Sicked and Mired In My Own Dirt

Well, it's that time of year again. The trees are rustling, the air is brisk, and I've come down with a cold.

Oh, sure, I've been pushing myself at, like, DEFCON 1 for about two months now: going out late, getting up early, meetings day and night. True to form, I've been neglecting the homestead something fierce, and have been rewarded with the most disgusting colony of fruit flies I've ever seen. So now that I'm sick, I get to hang out in a totally assy apartment, with nothing but fruit flies to keep me company. Sigh.

I get sick all the time. I have a feeling it's something do with poor nutrition, seeing as how much of what I consume consists of rice and beer. (Sometimes both at once, cutting out that pesky middleman of "chewing.") Okay, that's an exaggeration: I eat tons of vegetables, which is why it's so frustrating when getting sick is such a regular occasion. It's probably also tied to living alone, since everyone knows getting sick and being alone is a total drag when you're feeling under the weather, and it seems to take twice as long to feel better when your only companions are The Simpsons. Plus, dragging yourself to your neighbourhood corner store to load up on crackers, soup, juice and trashy magazines is exhausting when you can barely muster the energy to run a bath.

Two years ago, I had one of the worst sicks ever. You think you've been ill? First, I gave myself food poisoning - because I am a true champion, and because I believed for (no good reason) that pasta sauce is like ketchup, and ketchup doesn't seem to ever go bad. (Assumption? False. Prognosis? Negative.) Then I got the flu - complete with fever! - which quickly blossomed into a bronchial infection. All this happened in the span of, like, three weeks. In January. Which, as you can imagine, sucked. I eventually took a cab to the local walk-in clinic, where they pronounced me "sick" and sent me home to "rest." Helpful! The codeine in the cough syrup made up for a little, but it was still brutal.

In any case, I have zero interest in being sick right now. I have too much to do: people to see, articles to research, nuits to blanche. All I feel like doing is napping and hunting those dad-blasted fruit flies with tiny guns, but I'll man up, gird my loins, and put on clothes that aren't sweatpants. Thus prepared, I'll face the day. Will there be complaining? Oh, yes. Will there eventually be triumph? Possibly. Now leave me alone - I'm tuckered out and need a nap.

Effing Eff

For about six months, I've been claiming to like Holy Fuck, the electronica band from Toronto. As it turns out, the band I actually like is Fucked Up, the hardcore band from Toronto. Guys? Seriously. I can only handle so many obscenity-laced band names from Toronto. One of you couldn't be the Sweet Little Kittens or something? I'm not saying it has to be totally random, but it'd be nice if I could keep my musical tastes straight and tell my parents which one I like. ("I like Holy Eff. Wait, do I? No, I like Effed Up. I think. Probably. Mom, I gotta go.")

Anyway, the ones I like - Fucked Up, probably, I think - just won the Polaris prize. I love the Polaris, mostly because my high school buddy Graham has been nominated twice, but also because Canadian music is pretty awesome. I know there was some controversy over how blah the short list for the Polaris was this year - I mean, Metric's okay, but Emily Haines isn't saving the world or anything. It was nice to see the screaming fat guy with the outrageously-named band take home the twenty grand.

Awesomely, Fucked Up are apparently going to use their winning cash monies to produce a benefit album for all the native women who have disappeared out West. Brav-o, guys. I crush out when a band takes their indie cred and critical earnings and channels that into do-gooding all over the place. Unless that band happens to be U2, in which case, I just want to make that smug bastard Bono eat The Edge's mustache. I love complications, and Fucked Up, with their nudity, obesity, animosity, and generosity, are damned complicated.

Despite the fact MTV banned them, and they rarely get along well enough to be in the same room together, and their name makes it impossible for them to get commercial radio play (although the Ceeb is pretty keen on them), they're somehow living large. It's like the happy-ending version of Death. You're heard of Death, right? No? Quelle surprise. A trio of brothers from Detroit, black kids who were R&B until they stumbled onto Alice Cooper, make awesome proto-punk that nets them label support until they refuse to change their name to something that won't make housewives faint when they hear it on the radio. Thirty years later, the few pressings that did make it out into the world are selling for megabucks on eBay, and their careers are relaunched. Ta da! What a drag.

Luckily, we don't have to wait until 2042 to hear Fucked Up, because they are awesome. (And seriously, what kind of wimp is afraid of a band called Death? Pfft.) Even if the name is off the beaten path - an honor shared with hip-hop heads CunninLynguists and the aforementioned Holy Fuck - the music speaks louder than curse words.

