Oh The Wonder of It All!

In the most recent issue of The American Scholar, Melvin Bukiet disses Dave Eggers-like writers with a kind of academic succinctness that I have been struggling for years to articulate.

The argument, in short (and please read the essay) is that Brooklyn operates as a psychic designation, and that books penned by writers across America can be considered Brookyln Books of Wonder (BBoWs) if they rely on absurd triumphs over adversity. As Bukiet writes:

Take mawkish self-indulgence, add a heavy dollop of creamy nostalgia, season with magic realism, stir in a complacency of faith, and you’ve got wondrousness. The only thing that’s more wondrous than the BBoW narratives themselves is the vanity of the authors who deliver their epistles from Fort Greene with mock-naïve astonishment, as if saying: “I can’t really believe I’m writing this. And it’s such an honor that you’re reading it.” Actually, they’re as vain and mercenary as anyone else, but they mask these less endearing traits under the smiley façade of an illusory Eden they’ve recreated in the low-rise borough across the water from corrupt Manhattan.

I admit that when Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius was published, I fell head over heels for the enthusiasm! The knowing self-aggrandizing! Oh, the humility! It was like being invited to an end of the world party and realizing you actually love the world and, hey guys, we're like, all in this together no matter how dweeby you are!

But then Eggers' spawned a magazine, a colony, and then basically an entire generation of 'cute' writers. Six years later and even The New Yorker has bought the bull, publishing not one, but TWO pieces by BBoW flavour-of-the-month Miranda July in its most recent Fiction issue.

Cute! and Optimistic! and Totally Awkward! have become so branded that you can't walk through downtown Toronto without being confronted by bright child-like jumpsuits (fuck you very much American Apparel), oversized round 80's eyeglasses (because blind is the new sighted!) and impossibly thin girls clutching Toronto Public Library canvas bags (because literacy is hot!).

BBoWs reinforce a commodified sphere of hipness (that hipness being an exclusive club of carefully constructed not-hipness). The under-40 demographic has become seized by a culture of perpetual pubescence that rewards itself for precociousness (big words) and enthusiasm (big smiles). Right on!

Never mind that all the happy universalisms tend to erase more pressing complications like class or race (how many BBoWs were not written by white middle class people), and that in order for everything to be 'cool' a lot of serious fucking shit needs to be ignored, what really gets my goat is that this group of writers are coming to represent the voice of my generation. Holy shit. Sorry. Holy shit!

I think while the Foers, Eggers, Julys and even Hetis of the world continue to collect their publishing opportunities like so many bread crumbs in a fairy tale forest, I will sit in my dark apartment, drink too much, and despite the temptation when drunk, avoid waxing nostalgic for a time when Reagan was in power, AIDS was a gay disease, and Dallas was the best thing on TV.

Mess With The Bull, You Get the Horns

For anyone who might argue what an after-hours bar has to do with film, television, books, or monkeys, I say--where the hell do you think actors, writers, directors and monkeys go for a good time at 4am?

The Matador, that sweet old clunker of a can, is in jeopardy of being torn down by the City of Toronto to make room for a parking lot.

Because nothing says urban renewal like pavement and cars!

Since I live 2 blocks away from the venerable establishment, and have vague if not fond memories of dancing awkwardly within its walls, I ask you all to please write the folks who are plotting for the parking and let them know this is not acceptable!

Find out how you can save the Matador!

Wank Away, Gentiles

There are many ridiculous comments in Stephen Amidon's Times gush-fest of Philip Roth, but I think Roth provides the best quote:

"On the reception of Portnoy’s Complaint so many claimed to be offended by the masturbation. But that’s silly. Everybody knew about masturbation. What they were really offended by was the depiction of this level of brutality in a Jewish family."

Graphic Review

This may be the first book review written as a comic strip.

Tyra Isn't The Only Pollster

Philip Roth in a 2000 interview:

"Every year, seventy readers die and only two are replaced...The literary era has come to an end."

Because 1 out of 13 Smokers Will Light Themselves on Fire

So the girls have been cast ahoy in LA's fashion district (which presumably houses more than just American Apparel and its pervy owner). Heather
"Asperger's" and Lisa "I've Seen Every Kind of Hurt" immediately stand out (since they are given more air time than any other girl).

