There are 716 books on this list, and a lot of the debate on the New York Times site is an erudite discussion about how the books of BEFORE are MUCH BETTER.
Of course.
Queenie has a lot of reading to do methinks....
Timbuktu – Paul Auster
The Romantics – Pankaj Mishra
Cryptonomicon – Neal Stephenson
As If I Am Not There – Slavenka Drakuli?
Everything You Need – A.L. Kennedy
Fear and Trembling – Amélie Nothomb
The Ground Beneath Her Feet – Salman Rushdie
Disgrace – J.M. Coetzee Q
Sputnik Sweetheart – Haruki Murakami
Elementary Particles – Michel Houellebecq
Intimacy – Hanif Kureishi
Amsterdam – Ian McEwan
Cloudsplitter – Russell Banks
All Souls Day – Cees Nooteboom
The Talk of the Town – Ardal O’Hanlon
Tipping the Velvet – Sarah Waters Q
The Poisonwood Bible – Barbara Kingsolver Q
Glamorama – Bret Easton Ellis
Another World – Pat Barker Q
The Hours – Michael Cunningham Q
Veronika Decides to Die – Paulo Coelho
Mason & Dixon – Thomas Pynchon
The God of Small Things – Arundhati Roy Q
Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden Q
Great Apes – Will Self
Enduring Love – Ian McEwan
Underworld – Don DeLillo Q
Jack Maggs – Peter Carey Q
The Life of Insects – Victor Pelevin
American Pastoral – Philip Roth
The Untouchable – John Banville
Silk – Alessandro Baricco Q
Cocaine Nights – J.G. Ballard
Hallucinating Foucault – Patricia Duncker
Fugitive Pieces – Anne Michaels QQQQQ
The Ghost Road – Pat Barker Q
Forever a Stranger – Hella Haasse
Infinite Jest – David Foster Wallace
The Clay Machine-Gun – Victor Pelevin
Alias Grace – Margaret Atwood Q
The Unconsoled – Kazuo Ishiguro
Morvern Callar – Alan Warner
The Information – Martin Amis
The Moor’s Last Sigh – Salman Rushdie Q
Sabbath’s Theater – Philip Roth
The Rings of Saturn – W.G. Sebald Q
The Reader – Bernhard Schlink
A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mistry Q
Love’s Work – Gillian Rose
The End of the Story – Lydia Davis
Mr. Vertigo – Paul Auster
The Folding Star – Alan Hollinghurst
Whatever – Michel Houellebecq
Land – Park Kyong-ni
The Master of Petersburg – J.M. Coetzee QQQQQQ
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle – Haruki Murakami QQQQQQ
Pereira Declares: A Testimony – Antonio Tabucchi
City Sister Silver – Jàchym Topol
How Late It Was, How Late – James Kelman Q
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin – Louis de Bernieres Q
Felicia’s Journey – William Trevor Q
Disappearance – David Dabydeen
The Invention of Curried Sausage – Uwe Timm
The Shipping News – E. Annie Proulx QQQQQQ
Trainspotting – Irvine Welsh Q
Birdsong – Sebastian Faulks Q
Looking for the Possible Dance – A.L. Kennedy
Operation Shylock – Philip Roth
Complicity – Iain Banks
On Love – Alain de Botton Q
What a Carve Up! – Jonathan Coe
A Suitable Boy – Vikram Seth Q
The Stone Diaries – Carol Shields Q
The Virgin Suicides – Jeffrey Eugenides Q
The House of Doctor Dee – Peter Ackroyd
The Robber Bride – Margaret Atwood Q
The Emigrants – W.G. Sebald Q
The Secret History – Donna Tartt Q
Life is a Caravanserai – Emine Özdamar
The Discovery of Heaven – Harry Mulisch
A Heart So White – Javier Marias
Possessing the Secret of Joy – Alice Walker
Indigo – Marina Warner
The Crow Road – Iain Banks Q
Written on the Body – Jeanette Winterson
Jazz – Toni Morrison Q
The English Patient – Michael Ondaatje Q
Smilla’s Sense of Snow – Peter Høeg Q
The Butcher Boy – Patrick McCabe Q
Black Water – Joyce Carol Oates
The Heather Blazing – Colm Tóibín
Asphodel – H.D. (Hilda Doolittle)
Black Dogs – Ian McEwan
Hideous Kinky – Esther Freud
Arcadia – Jim Crace
Wild Swans – Jung Chang Q
American Psycho – Bret Easton Ellis
Time’s Arrow – Martin Amis Q
Mao II – Don DeLillo
Typical – Padgett Powell
Regeneration – Pat Barker Q
Downriver – Iain Sinclair
Señor Vivo and the Coca Lord – Louis de Bernieres
Wise Children – Angela Carter
Get Shorty – Elmore Leonard Q
Amongst Women – John McGahern Q
Vineland – Thomas Pynchon Q
Vertigo – W.G. Sebald Q
Stone Junction – Jim Dodge
The Music of Chance – Paul Auster
The Things They Carried – Tim O’Brien
A Home at the End of the World – Michael Cunningham Q
Like Life – Lorrie Moore
Possession – A.S. Byatt Q
The Buddha of Suburbia – Hanif Kureishi
The Midnight Examiner – William Kotzwinkle
A Disaffection – James Kelman
Sexing the Cherry – Jeanette Winterson
Moon Palace – Paul Auster
Billy Bathgate – E.L. Doctorow
Remains of the Day – Kazuo Ishiguro Q
The Melancholy of Resistance – László Krasznahorkai
The Temple of My Familiar – Alice Walker
The Trick is to Keep Breathing – Janice Galloway
The History of the Siege of Lisbon – José Saramago Q
Like Water for Chocolate – Laura Esquivel Q
A Prayer for Owen Meany – John Irving Q
London Fields – Martin Amis Q
The Book of Evidence – John Banville Q
Cat’s Eye – Margaret Atwood Q
Foucault’s Pendulum – Umberto Eco Q
The Beautiful Room is Empty – Edmund White
Wittgenstein’s Mistress – David Markson
The Satanic Verses – Salman Rushdie Q
The Swimming-Pool Library – Alan Hollinghurst
Oscar and Lucinda – Peter Carey Q
Libra – Don DeLillo Q
The Player of Games – Iain M. Banks
Nervous Conditions – Tsitsi Dangarembga
The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul – Douglas Adams
Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency – Douglas Adams Q
The Radiant Way – Margaret Drabble Q
The Afternoon of a Writer – Peter Handke
The Black Dahlia – James Ellroy
The Passion – Jeanette Winterson
The Pigeon – Patrick Süskind Q
The Child in Time – Ian McEwan
Cigarettes – Harry Mathews
The Bonfire of the Vanities – Tom Wolfe Q
The New York Trilogy – Paul Auster Q
World’s End – T. Coraghessan Boyle
Enigma of Arrival – V.S. Naipaul
The Taebek Mountains – Jo Jung-rae
Beloved – Toni Morrison Q
Anagrams – Lorrie Moore
Matigari – Ngugi Wa Thiong’o
Marya – Joyce Carol Oates
Watchmen – Alan Moore & David Gibbons
The Old Devils – Kingsley Amis Q
Lost Language of Cranes – David Leavitt
An Artist of the Floating World – Kazuo Ishiguro Q
Extinction – Thomas Bernhard
Foe – J.M. Coetzee
The Drowned and the Saved – Primo Levi
Reasons to Live – Amy Hempel
The Parable of the Blind – Gert Hofmann
Love in the Time of Cholera – Gabriel García Márquez Q
Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit – Jeanette Winterson Q
The Cider House Rules – John Irving Q
A Maggot – John Fowles
Less Than Zero – Bret Easton Ellis
Contact – Carl Sagan Q
The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood Q
Perfume – Patrick Süskind Q
Old Masters – Thomas Bernhard
White Noise – Don DeLillo
Queer – William Burroughs
Hawksmoor – Peter Ackroyd Q
Legend – David Gemmell
Dictionary of the Khazars – Milorad Pavi?
The Bus Conductor Hines – James Kelman
The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis – José Saramago
The Lover – Marguerite Duras
Empire of the Sun – J.G. Ballard Q
The Wasp Factory – Iain Banks Q
Nights at the Circus – Angela Carter
The Unbearable Lightness of Being – Milan Kundera Q
Blood and Guts in High School – Kathy Acker
Neuromancer – William Gibson Q
Flaubert’s Parrot – Julian Barnes Q
Money: A Suicide Note – Martin Amis
Shame – Salman Rushdie
Worstward Ho – Samuel Beckett
Fools of Fortune – William Trevor
La Brava – Elmore Leonard
Waterland – Graham Swift Q
The Life and Times of Michael K – J.M. Coetzee QQQQQ
The Diary of Jane Somers – Doris Lessing
The Piano Teacher – Elfriede Jelinek
The Sorrow of Belgium – Hugo Claus
If Not Now, When? – Primo Levi
A Boy’s Own Story – Edmund White
The Color Purple – Alice Walker Q
Wittgenstein’s Nephew – Thomas Bernhard
A Pale View of Hills – Kazuo Ishiguro Q
Schindler’s Ark – Thomas Keneally Q
The House of the Spirits – Isabel Allende Q
The Newton Letter – John Banville
On the Black Hill – Bruce Chatwin Q
Concrete – Thomas Bernhard
The Names – Don DeLillo
Rabbit is Rich – John Updike Q
Lanark: A Life in Four Books – Alasdair Gray
The Comfort of Strangers – Ian McEwan
July’s People – Nadine Gordimer Q
Summer in Baden-Baden – Leonid Tsypkin
Broken April – Ismail Kadare
Waiting for the Barbarians – J.M. Coetzee
Midnight’s Children – Salman Rushdie Q
Rites of Passage – William Golding
Rituals – Cees Nooteboom
Confederacy of Dunces – John Kennedy Toole
City Primeval – Elmore Leonard
The Name of the Rose – Umberto Eco Q
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting – Milan Kundera Q
Smiley’s People – John Le Carré
Shikasta – Doris Lessing
A Bend in the River – V.S. Naipaul
Burger’s Daughter - Nadine Gordimer Q
The Safety Net – Heinrich Böll
If On a Winter’s Night a Traveler – Italo Calvino Q
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams Q
The Cement Garden – Ian McEwan
The World According to Garp – John Irving Q
Life: A User’s Manual – Georges Perec
The Sea, The Sea – Iris Murdoch Q
The Singapore Grip – J.G. Farrell
Yes – Thomas Bernhard
The Virgin in the Garden – A.S. Byatt
In the Heart of the Country – J.M. Coetzee Q
The Passion of New Eve – Angela Carter
Delta of Venus – Anaïs Nin
The Shining – Stephen King Q
Dispatches – Michael Herr
Petals of Blood – Ngugi Wa Thiong’o
Song of Solomon – Toni Morrison Q
The Hour of the Star – Clarice Lispector
The Left-Handed Woman – Peter Handke
Ratner’s Star – Don DeLillo
The Public Burning – Robert Coover
Interview With the Vampire – Anne Rice
Cutter and Bone – Newton Thornburg
Amateurs – Donald Barthelme
Patterns of Childhood – Christa Wolf
Autumn of the Patriarch – Gabriel García Márquez Q
W, or the Memory of Childhood – Georges Perec
A Dance to the Music of Time – Anthony Powell
Grimus – Salman Rushdie
The Dead Father – Donald Barthelme
Fateless – Imre Kertész
Willard and His Bowling Trophies – Richard Brautigan
High Rise – J.G. Ballard
Humboldt’s Gift – Saul Bellow Q
Dead Babies – Martin Amis
Correction – Thomas Bernhard
Ragtime – E.L. Doctorow
The Fan Man – William Kotzwinkle
Dusklands – J.M. Coetzee
The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum – Heinrich Böll
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy – John Le Carré Q
Breakfast of Champions – Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Q
Fear of Flying – Erica Jong Q
A Question of Power – Bessie Head
The Siege of Krishnapur – J.G. Farrell
The Castle of Crossed Destinies – Italo Calvino
Crash – J.G. Ballard Q
The Honorary Consul – Graham Greene Q
Gravity’s Rainbow – Thomas Pynchon Q
The Black Prince – Iris Murdoch
Sula – Toni Morrison Q
Invisible Cities – Italo Calvino
The Breast – Philip Roth
The Summer Book – Tove Jansson
G – John Berger
Surfacing – Margaret Atwood
House Mother Normal – B.S. Johnson
In A Free State – V.S. Naipaul
The Book of Daniel – E.L. Doctorow
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – Hunter S. Thompson Q
Group Portrait With Lady – Heinrich Böll
The Wild Boys – William Burroughs
Rabbit Redux – John Updike Q
The Sea of Fertility – Yukio Mishima
The Driver’s Seat – Muriel Spark
The Ogre – Michael Tournier
The Bluest Eye – Toni Morrison
Goalie’s Anxiety at the Penalty Kick – Peter Handke
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings – Maya Angelou Q
Mercier et Camier – Samuel Beckett
Troubles – J.G. Farrell
Jahrestage – Uwe Johnson
The Atrocity Exhibition – J.G. Ballard
Tent of Miracles – Jorge Amado
Pricksongs and Descants – Robert Coover
Blind Man With a Pistol – Chester Hines
Slaughterhouse-five – Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. QQQQQQQQ
The French Lieutenant’s Woman – John Fowles
The Green Man – Kingsley Amis Q
Portnoy’s Complaint – Philip Roth Q
The Godfather – Mario Puzo Q
Ada – Vladimir Nabokov
Them – Joyce Carol Oates Q
A Void/Avoid – Georges Perec
Eva Trout – Elizabeth Bowen
Myra Breckinridge – Gore Vidal
The Nice and the Good – Iris Murdoch Q
Belle du Seigneur – Albert Cohen
Cancer Ward – Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn Q
The First Circle – Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn Q
2001: A Space Odyssey – Arthur C. Clarke
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? – Philip K. Dick Q
Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend is Laid – Malcolm Lowry
The German Lesson – Siegfried Lenz
In Watermelon Sugar – Richard Brautigan
A Kestrel for a Knave – Barry Hines
The Quest for Christa T. – Christa Wolf
Chocky – John Wyndham
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test – Tom Wolfe Q
The Cubs and Other Stories – Mario Vargas Llosa
One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel García Márquez Q
The Master and Margarita – Mikhail Bulgakov Q
Pilgrimage – Dorothy Richardson
The Joke – Milan Kundera
No Laughing Matter – Angus Wilson
The Third Policeman – Flann O’Brien Q
A Man Asleep – Georges Perec
The Birds Fall Down – Rebecca West
Trawl – B.S. Johnson
In Cold Blood – Truman Capote
The Magus – John Fowles
The Vice-Consul – Marguerite Duras
Wide Sargasso Sea – Jean Rhys
Giles Goat-Boy – John Barth
The Crying of Lot 49 – Thomas Pynchon Q
Things – Georges Perec
The River Between – Ngugi wa Thiong’o
August is a Wicked Month – Edna O’Brien
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater – Kurt Vonnegut
Everything That Rises Must Converge – Flannery O’Connor
The Passion According to G.H. – Clarice Lispector
Sometimes a Great Notion – Ken Kesey
Come Back, Dr. Caligari – Donald Bartholme
Albert Angelo – B.S. Johnson
Arrow of God – Chinua Achebe
The Ravishing of Lol V. Stein – Marguerite Duras
