Taking Alice Munro to See "Sex and the City: The Movie"

It's tough to say how many Candace Bushnell books Alice Munro's read. I'm tempted to say three: Four Blondes, Lipstick Jungle, and the original Sex and the City novel. I can see Alice turning the pages, reading, thinking, "Oh, yes. Soooooooo true."

So with the Sex and the City movie coming out tonight, I wondered, logically, what it would be like to take Munro to Silver City Eglinton. What it'd be like to stand in line with her; have a vodka martini with her; share an extra-small popcorn.

First, the line:

Alice: So many people.

David: Do they make you nervous?

Alice: I feel so underdressed. Such beautiful prints.

David: Florals are in this year.

Alice: Look at what I'm wearing.

David: You look fine.

Alice: But look at their shoes. Red. Look at those heels!

David: Your shoes are fine.

Alice: They're so old.

David: Don't be silly. You just made them last week.

Then, inside the theatre:

David: Samantha really pisses me off.

Alice: I love her.

David: Really?

Alice: I think we could spend all day eating lunch, talking. She's so vital.

David: She actually reminds me of you.

Alice: Really?

David: Yeah. See how she chews her nails.

Finally, the drive home:

David: Well, that was fun. What about you? Did you have a good time?

Alice: I had a great time.

David: That's good. We should do it again.

Alice: I don't know. I have a lot of reading to do.

David: That can always wait.

Alice: I have so much writing to do.

David: That can always wait.

Alice: I've got plans with Margaret. But she can come with us!

David: ...Well, if you're busy...


Yeah, I'm sure that's how it'd be.

Checking Out Neil Smith's Bang Crunch For The First Time

We're all prisoners of Canadian literature. And I say that knowing anyone who reads this blog has probably taken specific steps to arrive at this page.

A Google search for "Neil Smith" nets 680,000 results. Impressive...if you don't know Neil Smith the soccer player; or Neil Smith the (once) NHL GM. There's even Neil Smith the geographer.

Then there's Neil Smith the Canadian writer. A few months ago I read a review of Bang Crunch in The Toronto Star. It was a near-rave. But, caught up as I was in My Lovely Enemy, the paper ended up holding peanut shells.

Then a couple days ago I asked a friend to recommend a good Canadian book; something new that I hadn't read; something by someone (hopefully) young and (maybe) good. She recommended Smith. I went to the library, picked up the book, and took it home.

I enjoyed most of Smith's stories. He worked with a kind of naive intelligence that made me wonder how fast he wrote. He seems, from reading his stuff, like a guy who belts out drafts in a quarter of an hour. And he does something that all good writers do: modulate their voice(s) to make you wonder how this shit got published. Then, in the next sentence, you realize it's the character speaking, not the writer. Writer = coherent, literate; character = incoherent, not funny. Green Fluorescent Protein is clearly his best story. A sentence before the touch, I realized, "He's gay." That Smith could lead me to that point is a testament to his skill as a writer.

I wonder why he wrote Extremities. It's funny that all the other stories were Journey Prize selections, but Extremities, a vanity piece, is just something he managed to place.

But this isn't really about Smith.

When I opened its cover, I noticed that I was the first person to check out Bang Crunch. This happens to me all the time. I find a good Canadian book, sidle up to it, take it to the counter, and sign it out. Invariably--if its anywhere near new--I'll be the one to break its maiden. I guess I'm the book deflowerer. The Canadian book deflowerer.

I'm getting increasingly dazed as I notice the traffic trickling into this site. I'm not making any claim for its amazing design or content, but how many people are blogging about Russell Smith, Frank Davey, or Robert Lecker? Few if any. And still, no hits.

Let me take another step back: I don't mean that you, the reader, should be landing here; I mean the writer. Or the writer's agent. Or the guy teaching the writer's book. I feel like I'm pissing in the middle of an open field.

But now I realize what's happening: no one reads Canadian books. I keep checking out W.O. Mitchell's Who Has Seen the Wind for thesis- and MRP-related research. I finally realized that I had a copy...but, let's move past that. In sixty years (it was published in 1947) seven people had signed out that book. And I'd taken it four times. So three people had read it. (Four, if you include me.)

Other books whose library relationship I consummated: Muriella Pent, everything by Jason Sherman, everything by Emma Richler, Hey Nostradamus! (which Coupland must've written on a bus), The Petty Details of So and So's Life, Fugitive Pieces, My Present Age (another winner (wink)), Mouthing the Words (just to size her up), The Big Why, and Dr. Delicious. Everything else had been checked out once, twice, three times.

How is this happening? I know people don't read, but university-level English students must, on occasion, feel like giving it a try. I remember an undergraduate course; I remember the first day. The professor stood at the front of the class: "Name a Canadian writer." I felt like shit. You know why? Because even I couldn't get past Richler, Laurence, Atwood. And this was four years ago. So we're all guilty.