The first model shoot has a SERIOUS message which is "cancer is ugly." And what better way to prove how ugly smoking is than by having 13 models pose with cigarettes? Of course, the girls were made not only glam but gross, with trach holes, spontaneously bleeding mouths, and burn scars (I think this one was to show how ugly smoking can be when combined with copious amounts of alcohol and barbiturates).

Mila, who I loved for her silly oval face and tiny eyes and perma-smile, lost my vote when she started giggling hysterically over how funny she looked as a chemo patient. Hahahahaha, my hair is falling out. Hahahaha.

First Commercial Break: An ad for Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson's new Disney film The Game Plan. The Rock is so awesome he can inspire prisoners to get it together. Unfortunately, this commercial makes me embarrassed for him.

So, back to the shoot, where Bianca with the purple bangs and Lisa the stripper get into a cat fight. Best moment: The shot of Heather rolling her eyes at the bickering girls like an 8-year old boy mocking his older sisters.

Back at the house, one of the many nondescript white models complains that Heather has no social skills. As she explains that a disease is no excuse, the model is wandering around the living room--in her underwear! Yeah, I hate it when autistic chicks don't follow basic social decorum.

Second Commericial Break: Actually before the break we are shown a fake commercial with Jaslene (YAY!) as skinny and crazy as ever. She talks about her "glam-o-us life as a Covah Garl." Oh Jaslene, we miss you.

Outside the house, the girls are greeted by Miss J, dressed like Annie Leibowitz, who tells them they get to go crazy picking out an new outfit at...Old Navy. This is like winning $15, give or take 99 cents. At the Old Navy, our favourite Prince impersonator, Manny the laser ballerina from cycle 8, tells the girls to go nuts accessorizing. Of course since this is Tyra's show (and where is Tyra this episode?) the girls should not trust the person sent to mentor them. Only someone as seriously debased as Tyra would have seen through this guise, and well, it turns out the person is Bianca!

Back at the house, Kimberly reveals herself a Heather-hater, so I immediately hate her. Poor Heather cries to her mom on the phone, which surprises me, since the only understanding I have of autism is entirely based on Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime and from what I remember from reading that book 3 years ago is that austistic people don't really have the ability to express emotions. Like Data, from TNG. But maybe I am not remembering that right.

Third Commercial Break: Fisher Price's new Smart Cycle, a plastic stationary bike for tots that plugs into the TV and displays computer images of the outdoors as they pedal. So that kids don't have to, you know, go out on dumb bicycles in the real outdoors.

It's the first judges panel. Nigel is still hot, Twiggy still looks tired but sweet, Tyra appears to have found a new stylist (with taste), and Miss J looks like what I imagine his class picture from 1981 would have looked like. It's like he got Bill Cosby's weave. I am totally baffled. Maybe this cycle he'll wear a different wig each week???

The panel is boring (ie, Tyra appears sane), and even Ebony, the bitch from episode one, is now all lame, saying she wants everybody to like her. WTF?

Tyra surprises the girls by telling them there will be no smoking at the house. Which, geeky as I risk sounding, I think is great. Every scene at the house in cycle 8 centred around the girls smoking and using the plant pots as ashtrays. Of course Tyra qualifies the smoking ban by explaining that she has seen "98% of models smoke." So now Tyra is a pollster. Way to go, Tyra. Make sure to keep us up to speed on those Democratic presidential candidates!

Heather once again provides a darling expression when she is the first girl called by Tyra. I believe the look is one of shock and again, I did not think this was something someone autistic girls experienced, but whatever.

The final two remaining girls are Ebony, who has a nasty trail of snot running out of her nostril, and Mila, who appears high. Naturally Mila is voted out because karma pays attention and when you make fun of chemo patients, you will pay.

Mila, being high, just shrugs it off, admitting she must be in shock since she was certain she would win.

Preview for next week: More catfights.

We Don't Need Another Hero

Heroes is back. And it's like nothing has changed.
Except everyone is boring.

Mohinder is still lecturing people, Nathan Petrelli has become a grumpy drunk (as opposed to a sober asshole), Claire and her dad are still sharing knowing glances over the dinner table and Molly Walker (the little girl on Sylar's hit list) is still the most annoying child in Hollywood.

Oh, and there's a kid in Claire's new school. And he can fly.
Boring.

Girl, That Robe is Scandalous

It is the second episode of Gossip Girl, and without my lovah around for me to get all giggly with about the rich boys and girls behaving badly, it wasn't quite as fun. There was also a gaping hole left by the lack of booty, forbidden, forced, or otherwise.