Herzog – Saul Bellow Q
V. – Thomas Pynchon Q
Cat’s Cradle – Kurt Vonnegut Q
The Graduate – Charles Webb
Manon des Sources – Marcel Pagnol
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold – John Le Carré Q
The Girls of Slender Means – Muriel Spark
Inside Mr. Enderby – Anthony Burgess
The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath Q
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich – Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn Q
The Collector – John Fowles
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – Ken Kesey Q
A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess
Pale Fire – Vladimir Nabokov
The Drowned World – J.G. Ballard
The Golden Notebook – Doris Lessing Q
Labyrinths – Jorg Luis Borges Q
Girl With Green Eyes – Edna O’Brien
The Garden of the Finzi-Continis – Giorgio Bassani
Stranger in a Strange Land – Robert Heinlein
Franny and Zooey – J.D. Salinger
A Severed Head – Iris Murdoch
Faces in the Water – Janet Frame
Solaris – Stanislaw Lem
Cat and Mouse – Günter Grass
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie – Muriel Spark
Catch-22 – Joseph Heller Q
The Violent Bear it Away – Flannery O’Connor
How It Is – Samuel Beckett
Our Ancestors – Italo Calvino
The Country Girls – Edna O’Brien Q
To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee Q
Rabbit, Run – John Updike Q
Promise at Dawn – Romain Gary
Cider With Rosie – Laurie Lee Q
Billy Liar – Keith Waterhouse
Naked Lunch – William Burroughs Q
The Tin Drum – Günter Grass Q
Absolute Beginners – Colin MacInnes
Henderson the Rain King – Saul Bellow
Memento Mori – Muriel Spark
Billiards at Half-Past Nine – Heinrich Böll
Breakfast at Tiffany’s – Truman Capote
The Leopard – Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
Pluck the Bud and Destroy the Offspring – Kenzaburo Oe
A Town Like Alice – Nevil Shute Q
The Bitter Glass – Eilís Dillon Q
Things Fall Apart – Chinua Achebe
Saturday Night and Sunday Morning – Alan Sillitoe
Mrs. ‘Arris Goes to Paris – Paul Gallico
Borstal Boy – Brendan Behan
The End of the Road – John Barth
The Once and Future King – T.H. White
The Bell – Iris Murdoch Q
Jealousy – Alain Robbe-Grillet
Voss – Patrick White
The Midwich Cuckoos – John Wyndham
Blue Noon – Georges Bataille
Homo Faber – Max Frisch
On the Road – Jack Kerouac Q
Pnin – Vladimir Nabokov
Doctor Zhivago – Boris Pasternak
The Wonderful “O” – James Thurber
Justine – Lawrence Durrell Q
Giovanni’s Room – James Baldwin
The Lonely Londoners – Sam Selvon
The Roots of Heaven – Romain Gary
Seize the Day – Saul Bellow
The Floating Opera – John Barth
The Lord of the Rings – J.R.R. Tolkien Q
The Talented Mr. Ripley – Patricia Highsmith
Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov Q
A World of Love – Elizabeth Bowen
The Trusting and the Maimed – James Plunkett
The Quiet American – Graham Greene Q
The Last Temptation of Christ – Nikos Kazantzákis Q
The Recognitions – William Gaddis
The Ragazzi – Pier Paulo Pasolini
Bonjour Tristesse – Françoise Sagan
I’m Not Stiller – Max Frisch
Self Condemned – Wyndham Lewis
The Story of O – Pauline Réage
A Ghost at Noon – Alberto Moravia
Lord of the Flies – William Golding Q
Under the Net – Iris Murdoch
The Go-Between – L.P. Hartley
The Long Goodbye – Raymond Chandler Q
The Unnamable – Samuel Beckett
Watt – Samuel Beckett
Lucky Jim – Kingsley Amis Q
Junkie – William Burroughs
The Adventures of Augie March – Saul Bellow
Go Tell It on the Mountain – James Baldwin
Casino Royale – Ian Fleming Q
The Judge and His Hangman – Friedrich Dürrenmatt
Invisible Man – Ralph Ellison
The Old Man and the Sea – Ernest Hemingway Q
Wise Blood – Flannery O’Connor
The Killer Inside Me – Jim Thompson
Memoirs of Hadrian – Marguerite Yourcenar
Malone Dies – Samuel Beckett
Day of the Triffids – John Wyndham
Foundation – Isaac Asimov
The Opposing Shore – Julien Gracq
The Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger Q
The Rebel – Albert Camus
Molloy – Samuel Beckett Q
The End of the Affair – Graham Greene Q
The Abbot C – Georges Bataille
The Labyrinth of Solitude – Octavio Paz
The Third Man – Graham Greene Q
The 13 Clocks – James Thurber
Gormenghast – Mervyn Peake Q-ish
The Grass is Singing – Doris Lessing
I, Robot – Isaac Asimov
The Moon and the Bonfires – Cesare Pavese
The Garden Where the Brass Band Played – Simon Vestdijk
Love in a Cold Climate – Nancy Mitford
The Case of Comrade Tulayev – Victor Serge
The Heat of the Day – Elizabeth Bowen
Kingdom of This World – Alejo Carpentier
The Man With the Golden Arm – Nelson Algren
Nineteen Eighty-Four – George Orwell Q
All About H. Hatterr – G.V. Desani
Disobedience – Alberto Moravia
Death Sentence – Maurice Blanchot
The Heart of the Matter – Graham Greene Q
Cry, the Beloved Country – Alan Paton
Doctor Faustus – Thomas Mann
The Victim – Saul Bellow
Exercises in Style – Raymond Queneau
If This Is a Man – Primo Levi
Under the Volcano – Malcolm Lowry
The Path to the Nest of Spiders – Italo Calvino
The Plague – Albert Camus
Back – Henry Green
Titus Groan – Mervyn Peake
The Bridge on the Drina – Ivo Andri?
Brideshead Revisited – Evelyn Waugh Q
Animal Farm – George Orwell Q
Cannery Row – John Steinbeck Q
The Pursuit of Love – Nancy Mitford
Loving – Henry Green
Arcanum 17 – André Breton
Christ Stopped at Eboli – Carlo Levi
The Razor’s Edge – William Somerset Maugham Q
Transit – Anna Seghers
Ficciones – Jorge Luis Borges
Dangling Man – Saul Bellow
The Little Prince – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Caught – Henry Green
The Glass Bead Game – Herman Hesse
Embers – Sandor Marai
Go Down, Moses – William Faulkner
The Outsider – Albert Camus Q (IN DEH FRENCH, DONCHA KNOW)
In Sicily – Elio Vittorini
The Poor Mouth – Flann O’Brien
The Living and the Dead – Patrick White Q
Hangover Square – Patrick Hamilton
Between the Acts – Virginia Woolf
The Hamlet – William Faulkner
Farewell My Lovely – Raymond Chandler Q
For Whom the Bell Tolls – Ernest Hemingway Q
Native Son – Richard Wright
The Power and the Glory – Graham Greene Q
The Tartar Steppe – Dino Buzzati
Party Going – Henry Green
The Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck Q
Finnegans Wake – James Joyce
At Swim-Two-Birds – Flann O’Brien Q
QComing Up for Air – George Orwell
Goodbye to Berlin – Christopher Isherwood Q
Tropic of Capricorn – Henry Miller
Good Morning, Midnight – Jean Rhys
The Big Sleep – Raymond Chandler Q
After the Death of Don Juan – Sylvie Townsend Warner
Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day – Winifred Watson
Nausea – Jean-Paul Sartre
Rebecca – Daphne du Maurier Q
Cause for Alarm – Eric Ambler
Brighton Rock – Graham Greene Q
U.S.A. – John Dos Passos
Murphy – Samuel Beckett
Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck Q
Their Eyes Were Watching God – Zora Neale Hurston
The Hobbit – J.R.R. Tolkien Q
The Years – Virginia Woolf
In Parenthesis – David Jones
The Revenge for Love – Wyndham Lewis
Out of Africa – Isak Dineson (Karen Blixen) Q
To Have and Have Not – Ernest Hemingway
Summer Will Show – Sylvia Townsend Warner
Eyeless in Gaza – Aldous Huxley
The Thinking Reed – Rebecca West
Gone With the Wind – Margaret Mitchell Q
Keep the Aspidistra Flying – George Orwell Q
Wild Harbour – Ian MacPherson
Absalom, Absalom! – William Faulkner
At the Mountains of Madness – H.P. Lovecraft
Nightwood – Djuna Barnes
Independent People – Halldór Laxness
Auto-da-Fé – Elias Canetti
The Last of Mr. Norris – Christopher Isherwood
They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? – Horace McCoy
The House in Paris – Elizabeth Bowen
England Made Me – Graham Greene
Burmese Days – George Orwell Q
The Nine Tailors – Dorothy L. Sayers Q
Threepenny Novel – Bertolt Brecht
Novel With Cocaine – M. Ageyev
The Postman Always Rings Twice – James M. Cain
Tropic of Cancer – Henry Miller Q - don't tell the Queen Mum
A Handful of Dust – Evelyn Waugh
Tender is the Night – F. Scott Fitzgerald
Thank You, Jeeves – P.G. Wodehouse
Call it Sleep – Henry Roth
Miss Lonelyhearts – Nathanael West
Murder Must Advertise – Dorothy L. Sayers
The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas – Gertrude Stein
Testament of Youth – Vera Brittain
A Day Off – Storm Jameson
The Man Without Qualities – Robert Musil
A Scots Quair (Sunset Song) – Lewis Grassic Gibbon
Journey to the End of the Night – Louis-Ferdinand Céline
Brave New World – Aldous Huxley Q
Cold Comfort Farm – Stella Gibbons
To the North – Elizabeth Bowen
The Thin Man – Dashiell Hammett
The Radetzky March – Joseph Roth
The Waves – Virginia Woolf
The Glass Key – Dashiell Hammett
Cakes and Ale – W. Somerset Maugham
The Apes of God – Wyndham Lewis
Her Privates We – Frederic Manning
Vile Bodies – Evelyn Waugh Q
The Maltese Falcon – Dashiell Hammett Q
Hebdomeros – Giorgio de Chirico
Passing – Nella Larsen
A Farewell to Arms – Ernest Hemingway Q
Red Harvest – Dashiell Hammett Q
Living – Henry Green
The Time of Indifference – Alberto Moravia
All Quiet on the Western Front – Erich Maria Remarque
Berlin Alexanderplatz – Alfred Döblin
The Last September – Elizabeth Bowen
Harriet Hume – Rebecca West
The Sound and the Fury – William Faulkner Q
Les Enfants Terribles – Jean Cocteau
Look Homeward, Angel – Thomas Wolfe
Story of the Eye – Georges Bataille
Orlando – Virginia Woolf Q
Lady Chatterley’s Lover – D.H. Lawrence Q
The Well of Loneliness – Radclyffe Hall
The Childermass – Wyndham Lewis
Quartet – Jean Rhys
Decline and Fall – Evelyn Waugh Q
Quicksand – Nella Larsen
Parade’s End – Ford Madox Ford Q
Nadja – André Breton
Steppenwolf – Herman Hesse
Remembrance of Things Past – Marcel Proust
To The Lighthouse – Virginia Woolf Q
Tarka the Otter – Henry Williamson
Amerika – Franz Kafka
The Sun Also Rises – Ernest Hemingway Q
Blindness – Henry Green
The Castle – Franz Kafka
The Good Soldier Švejk – Jaroslav Hašek
The Plumed Serpent – D.H. Lawrence
One, None and a Hundred Thousand – Luigi Pirandello
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd – Agatha Christie
The Making of Americans – Gertrude Stein
Manhattan Transfer – John Dos Passos
Mrs. Dalloway – Virginia Woolf Q
The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald Q
The Counterfeiters – André Gide Q
The Trial – Franz Kafka Q
The Artamonov Business – Maxim Gorky
The Professor’s House – Willa Cather
Billy Budd, Foretopman – Herman Melville
The Green Hat – Michael Arlen
The Magic Mountain – Thomas Mann
We – Yevgeny Zamyatin
A Passage to India – E.M. Forster Q
The Devil in the Flesh – Raymond Radiguet
Zeno’s Conscience – Italo Svevo
Cane – Jean Toomer
Antic Hay – Aldous Huxley
Amok – Stefan Zweig
The Garden Party – Katherine Mansfield
The Enormous Room – E.E. Cummings
Jacob’s Room – Virginia Woolf
Siddhartha – Herman Hesse
The Glimpses of the Moon – Edith Wharton
Life and Death of Harriett Frean – May Sinclair
The Last Days of Humanity – Karl Kraus
Aaron’s Rod – D.H. Lawrence
Babbitt – Sinclair Lewis
Ulysses – James Joyce Q - ish
The Fox – D.H. Lawrence
Crome Yellow – Aldous Huxley
The Age of Innocence – Edith Wharton Q
Main Street – Sinclair Lewis Q
Women in Love – D.H. Lawrence Q
Night and Day – Virginia Woolf
Tarr – Wyndham Lewis
The Return of the Soldier – Rebecca West Q
The Shadow Line – Joseph Conrad
Summer – Edith Wharton
Growth of the Soil – Knut Hamsen
Bunner Sisters – Edith Wharton
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man – James Joyce
QUnder Fire – Henri Barbusse
Rashomon – Akutagawa Ryunosuke
The Good Soldier – Ford Madox Ford Q
The Voyage Out – Virginia Woolf
Of Human Bondage – William Somerset Maugham Q
The Rainbow – D.H. Lawrence Q
The Thirty-Nine Steps – John Buchan Q
Kokoro – Natsume Soseki
Locus Solus – Raymond Roussel
Rosshalde – Herman Hesse
Tarzan of the Apes – Edgar Rice Burroughs
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists – Robert Tressell
Sons and Lovers – D.H. Lawrence Q
Death in Venice – Thomas Mann Q
The Charwoman’s Daughter – James Stephens
Ethan Frome – Edith Wharton
Fantômas – Marcel Allain and Pierre Souvestre
Howards End – E.M. Forster Q
Impressions of Africa – Raymond Roussel
Three Lives – Gertrude Stein
Martin Eden – Jack London
Strait is the Gate – André Gide
Tono-Bungay – H.G. Wells
The Inferno – Henri Barbusse
A Room With a View – E.M. Forster Q
The Iron Heel – Jack London
The Old Wives’ Tale – Arnold Bennett
The House on the Borderland – William Hope Hodgson
Mother – Maxim Gorky
The Secret Agent – Joseph Conrad
The Jungle – Upton Sinclair
Young Törless – Robert Musil
The Forsyte Sage – John Galsworthy
The House of Mirth – Edith Wharton
Professor Unrat – Heinrich Mann
Where Angels Fear to Tread – E.M. Forster Q
Nostromo – Joseph Conrad Q
Hadrian the Seventh – Frederick Rolfe
The Golden Bowl – Henry James
The Ambassadors – Henry James Q
The Riddle of the Sands – Erskine Childers Q
The Immoralist – André Gide
The Wings of the Dove – Henry James Q
Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad Q
The Hound of the Baskervilles – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Q
Buddenbrooks – Thomas Mann
Kim – Rudyard Kipling Q
Sister Carrie – Theodore Dreiser
Lord Jim – Joseph Conrad Q
Friday, May 23, 2008
1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die
There's an argument going on in the New York Times at the moment about this subject. They are using the Boxall list, which is divided thematically.
