February 10th
On ANIMAL SHELTER
Memoirs – Part VII
Upon arrival in New York Penelope got a job with the F.B.I. and I looked up one of my old communist associates, B.F. Ingleman, who was now the CEO of a very large sugar company. While Penelope, on her first day as the F.B.I.’s receptionist, shredded and burned all the F.B.I.’s documents relating to me and my murder and arson charges, and we had had our faces changed in Denver to disguise ourselves, I still didn’t feel completely secure. I asked Mr. Ingleman to give me a job in the sugar factory, which I complemented by volunteering at the local animal shelter. At the factory I met one of the children I had befriended in the sewers below Washington, Stella Cruise-Cruz, who had run away from home at the age of sixteen. One of her eyes was twice as large as the other, as a result of the battle under the World War II Monument.
At the animal shelter I was surprised to meet Jorge Sanchez, the artist who had created the giant lizard’s foot in Central Park. He was creating a new art project by painting all the former pets in the animal shelter the same colour: a slate grey.
A wise man (who I assume lived in New York) once said “Everyone ends up in New York.” If these first two encounters with characters from my past hadn’t convinced me, the next dozen or so would. Many of them I had presumed dead: Wally, the Lambs’ hyperintelligent dog, had escaped the Lambs’ basement and travelled to New York, only to find himself in Jorge Sanchez’s animal shelter and painted grey. Gwendolyn, my love from my teenage years, was a co-worker of Penelope’s at the F.B.I., and they immediately became rivals. Gwendolyn didn’t know Penelope and I were common-law married, but her personality was naturally antipathetic to my lady love. The foreman at the sugar factory was none other than the man I had though died in the avalanche in the Rockies, who had offered to adopt me and whose house I had burnt down. The Mayor of New York was John Mortimer, writer of Rumpole of the Bailey and presumed dead. He was living under the alias of Willowcrisp O’Hara. Our next-door neighbour in our brownstone house was none other than the former Dean of the Constabulary University in Salem Oregon, who, unbeknownst to me, had only accepted my application because he had planned to murder me and eat me upon my arrival.
With all these former friends and enemies revealing themselves in different aspects of my life, it was only a matter of time before things came to a head. Seven weeks after we had been re-introduced to New York society, Gwendolyn, the former object of my teenage affections in Louisiana, who had meanwhile become a powerful witch, attempted to poison Penelope in her morning coffee at work. Penelope detected the poison and realized something was up. She immediately called my former secretary, Thea, who used her psychic powers to see that the old man from the mountains and Wally the dog were travelling to my house, where I was sleeping. They were disguised as motorcycle enthusiasts and accompanied by an army of middle-class dads who felt ripped of from buying “Bayou Treats” from me at the State Fair when I was young. They weren’t that angry themselves, but felt they had to prove something to their wives, who didn’t respect them. The former Dean of Constabulary University let them into the tunnel that led from his house to mine. Immediately Penelope phoned Stella Cruz-Cruise, and Stella lit a beacon above the sugar factory, calling all the former Spider Children from around the globe to assemble for war. Meanwhile, Jorge Sanchez got his army of grey-painted former pets to hunt and kill all the snakes that had been trained by the one-eyed Bolivian whom I had thrown from the top of the Metropolitan Opera house so many years ago.
Because Wally and the old man and their retinue were delayed by a series of traps I had lain in the tunnel to prevent this very occurance, the spider children were able to arrive in time and stop them. Penelope arrived home from the F.B.I. just in time to fight Gwendolyn to the death in our living room, where she had teleported. Soon, Willowcrisp O’Hara, the mayor of New York, arrived on the scene, just in time to stop Isabelle Devereaux, who had been my old boss at Salisbury-Wigginton, and coincidentally had run against me for mayor of Washington under the name Teapot Faraday. I didn’t even know she disliked me, but she wanted to kill me. The battle continued in this way, in a series of lethal duels, to an incomprehensible level of complexity.
When I woke up from my mid-day nap that day, I walked down to my living room to find the corpses of all of my most dread enemies, and several of my friends. There was much weeping, and conflicting stories, and it was impossible to sort out who had been trying to kill me and who had been defending me, mostly because so many whom I thought were my friends were my enemies, and vice-versa. It’s one of those moments where you feel the need to sit down and take stock of your life, and so I did, composing my memoirs, which you are holding in your hands. I am pleased to say that Penelope and I are still together, and, due to an 11th-hour conversion on his part, we have adopted Wally the dog. We have renamed him Benedict Arnold, for obvious reasons.
Friday, March 13, 2009
On PAUL McCARTNEY
February 9th
On PAUL McCARTNEY
The longer Paul McCartney lives, the odder it seems that he was ever in a band with John Lennon. If John Lennon hadn’t been killed, would he be playing the Super Bowl? Would he be making new albums that are increasingly irrelevant, like Bob Dylan? Or would he still be an important voice, speaking out against the establishment?
Has Paul McCartney changed as he got older, or has he always been the side of the Beatles that made beautiful, wonderful, music, but was willing to go with the flow and stay non-political? I watched Hard Day’s Night, and McCartney was the one who was witty in and in control. John Lennon appeared more like a jerk, who wanted to piss off squares. It was clear that he was anti-authority, but it came off as petulant, and McCartney wasn’t a sell-out, just funny.
