Michelle Olsen has an article in the National Post...It's a bullshit article. But she traces an obscure online writing contest to the bright lights, big city concept of Canada's Next Top Writer. That'd be a reality show--based on the Next Top Model franchise--that would pit Canada's best aspiring writers against each other in a battle to be named the next Michael Winter/Lisa Moore.
It's a good idea, but let's consider how I found the Olsen story: It was linked to this post. Oh, I get a laugh out of that. Ask a hundred Canadians to name one Canadian writer, and half'll end up telling you, "Oh...You know...The one on the broom."
Although, as a PhD candidate who focuses on Canadian literature, I'm not supposed to buy the story that the CanLit scene is throttled by a few elites who control the content/form of Canadian fiction...Jesus Christ, it's true.
And let me tell you something else: Those elites went camping last year. They went way up north, set up at their site, and realized that they'd forgotten to bring matches or a lighter. Well, they needed a fire. There was no question about that. One took out a wooden dildo and dropped her pants. Within two minutes they were spit-roasting an elk.
And I'm not Everyman; I've actually met these people. I could tell you stories about Douglas Gibson's tenure at M&S that would piss you off to no end. Do people really think that Canada doesn't have its John Irving--a guy who, if he isn't the greatest stylist, can actually tell a story that people'll enjoy reading? Canadian Irving exists, but he didn't go to school with John Metcalf's daughter. I promise you that you'll never read his name in print.
This conversation inevitably gets back to Mordecai Richler, who was really our best "popular" writer. Richler's first two books weren't good enough for an extended "It's a Small World" cruise, yet he somehow managed to get his later, better works in print. Though I wouldn't want to make any wild guesses, it seems increasingly likely that he, at one point, blew Jack McClelland. In my scenario McClelland, who must have had either a small or crooked penis, publishes Richler as part of some blackmail programme. How else do you explain how and why M&S turned down Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated, yet broke their arms securing the rights to Leonard Gulben's The White, White Canoe of Churchill, Manitoba: A Comedy?
The Canadian writing business is funny. People don't read Canadian writing; I just met an American PhD who couldn't name a Canadian author. I said, "Atwood?" and she gave me a blank stare.
"Who's Atwood?" she asked.
"A very famous--The most famous Canadian writer."
"Is she any good?"
"Better than Michael Chabon's sister."
But, fuck it, let's consider Olsen's idea for a minute. We've got five Canadian writers looking to win a publishing deal with a Canadian house. What do they look like? They're all thin, all dressed in corduroy. Hopefully none writes about ninjas or vampires. We put them in a room and tell them to come up with a story based on the sentence, "The lamb lies in the tall grass."
Two hours later we open the door. In marches Atwood. She reads the five entries, then exits the room. The door is shut, locked from the outside, and a guard turns on the "showers."
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
The Margaret Atwood Museum In Red Hat, New Mexico
I got an email from a man named John Coolbaugh. John found this site through Google, and he was pretty much pissed off at the slant of many of my posts.
"Why do you have to pick on Margaret Atwood?" John asked. "Is it because she has so much talent and success, and you have nothing?"
Yes. The answer is Yes. Margaret Atwood does have a lot of talent; she does have a lot of money. Not many people could've insinuated themselves into Ken Thomson's will quite like she did. No Jews--that's for sure.
But let's take a look at what John has. John runs the world's first and only Margaret Atwood museum. He runs it alone, out in the desert, and he considers himself one of Atwood's biggest fans. John told me this in his email, and I'm just relaying it to you.
I Googled "Coolbaugh 'and' Atwood," and found nothing. So right now I can only go on John's word. But why would anyone lie about a thing like that? If you say you've got a Margaret Atwood museum, chances are you've got at least a shrine. Maybe a few pictures and the shopping cart she uses to haul her empty wine bottles back to the Rosedale LCBO. But you've got something. And if people are coming to visit...well, that's a museum.
So I asked John why he'd decided on Atwood. He said, "I just love her smile."
I asked him what the Atwood museum looks like; what kind of exhibits does it have; how many people visit.
"I get about 40 people a year," he told me. "I have the place in an outbuilding in my backyard. We don't have plumbing out here, so that's where I used to shit. But now it's all different: I've got ten copies of Lady Oracle in there. About the size of the place? I'd say it's twenty feet by twenty. I know: big for a shithouse. But I like to stretch my legs."