Thank Halifax for Mid-Twenties Guys

Since I am clearly some fancy-pants jet setter, I spent the weekend in Halifax with my mom. Here's a hot tip for any girls out there who might be interested in knowing where all the single under-30 dudes in Canada live: they live in Hali. The place was infested with those sumbitches. Seriously! It was like, walk downtown? Gaggles in mid-20s young men. Hang out at the mall? Throngs of dudes. Even the shoe stores were stuffed with guys, all of whom seemed to be glumly watching their mothers try on outrageous shoes.

My favourite moment was when we were walking in the shopping district downtown. High noon, streets packed with people, and roaring through the crowd comes a crappy little four-door, with about eight guys sardined inside, all singing "I Don't Want to Miss A Thing" from Armageddon. Even the untrained ear can discern overblown schmaltziness in that little ditty. It was most excellent to hear a half-dozen polo-shirt- and flip-flop-wearing dude bros get hilarious.

I've written before about Dude Energy and how it truly is the most potent form of energy, save really sugary black-tar coffee (wowza! I had some yesterday and it made me shake for an hour. In. Tense. That's coffee, not dudes, you pervs), but can you imagine a city powered by Dude Energy? I just got chills. With four post-secondary schools, you have your pick of regular-issue dudes at Dal, skinny-jean-wearing artists at NSCAD, and a plethora of other young men who are populating the area.

I'm not saying there are no young women in Halifax. There are lots. Plenty! If there was some sort of tragic zombie outbreak (for instance), the young ladies of Halifax are numerous enough to provide lots of post-apocalyptic world-repopulation-type activities. Very few of them seem to be nuns, complete uggos, or obvious emotional train wrecks (which, for those of you keeping score at home, I totally defined on Urban Dictionary!)...so it's odd that there's this overflow of young, eligible men. I'm not really complaining - although it would be nice if some of these guys took the Pet Shop Boy's advice and went West to Toronto, but it's nice to know they're out there.

Anyway, aside from the passels of attractive guys, Halifax had other standout features. We ate at Chives, walked into the Atlantic Ocean in Peggy's Cove, snuck into the coolest high school ever in Lunenberg, bought Camper shoes for way cheap, got into a fight with Customer Service at the mall, walked to the top of the Citadel, ate a lot of bacon, biked, drove a lot, wore the same outfit for basically five days in a row, drank really strong beer, and unsuccessfully shopped for bathing suits. It was your basic Canadian-issue long weekend getaway. It was lovely. I love the ocean, and Halifax is nice (although it does seem to be on a 45 degree angle, making cycling unappealing), and it was great to get away and, for at least the weekend, take in the views.

The Money Room

Deep within the bowels of the university, U of T has a special room. It's triple-locked and carefully guarded at all times. There is a dark and sinister corridor leading to this room; one whose floor is always slick and whose overhead lamps are always mysteriously swinging. It's deep underground, below the subways and the scurrying rats, and it holds all the money I've ever given to U of T.

Someday - mark my words - I'll find this room. I'll knock those guards out and emerge, triumphant, from this den of remuneration, carting my cash away and cackling as I go.

Seriously! Why is university so damned pricey? And it's not just the tuition, which my school has thoughtfully jacked up this year. It's the cost of living in an urban center. Yeah, yeah: I know Toronto is, like, way down there on the list of expensive places to live. It's not a surprise that Tokyo requires a bindle full of cash in order to subsist. But their international university is shockingly cheap - basically on par what I'm paying here. What makes U of T so special that I might as well open a vein every time I need to pay for a textbook?

Toronto ain't the Harvard of the North it claims to be: that distinction is fought over by Queen's and McGill, and rightfully so. U of T is more of a machine that either of those worthy schools. Toronto churns out thousands (like, the size of a small town) of undergrads per year, all the while charging more and more tuition and cutting and resizing programs. At what point does a university with a 1.2 billion dollar endowment need my sweet cash? Especially one with 3.1 billion dollars worth of real estate, including Queen's Park. As in, they own the provincial government buildings. What a crock.

Look, yeah, I know that I've spent a shit-ton of money over here on my so-called education, all the while desperately clawing my way towards irritatingly large student debt. And I'm not saying I would have rather gone to Algoma, which I'm sure is cheaper...because Algoma is in Sault Ste Marie, and I do not want to live in the Soo. It's just frustrating, because being in school is expensive, and it's usually an adventure taken on by poor young people.