I read a newspaper article about the economic downtown, about the Boomer generation (Note: two things I hate – 1) the term Zoomers – just get over the fact that you’re old, you can’t give yourself a nickname like that, it’s stupid – 2) Zoomer Magazine) and how they all of a sudden got real interested in finance during the stagflation period in the late 70s. This is also when the protests were ending, hippies disbanding for good, and John Lennon was assassinated.
And also, I was born. The Beatles are emblematic of the mixed legacy that we have received from the previous generation, the aging Baby Boomers. As elucidated in the Smashmouth song “Walking on the Sun,” it’s bizarre to hear stories of a generation that used to be about protest, Bob Dylan, peace, drugs and rock and roll, and is now about business, divorce, hovering parents and complaining about traffic. Did the people change, like Paul McCartney, or did the radicals fade away like John Lennon, leaving the moderates behind? Usually the answer to this kind of question is both.
-
Ah, well, that’s all water under the bridge now. My generation is at its own 1970s now, and while we are more ironical, I’m sure this economic problem will affect us as a generation as well. Not me though! I’m not changing one bit! Fuck all the financiers and their stocks and bonds, all my money’s in a savings account. I’m selling laughs, and that’s always in season! I really hope I keep both of my jobs! Until then, I’m not gonna worry about it. That was my attitude in 1991 and that’s my attitude now. Like a wise man once said, ‘You can’t buy me looooove!’ Also, “All you need is love!” and “Help!” No wait, I mean, “I wanna hold your haaaaaand!” You can’t take away my hands! My holding hands! You know, Paul McCartney seems like a great guy. Shame about his second wife. Maybe should cut his hair. I know he’s heard that before. But now it symbolizes nothing. Maybe it symbolized nothing then too. Just four kids who didn’t wanna cut their hair.
On PAUL McCARTNEY
The longer Paul McCartney lives, the odder it seems that he was ever in a band with John Lennon. If John Lennon hadn’t been killed, would he be playing the Super Bowl? Would he be making new albums that are increasingly irrelevant, like Bob Dylan? Or would he still be an important voice, speaking out against the establishment?
Has Paul McCartney changed as he got older, or has he always been the side of the Beatles that made beautiful, wonderful, music, but was willing to go with the flow and stay non-political? I watched Hard Day’s Night, and McCartney was the one who was witty in and in control. John Lennon appeared more like a jerk, who wanted to piss off squares. It was clear that he was anti-authority, but it came off as petulant, and McCartney wasn’t a sell-out, just funny.
I read a newspaper article about the economic downtown, about the Boomer generation (Note: two things I hate – 1) the term Zoomers – just get over the fact that you’re old, you can’t give yourself a nickname like that, it’s stupid – 2) Zoomer Magazine) and how they all of a sudden got real interested in finance during the stagflation period in the late 70s. This is also when the protests were ending, hippies disbanding for good, and John Lennon was assassinated.
And also, I was born. The Beatles are emblematic of the mixed legacy that we have received from the previous generation, the aging Baby Boomers. As elucidated in the Smashmouth song “Walking on the Sun,” it’s bizarre to hear stories of a generation that used to be about protest, Bob Dylan, peace, drugs and rock and roll, and is now about business, divorce, hovering parents and complaining about traffic. Did the people change, like Paul McCartney, or did the radicals fade away like John Lennon, leaving the moderates behind? Usually the answer to this kind of question is both.
-
Ah, well, that’s all water under the bridge now. My generation is at its own 1970s now, and while we are more ironical, I’m sure this economic problem will affect us as a generation as well. Not me though! I’m not changing one bit! Fuck all the financiers and their stocks and bonds, all my money’s in a savings account. I’m selling laughs, and that’s always in season! I really hope I keep both of my jobs! Until then, I’m not gonna worry about it. That was my attitude in 1991 and that’s my attitude now. Like a wise man once said, ‘You can’t buy me looooove!’ Also, “All you need is love!” and “Help!” No wait, I mean, “I wanna hold your haaaaaand!” You can’t take away my hands! My holding hands! You know, Paul McCartney seems like a great guy. Shame about his second wife. Maybe should cut his hair. I know he’s heard that before. But now it symbolizes nothing. Maybe it symbolized nothing then too. Just four kids who didn’t wanna cut their hair.
On NEVER SAY DIE
February 7th
On NEVER SAY DIE
In the summer of 2003 there was a blackout on the Eastern seaboard. I was at work when it happened, working for Scotiabank in the sub-basement in “lending”. I still don’t know what the purpose of my job was.
I walked to union station and took one of the last functioning GO trains to Burlington, where Krista and I embarked on a drive to Ottawa to visit her sister Tracey. I had been feeling depressed a lot recently, and had even seen my family doctor and told him I was depressed. He prescribed me a book and told me to let him know if it started affecting my sleep habits or my appetite. I had taken to making dramatic statements to Krista, mostly along the lines of “I don’t like myself very much.” It felt pretty dumb to say, but I had a hard time expressing myself otherwise.