John's an American. And you wouldn't think that the world's first Atwood museum would be in New Mexico. You'd think Toronto, Sutton, Sudbury, the Sault, or maybe Hamilton, even. But not Montreal. And sure as hell not south of Oregon. But we're Canadian, and we're insecure, and we can't recognize anything we do as "good." That's why Richler was so famous in New York and Los Angeles. People used to say to each other, "Did you read this Richler? Fuck, it's a good thing the Korean woman who reads to Bellow is blind."
If a guy in the New Mexico desert can build an Atwood museum, then I think Torontonians ought to consider setting aside some space to recognize one of our greatest living writers. But that doesn't mean that Atwood can't have a spot, too. We'll give something on Queen Street; something gritty and real--like Robert Kroetsch's neck.
I make fun of Margaret, but I also respect her as a writer. I can say the things I do because I believe that she is, in fact, a great talent. Surfacing is a great book, and Frank Davey's wrong: I didn't like it better as Heart of Darkness.
But the Atwood museum...You've got to go. Their best-selling souvenir: a big wheel of a twisted-sugar sucker with hair already on it. And how can a good Canadianist ignore that?
"Why do you have to pick on Margaret Atwood?" John asked. "Is it because she has so much talent and success, and you have nothing?"
Yes. The answer is Yes. Margaret Atwood does have a lot of talent; she does have a lot of money. Not many people could've insinuated themselves into Ken Thomson's will quite like she did. No Jews--that's for sure.
But let's take a look at what John has. John runs the world's first and only Margaret Atwood museum. He runs it alone, out in the desert, and he considers himself one of Atwood's biggest fans. John told me this in his email, and I'm just relaying it to you.
I Googled "Coolbaugh 'and' Atwood," and found nothing. So right now I can only go on John's word. But why would anyone lie about a thing like that? If you say you've got a Margaret Atwood museum, chances are you've got at least a shrine. Maybe a few pictures and the shopping cart she uses to haul her empty wine bottles back to the Rosedale LCBO. But you've got something. And if people are coming to visit...well, that's a museum.
So I asked John why he'd decided on Atwood. He said, "I just love her smile."
I asked him what the Atwood museum looks like; what kind of exhibits does it have; how many people visit.
"I get about 40 people a year," he told me. "I have the place in an outbuilding in my backyard. We don't have plumbing out here, so that's where I used to shit. But now it's all different: I've got ten copies of Lady Oracle in there. About the size of the place? I'd say it's twenty feet by twenty. I know: big for a shithouse. But I like to stretch my legs."
John's an American. And you wouldn't think that the world's first Atwood museum would be in New Mexico. You'd think Toronto, Sutton, Sudbury, the Sault, or maybe Hamilton, even. But not Montreal. And sure as hell not south of Oregon. But we're Canadian, and we're insecure, and we can't recognize anything we do as "good." That's why Richler was so famous in New York and Los Angeles. People used to say to each other, "Did you read this Richler? Fuck, it's a good thing the Korean woman who reads to Bellow is blind."
If a guy in the New Mexico desert can build an Atwood museum, then I think Torontonians ought to consider setting aside some space to recognize one of our greatest living writers. But that doesn't mean that Atwood can't have a spot, too. We'll give something on Queen Street; something gritty and real--like Robert Kroetsch's neck.
I make fun of Margaret, but I also respect her as a writer. I can say the things I do because I believe that she is, in fact, a great talent. Surfacing is a great book, and Frank Davey's wrong: I didn't like it better as Heart of Darkness.
But the Atwood museum...You've got to go. Their best-selling souvenir: a big wheel of a twisted-sugar sucker with hair already on it. And how can a good Canadianist ignore that?
Monday, December 1, 2008
They Never Got A Giller
They Never Got A Giller
Last week I was sipping water at the Gillers, trying not to look down Camilla Gibb’s dress. She was wearing something with something else underneath, and at one point she turned around and there was a refrigerator magnet stuck to the fabric just beneath her left breast. I picked it off, and she turned around, chuckling. “Underwire bra?” I said.
“No; American quarters.”
She’s a beautiful woman, and I’ve always enjoyed her writing. Now a Giller staple, her role is to make sure that everyone finds their seat. She also took Alice Munro’s drink order, and was a Copenhagen butter cookie richer for her effort.
I can joke about her, because Camilla and I are great friends. I know that’s strange: you wouldn’t assume that Camilla and a Jewish, twenty-something academic would be friends. But she really likes garlic. We met at a Loblaw’s. She was trying to return a complete set of the New Canadian Library, and I had to tell her, politely, that the express lane was for ten or fewer items only.
Camilla’s skin is flawless, and, with the exception of Joseph Boyden, she has the nicest hair of any Canadian writer. She told me her secret: Hellman’s. “Mayonnaise?” “No, Lillian. I just comb it out every night and leave it on a Polystyrene head.”
