my tragic right hip

Is the perfect example of how having all the right ingredients doesn’t necessary mean you’ll end up with a good picture. The script is weak, and no matter how hard you try, I don’t think romantic comedies between ghosts and the living work. (Sticking my fingers in my ears means I’m not listening to anyone talking about the schlock-fest that is Ghost).

Parts of the movie were hard to watch, though, but that’s just because I take everything so personally. There was a girl in a coma (like my mum) and a love interest named David (like my dad), and so I cried a little. But in the end, it was a disappointingly mediocre film. I’m hanging my hat on In Her Shoes the rock solid combination of Shirley MacLaine, Toni Collette and Jennifer Weiner will not let me down. (Yes, I’m choosing to ignore the whole Cameron Diaz angle).

Seems that a friend of mine from work ran into Ethan Hawke at a screening of Romance and Cigarettes at the Film Fest. He apparently rolled into town and then rolled up on some Toronto hottie at a party later on too. Why oh why am I always sick when all the fun happens.

Bah!

Only kidding. There was just a small part of me (love for my RRBF aside) that screamed, “Noooo, that could have been meeeee! In another life and in the chicklit novel of my choosing.

Although it would have taken all of my good sense not to tell him to stop imitating Jack Kerouac and write his own book, but I digress.

My RRBF’s CD release party is next Friday at the Supermarket. That’s Friday, September 23rd, 2005. Did I mention that he’s playing? And that it’s his CD release party? And that if anyone out there loves me at all, I’d be happy to have a beer with you next Friday night. At his CD release party. Where he’ll be playing. In his band called the FemBots. Okay? Okay.

That they’re injecting the mice with the plague, a disease that, according to the article, is caught by seven or so people per YEAR, or that the poor mice are going to be so sick that they’ll keel over and die just after they’ve escaped their ridiculous prison?

I mean I know that there’s a lot to learn about the plague, but wouldn’t this money be better spent finding a cure for cancer? Or, shall I say it, Wegener’s Granulomatosis?

That I’ve got a “touch” of bronchitis. Yay! No antibiotics yet, only if it gets worse, but I’ve got to use my puffers, which I hate. On the good news front, my kidneys are doing better with my creatinine level coming down to 120 from 131 and my ESR back to normal (it’s a sign of inflammation, which in turn is a sign of disease activity). I’m tired because my hemoglobin sinking because of the meds, but I can live with that as long as the disease is going back into remission.

High kicks all around!

I’m starting the next of my abridged versions, so I’ll be spending a lot of time on the computer working, which means I’ll be wasting time reading Popwatch and watching trailers. In particular, this one over and over and over again.

I don’t know what it is about war movies, but I can’t get enough of them. Past the terror and past the truly horrifying things that happen in war, I think it’s the intense situation that I know I’ll never have to experience that I’m drawn to. And it makes me think of my grandfather and great-grandfather who fought in the Second and First World Wars respectively, what they had to sacrifice and how different my life would be if they hadn’t been there in the first place.

Now excuse the digression. There are fellows in here replacing our old crappy windows with fresh new ones, and I’m kind of high on the fumes…

If there’s something I’ve come to realize about being a bionic girl with a big, bad disease, it’s that there’s a very real difference between feeling sick and being sick.

As I said yesterday, I’ve got a bad cold. My throat’s all swollen, my head is pounding. I’m sniffling, sneezing and coughing, all of which truly suck, especially when next week is so fun with the RRBF‘s record release and other goodies happening. I don’t want to end up with bronchitis or, worse, pneumonia, which tends to happen if I get sick when I’m taking the disease medicine.

Yes, I have bad disease days, where I feel some symptoms, my sinuses hurt, I’m tired beyond belief, but the drop-down-must-get-to-bed cold feeling is certainly not the same as knowing but not seeing the disease eat away at my kidneys.

Anyway. Just a random thought for today.

My nose is all stuffed up. My throat is sore. My head feels like a balloon. I hate having a cold.

Oh, and the Toronto International Film Festival heats up Toronto this week. And do you know my only celebrity sighting? Dave Nichols of Loblaws fame.

When you’re bionic, the best thing about a rock show is being able to stand for three or four hours and not be a) tired or b) in pain. It’s a blessing. It’s a change in your life that you’re utterly and completely aware of every second of the day. No, even from the moment six months after surgery when you don’t need the cane and you’re strong enough to stand on your own two feet.

