One Hundred Million Tiny Explosions in the Sky

Travelogue: The Suburbs

2010-09-17T19:36:00.000-04:00

Hi All! Welcome to our travel-weblog!

It took us a little while to get this started because WiFi is really tricky to find out here - it's almost always password protected and there are very few Starbucks. We finally found a "library" though which has all kinds of computers you can borrow and WiFi available and these really cool "reading" rooms.

But so anyways we arrived here on the weekend and it's been a whirlwind so far! I don't even know where to begin...

Originally we were supposed to go with a bunch of friends to Italy for the summer but then Daddy said something about the trip not being appropriate because of the "Bear Market". Which is weird because I thought they had those in Russia, not Italy. And either way I'd kind of love to see one. I love bears! Especially baby ones.

At first we were really bummed, but then he said that he'd made arrangements for us to go to The Suburbs to stay with his cousin and "au pair" for their two kids. I know: I didn't know what an au pair was either. But he told me it's like being a camp counselor except instead of being stuck in the wilderness you get to experience a completely different culture! The pay isn't great (zero), but they have cable and we mostly have our nights to ourselves.

PLUS: there is so much to see and do out here! Soccer fields are everywhere (chew on that Italy!), there are loads of swimming pools, and you can see any movie anytime you like. I saw some kids listening to hip hop in the park yesterday too. They might have had a few pops too (wink, wink).

This is going to be the best summer ever.

We promise to keep the updates coming, tomorrow we're supposed to go to "Super Market" which I'm sure will be, well super! Maybe we'll even do one post in the local language (Urdu) once we get the hang of it!

Kisses!

Oh! I almost forgot. They've totally solved poverty here. There are absolutely NO homeless people! It's amazing!

Book Review: Diary of a Very Bad Year

2010-09-16T22:42:00.000-04:00

Confession of a semi-anonymous stock trader: I don't read much in the way of non-fiction and especially not finance non-fiction.

But this small book came to my attention from the good, smart people at n+1, a literary magazine that I've been subscribing to for some years (and sometimes even reading!).

They published a few interviews with an anonymous hedge fund manager (HFM) in the magazine and on their website as the financial crisis was just unfolding and it was pretty interesting, if as much for the context as the content. The HFM was charming, accessible, and really quite inciteful. Also, it was kind of fun to watch Keith Gessen try and figure out what HFM was talking about.

Well I guess the response must have been good because Gessen kept going back and eventually gather enough interview content to compile them into a fairly sturdy book.

It was fun to read partly because, on purpose, I haven't read much about the crisis, and it turns out I'd forgotten a lot of the more ridiculous things that happened. More importantly, I'd forgotten how scared we all were.

But beyond the actual story, which is familiar enough to anyone who reads the papers over the last 3 years, what was interesting about the book was just how articulate, and how clear-thinking HFM was in spoken-word interviews. His ability to explain reasonably complex issues in really simple, interesting terms was amazing.

I can't quite recommend the book to everyone because ultimately it's still pretty esoteric in topic - a bond manager talking about the bond & private loan market during the most dangerous time to be a bond manager in the last century. But to anyone who has an interest in the mind of a man who is extremely well paid to think faster and further than his competitors, this is probably a good way to spend 10 subway rides.

Book Review: Chronic City - Jonathan Lethem

2010-09-16T22:21:00.003-04:00

I've been a pretty big fan of Lethem's since Fortress of Solitude, which is still considered his best if not his most popular. He is able to balance the smirky ironic cynicism of this age's writing with a much finer, old-world emotional gravity that makes his current, topical story feel much more timeless.

Essentially buddy story, Chronic City is at it's core about hipsters. What do the arbiters of culture and taste, both low and high, do in their downtime? It tells the story of a willfully bland ex-child actor and general layabout (the amazingly named Chase Insteadman) and how he falls in-friend with a hermetic, pot-smoking, burger chomping suit wearing counter-cultural journalist named Perkus Tooth. They spend many pages wiling away time in Perkus's cramped apartment cooking up paranoid theories over percolated coffee and brand-named joints.

Which, somewhat plot-less as a pot-book might be, and believe me there are some people who really didn't care for the aimless drug-talk, it's a great ride if you're willing to take it with them.

I was.

But beyond the upper-east-side hijinks, the fantastic details, and some seriously great set-pieces, it's Lethem's writing that got me excited.

His ability to glide so smoothly from the realistic to the fantastic, from the trite to the emotionally charged is just amazing - all the more so because it seems so effortless.

In one particular scene near the end of the novel, Chase is concerned with mounting an intervention for Perkus and it occurs to him that he needs to enlist the help of one character sooner rather than later since the character is "about to descend into the joyful solipsism of young parenthood", which, as those who know me can imagine, rang so true to me I had to put my glass down.

Indeed, I'm the last person most of my friends would call to help them stage an intervention. But then, maybe I always was.

Are You Up For A While?

2010-07-19T23:16:00.002-04:00

“Hi there Mr. Cyril, it’s Reza Dibadj, nice to see you again!”

Reza had learned some years ago that these people appreciated a quick little reminder when saying hello for the first time in a while. It was, after all, a cottage community so there was often a long time between seeings. Also, everyone seemed to be pretty old. And drunk.

“Of course, Raisin! Nice to see you too! And how is Francis?”

“Francis is doing great, still attending classes overseas of course. I’m married to Isabel. We’re expecting.”

“Yes! Good!”

Cyril had whacked his shin against the side of his boat while disembarking that morning, and though blood still seeped from the cut the sappy trickle had not yet reached his sock.

“Up for a little while?” he asked hopefully, his smile stretching around some odd coloured dental work.

“No,” Reza sighed, “just the weekend.”

Cyril’s shook his head and tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “Teh, teh”

“We’ll be up for a little stretch at the end of the month though,” Reza added hopefully.

“Ah. Well. Good!”

Everything was, of course, always good there. It really was. Days were a steady succession of discussions about just how good it was, the only exception being that it was not as good when you had to leave.

Reza had learned that despite the community’s reputation for being inaccessible, it was actually fairly easy to make friends if you simply heeded this simple protocol —

Affirmation: This is just such a special and wonderful place.

Confirmation: Yes, it’s totally unique and amazing. We are very fortunate.

The bit about being fortunate was a little flourish he had added. He was humble by nature, but also, even notwithstanding his name, the absurdly hairy legs he had stuffed into tennis shorts made it clear that he had married into the community.

“Yes, we’re really looking forward to it. Two weeks! It’s just so much better when you can really settle in for a while here. More relaxing!”

“Yes, yes it is. Wonderful!” Cyril had started shuffling off toward the iced tea-stand, which also sold homemade brownies that Reza frequently sought out.

Watching the young girl get up from her chair to greet her teetering customer, he wondered if his child would one day work at that stand for a summer job.

Centered

2010-07-13T22:53:00.007-04:00

A few tables away the flash of a camera caught his eye.

I wonder if they were taking my picture, he thought with the slightest raising of an eyebrow. Probably. I bet they think I’m some movie star.

It would be really embarrassing if they come over to ask me to pose or sign an autograph. I’ll do it, though.

They deserve it, a brush with fame. That’s the kind of thing that makes someone’s night.

Probably they think I’m Ashton Kutcher, except my arms are bigger than his. Which, let’s be fair, you couldn't know that he has skinny arms from his films, but I have it on pretty good authority that mine are bigger and possibly better defined.

The girl in the gym seemed to really know her stuff, when it came to celebrities. But she said I look more like Jason Bateman. Which is weird because I totally don’t. Though I think we probably have the same speech cadence. It makes people laugh almost no matter what we say. Just the way I say it.

When I listen to myself on tape, like on voicemail and such, I’m always surprised at how little it sounds like me; because I actually have a much deeper voice than it picks up.

Maybe I should send some drinks over to the picture-snapping table. That would be sporting of me. Then they’d have a story to tell their friends! “Bradley Cooper bought us a round of drinks!” I bet they would be talking about it for weeks.

Imagine I’d worn my glasses? That would have really freaked them out. I wonder who they’d think I was then. Some kind of bookish celebrity, that’s what. The Harry Potter guy or something. Except taller in person.

And not gay.

Though sometimes when people aren’t sure they think it’s a bit hot too. Is he or isn’t he? They don’t know! Mystery booksmart. I can see when people are puzzled by it, when they can’t quite figure out if my jeans are tight because I bought them that way or if it’s because my legs are totally ripped. Puzzling enigma.

“Hold on Ray, are you even listening?” she asked.

“What? Sure I am.”

“Well what did I just say?”

He glanced over to the table where the camera had been but he couldn’t see them anymore. Probably they’ve gone back to the nowhere from which they came, he thought.

He looked at her vaguely, sniffed, and said, “You don’t understand me at all.”

Tombée

2010-07-04T22:00:00.008-04:00

Wrangling a bear cub can't be easy, but it must be easier than this.

It has never been lost on me that my daughter's name is a near-homonym of violence; Violet commits violence to the air-sickness bag that was tucked (probably for years) in the seat-back pouch in front of us.

After the routine rundown of safety procedures, the lead steward also informs us that our plane, and its carrier, are saddened but proud to have one of our fallen soldiers on board. He explains, in our two official languages, that the Colonel aboard had "given her life" for our Country and, presumably, the principals she seeks to uphold in Afghanistan.

Violet eats a bruised banana and I remember my grandfather. "Soldiers don't give their lives, they have them taken from them," he told me many times.

"Elle est tombée en service," is what the steward says during the French half of the address. That's it, I think, a tomber: you know that you might fall, but you sure don't want to.

As the plane taxis away from the gate, I have to press the baby to my chest in preparation for take-off, essentially assuming our crash position, just in case.

Out the window I see that the grounds crews have halted their peculiar vehicles, standing at attention beside them as the plane passes them. A baggage-lift driver is holding a flag over his head, snapping stupidly in the jet wash and barely visible.

"Agua," says Violet, looking at the lake as we ascend. In the hour-long flight, she doesn't lose any fingers and I sweat through my shirt.