On the long dark trip to Ottawa, my self loathing increased. It was a trippy ride, because there were no lights on anywhere except for headlights and taillights and the stars, and we felt like we were driving into space. I had a snarky conversation with Krista. She had seen a raunchy, bad standup comedian a few years back at McMaster, our alma mater, and that had inspired her to consider becoming a comedian that worked with only clean material. I was skeptical, partly because I thought a lot of Krista’s funniest stories were dirty ones, and I thought she’d be throwing out a lot of her best material. That’s what I wanted to say, anyway, but it came out like I thought she was stupid for even considering the idea.
After jerkily pursuing my line of argument, I was overcome with remorse and self-hatred, and I asked Krista to stop the car. She pulled over, and I walked about twenty feet down the road and started throwing rocks from the side of the road into the dark trees. I hated my stupid job, and my stupid ambitions to become an actor, and Krista didn’t deserve a stupid asshole like me, who couldn’t get out of his funk and be the interesting and supportive person she had been dating before that summer. I had changed entirely from the cool guy I was in university, and I didn’t know who I was or what I was trying to do. Krista came over and asked what was wrong, and I apologized and cried. She said I didn’t have to apologize, but I really felt like I had to apologize, and was angry at her for not letting me. It was not a little bit ridiculous, me sobbing “I’m sorry,” and Krista telling me I had nothing to be sorry for. I guess that’s not ridiculous.
Eventually I calmed down and we continued on our way. That was my lowest point, and things have gone a lot better since then. I’m glad I kept going despite my doubts, and I’m thankful to Krista for not giving up on me.
On NEVER SAY DIE
In the summer of 2003 there was a blackout on the Eastern seaboard. I was at work when it happened, working for Scotiabank in the sub-basement in “lending”. I still don’t know what the purpose of my job was.
I walked to union station and took one of the last functioning GO trains to Burlington, where Krista and I embarked on a drive to Ottawa to visit her sister Tracey. I had been feeling depressed a lot recently, and had even seen my family doctor and told him I was depressed. He prescribed me a book and told me to let him know if it started affecting my sleep habits or my appetite. I had taken to making dramatic statements to Krista, mostly along the lines of “I don’t like myself very much.” It felt pretty dumb to say, but I had a hard time expressing myself otherwise.
On the long dark trip to Ottawa, my self loathing increased. It was a trippy ride, because there were no lights on anywhere except for headlights and taillights and the stars, and we felt like we were driving into space. I had a snarky conversation with Krista. She had seen a raunchy, bad standup comedian a few years back at McMaster, our alma mater, and that had inspired her to consider becoming a comedian that worked with only clean material. I was skeptical, partly because I thought a lot of Krista’s funniest stories were dirty ones, and I thought she’d be throwing out a lot of her best material. That’s what I wanted to say, anyway, but it came out like I thought she was stupid for even considering the idea.
After jerkily pursuing my line of argument, I was overcome with remorse and self-hatred, and I asked Krista to stop the car. She pulled over, and I walked about twenty feet down the road and started throwing rocks from the side of the road into the dark trees. I hated my stupid job, and my stupid ambitions to become an actor, and Krista didn’t deserve a stupid asshole like me, who couldn’t get out of his funk and be the interesting and supportive person she had been dating before that summer. I had changed entirely from the cool guy I was in university, and I didn’t know who I was or what I was trying to do. Krista came over and asked what was wrong, and I apologized and cried. She said I didn’t have to apologize, but I really felt like I had to apologize, and was angry at her for not letting me. It was not a little bit ridiculous, me sobbing “I’m sorry,” and Krista telling me I had nothing to be sorry for. I guess that’s not ridiculous.
Eventually I calmed down and we continued on our way. That was my lowest point, and things have gone a lot better since then. I’m glad I kept going despite my doubts, and I’m thankful to Krista for not giving up on me.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
On AUTHOR
February 6th
On AUTHOR
About the Author
Dave Barclay was born to Robert and Janice Barclay on March 30th, 1980. Bob Barclay was an accountant and is now a successful bank executive with Scotiabank. Jan taught high school History and Geography, and retired soon after Dave’s birth to look after her children. In 1981 his family moved to Mississauga, Ontario, a large sprawling suburb outside Toronto. He was raised as a suburbanite, with two sisters, one of whom is teaching English in China and the other is training to be a vet tech (aka animal nurse). In 1991, his family moved to London, England when Dave's father was transferred. In 1993, they moved back. In 1996 he appeared in a high school production of Waiting for Godot as Estragon. That was his big break into high school drama. Upon graduation, he attended McMaster University and took a degree in Arts and Science and Theatre and Film. He averaged about an A minus, and was very smart. He was a teaching assistant for two years, first in Western Civilization and then in both Theatre and Film classes. His teaching style has been described as 'like a stand-up act'.
While at McMaster, he continued acting in several plays, and decided to follow his dream to be an actor. He also met his first girlfriend, Krista MacIsaac, from Burlington, Ontario, who was in the Theatre and Film program with him. They were longtime friends before finally connecting in September of 2002.