But I love the Gillers; I love the atmosphere, the excitement, and the concentration of all that talent. And the fashion. Sears must’ve done well this month. I know they don’t sell evening dresses, but it’s amazing what Margaret Atwood can do with some time and Djanet Sears’s old head scarves.
Looking around at all those terrific artists—Neil Smith, David Chariandy, Marina Endicott—I found myself pointing out winners. A GG winner over here, a Commonwealth winner over there, a W.O. Mitchell winner counting rosary beads under there. And I thought, “You know what, David—a lot of great writers never got a Giller.”
Robert Kroetsch, who said to George Bowering, “Not on the collar, she’ll know,” never got a Giller.
Norman Levine, who said, “Sure, it’ll come out, Mordecai. It’s just pea soup,” never got a Giller.
Margaret Atwood, who whispered to Alice Munro, “Sure, Hage is a great artist, but, Alice, Lam can write prescriptions,” never got a Giller.
Emma Richler, who said to Florence, “Where’d the mezuzahs go?” never got a Giller.
Barbara Gowdy, who said to Jack McClelland, “Do I look like Carol Shields?” never got a Giller.
Last week I was sipping water at the Gillers, trying not to look down Camilla Gibb’s dress. She was wearing something with something else underneath, and at one point she turned around and there was a refrigerator magnet stuck to the fabric just beneath her left breast. I picked it off, and she turned around, chuckling. “Underwire bra?” I said.
“No; American quarters.”
She’s a beautiful woman, and I’ve always enjoyed her writing. Now a Giller staple, her role is to make sure that everyone finds their seat. She also took Alice Munro’s drink order, and was a Copenhagen butter cookie richer for her effort.
I can joke about her, because Camilla and I are great friends. I know that’s strange: you wouldn’t assume that Camilla and a Jewish, twenty-something academic would be friends. But she really likes garlic. We met at a Loblaw’s. She was trying to return a complete set of the New Canadian Library, and I had to tell her, politely, that the express lane was for ten or fewer items only.
Camilla’s skin is flawless, and, with the exception of Joseph Boyden, she has the nicest hair of any Canadian writer. She told me her secret: Hellman’s. “Mayonnaise?” “No, Lillian. I just comb it out every night and leave it on a Polystyrene head.”
But I love the Gillers; I love the atmosphere, the excitement, and the concentration of all that talent. And the fashion. Sears must’ve done well this month. I know they don’t sell evening dresses, but it’s amazing what Margaret Atwood can do with some time and Djanet Sears’s old head scarves.
Looking around at all those terrific artists—Neil Smith, David Chariandy, Marina Endicott—I found myself pointing out winners. A GG winner over here, a Commonwealth winner over there, a W.O. Mitchell winner counting rosary beads under there. And I thought, “You know what, David—a lot of great writers never got a Giller.”
Robert Kroetsch, who said to George Bowering, “Not on the collar, she’ll know,” never got a Giller.
Norman Levine, who said, “Sure, it’ll come out, Mordecai. It’s just pea soup,” never got a Giller.
Margaret Atwood, who whispered to Alice Munro, “Sure, Hage is a great artist, but, Alice, Lam can write prescriptions,” never got a Giller.
Emma Richler, who said to Florence, “Where’d the mezuzahs go?” never got a Giller.
Barbara Gowdy, who said to Jack McClelland, “Do I look like Carol Shields?” never got a Giller.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Seamus O'Regan Emcees Michael Cohen's Stag
Seamus O'Regan is such a well-liked emcee, he's starting to get private gigs. My friend Mike Cohen, an endodontist, was married last weekend. Everyone gathered in a private room at The House of Chan to talk, eat, and have a good time. About twenty minutes into dessert the lights dimmed, and from a door at the side of the room came Seamus O'Regan. He walked to the head of the table, smacked his palm on the wall, then started ripping into Mike's family. It was like having Don Rickles appear in your kitchen. And it was very funny.
Let me excerpt some of Seamus's jokes:
"Mike's father, Ron, is an interesting man. He's an oncologist at Princess Margaret's. Mike's brother Adam was married last year, and Ron planned the stag. He took all of Adam's friends to see women's naked breasts. Then, when visiting hours were over, he took everyone out for a drink."
"Mike's marrying a woman who likes rough sex. But she's very quiet. On their first date she only thought, 'No!'"
"Mike's mother is a terrific woman. She never spanked Mike as a child. Didn't want to spill her drink."
