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So after Zesty and I left the IFOA, we headed over to Lee’s Palace for my RRBF’s show. Thankfully, Lee’s was pretty full, and people were actually standing in the front section near the stage, looking expectantly up at where he and the rest of the band were setting up. It was a relief to see a good crowd, especially a crowd full of people I don’t know and/or recognize.

While we were waiting for the band to start, I overheard the conversation of a couple girls standing sort of on top of us. They were talking about my RRBF’s bandmate, how one of them tried to talk to him at Hillside and he was very shy, but polite, not necessarily encouraging any further conversation. Which, being a girl who has a fellow in a band, I can completely see and understand.

Then she said, “And I also met the one in the hat.” My ears perked up, “For the FemBots / Weakerthans tour, I was standing outside having my smoke, and he walked right up to me and said, ‘Hey! How’s it going!'” What? “And then he got closer and totally apologized saying, ‘Oh! Sorry, I thought you were someone else.'” Whew. “When he got on stage and I saw he was one of the FemBots, I thought cool.” Yeah, well that’s where it ends honey. Heh. I’m only kidding. Well, sort of. Okay, yes, I’m kidding.

It’s always a bit surreal to listen to people talk about my RRBF in that whole ‘rock star’ manner. But it’s also funny to hear how his rock star sort of lives out in the world too, two different people: one at home, the one I live with, and the one he wants the world to see, the independent rock guy (ie, getting super-excited to see someone he knows, but knowing that he needs glasses so he probably didn’t even recognize her until he was almost standing in front of her sort of thing). In the end, it was a good show and the end of a very full night, full weekend, of, ahem, culture?

So last night, like Friday night, Zesty and I went to see an IFOA reading. There was only one author reading, but when that writer is John Irving, I suppose he’s kind of a hard act to follow. Irving read from a new novel, a story about a cook and his son living in a logging camp in rural New Hampshire. The events of the chapter follow from the death of a young French Canadian lumberjack in a logjam, and extrapolate from there into the lives of the two main characters, as I said, the cook and his son.

I leaned over to Zesty and said, “[My RRBF’s] father was a lumberjack, and he’s French Canadian.” Not seeing many similarities other than thinking that my RRBF would probably really like the book, once it’s completed.

It was nice hearing something new, something fresh that Irving’s working on; his poised delivery, his brilliant articulation in terms of preparing his reading, all contributed to what I’m thinking was a sort of once in a lifetime opportunity to see a sort of genius (and I do hate to use that word) at work.

Just before he read from the chapter, he introduced the new work, giving a sort of insight into his process by explaining how he thinks of ‘landscape.’ It’s in the details, the research, the history, the background, everything that surrounds the plot, the characters. And I’m paraphrasing (of course), so forgive me if it’s slightly off exactly what he said. The analogy struck me for some reason, and I’m still thinking about it this morning.

After the reading, and it was a good 40 minutes at that, he sat with a journalist and answered some of her questions. I’m not going to trash the interview here, but suffice it to say that everyone, including Zesty and myself, were complaining about her as we left the theatre. Annnywaaaay, the subject matter of the interview was about his latest published tome, Until I Find You, which again, I have at home but haven’t started yet. It was well-treaded territory, Irving talking about his experiences in terms of not knowing his own father and his own very early sexual introduction. And then he finally took questions from the audience, well, 2 questions to be exact. The first was a prototypical literary “event” question; the second was a more pointed query asked to steer Irving into talking politics, which he did with humour, dignity and grace.

All in all it was a kind of surreal night, something that’s so inspiring that you find it hard not to want to change your life (but in my case, I’m too damn lazy to make any substantial changes). Heh.

Jonathan Harr’s latest nonfiction title, The Lost Painting, is an interesting and elaborate little book about the art world’s uncovering of a Caravaggio painting entitled, “The Taking of Christ”. The book reads like fiction, which is probably why I got through it so quickly, and it’s an engrossing story, for both those obsessed by art and those (like myself) who just like to look at pretty pictures. And that’s really all I have to say about that…

Well, except maybe this: I’m a bit sad now that we didn’t go to the National Gallery of Ireland when we were there this summer, now that I know that’s where the painting lives. I always like to see the piece of artwork after reading about it, finding the pieces very interesting sort of bookends to the written word. It was serendipitous when the RRBF and I were in Paris two Februaries ago. I had just finished Tracy Chevalier’s The Lady and the Unicorn and we actually got to see the Lady and the Unicorn tapestry at the Cluny Museum, one of my favourite museums in Paris.

Maybe it’s just the idea of inspiration that intrigues me, seeing first-hand how one object inspires a writer to create a work of their own art.