After graduating in 2003 Summa Cum Laude, Dave started working for Scotiabank full time and figuring out a way to achieve his dream. He made a sheet of paper listing “Ways to Avoid the Pit of Despair.” The first way was to move out of his parents’ house in Mississauga, which he did in September 2003 by moving into a Forest Hill apartment in Toronto. The second was to quit his soulless bank job, which he did three times: first he transferred to a part time customer service position at the same bank in 2004, achieving his goal only in the most literal way. Then in 2005 he quit that job to attend Humber College for their Comedy Program. He had applied to the National Theatre School for acting and the George Brown Acting Program (twice), and the Guildhall acting program in London in an effort to move on with his artistic career, but had auditioned unsuccessfully. He thought the comedy program would be a good idea because his most successful roles were always funny.
After graduating with a certificate from Humber, he had a shitty job at a self-serve video store, and decided to try the bank one more time. He lasted two months in a branch in the Portuguese area of Toronto at Bloor and Salem before quitting for good in November 2006.
In August 2007, Dave married Krista in a beautiful ceremony at the Credit Valley Golf and Country Club in Mississauga.
The third item on Dave’s list was to become a professional artist. He appeared in five different Fringe Festival shows since 2003 with a company he started with his friends at McMaster called Players Players. He also started a vaudeville duo with his friend from Humber Matt Kowall called Parker and Seville, which is gaining popularity. He has an acting agent, and has settled into two flexible part-time jobs, at Massey Hall as an usher and at the Lorraine Kimsa Theatre for Young People as a box-office employee.
On AUTHOR
About the Author
Dave Barclay was born to Robert and Janice Barclay on March 30th, 1980. Bob Barclay was an accountant and is now a successful bank executive with Scotiabank. Jan taught high school History and Geography, and retired soon after Dave’s birth to look after her children. In 1981 his family moved to Mississauga, Ontario, a large sprawling suburb outside Toronto. He was raised as a suburbanite, with two sisters, one of whom is teaching English in China and the other is training to be a vet tech (aka animal nurse). In 1991, his family moved to London, England when Dave's father was transferred. In 1993, they moved back. In 1996 he appeared in a high school production of Waiting for Godot as Estragon. That was his big break into high school drama. Upon graduation, he attended McMaster University and took a degree in Arts and Science and Theatre and Film. He averaged about an A minus, and was very smart. He was a teaching assistant for two years, first in Western Civilization and then in both Theatre and Film classes. His teaching style has been described as 'like a stand-up act'.
While at McMaster, he continued acting in several plays, and decided to follow his dream to be an actor. He also met his first girlfriend, Krista MacIsaac, from Burlington, Ontario, who was in the Theatre and Film program with him. They were longtime friends before finally connecting in September of 2002.
After graduating in 2003 Summa Cum Laude, Dave started working for Scotiabank full time and figuring out a way to achieve his dream. He made a sheet of paper listing “Ways to Avoid the Pit of Despair.” The first way was to move out of his parents’ house in Mississauga, which he did in September 2003 by moving into a Forest Hill apartment in Toronto. The second was to quit his soulless bank job, which he did three times: first he transferred to a part time customer service position at the same bank in 2004, achieving his goal only in the most literal way. Then in 2005 he quit that job to attend Humber College for their Comedy Program. He had applied to the National Theatre School for acting and the George Brown Acting Program (twice), and the Guildhall acting program in London in an effort to move on with his artistic career, but had auditioned unsuccessfully. He thought the comedy program would be a good idea because his most successful roles were always funny.
After graduating with a certificate from Humber, he had a shitty job at a self-serve video store, and decided to try the bank one more time. He lasted two months in a branch in the Portuguese area of Toronto at Bloor and Salem before quitting for good in November 2006.
In August 2007, Dave married Krista in a beautiful ceremony at the Credit Valley Golf and Country Club in Mississauga.
The third item on Dave’s list was to become a professional artist. He appeared in five different Fringe Festival shows since 2003 with a company he started with his friends at McMaster called Players Players. He also started a vaudeville duo with his friend from Humber Matt Kowall called Parker and Seville, which is gaining popularity. He has an acting agent, and has settled into two flexible part-time jobs, at Massey Hall as an usher and at the Lorraine Kimsa Theatre for Young People as a box-office employee.
On GONE WITH THE WIND
February 5th
On GONE WITH THE WIND
“You know a movie is good because they don’t say the name of the movie in the movie. You don’t hear ‘This truly is Gone with the Wind!’” – Dylan Gott
I spend a large amount of time making projects in my mind and then worrying about if I will follow through. I can’t remember when it was I made a list of the books I had to read – as long as I can remember, I’ve made a list of books to read of varying scope and ambition. Now, I have a long list of books that I’m getting through of books that I already own, which is actually several lists: A list of books that I received this Christmas that I should read right away because I am excited about them Right Now!, but I can only start that list when I am finished reading the Two Noble Kinsmen, the penultimate piece in my project to read the Complete Works of William Shakespeare. This project was started in 2003, after I graduated university, because my mother gave me a book about Shakespeare’s plays, which would not have been very interesting if I didn’t read all of Shakespeare’s plays along with it. This mini-project (The Shakespeare Project), is part of the larger project to read all the unread books I own, which I think started in 2003 as it featured many of my school textbooks. Technically, the project to read all of the books I got for Christmas 2008 should take precedence over the Shakespeare Project, which is part of the 'read all the books I already own' project, but a new rule was instituted at some point that I can’t start a new book while in the middle of an old one, because I found myself leaving books in the middle and not returning to them for several years, which meant that I had to start them again.
