my tragic right hip

Douglas Coupland’s latest book, JPod, quite a long one by his standards at 528 pages, might possibly just be one of the funniest novels I’ve ever read. The “JPod” of the title refers to the workspace of Ethan Harrison Jarlewski where he toils away until all hours of the night for a gaming company in Vancouver. He fills each day with absurd challenges, which means doing as little work as humanly possible, getting caught up in the crazy world of online, and programming a game that management seems dead set on ruining with the latest marketing buzz and chasing the “hip” dragon.

Throw in Ethan’s crazy family, his pot growing mother and almost-working actor father, couple this with a cast of supporting characters that include his fellow podmates, mix in a strange group of non-friends from the criminal element of the Vancouver underground and come across an “evil” Douglas Coupland, and you’ve got a racing, urgently satirical, and immensely enjoyable novel.

Filled with pop culture references and staggeringly real in terms of how it portrays life in an interactive chop shop, JPod barrels along from one insane situation to the next, and as crazy as it gets, Ethan seems to take it all in stride. I don’t want to give away too much of the plot of the novel. It’s both perfectly absurd and ridiculously intelligent at the same time. And to give even a hint of the whirlwind insanity between the covers isn’t worth it—it’s a book you’ve got to experience not knowing what’s coming. It’s that good.

I’ve never read anything that so thoroughly captures the idea of working in an online environment (even though Ethan’s a gamer—I’m calling him a kindred spirit) under ridiculous bosses on crazy projects that take up massive amounts of your time, and then someone makes a daft decision that derails everything and you’ve got to start all over again. Put all of this together and once you pick up the book, I’d challenge you to be able to put it down.

There’s a cute site for the book, as well as an amazing interview with his publisher, if you’re looking for more info.

My history with sleep inducing medication is long and well documented. At another time, I’ll dive into the really bad story, but I’d like to give you a few parting shots of wisdom:

Let’s call this my Things Not To Do In The Hour Before The Medication Kicks In List…

1. Attempt to paint your toenails. Not only will you glob the polish on like your nails have the surface of the moon, but you will paint every single toe—notice how I said ‘toe’ and not ‘toenail.’ A-hem. In fact, you might even paint some foot, ankle and skin.

2. Don’t watch Grey’s Anatomy. That show’s a suckerpunch anyway. And when you’re slightly drowsy and relaxed, it’ll turn you into a blubbering idiot who is crying so hard she can barely hold down the sobs.

3. Don’t make any lists about things to do because they will inevitably involve tasks like: must hunt down old BF Chris P. Rice or Robin Linley, if only to add to the absolutely inevitable fact that they’ll be the two people I run into next in the long line of people I’ve been running into lately.

4. Lastly, you probably shouldn’t blog. First rule of blogging: don’t talk about work. Second rule of blogging: don’t talk about work. Third rule of blogging: especially don’t talk about work after you’ve taken your meds and probably won’t even remember this post in the morning.

5. Now, I’m off to sleep. It will be peaceful. It will be restful. It will be non-stressful and give me the much needed energy to get up and go after my incredibly busy weekend.

Can you believe I had time to read only 1 book? The horror!

Okay, just one book ago, I called myself out for reading too much crap. But man, Plum Sykes was scraping the bottom of the barrel, and when I was at conference all week, which is essentially day after day of university lectures, Everyone Worth Knowing by Lauren Weisberger (she of the The Devil Wears Prada fame, soon to be even richer once the film comes out), was all my over-worked brain could handle.

And, just to let you know, I’m halfway through Howard’s End, so there’s no need to be embarrassed by the quality of my reading these days.

The book is not good. Although I’d venture to say it’s not as bad as The Devil Wears Prada, but a lot of the same problems exist. The main character, Bette Robinson, quits her boring job at a banking firm, uses her family connections to score a kick-ass job with a fabulous PR firm in Manhattan and promptly ends up dating the hottest guy on the party circuit. Only wait, they’re not really dating, because [and this is mildly spoilerish so don’t read it if you care about the “plot” of this book] he’s, wait for it, gay. The real love interest comes in the form of a bouncer (with a heart of gold and a bucketful of dreams) named Sammy.