Last night, Zesty and I went to see Diana Evans, Nick Laird, Helen Oyeyemi and Zadie Smith read at the International Festival of Authors. The IFOA was always one of those cultural institutions of Toronto that I’ve always wanted to go to, but never got around to getting tickets and/or organizing my lazy as to attend. This year, I’ve rectified that by getting a bunch of tickets for a few different nights, and as the readings start at 8 PM and are often over by 9.30 PM, it makes for much better entertainment then sitting in front of the television.

Annnywaaay. The four readers were presented as the best and the brightest young writers from Britain, all being thirty or younger (I guess? I could be wrong about that), but real “up and comers.” With the exception of Zadie Smith, who came, arrived, flourished and now headlines. All four readings were very good, but the only book I was motivated to actually buy was Laird’s, if only because I’ve already got 26a and On Beauty at home. His reading was very funny, that cutting Irish humour, and his writing seems fresh and lively, not unlike a drunken attraction at a party that you can’t stop from happening, ending up hands all over each other in the company of people already sobering up, but you just don’t care.

I stood in line to get my book signed, which I don’t normally do, as I’m not much for the autographs, but wanted to see what he looked like up close, always interested in seeing the person so I can imagine them writing when I read the book. But I lost my sticky note with my name and then had to go through the normal rigmarole about how to spell it / say it, which is the bane of my existence. After three different trys, and me spelling it out like a grade-school teacher, he said, “That’s a nice name.” Heh.

His wife’s reading was amazing, powerful, poised, and almost perfect in her delivery, and it’s easy to see why Zadie Smith is the belle of the literary ball these days. All in all it was a great night, not too long, not too short, supporting the arts and all that jazz.

In fact, it’s a weekend of supporting the arts: tonight it’s John Irving (whee!) at the IFOA, then I’m going to Lee’s Palace to see my RRBF’s only Toronto stop on his whirl wind tour of Canada. And I can’t wait. If you’re not doing anything tonight, come out, it’ll be a great show.

Friends of ours are shooting a movie in our mess of a house this weekend. That means our entire downstairs, the main area of our house, has been transformed into something I wouldn’t even recognize. The amount of work that goes into a film from the backend seems quite incredible, and I’ve never seen anything quite like it. There are so many people I don’t know in my house, it’s kind of an extreme feeling: like having that awesome kegger at university where half the cool kids show up, and you know nothing about them, only that they’re cool and have graced your party with their presence.

They finished dressing the room on Thursday night and declared that it was now a “hot set.” Which means, I guess, that no one can go in without fear of being burned. Different props were “in play” and the whole thing is a vivid use of words that I had no idea existed in that manner.

Now, it’s early, and they’ve been here for a couple of hours already. I’m waiting for the RRBF to wake up so we can leave, because I don’t want to go without him, but I don’t want to be in the way either, so I’m sort of sitting in limbo typing away at my virtual world that seems far more real than what’s going on downstairs for some reason.

To do anything except notice things.

People search for the strangest things. I love looking through the Site Meter to see how people are getting here, the few that aren’t my friends who end up here somehow, but I’m shocked at the number of people searching for information about George Stromboloupolous, and am even more shocked that they’re looking for information about his height. What’s up with that?

I have started having side effects from the prednisone. I’m hungry all the time and am all wired when I try to sleep. I feel like I’m covered in a layer of puff. And the crying, oh the bloody crying, for no reason and all the time. I’m half-ashamed of myself.

Well, not a very exciting post. No links. No love. Not much of anything except a girl battling with a dumb disease that she didn’t ask for and doesn’t much want.

I’ve started crying, which means the depths of despair might be headed my way. I’m trying not to think about it, so instead, am posting a little bit of inspiration from John Updike. I can’t remember which newsletter it came in last week, so apologies for the lack of proper credit:

“You imagine a reader and try to keep the reader interested. That’s storytelling. You also hope to reward the reader with a sense of a completed design, that somebody is in charge, and that while life is pointless, the book isn’t pointless. The author knows where he is going. That’s form. As to style, you find words that will deliver the image without stopping the action entirely. Writing ficiton is like music. You have to keep it moving. You can have slow movements but there has to be a sense of momentum, of going someplace. You hear a snatch of Beethoven and it has a sense of momentum that is unmistakably his. That’s a nice quality if you can do it in fiction.”
–John Updike in a Q&A with Jeffrey A. Trachtenberg in last weekend’s Wall Street Journal.