The same friend who recommended Bang Crunch is in the enviable position of getting free books. But the library is free. That's why I raid it so often. But I feel like I'm stealing sand, dirt. These books have no commercial value. There's no demand for them. Yesterday I checked out Billy Crystal's 700 Sundays. No one else had. Then I got Nora Ephron's Crazy Salad. Do people even know who Nora Ephron is?

But I want to keep this confined to Canadian writers--people who, on a good day, have just enough personality to open an automatic door. No one's reading them. A Canadian best-seller: 5,000 copies. Or at least Lecker says so.

That's why I write like Philip Roth. Right. See me smiling?

Haunted By The Ghost Of Michael Winter

This afternoon I saw an ad for a movie called The Strangers. It was a typical ghost story: A family's killed; another family moves into their home; the former family returns from the dead to get the home back. (Good luck; hope they had title insurance.) Anyway, the exact same thing happened to my grandfather. A few years ago he'd gone to an estate sale; he picked up a few things. A week later the dead couple came looking for their two-stroke lawnmower.

"I don't have it," he told them. "I sold it."

"You sold it?" they said. "Well, get it back, dammit."

"I can't. All sales final."

"Then steal it!"

"From my grandson!"

The whole thing reminded me of a time when I was, in fact, hounded by a ghost. I was sleeping one night--it was an ordinary, average May night/early morning--when there was a knock at my window. I woke up. I'd been having a strange dream in which Mordecai Richler and I were acting in a CBC production of Jack and the Beanstalk. Richler was The Giant, and I was Jack. Florence was there too--she was cleaning the windows.

I raised the blinds and looked outside.

"Let me in," a voice said.

"Who is it?"

"I'm a ghost."

I couldn't believe it. "What do you want?"

"I wanna borrow a book."

I opened the window. There, sitting on the sill, was Michael Winter.

"Shouldn't you be in Newfoundland?" I asked.

"You know who I am?" He paused. "Dad?"

"No...No. You've lived in my professor's house...I've read your stuff. I'm ABD. English." I paused. "So...really...it's not so bad?"

"What?"

"Death."

"Oh, right. Well...It's like meeting Alice Mun--I can't believe you know who I am."

"I have all your books."

"Oh, right," he said. "I remember you from a signing. Chapters at Yonge and Dundas."

"Actually, Goodwill's Buy The Pound at Jarvis and Adelaide. Hardcovers two bucks; softcovers a quarter."

"You know I don't get any royalties for that."

"Really? The guy behind the counter in the fun fur jacket said that you did.”

“Well, he lied.”

We looked at each other.

“So,” I said. “You want a book?”

“Yeah. You don’t have any kimchi, do you? ‘Cause I could really—“

“No kimchi.”

“Seaweed? You got any seaweed?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll haunt you, you know.”

“I didn’t even know you were dead.”

“Technically I’m not. I’m just in Calgary.”

So we sat and talked for a while. He wanted Saul Bellow’s Herzog. Of course I had it. “Goodwill again. A quarter.”

A few days later he came back. Another knock at the window. And there he was, again, holding the book.

“Christ!” he said, throwing it down. It bounced off the roof, landing on my lawn. “You know what this is? This is Barney’s Version. I can’t believe it. He stole the whole thing.”

“Yeah, that’s what The New York Times said.”

“Well, I can’t believe it. I’m really disillusioned now. How can I believe in anything.”

“You’ve got the afterlife.”

“I’m not really dead.”

“No kidding.”

“I’ve got fines at the library,” he said. “You’re the only one in this city who reads.”

“The only Jew.”

“No, no. That’s not true. I just got a first-edition Harold Robbins from your neighbour.”

“So,” I said. “What’re you going to do now?”

“I guess I’ll go home and write. I’ve got a great idea about a rabbi who solves crimes.”

“I’d read it.”

“I’ll let you know when it’s published.” He started inching his way down the gable, then stopped and looked back. “Anansi’s interested in rabbi stuff right now. ‘Anything with a yarmulke,’ they told me.”

And that was it. I never heard from him again. But it was only three days ago, so we’ll see what happens.

CBC's Horseman: I Like My Protagonists Ugly

Yesterday, while reading Mr Sammler's Planet, I started thinking about shoes. I don't know why. Big, red shoes. Patent leather, with huge brass buckles. I like Saul Bellow, but he can't hold my attention. Henderson was almost as bad as The Order of Things. They're books you should get the gist of. They're the kind of stories/analyses that, if a friend tried to corner you and explain their significance, you'd break his toe with heel.

