Things Montréal Has Given the World Recently*

This is obviously a superficial list. Or not so superficial. But Montreal is responsible in many ways for the items on this list. And for some of them, it apologizes….

 

1. Vice

2. Jessica Paré

3. Georges St-Pierre

4. Jay Baruchel

5. foie gras on everything and the effect this has on everyone else

6. Student unrest

7. An amazingly corrupt class of everybody

8. Jonathan Goldstein

9. The Bixi

10. any circus that calls itself a “Cirque” unironically…

 

 

*Recently is the key word: so no Leonard Cohen, William Shatner, Saul Bellow, etc. No old inventions. No bagels or smoked meat or “Montreal Steak Spice” or even poutine (which Montreal can’t take credit for anyway). No businesses from here unless they are new and have conquered the world (and I can’t think of any). None of that “first in the world” stuff from way back (like first hockey game) – that’s for history museums. This is modern. (And let’s face it, someone like Celine is practically timeless…. meaning of no time).

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Tell Me, Tell Me, Tell Me This Headline From Today’s Salon Wouldn’t Make a Great Title for A Great Short Story

Screen shot 2013-08-16 at 6.28.53 PM

I know I haven’t written much lately. I don’t have a whole heck of a lot to say. I’m a firm believer in not saying something just for the sake of saying something. I don’t believe in talking for no reason. I don’t think we should do anything merely because we can. (Like the executive who asks “Are we on the Twitter?” only because he can ask it) I’m not into pointlessness. Unless it involves snacks. Then, maybe I’m on board. But saying something for the sake of saying it is just noise. Stuff. The world has enough of it. (though admittedly it might not be posing the same problems as, say, plastic or mean much to someone in the Middle East…) The world probably has too much of everything already. Except cat gifs. The world can’t have enough of those. Apparently.

Now take a look at that headline again. Just look at it.

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On Vacation

My view the last two weeks.

My view the last two weeks.

You go away with the stated intention of getting “recharged” and that’s just what you do. You get recharged. Recharging involves UNcharging in many ways, unplugging and finding a place off the grid so that all you do is read (and read and read – a bunch of my reviews of stuff I read is over at Goodreads) and talk (remember talking?) and converse and your immediate decisions involve opening another beer or swimming or both. This is the beauty of a vacation where the greatest ambition is the freedom from ambition, where you don’t feel the need to do anything because doing nothing is the entire point.

Your lives are such that you need recharging. And then you turn your vacation into another version of your regular life. You overplan, you overwork. You suck at doing nothing. Your greatest desire is to do nothing and then you find out you suck at it. To the point that you go away and return home and you feel like you need a vacation. This is idiocy. I used to be an idiot.

I have stopped this. Amazingly enough. I understood the key to a really successful recharge was to aim low and then try and go lower. Touring Italy? Not if I want to relax. Barhopping in Barcelona? I’m trying to relax. There is touring (and touring is great, a mind expanding activity full of enrichment and hangovers and great photographs), there is travel (which is, essentially, about discovery) and then there is vacation. We confuse the words. It always comes down to words. (We have rented a “camp” in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom – NEK! – the last two years; the NEK, where the food runs the gamet from beige to brown – except for the cheese – and back again but it sure is tasty).