But, of course, the rocky path to their romance is well fraught with obstacles, work obligations, the prying eyes of online gossip columnists, “class” distinctions between the PR people and those who toil on the velvet rope. But honestly, yawn.

The biggest problem is Weisberger’s own voice getting tied up in her characters. More often then not I was wondering why she’d make a point of having her character not know about Birkin bags, to the extent that a new co-worker spends pages upon pages explaining their importance to her, only to have her extol the virtues of their social importance in a way that didn’t feel natural to Bette four chapters later. BTW, the Birkin chapter is what Weisberger read at the IFOA when I saw her; it was cute then, but it’s not enough cute to sustain an entire novel.

And I hate continuity problems. She has a dog she never walks. She goes away on vacation and doesn’t tell us what she did with her pet; it was probably locked up in her tiny Manhattan apartment for the entire week. The character is supposedly Jewish, but that felt totally artificial when it came out, like the author was trying to paint the character by numbers in awkward places within the text. It’s as if the author really and truly wants to create a “character” but can’t get her own voice out of the way long enough for Bette to truly become what she should be.

See, there’s a point to reading bad books: they’re chalk full of things not to do.

When I was out for brunch a few weekends ago with a friend, we were talking about how, inevitably if you’re out in your sweatpants running errands, haven’t washed your hair and are wearing no makeup, the order of the universe will ensure that you’ll run into every single person you know.

It’s the law of ‘letting yourself go.’ At least, that’s how I’ve been thinking about it. Now that I’m puffy from the meds (a little still, but not so bad) and have chubbed out, of course, my life decides that now is the perfect time for a high school reunion. Over the course of the two nights, I saw no less than five people I had known in high school, all of whom I’d been just recently back in touch with.

And you know, as overwhelming as it kind of is, it’s certainly really wonderful too. I’ve kind of figured out that plenty of life happens: people get older, they have families, jobs, lives, but they never fundamentally change. All of the reasons why I loved and adored these people in high school are still there; it’s as if the spirit inside you, to use a totally cheesy metaphor, like a moth to flame, hovers towards people who you know will love and respect you right back.

I once had a totally ridiculous psychic who lived near my stepmother’s sister in a housing complex in Mississauga read my cards. Yeah, not even tarot cards, but regular old playing cards, which is fine. Not a single thing she predicted was even remotely close to being correct (that I can remember), with the exception of one thing: “Oh my gosh, look at all those friends you have, there are so many of them and, wow, they really love you.” Heh. I knew that it was total hogwash, but it was nice to hear. And I kind of wanted to make it a self-fulfilling prophecy—as any good psychic reading should encourage you to do. Ha!

Annnyway, I’ve sort of gotten over my own insecurities of how awful I look these days because there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. Well perhaps “getting over” might be pushing it, “sucking it up and still going out” might be more accurate. Because if I didn’t go, I wouldn’t have seen everyone on Friday night, wouldn’t have laughed, wouldn’t have danced around (with my pants on, no need to scare anyone), wouldn’t have remembered why it’s so fun to go to a rock and roll show in the first place, and would have been at home eating popcorn and watching all of the Batman movies on TMN.

And all in all, my RRHB’s shows at the Rivoli were great. It’s the first time in a long time that I left the disease at the door when I got my handstamp and felt like a regular person, well, a regular Band Wife. I dressed up because I knew I’d be seeing people I hadn’t seen in forever, I had my nightly 3 beer limit, which for someone who doesn’t really drink all that much, it was the perfect amount. Both FemBots shows were lots of fun, on Friday night there was a great crowd with hot dancing girls, which always makes a rock show great. Last night there weren’t as many people there, but the show was still good.