When we land, the sober steward announces that in honour of our fallen soldier, it is requested that we passengers remain seated until the coffin is unloaded. Though he doesn't specifically mention that we should be silent, we do. Even Violet.

We all hear the hydraulics of the cargo bay and a great deal of clunking that probably isn't the coffin but sure makes us think about it. What it must be like, a military coffin? Hard and likely aluminium. Probably sturdy. Surely not actually draped in a flag in transit? I wonder if her parents are at the airport.

Strangely, I hope that she's OK down there. Which, how could she be.

Violet has cheese in her hair and I kiss her between her eyes.

Dead On Arrival

2010-06-21T11:53:00.006-04:00

Nothing good. Again. There hadn’t been anything good posted on Mike’s wall in some considerable time. No one had even tagged or commented on his photos. He didn’t even bother checking his email.

So this is what the bottom of a tequila bottle looks like in the daylight, thought Rex. It was gluey and smelled of confusion.

Unlike other ocean creatures, Winston had strong feelings when it comes to matters of the heart, especially when family is concerned.

Ryan’s beard was poorly groomed because it turned out that even though it would seem at the outset to be easier, taking care of it was more work than he had anticipated and more complicated, involving equipment that he didn’t even own. But even so, he tried his best. In any event, as soon as the phone rang, he knew he had been wrong, a wrong he felt right to the very roots of that unkempt beard.

It would be foolhardy to mistake Janet’s encyclopaedic knowledge of vegetable gardening with any kind competence or otherwise common sense. She knew three different organic and safe ways to ward off garden slugs (crushed eggshells, for one) but for the life of her couldn’t figure out how to get gasoline into her station wagon.

Raymond wandered about his ballroom in faintly choreographed steps, as if his socks knew how to dance but his shoes wouldn’t let them.

There was no good way to tell Our Glorious Leader about the cheese situation. He was going to be furious and everyone knew it.

For the one, striking moment Ray felt alive. But after he had driven the nail through his hand, he was immediately overtaken with the deflating realization that he would have to deal with the messy consequences of his existential experiment.

Soft Water

2010-06-09T22:25:00.004-04:00

I hold my breath and the world turns silent. Most people shut their eyes when they dive but I like to see the water accelerate toward me. A body breaking lake water sounds shrill with treble readers on the dock, but it is deep gurgling bass for the ears of the diver.

My scalp contracts instantly as the water envelops me and I feel more alone than I have all winter. Phosphorescence burst into tiny blue-white stars.

“Where have you been?” ask the mermaids, their voices a lolling chorus. Except the youngest one, she mostly just giggles.

“I’ve been busy. I had a baby.”

“You already had babies.”

“I know. But it’s been… busier this time. I love them so much. I barely even read anymore.”

“You have to make time.”

“You’re right,” my lungs burning at the edges, wondering how far I am from the surface, from the light. I’ve never been great at holding my breath for long.

“You’re right,” I repeat, “I will.”

Bells Unrung, Cherries Un-Picked.

2009-04-30T22:08:00.009-04:00

There are some moments in life when you stop and think to yourself, "well, after this there's no turning back."

These are the moments just before you gain motion on a path upon which taking the first step implies wholesale commitment to its destination.

Some words cannot be unsaid; most pain cannot be uninflicted; no potatoes can be unmashed.

Everyone's had them, these moments.

From minor adventure: the second that you are in the air between dock and lake, wondering to yourself, "Shit. It's gonna be cold. And are those rocks?"

And major adventure: wondering, "No one is forcing me to jump out of this plane."

To the romantic: the brief breath you take before walking into your girlfriends apartment and admitting, "I slept with your sister"

To the perverse: that same breath before admitting, "I slept with my sister"

Many of these are in business: putting on your jacket before stepping into your bosses office to say "I quit."

Well, I've sat for surgery twice in the last 6 months, and I discovered that these moments live in the operating theater as well. Twice now I've laid back, lucidly on an operating table folks in scrubs bustled around the room and thought to myself, "I don't have to be here. I chose to come and I can choose to leave."

It is the flight-impulse that rises up in your bile, I think. Your mind knows that you are there for your own good, but your animal being also knows that these people are going to knock you out and cut you. Badly.

Mastering the animal, you think to yourself what a good idea this is. The run through of the logical train is quick and easy, because frankly no one in Canada fights their way through the system without good reason.

But the moment is still very much there. "I can get up and walk out of here now; in a minute, I won't"

And after that minute, and the minutes or hours that follow in a darkened heartbeat, it's true: you can't go back.

Brewsters Billions

2009-04-23T22:12:00.006-04:00

"I've been dealing with skeevy lawyers since the Eighties," he thought to himself, "What are congressmen really other than a bunch of lawyers made out really good?"

Brewster looked up at the suits fidgeting behind their nameplates, and noted that most of them had worked up a good sweat under the lights of the camera coverage. He waited patiently until the old guy with two first names called the inquiry to order.

There was a good deal of "State your name" stuff which he handled without problem. So far, this seemed like it was going to be pretty easy. Brewster figured he might be on the street with his money in hand in plenty of time to catch the second half of he Yankees game.

"How did you get into the insurance business, Mr. Brewster?"

"Well, sir, I came into a good deal of money after my uncle passed and using what could only be described as very, um, unique strategies, I parlayed that into an even bigger stack."

"Could you be more specific?"

"I was told that if I could lose $30 million in a month, I would win $300 million. Which I did. And also I won the heart of an attractive accountant."

"This doesn't sound very American."

"On the contrary, Mr. Congressman, it's the most American story there is. It even includes baseball, the stock market, and an election!"

"Hmm. So this was in 1987?"

"Yes. So after I took down the 300 large and fought off a few minor law suits, I said to myself, 'Monty? You know what's better than $300 million? $300 Billion!"

"Indeed. "

"So I figured if i applied the lessons I learned from my Uncle's experiment, I would be a billionaire in no time."

"Well that does sound pretty American"

"Sure it is! I bought a little insurance company called AIG and we started writing some really funky policies. We invented a whole new language even."

"So far so good, Mr. Brewster."

"Not really, Congressman. At first the money was rolling in. People couldn't buy enough of these policies even though nothing ever went wrong. It was a total disaster! There were some nights when I thought to myself, 'I'm never going to get rid of all this cake!' "

"But you took it too far, Mr. Brewster, didn't you!"

"On the contrary, Congressman! It just took a little longer than I expected, but finally I guess we'd written enough policies such that I became much bigger than the market. Then Bear collapsed and shortly after the other investment banks I was geared to followed right down. It was really just a matter of days and we ran dry. "

"You are a charlatan."

"It kind of takes your breath away, doesn't it?"

"And now what, Mr. Brewster?"

"Well, the money's gone, every cent, and I have nothing to show for it but the Manchester United shirt on my back."

"And?"

"And I'd like my $300 billion now."

Fashion File: A Guide To The Semiotics of Power Ties

2009-03-30T21:29:00.005-04:00

Growing up in the 1980's, watching Alex Keaton bring a briefcase to work on television, and Bud Fox learn to play squash on the fly, a young man grew to aspire to wearing a "power tie". Perhaps he would wear it to a "power breakfast", he might think to himself. What goes into such a meal, he had no idea, but certainly even this 10 year old knew that a power tie meant a bold coloured, solid or print tie; a tie that made sure everyone in the room knew he meant business.

According to a one of the surprisingly many fashion sites devoted to men's apparel, "In the 1980s, US President Ronald Reagan was known for his red power tie, as much a virility symbol in American corporate culture as a red convertible has been in the culture at large."

If you dig a little deeper, you'll find that though opinions vary about which ties contain the most power, there is very little disagreement that people will do as you say if you wear one.

So with that, it seems important that we clear up just which power the various styles convey.

1. Red, solid: I'm the president, or I've met him. I just finished breakfast with some powerful people. I am just stopping in here to let you all know that I have somewhere very important to be, but have taken a few minutes to speak with you so you'd better listen and listen good.

2. Yellow, solid: I'm incredibly important, but not the kind of jerk who would wear a bright red tie to meet with you. You should trust me. I'm a powerful man who is hungry for a power meal of some kind but I like you enough to stop in here and have a quick word. I don't eat spaghetti because stains show really easily on my tie.

3. Azure blue, with navy flecks: I'm incredibly powerful but speak softly. Listen closely so you can hear all the details because I certainly don't have time to repeat myself. I lost my drivers licence some time ago, but it's ok because I have a driver. Also, I like pasta. Some of these flecks are sauce.

4. Lime Green, solid: I got dressed in the dark. But it's because I live on West Coast time and as powerful as I am, I haven't convinced the sun to rise earlier to meet my needs. You should listen to what I say and comply with great speed because God knows when I do finally foreclose on the Sun, those who opposed me will be burned. But for real.

5. Blue and Red, stripes: I am a Republican. I do everything except hunt in this tie. I find it goes great with khakis and a blue blazer. It makes me feel powerful, but less so, say at a convention or something where everyone else is wearing the same tie. That and boarding schools.

6. Lavender, with light thorn pattern: I just a guy who likes spring.

7. Polka Dots of Any Kind: I am powerful but insouciant. I collect art but would rather not speak of it as it's a personal passion. I can tell a good joke but damnit you had better laugh like you mean it or there is going to be real trouble. I'm approachable, but please be sure to offer to pay for drinks before I tell you that I would never permit such a thing.

8. Bright Orange: I had better be the leader of the Ukraine or coach of the Dutch national soccer team. Possible I'm just a heavy hitter shopping for helicopters in the Caymans. I wear shaded glasses even indoors.

9. Salmon pink, Solid: I am Donald Trump.

The Second Season

2009-03-09T22:23:00.012-04:00

When I was in college and trying to find my worldview, I spent a good deal of time thinking about beauty. Between half-baked study of Plato & Nicomachean ethics, I began to form a sense that Beauty was akin to godliness.