"Mike is a great reader, and I had the chance to introduce him to Michael Ondaatje. The two hit it off right away. Mike and Michael went out for cocktails one day--a dark, smoky bar--and Mike had a lot of fun. They sat for three hours; together all the time except when Ondaatje went to use the washroom. In fact Mike took Michael back to his house, and they ended up making love. They fucked. All night. Then Mike drove Michael home, and took him up to his apartment. The next day Michael didn't call him back, and Mike was devastated. 'Why wouldn't he call me?' Mike asked. He was frantic. 'Did I do something wrong?' 'No,' I said. 'It probably just hasn't worn off yet.'"
Incredibly tasteless jokes, but O'Regan likes to work blue. He's just held back by CTV's censors, who themselves are governed by CRTC guidelines. No swearing, no nudity, no obscene references.
O'Regan is a gifted comic, and I urge you to contact him if you ever find yourself in need of a toastmaster or roastmaster or just plain emcee. He charges about $450/appearance, which I think is a very fair price. Plus you have to pay for his meal and drinks, but that doesn't work out to more than a hundred bucks. And he doesn't even eat much--just dessert.
Oh, and let me say this: he has the funniest goddamn Canada AM stories. If you think you know Beverly Thomson, think again my friend. O'Regan tells a story about her at The Cupcake Shoppe that'll make you laugh till you cry.
Let me excerpt some of Seamus's jokes:
"Mike's father, Ron, is an interesting man. He's an oncologist at Princess Margaret's. Mike's brother Adam was married last year, and Ron planned the stag. He took all of Adam's friends to see women's naked breasts. Then, when visiting hours were over, he took everyone out for a drink."
"Mike's marrying a woman who likes rough sex. But she's very quiet. On their first date she only thought, 'No!'"
"Mike's mother is a terrific woman. She never spanked Mike as a child. Didn't want to spill her drink."
"Mike is a great reader, and I had the chance to introduce him to Michael Ondaatje. The two hit it off right away. Mike and Michael went out for cocktails one day--a dark, smoky bar--and Mike had a lot of fun. They sat for three hours; together all the time except when Ondaatje went to use the washroom. In fact Mike took Michael back to his house, and they ended up making love. They fucked. All night. Then Mike drove Michael home, and took him up to his apartment. The next day Michael didn't call him back, and Mike was devastated. 'Why wouldn't he call me?' Mike asked. He was frantic. 'Did I do something wrong?' 'No,' I said. 'It probably just hasn't worn off yet.'"
Incredibly tasteless jokes, but O'Regan likes to work blue. He's just held back by CTV's censors, who themselves are governed by CRTC guidelines. No swearing, no nudity, no obscene references.
O'Regan is a gifted comic, and I urge you to contact him if you ever find yourself in need of a toastmaster or roastmaster or just plain emcee. He charges about $450/appearance, which I think is a very fair price. Plus you have to pay for his meal and drinks, but that doesn't work out to more than a hundred bucks. And he doesn't even eat much--just dessert.
Oh, and let me say this: he has the funniest goddamn Canada AM stories. If you think you know Beverly Thomson, think again my friend. O'Regan tells a story about her at The Cupcake Shoppe that'll make you laugh till you cry.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Katy Perry Writes A Book
Len Findlay sent me a letter:
There's a group of people in Oregon who're willing the apocalypse. They're not waiting for it; this isn't part of any prophecy or misunderstood scriptural passage. They've just had enough of things (poverty, homelessness, cruelty, etc.), and they want everyone to know that it'd be okay if this tireless pursuit of a doctor's appointment just ended tomorrow.
"Otherwise," one told me, "there'll be a Saw VI. Can you believe that? I wouldn't use that goddamn script as a rectal thermometer."
The group's called the Wolfsonians and I'll address them later.
But the Wolfsonians keep a list of factors influencing their fatalism. It's like a Billboard 100. So, a couple of weeks ago, Palin's candidacy was #1. We all know that Palin's a genius, and rumours of her ignorance were fabricated by the liberal media, etc. Palin was great; she was just folksy. And if she didn't know that Africa wasn't a country...well, that was Schoolhouse Rock's fault, wasn't it?
Then Obama won, and Steve Maich's hair became an issue. (I wish I had a picture of Maich circa. '08 on The Agenda. It was the strangest thing. His hairline hadn't really receded, and his hair was long. Yet he was bald. And under the studio lights you could see his entire scalp. It was like sun streaming through a forest of denuded trees.)
Their list's been amended since then, and the new problem is Katy Perry's forthcoming novel. Katy Perry is an American pop singer who's famous for a bunch of reasons--big tits and a nice ass. And she sings. I want to be fair; Perry's not just an attractive woman who made it on looks alone. But to buttress my point I will say that Rolling Stone has speculated that, had she been born a mute, her past album sales would've decreased by about half.