These projects only cover, of course, the books that fall under the category of Portable, and I am able to carry around with me and read on the train or subway. I have a different set of books that are non-portable, which consist of the textbook-sized books that my mom likes to give me for Christmas every year. These books I read at home, often just before bed, with a reading light because my wife is sleeping. Having finished National Geographic’s Visual History of the World (Christmas 2005) last February, I moved on the HUMAN (Christmas 2006). Finding it a bit of a slog, I decided to read alternate sections of HUMAN with GOTHIC (Christmas 2007). Now it’s moving along a lot quicker. When I finish HUMAN I can alternate GOTHIC with 1001 Days that Shaped the World (Christmas 2008). I tell my mother not to buy me these books, because I’ll only try and read them, but she does not listen to me.
If I ever finish my List of Books given to me for Christmas 2005 thru 2008, portable and non-portable, and the List of Books I own but have not read, then I will know that it is time to delve into The Big Book List, which I have assembled over the last few years and last year put into electronic form. On this list are all the winners of the Booker Prize, the Giller Prize, the Pulitzer Prize (Fiction [including Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind] or Drama), the Governor General’s Award (Fiction or Drama), the Nobel Prize, all 50 books on the Globe and Mail’s 50 Greatest Books list, all the books on the Globe and Mail’s Buried Treasures list, all the books listed in Harold Bloom’s 100 Geniuses book, and all the books Yann Martel has been sending Steven Harper. Speaking of Yann Martel, I started this list of lists when I read Life of Pi (given to me by my mother, of course) and learned it had been awarded the Booker Prize. A prize? I thought. For books? What a novel idea! What other books have won this prize? What other prizes can books win?
I also have books that I have set aside for reading on the toilet, books that I read whenever I am killing time in a bookstore, and sometimes a book appears and I have to drop all the lists and just read it. I long for books but remember that I must be disciplined and stick to all my lists that I have tried to use to accommodate all my reading desires. For it would be terrible to have to accept that I couldn’t read my entire list, even though the evidence suggests that the list is growing faster than I have time to read. I recently have had to come to terms that I will never complete my project to visit all of Toronto’s subway stations, draw a map of their floorplans, take 3 pictures of them and rate them on a scale of 1 to 15. After all, I have at least two jobs and a career, plus two separate Oscar projects (To watch all the Best Picture winners [including 1939’s Gone with the Wind] and at least one best acting winner from each year, and also to watch all the Best Picture nominees the year after the are nominated.) No wonder I get stressed out sometimes. And I have so many other projects I haven’t even mentioned, ongoing, abandoned, in the conception stage. Sometimes I wish I could harness this power for good, not evil. This writing project is an example of that – how can I not get better at writing by writing 500 words every day? But it is a struggle, and I think overall it is counterproductive to restrain myself so. But the pleasure I get when I finish a book, and realize that progress is being made, that the system is working, and I have the comfort of a thousand books to enjoy still ahead of me, that I can compare the 2002 Giller Prize winner with the work of the 1902 Nobel Prize winner, ah, it’s a huge, nerdy, rush.
On GONE WITH THE WIND
“You know a movie is good because they don’t say the name of the movie in the movie. You don’t hear ‘This truly is Gone with the Wind!’” – Dylan Gott
I spend a large amount of time making projects in my mind and then worrying about if I will follow through. I can’t remember when it was I made a list of the books I had to read – as long as I can remember, I’ve made a list of books to read of varying scope and ambition. Now, I have a long list of books that I’m getting through of books that I already own, which is actually several lists: A list of books that I received this Christmas that I should read right away because I am excited about them Right Now!, but I can only start that list when I am finished reading the Two Noble Kinsmen, the penultimate piece in my project to read the Complete Works of William Shakespeare. This project was started in 2003, after I graduated university, because my mother gave me a book about Shakespeare’s plays, which would not have been very interesting if I didn’t read all of Shakespeare’s plays along with it. This mini-project (The Shakespeare Project), is part of the larger project to read all the unread books I own, which I think started in 2003 as it featured many of my school textbooks. Technically, the project to read all of the books I got for Christmas 2008 should take precedence over the Shakespeare Project, which is part of the 'read all the books I already own' project, but a new rule was instituted at some point that I can’t start a new book while in the middle of an old one, because I found myself leaving books in the middle and not returning to them for several years, which meant that I had to start them again.
These projects only cover, of course, the books that fall under the category of Portable, and I am able to carry around with me and read on the train or subway. I have a different set of books that are non-portable, which consist of the textbook-sized books that my mom likes to give me for Christmas every year. These books I read at home, often just before bed, with a reading light because my wife is sleeping. Having finished National Geographic’s Visual History of the World (Christmas 2005) last February, I moved on the HUMAN (Christmas 2006). Finding it a bit of a slog, I decided to read alternate sections of HUMAN with GOTHIC (Christmas 2007). Now it’s moving along a lot quicker. When I finish HUMAN I can alternate GOTHIC with 1001 Days that Shaped the World (Christmas 2008). I tell my mother not to buy me these books, because I’ll only try and read them, but she does not listen to me.