Queenie is not going to reprint 1001 book titles as that would ruin her front page, but here for the delectation of readers is the list of sixty nine books on the list that were published in the 2000s.
Queenie has read twenty eight of them, approximately 40 per cent.
How many have you read?
Never Let Me Go – Kazuo Ishiguro Q
Saturday – Ian McEwan Q
On Beauty – Zadie Smith Q
Slow Man – J.M. Coetzee Q
Adjunct: An Undigest – Peter Manson
The Sea – John Banville Q
The Red Queen – Margaret Drabble
The Plot Against America – Philip Roth
The Master – Colm Tóibín Q - not quite finished
Vanishing Point – David Markson
The Lambs of London – Peter Ackroyd
Dining on Stones – Iain Sinclair
Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell Q
Drop City – T. Coraghessan Boyle
The Colour – Rose Tremain
Thursbitch – Alan Garner
The Light of Day – Graham Swift
What I Loved – Siri Hustvedt
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time – Mark Haddon Q
Islands – Dan Sleigh
Elizabeth Costello – J.M. Coetzee
London Orbital – Iain Sinclair
Family Matters – Rohinton Mistry Q
Fingersmith – Sarah Waters Q
The Double – José Saramago Q
Everything is Illuminated – Jonathan Safran Foer Q
Unless – Carol Shields Q
Kafka on the Shore – Haruki Murakami Q
The Story of Lucy Gault – William Trevor Q
That They May Face the Rising Sun – John McGahern Q
In the Forest – Edna O’Brien
Shroud – John Banville
Middlesex – Jeffrey Eugenides Q
Youth – J.M. Coetzee Q
Dead Air – Iain Banks
Nowhere Man – Aleksandar Hemon
The Book of Illusions – Paul Auster
Gabriel’s Gift – Hanif Kureishi
Austerlitz – W.G. Sebald Q
Platform – Michael Houellebecq
Schooling – Heather McGowan
Atonement – Ian McEwan Q
The Corrections – Jonathan Franzen Q
Don’t Move – Margaret Mazzantini
The Body Artist – Don DeLillo Q
Fury – Salman Rushdie
At Swim, Two Boys – Jamie O’Neill Q
Choke – Chuck Palahniuk
Life of Pi – Yann Martel Q
The Feast of the Goat – Mario Vargos Llosa
An Obedient Father – Akhil Sharma
The Devil and Miss Prym – Paulo Coelho
Spring Flowers, Spring Frost – Ismail Kadare
White Teeth – Zadie Smith Q
The Heart of Redness – Zakes Mda
Under the Skin – Michel Faber
Ignorance – Milan Kundera
Nineteen Seventy Seven – David Peace
Celestial Harmonies – Péter Esterházy
City of God – E.L. Doctorow
How the Dead Live – Will Self
The Human Stain – Philip Roth Q
The Blind Assassin – Margaret Atwood Q
After the Quake – Haruki Murakami
Small Remedies – Shashi Deshpande
Super-Cannes – J.G. Ballard
House of Leaves – Mark Z. Danielewski
Blonde – Joyce Carol Oates Q
Pastoralia – George Saunders
Queenie is not going to reprint 1001 book titles as that would ruin her front page, but here for the delectation of readers is the list of sixty nine books on the list that were published in the 2000s.
Queenie has read twenty eight of them, approximately 40 per cent.
How many have you read?
Never Let Me Go – Kazuo Ishiguro Q
Saturday – Ian McEwan Q
On Beauty – Zadie Smith Q
Slow Man – J.M. Coetzee Q
Adjunct: An Undigest – Peter Manson
The Sea – John Banville Q
The Red Queen – Margaret Drabble
The Plot Against America – Philip Roth
The Master – Colm Tóibín Q - not quite finished
Vanishing Point – David Markson
The Lambs of London – Peter Ackroyd
Dining on Stones – Iain Sinclair
Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell Q
Drop City – T. Coraghessan Boyle
The Colour – Rose Tremain
Thursbitch – Alan Garner
The Light of Day – Graham Swift
What I Loved – Siri Hustvedt
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time – Mark Haddon Q
Islands – Dan Sleigh
Elizabeth Costello – J.M. Coetzee
London Orbital – Iain Sinclair
Family Matters – Rohinton Mistry Q
Fingersmith – Sarah Waters Q
The Double – José Saramago Q
Everything is Illuminated – Jonathan Safran Foer Q
Unless – Carol Shields Q
Kafka on the Shore – Haruki Murakami Q
The Story of Lucy Gault – William Trevor Q
That They May Face the Rising Sun – John McGahern Q
In the Forest – Edna O’Brien
Shroud – John Banville
Middlesex – Jeffrey Eugenides Q
Youth – J.M. Coetzee Q
Dead Air – Iain Banks
Nowhere Man – Aleksandar Hemon
The Book of Illusions – Paul Auster
Gabriel’s Gift – Hanif Kureishi
Austerlitz – W.G. Sebald Q
Platform – Michael Houellebecq
Schooling – Heather McGowan
Atonement – Ian McEwan Q
The Corrections – Jonathan Franzen Q
Don’t Move – Margaret Mazzantini
The Body Artist – Don DeLillo Q
Fury – Salman Rushdie
At Swim, Two Boys – Jamie O’Neill Q
Choke – Chuck Palahniuk
Life of Pi – Yann Martel Q
The Feast of the Goat – Mario Vargos Llosa
An Obedient Father – Akhil Sharma
The Devil and Miss Prym – Paulo Coelho
Spring Flowers, Spring Frost – Ismail Kadare
White Teeth – Zadie Smith Q
The Heart of Redness – Zakes Mda
Under the Skin – Michel Faber
Ignorance – Milan Kundera
Nineteen Seventy Seven – David Peace
Celestial Harmonies – Péter Esterházy
City of God – E.L. Doctorow
How the Dead Live – Will Self
The Human Stain – Philip Roth Q
The Blind Assassin – Margaret Atwood Q
After the Quake – Haruki Murakami
Small Remedies – Shashi Deshpande
Super-Cannes – J.G. Ballard
House of Leaves – Mark Z. Danielewski
Blonde – Joyce Carol Oates Q
Pastoralia – George Saunders
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Galway Bay rocks Russia
"How a Champions League final commentary has turned into extended musings upon Peig Sayers' life is a mystery to me," writes Rob Cotter. "Never mind Man Utd or Chelsea, nostalgic Toasted Heretic fans are the real winners here tonight."
'Xactly.
Thanks Baz. You write good commentary.
Your sister, Queenie.
And thanks Queen Mum for clearing up the strawberry flower pinching issue.
Families and technology.
They're the greatest.
'Xactly.
Thanks Baz. You write good commentary.
Your sister, Queenie.
And thanks Queen Mum for clearing up the strawberry flower pinching issue.
Families and technology.
They're the greatest.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Fruity goings on today
So Himself always has a project or twenty on the go.
Which I like in a man with whom I am sharing a life.
Himself also has the attention span of a Jack Russell with a big territory to mind.
Which has its benefits. But also its downsides.
By that I mean that he's very organised of course.
I just asked Himself if he minded if I described him as a Jack Russell with a big territory to mind and he said okay, eventually.
Kitty wanted to know whether it was a rabbit.
Kitty is on a canihavearabbitificleanthekitchen kick at the moment.
No.
You cannot have a rabbit, nor a Jack Russell, which is not a rabbit.
Jack Russells don't get the attention they deserve over here. Pity.
Anyways, the sun has come out, which means we have moved into the yard on a semi-permanent basis.
The first project was the canoe.
We bought the canoe and built a platform for it.
And Himself bought the necessary tools to grind the fibreglass off the canoe and redo it.
And the sun shone really brightly one weekend and we had a lovely weekend with Himself grinding the canoe (which was a bit loud) and Queenie starting to clear the vegetable patch.
Then Himself decided that the grinding tool (a palm sander) wasn't up to the job.
So he had to get A REAL GRINDER.
Which we have now.
But then he needed to get the right sandpaper.
And then it rained.
So I have a half-ground canoe and no canoeing done yet this year.
Meanwhile, Queenie read her gardening book and bought seeds and started talking about compost etc. Because Queenie has just the one project in the summer, which is the garden.
This year I am planting elephant garlic, onions, carrots, beets, potatoes, tomatoes, spinach, chives, lettuce, and herbs - rosemary, sage, basil, parsley, dill and thyme.
Things I like to eat.
No radishes this year.
I bought corn, but I don't have enough room to grow it I think.
I am also planting pole runner beans, which have red flowers that attract hummingbirds apparently, and some other grass type thingy which has big yellow flowers that attract butterflies.
This year I am not planting the dill next to the carrots.
This year I swear I am going to find marigolds. Shelley downstairs, who is a horticulturist, says it is really hard to get them. I'm sure they have seeds in Ireland.
HINT HINT.
Shelley is going to grow zucchini and squash.
And flowers.
So last weekend we went to the garden centre to get mega earth and compost and lime (having figured out that the garden is acidic).
If your radishes are rockin' and everything else is crap, your soil is acidic.
The Northern Gardener, by Jennifer Bennett (1982), page 121. Yard sale, Halifax, last summer. The best thing I have ever bought at a yard sale.
Ever.
Thank you Jennifer Bennett, whoever you are. You have saved my garden.
Anyways, we were at the garden centre, and Queenie looked at the flowers for a long time, but the world needs food, and she has totally bought into the whole 'grow things to eat not to look at' thing since she was about five, so she compromised and bought herself a fern.
A nice fiddlerhead for the dark corner by the path to the lake.
You can eat them in the spring. Very tasty they are too. They only appear in the supermarket for one week and won't it be cool to have our own.
That's all it took.
Five seconds of Queenie wondering aloud about a companion plant for the fiddlerhead.
I turned round and he had a raspberry cane. And a rhubarb plant.
Fair enough.
I like raspberries.
And I love rhubarb.
But now it's Himself's gardening project of course.
And it's all about fruit.
Last year it was all about tomatoes. Which nearly didn't happen, except for the Queen Mum flew over from Ireland to pinch the flowers off, Queenie and Himself having forgotten about that crucial part of the cycle.
Upon which we had about three hundred tomatoes in the same week.
That was Saturday.
Sunday it rained, so I brought Kitty and her friend to the shopping mall to buy sweatshirts.
When I came back, Himself had been BACK to the garden centre.
Now we had megatonnes of mega earth.
And two blueberry bushes.
And some strawberry plants.
The sun came out on Monday afternoon and because it was Himself's project we dug out the garden PROPERLY and removed an entire rockery of rocks and some bricks (so we were right about the acid) and tore into the poor garden and murdered the poor parsnips that had made it through the winter.
And last night it was still nice out, so Himself dug two big holes in the lawn and planted the blueberry bushes, beside each other so they can pollinate.
Plants having sex in the garden. How nice.
And this evening, we planted the fern and the rhubarb in the corner, and made a little box garden for the raspberry cane, and moved an old tree trunk over to that corner to add some fungal touches.
And we planted the strawberries along the wall of the house.
Himself was wondering whether the Queen Mum would know whether you have to pinch strawberry flowers or not. The people in The Northern Gardener are from the Paddy Egan school of gardening - lots of cabbage and other green stuff - so they don't talk about strawberries at all. So a text on that subject would be most welcome.
And we've turned the soil and put the earth and compost in, and limed the bad part, and put the grass barrier in, and turned it again, and again, and put the sod down on the rock wall, and built a rockery, and cut back the elephant ears, and we're ready to plant.
We ripped up the crappy pallets at the back of the house and Shelley is making a flower bed there.
Everyone in the house chipped in and bought six new garden chairs and Kitty painted the table and the dog house so they look useable again, and all the kindling for the bonfire is in the dog house staying dry and all the wood is stacked neatly against the back fence ready for an excuse to have a bonfire.
Roll on Friday though.
On Friday, Queenie has the day off work and Kitty and Himself don't.