Then, for some reason, I started thinking about Mordecai Richler. How bad The Acrobats was; how bad A Choice of Enemies was. And how much better is his later work.

This was supposed to be a break from thesis writing. It was supposed to be relaxing.

I changed subjects.

How disappointing was the CBC's adaptation of Richler's St Urbain's Horseman? I didn't even have a problem with their script. I liked the focus on the the trial, and it was certainly long enough to include the better parts of the story. But the actors were all too good-looking. They were incredibly attractive. David Julian Hirsh, who plays Jake, looks like an American Idol finalist. And Michael Riley's too urbane to be Harry. He looks like Guy Pearce's British uncle.

And Liane Balaban as Jenny? Wow. I guess that's the kind of girl David Hirsh'd get. Richler? Not so much.

And, of course, I'm wading into the biographical fallacy. But I'm not sure the book/movie works with attractive characters. Jake's supposed to be a gritty kid from Jewish Montreal. He looks like he took the first yacht out from All My Children. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was watching a Soap. Everything was so clean, crisp, and digital.

Harry was supposed to be a rat-like pervert, chewing his 'nails and washing his face with a dish towel. Instead he was Edward Norton.

But maybe that's just the reaction of someone who has read the novel a few times. It just couldn't mesh with psychical image I'd created.

But I really think Hollywood/CBC (a likely pair) adaptations of novels do too much to re-cast the text. Unless it's a Sophie Kinsella novel, all the characters should be ugly. Period. Or, if not ugly, at least average. Normal. Character actors should take all the title roles; the facemen should be on the fringes. Otherwise you get Keira Kinghtley and Matthew Macfadyen in Pride and Prejudice. With those two leads it should've been a porno flick. It'd take about five pages for them to get together, and another 300 to get their clothes back on.

As an aside, Jane Austen was not an attractive woman. Neither was George Eliot. But Susan Sontag wasn't bad. I wonder whom they'd cast for Trip to Hanoi.

Back to the thesis.

Al Purdy Gets A Statue In Queen's Park

I didn't post yesterday. Hundreds of people flooded my inbox. They wanted to know why. What was I doing? Where was I? Another question was kind of funny. "Remember," it started, "when Roots jackets were cool? You know, the ones with the leather sleeves and the last two digits of the year stitched onto the shoulder? I think it was a patch."

Yeah, I do remember. I remember going down to the Roots flagship store in my grandfather's Lincoln Touring Car. I think it was somewhere in Yorkville. As I'm remembering it now, it seemed like the Toronto version of the MOMA. And whom did I see there that day? Al Purdy. I was only ten, but it was Al Purdy. I still have the autograph. You think I'd throw out a Loblaws bill?

This all came back to me this morning when I saw a picture of Purdy's statue being unveiled. It was Page Two of The Toronto Star. There was no story--just a picture and a caption. Because that's how important Al Purdy is. (And I'm sure a ton of Star reporters know AP and his work. I can't even open the Stargazing section without seeing a Purdy quote.)

If it were Atwood there would've been a story. And a black and white picture...(You mean that's colour? Jesus...) But certainly a story.

I was interested to see how the sculptor had dealt with Purdy's hair. The man had the worst haircut in the history of Canadian writing. I think he styled it with canola oil. I've always wondered if he cut it himself. A friend once told me Purdy used to sit on his front porch and wait for a child to walk by. "Hey," Purdy would say to the kid, "wanna make a quick quarter?"

"A quick buck? Sure," the kid would say.

"Fuck off, kid. I said a quarter."

And, when the haggling was over, Purdy would have his haircut. (The kid would have an NSF cheque.)

But the statue's hair was very nice. In fact the entire casting--a huge, ten-foot bronze--was smartly done. There's Al, looking east, bent over, huddled, struggling with a composition. "This next one's gonna make a million bucks," he's thinking. "It'll sell 500,000 for sure."

"I wonder what it's like to do Dallas."

If you're a Purdy fan, take a look at the Margaret Laurence fonds at York University's archive. There are a few candid letters from Purdy to Laurence in which the former trashes his students, Canadian universities, and a handful of Canadian writers. It's great reading. Al was a talented man who stole stationery from every hotel and roadhouse in Canada. It's fun just as a documentary project.

You know, we really ought to have a monument park (Yankees reference) of Canadian writers. There'd be Richler with his middle finger flipped, Laurence in a caftan, a bunch of guys (Kroetsch, Richardson, etc.) paddling canoes, Brian Moore beating his son (or someone's son, I guess), and Gabrielle Roy with her legs open.

Margaret Atwood Uses Drama Clean Shampoo

I'm at a point in my life where I don't believe happiness is possible. I don't believe success is possible. Don't even ask me for a poached egg.