As a poor young person, I will shut my trap about the whole thing, because, as sucky and expensive as school is, it's still a choice. I could have graduated high school (go Rams!) and gotten a job as a shopgirl, a waitress, a mother...a veritable buffet of high-paying and powerful jobs! But instead, I chose to wander the educational desert for forty years (practically), running up debt and researching exactly what my money is financing.

As far as I can tell, I personally am paying two month's salary for the girl who works at my registrar's office. Now, since I like her, I've decided not to be mad. But is I ever track down that mysterious room in that devilishly well-hidden corridor...I am bringing a wheelbarrow.

It's All Happening!

Dudes and dudines, I am tired. I am tired like Pirelli, yo. Sorry, I've been re-watching old episodes of How I Met Your Mother and there's a lot of wordplay. It's infectious. Like the flu.

Anyway, I've basically been running for the last week. I think the next time I really get to sit down, take a breather, have one of those TV-only baths where people light candles and drink wine in the tub, will be sometime around Christmas. There's been a lot of stuff on my plate. Actually, "my plate" is a bit of a misnomer, since I've been too crazed to really have a sit-down meal lately. There's been a lot of stuff in my burrito wrapper.

Not that I'm complaining! (I'm obviously totally complaining.) It's just...hectic. And the hecticness is nice, in a way: it's getting me out of the house, I'm doing new stuff, it's all very exciting and educational...but sometimes, I just need to take a couple days where I do nothing. And I mean nothing. I need serious hours logged as a housecat would: staring at the windowshade, napping, staring at the linoleum, not wearing pants, and screening my phone calls. Plus naps.

Here's the thing: I'm not lazy. I like to-do lists and tasks that challenge my brain. I love cooking up new ideas and, like, accomplishing shit. Just today I had three meetings, and they were all super different from each other. My whole brain was lighting up like Times Square on New Year's.

But that's exhausting sometimes. I'm not lazy, but I am sort of like those old rechargeable batteries you keep around for like, four years past their expiration date: I need a long time to get back to full power.

It's not just a question of a good night's sleep, either. I sleep okay; sure, most of the time I fall asleep with a book in my hand and still wearing my glasses, but that's okay. At least I'm not all Edward Norton in Fight Club with my snoozes. It's more a question of being able to process. I take an awfully long time to process. Just like my geriatric computer, I run all the zeroes and ones - it just takes me a little longer to get there.

This is making me sound like I have a serious case of the slows, but that's not right either. I am, as evidenced by my interminable education, a student. I like to learn, but part of the student brainpan is a big chunk devoted to critical thinking. Critical thinking is one of those job-interview phrases that people cook up to make themselves sound fancy and educated, but it's true that thinking things through requires a little more energy than just doing and letting the chips fall where they may. Studying is hard. Writing is hard. Thinking...you know where I'm going with this...is hard. It's not hard in the way that building houses is hard, but it's a trial sometimes.

I'm not asking for pity, because I know I won't get any. Which is fine, because everyone I know is in the same boat. I have several different jobs right now, and only one nets me a (teeny weeny) paycheck. The others are just as important: educating myself, getting healthy, volunteering, interning. It's just taken all together, it's a lot in one burrito wrapper.

Paying the Pyper

Andrew Pyper! What is going on with you? You publish to acclaim and sales, despite being sort of lacklustre as an actual, you know, writer...and then you make the crazy happen by being all bitchy! Also, your website is terrible: it looks like it was designed by a toddler with bad taste in fonts.

I just read The Killing Circle, which is a total beach book. I read it on an actual beach. It's your standard maybe-supernatural murder mystery; it's set in Toronto, guest-starring real life Toronto venues, which was neat for me, since I live there. I can't imagine that the average Haligonian gets a rush from reading it, but whatever. Me!

The Killing Circle, like Pyper's other books, has generally been well-reviewed. The New York Times gave him a shout-out re: his 2006 book, The Wildfire Season; The Walrus all but peed its pants over The Killing Circle, which they described as "transfixing," "compelling," and "thought provoking."

Which it is, provided that the thought you want to provoke is: snore. Okay, it's not that boring. In fact, it's totally readable and fun. But it's not some Can-lit masterpiece, because that simply isn't what Pyper does. He writes beach books that are allegedly being turned into movies (although a quick stab at the repository of all things film shows a big blank spot where A.Pyp should be). He writes thrillers about things that go bump in the night, starring protagonists whose descent into paranoid hell is evidenced by a drinking problem. They're not bad, per se. They're just sort of...obvious. Setting it in Toronto was a kicky departure, but neither Pyper's prose style or his plots elevate the reader into new heights.