Perry's writing a novel. Christ, why not? Miley Cyrus is working on a tome in the kitchen of her tour bus. It's based on the life of Mark Ruffalo, and Dick Cavett, who read an advanced copy, says that the writing is just cogent as anything Prudential's actuaries have ever done.
Perry's novel is a guaranteed best-seller, and so it deserves space on this page. The plot? That's still a secret. But Perry's doing it all herself. No ghostwriter here. This is going to be pure Perry. Apparently she's doing a lot of work in the studio, between takes. Dr. Luke is helping her with synonyms.
A friend questioned Perry's qualifications. "Novels are big and hard," she said. "Katy doesn't have any experience with that."
The easy joke would be to talk about or list books that Perry's read. From lyrics like, "Us girls we are so magical / Soft skin, red lips, so kissable," I'd say she's familiar with a lot of stuff by Bernard Kops. But I haven't read the novel, so I can't judge her. Maybe it's good. Maybe it's terrific. Would MTV offer to "get The Hills writers working on an adaptation right away" if it were bad?
The Hills writers--you know them. They're the group that said the only problem they had with Henry Fonda as an actor was that he didn't play Tom Joad "funny."
And Perry's songs are literary. Let me say that. Philip Roth called Ur So Gay, "Like Anna Karenina set to a funky beat." And Charles McGrath, in the New York Times Review of Books, said that "One of the Boys" is, "not better--but isn't too far off from anything that Virginia Woolf shit out on a particularly cold, Aylmer morning."
David, I'm faithless and wandering. I want only to be quiet and still. I've lost hope that this world can offer anything better. And I'm thinking of buying a motorboat.
There's a group of people in Oregon who're willing the apocalypse. They're not waiting for it; this isn't part of any prophecy or misunderstood scriptural passage. They've just had enough of things (poverty, homelessness, cruelty, etc.), and they want everyone to know that it'd be okay if this tireless pursuit of a doctor's appointment just ended tomorrow.
"Otherwise," one told me, "there'll be a Saw VI. Can you believe that? I wouldn't use that goddamn script as a rectal thermometer."
The group's called the Wolfsonians and I'll address them later.
But the Wolfsonians keep a list of factors influencing their fatalism. It's like a Billboard 100. So, a couple of weeks ago, Palin's candidacy was #1. We all know that Palin's a genius, and rumours of her ignorance were fabricated by the liberal media, etc. Palin was great; she was just folksy. And if she didn't know that Africa wasn't a country...well, that was Schoolhouse Rock's fault, wasn't it?
Then Obama won, and Steve Maich's hair became an issue. (I wish I had a picture of Maich circa. '08 on The Agenda. It was the strangest thing. His hairline hadn't really receded, and his hair was long. Yet he was bald. And under the studio lights you could see his entire scalp. It was like sun streaming through a forest of denuded trees.)
Their list's been amended since then, and the new problem is Katy Perry's forthcoming novel. Katy Perry is an American pop singer who's famous for a bunch of reasons--big tits and a nice ass. And she sings. I want to be fair; Perry's not just an attractive woman who made it on looks alone. But to buttress my point I will say that Rolling Stone has speculated that, had she been born a mute, her past album sales would've decreased by about half.
Perry's writing a novel. Christ, why not? Miley Cyrus is working on a tome in the kitchen of her tour bus. It's based on the life of Mark Ruffalo, and Dick Cavett, who read an advanced copy, says that the writing is just cogent as anything Prudential's actuaries have ever done.
Perry's novel is a guaranteed best-seller, and so it deserves space on this page. The plot? That's still a secret. But Perry's doing it all herself. No ghostwriter here. This is going to be pure Perry. Apparently she's doing a lot of work in the studio, between takes. Dr. Luke is helping her with synonyms.
A friend questioned Perry's qualifications. "Novels are big and hard," she said. "Katy doesn't have any experience with that."
The easy joke would be to talk about or list books that Perry's read. From lyrics like, "Us girls we are so magical / Soft skin, red lips, so kissable," I'd say she's familiar with a lot of stuff by Bernard Kops. But I haven't read the novel, so I can't judge her. Maybe it's good. Maybe it's terrific. Would MTV offer to "get The Hills writers working on an adaptation right away" if it were bad?
The Hills writers--you know them. They're the group that said the only problem they had with Henry Fonda as an actor was that he didn't play Tom Joad "funny."