If I ever finish my List of Books given to me for Christmas 2005 thru 2008, portable and non-portable, and the List of Books I own but have not read, then I will know that it is time to delve into The Big Book List, which I have assembled over the last few years and last year put into electronic form. On this list are all the winners of the Booker Prize, the Giller Prize, the Pulitzer Prize (Fiction [including Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind] or Drama), the Governor General’s Award (Fiction or Drama), the Nobel Prize, all 50 books on the Globe and Mail’s 50 Greatest Books list, all the books on the Globe and Mail’s Buried Treasures list, all the books listed in Harold Bloom’s 100 Geniuses book, and all the books Yann Martel has been sending Steven Harper. Speaking of Yann Martel, I started this list of lists when I read Life of Pi (given to me by my mother, of course) and learned it had been awarded the Booker Prize. A prize? I thought. For books? What a novel idea! What other books have won this prize? What other prizes can books win?
I also have books that I have set aside for reading on the toilet, books that I read whenever I am killing time in a bookstore, and sometimes a book appears and I have to drop all the lists and just read it. I long for books but remember that I must be disciplined and stick to all my lists that I have tried to use to accommodate all my reading desires. For it would be terrible to have to accept that I couldn’t read my entire list, even though the evidence suggests that the list is growing faster than I have time to read. I recently have had to come to terms that I will never complete my project to visit all of Toronto’s subway stations, draw a map of their floorplans, take 3 pictures of them and rate them on a scale of 1 to 15. After all, I have at least two jobs and a career, plus two separate Oscar projects (To watch all the Best Picture winners [including 1939’s Gone with the Wind] and at least one best acting winner from each year, and also to watch all the Best Picture nominees the year after the are nominated.) No wonder I get stressed out sometimes. And I have so many other projects I haven’t even mentioned, ongoing, abandoned, in the conception stage. Sometimes I wish I could harness this power for good, not evil. This writing project is an example of that – how can I not get better at writing by writing 500 words every day? But it is a struggle, and I think overall it is counterproductive to restrain myself so. But the pleasure I get when I finish a book, and realize that progress is being made, that the system is working, and I have the comfort of a thousand books to enjoy still ahead of me, that I can compare the 2002 Giller Prize winner with the work of the 1902 Nobel Prize winner, ah, it’s a huge, nerdy, rush.
On FROSTY THE SNOWMAN
February 4th
On FROSTY THE SNOWMAN
Chet was a little bit embarrassed to be over at Marianne Goldstein's house. He had a bunch of acne, for one thing, which was something he didn't think about too much except when he was at a girl's house. Of course, since the beginning of Grade Seven, Marianne had braces, so they were sort of in the same boat. Marianne and Chet had become sort-of friends lately, mostly united in a new found sense of sarcasm. They had both become outsiders this year, commenting snarkily on the soap-operatic goings on of the more popular kids in their school.
In that ironical vein, Marianne had invited Chet over to watch a marathon of Christmas specials, Mystery Science Theatre 3000 styles, anticipating many sarcastic jokes at the expense of Frosty the Snowman, Charlie Brown, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (who, really, had it bad enough already). So far, Frosty the Snowman hadn't really had his feelings hurt. Marianne and Chet had launched a volley of insults in the first twenty minutes, from "Yeah right, like that would ever happen," when Frosty magically came to life, to "Nice Hat!", offered four separate times by Chet. After a while they both seemed to realize they were trying a little too hard, and for a while didn't say anything at all. This was especially weird, as it became apparent that they were now watching Frosty the Snowman on its own merits.
Marianne's basement had been redone in the late eighties, and had hundreds of knicknacks and pictures of the Goldstein family in different vacation spots, often in costume. The focus of the room was an L-shaped brown couch that Marianne was lounging on in her pyjamas, which she declared to be 'the most comfortable couch in the world'. Chet was relaxing, at a comfortable distance, in a lime green armchair.
Right about the time when the policeman hollered 'Stop!', Mrs. Goldstein entered the basement and announced that she was driving Marianne's younger sister to karate practice. For some reason Chet felt like he had to justify his presence there. Mrs. Goldstein had not been around when Marianne had taken him down to the basement via the side door.
"Hi, Mrs. Goldstein," said Chet, attempting to sound cheerful and carefree.
"Hello Chet," smiled Mrs. Goldstein. Chet wasn't sure if Mrs. Goldstein thought this was a romantic date or not. As dates went, it was pretty lame, but all the same you can never tell, when a girl and a boy were in the same place at the same time, alone together. Chet thought about announcing the lack of romantic intention in this encounter, but correctly surmised that that would have brought the awkwardness of the situation right out into the open.
Mrs. Goldstein left, and it occurred to Chet that he and Marianne were now truly alone. It hit him with an intense panic that if he wanted to do anything of a romantic nature, now was the time to do it. Worse, if Marianne was expecting him to do anything of a romantic nature, if there was any ulterior motive whatsoever in her invitation, no was the time she would be expecting him to make some kind of move. He wasn't even sure himself of he was interested in that sort of thing with Marianne. If so, what would he do?
Chet looked over at Marianne, who was curled up with her bum facing him, watching the screen intently with a look of bored interest on her face. She was wearing her glasses, which she never did in school. She was comfortable. Chet could even see her pink undies creeping up over the top of her pyjama pants. Never would she be so bold if she wasn't completely secure in the idea that he was completely harmless. Chet decided to do nothing.