So I met some friends from my old work yesterday, and because of my crazy diet, I can’t drink beer, which pains me. I also shouldn’t be drinking while I’m taking the Imuran, but last night being Cuff the Duke‘s record release party, and coming off of two very hard weekends in terms of working on the cottage, I sort of decided to let go. Armed with more than a handful of gin and tonics, I had a rip-roaring good time that’s left me a bit foggy brained and tired today, but in a gloriously good mood.

It was such a fun night, Scarbie Doll met us at the pub, and then we had a drink with the boys before we walked with Nelly over to Lee’s for the show. Before getting to Lee’s we were asked by a lovely Russian man sitting at Future’s to sit and have a drink with them. Scarbie looks so great these days, and she has such a glow about her, it’s really wonderful to see.

So we ended up at Lee’s Palace rather tipsy (well, loaded, if you must know), and proceeded to dance, jump, hoot and holler through the Cuffy’s set. It’s a great new record, and it was a great show. And for their encore, do you know what they did? They gave a heck of a shout out to other Canadian independent bands by covering one of the songs from my RRBF’s new album. The one that came out on Tuesday. When it was all said and done he quipped, “Well that’s that, we can never do that song again!” Heh.

We got home at 2 AM, drunk, watched Coronation Street because we’re addicted and fell into bed. Ah, sleep. Ah, the life of a Rock and Roll Girlfriend where all the boys in the band know who you are, but don’t really know you. It’s a funny in-between life we lead.

Seems that no matter how well I’m doing with my diet (Day 3: no sugar, one serving of wheat per day, one serving of dairy per day, lots of veggies, some fruit), my energy levels still don’t seem to rise past barely alive. Seems that no matter how I feel in my head, it’s so cloudy that working a wonderfully quick work day zaps all of my energy so much so that doing anything other than putting on my pajamas and watching a bad movie is all I can truly accomplish after work.

So, I’m about to go and lie down, choose one of the upteen books I’m in the middle of, and try to stay awake until 9 PM. It’s a challenge this diseased-life, I’m telling you. And it’s so overwhelming to hear what’s happening in New Orleans and the rest of the Gulf area, that I feel lucky just to be warm, dry and financially secure enough to donate some of my money to the Canadian Red Cross, which is what I’m going to do before I lie down on my clean bed and have a rest. There’s not much else I can say about the tragedy, and my words would pale in comparison to what’s already being said on blogs around the world.

Just note: the difference between “looting” and “finding” shouldn’t be defined along colour lines, shame on you reporters, shame on you.

Michael Crummey’s latest novel The Wreckage tells the story of Wish Furey, a young man from Newfoundland, who falls in love with a precocious and determined 16-year-old girl named Sadie (short for Mercedes). The bulk of the action in the novel takes place in Newfoundland during the Second World War. The most poignant source of conflict between the two lovers is their religion, with Wish being Catholic, and therefore an outsider, and Sadie being Protestant, their relationship is doomed from the start.

As fishing accidents spurn the story along, a conflict between Wish and Sadie’s mother, then her brother, forces him to flee. He joins up and is soon shipped off to fight for the Brits, eventually ending up in a Japanese PoW camp. Sadie runs away from home, but arrives in St. John’s only to find Wish gone, and she vows to wait for him.

Interspersed into the love story is the story of a Canadian-born Japanese soldier who eventually becomes one of the most vicious prison guards working at the camp where Wish ends up. The vicious nature of Nishino seems at odds, even in the context of the war, with Crummey’s delicate, wonderful language. It’s a contrast that resonates throughout the book, and he has a gift for some of the most beautiful metaphors I’ve read in a long time.

The willful, fully drawn natures of each of the three main characters comes across like a cup of strong coffee. Sadie breaks her vow, Wish misleads her into thinking he’s dead, and Nishino finds himself unable to serve his country in the manner he feels is appropriate, each character experiencing the undeniable fact that life never turns out the way you expect it to.

Fast-forward forty years, and Crummey catches up the characters at this point in their lives. The second half of the novel isn’t as tight as the first, but the end is completely satisfying and The Wreckage is quite an addictive read. Highly recommended even among the riches of this fall season, which for Canadian publishing, seems ever-golden.