And Perry's songs are literary. Let me say that. Philip Roth called Ur So Gay, "Like Anna Karenina set to a funky beat." And Charles McGrath, in the New York Times Review of Books, said that "One of the Boys" is, "not better--but isn't too far off from anything that Virginia Woolf shit out on a particularly cold, Aylmer morning."
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Return To The Gillers; or Kevin O'Leary's Looking Thin
Literary gossip's a big thing. Who knew? This 'site, which I started after watching Daphne Marlatt surreptitiously eat a bunch of muscat grapes in the Yonge/York Mills Loblaws, is starting to draw significant traffic.
A lot of it's coming for New Orleans. That's the cradle of Boyden territory. He teaches down there; he's got friends and family down there. They were cruising Google, looking for news of Boyden's Giller win, and they landed in the loveseat beside Adler.
Welcome!
If Joseph's literary debt to A.R.M. Lower is a surprise...well, I'm sorry you had to read about it here. But I will go on record and say that he did not write Through Black Spruce at Marian Engel's grave. That was Hugh MacLennan. (And it wasn't a novel; it was a letter to Rosie DiManno.)
I'm just cleaning up some reminiscences of Giller night, and I thought I'd share them here. Hundreds of people--most of them brothers and sisters of Marie-Claire Blais--seem interested in knowing what happened behind the classy velvet curtains of The Four Seasons. And I can't resist telling all that I know.
Neil Smith was there. I don't know if I mentioned that in an earlier post, but the author of Bang Crunch was sitting at my table. He didn't want to talk about books. I said, "So what do you think about Lam?"
He said, "Fucking wool..."
A strange answer, but Neil's a strange man. I once saw him return a set of house keys to a homeless man at Christie and Bloor.
I kicked Bob Rae's shin. "Nexen's in play," I said. "You know that."
"What?" Bob asked.
But Neil jumped in. "You follow stocks?"
"Sure."
"Do you watch BNN?"
"All the time."
"I love Kevin O'Leary."
Kevin O'Leary's a fund manager/banker who co-hosts BNN's Squeeze Play--their prime-time show. He's rich, he's candid, and he's a lot less vapid than most people on TV. I guess his only fault--if he has one--is that he believes greed should replace breast milk for nursing infants.
"He's entertaining." I said. "Although I'd like him a lot more if he'd admit that he's lost money."
"Oh, he's lost money."
"I know, but he won't admit it."
"Have you noticed how thin he is?"
"Yeah. He does look different."
"Different? It's night and day. I was telling my friend, he either had a facelift, or he's lost thirty pounds. His face is like an axe. It's like he's sucking in his cheeks. But they never show him standing up, so you can't tell."
"That's true. But he's on all the time. You think he had a facelift? When? He hasn't missed a full week in a couple of months. David Fleck's spun his goddamn pen for two--maybe three--days in a row. That's not enough time. Maybe a chemical peel..."
"Well, something's different."
"He's lost some money. And he's lost some weight. Do you ever watch CNBC? Karen Finerman looks like she has her makeup done at Benjamin's. Guy Adami lent her his tanning bed. She's wearing closed-toed shoes just to hide the tag."
"What's Benjamin's?"
"That's a Jewish funeral chapel. Very famous in Toronto."
"Oh. But he's got no wrinkles. His face is smooth. Gaunt. If you lost weight, wouldn't there be hanging skin, or creases?"
"Neil," I said, "it's a mystery."
"I notice it every night."
"Who'd miss it?"
"But Amanda looks good." He started to whisper. "I love it when she needles him about the shippers. Robert Peel." I nodded, and Neil looked toward the podium. "Oh, Seamus is starting. We'll talk about this later."
At that point O'Regan ascended the stage, taking his place behind the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's a pleasure to be here tonight. I just flew in from Moncton, and are my arms tired..."
A lot of it's coming for New Orleans. That's the cradle of Boyden territory. He teaches down there; he's got friends and family down there. They were cruising Google, looking for news of Boyden's Giller win, and they landed in the loveseat beside Adler.
Welcome!
If Joseph's literary debt to A.R.M. Lower is a surprise...well, I'm sorry you had to read about it here. But I will go on record and say that he did not write Through Black Spruce at Marian Engel's grave. That was Hugh MacLennan. (And it wasn't a novel; it was a letter to Rosie DiManno.)
I'm just cleaning up some reminiscences of Giller night, and I thought I'd share them here. Hundreds of people--most of them brothers and sisters of Marie-Claire Blais--seem interested in knowing what happened behind the classy velvet curtains of The Four Seasons. And I can't resist telling all that I know.
