors are particularly Canadian? What are the Canadian ur-texts, the stuff they make everyone read when you're in school and little? (Johnny Tremain comes to mind for me, as a kid who grew up in Boston. We also had to memorize Longfellow's "Paul Revere's Ride.") Farley Mowat seems to have been one, from some of the comments it provoked.

What makes Canadians Canadian? Go on, come up with an all-encompassing definition of the culture of 32 million people. I dare ya.

Cheers,
Diablevert

P.S. Yeah, yeah, Tim Horton's.

Heheh. We only recently got a few Tim Horton's franchises in Vancouver, and let me tell you, they caused quite a stir.

Anyway. I need to roll this around my brain for a bit before I come up with a response that I expect will be as broad and sweeping as it is totally inaccurate. I bet you all can't wait.

In the meantime, have at 'er, Canadians and other opinionated people. I'm extremely curious to hear what you folks think.

BOOKS: Vague Feelings and Crusty Clichés

I love Carrie's site. She's snarky in such a fresh way, and if you think it's easy being snarky and fresh on this here internet, then you've clearly never tried to blog for a sustained period of time.

So, when I read this over in tryharderland, I took it to heart:

I have some advice for all you book bloggers out there. Don’t wait too long to post about your reading. You will not have quotes because books have gone back to the library or disappeared in your apartment. You will forget plots, you will forget characters, you will forget whole books and then have to create a review from vague feelings and crusty clichés.

So true. I've read two books recently, and I'm lucky if I can even pull a crusty ol' cliché out of my ass. Dude, I had to stop myself from going upstairs to check out the covers, because I can barely even remember their titles. But maybe everything will come back to me as I write. Odds are against it, but it's possible! Are you in a gambling mood today? Then keep reading.

Big Trouble
by Dave Barry (#26)
All I remember about this book is that it's sort of a detective story, and it's set in Miami, and it started off slow so that I was sort of doubting myself for having put it on my Amazon wishlist, but then it picked up and ended up being a pretty funny read.

I've never read anything by Dave Barry before, and I understand that he doesn't normally write fiction, but he did a pretty okay job with this novel, so my hat goes off to you, Mr. Barry.

Scanning the last two paragraphs for vague feelings and crusty clichés...

Vague feelings: 4
Crusty clichés: Does doffing a metaphorical hat count as a cliché? Then one, I guess.

Beauty Tips from Moose Jaw
by Will Ferguson (#27)
Last spring (and by "last spring" I mean the spring of this year, 2006; I don't know why, but the phrase "last spring" seems like it's referring to a much more distant past -- but I digress), Rusty and I had big travel plans for the summer.

First, we were going to go camping at least twice.

We were also going to rent a cabin on a lake with some friends for at least a week.

And then there was some loose talk about going to New York and/or San Francisco for a few days.

Try not to be too depressed on my behalf when I tell you that, other than a weekend trip to Whistler with a few of my fellow Bored Housewives and their menfolk and babyfolk, all our travel plans have been as dust in the wind. I don't know what happens to us in the summertime. We're all talk until May, and then as soon as the Victoria Day long weekend comes and goes, we get stupid and stupefied... perhaps from the heat, perhaps from the fact that our bellies are creakingly laden with ice cream from the amazing gelateria down the street -- who can say?

But now I don't need a summer vacation. For I have read Will Ferguson's Beauty Tips from Moose Jaw. It's the ultimate Canadian road-trip book, and if you know how much I love both road trips and this big-ass country of mine, then you know how much I loved this book.

I had the great pleasure of meeting Ferguson a few years ago, after his novel Happiness came out, when he was a guest on a TV show I was working on. He was personable and funny and smart and self-deprecating, qualities which lend themselves not just to a great TV interview but also to a great road-trip companion.

Ferguson starts his chronicle in Victoria, the capital of British Columbia, and slowly works his way east, ending up in St. John's, the capital of Newfoundland. It's appropriate that he starts and finishes in these cities, because in addition to being two of his favourite places, they represent polar aspects of what he loves about Canada: the charming faux-historical English pretension of Victoria versus the down-to-earth (and, dare I say, "gritty") Irishness (more Irish than Ireland, claims Ferguson) of St. John's.

In between both coasts, Ferguson stops in a broad range of locales, from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan (one of my favourite cities, too; remind me to tell you why later), to Churchill, Manitoba (home to the famous polar bears, which, despite what conservatives say, really are endangered due to global warming and the melting ice caps) to the Republic of Madawaska (the region sandwiched between Quebec, New Brunswick and the U.S. that got so sick of being an object of dispute that it declared secession from both Canada and the U.S., and still jokingly declares its autonomy to this day).