"The long arm of the law," Chet proclaimed, sort of sarcastically, referring to the policeman who was stopping Frosty's march. "The long arm of the law."
On FROSTY THE SNOWMAN
Chet was a little bit embarrassed to be over at Marianne Goldstein's house. He had a bunch of acne, for one thing, which was something he didn't think about too much except when he was at a girl's house. Of course, since the beginning of Grade Seven, Marianne had braces, so they were sort of in the same boat. Marianne and Chet had become sort-of friends lately, mostly united in a new found sense of sarcasm. They had both become outsiders this year, commenting snarkily on the soap-operatic goings on of the more popular kids in their school.
In that ironical vein, Marianne had invited Chet over to watch a marathon of Christmas specials, Mystery Science Theatre 3000 styles, anticipating many sarcastic jokes at the expense of Frosty the Snowman, Charlie Brown, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (who, really, had it bad enough already). So far, Frosty the Snowman hadn't really had his feelings hurt. Marianne and Chet had launched a volley of insults in the first twenty minutes, from "Yeah right, like that would ever happen," when Frosty magically came to life, to "Nice Hat!", offered four separate times by Chet. After a while they both seemed to realize they were trying a little too hard, and for a while didn't say anything at all. This was especially weird, as it became apparent that they were now watching Frosty the Snowman on its own merits.
Marianne's basement had been redone in the late eighties, and had hundreds of knicknacks and pictures of the Goldstein family in different vacation spots, often in costume. The focus of the room was an L-shaped brown couch that Marianne was lounging on in her pyjamas, which she declared to be 'the most comfortable couch in the world'. Chet was relaxing, at a comfortable distance, in a lime green armchair.
Right about the time when the policeman hollered 'Stop!', Mrs. Goldstein entered the basement and announced that she was driving Marianne's younger sister to karate practice. For some reason Chet felt like he had to justify his presence there. Mrs. Goldstein had not been around when Marianne had taken him down to the basement via the side door.
"Hi, Mrs. Goldstein," said Chet, attempting to sound cheerful and carefree.
"Hello Chet," smiled Mrs. Goldstein. Chet wasn't sure if Mrs. Goldstein thought this was a romantic date or not. As dates went, it was pretty lame, but all the same you can never tell, when a girl and a boy were in the same place at the same time, alone together. Chet thought about announcing the lack of romantic intention in this encounter, but correctly surmised that that would have brought the awkwardness of the situation right out into the open.
Mrs. Goldstein left, and it occurred to Chet that he and Marianne were now truly alone. It hit him with an intense panic that if he wanted to do anything of a romantic nature, now was the time to do it. Worse, if Marianne was expecting him to do anything of a romantic nature, if there was any ulterior motive whatsoever in her invitation, no was the time she would be expecting him to make some kind of move. He wasn't even sure himself of he was interested in that sort of thing with Marianne. If so, what would he do?
Chet looked over at Marianne, who was curled up with her bum facing him, watching the screen intently with a look of bored interest on her face. She was wearing her glasses, which she never did in school. She was comfortable. Chet could even see her pink undies creeping up over the top of her pyjama pants. Never would she be so bold if she wasn't completely secure in the idea that he was completely harmless. Chet decided to do nothing.
"The long arm of the law," Chet proclaimed, sort of sarcastically, referring to the policeman who was stopping Frosty's march. "The long arm of the law."
Monday, March 9, 2009
On ANNIVERSARY
February 3rd
On ANNIVERSARY
Chet opened his locker with some difficulty. He still hadn't gotten used to these combination locks, and even though he thought it was great to have a locker, he could never remember how many rotations and in what direction he was supposed to dial his standard lock, even though it was October already. On his fourth try, after looking around self-consciously, he finally hit upon the right combination and opened his locker. On the inside was a picture from the Toronto Star of the Toronto Maple Leafs losing their first game of the season to the New York Islanders. In the yellowing photo, a hapless Maple Leaf was in mid-pratfall, and Chet had scotch-taped the score of the game (Isles 3, Leafs 1) diagonally over the corner of the photo. Originally, Chet's plan was to tape the photo and score of every Leafs game as the season went on, but after the first game he kind of forgot, so his locker accidentally became a shrine to that season-opening ignominious loss.
Chet was considering whether to abandon the project when Marianne Goldstein approached. His face went a little red, and his breathing a little more controlled.
"Hey Chet, do you know what day it is today?" Marianne asked.
"No, what day is it?" said Chet.
"It's our anniversary," said Marianne.
Chet blushed, and was confused. He didn't know quite what Marianne was talking about, but he did remember that it was around this time last year that Marianne had decided to make Chet into some kind of project. She would come to his locker every day and talk about other girls in their class that she hated. He had gotten the sense that she was sort of interested in him, but instead of expressing it directly, she would eliminate the prospects of other girls through slander, leaving herself alone as the only one worthy of any attention.
"I don't know what you mean," said Chet weakly.