Highlights: Blair's negligee and corset set (apparently she had a friend in wardrobe on the set of Marie Antoinette); Serena's expression when she got busted by B for sleeping with her man; the totally silly-but-I-wish-had-said-it line "that black eye looks lonely."

Lowlights: Dan getting all pissy at S for being a floozy; S's mom getting all pissy at Dan (what up, Melrose Place?); Chuck sleeping with one of the models from the brunch whose bodypaint made her look like her veins were about to burst from ebola. Ew.

Grandma Gets Down

I am hooked on the new HBO series Tell Me You Love Me. It centres on three struggling couples and a handsome white-haired sex therapist with her own marital issues.

There is a ton of hardcore, zoom-in on the slapping balls sex scenes and it's great, right, because there's a script (as opposed to regular porn where there's just a bad porn soundtrack and lots of fake moaning that your neighbours can totally hear and judge you for). And I love that it realistically portrays the anxieties and butting heads (along with hips) of a couple going through fertility issues.

So why must I avert my eyes every episode?

The old-people sex. I never knew I was biased against old people (okay, I knew it. Sometimes really old, shaky, sour-breathed folk freak me out) but I can NOT handle the French-kissing, fondling, bare-butted boning that happens between the sex therapist and her husband. Not withstanding the fact that they look like Sears catalogue models with their matching full heads of silver hair and perfectly white teeth, I just really get wigged out seeing an old dude's butt pumping as he thrusts himself deep into a woman who might have been a war bride.

I know we all age, and yes, the old actor David Selby has an unnervingly sculpted ass, but seriously. Shudder. Ugh.

When Good Writers Go Bad

You are going to have to read Christopher Hitchens review of Philip Roth's latest Nathan Zuckerman novel Exit Ghost because I refuse to read the book. I already got suckered earlier this year into spending $20 on Roth's novella Everyman. Its premise was as self-indulgent as that fantasy where we get to see how sad everyone is at our own funeral.

Oh wait, that was the premise.

Roth should have retired after The Human Stain and kept his dignity intact.

Memoir is the New Fiction

Lisa Crystal Carver is everything most of us don't have the balls to be. If you are cooler than me, you know her as one of the members of Suckdog, a 90s post-punk band/performance group/whatever. She was the second person to put out a zine in the States (she disputes rumours that she was the first) and now she is a successful freelance writer.

The daughter of a drug addict, the ex-wife of an abusive neo-Nazi, and the mother of a boy with a chromosomal deficiency, Lisa Crystal Carver is also the author of the most entertaining and intelligent memoir I have ever read. Drugs Are Nice: A Post Punk Memoir was published in 2005 by Soft Skull Press. Beginning with the genesis of Suckdog (called "the most interesting band in the world" by England's Melody Maker), Carver takes us on a tour of the 90s sub-culture fringes that she helped create.

Carver manages to balance humour and tragedy without brevity or sentiment or that false child-like light-heartedness that seems to infect so many contemporary memoirs written by folks under 40. She doesn't bitch about her rich, neglectful parents or evil boarding school chums. She writes about dark, off-the-hook people with compassion and humour and the stuff that she has lived through is about one million times more interesting than anything you'd catch in a Clinton memoir.

Reading Carver made me want to be a better woman. It inspired a desire to be more brave, more wild, more loving and less judgemental. You will not want to put this book down and when you are done, you will be sad.

Don't Shake Hands With This Monkey

Apparently tufted capuchin monkeys scrub their hands and feet in pee to attract a mate.

The link between primate and drunken asshole who pisses the bed grows clearer.

Photo Credit: Katalin Laszlo.

I Know This Much Is True

At the right time in your cycle, this photo will make your ovaries clench.

Broken Promises

Am I the only one who has seen David Cronenberg's new film, Eastern Promises, and thought, um, that was okay?

I was expecting Eastern Promises to be a great film, having been stunned into awestruck silence by The History of Violence. And any film that includes a four-minute fight sequence with a buck-naked Viggo Mortensen battling two suited thugs in a shower room should be, at the very least, really good.

But Eastern Promises is only good. The script, penned by Steven Knight who wrote 2002's Dirty Pretty Things teeters precariously close to cliche with its cast of drunken Russian mobsters, a naive and gorgeous blond and a bad guy who might just have a heart of gold. Since there is not any exploration of the interiors of these characters, I left the theatre feeling like I had watched a plot unfold but little else. Missing was the nuanced and subtle depth of character that made The History of Violence such a profound and impressive movie.