On Friday it will be MY GARDEN again.
Saturday, we'll be back at the canoe if it's not raining.
Of course, the solar lighting project is proving extremely interesting right now.
Where will we place them for maximum nuance.
And the new design for the hammock holder is interesting.
Which needs to be built.
With two by fours.
And the bird house needs to be put up.
And the squirrel feeder.
And we need to find a spot for the wind chimes.
Like I said.
A Jack Russell with a big territory has a lot on the go.
But he gets it all done eventually.
Thankfully it's only May and it's not even warm yet.
We gotta get all this done before the washer toss season starts.
We're having a pig roast on Canada Day by the way.
If you're not doing anything.
Which I like in a man with whom I am sharing a life.
Himself also has the attention span of a Jack Russell with a big territory to mind.
Which has its benefits. But also its downsides.
By that I mean that he's very organised of course.
I just asked Himself if he minded if I described him as a Jack Russell with a big territory to mind and he said okay, eventually.
Kitty wanted to know whether it was a rabbit.
Kitty is on a canihavearabbitificleanthekitchen kick at the moment.
No.
You cannot have a rabbit, nor a Jack Russell, which is not a rabbit.
Jack Russells don't get the attention they deserve over here. Pity.
Anyways, the sun has come out, which means we have moved into the yard on a semi-permanent basis.
The first project was the canoe.
We bought the canoe and built a platform for it.
And Himself bought the necessary tools to grind the fibreglass off the canoe and redo it.
And the sun shone really brightly one weekend and we had a lovely weekend with Himself grinding the canoe (which was a bit loud) and Queenie starting to clear the vegetable patch.
Then Himself decided that the grinding tool (a palm sander) wasn't up to the job.
So he had to get A REAL GRINDER.
Which we have now.
But then he needed to get the right sandpaper.
And then it rained.
So I have a half-ground canoe and no canoeing done yet this year.
Meanwhile, Queenie read her gardening book and bought seeds and started talking about compost etc. Because Queenie has just the one project in the summer, which is the garden.
This year I am planting elephant garlic, onions, carrots, beets, potatoes, tomatoes, spinach, chives, lettuce, and herbs - rosemary, sage, basil, parsley, dill and thyme.
Things I like to eat.
No radishes this year.
I bought corn, but I don't have enough room to grow it I think.
I am also planting pole runner beans, which have red flowers that attract hummingbirds apparently, and some other grass type thingy which has big yellow flowers that attract butterflies.
This year I am not planting the dill next to the carrots.
This year I swear I am going to find marigolds. Shelley downstairs, who is a horticulturist, says it is really hard to get them. I'm sure they have seeds in Ireland.
HINT HINT.
Shelley is going to grow zucchini and squash.
And flowers.
So last weekend we went to the garden centre to get mega earth and compost and lime (having figured out that the garden is acidic).
If your radishes are rockin' and everything else is crap, your soil is acidic.
The Northern Gardener, by Jennifer Bennett (1982), page 121. Yard sale, Halifax, last summer. The best thing I have ever bought at a yard sale.
Ever.
Thank you Jennifer Bennett, whoever you are. You have saved my garden.
Anyways, we were at the garden centre, and Queenie looked at the flowers for a long time, but the world needs food, and she has totally bought into the whole 'grow things to eat not to look at' thing since she was about five, so she compromised and bought herself a fern.
A nice fiddlerhead for the dark corner by the path to the lake.
You can eat them in the spring. Very tasty they are too. They only appear in the supermarket for one week and won't it be cool to have our own.
That's all it took.
Five seconds of Queenie wondering aloud about a companion plant for the fiddlerhead.
I turned round and he had a raspberry cane. And a rhubarb plant.
Fair enough.
I like raspberries.
And I love rhubarb.
But now it's Himself's gardening project of course.
And it's all about fruit.
Last year it was all about tomatoes. Which nearly didn't happen, except for the Queen Mum flew over from Ireland to pinch the flowers off, Queenie and Himself having forgotten about that crucial part of the cycle.
Upon which we had about three hundred tomatoes in the same week.
That was Saturday.
Sunday it rained, so I brought Kitty and her friend to the shopping mall to buy sweatshirts.
When I came back, Himself had been BACK to the garden centre.
Now we had megatonnes of mega earth.
And two blueberry bushes.
And some strawberry plants.
The sun came out on Monday afternoon and because it was Himself's project we dug out the garden PROPERLY and removed an entire rockery of rocks and some bricks (so we were right about the acid) and tore into the poor garden and murdered the poor parsnips that had made it through the winter.
And last night it was still nice out, so Himself dug two big holes in the lawn and planted the blueberry bushes, beside each other so they can pollinate.
Plants having sex in the garden. How nice.
And this evening, we planted the fern and the rhubarb in the corner, and made a little box garden for the raspberry cane, and moved an old tree trunk over to that corner to add some fungal touches.
And we planted the strawberries along the wall of the house.
Himself was wondering whether the Queen Mum would know whether you have to pinch strawberry flowers or not. The people in The Northern Gardener are from the Paddy Egan school of gardening - lots of cabbage and other green stuff - so they don't talk about strawberries at all. So a text on that subject would be most welcome.
And we've turned the soil and put the earth and compost in, and limed the bad part, and put the grass barrier in, and turned it again, and again, and put the sod down on the rock wall, and built a rockery, and cut back the elephant ears, and we're ready to plant.
We ripped up the crappy pallets at the back of the house and Shelley is making a flower bed there.
Everyone in the house chipped in and bought six new garden chairs and Kitty painted the table and the dog house so they look useable again, and all the kindling for the bonfire is in the dog house staying dry and all the wood is stacked neatly against the back fence ready for an excuse to have a bonfire.
Roll on Friday though.
On Friday, Queenie has the day off work and Kitty and Himself don't.
On Friday it will be MY GARDEN again.
Saturday, we'll be back at the canoe if it's not raining.
Of course, the solar lighting project is proving extremely interesting right now.
Where will we place them for maximum nuance.
And the new design for the hammock holder is interesting.
Which needs to be built.
With two by fours.
And the bird house needs to be put up.
And the squirrel feeder.
And we need to find a spot for the wind chimes.
Like I said.
A Jack Russell with a big territory has a lot on the go.
But he gets it all done eventually.
Thankfully it's only May and it's not even warm yet.
We gotta get all this done before the washer toss season starts.
We're having a pig roast on Canada Day by the way.
If you're not doing anything.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Reading is a young person's game
I worked it out recently, if I live to be 75, and I read one book a week until then, then I only have about 1,900 books left (John, if you still read this blog, you might want to check my math on this again!! :)).
So I am trying to up it to three books a fortnight at the moment.
Life just keeps getting in the way.
I used to read on the bus.
Now I have Kitty for company on the bus in the morning, as she is back in the city and going to Citadel High now. Although we are both usually so groggy we don't talk much, just listen to the conversations on the bus and roll our eyes at each other.
Mostly we listen to the teenagers talk about music.
What happens is, two teenagers get on the bus, share an iPod, crank it right up so everyone on the bus can hear it and then discuss the music loudly over the music.
It drives all the oldarses on the bus CRAAAAAZZZZZYYYY.
So in true Nova Scotia fashion, they all just sit there and glare at them.
The other day a particularly bad couple were discussing how they'd replicate the sound, which sounded a bit like Sleator-Kinney but I can't be sure.
The woman sitting in front of me nearly broke her neck swivelling to GLARE.
But of course it wasn't having any effect, as teenagers don't actually register any humans over the age of twenty five.
So, trying to be helpful, I turned round and mouthed 'can you turn the music down' at the guy.
He poked the girl with the iPod.
"WHAT?"
"I JUST GOT YELLED AT FOR HAVING THE MUSIC TOO LOUD"
"I did not yell at you", I said, "I asked you nicely!"
So they turned it up of course.
And everyone on the bus spent the rest of the journey GLARING at me.
Sigh.
Anyways, back to reading..
I just finished Ismail Kadare's The Successor. Kadare is a Man Booker International winner and Albania's greatest living author, apparently.
It was a grim book. A carefully worded atmospheric tale of the death of Prime Minister Mehmet Shehu, who was Hoxha's successor, and who 'killed himself' in mysterious circumstances in the later years of Hoxha's reign. I couldn't put it down, it was so circular and layered that at the end you are completely confused about what was going on, in a way that was redolent of living during those times I imagine.
I am definitely going to read more of Kadare.
Before that I read Arturo Perez Reverte's second novel in the Captain Alatriste series, Purity of Blood. Also good in terms of its description of the dying days of the Spanish Empire, but a bit stilted and not Reverte's usual high standard.
I have started going to Chapters because I realised that they have a great sale bin. It's chock full of European and Asian literary fiction, discounted down to as low as $1 a book, because nobody knows who the writers are.
I have quite the collection now, although I have taken to selling my books on these days.
I have enough stuff.
And this way, I can justify three books a fortnight to myself.
The guy in the United Bookstore, to whom I sell my books, enjoys it when I come in I hope. I know I enjoy my trips in. I review each book for him, and we have a right old natter about all things literary - plus he knows some people in the CanLit industry so he always has a little snippet of gossip for me.
It's gratifying to buy a top class European novel for $1, read it, scrape the discount sticker off it, and sell it to him for one third the cover price. Then wait to see how long it is before someone else buys it.
Currently, I'm finally reading The Master. I tend to avoid Colm Toibin until he turns up in the bargain bin: I don't know why, because I always enjoy his books. But I got a hardback 1st American edition for six bucks that I shall probably keep - I am trying to hold onto some of the good ones for the summer visitors to browse.
I am a big Henry James fan, and always wondered how he got his prose so narrow yet evocative, so it is very interesting to read Toibin's theories in this fictionalised biography. Plus it's a ripping good yarn, albeit in a very Jamesian style.
It is interesting that Toibin has set himself up as the Irish James by writing about James. No doubt he was helped by David Lodge trying to do the same thing and failing (according to accepted wisdom, I haven't read his). Lodge is a wonderful writer, but he's more Trollope than James. So that makes Toibin's proposition more biddable.
I have just finished a Colin Thubron I didn't even know existed (oh, the excitement, I was all a-tremble in Schooner Books when I found it). Mirror to Damascus is a history of the city, a homage to its place in history, and a travelogue of the year Thubron spent there researching the book.
It is early Thubron, so it has some of the enthusiasm for place that he has lost a little as he ages. Also, the research he did then must have sent him east across the Silk Road, as I came across a lot of the stuff on little known muslim sects and warrior tribes that come up in his later books. In this book he is just learning about them. In later books, such as Shadow of the Silk Road, he visits their homelands. In Damascus, he visits their imprint on the city.
I have to stop typing now and go pick up kitty's friends so they can hang out in our house this evening....
Life gets in the way...
Hopefully, the presence of friends will mean uninterrupted blogging time, so I will be back presently.
Actually, I have just been told that I have to wait until the friends have sorted out their arrangements.
Like a good chauffeur.
Sigh.
But it's so nice to have a second chance to travel a bit of the way with her that I am prepared to put up with some of the stereotypical behaviour that's back in the house. Having said that, we're all a year older and wiser and it's the summer so the behaviour is not so annoying.
I have made the following promises to myself:
This time I will not see the mess. If I see the mess, then I will just have to clean it up.
This time I will be more patient. With myself, with everyone else, and with the moment.
This time I will not make the rules, that's her father's job, and he knows that girl's heart better than I do.
This time I will not protect my heart from possible unmendable fractures by hiding it behind headless chickenness.
So I am trying to up it to three books a fortnight at the moment.
Life just keeps getting in the way.
I used to read on the bus.
Now I have Kitty for company on the bus in the morning, as she is back in the city and going to Citadel High now. Although we are both usually so groggy we don't talk much, just listen to the conversations on the bus and roll our eyes at each other.
Mostly we listen to the teenagers talk about music.
What happens is, two teenagers get on the bus, share an iPod, crank it right up so everyone on the bus can hear it and then discuss the music loudly over the music.
It drives all the oldarses on the bus CRAAAAAZZZZZYYYY.
So in true Nova Scotia fashion, they all just sit there and glare at them.
The other day a particularly bad couple were discussing how they'd replicate the sound, which sounded a bit like Sleator-Kinney but I can't be sure.
The woman sitting in front of me nearly broke her neck swivelling to GLARE.
But of course it wasn't having any effect, as teenagers don't actually register any humans over the age of twenty five.
So, trying to be helpful, I turned round and mouthed 'can you turn the music down' at the guy.
He poked the girl with the iPod.
"WHAT?"
"I JUST GOT YELLED AT FOR HAVING THE MUSIC TOO LOUD"
"I did not yell at you", I said, "I asked you nicely!"
So they turned it up of course.
And everyone on the bus spent the rest of the journey GLARING at me.
Sigh.
Anyways, back to reading..
I just finished Ismail Kadare's The Successor. Kadare is a Man Booker International winner and Albania's greatest living author, apparently.
It was a grim book. A carefully worded atmospheric tale of the death of Prime Minister Mehmet Shehu, who was Hoxha's successor, and who 'killed himself' in mysterious circumstances in the later years of Hoxha's reign. I couldn't put it down, it was so circular and layered that at the end you are completely confused about what was going on, in a way that was redolent of living during those times I imagine.
I am definitely going to read more of Kadare.
Before that I read Arturo Perez Reverte's second novel in the Captain Alatriste series, Purity of Blood. Also good in terms of its description of the dying days of the Spanish Empire, but a bit stilted and not Reverte's usual high standard.
I have started going to Chapters because I realised that they have a great sale bin. It's chock full of European and Asian literary fiction, discounted down to as low as $1 a book, because nobody knows who the writers are.
I have quite the collection now, although I have taken to selling my books on these days.
I have enough stuff.
And this way, I can justify three books a fortnight to myself.
The guy in the United Bookstore, to whom I sell my books, enjoys it when I come in I hope. I know I enjoy my trips in. I review each book for him, and we have a right old natter about all things literary - plus he knows some people in the CanLit industry so he always has a little snippet of gossip for me.
It's gratifying to buy a top class European novel for $1, read it, scrape the discount sticker off it, and sell it to him for one third the cover price. Then wait to see how long it is before someone else buys it.