"Yeah, I think you do," Marianne said mysteriously. Marianne had been one of the more popular girls in Grade Five, and wasn't bad looking, with her long blonde hair, dimpled cheeks and slim figure. But Grade Six, with its move to a new school and a reshuffling of the social order, had not been kind to Marianne's social status. Puberty had thrown all sorts of different factors into the mix, and Marianne was now short and flat-chested compared to a lot of the other girls. She had fallen way behind, and still wore last year's fashions too. Chet had never been popular by any stretch of the imagination, but when you had few prospects, as Chet had, you ironically got unrealistically high standards. He was conflicted between being completely desperate for female attention, and having developed detailed opinions on what made a Grade Six girl hot, and Marianne didn't qualify.
"Remember," continued Marianne, "when you said I was your girlfriend?"
"That was just to get those Grade Threes to stop bothering me at recess," rebuffed Chet. The origins of the incident were murky, but it was true that he told a gaggle of Third Graders that he and Marianne were going out, in response to a deluge of taunting.
"Anyway," he explained, "You told everyone afterwards that we weren't."
"That was just damage control," said Marianne.
"Well we never went on any dates," Chet said. "People who are boyfriend and girlfriend go on dates." The longer this conversation continued, the more uncomfortable Chet got. It wasn't like Marianne was asking him out, and he could think about it and say yes or no, he had to re-evaluate what had happened last year, and it really sounded like he didn't want to be dating anyone, which may not be the case. Why was she even bringing this up now? Why had she kept track? What was the game here? Was she making fun of him?
"Well, whatever," she said, "Here's this heart I made, you, I don't know why, I guess you don't want it. Good day." And then she left, walking down the hallway in her crocs. Chet looked at the heart - pretty simple, it said "Happy Anniversary Chet" in black marker on a red construction paper heart, with no embellishments, as if to make sure it communicated nothing more or less than what it said. He placed it on the top shelf of his locker, closed and locked it, re-opened it, grabbed his math text, re-closed and locked his locker, and walked to class.
On ANNIVERSARY
Chet opened his locker with some difficulty. He still hadn't gotten used to these combination locks, and even though he thought it was great to have a locker, he could never remember how many rotations and in what direction he was supposed to dial his standard lock, even though it was October already. On his fourth try, after looking around self-consciously, he finally hit upon the right combination and opened his locker. On the inside was a picture from the Toronto Star of the Toronto Maple Leafs losing their first game of the season to the New York Islanders. In the yellowing photo, a hapless Maple Leaf was in mid-pratfall, and Chet had scotch-taped the score of the game (Isles 3, Leafs 1) diagonally over the corner of the photo. Originally, Chet's plan was to tape the photo and score of every Leafs game as the season went on, but after the first game he kind of forgot, so his locker accidentally became a shrine to that season-opening ignominious loss.
Chet was considering whether to abandon the project when Marianne Goldstein approached. His face went a little red, and his breathing a little more controlled.
"Hey Chet, do you know what day it is today?" Marianne asked.
"No, what day is it?" said Chet.
"It's our anniversary," said Marianne.
Chet blushed, and was confused. He didn't know quite what Marianne was talking about, but he did remember that it was around this time last year that Marianne had decided to make Chet into some kind of project. She would come to his locker every day and talk about other girls in their class that she hated. He had gotten the sense that she was sort of interested in him, but instead of expressing it directly, she would eliminate the prospects of other girls through slander, leaving herself alone as the only one worthy of any attention.
"I don't know what you mean," said Chet weakly.
"Yeah, I think you do," Marianne said mysteriously. Marianne had been one of the more popular girls in Grade Five, and wasn't bad looking, with her long blonde hair, dimpled cheeks and slim figure. But Grade Six, with its move to a new school and a reshuffling of the social order, had not been kind to Marianne's social status. Puberty had thrown all sorts of different factors into the mix, and Marianne was now short and flat-chested compared to a lot of the other girls. She had fallen way behind, and still wore last year's fashions too. Chet had never been popular by any stretch of the imagination, but when you had few prospects, as Chet had, you ironically got unrealistically high standards. He was conflicted between being completely desperate for female attention, and having developed detailed opinions on what made a Grade Six girl hot, and Marianne didn't qualify.
"Remember," continued Marianne, "when you said I was your girlfriend?"
"That was just to get those Grade Threes to stop bothering me at recess," rebuffed Chet. The origins of the incident were murky, but it was true that he told a gaggle of Third Graders that he and Marianne were going out, in response to a deluge of taunting.
"Anyway," he explained, "You told everyone afterwards that we weren't."
"That was just damage control," said Marianne.
"Well we never went on any dates," Chet said. "People who are boyfriend and girlfriend go on dates." The longer this conversation continued, the more uncomfortable Chet got. It wasn't like Marianne was asking him out, and he could think about it and say yes or no, he had to re-evaluate what had happened last year, and it really sounded like he didn't want to be dating anyone, which may not be the case. Why was she even bringing this up now? Why had she kept track? What was the game here? Was she making fun of him?
"Well, whatever," she said, "Here's this heart I made, you, I don't know why, I guess you don't want it. Good day." And then she left, walking down the hallway in her crocs. Chet looked at the heart - pretty simple, it said "Happy Anniversary Chet" in black marker on a red construction paper heart, with no embellishments, as if to make sure it communicated nothing more or less than what it said. He placed it on the top shelf of his locker, closed and locked it, re-opened it, grabbed his math text, re-closed and locked his locker, and walked to class.
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