I posted photos of perfect women neatly cut from pricey fashion magazines on my wall. Careful to note, of course, that despite what one of my friend's girlfriends described as a "a lot of nipples" this was no pin-up wall. These were pre-lad-magazine days so the line between wank-magazine and otherwise was still broad and easy to draw.

The smoky logic that followed from my enjoying these women who checkered my wall was that the closer I could be to their beauty, if only via observation, contemplation, and eventual familiarity, the closer I would be to God.

God made things beautiful because he could. And his most perfect work were angels; these angels were paid thousands of dollars an hour to be photographed in New York and elsewhere in order that they might look down on me and I might know them.

It follows then, that if you could find your real person in the company of models, via legitimate invitation or not, then you had in fact negotiated your way to heaven pre-maturely.

A quick ten years later and miles from the studios of Tribeca, I found myself at the Toronto Four Seasons for brunch with my wife in very advanced stages of her third pregnancy. Her parents were in town and insisted on our enjoying a "date" prior to the arrival of the deciding vote.

She couldn't muster the energy for a nighttime date so we took advantage of the offer and packed her appetite into the car for what is seriously the best brunch in the city.

It is usually quite a relaxing scene there - European couples gearing up for some Yorkville shopping, families walked over from nearby Rosedale, pods of New York types recovering from a big night, the occasional grey-haired wallet with his mistress enjoying some post-tryst sustenance; it makes for compelling people watching and the coffee is great.

After our first pass at the shellfish tower, we returned to the pancake station and we found ourselves surrounded in Models. They were everywhere. Tall, shockingly well-groomed (probably best saved for another post, but I have always found something deeply disingenuous about overly-groomed people, especially men; what are they hiding?).

You could smell the fashion.

The women were beautiful. And young. The men wore large watches and expensive boots and sported complicated facial hair. Truthfully, our conversation fell off. Their blow dried hair fell into perfect curves. They looked like money had made them.

We returned to our table with plates stacked high with breakfast items we had not intended to take.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

I had no idea.

But here's the thing. We broke into laughter. We couldn't stop. Instead of being impressed with this spread of beauty, we were appalled. I won't go into why, it would seem bitter or petty.

The point is one of perspective. Contrary to its nature, my Platonic form of beauty has shifted.

The sexpots at the omelet bar held no appeal for us relative to the cheerful little specimens waiting for us back home. Someone at brunch had missed the point of life and it wasn't us, we felt.

I had long since let the girls of my dorm wall go, my worldview having found new moorings many times over. But this was the first time these photos had found me again, and I was most surprised by how little they meant - how unbeautiful.

Violet May

2009-03-04T12:37:00.004-05:00

We will buy very pretty things
A-walking through the faubourgs.
Violets are blue, roses are red,
Violets are blue, I love my loves

Violet May, born at 8:42pm on Friday, February 27th, weighing in at a fighting 7lbs.

Hard to believe it's only been 13½ months.

Slumming It

2009-02-25T10:11:00.000-05:00

I love movies. I love India. Frieda Pinto is a knockout. Danny Boyle is a wicked stylish director who knows how to put great tunes and great colours together on screen.

I loved Slumdog Millionaire. I really did. It was the quintessence of "a good time at the movies".

And having not seen any other movies nominated for Best Picture this year I am probably under-qualified to vote. But it made me very sad to think that as good as this Mumbai slum film was that it was the best the world had to offer this year. Is it too much to ask that all movies be entertaining and touching and pretty to look at with good music and be pulled together with snappy editing? This is what now qualifies for special mention? This dominates the awards scene?

Now of course I understand the awards are a result of savvy campaigning and the general whimsy of an academy of artists. But still.

Nothing of particularly innovative or novel nature happened this year? Really? If not, then boo movies; if yes, then boo academy.

Maybe this weekend I'll rent Shakespeare in Love and see how that's aging.

It is just another step down in the process of my decreasing interest in films and those who produce them; there is a reason that television serials have essentially replaced movies in my house. And that's all I have to say about that.

Book Review - Bel Canto, Ann Patchett

2009-02-17T21:30:00.006-05:00

You know that you are reading a Book Club book when there is an appendix of special features including, "How to Fall In Love With Opera" and a series of suggested topics for further discussion.

Middlebrow is the word that kept springing to mind as I read it. It's certainly not "chick-lit" (there are zero shopping sprees and very little in the way of heaving chests) but with writing like this, it is not really deserving of serious consideration either.

While certainly lyrical enough (believe me the musical allusions are not tough to find), it is rife with purple passages that include the "drinking in" of various peoples souls and so on. "Gen's head was filled with Carmen" is the kind of stuff that makes my teeth ache.

The passages about music are worse. Which, to be fair, writing about music is really difficult - witness how even the most knowledgeable reviewers are prone to near meaningless cliches in their critique. The media simply don't lend well to each other and Ms. Patchett at least infuses Opera with a romantic enthusiasm. It's just that it's all, well, over-zealous.

Like here where a young boy sings in public for the first time after listening raptly (with bursting pants, no less) to the soprano in captivity:

He didn't seem to hear them laughing. His gaze was unfocused.
He was singing to no one in particular. It wasn't that he was mocking her
so much as he was just trying to fill up the space where she should have
been. It would have been mocking if it had only been her gestures he
was repeating, but it wasn't. It was her voice. The legendary
voice of Roxane Coss. He held his notes long and clear. He
reached down into the depths of his lungs for power, the volume he had not
allowed himself when singing alone under his breath. He was singing
now, a par that was too high for him and yet he jumped up and grabbed
onto the edge of the note. He pulled himself up and held it.

Is it a good story? Sure. Is it romantic? Absolutely. But as much as she is a good story teller and holds readers' attention with passable, even cinematic character development, there is a sneaking suspicion one gains early on that the power of music is going to save the day.

Does it? Not really. The ending is, in fact both well-earned and surprising. Which is cool, especially since I only had to groan through 315 pages to get there.

What is a Mustache?

2009-02-10T22:13:00.007-05:00

Alex peered at his face in the mirror and considered his mustache. There seemed to be a little gray creeping into the bristle. Maybe it was time to lose it.

Maybe that's why Saturday Night Live hadn't called. At heart, SNL is a young people's show and if there is anything young people don't like, it's probably old guys with mustaches.

Certainly he was funny enough. And it's common knowledge that every episode of Jeopardy! features a free form questioning period of the contestants where his dry wit was often on display. No doubt about his ability to improvise in front of a live audience.

It must be the mustache, he thought to himself.

Bob Barker had been asked, though apparently declined. Something about being uncomfortable maintaining his tan to specification outside of California. Regis practically lives at Rockefeller Center. Shit even Richard Dawson had even made an appearance on the show once, though it was Alex's understanding that he had been too drunk to remember any of his lines.

They have had loads of Canadians on the show, so that couldn't be it. Come to think of it, American sketch comedy is literally teeming with Canadians. His flat accent and love of the absurd should be an asset more than anything else.

Shoot, there was even a recurring Jeopardy! skit on the show! How ironic would it be if he played, say superstar comedian Will Farrell as a celebrity contestant. Man, he would turn the tables right on that big oaf! Would that be just too insouciant? Probably less so without the mustache.

As far as technique goes, it was going to take some planning to get it off. When you're in television and traffic in your image (plus: your wit! don't forget that you're clever!) it's important to make these drastic changes with considerable forethought. But as soon as he got dressed and finished his hot yoga, he would call his agent directly.

A smooth lipped man, popular with the ladies, admired by men of all sizes, and able to deliver a chalky smooth punchline. Who is the next host of Saturday Night Live? Who is Alex Trebek?

Items of Which The First Is Incredibly Good And The Second Not Nearly So And In Fact A Bit Of A Letdown On The Whole

2009-02-02T21:42:00.007-05:00

Pizza, Slice of

Egg McMuffin, with Sausage

The Matrix, film

Waterski, session of

Pint of brown ale, Smithicks comes to mind

Service, in tennis

Shampoo, Rinse and...

Coffee, cup of

Underpants, pair of

Shave, session of

Wife

Food & WIne

2009-01-27T20:42:00.005-05:00

"Oh, this is delicious."

"Right. And?"

"Well it's got to be at least $25"

"That's what I thought too! But in fact it's way better. $38!"

"Wow, I had no idea. I mean, when I first smelled it, I thought, 'north of $40 for sure' but then after I tasted it, it just didn't seem like a $38 at all."

"No, it totally is. I served it with ribeyes the other day and everyone was like, 'What's this wine, $55?'! It really depends on how the palette is formed."

"I guess you're right. Were the glasses expensive?"

"Yah. $25 per."

"That explains a lot. A good glass can add $5-$10 to any wine."

"Delicious."

"What was that, Italian?"

"Something like that. $38! Delicious. I'm going to remember this one."

When a Tree Cries in the Forest

2009-01-19T19:41:00.007-05:00

The woods were soft beneath his boots. The frost had given way to muck and there wasn't much left for the season. All was quiet except for the subterranean trickle of snow runoff somewhere somehow seeking lower ground.

Breathing deeply, he thought to himself how strange it is that Springtime represents rebirth and life, but smells more like rot.

Peering under the hood, he looked into the bucket: not much sap left. He pulled the spigot and a few drops dripped onto his fingers. Sweet but thin and watery. It was over.

He cleaned the spigot and emptied the bucket into the drum which he would wheel back to the shack for boiling. He looked back at the tree and noticed that a few tears of sap had squeezed from the hole drilled just a few weeks ago. In the sunlight, he could see a glistening trail was left behind as they trickled down the trunk.

"I'll be back next Spring," he said quietly.

"I know," she replied, "it's just that,"

"It's just that what?"

"I love you."

He didn't know what to say.

"Why?" he asked, meaning it.

But there was no answer. Trees, he thought, who could understand them?

Sepember 12th, 2008: LEH, MER, DFW - RIP

2009-01-13T19:29:00.007-05:00

On one weekend this past September, between the 12th and the 15th, Lehman Brothers went bankrupt, Merrill Lynch suffered near insolvency and was folded into Bank of America, and David Foster Wallace died.