I enjoyed this book even more than I expected to. Ferguson's travel writing is in a very similar vein to Bill Bryson's, but while Bryson has an occasional tendency to drift into mundanity and stay there a bit too long, Ferguson is a fair bit sharper and on point. I'd be happy to sit in his passenger seat and read his maps any day.

Wait. That last sentence came out wrong.

Vague feelings: 3
Crusty clichés: None! Unless you count earnest patriotism. You do? Dang, you people are tough.

ETC: Three Words for You: Big. Fucking. Spider.

No new post today, I'm afraid. We've had a plumbing malfunction and I needed to clean beneath our kitchen sink in preparation for the plumber's visit. It was one of the five worst things I've ever done in my life. I'd rather go through eight hours of labour again than repeat this experience.

Three words for you: Big. Fucking. Spider.

So now I'm relaxing with a drink. And yes. It's only two in the afternoon. Don't you judge me.

While I'm looking up therapists in the yellow pages, why don't you read my last post and add your suggestions to the list. You're good people... you, especially. Despite the judging.

BOOKS: Give a Little, Get a Lot

I recently got an email from Chasity (who has a book blog called I Feel Pithy, which you should definitely check out when you get a chance):

I am trying to raise book donations for the Oasis Youth Shelter in Ft. Myers, Florida. The Shelter cares for 350-375 children between the ages of 10-17. The kids fall into one of four categories: truant, runaway, homeless, or designated ungovernable by the state of Florida.

My mom has been volunteering there and after listening to some of the stories, I felt the least I could do was donate some much-needed books to the shelter's library. I've gotten most of my friends to donate as well. I've been collecting and shipping them as they come in and I've even set up a wish list at Amazon.com.

My request is for you to recommend some books for the wishlist. If you could help me fill out the list with books that would appeal to 10-to-17-year-olds (mostly female), I would really appreciate it. The book drive has no timeline as I plan to keep going until the day I die.

I know that so many of you have already given generously to the Dewey Donation System in support of the libraries affected by Hurricane Katrina, and I'm hoping that you can come through yet again for the kids at the Oasis Youth Shelter. Even if you can't afford to send new books, there are other ways you can help:

1. Recommend books for the wish list.
I know from experience that you guys have no shortage of opinions when it comes to book suggestions (heheh), so please post away in the comments section. As Chasity mentions, they're looking at books for 10-to-17-year-olds, particularly girls and young women, so please bear that in mind. Amy Palmer, who is the clinical director for the shelter, would like donations to be age appropriate, with a minimum of violence and sexuality. Amy also says they're interested in many of the following types of books:

• Reference books (including atlases and encyclopedias)
• Dictionaries (kid-friendly and teen-friendly, as well as traditional) for use during homework time
  
• Blank journals (The shelter would like to encourage more journaling by the kids.)
• Sports
• Books on how things work
• Career choices
• Historical and biographical
• Arts and crafts (Amy says that some of the kids show a lot of interest in making things, so arts and crafts kits would be great, too.)

2. Send your own gently used books.
Check out the wish list or the guidelines above, and see if you have any appropriate books that you're done with. (Come on, deep down you know it's time for a good ol' fashioned book purge. And think about all the lovely space you'll make available on your shelves... for more books!)

Any donations can be sent directly to the shelter:

Oasis Youth Shelter
3634 Central Avenue
Ft. Myers, FL 33901

Chasity is in the process of working out shipping for those who can't afford to mail the books themselves, but she mentions that's probably a little ways off. Oh, and if you do send books that are on the wish list, please be sure to email Chasity at chasitymoody[AT]ifeelpithy[DOT]com to let her know, so she can remove the book from the wishlist.

3. And of course, there's always that Amazon wish list.
Even if you can't send anything now, bookmark it. You never know what riches the future holds for you! And please, please consider forwarding this post to your book-loving friends.

ETC: A Face That Only a Mother Could... Uh...

Why do I have the feeling that I have the kid that other parents are someday going to talk about in disapproving whispers?

This isn't the cherub I came home from the hospital with. I have no idea why he's making that face, but I do know this: if I ever find myself standing next to the banister on the upper landing of our palatial manor and I see Sam driving toward me at full speed on his Hot Wheels? I'm getting the hell out of the way.

What's that? You want a close-up? All righty.

Let me know if you want a print of this in poster size for over your bed. I'm taking orders.

BOOKS: I Am Writing a Book

No fooling, I really am. I'm about halfway finished and hoping to have a first draft done by late fall as soon as I get a month's worth of uninterrupted sleep.

The working title is Everything I Know About Parenting I Learned from the Internet, and I'm touting it as the least preachy parenting book ever written, mostly because I just make fun of myself and anyone who thinks they have a definitive handle on any aspect of this parenting gig.