Currently, I'm finally reading The Master. I tend to avoid Colm Toibin until he turns up in the bargain bin: I don't know why, because I always enjoy his books. But I got a hardback 1st American edition for six bucks that I shall probably keep - I am trying to hold onto some of the good ones for the summer visitors to browse.
I am a big Henry James fan, and always wondered how he got his prose so narrow yet evocative, so it is very interesting to read Toibin's theories in this fictionalised biography. Plus it's a ripping good yarn, albeit in a very Jamesian style.
It is interesting that Toibin has set himself up as the Irish James by writing about James. No doubt he was helped by David Lodge trying to do the same thing and failing (according to accepted wisdom, I haven't read his). Lodge is a wonderful writer, but he's more Trollope than James. So that makes Toibin's proposition more biddable.
I have just finished a Colin Thubron I didn't even know existed (oh, the excitement, I was all a-tremble in Schooner Books when I found it). Mirror to Damascus is a history of the city, a homage to its place in history, and a travelogue of the year Thubron spent there researching the book.
It is early Thubron, so it has some of the enthusiasm for place that he has lost a little as he ages. Also, the research he did then must have sent him east across the Silk Road, as I came across a lot of the stuff on little known muslim sects and warrior tribes that come up in his later books. In this book he is just learning about them. In later books, such as Shadow of the Silk Road, he visits their homelands. In Damascus, he visits their imprint on the city.
I have to stop typing now and go pick up kitty's friends so they can hang out in our house this evening....
Life gets in the way...
Hopefully, the presence of friends will mean uninterrupted blogging time, so I will be back presently.
Actually, I have just been told that I have to wait until the friends have sorted out their arrangements.
Like a good chauffeur.
Sigh.
But it's so nice to have a second chance to travel a bit of the way with her that I am prepared to put up with some of the stereotypical behaviour that's back in the house. Having said that, we're all a year older and wiser and it's the summer so the behaviour is not so annoying.
I have made the following promises to myself:
This time I will not see the mess. If I see the mess, then I will just have to clean it up.
This time I will be more patient. With myself, with everyone else, and with the moment.
This time I will not make the rules, that's her father's job, and he knows that girl's heart better than I do.
This time I will not protect my heart from possible unmendable fractures by hiding it behind headless chickenness.
May Bank Holiday weekend...
... or the beginning of summer as they call it here.
It is raining of course.
Himself has gone fishing.
Up at 7.30am this morning, tearing the apartment apart looking for his tackle.
fnar
It was in the car of course. Queenie remembered when the noise brought her to enough to ask what the noise was about.
"I never get to do nuthin! Goddamn, never!"
Queenie and Himself have had a few scheduled events cancelled on us by life recently, hockey games and gigs and weekends off and fishing trips etc., so Himself was convinced this weekend's fishing wouldn't happen.
Queenie was determined that it would. So she forced her brain to wake up enough to find whatever it was that was standing between her man and his day to Himself.
When a man's had a day out on a lake in a canoe with two buddies and a chance to catch some fish he's a whole different kind of man when he gets home.
Which is good for Queenie.
"Why do you never get to do anything, pet? What can't you find?"
Rumble, mutter, growl, sound of the storage closet being rearranged by a maniac was all I got.
"Oh for chrissake, why are you disturbing the whole building at this hour of the morning?"
That worked.
"I can't find my tackle."
I resisted the urge to tell him to look in his underpants. That I was sure I had spotted it there not ten minutes before.
"I think it's in the car, dear."
"I looked in the car."
"It's in the cooler in the car."
"Why the hell did you put it in the cooler?!"
"I didn't put it in the cooler dear."
"Oh."
Stomp, mutter, clunk, clunk down the stairs.
He didn't come back up and Fat Albert is gone from the front yard, so I assume he's gone fishing.
I went for lunch with a friend I hadn't seen in months and we talked about everything, and then saw a movie, The Visitors. Good movie, same director as The Station Agent. Same theme, loneliness in the crowd and finding a new way to have a family. This film dealt with illegal immigrants, rather than physical disability.
Then we went downtown to look at the new lululemon store.
Utter chaos.
There were thirty five people lined up at the checkout to pay for the same pair of yoga pants.
So we gave up and went to worship at the Starbuck's shrine to consumerism instead, then went round the corner to Elsie's consignment store, where Elsie had a fantastic selection of shoes, bags and unique clothes. And I got an Anne Taylor preppy red and blue print skirt and a pair of matching sparkly red ballet pumps for the same price as a tank top in lululemon. And my friend got a Betty (somebody, not Jackson, the one with the stores with the chandeliers) cashmere bolero for not much more.
A nice female city afternoon.
I haven't had a nice female city afternoon since the day I went shopping with Colombo in Dublin last new year's.
Tonight Kitty and I will get a gourmet pizza and chill out and wait for the fisherman to come home with his booty.
Assuming he got some booty with his tackle.
Hopefully the sun will come out tomorrow.
Then we can clean up the debris from last night's welcome to the summer bonfire.
It is raining of course.
Himself has gone fishing.
Up at 7.30am this morning, tearing the apartment apart looking for his tackle.
fnar
It was in the car of course. Queenie remembered when the noise brought her to enough to ask what the noise was about.
"I never get to do nuthin! Goddamn, never!"
Queenie and Himself have had a few scheduled events cancelled on us by life recently, hockey games and gigs and weekends off and fishing trips etc., so Himself was convinced this weekend's fishing wouldn't happen.
Queenie was determined that it would. So she forced her brain to wake up enough to find whatever it was that was standing between her man and his day to Himself.
When a man's had a day out on a lake in a canoe with two buddies and a chance to catch some fish he's a whole different kind of man when he gets home.
Which is good for Queenie.
"Why do you never get to do anything, pet? What can't you find?"
Rumble, mutter, growl, sound of the storage closet being rearranged by a maniac was all I got.
"Oh for chrissake, why are you disturbing the whole building at this hour of the morning?"
That worked.
"I can't find my tackle."
I resisted the urge to tell him to look in his underpants. That I was sure I had spotted it there not ten minutes before.
"I think it's in the car, dear."
"I looked in the car."
"It's in the cooler in the car."
"Why the hell did you put it in the cooler?!"
"I didn't put it in the cooler dear."
"Oh."
Stomp, mutter, clunk, clunk down the stairs.
He didn't come back up and Fat Albert is gone from the front yard, so I assume he's gone fishing.
I went for lunch with a friend I hadn't seen in months and we talked about everything, and then saw a movie, The Visitors. Good movie, same director as The Station Agent. Same theme, loneliness in the crowd and finding a new way to have a family. This film dealt with illegal immigrants, rather than physical disability.
Then we went downtown to look at the new lululemon store.
Utter chaos.
There were thirty five people lined up at the checkout to pay for the same pair of yoga pants.
So we gave up and went to worship at the Starbuck's shrine to consumerism instead, then went round the corner to Elsie's consignment store, where Elsie had a fantastic selection of shoes, bags and unique clothes. And I got an Anne Taylor preppy red and blue print skirt and a pair of matching sparkly red ballet pumps for the same price as a tank top in lululemon. And my friend got a Betty (somebody, not Jackson, the one with the stores with the chandeliers) cashmere bolero for not much more.
A nice female city afternoon.
I haven't had a nice female city afternoon since the day I went shopping with Colombo in Dublin last new year's.
Tonight Kitty and I will get a gourmet pizza and chill out and wait for the fisherman to come home with his booty.
Assuming he got some booty with his tackle.
Hopefully the sun will come out tomorrow.
Then we can clean up the debris from last night's welcome to the summer bonfire.
Friday, May 16, 2008
This week's horoscope
I do love Rob Brezny's Free Will Astrology, which appears every week in Halifax' weekly newspaper The Coast. This week it says:
As part of the arrangement your soul entered into before you were born, you were given the mission to accomplish five specific miracles. Three of these you have not yet even guessed the nature of. Why? For one thing, none of your elders or teachers ever named them for you while you were growing up. Secondly, you have been overly timid about imagining what you're capable of. That's the bad news, Cancerian. The good news is that you're very close to the mystery spot where one of those undiscovered dreams has been moldering.
Hmmmm......
Any ideas, folks?
Himself's horoscope is spot on:
The complexity of your current astrological aspects almost overwhelmed me. I couldn't see how to compose a meaningful oracle in the face of such rich and confounding prospects. I was stumped. Then, as my deadline approached, the unthinkable happened: I decided to goof off. Fleeing my office, I wandered down to the beach, where I strolled aimlessly and emptied my mind. At one point I spied a fortune cookie perched absurdly on top of a fence post. The moment I broke it open and read the fortune inside, I knew I'd found the perfect message for you. It said, "If you have a difficult task, give it to a lazy man. He will find an easier way to do it."
Not that Queenie is insinuating for one second that Himself is a lazy man, ohnosireebob.... it's just that when the shit hits the fan, Queenie's approach is to run around in ever-decreasing circles and Himself's approach is to let the shit slide off the fan.... slowly... and then clean up what's left when the fan stops moving.
A far superior approach.
But hey, I may be a headless chicken, but I'm a miracle-working headless chicken.
SO THERE!!
As part of the arrangement your soul entered into before you were born, you were given the mission to accomplish five specific miracles. Three of these you have not yet even guessed the nature of. Why? For one thing, none of your elders or teachers ever named them for you while you were growing up. Secondly, you have been overly timid about imagining what you're capable of. That's the bad news, Cancerian. The good news is that you're very close to the mystery spot where one of those undiscovered dreams has been moldering.
Hmmmm......
Any ideas, folks?
Himself's horoscope is spot on:
The complexity of your current astrological aspects almost overwhelmed me. I couldn't see how to compose a meaningful oracle in the face of such rich and confounding prospects. I was stumped. Then, as my deadline approached, the unthinkable happened: I decided to goof off. Fleeing my office, I wandered down to the beach, where I strolled aimlessly and emptied my mind. At one point I spied a fortune cookie perched absurdly on top of a fence post. The moment I broke it open and read the fortune inside, I knew I'd found the perfect message for you. It said, "If you have a difficult task, give it to a lazy man. He will find an easier way to do it."
Not that Queenie is insinuating for one second that Himself is a lazy man, ohnosireebob.... it's just that when the shit hits the fan, Queenie's approach is to run around in ever-decreasing circles and Himself's approach is to let the shit slide off the fan.... slowly... and then clean up what's left when the fan stops moving.
A far superior approach.
But hey, I may be a headless chicken, but I'm a miracle-working headless chicken.
SO THERE!!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Where's me sofa?
I see that Habitat has closed its two stores in Ireland, due to serious downturn in business.
Laydeez are calling the radio wondering where their EU3,700 sofas are.
Oh dear.
Apparently, the credit card companies can't give them their money back.
YES I SAID THE CREDIT CARD COMPANY.
What in Jays' name are they doing putting a EU3,700 sofa on a credit card?
Yes, I know I put a house deposit on a credit card one time, but it was only for one day because it was a Sunday and at ten am on Monday I got the money out of the bank.
I'm sure they'll get their sofas at some point. They were never going to be delivered on time anyways, Habitat sofas having a habit of being late. And tat.
Geddit?
We should just give the laydeez their money back, put the sofas in the National Museum and label them the day the tiger died.
Thanks to everyone whose conspicuous consumption made the last thirteen years so much fun that I had to rip my life up and move to a different continent to get away from it.
Maybe we can all grow up and get some brains now.
Maybe, shock horror, people will be able to recycle furniture, cars, clothes, etc. without being made to feel like they're some kind of pre-famine troll.
Maybe it's for the best.
Let's just hope that everyone has a nice soft washable cream velour landing.
Laydeez are calling the radio wondering where their EU3,700 sofas are.
Oh dear.
Apparently, the credit card companies can't give them their money back.
YES I SAID THE CREDIT CARD COMPANY.
What in Jays' name are they doing putting a EU3,700 sofa on a credit card?
Yes, I know I put a house deposit on a credit card one time, but it was only for one day because it was a Sunday and at ten am on Monday I got the money out of the bank.
I'm sure they'll get their sofas at some point. They were never going to be delivered on time anyways, Habitat sofas having a habit of being late. And tat.
Geddit?
We should just give the laydeez their money back, put the sofas in the National Museum and label them the day the tiger died.
Thanks to everyone whose conspicuous consumption made the last thirteen years so much fun that I had to rip my life up and move to a different continent to get away from it.
Maybe we can all grow up and get some brains now.
Maybe, shock horror, people will be able to recycle furniture, cars, clothes, etc. without being made to feel like they're some kind of pre-famine troll.
Maybe it's for the best.
Let's just hope that everyone has a nice soft washable cream velour landing.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Crusher Cowen gets the top job
From The Irish Times:
"This is the biggest day Offaly ever saw.”
Meanwhile, as the crowd at the gates unfolded an endless FF banner, awaiting the drive past of the new Taoiseach, chanting endless choruses of The Offaly Rover, they challenged anyone to say that Offaly is not the cradle of civilisation, citing Millennium Man (“a dashing wing back”), the Taoiseach, and Barack Obama as evidence.
Plus thwarting Kerry’s five in a row in 1982 with a Séamus Darby goal, added Mary Guiney.
When a Kilkenny garda could take it no more and wondered aloud about the precise depth of their hurling skills, they threatened to have him transferred to Craggy Island with their potent local influence.
Then they wrapped a tricolour feather boa around him, danced The Offaly Rover, and banged on the roof of the brand new Taoiseach’s flat, shiny Merc as he drove off to the Áras.
So. No more pure mule, thank you.
A Taoiseach and quite possibly an American President in the same year... who'da thunk!
G'wan the Faithful!!
"This is the biggest day Offaly ever saw.”
Meanwhile, as the crowd at the gates unfolded an endless FF banner, awaiting the drive past of the new Taoiseach, chanting endless choruses of The Offaly Rover, they challenged anyone to say that Offaly is not the cradle of civilisation, citing Millennium Man (“a dashing wing back”), the Taoiseach, and Barack Obama as evidence.
Plus thwarting Kerry’s five in a row in 1982 with a Séamus Darby goal, added Mary Guiney.
When a Kilkenny garda could take it no more and wondered aloud about the precise depth of their hurling skills, they threatened to have him transferred to Craggy Island with their potent local influence.