A good deal was written about these three deaths and I read most of it. Like many who sit in seats like mine, the disappearance of the major financial institutions that we dealt with, competed with, or simply looked to for leadership (Bear Stearns had already been dispatched to Davy Jones locker in the spring) lead to my spending much of that week staring in rapt horror at my Bloomberg screen and reading about the tectonic shift in my industry.

Despite the hysteria found in most of the newspapers, the disappearance of some of our continents oldest and most venerable financial institutions was met with surprising ennui among those I know who don't work in the industry. And though the breadth of the repercussions of these failings have become more obvious in the following months of economic recession, at the time a sense of schadenfreude was palpable.

Imagine living in a small town, I said to my friends who felt it was time for finance-types take a fall. Imagine that there were five or six grocery stores in that town from which you could choose to shop, though you probably had your favorite one or two. One of those shops suffered from some kind of contamination (listeria?) in its deli department and a number of customers got sick.

You decide that maybe you'll shop at the other store this week until the local paper gives the all clear. But it turns out they have tainted meat too, since they use the same supplier. The first store goes out of business and you are feeling a little iffy about your other store so you start to cross town for your deli slices when you can. Then, without any further warning, two more stores go out of business. Worse still, the two that still have the doors open refuse to sell to most customers.

In a matter of days, your small town has gone from being careful where it shops to simply not being able to buy food at all.

How long do you think this town lasts?

What would you do if you were in the food supply business locally?

These are life-changing developments for consumers and suppliers alike and require a major rethink of past choices and future plans.

And yet, even while these very personally affecting dramas were playing out in the pink pages of the Financial Times, while friends were losing their jobs, the tragedy of David Foster Wallace's suicide transfixed me.

More learned readers and better writers all weighed in on his accomplishments and what his sudden absence meant for letters, but all I can say is I felt a very distinct downtick in the intelligence of the universe. The strange thing about authors (and DFW had actually written about this) is that the nature of their medium gives the impression of a serious intimacy to the reader; the author, or his characters at least, are literally inside the readers mind. To this effect, I really felt closer to DFW than to many people that I know in real life.

And as often happens when you lose something you really don't know how important it is to you until it's gone. DFW was supposed to have been turning out essays and vaguely promising to follow up his masterpiece novel for years to come. I was willing to be patient. And then, all of a sudden, I found myself scouring YouTube for interviews with him so that I might know him better, and quickly.

To get back to thinking about me: even in a week as surprising as that one, I was most surprised that the death of DFW affected me so much more deeply than those of LEH and MER. Sure, one was a person and the other two simply entities, but frankly none of them had been to my house for dinner and two of them represented (indirectly) my livelihood. DFW never once held out any promise that he would help keep my children in jeans. But he did tell me things that I had never known: things about the tennis, things about philosophy, things about addiction, things about grammar, things about obsession, things about myself.

It has taken me longer to post about it than I had meant, but nonetheless I miss him.

2008 - The Fed Bailout

2009-01-06T20:06:00.007-05:00

I know, at first it seems like Roger Federer and I have a good deal in common. But if you look past the the grace under pressure, the similar hair-do, and the fact that we both apparently think its appropriate to date a girl for a decade before considering marriage, I think you'll find we're actually quite different.

And its more than just his Dubai address. He's clearly peaking earlier than me.

But this past year was a tough one for both of us. As a longtime fan, it was tough to watch him. It seemed like he wasn't enjoying himself as he used to. Lost that extra gear or something. He was *sweating* for God's sake.

And though he still had a pretty successful clay & grass season by most standards, something had changed; his sheen of invincibility was lost. Plus: Nadal really had his number. That cranky Murray was in his kitchen too. Shoot, my brother and I watched him lose to some teenaged French phenom in the 1st round here in Toronto!

But I think I understood him in a way that most couldn't. I too felt the crush of injury take the snap out of my serve. I wondered as I'm sure he did if it was the end of my tennis career, if age had finally caught me too. He would be relegated to a tumbling world ranking while trolling for a good draw at the Grand Slams while I would have to introduce a good deal of slicing and other trickery into my game. It was looking grim for us indeed.

Then came September. Roger quieted everyone with his US Open victory and I thought to myself, "I will not go quietly into the clubhouse." I booked my surgery and now as Roger no doubt runs his drills in the shadows of the Burj-Al-Arab, I will diligently work on my bizarre physio exercises (I've gotten to know our broomsticks well). We are both coming back.

Yes indeed. Together, Roger and I are taking 2009 by storm - look for us on the hardcourts this June.

Items to be featured of the movie that I will never get around to writing, producing, directing, or starring in

2008-07-13T13:32:00.006-04:00

Rich People

Sigur Ros

Arcane literary references

iPhones

Multiple endings depending on what theater you are in and how I've profiled its demographic. Lookout if you're watching the one in which Ice-Cube figures.

Cinque-Terre

Langoustines

Moping

Jokes about Matthew McConnaughy's ubiqitous pectorals

A Whit Stilman cameo appearance

Product placement on a scale as yet unseen.

An awkward briss

A woman mispronouncing "Hypocrite" as "Hippopotamus"

A room with a poster of Alex Kovalev

A direct-to-camera soliliquy on the unsung value of the side-part by the lead who, incidentally, has a side-part.

Chattering. Lots and lots of chatter.

Dear PMcE: Dating Etiquette

2008-07-10T19:07:00.009-04:00

Dear PMcE,

As a single woman newly entering the dating scene, I find a lot has changed since I was vamping around in college. Adult dating apparently requires more than simply jumping around to House of Pain. For instance, finances are more complicated now. As a high-earning professional, I need to know where do you stand on the paying for dinner question.

Do you think a woman should absolutely offer to pay, even if she has no intention of doing so? Do you think not offering is rude, even though if he accepts she will never date him again? Do you think it is not equally appropriate to reciprocate in other ways, like paying for other non-dinner activities or hosting a follow-up dinner in her own home?

Sorry for the rapid-fire multiple questions, but I rarely let anyone get a word in edge-wise.

Confused in the Queen's Quay

Dear Confused,

I think that unless you are dating a younger man who you intend to ravish and never call again, perhaps also stealing one of his sweatshirts, you should NOT offer to pay.

Now, there are certainly exceptions, but most of them obvious - i.e. an extraordinarily expensive guest-chef-prix-fixe dinner that was your idea or something like that (ballet would fit here but that's kind of its own Dating Advice topic). But on the whole, I do not think that you should feel obligated to make the fake offer either, especially considering the consequences of his accepting are so dire.

I have always been a big fan of the reciprocity. In fact, I used to consider it the hallmark of a good date. Frequently I would suggest it myself while refusing a ham-handed attempt toward the purse (all my dates had hands made of ham, it's why I married a Latina woman instead: hands of cornsilk.)

The reciprocity game is socially graceful in so many ways:

It can bridge pay inequity, so the weaker earning partner can "reciprocate" with an appropriately priced event.

One can preserve the old-time chivalry of the gentlemen paying for dates

It means that the next date is assured, and, by corollary,

The sense of obligation can be quickly quashed in the time it takes to drink an apple martini at "this great spot I know" that also happens to be really close to your house.

As for the rapid-fire questions and general run-on sentences, don't let a little thing like the other person's thoughts get in the way of a good date. What if they turn out to be boring? Go with what you know is good, and that's you.

1000 hits!

2008-05-01T08:55:00.003-04:00

What with the new baby, spring, countless hours reviewing Habs moments on my PVR, and studying for yet more regulatory exams (I had seriously thought I wrote my last one in 1999, and have been wrong about that just about every year), I haven't had much time. So content has been slim here.

Even my new site, which I thought would be easier to keep more regular since it doesn't actually require me to provide any original content (or, for that matter, even to think very hard) has been skinny.

But that hasn't stopped my hardy dozen or so fans from checking this here site on a regular and propelling my hit count over 1000! So thanks. It took about a year, but it was worth it.

Now: some sites are instant phenomena. And tough it was always my intention that this here site be more of a slow build, cultivating a dedicated and highly sophisticated readership, it's time to step up and get some freakin' hits. One Hundred Million Tiny Explosions in the Sky deserves One Hundred Million Tiny hits.

So forward the link to your friends. Make it your homepage. Add it as an RSS feed. Put it on your business card for crying out loud. I must be heard.

New Blog - PMcE suggested reading: Is That Something That Might Interest You?

2008-03-31T21:23:00.002-04:00

Those who know me know that not only do I read a great deal, some of it is even interesting. If I was an older man, I’d be the type who mailed you articles that I’d neatly clipped from the newspaper with a little note written in the margin. “Thought you would find this interesting, especially given what you and the girls just went through!”

But I’m not that old. Instead, I tend to email articles to people that I think would be interested. Typically I choose recipients with care - targeted mail gets read, blast mail not so.

It recently occurred to me that maybe my hand-cut, ad-hoc distribution lists might be missing people who I knew but maybe wasn't as aware of their interests. More so, what if there were people I didn't know who would be interested? What if they could set up an automatic feed that would pipe all this goodness direct to their PC in an anonymous fashion?

“Brilliant,” I thought to myself.

So go check my new sister site: www.pmceReads.blogspot.com. And register for the Atom Feed at the bottom. This will feed it directly into the “feeds” window in your internet explorer. (Don’t forget to Feed this site too!)

I would think that it will tend to have much more frequent updates than this site as posting links/articles is significantly easier than generating original content.

Enjoy, and read up.

My Concubiine

2008-03-27T13:17:00.008-04:00

I have taken a mistress and her name is Wii.

I think of her all the time. She keeps me up late at night, palms sweating. I no longer read, nor write. I barely go outside anymore. All I want is Wii.

After dinner, I tell my wife that I'm going to do the dishes and that she should go upstairs to relax. But instead, I turn the TV down low, drain the rest of the dinner's wine into my glass and slide the coffee table away from the fireplace. We get fairly acrobatic some nights. Aerobic even.