There's a scene in The Killing Circle where Patrick Rush, our boozy, failed-writer hero, gets a chance to attend the Dickies (a barely-disguised Giller); he spends the evening drinking, mocking the attendees, and not eating his caribou tartare. I actually saw Pyper read this section at The Scream, and read aloud, it's charming. On the page, it loses some of its comedy, and the humour is transformed into bitterness. It's tough to parse out where Rush, the sour protagonist, ends and Pyper, the successful-if-not-prizewinning author, begins.

Which, to be honest, is really unattractive. Canada has a big, fat literary pantheon, and we tend to like the same folks over and over again. (As a sidenote, was anyone else impressed with Alice Munro's decision to pull herself out of the running for the Giller, so's some younger writers might have a stab at it? I think that's so cool, especially since it makes Margaret Atwood look like even more of a smirking ice queen for not doing the same. How many Gillers do you need, Maggie? You've already got, like, eleven!) In their defense, those writers are usually mega-talented: they can write circles around just about everyone, even if they have deeply irritating public personae (Atwood).

Pyper hasn't been rewarded by his mentors and peers because he's just not that good. His plots are lazy, his prose is self-concious, and his climaxes? Those big reveals? Major letdowns. He has interesting ideas - what if fiction became reality? what is authorship (I'm struggling not to make a very nerdy lit-crit inside joke; hold your applause)? what is murder? how do the sins of the father affect the son? - but the pacing is loose and the payoff is weak.

I happen to really like Pyper-the-man: he seemed charming in High Park, and he's gone to my high school a few times to give a talk on what the writer's life is like. He's handsome, he's engaging, he's well-spoken. He seems really nice. I bet he has cute kids.

But. I dislike someone snidely asking for accolades by pretending they don't matter. It's entirely possible that Pyper truly doesn't care, and that his characters are the only ones who do. But I don't buy it. Not because it seems unlikely, but because every sentence that mentions other writers fairly drips with stomach acid and sticky jealousy. Either Pyper is a much better writer than I've given him credit for, or he needs to hide his envy under a bigger hat.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year! Okay, yes, I know that technically, the New Year is several months away, give or take, depending on which New Year you like to ring in. But doesn't the back-to-school season feel so fresh? The colours on the trees emerge, Queen Sweater takes over from Princess Tank Top, people stock up on binder paper, and the time of learning, after a brain-addlingly hot summer, recommences.

Sure, most people in their mid-twenties have graduated by now. Some even have that double-plus signifier of education, the Master's degree. I, on the other hand, am taking the scenic route through my degree: half-forgotten minors in Biological Anthropology, detours into Book and Media Studies, and dreamy stretches of endless English courses. Now, in the final stretch (okay, in the victory lap: I earned my degree last year and still didn't graduate), I've found some interesting side roads.

There was a moment of truth last Christmas when I sat down at the computer, cracked my knuckles, and started looking for work. English Majors are not an endangered species, and the kind of work I want to do - progressive, urban, literate, communal - demands more than just being able to read Spencer. Most of the postings I came across wanted people with Real Skills: post-grad work, loads of experience, specific skill sets, and a driver's licence (sigh). As a noodly perpetual student, I am sorely lacking in many - all - of those categories.

Once I set my cap on working in city planning, I started to figure it out a little. A graduate program coquettishly winked at me. I landed at intership at an awesome magazine. I got a job at a housing co-op and stumbled into a writing gig. I feel like having a goal, finally, is giving shape to my decisions and thoughts. I like to write, I like to talk, I care about people and the places they live. And I finally have an answer to give when people elbow me and say, "English, eh? You want to be a high school teacher?"

Anyway, this extended remix of an undergrad has been useful. For one thing, budgeting is clutch. And not get all moral-of-the-story here, but education and learning is a process, and going back to school - or staying in school until your fingers get pruney - is totally necessary. Parents of high schoolers are forever saying that university teaches people how to learn, which is true, sort of. It certainly didn't teach me how to study. On the other hand, it did expose me to a monster variety of weird books and facts about primate dentition, some more useful than others. But if you spend long enough in school (for some folks, that's two weeks; others need years) you will learn useful and alarming stuff about yourself.

So, since I'll be so busy majoring in myself over the next few months, I'm going to cut the entries from three to two a week. I'm not slacking, and I'll try to post links to my other writing endeavors - there will be legion, apparently. And, of course, regardless of whether you're cycling into a new school year or just grumping around the office as usual, happy new year. Now go buy yourself a new binder to celebrate.