It reminded me that not only am I lucky to be alive but I’m kind of lucky to be me in a strange sort of why-did-the-universe-put-me-on-this-earth sort of way. Because it was a great to know that life pulls you and pushes you in certain directions, it gives you ridiculous diseases and all kinds of other tragedies, turns your head inside out so you feel awful, but it also gives you back some of what you thought might have been foever lost.

Annnd that’s enough of the feel-good, hippie, Ragdoll’s in touch with her feelings, bugger-ass post.

After a whirlwind week of work conferences, my head is spinning and I’m totally exhausted. I know, stop me when you’ve heard something new.

Annnywaay. If you’re out and about in the city tonight, come and see my RRHB play at the Rivoli.

I’ll be surprised if I’m still alive after this weekend: last night, work cocktail party (details TK), tonight, RRHB show, tomorrow night, birthday dinner then RRHB’s show, Sunday afternoon, my cousin’s baby shower (whee!).

Yes, I’ve had a nap. Yes, I’m resting until I have to go out (around 10 PM), but goodness, I was so antisocial and kind of lonely when he was away on tour, now that he’s home, it’s a feast or famine situation. I’ve got social situations coming out the wazoo.

Today marks the second day where I’ve been feeling like I’ve been run over by a truck. My throat is sore, I haven’t been sleeping, my mind’s been racing, I’ve been fighting with my RRHB (just wait until we’re in person and I can tell you what his definition of our relationship is. Oh. Yes.), and feeling desperately tired.

It’s strange, after they found my blood, I felt a lot, A LOT, better. But the past couple days have been so stressful with our big work conference and having to be certain places by certain times (with no breathing space), that I’m falling back into bad diseasy-grossness (how’s that for made up words).

And then, I was sitting having lunch during said conference when a woman I work with was telling me about her brother who also suffered from Wegener’s Granulomatosis. Notice I say “suffered”? Well, he got so sick and no one noticed that the disease killed him. He was only 36.

So as bad as I feel, as gross and tired and frustrated and angry and sad and mad and fat and pimply and crazy and upset and exhausted and achy and depressed and psychotic and overwhelmed and sick of being sick I am, I am lucky enough to be alive. That’s so easy to forget when I’m tunneling down the Sorry-For-Myself Street after a long day working in publishing and having all kinds of great people around me that I love and that love me.

I am lucky to be alive.

I am lucky to be alive.

And now that I’ve fulfilled my J.D.-inspired “sensitive” post. I’m going to go back to the couch and watch any and all episodes of Law & Order (any variation; I’m not picky) I’ve got on the Faux-Vo.

You know, when everyone has flocked down to Mexico because the big giant wave that first sank New York City, then froze, and then got really, really cold? And then Dennis Quaid had to come rescue me and then we got all busy in the back of the dog sled…oh wait, that’s not what happened.

Annnnywaaay, I’m guessing that a lot of people are going to be a lot happier now that it’s legal to hang on to some, ahem, substances, for personal use.

Now, dope I can sort of get, but heroin and coke? I can see that it would make William S. Burroughs happy (if he were still alive), but aren’t they dangerous drugs to be legalizing? But hell, what do I know? I’ve never done either and ever since I smoked so much dope that I barfed for two days, I haven’t had any of that either.

I am interested in what happens though: will crime rates go down, will tourism take a hit, will it actually encourages people with problems to be safe and maybe get the help they need? But I’d also be curious to see what kind of lobbying took place for it to happen at all. And more interestingly, what George W. has to say about it, because you know once Bushy has spoken, ole Harpy won’t be far behind.

Why be hatin‘?

But really, this is kind of funny:

URL (as pronounced “ERL”): Few things invoke more contempt for humanity than someone who pronounces URL as “erl.” It’s an acronym, not a word you douche! Between people who say “erl” and programmers who pronounce char (an abbreviation for character) as “chär” (with the “ch” pronounced like in “chart”), I get so pissed that I just want to saw my arms off.

And notice I’m not using quotes.

Ever since I’ve been a child, I’ve sort of half-lived in my own imagination. I make up my own dreams when I can sleep, going over sky-high situations that would never happen: what if I was Wonder Woman, what if I met Ethan Hawke, what if… Well, you get the point.