Sometimes my brother joins in. I've heard that Wii can actually handle four at the same time. I don't have the equipment though.

I've even gone so far as to encourage my wife to try it, but she's says she's not into that kind of thing.

"Why not take a break?" Wii asks me sometimes. She'll gently encourage me to go outside, feel the wind on my face. But I don't.

Even my old faithful friend, TV, has become an exercise in disappointment. Between the writer's strike and the frusterating one-way nature of our relationship, there just seems to be something lacking. When was the last time TV listened to my needs? I find myself swinging my remote at Roger Federer.

In the strictest sense of the word, Wii doesn't actually listen to me. We don't speak it all, in fact. Purely physical, she feels me. Wordlessly, silently, or, with soothing music. As a good concubiine should.

Moral Ambiguity takes it on the Chin

2008-03-12T20:23:00.005-04:00

I found myself thinking, this afternoon, as Eliot Spitzer eloquently bolted for the door from the governer's mansion, "Wow".

I'm just not sure at all if my wife would be standing next to me at a press conference after finding out that I had blown what amounts to a pretty good post-secondary tuition for one of my daughters on a series of trysts with an obviously talented hooker. I just don't see it.

But then, I've also never lived in France. I've read Michel Houellebecq though, and I'm pretty sure he'd be ok with all this. Luckily, he'll never get elected in America. This is especially lucky for prostitutes. Because he'd be interested in doing things that might be considered dangerous. And that's not good for anybody: not the voters, not the girl, and certainly not the wife.

Juliet

2008-01-14T15:32:00.000-05:00

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Juliet James McEntyre - January 9th, 3:46 am. 7lbs, 3oz.

Book Review: Blindness – Jose Saramango

2008-01-08T22:06:00.000-05:00

Recommended to me over a year ago by a friend, this book idled on my wishlist overly long. A truly stunning work of imaginative fiction, it should be experienced by all. Since I know you’ll be running out to the store to buy it right away, I’ll keep the synopsis spare: everyone goes blind and all hell breaks loose.

Like so much disaster literature (apocalyptic, dystopian, war, holocaust, Russian) the revealing bits are not so much the events or scenarios but how the people react to the atrocities. And I find it fascinating to see how quickly relatively stable social institutions break down when the animal spirit dominates. Surely everyone has pondered their behaviour under duress: who would you take with you in a fire, would you throw yourself in front of a bullet for your lover, would you starve to feed your child, would you kill, who? Saramango has the answers. And most of them are disappointing.

While the style seems intimidating, there are no quotes or paragraphs, just page after page of square blocked text, he is such an adept writer that it doesn’t seem cumbersome. Plus there is a very clever conceit revealed about the style which makes it all the more rewarding.

I understand that after many years of rebuffing Hollywood advances this book is finally being made into a film and by talented people too. It will make a great movie, I have no doubt. There is a great deal of nudity, dirty sex (literally), violence, horror, and plenty of occasions for strong acting moments. But because the truly stunning moments of the novel are inward looking, fans will be well served to spend a couple of hours alone with it before it gets laid out for them. It would seem fitting too that a story about the blind be heard rather than seen. Call me. I’ll read it to you.

Political Update

2008-01-04T21:55:00.000-05:00

In light of this being an election year and all, people have probably been wondering where I stand on the issues. Specifically and of most immediate importance is the age-old Westcoast vs. Eastcoast Hip Hop issue. In fact, amid all the indie rock and electro pop I’ve been pushing on my wife and friends, I too had begun to lose sight of myself.

But this last weekend, I was able to put it all to a test. Due to a series of stereophonic mishaps, I found myself facing a long solo drive down the 401 without any music.

(The 401 is the number that designates the Trans-Canadian Highway. The most frequently trafficked stretch of this four lane highway is that between Montreal and Toronto and it is to this particular long, strait, ugly stretch that most mean when they refer to the “401”. Newly renamed the Highway of Heroes in honour of the Canadian Veterans returning in one way or another from battles abroad, it is also occasionally referred to as “the armpit of Canada”. I’ve always felt that “Canada’s Grundle” is a more apt analogy, both for its better inference of the look and feel of the highway and for the parts that it joins.)

So I zipped to HMV and picked up a whole deck of new albums for examination on my trip. My selections were pretty broad, but knowing how pressing your interest on my rap geopolitics, I got right into the hip hop, and loud. Back-to-back I played new albums from Snoop and Nas, and let mid-western mid-tempo Kanye play referee. Without suspense, I’ll tell you that as good as Snoop and his (many, many) friends may be, there is simply no comparison. I am still Eastcoast. Stark, mean, licks of jazz and hard rock, Nas and the New York sound are for me.

Phew

Book Review: A Moveable Feast – Ernest Hemingway

2008-01-01T21:47:00.000-05:00

Ernest Hemingway wrote simply and beautifully and was an asshole.

In his posthumously published memoir, A Moveable Feast, Hemingway writes about his time as a struggling artist in Paris in the 1920s. In his stark, almost childish style he offers up a rather detailed series of vignettes of his life and times there and they were wonderful. Some are poignantly sad, some are quite funny, and some are downright bitchy. All are staggeringly self-aggrandizing.

It is clear to me that as much as the world has loved Hem, no one could love Hem as much as Hem did. His best times were when he was alone, walking the deserted streets of the city. Or fishing, smoking. Or at the track, betting. Or skiing, and climbing. Hem was no team player. His worst times were when someone interrupted him. In many a scene he proudly recounts how he berated some idiot for even sitting at the same café where he worked. And there were plenty of idiots.

And so it was with great ambivalence that I motored through this little book because truly, he writes beautifully. There is complete clarity of message. No room for nuance, whatsoever. Which, if you think about it, only contributes to the arrogance: not a single word is hedged; without adjectives, nothing is modified. It was as I say it was. It is as I say it is. I do what I say I do.

In addition to the anecdotes of his friends and lifestyle (oysters, bookstores, cafes, banging models, skiing with the rich, talking about art with Gloria Steinem, and bopping around in a topless convertible with an effete and desperately drunk F. Scott Fitzgerald) he talks a great deal about writing. How he feels about it, how he did it, where he did it, why he did it. And it is in these passages that pretense and romanticism are finally shed. It makes them less sensational, but there is a palpable sense that he’s finally telling the truth.

The truth is a theme that comes up a great deal when he talks about writing. He feels that the truer you write, the better you write. So if truth is the essence of writing, and the truth is always accessible to you if you really look hard enough, then good writing will always be there.

Vaguely addressing writers block and why it’s simply never been a problem for him, he says: Whenever I am not sure where the next story will come from, I simply sit down and force myself to write one true sentence. Once that sentence is there, the rest will follow.

So I tried it. See above. He was right.

(To be fair to the man, I do understand from subsequent reading that his fourth wife, Mary, had a heavy hand in editing his nearly finished work going as far as to outright cut a lengthy apology to his first wife, Hadley. Perhaps Mary trimmed some of the humility too, but somehow I doubt it.)

Trouble Brewing

2007-12-26T21:39:00.000-05:00

“This town stinks,” said the one with the beginnings of a mustache.

“Yeah, it fucking stinks, dude” said the tall one. He had the same haircut as his friend. In fact, they all combed their hair over their eyes like Wayne did.

No had yet figured out how to grow a mustache like him yet. This was damned shame because as Remy had once said, over a cigarette, “Wayne’s mustache fucking rocks!”

“Yeah,” Jean Marc had agreed at the time, after spitting, “It fucking rocks.” Jean Marc was smaller than the other two, but he knew how to fight. His dad taught him.

The three of them shuffled down the pier in their sneakers, laces undone like they just don’ care. They looked around but couldn’t find anything awesome to burn.

“This town stinks,” Remy said again, repeating Wayne.
“We should get some booze and rip shit up.”

Which, eventually they did.

A Gift to You, Lousy as It May Be, You'll Thank Me Anyways. Because We Are Friends. Or Family.

2007-12-25T21:17:00.000-05:00

I have been working on this piece for some time. And it has gotten pretty long. But no matter how long it gets, it's just not any good.

So I'm going to spare you, friendly reader. It was a great idea, but it just didn't work out as well as I had thought it would. And actually, now that I think about it, rye in hand, even if it had been perfectly wrought, it would have been of interest to maybe two people that I know. So perhaps it wasn't such a great idea afterall.

Haruki Murakami is one of my favorite authors and those who have read him will attest that his style is unmistakable. I figured I would write a little piece echoing his peculiar voice, but use elements of my own life instead: Zihua instead of a cat with a bent tail; Daniela having with small and beautiful ears; Jeff Buckley instead of dated jazz.

But to be honest, even those three that would have figured out what I was up to wouldn't have found it all that funny. So I figured I'd just tell you all the punch line and move on.

And now, I expect you have that empty, mildly dissatisfied feeling that comes with not being sure if you missed something or if that something wasn't there and what you read merely sucked. But at least you didn't have to read 2,500 words to get it.

Merry Christmas reader!

Book Review: What is the What – Dave Eggers

2007-12-15T21:23:00.000-05:00

It will come as no surprise to any of those who know me or (or those few who read what I write) that I have a very soft spot in my heart for Dave and his McSweeney family. I won’t get into why. I will agree, though, that he hasn’t written a good novel yet. Even his short fiction has never even come close to his debut memoir, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. But even as it seemed that he was possibly fading into the late 90’s and becoming simply an aging crack-pot celebrity philanthropist, it turns out he was up to much, much more.

Over the four years (2002-2006) he worked with Valentino Achak Deng to bring his story to our attention. With the same deft touch that he exhibited in AHWOSG, What is the What is touching, funny, and startlingly easy to identify with. There is virtually no hit of Eggers smarmy earnestness, the narration is given with a complete purity of voice. It is very difficult to tell where the writer leaves off and the narrator begins, but you quickly warm to Valentino, becoming engrossed in his complete melodrama of a life.

There are structural issues and a few low bits where a history lesson obtusely interrupts the action, but I wish to leave my issues aside. I have not been touched by a book (or maybe a person) in the way that I was by What is the What.