I'm also promoting it as a parenting book for both parents AND non-parents that'll leave you feeling good about yourself, either because (a) you'll realize that, however challenging you may occasionally find being a parent, there's a much bigger doofus than you out there, or because (b) you'll realize that not having kids was the smartest thing you ever did. Either way, score one point for you!

Plus, there are lists a-plenty. There's no way I could write a book that didn't contain a few lists or, as we savvy publishing insiders like to call them, "sidebars."

So here I am, publishers: someone with absolutely zero credentials writing a parenting book that contains no advice, quick fixes, or practical information whatsoever. How refreshing is that?

ETC: Overheard in Vancouver

One of the things I love about this city is that, if homelessness has to exist (and trust me, I'm not endorsing it, but that's a topic for another conversation), so many of our street folks have such moxy. They're often personable and charming, and frequently quite funny. Maybe it's a west coast thing. I don't know.

I once walked past someone's temporary streetside encampment. There was a sleeping bag and blankets, a duffel bag, and various lifestyle accoutrements arranged neatly nearby. There was no person to be seen, but in their stead they'd left a neat business-like sign that read "Back in 5 minutes."

Then there's the guy who, in lieu of a can or cup to collect his earnings, uses a small wishing well lawn ornament, and who encourages you to "Make a wish!" as you pass by.

And last fall we had this classic exchange with a local gentleman, which still cracks my shit up every time I think about it.

This brings me to the following exchange, which I just overheard on my walk home from work:

Cranky Middle-Aged Businessman: Get a job!
Homeless Guy: Okay! Can I have yours?

BOOKS: Just Call It Literary Constipation

I can't not read anything by The New York Times' Joe Queenan. I have a powerful affection for the man, perhaps because he so often writes about matters close to my own heart. Such as his most recent column in the Sunday Book Review, "Why I Can't Stop Starting Books":

Most of my female friends read one or two books at a time; my male friends insist that they are always reading at least one, though I suspect this figure may be aspirational. But I am never reading fewer than 25 books. I am not talking about books I have delved into, perused and set aside, like Finnegans Wake or Pamela Anderson’s first novel — that would get me up way over a hundred. I am talking about books I am actively reading, books that are on my nightstand and are not leaving there until I am done with them. Right now, the number is 27.

I'm not quite in Queenan's league. In a quick survey of my nightstand, I've deduced that I'm currently working through only five different books. I think my problem is that I tend to gravitate toward serious, edifying, and sad books. Then, at critical moments when these get on top of me, I pick up other books, generally lighter in tone, for temporary relief. You see where things can start to get backed up -- just call it literary constipation.

So, quick... off the top of your head, how many books are you reading right now?

ETC: Just Call Me Doppelganger, Esq.

Considering we've never owned anything larger than our truck, you can imagine how insanely giddy Rusty and I feel at the fact that we've just bought some land! Real land, with dirt and rocks and trees and everything!

About a year ago, we decided that half a million dollars is too much to spend on a decrepit bungalow with needles and used condoms in the yard, and since that's the going rate for houses here in good ol' Vancouver -- the most sustainable city in the world, dontcha know -- we decided to set our sites further afield and look at land on the nearby Gulf Islands. After a year of searching, we've finally found it, and it's pretty damn sweet. (We've posted a short video over on Vidiotbox, if you're interested.)

It's going to take a while to build a living structure on our new land. We want to do it right. Whatever we build will be designed to integrate into the landscape. It'll have a small footprint, to minimize its ecological impact. There'll be minimal building waste. We'll be using solar panels to provide most of our power, as there's no electricity on the island. We want to feel good about our place, in every sense of the word.

And when we do have a little house of our own, one of the first things we're going to do is frame this passage from a book we both love:*

Lennie spoke craftily, "Tell me –- like you done before."

"Tell you what?"

"About the rabbits... Come on, George. Tell me. Please, George. Like you done before."

"You get a kick outa that, don't you? Awright, I'll tell you, and then we'll eat our supper."

George’s voice became deeper. He repeated his words rhythmically as though he had said them many times before. "Guys like us, that work on ranches are the loneliest guys in the world. They got no fambly. They don’t belong no place. They come to a ranch an' work up a stake and then they go to town and blow their stake, and the first thing you know they’re poundin' their tail on some other ranch. They ain't got nothing to look ahead to."

Lennie was delighted. "That’s it –- that's it. Now tell how it with us."

George went on: "With us it ain't like that. We got a future. We got somebody to talk to that gives a damn about us..."

Lennie broke in. "But not us! An' why? Because... because I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you, and that's why." He laughed delightedly. "Go on now George!"