I wrote a long post yesterday about seeing Elizabethtown. Then I read the EW review and agreed, and then read what the imdb.com overview had to say, and thought some more. And then Zesty came over last night, and we watched Monster-in-Law, and I started talking more about the film with her as well.

And I finally put my finger on what I really thought went wrong. Cameron Crowe’s always looking for that boom box moment. You know you know it, that moment in Say Anything when Lloyd Dobbler stands in the rain, Peter Gabriel blaring, professing his undying love for Diane and it immediately turns into something iconic. See, he’s been searching for that boom box moment ever since, and while it might be the perfect moment in a truly great film, it’s one of those things that can’t and shouldn’t be forced. And boom box moments aren’t needed in every single movie to make them great; it’s not a formula that works. It was a bit of magic that happened when no one expected it to, and that’s what made it great. For now, Cameron Crowe needs to take a step back and stop trying to choreograph his next great, iconic moment and let his story breathe, and maybe then the film wouldn’t feel so flat.

Huh, and I’ve spent just about enough time thinking about this picture. I should be abridging. I’ve got two books due next month.

So, being a band widow means now sleeping alone in our big, empty house. That’s by myself. No one else around, well, no humans around, we’ve got two cats that keep quite good company. Annnywaaay. I watched Underworld on TMN last night, and I’m not saying it’s the best movie in the world, but it’s certainly one that I’m fond of and tend to watch over and over and over and, well, over again.

The movie is about vampires and werewolves, and I hate scary movies usually, but this one is different—and don’t hate me for saying this—almost mythical. And Scott Speedman ends up a combination of a vampire and lycan, which makes him, like, the strongest, strangest creature in the whole bloody underworld. How cool is that?

Okay, so then I decide to go to bed, and take Emma Donoghue’s latest (I think) book with me. She writes semi-scary Victorian thrillers. And then, just as I turn out the light, I hear, “BANG BANG BANG BANG.” Ohmigod, someone’s freaking banging on the front freaking door!

I jump out of bed and race to the window, which I know you should NEVER do when you’re already scared to death, lest someone actually see you and know you’re in the house, but it didn’t matter, because you can’t see anything anyway. There’s a roof in the way. Stupid roof!

Then, I look up and notice there’s a full moon. A. Full. Moon. Just sitting there all scary and glowing and sh*t.

Something else crashes downstairs and I’m on the verge of calling 911 when I look outside and there’s already a cop car parked across the street. So, of course, my next logical thought is that there’s a serial killer on the loose and they’ve tracked him to my neighbourhood. I stand there wearing my sweatshirt and no pants (my legs get too hot), totally freaking out because I think I’m about to die, which is just silly because no one was breaking into the house.

The cat was banging on the litterbox.

How silly am I?

Oh, and I slept with the phone all night, just so I could call 911. I’m that ridiculous.

There’s that moment at the beginning of a movie where you just know in your gut whether or not you’re going to like it or feel it’s just a waste of your time. That moment never really comes in Elizabethtown. It’s a movie that just screams, “meh.” It’s not great, but it’s not terrible, either. It’s not particularly moving, but it’s not a complete joke either.

Cameron Crowe’s latest film stars Orlando Bloom as Drew Baylor, a man who has just stepped into a colossal fiasco, not a failure, and lost his job (because he cost the company close to 1 billion dollars). On top of everything, his father dies suddenly and he’s forced to go to Elizabethtown, Kentucky to gather up the body. On the way, he meets a plucky stewardess Claire, who changes his life (of course she does).

See, there’s so much potential there: fish out of water in the South, estranged family coming together to celebrate a beloved figure, meeting the girl of your dreams just as your life implodes. But there’s something about the film that just doesn’t work; it falls into deeply contrived situations that would be better spent in a second-rate TV movie than in a Hollywood blockbuster (what am I saying, I actually went to see Pearl Harbor in the theatre).

Don’t get me wrong, I love a bit of cheese every now and again, but this movie just hovers and never quite gets there. Maybe because the main characters forge the basis of their relationship on cell phones. Maybe because the whole situation with Drew’s job is just so ridiculous it’s unbelievable. Maybe because Kirsten Dunst just doesn’t pull off a “Southern Belle” as she should. Who knows? Orlando Bloom was great, and there’s a wonderfully heartfelt scene with Susan Sarandon that almost makes the movie.

Oh, and there’s a road trip that’s pretty spectacular, if the ending of the movie didn’t blow so bad, it might have actually saved it. I did adore one thing about the film, and that’s Paul Schneider, who might just be my next big crush. Yummy!

In the end, I’m still holding on for that one movie that shakes me up this year, and I haven’t found it yet. Where’s Tully when you need him?