I encourage anyone who wants to know more about the Sudan and the Lost Boys who fled the country during its prolonged civil war to read it. I encourage anyone who wishes they could make the lives of others better to read it. I encourage anyone who thinks they didn’t get what they wanted for Christmas to read it.

In You Shall Know Our Velocity!, Eggers muses about the urge to give. If you were shipwrecked on an island and discovered another person there, you would give him half of whatever you have. This would be obvious; no decision to be made. If a week or so later another person washed up, you would share with him too. But somehow, even with this natural urge to keep each other alive, there is some number at which people become not like us and we no longer feel the compulsion to share. Valentino has suffered a great deal and needs our help. It is no accident that Eggers has distilled the problems of a people into this one smiling man.

Please give to him anyways.

Entities The Famously Adventurous Poly-Sexual Artist Currently Known as Prince Has Been Sighted Taking Into His Minnesota Boudoir

2007-11-10T14:11:00.000-05:00

A tall man with a side part.

A tall woman of unnatural beauty.

A tall pair of possibly Scandinavian twins.

The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders

The Dallas Cowboys mascot, Rowdy.

The Dallas Cowboys offensive line.

A Septuagenarian couple who had recently confessed to the artist by the salad bar at Friendly's that the might have lost that loving feeling.

Three Lamas and their handler.

A Bowling ball.

Thirty thousand silk worms.

A wet-nurse.

A rough-handed dairy farmer.

A princess.

Elements from the Periodic Table That Would Serve Well as Names for My New Baby (or a Character in a Shakespearean Comedy).

2007-10-16T11:24:00.001-04:00

Boys

Beryllium
Boron
Argon
Gallium
Krypton
Cadmium
Erbium
Radon
Thorium
Seaborgium

Girls

Fluorine
Bromine
Bismuth
Iodine
Mercury
Astatine
Iron

More Margarita Ruminations

2007-10-16T11:07:00.000-04:00

Equatorial sunsets don’t offer much in the way of twilight. The mustachioed bartender flicked on a string of little illuminated plastic sombreros. In your apartment, this kind of decoration would be depressing, but here, they imbued the bar with warmth that made the patrons lean in a little closer.

“You ever see ‘Braveheart’?”

His tongue was getting a little fatter, this being the margarita that would inspire his girlfriend to ask, “don’t you think you should slow down?”

“Or ‘300’?”

At least the little bar didn’t play Mexican music. It was hard to find a drinking spot in small towns that didn’t constantly have mariachi’s belting out “Cielo Lindo” from a tinny mono.

“‘Gladiator’, ‘Robin Hood’, ‘Rome’? I mean, they’re all pretty much the same: epic tales about very tough men persevering in the face of enormous physical resistance. Middle ages, Rome, Greece: it doesn’t really matter when it takes place, it’s unrecognizably different from now, and so are the impossibly hard heroes. Sitting there, watching them swing their swords, rally their loyal followers on horseback, and make the tough decisions that shape histories both personal and global, you’d like to think to yourself, ‘Man, I’d fucking lay down and spill my innards on that wheat field for the safety of my people too. I’d be epic too. I’d be hard if I had too.’ ”

The sound of a blender too can be grating in your home, but somehow it too had a reassuring, comforting sound here at the Cantina Fresco.

“Invariably in these films there is a foil for the hero. A lizard-like senator or court sycophant who skulks in the halls of power, bending to the fascist will of whichever power is oppressing our hero. Preening his long hair with soft, slender hands, he sides with the establishment for no other reason than it will afford him the greatest personal luxury. Sometimes he is a traitor, which I’ll admit is bad. But mostly he’s just a man who has been faced with overwhelming odds, and decided not to resist. He saw the paradigm changing, and positioned himself for the new reality.”

No one at the bar liked the direction this was taking. A crew-cut teenager paid his tab with wrinkled notes from his bathing suit.

“How come his story is never told? He behaves like just about every single man in the audience would, if faced with similar a similar reality. I, for one, know that I wouldn’t cauterize my own wounds with a firebrand just to bound back into muddy battle. No sir. I’d be in the Senate, planning; or in the palace, counting the King’s money. And I’d be thanking my fucking stars that I was clean and dry.”

Not even the cicidas argued.

The Friendly Giant

2007-09-06T22:37:00.001-04:00

Jim is gone. He's not coming back and there is absolutely nothing that we can do about it. There will be no more, no seconds, no matter how nicely we ask. All we can do is look back, because the present is simply too sad.

Jim was among the first adults to speak to me as an equal, as if I too, were an adult. There are about five people in my life who offered me this respect while I was growing up, and each of them I still try to emulate to this day. He listened to me as if I was the very first to speak the adenoidal platitudes of a teen aged boy. He laughed with me, not at me, though often at his own jokes. He swore not freely like a child, but carefully and with precision. He showed me that just because you took life seriously, you did not necessarily have to be serious. He taught me that everyone deserves to be heard, and that everyone is interesting if you listen carefully enough.

It would be hard to describe Jim as an athlete. It was only due to pure luck that he didn't fall down the stairs more often than he did. But by no means did his lanky frame and disobedient limbs prevent him from competing, he simply had to do it in his own way. It's infinitely easier to win at tennis, for instance, if you only play with children. And thrash me he did! Until I turned thirteen, of course.

But over those years, he taught me that telling me how badly he was going to beat me was much better than actually beating me. In fact, since his racket mysteriously went missing a few years ago, his play was sublimely reduced to a simple essence of trash talk. Our "annual" game was since replaced by a brace of Bloody Mary's on the veranda where he would outline all the improvements he had made to his serve the previous winter and what it would mean to me and my (not-so) imminent humiliation.

When I think on this, and all the other jokes we shared, well, wow, it is hard not to feel like I was smiled upon with very special favour. But in reality, I suspect that each of his nieces and nephews thought that *they* were quietly his favorite; that he was particularly mirthful with them; that he sought them out in a crowd because they were the most fun; that he understood them for what they really were; that he was just faking being an adult.

Which, he might have been. Faking. It was clear to anyone of us that he had undergone a marked change in outlook after he took his retirement. His jaw unclenched and his whole demeanor opened up. Others were invited into his world.

I believe I was in University when he hung up his wig (or whatever it is that lawyers hang up: pens? foolscap? it can't be cleats!). Young, ambitious, and aggressive, it didn't make much sense to me at the time. Here I was, doing anything to start a career, and there he was walking away! To help people! Inconceivably romantic. But as I grew older, and learned to hate my first job, I began to find that I hoped that one day I too would wake up, look around, and decide that I had all I needed; that I could contribute to my community in ways that far exceeded the reach of my checkbook.

The last time I saw Jim was a few weekends ago up at the lake (where else). We had brought Adrian over to the Wright dock so he could splash around in the shallows that had been cleared by Nancy and Dad and the great Mr. Mac so many years before. Mostly we just milled around while Adrian generally made a mess of the place. The conversation volleyed about in its typically lazy summertime way: how many more boats there are this year than others; what Nan and Dad used to do to leaches; whether the fish would eventually eat the discarded water slipper resting on the bottom of the lake off the end of the dock; why Jim's canoe was the fastest on the lake, a marvel.

When it came time to pack up the boy and take him home for some supper, I hoisted him up on my shoulders, where suddenly he was staring directly into Jim's eyes. (Jim was, it turned out, one-half an Adrian taller than me).

"So long Adrian! See you soon!" Jim bellowed, smiling wide and giving my six-toothed son a good view of his dental work.

Adrian shrunk into my my hair, tears welling up in his eyes. A small sniffle.

I swung him down and cradled him in my arms so that he was sitting facing outwards, "It's only Uncle Jim," I told the little guy, trying to smooth over the situation, "Jim!" I said.

Sniffle. A tiny moan and a furtive look for escape routes into the woods.

Jim raised his arms high above his head and waved them around, all elbows and freckles. His knuckles dragged through the clouds above and he laughed, "that's right! I am scary! Lookout for Uncle Jim!"

But that's the end of the story: finished in the middle. Adrian will never have a chance to think that he is Jim's favorite nephew. He will simply wonder: who is the laughing, bespectacled man towering over us in all the family photos?

"Papa? Tell me about the friendly giant again."

And I will.

Book Review: Murakami – After Dark

2007-08-13T21:43:00.001-04:00

It’s hard to tell if Murakami is recently prolific or if it's simply his translators who are are. Nevertheless, this is the fourth book from him in three years, and in that spell, it's his most elegant submission. A “slim” volume, it could be described as Murakami light, but even so it retains all the key elements that longtime fans love so much. Dualism, dream worlds, sinister fascist overlords, coffee, women with small ears, American food, cats, minimalists, and jazz all make their appearances in this light-hearted and ultimately very touching story.

Murakami’s Japan, often criticized in his own country for being too foreign (American), is a strange and spooky place where the characters never really feel at home. Through simplifying their lives, lives which are inevitably complicated by the author, and seeking solitude, they tend to find happiness. It is a most therapeutic journey for a busy western mind to take and I recommend it highly. Think of it as the modern literary equivalent of Zen meditation, but with chicken salad sandwiches and Jazz.

Urgency in young music

2007-08-10T20:16:00.002-04:00

As I get older, look older, and heck, even act older, the music I listen to is changing: it’s getting younger. And not just in the way the very dazed and confused Wooderson observed of high school girls, the ones who highlight your mortal velocity by merely standing still in their pom-poms. No, my musicians are actually getting younger. And I know why.

When I started choosing my own music as an adolescent, I listened to the blues greats: Muddy, John Lee, Bo, Pop, Buddy (!). Sage old-timers imparting me with lessons hard learned, they bestowed upon me an unearned gravitas. My adventures restricted to the hushed streets of Westmount, I thirsted for something more, grander: something as big as me. And I was unwilling to wait. It wasn’t just me; all adolescents want desperately to grow up. They are ready for life, god-dammit, why won’t anyone take them seriously? For fuck’s sake I’m not a child!