"You got it by heart. You can do it yourself."

"No, you. I forget some a' the things. Tell about how it’s gonna be."

"O.K. Someday we’re gonna get the jack together and we’re gonna have a little house and a couple of acres an' a cow and some pigs and... "

"An’ live off the fatta the land!" Lennie shouted.

*Yes, we know how this story ends. We choose not to think about that.

BOOKS: Is Farley Mowat Still Relevant?

I just read that a school in the Barrhaven area of Ottawa is being named after Canadian author Farley Mowat, and it reminded me of how much I used to love Mowat's writing in my teens, and how, tragically, he has since fallen off my radar.

A biologist turned raconteur, Mowat, now 85, has written some of the seminal books of contemporary Canadian literature, but I wonder how many people still consider him relevant. Perhaps all you schoolteachers and librarians can tell me: Are Mowat's books still being introduced to students? Because if they're not, they should be.

A wonderful hallmark of Mowat's writing is its eminent readability and accessibility, no small feat given the fact that he often writes about issues of ecology (Never Cry Wolf and Sea of Slaughter). On the flip side, he's also written charming, hilarious, touching books about the childhood pets that fuelled his love of nature (The Dog Who Wouldn't Be and Owls in the Family). I devoured these stories as a kid, as well as his more, er, ribald tales, including his drunken adventures sailing a boat from the Atlantic Ocean down the St. Lawrence River (The Boat Who Wouldn't Float).

Of all Mowat's books that I've read, my favourite is Virunga: The Passion of Dian Fossey, his biography of mountain gorilla researcher Dian Fossey, who was one of my heroes when I was a teenager. He paints a portrait of a sensitive, shy person who was also incredibly passionate about her work to save the mountain gorillas she lived amongst in the Virunga mountain range. Fossey was also capable of racist and violent behaviour toward the local people whom she found poaching in her study area, and Mowat doesn't shy away from writing about that, either. It's a complex, controversial character study made all the more powerful as a story by the fact that Fossey was murdered -- hacked to death by machete, actually -- in her hut in the mountains, a martyr to the cause she championed for decades.

Mowat is still publishing at the same prolific rate that has marked his entire career. His latest book, No Man's River, was published in 2004, but I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm so out of touch with his recent work I've never heard of it. But I do have a hankering to track down copies of my old favourites and go on a Mowat bender.

[Link via Bookslut]

BOOKS: Fears of Your Life

I've never met author Michael Bernard Loggins, but I already feel like we have a lot in common.

First, we both like lists. Second, we're afraid of pretty much exactly the same things. So I discovered when I checked out his book Fears of Your Life, which you can bet your sweet ass I'm ordering right now. (Go here to browse through the book yourself using Amazon's "Surprise Me" online reader function.)

It stands to reason that it took a writer with developmental disabilities to come up with the brilliantly simple idea that you can manage your fears by listing them. Now all I have to do is find a notepad roughly the size of the phone book.

[Link via Mighty Goods]

BOOKS: The Stuart Little Question, Resolved

As an addendum to my previous post, in which the issue of Stuart Little being born via the human reproductive system came up, I offer you the following passage from the very beginning of the book:

When Mrs. Frederick C. Little's second son arrived, everyone noticed that he was not much bigger than a mouse. The truth of the matter was, the baby looked very much like a mouse in every way. He was only about two inches high; and he had a mouse's sharp nose, a mouse's tail, a mouse's whiskers, and the pleasant, shy manner of a mouse. Before he was not too many days old, he was not only looking like a mouse but acting like one, too--wearing a gray hat and carrying a small cane. Mr. and Mrs. Little named him Stuart, and Mr. Little made him a tiny bed out of four clothespins and a cigarette box.

Unlike most babies, Stuart could walk as soon as he was born. When he was a week old, he could climb lamps by shinnying up the cord. Mrs. Little saw right away that the infant clothes she had provided were unsuitable, and she set to work and made him a fine little blue worsted suit with patch pockets in which he could keep his handkerchief, his money, and his keys.

Every morning, before Stuart dressed, Mrs. Little went into his room and weighed him on a small scale which was really meant for weighing letters. At birth Stuart could have been sent by first class mail for three cents, but his parents preferred to keep him rather than send him away; and when, at the age of a month, he had gained only a third of an ounce, his mother was so worried she sent for the doctor.

The doctor was delighted with Stuart and said that it was very unusual for an American family to have a mouse.

So. As you can see, the vagina issue is glossed over, but the answer is there. In the subtext. Or possibly the sub-subtext.

This passage raises puzzling new questions, though, such as this one: Is wearing a gray hat and carrying a small cane considered natural behaviour for a mouse?