Maybe it's this process of thesis writing. I'd love to be Heather Horton, alone in the country in a fieldstone house. Instead I'm in downtown Toronto in an apartment advertised for its proximity to Chicago: "Only 1,200 Clicks Away!"

Does anyone even know who Heather Horton is? I can see her illustrating a Lisa Moore book. "That's good Heather, but can you open her wrists just a bit more? Yeah, just a bit more. Can you put in some sinew? Yeah, that's good."

Maybe this is my polysyndeton phase. That doesn't really work for a thesis: "And then Frank Davey wrote Canadian Literary Power and it was published with a Canada Council grant and how he got the grant I do not [no contractions allowed] know and how I'll get the grant he doesn't know and he's [fuck that] much shorter in person."

Yesterday I was in a Shoppers at Yonge and Marlborough--deep in the heart of Rosedale--and I saw Margaret Atwood buying shampoo. I guess she was out of egg whites and mayonnaise. And I eyed her. For some reason Atwood is my enemy. I'm like Saul Bellow trying to unseat Howard Fast. And I don't even write fiction. But, god, if I were as talented as Vincent Lam...

And she bought Herbal Essences. It was Herbal Essences in a new, curved bottle. I know because I swooped in after her and bought the same shampoo. I bought eight bottles, just so I wouldn't look conspicuous. (I'm including the link to the HE website just in case any grad student's reading this. I know you wash your hair with bar soap. Really, you think I don't know what Irish Spring smells like?)

It was the name of the shampoo that got me: Drama Clean. Fitting, right. I'm a bit dramatic. Queen--not so much. (I'm much more of a Papa. Only I don't own a gun.) But Drama Clean shampoo for Canada's Drama Queen writer. And I didn't even know you washed wigs.

I figure it'll get worse from here. And what better outlet than a blog no one reads. Although I am getting interest from Douglas Gibson. He thinks I sell bowties. I told him I don’t use prepositions outside of academic writing. It spoils the pace. He said, “Fine, just as long as you’ve got one with polka dots.”

And Heather Horton's got talent. That's no joke.

SSHRC Funding: 20% Luck; 80% Spit or Swallow

Everyone hates begging the government for money. But as a graduate student you've got to do it. You've got to get on your knees, open your wrists, cry, and beg. You've got to kiss feet, kiss ass--if it's red or pink you've got to lip it. And although the more oral penetration the better, some things you just squeeze lightly between the lips and hum. A few times you'll get the money, sometimes you'll get hoof and mouth. But it's all worth it, right? Well, if that $35 K cheque is coming in the mail, then, yes, it's all worth it.

Thirty-five thousand? you ask. No, it can't be that much. How about $100,000 over three years to study metpahors or disunity in Quebecois poetry? How about $100,000 over three years to study images of South Asians in contemporary Manitoban fiction. (Note: There isn't anything they can't pick.)

How about a hundred grand to take a look at Robertson Davies's deployment of horse shoes?

I know, I know. It's not enough. Maybe if it were something good--a real golden project--you could land $150,000. Depictions of aberrant sexuality in Maritime outport fiction? Only if you leave the fish fucking out.

But, to be serious for a minute, the SSHRC serves a legitimate purpose: it feeds graduate students, it houses graduate students; it gives them money to do things like cut their bangs, buy new jeans, and pay library fines. I know that most just braid or pull back their hair, wear shitty old jeans, and extend their loans for eight months. But at least they have the option of stroking the GDP.

Of course those are the ones who get the grants. Not everyone does. (Unless you go to UofT, then you just follow the yellow brick road to cash your first cheque. In 2007, 264 UofT graduate students applied for government grants; 262 got money. What about the other two? One had to go back to Finland, and the other's application was short postage. That, ordinarily, would've been fine--but he sent the thing to Consumer's Gas.)

I have an SSHRC grant. Let me just say that. I'll tell you what I use it for: Last Christmas I took a cruise to Monaco. A few weeks ago I bought new tires. Then I rented a cottage for a homeless guy. He kept asking me how he was supposed to get there. "That's not my problem," I said.

Who doesn't get government money? Being on the inside of the machine, I can tell you exactly who'll be sleeping on a Bay Street grate next academic year. If you've got a B+, you're out. And don't write anything about loving books. That's bad. I know a guy who, at the end of his application, wrote, "I have always loved reading, and will continue to celebrate my passion for critical inquiry." The next day he had his GAship pulled. "What'd I do?" he asked the programme director at his school. "Don't take it personally," the director said, "but your enthusiasm could be contagious."

Also, don't try to be funny. Saying something like, "As Derrida might write, 'fgdsfgdsfgsd,'" won't earn you any friends. You'll be shopping in Kensington Market. For food.

See ya at the MLA.