Then they wrapped a tricolour feather boa around him, danced The Offaly Rover, and banged on the roof of the brand new Taoiseach’s flat, shiny Merc as he drove off to the Áras.
So. No more pure mule, thank you.
A Taoiseach and quite possibly an American President in the same year... who'da thunk!
G'wan the Faithful!!
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Lobster got himself a girl
One time, oh maybe bout five years back, it was coming up to Hallowe'en and Lobster was home sitting by moma while she let his costume out again.
Lobster loved his costume. It was a fireman's costume of course. It had a nice dark jacket and gold buttons all down the front. With a big shiny hat. Which he loved to fill up with all the candy he could find on Hallowe'en night.
Lobster didn't go looking for candy of course, that was for kids. He was right sad when pappy told him that. He loved to go collecting candy. But Lobster was nearly a man now. So it had to stop.
But sometimes, if he asked nice, the kids would tip some of their candy pillows into his shiny hat and he'd have himself a right haul.
He loved Gummy Bears the best.
Anyhows, he was home sitting by moma when pappy comes in from baiting trawl and says, Lobster, there's a dance on down the Legion tonight and you should go! It'll be good for you to get out and maybe meet a nice girl.
So down he went, all cleaned up and shaved right, with his costume all snug on his hips and his hat all shined up.
My, but the Legion was full of the weirdest kinda folks that night. You couldn't tell who was who, with all the costumes and the lights flashing from the discotheque.
And there were witches everywhere: witches on the dancefloor boogiein' on down, witches knocking back shots and smoking cigarettes, witches playing pool, witches going in the washroom and coming out, all in gangs of black with big pointy hats.
There were even witches playing on the machines, with witches standing behind them waiting their turn.
My it was some witchy convention that night.
How was Lobster ever going to find a nice girl, what with all the girls cackling and grinning and hiding themselves under their cloaks?
He needed a beer to set himself up to decide. So he went on up to the bar and there she was.
A witch to be sure, but perched up there on her pointy black hat she had the biggest, brightest, shiniest red light he ever saw on a girl. There it was, just as jaunty as could be, winking on and off and justa callin' to him.
What'll your poison be, the witch said.
Her big red light winked at him.
On. And off. And on. And off.
Lobster felt the world spinning around him.
He got himself a beer and went and sat and just watched the bright new light in his life for a while.
Later on, he was coming out of the washroom and there it was, right in front of him, justa winking at him like there was no other fireman on earth knew what it wanted.
He grabbed ahold of his courage with both his hands and said, 'who in the hell are you now, missy, with your big red light, that makes me spin round and round. I do love it so.'
Don't you know me, she said, all shy and quiet.
Well, I wouldn't be asking if I knew, now would I, Lobster replied.
A light came in her eyes right then, like Lobster'd said the right thing, and she leaned in close under his chin and stared into his eyes.
The big red light winked right at him.
On. And off. And on. And off. And on.
Why don't you come into my witch's garage with me, she said, and I'll whisk you away on my broomstick.
Oh my.
Before Lobster knows it, he's in the broom closet with the witch.
There's a couple of other couples in there, justa groanin' anda moanin' in the dark, but the big red light cleared them all out in no time and then they were alone.
Just the two of them.
And the big red light.
On. And off. And on. And off.
Lobster tried to look past the light into her eyes.
Tell me your name, little witch he said, real quiet and nice.
Well, why don't you call me Right Eager, she said.
What kinda name is that, said Lobster.
That's what they call me round here, she said.
Will you fly me through the sky on your broomstick, Lobster asked.
Why yes, she said, all quiet and nice.
Not like a witch should be at all.
And the big red light will show us the way, Lobster thought.
Won't pappy be proud...
Lobster loved his costume. It was a fireman's costume of course. It had a nice dark jacket and gold buttons all down the front. With a big shiny hat. Which he loved to fill up with all the candy he could find on Hallowe'en night.
Lobster didn't go looking for candy of course, that was for kids. He was right sad when pappy told him that. He loved to go collecting candy. But Lobster was nearly a man now. So it had to stop.
But sometimes, if he asked nice, the kids would tip some of their candy pillows into his shiny hat and he'd have himself a right haul.
He loved Gummy Bears the best.
Anyhows, he was home sitting by moma when pappy comes in from baiting trawl and says, Lobster, there's a dance on down the Legion tonight and you should go! It'll be good for you to get out and maybe meet a nice girl.
So down he went, all cleaned up and shaved right, with his costume all snug on his hips and his hat all shined up.
My, but the Legion was full of the weirdest kinda folks that night. You couldn't tell who was who, with all the costumes and the lights flashing from the discotheque.
And there were witches everywhere: witches on the dancefloor boogiein' on down, witches knocking back shots and smoking cigarettes, witches playing pool, witches going in the washroom and coming out, all in gangs of black with big pointy hats.
There were even witches playing on the machines, with witches standing behind them waiting their turn.
My it was some witchy convention that night.
How was Lobster ever going to find a nice girl, what with all the girls cackling and grinning and hiding themselves under their cloaks?
He needed a beer to set himself up to decide. So he went on up to the bar and there she was.
A witch to be sure, but perched up there on her pointy black hat she had the biggest, brightest, shiniest red light he ever saw on a girl. There it was, just as jaunty as could be, winking on and off and justa callin' to him.
What'll your poison be, the witch said.
Her big red light winked at him.
On. And off. And on. And off.
Lobster felt the world spinning around him.
He got himself a beer and went and sat and just watched the bright new light in his life for a while.
Later on, he was coming out of the washroom and there it was, right in front of him, justa winking at him like there was no other fireman on earth knew what it wanted.
He grabbed ahold of his courage with both his hands and said, 'who in the hell are you now, missy, with your big red light, that makes me spin round and round. I do love it so.'
Don't you know me, she said, all shy and quiet.
Well, I wouldn't be asking if I knew, now would I, Lobster replied.
A light came in her eyes right then, like Lobster'd said the right thing, and she leaned in close under his chin and stared into his eyes.
The big red light winked right at him.
On. And off. And on. And off. And on.
Why don't you come into my witch's garage with me, she said, and I'll whisk you away on my broomstick.
Oh my.
Before Lobster knows it, he's in the broom closet with the witch.
There's a couple of other couples in there, justa groanin' anda moanin' in the dark, but the big red light cleared them all out in no time and then they were alone.
Just the two of them.
And the big red light.
On. And off. And on. And off.
Lobster tried to look past the light into her eyes.
Tell me your name, little witch he said, real quiet and nice.
Well, why don't you call me Right Eager, she said.
What kinda name is that, said Lobster.
That's what they call me round here, she said.
Will you fly me through the sky on your broomstick, Lobster asked.
Why yes, she said, all quiet and nice.
Not like a witch should be at all.
And the big red light will show us the way, Lobster thought.
Won't pappy be proud...
Friday, May 02, 2008
First of three
First day off.
Of three.
No irritating schedule interruptions.
Yet.
Apart from my continuous interruptions to my blogging. Which are mostly self-administered.
I have been looking at old photos from Trinity in the late eighties, posted on Facebook. Very nostalgic. Very nice photos too. Would make a great book.
I have done all the chores I needed to today, so all I have to is eat, shower, dress and then go looking for the Roberto Bolano book recommended on Colour of Memory recently.
Then I will attempt to clean the bathroom.
Which is beyond acceptable, having waited patiently for Himself to notice the dirt, which is not happening, due to the fishing season being open and the Stanley Cup in full flow.
It may take a while.
If I find the book.
Life is more important than a clean bathroom.
Until life involves having guests.
Guess I have another month then.
Of three.
No irritating schedule interruptions.
Yet.
Apart from my continuous interruptions to my blogging. Which are mostly self-administered.
I have been looking at old photos from Trinity in the late eighties, posted on Facebook. Very nostalgic. Very nice photos too. Would make a great book.
I have done all the chores I needed to today, so all I have to is eat, shower, dress and then go looking for the Roberto Bolano book recommended on Colour of Memory recently.
Then I will attempt to clean the bathroom.
Which is beyond acceptable, having waited patiently for Himself to notice the dirt, which is not happening, due to the fishing season being open and the Stanley Cup in full flow.
It may take a while.
If I find the book.
Life is more important than a clean bathroom.
Until life involves having guests.
Guess I have another month then.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Percy's Depressed becomes Chocolate Court
I've been thinking about this for some time.
It's time to decide to be here.
So I'm here now.
For now.
So why Chocolate Lake?
I don't know.
When I googled it, this is the most relevant hit I got. My neighbour, Ms Maggie Beach (don't ask, she picked the name, it's her porn name apparently) used to work in the Armdale Yacht Club, which is just down the road.
In the 1920's young men like Jack Buckley, Jim Egan, and Walter Piers led the way to the incorporation of the Armdale Yacht Club. First from a location close to Jubillee Road, then from 'Mosey' Stoneman's Armdale Boat House and the Edmonds ground, AYC set itself up on Melville Island.
A 1930's challenge with those who raced on Chocolate Lake brought others to the Arm. The 'Siskin' was an early power boat. During the prohibition era she knew about "rum running". Louis 'Tookie' Murphy (AYC's 2nd Commodore) later became Siskin's proud owner. Jim Egan, AYC's first Commodore, was the owner of the other power boat 'Comber'.
Now that it's all about Chocolate and not about Percy, I shall try to find out why it's called Chocolate Lake. I heard that there used to be a chocolate factory by the lake, where the hotel is now. But I don't know if that's true.
It's time to decide to be here.
So I'm here now.
For now.
So why Chocolate Lake?
I don't know.
When I googled it, this is the most relevant hit I got. My neighbour, Ms Maggie Beach (don't ask, she picked the name, it's her porn name apparently) used to work in the Armdale Yacht Club, which is just down the road.
In the 1920's young men like Jack Buckley, Jim Egan, and Walter Piers led the way to the incorporation of the Armdale Yacht Club. First from a location close to Jubillee Road, then from 'Mosey' Stoneman's Armdale Boat House and the Edmonds ground, AYC set itself up on Melville Island.
A 1930's challenge with those who raced on Chocolate Lake brought others to the Arm. The 'Siskin' was an early power boat. During the prohibition era she knew about "rum running". Louis 'Tookie' Murphy (AYC's 2nd Commodore) later became Siskin's proud owner. Jim Egan, AYC's first Commodore, was the owner of the other power boat 'Comber'.
Now that it's all about Chocolate and not about Percy, I shall try to find out why it's called Chocolate Lake. I heard that there used to be a chocolate factory by the lake, where the hotel is now. But I don't know if that's true.
My obsession with Blogger posts continues
I tried to talk about this recently but I was too tired to make any sense.
Because Himself and I are both on gmail and Facebook and share a computer, there's a certain amount of typing in of passwords and user names that goes on when we change over from Kijiji stalking to blogging of an evening.
So regularly I have to go through the Blogger home page or whatever it is.
And it annoys me.
For a number of reasons.
It's a workaday page, so it's really clunky and difficult to get around.
There are posts which are generally too erudite for me to understand about meta stuff etc.
And then, recently, there was a post about some guy called Eric, who left.
And the whole thing was tagged.
And it turned out it was a puff piece for him, his mates, and his new job.
WHICH IS FINE.
I'm all for previous employers giving the good ship entrepreneurship a big push off the wharf.
It's the least they can do for you after you worked your nads off for them for five years.
But why did they make him sound like such a loser?
And why was the photo all about the chick with the hoodie? And not Eric?
I think I may have tracked her down.
Her name is ELLETM (I can't make the TM go up where it should be, because I can't write code).
Why is there a woman called Elle trade marking her name?
ARE YOU STOOPID?
THAT'S NOT COOL.
THAT'S STOOPID.
Okay, I'm going to stop bitching about the landlord now.
Nice Google..... nice...
Because Himself and I are both on gmail and Facebook and share a computer, there's a certain amount of typing in of passwords and user names that goes on when we change over from Kijiji stalking to blogging of an evening.
So regularly I have to go through the Blogger home page or whatever it is.
And it annoys me.
For a number of reasons.
It's a workaday page, so it's really clunky and difficult to get around.
There are posts which are generally too erudite for me to understand about meta stuff etc.
And then, recently, there was a post about some guy called Eric, who left.
And the whole thing was tagged.
And it turned out it was a puff piece for him, his mates, and his new job.
WHICH IS FINE.
I'm all for previous employers giving the good ship entrepreneurship a big push off the wharf.
It's the least they can do for you after you worked your nads off for them for five years.
But why did they make him sound like such a loser?
And why was the photo all about the chick with the hoodie? And not Eric?
I think I may have tracked her down.
Her name is ELLETM (I can't make the TM go up where it should be, because I can't write code).
Why is there a woman called Elle trade marking her name?
ARE YOU STOOPID?
THAT'S NOT COOL.
THAT'S STOOPID.
Okay, I'm going to stop bitching about the landlord now.
Nice Google..... nice...
Three. Blessed. Days. Off. In. A. Row.
I don't ask for much.Three days in a row once a month.
That's all.
Thank you new-ish job.
We have modified hours, so if you work thirty minutes extra every day, you get a day off every three weeks.
Often I have to work anyways.
But this week I don't.
So I have Three. Days. Off. In. A. Row.
Blissful.....
What shall I do?
Actually, I shouldn't say that, because every time I say that on my blog my life jumps up and bites me in the ass and I end up having to do something I don't want to do.
I see Spike Lee told Rev. Wright to shut up.
I'd say that will work alright.
He accused him of being paid to say these things.
By some nefarious being.
A woman no doubt.
Maybe the sub-text was 'or I'll stop giving you money, because you're not saying what I want anymore'.
Sounded like that to my jaded ear.
Oh, oh, oh, I know what I'll be doing for part of the next three days.
I'll be watching the hockey.
Finally, after almost three years, Himself has turned into hockey dude.
It was bound to happen sooner or later.
Almost three years together is about time to start doing all those things you did when you were on your own and you could scratch your bollox whenever you wanted without having to check whether anyone was looking.
Queenie has no problem with the hockey at all. There being nothing else on tv at the moment.
Unfortunately, Himself likes to do stuff with Queenie in the evening, it being the only part of the day when they're together and she's not mainlining coffee in an attempt to wake up.
So Queenie is expected to watch the hockey too.
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnn.