Well, Albert Collins took me seriously. I would lie on the carpet of my room, stuck in there for the night, and listen as he slowly told me about the women he had loved, the whiskey he had drunk, and the cars he had stolen, now that’s OG. And I wanted all of it.

Now that I am no longer grounded, and I look on those years of identity crises with the knowing smile that my parents probably hid from me, my emotional deficits lie in other accounts. I miss the yearning. I miss the drama. I miss the sense that any one moment will define the rest of my life. I miss the complete lack of perspective. I miss the urgency.

But I can find it in music, the music of young people. Their music is all those things and it brings electricity to my grey-suited subway rides.

Adrian surveys the lawn, considers a dip in the pool

2007-08-10T20:00:00.000-04:00

Scuff scuff go my shoes. Down the stairs, feet first!
My shoes are green.
Grass is green! Maybe I’ll sit in it for a while.
Maybe not.
Sitting is for sissies. I’m going to go.
Hey! Water! Over there! I see water, look!
Scuff Scuff.

There’s mum over there. She’s waving. Nice Mum.
I’ll just tell her about the water, “Agua!”
I don’t think she sees it, “Agua!”
I like when she smiles. It makes me think of puppies.
And I like puppies! Also: trains.

Scuff Scuff. I’d better just move this little stick.
But where shall I put it?
Maybe in my pocket?
No, it won’t go in there: this pocket is a fake.
I’ll just put it over here. There.

Did you hear that? Up above?
“Choop Choop!” That is what birdies say.

Whoa! The pool is over there. Water.
I’m just going to put my hands in there for a minute I think,
Maybe shovel some water onto the grass, which is green.
What’s that floating in my pool? Oh yeah, Dad said it is a Narwhale.
But it not built to “scale” that’s why it fits.
A small narwhale. I like narwhales.
And water. “Mama! Agua!” Yup, she’s looking. She sees the water.

Book Review: Amis – House of Meetings

2007-07-24T21:40:00.000-04:00

Amis is deeply interested in Russia. He is an accomplished student of its history, and a huge fan of its literature. With this novel, he has made a very personal attempt to craft his own Russian novel. In fact, I know this because he tells us this in the text.

Most of the story takes place in a Siberian gulag, and this is where the novel’s best scenes take place. Amis’ account of the labour camp is both horrific and thrilling, but also curiously funny in many places. Reminiscent of Primo Levi’s account of Auschwitz, one probably needs the full 70 years of intervening time to find humour in such places, but even so, it is there. But the secrets that bind this text together are ultimately disappointing. Amis lords the Magoffin over the reader in an uncharacteristically clumsy manner.

It will surprise no one to learn that I have not read as much Russian literature as he has. But I do share a deep love for his hero, Nabokov. And, from this perspective, I regret that he has not nearly equaled any of Nabokov’s work, nor Dostoyevsky, for that matter, whom he is also clearly emulating here.

But even as I tire of his increasingly over-ripe leering, and occasional hubris, the fact is I will never tire of Amis’s style. Whatever the topic, and regardless of his age, the man is a delicate (though sometimes brutal) craftsman. I will keep reading him, but certainly won’t advise new readers to pick up this volume of his as their first.

Book Review: Pynchon – Against the Day

2007-06-30T21:32:00.000-04:00

So I finished it. And it was pretty darned amazing. I’m not going to say it was an easy six months of my life. No. It certainly wasn’t. There were, of course, the obvious physical challenges of spending all those hours (those miles) with six pounds of hardcover bound small print, hard edges threatening my eye sockets, but that was the least of my problems. My wife did suggest that it was “un-sexy” to wear those sport goggles in bed, and she also threatened to ban it from our marital boudoir after I used it to stop that bathroom flood; wine lovers refer to that smell as “ash” or “barnyard” at worst, and even so they find it sexy.

No, I’m happy to report the real challenges lay in the text. With over a hundred characters to keep track of, working in multiple timelines, sometimes alternated dimensions or even media, there was frankly more than I could often handle. Encyclopedic is probably the best way to describe it, and many reviewers do. Except, it would be more like if someone decided to make a novel out of a “B-side” encyclopedia, compiling stories from all the slightly-less-significant-and-sometimes-even-a-little-obscure people and places of the early 20th century: Salzburg, not Paris; Venice, not Rome; Montenegro and Kazakhstan, not Moscow; Denver.

There were spells when I walked away from it. There was one occasion where I left three rather long voice mails on Liesl Schillinger’s phone. But each time, just when I thought I was on the verge of leaving my dollar-bill bookmark in that bad-boy for the last time, I would wind up with a pair of espressos in my hand and a quiet morning ahead of me. And when approached in this way, the book would roll over and show me its marvelous insides. Complex, funny, strangely touching, it could confuse as well as enlighten.

One of the Pynchon fan-sites that I appealed to for help midway through the first third (this would be, what, February?) offered up some advice that really resonated with me. Paraphrasing: reading Pynchon is like listening to jazz, you can listen and try to understand to as much or as little of it as you like and still enjoy it. If it gets to hectic, or you are not sure what is happening, just lie back and let it wash over you. It’s not supposed to make sense, it’s just meant to make you feel good. Feel good, and think.

Apologia

2007-05-28T22:31:00.000-04:00

Today I said some things. We said some things. These things we said can never be unsaid. And they will ever linger out there in the aether of memory, would that I could, but alas I cannot: all I can do is to apologize.

Horrible, horrendous things. Surely, some of those words you probably had never heard aloud before. No doubt you wondered if some of them were even fit to be considered English. But they were. English of the bawdiest sort. Terrible English fit only for terrible deeds performed by terrible women. And surprised men!

But to be fair, there was no way I could know you were listening. Or, for that matter, that you weren't going to be out of town. So, though no doubt the words were mine, the ears were yours. And, my love, your ears were supposed to be in Sept-Isles this past weekend, were they not?

But for shame. How terrible of me to lash out at you again. I cannot blame you. It is only my love for you that makes me lash out at you so. What cowardice!

Though it bears mentioning that it wasn't technically the same bed we had slept in the night before you lied about leaving. I would never do that to you! I changed the sheets. Plus, she was wearing your perfume, so that business about "the stink of her" was a little over the top.

But I'm getting off track again. I really want to apologize for my brutish behaviour. Sure, things got a little out of hand, but I had no right to threaten your cat. That was out of line. Especially considering your cat is, in fact, a male, so many of the proposals I made in anger would be biologically unsound if not simply impossible. Similarly, your sister. Except, of course, she is female, so, well, I guess not so impossible. But still: I mean, especially if she was willing to undergo some intensive grooming and so on. Boy oh boy. She is something else.

Not that I'm looking! No! I have been so upset since our row that I have been shut up in my room, unwilling to speak to anyone. Idling away my afternoons, wimpering through my Twin Peaks DVD set. Barely able to eat or drink. Maybe a little schnapps to help me get to sleep at night. And who's kidding who, I have never been able to say no to cured deli meats. Oof, remember those sandwiches Dagwood used to make for himself in the middle of the night? Sausage links and ham-still-on-the-bone all packed in there? There was a guy who knew how to handle life's up and downs.

Has anyone ever told you your sister looks a little like Lara Flynn Boyle?

Look. We'll never be able to go back and change what happened last Friday. Not without some major, major pharmaceutical advances combined with a massive uptick in my purchasing power.

Speaking of which, while we're baring the wounds of our hearts, I should tell you that you are out of gas. I had to pick up my cousin at the airport yesterday and, well, I still have a set of keys to your car. I probably should have filled up on the way back, but, well, you were pretty low to begin with, and so it seemed pretty ridiculous to think that I should have to fill up just for a quick trip to the airport. I was careful to drive slowly so we didn't actually use that much. Riff says hello, by the way.

Oh and I borrowed a few dollars too. I'll get them back to you at the end of the month. Or maybe I'll just pay you back when we go to Stowe in June; get a nice bottle of wine or something. We could pop it in the hot-tub, pump up the Vangelis a little.... Maybe I'd better make it two bottles. You shouldn't leave that kind of cash in the car you know.

Cupcake. My little chocolate chip cupcake. Look at me going on like a fool! I'm sure you can see how distraught I am over our little misunderstanding. I am so sorry. It will never happen again. Not as God nor Eros himself still fills your lungs with the sweet breath of angels.

When does your sister graduate anyways?

Items I have attracted via careful application of The Secret

2007-05-24T21:58:00.000-04:00

The admiration of all men

The adoration of all women

Syphallis

An unearned air of erudition

That windswept look

A great deal on gently used all-season radials.

A Jack Russel Terrier named "Champ"

A boxed set of Clint Eastwood's "Dirty Harry" DVDs

The scent of freshly baked bread

A family of swallows in my garage

A bowling 'C' Flight championship

Surprising amounts of lint

Six knee-scuffed and somewhat androgenous kids trailing me on bikes.

A new credit card

A possible lawsuit

A wishing well

$45.90 in small change

At the bar in bare feet.

2007-05-11T19:17:00.000-04:00

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Johnny Depp wouldn’t be all that into hanging out with me.”

“Why not? He seems like a pretty cool guy.”

“Oh, very cool. That’s not the issue. I mean, no doubt I’d like to hang out with him, but I just don’t get the sense that he’d be very interested in me. Which, in turn, would make it a lot less fun to hang out with him.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short.”

It was a nice thing to say, but in truth, he really didn’t think he was. The sun leaned down and pressed its forehead into the fringe of palm trees across the bay. His shirt stuck to his back a little in the heat, and they watched the waves, always optimistic that the swell might be picking up.

“I have pleats in my jeans.”

This was also true. He didn’t like the pleats; he knew that they weren’t cool. But he didn’t do his own laundry and really hadn’t worked up the nerve to give his cleaning lady more strict instruction with regard to how his factory distressed jeans lost much of their appeal when pressed with an iron. Plus he didn’t speak Spanish.

He took a sip of his margarita. Little white wisps of smoke rose out of his glass as the humid air met the drink’s little whipped frozen peaks.