That said, Mortensen remains as mesmerizing (both dressed and undressed) as ever. There really should be more naked fight scenes in movies.

Newfie Jokes

I have never been a big fan of Newfoundland writing. I find it takes itself too seriously and relies too heavily on lengthy descriptions of rocks, water and jigging. I mean, I get it. You live by the ocean.

Of course, my mass sweeping generalizations are often proven wrong (yay Lisa Moore) and I am embarrassed to admit that I only recently picked up one of Michael Winter's books for the first time. Damn, this man is my new literary hero.

Winter fills a void left for me since 2002 (the last year Rick Moody published a novel worthy of having the name Rick Moody on its jacket). The Big Why is a historical novel that is neither sweeping nor romantic. It is thrilling in its philosophical drive and sardonic zingers. I don't even want to give you a plot summary because if I had read the summary I probably never would have read the book.

I am telling you, read this book.
If you don't like it, I will act like it's no big deal.
But secretly, I will judge you.

Memoir is the New Fiction

Because he is charming and modest and quick to laughter (and the book ain't bad either) I am recommending Jonathan Garfinkel's new memoir, Ambivalence.

I got my hands on a reviewer copy a couple of months back and it made for a quick read at the cottage. I read it right after I had finished Michael Chabon's enviably awesome The Yiddish Policemen's Union which doesn't need a plug since Chabon is an American superstar.

After the double-dose of Hebrew humour and history I found myself close to abandoning my Shiksa ways and tying a red ribbon around my wrist. Alas, I remain hopelessly WASP-y. That said, Garfinkel's personal account of investigating a house in Jerusalem allegedly shared by an Arab and a Jew is engaging, poignant and interrogative. It is a major accomplishment in craft and especially impressive since this is Jonathan's first novel-length publication.

Launch Week

It is that time of year again. The leaves start to turn and I am suddenly compelled to buy sweaters (even though it is still as hot as August), start a journal and watch a hell of a lot more tv.

Despite the increasing wonkiness of tv's fall schedule (Lost, February, WTF) there were two premiers this week that made my 40" flat screen worth the investment: Gossip Girl and America's Next Top Model.



Gossip Girl
GG highlights: rich teens (who look older than Lohan after a bender) getting high and drinking; rich teens plotting the social demise of one another; and rich teens doing it in a Red Shoes Diary-esque scene that was both embarrassing and sort of hot (embarrassing for me because the tingles I got forced me to admit to myself it was sort of hot).

GG lowlights: the Gossip Girl intro and voice-overs. They're so Degrassi they reminded me that I am more than a decade older than the characters. That said, please tell me the audience they're aiming for is not the female 7 - 12 demographic. Because if it is, we are doomed.



ANTM (Cycle 9)
Do do do do do do do, do do do do do do do, do you wanna be on top?
Yes! Summer, with all its sun and fresh air, is finally over and I can spend my Wednesdays watching skinny chicks hobble around on 6 inch heels and unreliable runways. But are any of us even watching the models? We all know it's all about Tyra.

ANTM highlights: Tyra signing and sashaying in a feathery Vegas head-dress with white (??) nylons; Heather, the hunchback with Asperger's who literally embodies the awkwardness we all feel (especially when surrounded by 30 skinny hot chicks); a quick quote from a contestant named Spontanious!!; Marvita, a Grace Jones look-a-like with an awesome rack, who admits she was once homeless and is really hoping she won't get cut so she can, like you know, live in a house.

ANTM lowlights: Tyra prodding Marvita to admit she was raped and molested and homeless and then cutting her (so she won't, you know, like live in a house); Victoria, the Yale student who admitted she entered as a joke, making it into the top 13 (boo ivy leaguers who take a group home bed away from a homeless chick); the girl named Spontanious disappearing from the competition as quickly as her namesake.

So there are my picks for the week. Also, I smiled for an hour at my tv as Gordon Ramsay negotiated the emotional ups and downs of a Long Island mafia family with all the tough guy British aplomb that made me fall in love with him in the first place.

The American version of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares is over-produced, and Ramsay looks a little lost on foreign soil, but it's not at all the stinker the lawsuits and summer gossip suggested it would be.

And finally, I guess I should acknowledge the launch of this blog. Done and done.