Speaking of words: My only regret now, honestly, is that the one idea I had last year on my vacation remains in my head, still, on paper (ok, that’s a very old-fashioned notion, it’s not “on paper” it’s a file in my computer, silly…) only as the sketchiest of sketches, and I need to get going on it before it becomes lost or pushed aside by another idea (very possible). What’s the idea?
It’s like Fargo, but in northern Vermont, involving moose, a live bait shop, internet porn and cocaine. (And, woah, did you know they’re planning a TV show of Fargo! Is this even a good idea? Wasn’t that movie kind of perfect?) What I really need to do, I think, is get to know some movie people. But then again, everyone wants to get to know movie people. Don’t they? Don’t you? (And are you like me and you have that idea, plus two other movie ideas, PLUS ideas for not one but two! TV shows, one of them so involved you have plotted out the entire three to five year story arc? You’re not like me? Lucky you. Oh, and if you are the kind of person with the patience to deal with someone like me AND are either a movie/TV person or connected to one, drop me a line…)
So the dilemma becomes, what do I do first? I’m into another novel and the thing has momentum – I’ve even plotted the thing out, the thing has a roadmap, which is not normally how I work, and I’ll stick to that roadmap until the writing throws me off, because that’s what writing does, it is a deliberate Search for Surprise, but I have a roadmap. Why do I keep italicizing roadmap? It’s a roadmap. I created a ROADMAP

I need priorities.

How off the grid was I? I returned home and the only news that really surprised me was: the Miami Heat signed Greg Oden? I don’t even like basketball!

My brain is mush. I kinda like it that way. So if you see me, be kind. No riddles.

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And Yet Another Installment in the March of the Novel (or Slow Cooking is the Best Cooking)

Yoga, Baby!The slow (but steady) march toward publishing, as inexorable as a stream finding the ocean, forward.
Editing. Done.
Copy Editing. Done.
First two rounds of drafts for the covers. Yes. (this is going to be a good looking book, I can tell you that, this is the designer’s website)
And then there’s more waiting. Holy cow, the novel’s title is itself a metaphor for the publishing process…. (it’s not, by the way *nervous laughter*)

I would like to share, however, the list of words the Copy Editor included in the Style Sheet for the novel. It’s funny, well it is to me, but it also says something about what this book is about. I think it does. And if you mix it up? It reads a bit like poetry. If, you know, poetry was like a dictionary:

adman
Angie
Ashtanga-certified
Athena

BBQ (not barbecue)
Berlin (the beer. Takes double quotation marks only at first mention)
bible (like a style sheet)
big city (adj)
the Big K Ranch and Spa
big sky casual
B-level
Boomer

camera phone
cell phone but smartphone
cocktailians
Coke, Diet Coke

Dan Fontana (journalist)
Dean & DeLuca
Dick (photographer)
dish pig
ditziness
a dot com (n)
dreamed (not dreamt)
dumbass

email

the face to face (n)
fuckin’

the Gap
get out of jail free card
God
Google (v)
go-to (adj)
the Gulley

Hojo

Indian Reservation

Joe Fields

Keith
Kennel Club
Knowledge Class (and Creative Class)

literati
The Loop

mac ’n’ cheese
the Man
Mathilde (pastry chef)
mock-laugh (v)
moneywise
Moscow Mule

Native
news cycle
9/11
the North Face

OK
out-of-towner

the Perch
porta-potties (generic noun adapted from brand name)
PR

reality TV
Rust Belt

scotch
shiraz
Sidecar
Sophie (French Canadian woman)
sous-chef
starchitect
star-filled
Stetson
St. Mark’s Place
stress-free
swimming pool blue

Takeshi
timesuck
to-do list
Tomas Hill (head chef)
TV
twenty-something

web, website, webcast, webmaster
west (direction); the West (region of the world)
western (adj)
Wild West, Old West
what-ifs

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We were lost in the woods and just as panic set in we stumbled upon a camp of nudists and then another, more visceral, kind of panic set in.

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So then, whatever, LOL. She’s off the phone now and catches me looking at her. Are we despairing for the dire state of youth again? she asks.

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She points to the stains on the wall. I will never again clean this wall, she says. I stare at the wall. I don’t care for this wall, I say.

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I got home from the studio. My mother called. I thought you said the camera only added ten pounds, she said. Then I drank a bottle of vodka.

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She says, You don’t remember any of it? And try as I might I can’t say that I do. No, I say. She kisses me then. We’re good to go, she says.

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I held her close, and though she wanted to struggle she melted into my embrace. This is not poverty, I whispered. We both knew I was a liar.

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