More often than not, the silly little dreams would involve boys, but as I’ve gotten older, married my RRHB, they’ve morphed into illusions of financial freedom. For the past few months, I’ve been fantasizing about my next royalty cheque, imagining it being a one-way ticket to quitting my job and moving to Paris, writing full-time like Henry Miller, buying bread, cheese and pain au chocolat. And because the last one was such a surprise, like winning the lottery, I sort of half-expected the same thing this time around.

Alas, it’s not to be. While still a wonderful and joyous thing to receive a cheque in the mail for work that I did over four years ago now, the reality is the cheque won’t fulfill all the silly little fantasies I’ve made up in my head over the past six months (Okay, granted, I did go overboard, like moving to Paris, taking a year-long road trip through the States, finishing our house completely, quitting my job and writing full-time).

And I know it’s kind of silly, because I made up all the stories in my head myself, and have only my over-active imagination to blame, but I’m trying hard not to be too disappointed. It’s funny, all of the things in my life that I’ve always wished for outright (damn you Barbie Dream House, damn you!) have never come true. Everything good and real in my life has come from hard work, and I don’t resent that one bit; it’s made me the person that I am. That’s where the danger of dreaming comes in, it’s an impossible irony of being a girl with too great an imagination; real life is always letting me down. However, I now have less than six months until the next royalty cheque. And we’ll see if I can keep my daydreams in check or if I get carried away and am already packing my bags to Europe. I’ll keep you posted.

In terms of financial freedom, I guess I’ll have to go back to the tried and tested method of actually saving my money instead of spending it, which means I’ll have to stop shopping. No more new shoes for Ragdoll. So, as of today, the strict financial budget that allowed me to splurge on those shoes in the first place comes back into play. I suppose it’s my own version of the Debt Diet.

And just to reiterate, once again, I’m incredibly blessed and delighted to be lucky enough to be receiving royalty cheques at all. I’m thankful for the work, I’m thankful for the opportunity, and I’m especially thankful for the cheque that came today—I’m merely pointing out a flaw in my own character, something I already know about myself that I need to take some steps to change. Sort of like my ongoing New Years Revolutions and obsession with To Do Lists, the ever-evolving commitment to becoming a better rounded person. If that makes any sense at all.

I picked up Sebastian Junger’s latest nonfiction work, A Death in Belmont, on that very afternoon where I wasted my hard-earned money on Plum “No Plot” Sykes. This is the book I should have been reading; this is a book that deserves to be bought.

Junger’s story of how his family came into contact with the man who eventually claimed, and then denied, that he was the Boston Strangler, is fascinating. An older woman, Bessie Goldberg, was raped and then strangled in the affluent suburb of Belmont where Junger and his family lived. A black man, Roy Smith, who was cleaning the Goldberg’s house that day, was charged and convicted of her murder. Years later, a manual labourer, Al DeSalvo, eventually comes under suspicion of actually committing the crime, meaning Smith was innocent.

Junger’s book attempts to find absolute truth where none truly exists, who really killed Bessie Goldberg? Was Roy Smith innocent? Did Al DeSalvo kill her? It’s murder mystery with no happy ending (all of those involved are now dead; any evidence has either been destroyed by time or the necessity of space), and without any clear indication of the truth being uncovered any time soon, all he can do is hypothesize about what might have taken place, from all sides of the story.

As much a conversation about race as it is about the truth, as much an investigation of how far the legal system in the States has changed since the early 1960s as it’s about the idea of wrongful conviction, A Death in Belmont is my favourite kind of nonfiction, the kind that reads like fiction.

Although, I’m not convinced, like a lot of nonfiction, that it’s not just an extended magazine article with a lot of extraneous details thrown in, on the whole, Junger has a great tone to his written voice and I even didn’t mind how he used his personal ties to the story to pull everything together (Capote would be horrified! The use of the first person! Argh!)

Much more entertaining than Plum “Harlequin Can Kiss My Ass” Sykes.