Neil Smith was there. I don't know if I mentioned that in an earlier post, but the author of Bang Crunch was sitting at my table. He didn't want to talk about books. I said, "So what do you think about Lam?"
He said, "Fucking wool..."
A strange answer, but Neil's a strange man. I once saw him return a set of house keys to a homeless man at Christie and Bloor.
I kicked Bob Rae's shin. "Nexen's in play," I said. "You know that."
"What?" Bob asked.
But Neil jumped in. "You follow stocks?"
"Sure."
"Do you watch BNN?"
"All the time."
"I love Kevin O'Leary."
Kevin O'Leary's a fund manager/banker who co-hosts BNN's Squeeze Play--their prime-time show. He's rich, he's candid, and he's a lot less vapid than most people on TV. I guess his only fault--if he has one--is that he believes greed should replace breast milk for nursing infants.
"He's entertaining." I said. "Although I'd like him a lot more if he'd admit that he's lost money."
"Oh, he's lost money."
"I know, but he won't admit it."
"Have you noticed how thin he is?"
"Yeah. He does look different."
"Different? It's night and day. I was telling my friend, he either had a facelift, or he's lost thirty pounds. His face is like an axe. It's like he's sucking in his cheeks. But they never show him standing up, so you can't tell."
"That's true. But he's on all the time. You think he had a facelift? When? He hasn't missed a full week in a couple of months. David Fleck's spun his goddamn pen for two--maybe three--days in a row. That's not enough time. Maybe a chemical peel..."
"Well, something's different."
"He's lost some money. And he's lost some weight. Do you ever watch CNBC? Karen Finerman looks like she has her makeup done at Benjamin's. Guy Adami lent her his tanning bed. She's wearing closed-toed shoes just to hide the tag."
"What's Benjamin's?"
"That's a Jewish funeral chapel. Very famous in Toronto."
"Oh. But he's got no wrinkles. His face is smooth. Gaunt. If you lost weight, wouldn't there be hanging skin, or creases?"
"Neil," I said, "it's a mystery."
"I notice it every night."
"Who'd miss it?"
"But Amanda looks good." He started to whisper. "I love it when she needles him about the shippers. Robert Peel." I nodded, and Neil looked toward the podium. "Oh, Seamus is starting. We'll talk about this later."
At that point O'Regan ascended the stage, taking his place behind the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's a pleasure to be here tonight. I just flew in from Moncton, and are my arms tired..."
Thursday, November 13, 2008
How To Scalp A Giller Ticket; or People Will Say We're In Love
Last night I was in London, ON, visiting a friend, and I popped in at Frank Davey's house. Frank was watching Oklahoma!, the 1955 version with Gordon MacRae and Gloria Grahame. Yes, Frank has a DVD player. A Toshiba. People tend to assume that, just because he wears homemade sweaters, Frank is some kind of anachronism. That's not the case at all. You should see the man's iPod. If Chantal Kreviazuk only knew who her biggest fan was...
We started talking about my night at the Gillers. Frank hadn't been invited, and he wanted to know who was there. I told him that I'd seen Vicki Gabereau, Valerie Pringle, Wendy Crewson, Craig Kielburger--
"Who's that?" asked Frank.
"Craig Kielburger?"
"Yes."
"He advocates for child rights. Mostly in Africa, Asia. He tries to get kids out of sweatshops. That kind of thing."
"That's nice."
"Yeah, he seems genuine. But he was written by J.M. Barrie, so who knows."
"Why would he be invited?"
"I don't know. He's famous, I guess."
"I've never heard of him."
"He has a column in The Star. He's all over the news."
"But what does he have to do with Canadian writing?"
"Nothing."
"So why would they invite him?"
"I don't know."
"I just don't understand."
"It's a tough one."
There was a pause. "Well. They didn't invite me."
I was shocked. He'd already told me, five minutes before. But I'd also noticed an incredible amount of milk in the house. "They didn't."
"No. And I asked the mailman. I asked him every day. What do you think? Can I trust him? I don't know if I can trust him anymore."
"I think you can trust him. I wouldn't worry about that. But I can't believe you weren't invited. I wish I would've known. I had an extra ticket; I scalped it." I never would have taken Frank. He's no fun, and he tends to get into pointless arguments with waiters. Once, at Shopsy's, he insisted that he'd been given slightly less corned beef than I had. And he made the waiter stay at our table while he ran out to his car for a ruler.
"You scalped it?" he said.
"Yeah." [Beat.] "Well, I didn't need it. I asked a friend to go with me, but she's on strike. She had to collect wood. I sold it for eight hundred bucks."
"Eight hundred? Jesus. To whom?"