“If he got a chance to know you, he’d like you. I like hanging out with you.”

The bartender touched his new mustache lightly; he hadn’t shaved during his week off and was trying it out. The reviews had been positive so far. Being Mexican, the mustache was entirely without insouciant irony.

“Thanks, but who’s kidding who? I wouldn’t even get into the Viper Room.”

Floating

2007-05-11T18:02:00.001-04:00

“Shuffle your feet here, there are often sting rays and you don’t want to step on them,” said Sam, and it seemed like sound enough advice to me. I didn’t want to step on a sting ray, it was true. Sting ray barb to the heart, died instantly: who could forget that diagnosis? Not me. Nope. The poor Crocodile Hunter. And I think it’s fair to say that it’s possible that I have a weaker heart than Steve Irwin.

One of the nice things about surfing is you are tied to your floatation device.

Let me tell you: my physical victories in the water were few. I spent a lot of time floating or paddling out of the way of large waves and other surfers (Sam’s other advice with regards to my personal safety had been the highly direct, “stay out of the way of the Mexicans.”). Ultimately, other than frequent beatings and a few brief but wonderful moments when the ocean I moved together in just the right way, most of my time on the board was spent swimming or watching.

And herein was the most surprising part about surfing: there is a very quiet, universally understood social order to it. It’s beautiful and fascinating to watch. Some rules are simple, like “the man closer to the rocks/shore is considered ‘inside’ and he has right of way.” But the other aspects of the lineup are much more intricate, and like so much in the ocean, simply elude accurate description. But it is crucial to grasp them, and quickly, because ultimately, the area in which the actual riding gets done, is not very big.

For the most part, people are very nice to each other in the lineup, largely, I think, due to this unwritten order. The very worst thing that anyone said while I was there was nothing at all. Sometimes, as I understand it, there are altercations. Infractions against locals are particularly egregious and often result in light violence or threats thereof. But as my friend Chris told me, “The Ocean is like a dick-drain. Everyone has a little dick in them; you get it just from walking around, taking care of your shit, y’know? But when you get in the ocean, and you take some waves, all that dickness drains right out of you. And if you’ve still got some dick in you when you’re surfin’? Well man, then you must be some kind of dick.”

I certainly felt drained.

By the end of my stay there, surf was pretty much all I could think about, and I couldn’t even do it right. I usually wound up upside down for God’s sake, ass-kicked and sneezing out salt water for hours afterward. But it doesn’t matter. It’s very much a physical sport, but the deep appeal is social, and ultimately spiritual. No opponents, no finish line: just you, the ocean, some other nice people floating around you, and a few sting rays. I can’t wait to do it again.

Items My Son Put in His Mouth While on Vacation and His Reviews Thereof

2007-05-11T15:32:00.000-04:00

Sand, dry: "Mpph!"

Sand, wet: "Eh?"

A Guitar Neck: "Eh?"

Mango & Custard Pastry, warm: "Ma! Ma!"

Stray Grains of Rice, yesterday's: "Kakk."

Fagment of a coconut husk: "Ba?"

His own shoe: "..."

A lime: "Thew"

Sunglasses: "Eh?"

Squirting Green Spcckled Frog, toy: "Ah!"

Hibiscus Blossom, pink: "Ba."

45 SPF Ombrelle Sunscreen, one squirt: "Huuunh."

Chupon (Suess), his: "..."

Chupon (Suess), Isabelle's: "..."

Cheek, Isabelle's: "Eh?"

Hair Brush, his: "Mehh..."

Polished Stones, five: "Eh?"

Pat of Butter, wrapped: "Nah!"

5 Pesos: "Ba!"

Molar, new: "This sucks."

Private Dancer: A Dancer for Money

2007-04-12T17:52:00.000-04:00

And Jon stripped for them. Not so much in private, as he was standing on one of the beer hall picnic tables as the crowd swayed and sang, but very much with "private eyes".

The good news is he was clean and smooth all over, like a newborn mouse.

Elena, who is not in fact Brazilian, had given him one of her very special "wax three ways" jobs just a few days before: long enough ago that any unsightly swelling might have subsided.

She starts with a traditional bees wax "slap 'n' pull" and follows with quick application of watermelon flavoured Fruit Rollups - a tasty paraffin based fruity treat both soothing to the skin, highly nutritious, and bizarrely erotic.

Then, she drapes a broad silk cloth across the area(s) and neatly places three dozen votive tea candles in a pattern that tends to look like the Greek character of Pi. The subtle scents of chamomile, lavender, and lawn clippings fill the room and Elena, with a final dramatic flourish, pulls the silk covering out from under the candles - the classic tablecloth trick. The candles burn to completion while he snoozes and all the while his distressed pores are flushed of any last root-matter.

Needless to say, the German waiters appreciated a powdery soft grundle as much as anyone, so Jon was a huge hit. Plus he smells like crushed peaches.

An incomplete list of things Dave Chappelle has never said to me:

2007-03-30T22:48:00.000-04:00

"Bitch, you can barbeque like a motherfucker!"

"How do I know what size of stay goes in this here shirt collar?"

"Seriously, you should come by my place after the show. I got a six-pack of ice dancers coming by and none of them speak english."

"How much you bench?"

"I don't care if it's ironic or retro or whatever, scooters ain't cool. They just ain't."

"I once saw Al Gore at the airport. He's smaller than I thought he would be."

"Since when is everybody a DJ? Maybe about the same time that everybody got tatoos."

"I have 175 pairs of shoes. One-Hundred-and-Seventy-Five, bitch."

"You know, it's funny, I never get tired of that Howard Dean bit either. And you'd think that if anyone was going to, it would be me. But gottamit, it just never gets old. 'Beyyaaaaaaaaa!' Man! Too good."

"Sometimes I like to lie in my front yard shirtless. It makes me a bit itchy afterwards, but the feeling of being close to the earth that it gives me is worth it. Sometimes I'll also bring a beebee-gun along and take shots at squirrels or kids riding by on their bikes. What? I mean shit: they're wearing helmets."

"If it were up to me, people wouldn't be allowed to wear ballcaps for teams they don't play on. It just gets so fucking confusing! I mean how the hell am I supposed to spot the real Yankees?"

"I'm rich, bitch!"

Social Networking Sites

2007-03-30T19:22:00.000-04:00

There seems to have been a rash of Facebook adaptation in my group of friends. Admittedly, a handful had been there for some time before I openned up for business, but I've been really surprised in these past 3 weeks how many of my very close friends were also in their infancy of use in this or other social network sites.

The interest of the first order is that the virtual world intersects neatly with the real world when a group of people who are physically close (as well as emotionally and temporally "close" - i.e. do/feel things together, often within relatively close periods of time) would all adapt a new mode of expression at precisely the same time. It's akin to a new movie openning up in a small town; the small town being my group, the film, in this case, being facebook. It's not all that surprising (it's how networks grow, and ergo exist), and I won't dwell on the pondering of the interplay between the virtual and real any further here as it is certainly better considered by others with much more intricate worldviews than my own.

Suffice it to say, that it's been pretty cool to see it pulse through our group with a sense of urgency rarely seen outside of half-way houses. My status: kicking ass in a seriously funny way. Who are you friends with? Check me out, I'm Charles Bronson today! What's your favorite book? Here's a shot of me when I used to wax my chest! Joy!

Another friend, openly skeptical of the whole phenomenon, has told me directly that we are too old for this space; that we missed out on being "myspace fuckheads". Catching up now, he suggested gently, could serve only to compound our folly and publicly display us as fools. It should be noted that this friend is exceptionally grumpy, most of the time, especially as relates to aging. Unless he has a short path to vodka-tonix, in which case he is the greatest, youngest guy alive.

And now, having concentration span of nearly unparalleled brevity, I grow bored with facebook. I set into it in order to share some laughs in a new way with the six people that I communicate with on a daily basis. I have done so, to some degree, but mostly I have reconnected in the most minute and distant way with people that I have not thought about nor cared about for years. So that's interesting. And, sure, it's a little unique, but ultimately, not all that much fun. Plus, now I know much more than I need to about some kid three years back from me in high-school who apparently remembers my name. We barely spoke when I used to kick his bag away from my locker, but now we are facebook "friends". Great.

I am not looking for love, nor sex, nor events. I am not looking for a job. But there I am: out there, looking.

I know things about people that I don't need to know and never would have asked. In fact, I probably wouldn't speak to a good many of my facebook "friends" if I saw them in the street, let alone ask them who they were dating and whether the sex was any good.

My brother "retired" from facebook very shortly after I joined, for reasons unrelated to my arrival. He had his reasons, and they were good ones. He told me that after he hit the retire button, he was surprised not to find to much protest from the facebook server; he had expected at least some modicum of effort on their behalf to retain his patronage. But all it did was supply him with a very short multiple choice question: "Why are you leaving facebook?". The first option in the list was "facebook is causing me social problems."

He didn't need read the other choices.

Passing Notes with Frank Miller in the Back Row of a Screening of "300"

2007-03-26T21:53:00.000-04:00

"This is incredibly cheesy."
"You wrote it!"
"I swear it didn't sound like this in my head."
"I'm sure it didn't!"

***

"Who's that lady?"
"That's the Queen"
"Was she in your book?"
"Not really."
"Zack Snyder really understands nipples."
"..."
"You know there were no nipples in your book. I thought it was a weak point"
"I'm trying to watch."
"Lotta penises though. In the book."
"..."
"I'm just saying."
"..."
"If you want to talk about it after or anything, that's cool."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"No penises in the movie, you'll notice."

***

"I'm glad you threw the narrator in, otherwise I'd never figure out who the tough guys are."
"I hate you."
"They're the ones in the red capes, right?"

***

"Do they grow wheat in Greece?"
"They do. I looked into it."
"Huh. I'd like to have a conversation in a wheat field."
"Seriously, why did you come tonight?"

***

"Did that fruitcake just drop Persian currency out of his purse?? Really?"
"Fuck this, let's go."