I told him I'd watch on condition I could have a crush on a player and ooh and aah everytime he played.
That was deemed acceptable (I was a bit surprised at that, generally Himself doesn't like my crushes, they being too feminine for him. Or something.)
So then of course, I had to find one.
Yaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnnnsummore.
They're a bit hairy, hockey players, and they're all so young, too young for me really (hence all the acne-covering hair).
And you can't really see anything, what with the big shirts and the shoulder pads and the baggy shorts and the tights (actually, I was told last night they were socks - they look like those woolly tights you wear in the winter) and the helmets.
Nice butts mostly, but.
Very nice butts, acchewerly.
Much nicer than hurler's arse.
Less rounded.
More sculpted.
Must be the skating.
Or maybe it's the lack of Guinness.
So I just went for the best butt and hoped to god that the face was okay too.
Actually, as you can see, he's a cross between early Bjorn Borg and Viggo Mortensen in Hidalgo.
Not bad at all.
And he was born in 1973.
So that puts him in the ballpark. I mean, if he were in his twenties, that would be a bit ewww.
Not that I'm picking on people with boytoys on my blog, ohgodno. I'm all for love's strange iterations, I am.
There he is above, falling on his impeccable ass.
Wait till I tell himself he was born in 1973, is 6'2" and weighs 222lbs.
He plays for the Montreal Canadiens, which are my new team.
Because, as I said last night:
- they are from Montreal, so they speak French and are cool;
- my new heart-throb Kovy plays for them;
- they are not the effing Maple Leafs;
- they are the only Canadian team left in the play offs
No, the effing Pittsburgh Penguins don't count. I don't care what the guys in your work have decided.
Because they are from America, that's why.
No, I don't care that if they win the play-offs that maybe Sydney Crosby, the pride of the
Bluenosers will bring the Stanley Cup to Nova Scotia.
Because that would be like Tipperary getting off in Tullamore to show us Liam on the way home to Thurles, that's why. (yes, I know it's a different train, poetic licence, okay)
I don't care that you don't understand that simile.
It's deep, okay man.
Friggin' Nova Scotians, why do they perpetuate these pathetic fallacies when Ontario is about to enter the equalization program?? Why?? They should do like the Newfoundlanders and offer to send food packages!!
Why do I live in a place where the people are called Bluenosers?
Anyways, the Stanley Cup is on.
I don't understand the rules of the competition.
I do know that every team has to play another team seven times in about two weeks.
That's called a series.
It's actually really good. Very exciting. Three periods of twenty minutes. Lots of goals if you're lucky and a few fights at the end, when one team realises it's in trouble.
Also, in the last few minutes, the losing team takes their goalie off the ice and so there's always the chance there'll be a sneaky goal. That happened last night.
There are four or five series' going on at any one time.
Games are on at a reasonable time. Or really late.
So every evening there's a game YOU GOTTA WATCH.
Because that's all anyone talks about at work.
I knew something the guys in work didn't know today.
I knew where Avery of the lacerated spleen was from.
How does one lacerate one's spleen?
That fact was greeted by a stunned silence.
he he he.
Anyways, we're in some kind of second round of seven game series right now, I think, because all the series I could remember have changed now.
Well, let me start at the beginning.
Hockey starts in August or September. Teams have pre-season games. So you're walking down the street one day in summer and suddenly everyone you know heads down to the Metro Centre because the Maple Leafs are playing the Mooseheads in a pre-season game (a friendly we'd call it, with all the second tier players that entails).
No one comes to your BBQ.
And you have no idea why.
Because the only sports page you read is your brother's and he doesn't do ice hockey.
Then the season starts.
I think it's some kind of a league.
A television programme called Hockey Night in Canada starts to appear on the schedule.
I think this is September/ October, but I'm not sure.
Psycho Bruce used to watch it all the time, for those of you who remember back that far in the blog.
Oooh, ooh, ooh, I forgot to tell you all, I was in the Lawton's Drug Store on Spring Garden Rd a while back, browsing in the baby card section - I forget which baby - and suddenly, I heard a voice that froze me and sent a ripple of fear up my spine. I slid one of my eyes around and there he was stacking shelves behind me, PsychoB of the boiled chicken sandwiches. Wearing a tie though, so he must be management finally. I slid on out of there and haven't been back since.
I digress.
So the League, or the NHL as it's called drones on and on for a while. And then sometime after Christmas, Himself starts talking about how Toronoto (the Maple Leafs, which is his team) aren't going to make the play offs. (The official term is post-season play I believe. If it's post-season, why is it the most important part of the season?)
So we generally have to watch the game (not match, game) where they get dumped out of the League.
And Himself is sad. And curses the luck that makes him a Leafs fan. Without actually telling me why he is a Leafs fan.
Maybe it's a Canadian citizen lottery or something. Like the Vietnam draft. I haven't figured that out yet.
About a week after that, the League turns into the Cup.
I don't know how that happens.
And then everyone watches hockey all the time for about a month.
There's been a lot of pretty much ignored hockey for a while, so I don't know why it gets so exciting now.
But it's around the time the winter ends yet it's still too cold for BBQ and beer, so maybe it's a cultural holding pattern for Canadian males who have been cooped up with their partners all winter.
I keep trying to figure out what's going on.
But Himself is no Queen Dad.
When I was a teenager I would watch rugby and soccer with the Queen Dad on a Wednesday night
when The Queen Mum was playing bridge, or on a Saturday.
And I would ask him questions.
Which he would totally ignore.
Until the ad break.
During which he would explain what was going on. In typical Queen Dad precise detail.
So I know my soccer. And my rugby.
But the Queen Dad went to a hockey game in Vancouver a year ago and deemed the sport a pointless excuse to eat hot dogs in public (Himself was CRUSHED, they're called weiners and they're lovely), so there'll be no help from that quarter.
Himself is happy to talk all the way through the game (not match).
Which bodes well for the future.
But he's not very good at explaining things.
Because he just knows.
Actually, I'm hoping this post will incite music snob into a tutorial.
Speaking of ad breaks, there's one every seven minutes.
WTF?!
Something to do with wages, I'm told.
How come there aren't ads during the European Cup then, heh, heh, heh, huh???!!!!
Anyways, I'm set for the Cup this year.
I has my team, which is about to get dumped out by the nasty Philadelphia Flyers.
And soon I will know what in the name of jebus is going on on the ice.
Soon.
Big big big big shout out to Luke M whose film is going out on the Irish airwaves tonight.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Grange Prize
The best of Canadian and contemporary photography.
Apparently.
I do love the winner's work.
http://www.thegrangeprize.com/index.html
Apparently.
I do love the winner's work.
http://www.thegrangeprize.com/index.html
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Adventures of Lobster Gump
Once upon a time, there was a little boy. Name of Lobster Gump. He lived on a little island far far away. And he drove a little red fire truck. Every time his pappy said he could.
He loved to ring the bell.
Brrrrring, brrrring!! Outa my way, everyone, I'm a headin' her for the fire!
When he was nearly growed up, his pappy let him turn on the big red light on the big red fire truck.
He loved to watch it spin round and round.
One day, when there was a real fire, Lobster Gump watched the real fire dept go by in the big red truck and he jumped up and down so hard in his anger that he stomped on his own little red fire truck.
He was sad after that.
He didn't mean to do that.
He just loved the big red fire truck so much.
And so his pappy let him join the Fire Dept.
And he became a man.
He got himself a girl.
She's right eager for him.
And he got himself a truck.
And pappy done gave him a licence plate for the truck.
That says Deppity Fire Chief.
He shines it every day.
When he can get off the cot.
Pappy says when he's all growed up next year and married, he can drive the big red fire truck.
Lobster can't wait for that day.
He's a gonna drive that truck all the way to the liquor store.
Get himself a two four.
And drink it all in one go.
In the meantime, he's a just sitting on the cot, waiting to get married.
It'll happen one of these days.
And when it does, him and Mrs. Gump'll take off forever.
All the way up north.
In the big red fire truck.
That's almost two hundred miles.
Lobster hopes the price of gas don't go up too much while he's waitin' to git married.
Else he'll never get away.
Before they go, they'll stop to Beautiful Cove for an hour or two.
He'll ring Mrs. Gump's bell a coupla times.
Brrrng, brrring.
He loves to watch her spin round and round.
Under the big red light.
Won't that be a fine day.
When's Lobster gettin' married?
He don't know.
His girl tells him it's the government stopping them.
Nasty mean stoopid people. Always looking in your business.
All lawyered up, yakkin' their mouths off.
Lobster reckons she's probly right.
Least she tells him she is.
Anyhow, enough said for now.
Lobster's gotta go down the Legion tonight for the Sunday bowlin.
He loves to go down there and have a beer and watch the bowlin on the tv.
Did you know, when Lobster became a man, as well as getting him a spot on the big red fire truck, pappy got him a spot as the deppity president of the Legion?
Ain't no finer institution.
He's a good pappy.
Pappy and mumma sure wish Lobster would get married soon.
They're lookin' forward to havin' little tinkers running around the yard.
'Specially since the fishery's gone to hell this year.
We need all the tinkers we can get, pappy says.
Pappy's funny...
Lobster's gotta go watch the bowlin' now. Can't miss it.
But he'll be back to talk to y'all real soon.
Be sure to let us know if you want to hear more about the adventures of Lobster Gump.
He sure loves to talk.
But he's kinda shy in company.
He loved to ring the bell.
Brrrrring, brrrring!! Outa my way, everyone, I'm a headin' her for the fire!
When he was nearly growed up, his pappy let him turn on the big red light on the big red fire truck.
He loved to watch it spin round and round.
One day, when there was a real fire, Lobster Gump watched the real fire dept go by in the big red truck and he jumped up and down so hard in his anger that he stomped on his own little red fire truck.
He was sad after that.
He didn't mean to do that.
He just loved the big red fire truck so much.
And so his pappy let him join the Fire Dept.
And he became a man.
He got himself a girl.
She's right eager for him.
And he got himself a truck.
And pappy done gave him a licence plate for the truck.
That says Deppity Fire Chief.
He shines it every day.
When he can get off the cot.
Pappy says when he's all growed up next year and married, he can drive the big red fire truck.
Lobster can't wait for that day.
He's a gonna drive that truck all the way to the liquor store.
Get himself a two four.
And drink it all in one go.
In the meantime, he's a just sitting on the cot, waiting to get married.
It'll happen one of these days.
And when it does, him and Mrs. Gump'll take off forever.
All the way up north.
In the big red fire truck.
That's almost two hundred miles.
Lobster hopes the price of gas don't go up too much while he's waitin' to git married.
Else he'll never get away.
Before they go, they'll stop to Beautiful Cove for an hour or two.
He'll ring Mrs. Gump's bell a coupla times.
Brrrng, brrring.
He loves to watch her spin round and round.
Under the big red light.
Won't that be a fine day.
When's Lobster gettin' married?
He don't know.
His girl tells him it's the government stopping them.
Nasty mean stoopid people. Always looking in your business.
All lawyered up, yakkin' their mouths off.
Lobster reckons she's probly right.
Least she tells him she is.
Anyhow, enough said for now.
Lobster's gotta go down the Legion tonight for the Sunday bowlin.
He loves to go down there and have a beer and watch the bowlin on the tv.
Did you know, when Lobster became a man, as well as getting him a spot on the big red fire truck, pappy got him a spot as the deppity president of the Legion?
Ain't no finer institution.
He's a good pappy.
Pappy and mumma sure wish Lobster would get married soon.
They're lookin' forward to havin' little tinkers running around the yard.
'Specially since the fishery's gone to hell this year.
We need all the tinkers we can get, pappy says.
Pappy's funny...
Lobster's gotta go watch the bowlin' now. Can't miss it.
But he'll be back to talk to y'all real soon.
Be sure to let us know if you want to hear more about the adventures of Lobster Gump.
He sure loves to talk.
But he's kinda shy in company.
The Greatest Band on Earth. More Bands
Inuit Panda etc. forgot to mention Sonic Youth.
My but we are being stoopid, as Queenie forgot about them too.
Accent Monkey said Prince then, Prince. Because nobody else has voted for him yet, and because I love him.
Polly said The Kings of Leon are the most interesting and entertaining thing to come along in quite a while... I know they only have three albums, but they are very good albums and they are a seriously excellent live act. There, taste defended. exhale. :-)
You're allowed have an opinion on this blog, Polly. Freedom of speech still reigned in Canada last time I checked. Even though the woman who threatened to punch me in the face today (for the sixth time, I really should go talk to a police officer about this and give him my notes, times, dates, locations, etc) told me that I was FUCKED.
That's right FUCKED, because of my blog.
I wonder if people with a criminal record can become RCMP officers?
Worth checking into.
Oh that's right, I already have.
I'm just too nice to do stuff like that.
But nice doesn't really seem to be working seeing as I'm going to be FUCKED anyway.
Well, when I say FUCKED, it may not have been that loud but her face was about two inches from mine while she was saying it (I was sitting down at the time) so it felt kinda loud.
I better not say who the woman is, in case I would be FUCKED as a result. But let's just say, she would be married forever.
I wonder what her favourite band is?
Oh hang on, I'll ask her long suffering husband! Who is in the kitchen making my lobster dinner right now.
Himself says it would have to one of them old Legion bands there, uhm, can't think of any of them now, let's see, oh what's his name.... I don't know, Queenie, I always called them old Legion bands.
Now he's singing 'I seen her over in the corner with another man, but she'll come home with me I'm sure' in a country twang.
So we'll go with Garth Brooks.
My but we are being stoopid, as Queenie forgot about them too.
Accent Monkey said Prince then, Prince. Because nobody else has voted for him yet, and because I love him.
Polly said The Kings of Leon are the most interesting and entertaining thing to come along in quite a while... I know they only have three albums, but they are very good albums and they are a seriously excellent live act. There, taste defended. exhale. :-)
You're allowed have an opinion on this blog, Polly. Freedom of speech still reigned in Canada last time I checked. Even though the woman who threatened to punch me in the face today (for the sixth time, I really should go talk to a police officer about this and give him my notes, times, dates, locations, etc) told me that I was FUCKED.
That's right FUCKED, because of my blog.
I wonder if people with a criminal record can become RCMP officers?
Worth checking into.