"Some woman on the street."
"On the street?"
"Yeah. People were lined up out there--right outside of The Four Seasons. 'Who's selling?' was all you could hear. She tried to start me out at two hundred, but there was no way."
"And you got her all the way up to eight?"
"There were four other guys bidding against her. I just let them go. The woman and the guy were left at seven fifty. And they were dressed up, all ready in a dress and a tux. Finally the guy said, 'Look, I've only got eight hundred on me.' And the woman said, 'Me too.' So I didn't know what to do. And I said, 'Well, flip a coin.' The woman said, 'Wait! There must be something else I can do for you. Something.' And, Frank, it was right out of a movie. So, of course, I gave the ticket to her."
"And what did she say?"
"She was so grateful, she kept re-iterating that she'd do anything. And I was thinking about it. She was beautiful. But I said, 'Belinda, I'd never take advantage of someone like that.' So I got her to stick an ice cube down Alice Munro's dress."
"You're kidding!"
"No."
"What did Alice do? What did she say?"
"She said, 'It's hot in here.'"
"I can't believe I missed it. David, I'm so mad."
"It wasn't that good. Don't worry. O'Regan hosted again, and he was just terrib--"
"Shh!" And Frank pointed to his LCD screen. "This is my favourite part." And he started to hum. Then he started to sing. The man was in a trance. "Don't throw bouquets at me...Don't please my folks too much...Don't laugh at my jokes too much...People will say we're in love."
We started talking about my night at the Gillers. Frank hadn't been invited, and he wanted to know who was there. I told him that I'd seen Vicki Gabereau, Valerie Pringle, Wendy Crewson, Craig Kielburger--
"Who's that?" asked Frank.
"Craig Kielburger?"
"Yes."
"He advocates for child rights. Mostly in Africa, Asia. He tries to get kids out of sweatshops. That kind of thing."
"That's nice."
"Yeah, he seems genuine. But he was written by J.M. Barrie, so who knows."
"Why would he be invited?"
"I don't know. He's famous, I guess."
"I've never heard of him."
"He has a column in The Star. He's all over the news."
"But what does he have to do with Canadian writing?"
"Nothing."
"So why would they invite him?"
"I don't know."
"I just don't understand."
"It's a tough one."
There was a pause. "Well. They didn't invite me."
I was shocked. He'd already told me, five minutes before. But I'd also noticed an incredible amount of milk in the house. "They didn't."
"No. And I asked the mailman. I asked him every day. What do you think? Can I trust him? I don't know if I can trust him anymore."
"I think you can trust him. I wouldn't worry about that. But I can't believe you weren't invited. I wish I would've known. I had an extra ticket; I scalped it." I never would have taken Frank. He's no fun, and he tends to get into pointless arguments with waiters. Once, at Shopsy's, he insisted that he'd been given slightly less corned beef than I had. And he made the waiter stay at our table while he ran out to his car for a ruler.
"You scalped it?" he said.
"Yeah." [Beat.] "Well, I didn't need it. I asked a friend to go with me, but she's on strike. She had to collect wood. I sold it for eight hundred bucks."
"Eight hundred? Jesus. To whom?"
"Some woman on the street."
"On the street?"
"Yeah. People were lined up out there--right outside of The Four Seasons. 'Who's selling?' was all you could hear. She tried to start me out at two hundred, but there was no way."
"And you got her all the way up to eight?"
"There were four other guys bidding against her. I just let them go. The woman and the guy were left at seven fifty. And they were dressed up, all ready in a dress and a tux. Finally the guy said, 'Look, I've only got eight hundred on me.' And the woman said, 'Me too.' So I didn't know what to do. And I said, 'Well, flip a coin.' The woman said, 'Wait! There must be something else I can do for you. Something.' And, Frank, it was right out of a movie. So, of course, I gave the ticket to her."
"And what did she say?"
"She was so grateful, she kept re-iterating that she'd do anything. And I was thinking about it. She was beautiful. But I said, 'Belinda, I'd never take advantage of someone like that.' So I got her to stick an ice cube down Alice Munro's dress."
"You're kidding!"
"No."
"What did Alice do? What did she say?"
"She said, 'It's hot in here.'"
"I can't believe I missed it. David, I'm so mad."
"It wasn't that good. Don't worry. O'Regan hosted again, and he was just terrib--"
"Shh!" And Frank pointed to his LCD screen. "This is my favourite part." And he started to hum. Then he started to sing. The man was in a trance. "Don't throw bouquets at me...Don't please my folks too much...Don't laugh at my jokes too much...People will say we're in love."
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