Clubbing

I belong to a men's bookclub...yes, you heard that right, men that read. And we read some good stuff (contrary to some of the jibes I have suffered when I mention our group. "So, what you read automotive manuals?" And so on.)

Last night we picked our books for the year ahead - and like the men we are, the competition and voting was fierce. 

This year, having a fiction blog, I've decided to post my thoughts on this year's booklist as I read them. First up is a book that I have been wanting to read for a while, "Divisadero" by Michael Ondaatje.

I'll report on this in a few weeks, depending on how much time I find to read this and the dozen other books I have on the go. But I always finish in time for the next meeting - that's my deadline nature. So by Oct. 3, I'll be sure to say something.

Junior

Joe Lansdale offers a mojo story of the week - these have usually been published in another form before appearing on his website.

I am not starting a new thing here, and this is not quite a mojo length story, but I hope you'll enjoy this little vignette. I doubt that it will see any other form of exposure, so I present it here.

(Oh, and I do like kids, so much so that I have three of them.)

Junior

I knew the little shit hid his true intentions. The Osh-Gosh pants with the cartoon daisies smokescreened his rapacious nature. He was more powerful than he let on and when controls were lifted a sinister single-mindedness would burble to the surface.

My neighbour fluttered her eyes. "You don't mind do you? I'd get a sitter, but under these circumstances." Her botoxed lips quivered."I'll be back in less than an hour."

Those emerald irises did me in.

The little creature pushed a dump truck across the floor, interspersing his happy gurgles with vroom noises. She coo-cooed at him, retaining her illusory composure, swung the apartment door open and lit out.

Two minutes later, the phone rang and I jumped to get it. Junior launched that Tonka like he was throwing discus for the Eastern Bloc before the wall came down.

Tufts of red hair joined to form twin peaks on his head just before the dervish ran full force into my crotch. The next forty-nine minutes proved to be a battle of wits, agility, sheer determination and drool.

When she flung the door open at the sixty-two minute mark I had my foe fast asleep in my lap.

"Oh, I hope he wasn't too much trouble," Ms. Gorgeous Eyes whispered. "I know you don't have any kids."

"Hey, I resent that." I smiled and winked.

I left hoping I got the smell of bourbon out of the bottle.

Paging Dr. Craig

WHAT A GREAT IDEA!
 
We provide a concept that will allow anyone with sufficient work experience to obtain a fully verifiable University Degree.
Bachelors, Masters or even a Doctorate.

Spam just baffles me - who in their right mind would believe this is even possible? The above was sent to me moments ago, tempting me to gain my rightful place in the halls of academia.

Now, I do start teaching at a University next week, so I may need to reconsider my jaded response. And Dr. Craig does have a ring to it. Hmmmmm....maybe it is a great idea.

Gotta go, I think I'm needed in the O.R. (that's what us Doctors call it, anyway).

Stat!
(we say that too)

(a lot)

Food Noir

Something I haven't mentioned around here is my obsession with food tv. I love to cook, and I am not bad at it, but I don't hold a candle (not even the tiny lobster butter warming kind) to Bobby Flay, Mario Batali or Gordon Ramsay. I love the intensity of these guys.

I rarely try to cook their recipes, though I do pick up a pointer or two on how to cut an onion or fry an egg. There is just something about the drama of it all. I am riveted to shows like Iron Chef (food as a sporting event) or Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares (food as a "reality" drama). Recently when switching between my wife's favorite, "Without a Trace" and Iron Chef, unfortunately in the same time slot, I realized that I didn't care if they found the missing teen druggie - what I really care about was how Bobby Flay was going to use the split Vanilla Bean pods in Battle Bacon. I guess we pick our own sort of drama.

This summer as I draw for hours on end I have switched to books on tape - growing tired of bad radio and overplayed music CD's. My ultimate fave (one that keeps me glued to my drawing board) is Bill Buford's Heat. Buford becomes a kitchen slave for the master, and quite nutty, chef Mario Batali. Listening to this book is better than most crime dramas. Buford obsessively tries to  follow Batali and other kitchen guru's instructions to cut the carrots to perfect one millimetre chunks, or delicately remove the duck oyster without eviscerating himself. Again, it's not like I want to cook like these guys or follow Buford's path and become a slave in the high scale adrenalin fueled subculture of a New York kitchen. I think it has something to do with heroes. These eccentric chefs are like gunslingers or samurai warriors (both childhood obsessions of mine). Instead of gunning down the baddies, or slicing off arms Yojimbo-style, these guys are trying to poach the perfect salmon while in busts a table of nineteen and two critics from rival newspapers. Great stuff.

Now does that make me old or just plain weird?

Things

Things to think about.

Blogging need be a quality thing not a quantity thing, right? Write when you have something to say (hmmm... could be a recipe for blankness.)

Chip Kidd's book,"The Cheese Monkeys" proves that artists can write - especially when you are Chip Kidd.

Joe Lansdale's new book is STILL not out.

I haven't written a new word of fiction in weeks (sigh).

Fall, along with hope, springs eternal.

Adrian Tomine's graphic novel Shortcomings has got me thinking about doing a graphic novel (something I never thought I'd do).

Stephen King is a helluva good storyteller (Green Mile was on last night - I'd forgot how great it was).

This weekend is the Regina Folk Fest - way more exciting than you might think.

Go read something..something good...I suggest the Cheese Monkeys.