Oh that's right, I already have.
I'm just too nice to do stuff like that.
But nice doesn't really seem to be working seeing as I'm going to be FUCKED anyway.
Well, when I say FUCKED, it may not have been that loud but her face was about two inches from mine while she was saying it (I was sitting down at the time) so it felt kinda loud.
I better not say who the woman is, in case I would be FUCKED as a result. But let's just say, she would be married forever.
I wonder what her favourite band is?
Oh hang on, I'll ask her long suffering husband! Who is in the kitchen making my lobster dinner right now.
Himself says it would have to one of them old Legion bands there, uhm, can't think of any of them now, let's see, oh what's his name.... I don't know, Queenie, I always called them old Legion bands.
Now he's singing 'I seen her over in the corner with another man, but she'll come home with me I'm sure' in a country twang.
So we'll go with Garth Brooks.
A true animal lover
is someone who's not afraid to save Rusty!!
Posting from the twin cities....
We have a neighbor two blocks away that has a cat. Now, first off, I like cats. We don't have a pet right now because we have three kids and the last thing I need is another thing to watch. The previous owner of the house we live in had about five cats and they used a lot of potpourri to hide the smell when we looked at the house. The smell was really bad the first year we were here and even today, seven years later, you can still smell them at times. Also when we first moved in, our neighbors had a cat that, due to the smell of the cats that were here, crapped in our garden all the time. That kitty met his demise at the hands of a raccoon in 2002
We started noticing Rusty coming into our yard early last summer. We found he had a tag on his neck and called the owner. The owner is one creepy dude. He came, took his cat and left. A week later, Rusty was back. Some times I would call the owner, other times he would leave on his own. We started finding cat crap in the yard and in the gardens and our neighbors actually had to take their sandbox out because Rusty thought it was his. I started to ask my other neighbors how many times they had called to get Rusty picked up and it was at least ten times combined. One neighbor's dog was bitten by Rusty and another neighbor had Rusty destroy half of her plants. I really started to dislike Rusty's owner when in September, I called him one day, told him I didn't appreciate the unwillingness to control Rusty and the very next day, at Evelyn's birthday party, here comes Rusty again, jumping on our outdoor table and nearly eating Evelyn's cake.
We have definitely seen a decrease in the amount of birds in the area, but my concern is really for the cat. The raccoons still live in the area and so do fox. We have a lot of street traffic and 169 is five blocks away. And I have heard enough neighbors say that if they corner the cat, and no one is watching, they will take care of Rusty the old fashion way. I started to research the laws of Hopkins to see where I stood as a property owner. It said if you have a nuisance dog that you can turn them into a local vet who acts as a pet impound. The next time Rusty came over, I put him into a cage and took him the the vet. He said we don't take cats, you need to go to the police. When I brought him there, the police told me there are no ordinances in regards to cats in the city of Hopkins, just dogs, and that the owner could technically charge me with theft. I asked him if I was in my yard, and Rusty was scratching my kids and I picked him up to help the kids, the minute I held the cat, could I be charged with theft? He said yes. The police went to the owner and said to keep control of the cat and that's the last we saw of the cat until this spring.
The minute it warmed up, I was outside and here comes Rusty. I called the owner for the tenth time and said I've had it. I said I'd called him enough and he just didn't seem to care about the welfare of the cat. The next time Rusty is in my yard, I will take him to the Humane Society .
The creepy owner then tells me, "well he likes to be outside on a leash." I ask then why is the cat running free at all. He shrugged. I told him again that the cat would go to the Humane Society and he said alright. I then went to the Hopkins City Council and pleaded with them to amend the city laws to account for cats the same way they account for dogs. Many of the city council agreed that the property owner does deserve some protection or recourse in a case like this.
Over the next week, I found the cat in my yard three more times. I really was having a lot of mixed feelings about this. On Wednesday night, I came home from a getogether with former co-workers to find the cat in the yard again. I said, this guy seems to be daring me to do this. We got, what we thought, was a sturdy box and placed Rusty in it. Taped it shut (he had breathing holes) and put him in the car. I had to drive about ten miles to the Humane Society and headed out with Rusty riding shotgun. I am guessing that Rusty must have had a hulk like reaction to Gamma radiation in his past because about three miles down the road, Rusty decided he wanted out of the box. He shredded the side of the box facing me and looked at me. It was go time. So here I am wrestling with this cat as I'm driving 65 MPH down the highway in a car with manual transmission. I managed to get off the road and get Rusty back in the box while receiving only one really bad scratch on my arm. Rusty realized his fate was sealed and just "meow-howled" the rest of the way there. I dropped him off and walked away.
The next day, I got a call from the Hopkins City Manager saying that they felt that the nuisance laws currently on the books would be applicable to the cat and vowed to send a cease notice to the owner. Also, I called the Humane Society to explain why a tagged cat was dropped off and they seemed to agree with me, especially when it comes to the safety of the cat. They never reveal how an animal gets to their facility and it costs him $25 bucks to get the cat out. So far, I have not heard anything from either Rusty or the creepy owner. This is what keeps me amused in my life.
Matthew, animal lover.
Hey Matthew, maybe Rusty is your karma? Ever thought of that?
- Queenie
Also, Himself having read this blog entry, says buy a super soaker water pistol and use it on every cat that gets into your yard and within a month you will have a cat-free zone.
Himself is usually right about these things.
- Queenie again
Great story but. We laughed our asses off.
- Queenie yet again.
Posting from the twin cities....
We have a neighbor two blocks away that has a cat. Now, first off, I like cats. We don't have a pet right now because we have three kids and the last thing I need is another thing to watch. The previous owner of the house we live in had about five cats and they used a lot of potpourri to hide the smell when we looked at the house. The smell was really bad the first year we were here and even today, seven years later, you can still smell them at times. Also when we first moved in, our neighbors had a cat that, due to the smell of the cats that were here, crapped in our garden all the time. That kitty met his demise at the hands of a raccoon in 2002
We started noticing Rusty coming into our yard early last summer. We found he had a tag on his neck and called the owner. The owner is one creepy dude. He came, took his cat and left. A week later, Rusty was back. Some times I would call the owner, other times he would leave on his own. We started finding cat crap in the yard and in the gardens and our neighbors actually had to take their sandbox out because Rusty thought it was his. I started to ask my other neighbors how many times they had called to get Rusty picked up and it was at least ten times combined. One neighbor's dog was bitten by Rusty and another neighbor had Rusty destroy half of her plants. I really started to dislike Rusty's owner when in September, I called him one day, told him I didn't appreciate the unwillingness to control Rusty and the very next day, at Evelyn's birthday party, here comes Rusty again, jumping on our outdoor table and nearly eating Evelyn's cake.
We have definitely seen a decrease in the amount of birds in the area, but my concern is really for the cat. The raccoons still live in the area and so do fox. We have a lot of street traffic and 169 is five blocks away. And I have heard enough neighbors say that if they corner the cat, and no one is watching, they will take care of Rusty the old fashion way. I started to research the laws of Hopkins to see where I stood as a property owner. It said if you have a nuisance dog that you can turn them into a local vet who acts as a pet impound. The next time Rusty came over, I put him into a cage and took him the the vet. He said we don't take cats, you need to go to the police. When I brought him there, the police told me there are no ordinances in regards to cats in the city of Hopkins, just dogs, and that the owner could technically charge me with theft. I asked him if I was in my yard, and Rusty was scratching my kids and I picked him up to help the kids, the minute I held the cat, could I be charged with theft? He said yes. The police went to the owner and said to keep control of the cat and that's the last we saw of the cat until this spring.
The minute it warmed up, I was outside and here comes Rusty. I called the owner for the tenth time and said I've had it. I said I'd called him enough and he just didn't seem to care about the welfare of the cat. The next time Rusty is in my yard, I will take him to the Humane Society .
The creepy owner then tells me, "well he likes to be outside on a leash." I ask then why is the cat running free at all. He shrugged. I told him again that the cat would go to the Humane Society and he said alright. I then went to the Hopkins City Council and pleaded with them to amend the city laws to account for cats the same way they account for dogs. Many of the city council agreed that the property owner does deserve some protection or recourse in a case like this.
Over the next week, I found the cat in my yard three more times. I really was having a lot of mixed feelings about this. On Wednesday night, I came home from a getogether with former co-workers to find the cat in the yard again. I said, this guy seems to be daring me to do this. We got, what we thought, was a sturdy box and placed Rusty in it. Taped it shut (he had breathing holes) and put him in the car. I had to drive about ten miles to the Humane Society and headed out with Rusty riding shotgun. I am guessing that Rusty must have had a hulk like reaction to Gamma radiation in his past because about three miles down the road, Rusty decided he wanted out of the box. He shredded the side of the box facing me and looked at me. It was go time. So here I am wrestling with this cat as I'm driving 65 MPH down the highway in a car with manual transmission. I managed to get off the road and get Rusty back in the box while receiving only one really bad scratch on my arm. Rusty realized his fate was sealed and just "meow-howled" the rest of the way there. I dropped him off and walked away.
The next day, I got a call from the Hopkins City Manager saying that they felt that the nuisance laws currently on the books would be applicable to the cat and vowed to send a cease notice to the owner. Also, I called the Humane Society to explain why a tagged cat was dropped off and they seemed to agree with me, especially when it comes to the safety of the cat. They never reveal how an animal gets to their facility and it costs him $25 bucks to get the cat out. So far, I have not heard anything from either Rusty or the creepy owner. This is what keeps me amused in my life.
Matthew, animal lover.
Hey Matthew, maybe Rusty is your karma? Ever thought of that?
- Queenie
Also, Himself having read this blog entry, says buy a super soaker water pistol and use it on every cat that gets into your yard and within a month you will have a cat-free zone.
Himself is usually right about these things.
- Queenie again
Great story but. We laughed our asses off.
- Queenie yet again.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
A true Canadian
... is someone who can make love in a canoe.
I was told that once by a Cowboy Junkie.
Goddamn huge, wide, heavy things.
Any normal person could do it, I'm sure.
Anyways, after weeks of Kijiji-stalking, we found an old sixteen footer, with lovely wooden trim and the original seats still intact.
Not so sure we'll be portaging it through the wilderness anytime soon.
But it'll be great for fishing and camping. And pottering round Chocolate Lake spying on the neighbours.
So, yard cleaned up .... check.
Washer toss game unearthed from under the doorstep ... check.
New garden chairs .... check.
Lake canoe ... check.
Let the summer commence.
I was told that once by a Cowboy Junkie.
Goddamn huge, wide, heavy things.
Any normal person could do it, I'm sure.
Anyways, after weeks of Kijiji-stalking, we found an old sixteen footer, with lovely wooden trim and the original seats still intact.
Not so sure we'll be portaging it through the wilderness anytime soon.
But it'll be great for fishing and camping. And pottering round Chocolate Lake spying on the neighbours.
So, yard cleaned up .... check.
Washer toss game unearthed from under the doorstep ... check.
New garden chairs .... check.
Lake canoe ... check.
Let the summer commence.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
This greatest thing is going to be tough
Some more picks from people.
The Clash
The Who
Tom Waits
Bob Dylan
and, I dunno, Ella Fitzgerald era Duke Ellington band just to make sure that everyone thinks I'm a music snob.
Then again Led Zed is pretty good too.
Yes, Mike, us music snobs have got to stick together in this crazy world of cock rockk.
Polly is taking your "bands" thing literally and thus leaving out
Stevie Wonder (and the reason you would put him in is????? Sorry, hate SW)
Elvis Presley
Van (the man I assume)
David Bowie
so...
Led Zeppelin
The Kings of Leon
The Beatles
Fleetwood Mac
The Rolling Stones (which Luke has also voted for)
I have a feeling the kings of cock are going to run away with this one.
The Clash
The Who
Tom Waits
Bob Dylan
and, I dunno, Ella Fitzgerald era Duke Ellington band just to make sure that everyone thinks I'm a music snob.
Then again Led Zed is pretty good too.
Yes, Mike, us music snobs have got to stick together in this crazy world of cock rockk.
Polly is taking your "bands" thing literally and thus leaving out
Stevie Wonder (and the reason you would put him in is????? Sorry, hate SW)
Elvis Presley
Van (the man I assume)
David Bowie
so...
Led Zeppelin
The Kings of Leon
The Beatles
Fleetwood Mac
The Rolling Stones (which Luke has also voted for)
I have a feeling the kings of cock are going to run away with this one.
Born to Run in the USA
'I think that your entire life is a process of sorting out some of those early messages that you got.' - Bruce Springsteen.
I love The Boss.
He should be on the list for Greatest Band in the World ever.
And on the list of Greatest Dudes in the World ever too.
His music got me through the eighties and the nineties.
And I love his take on life.
Usually.
But he and I have diverged on the issue of the best Democratic Candidate in the World Right Now.
I suppose I shall have to give in finally.
Admit defeat.
But I am sad.
There was a great sketch on SNL last night (although I think it was a repeat). Obama calls Hilary at 3am and cries down the phone at her about his problems.
Which she sorts out.
And then she explains how to get the circuit breaker working again.
So I suppose I am not sad in a way, because she will still be around.
Politics is a dirty business.
I love The Boss.
He should be on the list for Greatest Band in the World ever.
And on the list of Greatest Dudes in the World ever too.
His music got me through the eighties and the nineties.
And I love his take on life.
Usually.
But he and I have diverged on the issue of the best Democratic Candidate in the World Right Now.
I suppose I shall have to give in finally.
Admit defeat.
But I am sad.
There was a great sketch on SNL last night (although I think it was a repeat). Obama calls Hilary at 3am and cries down the phone at her about his problems.
Which she sorts out.
And then she explains how to get the circuit breaker working again.
So I suppose I am not sad in a way, because she will still be around.
Politics is a dirty business.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The greatest band on earth
And so it begins...
Chocolate Socialist quite rightly pointed out that I got the lyrics to The Smiths entry assways.
Apologies for that.
I had most of a bottle of wine in me.
Rottenhat contributed in a positive way.
The Fall
Roxy Music
And a vote for The Smiths from his wife.
So the voting list is as follows right now:
Himself's Picks
Led Zeppelin
Nirvana
BB King
Neil Young - based on Harvest
Jimi Hendrix
Theory of a Deadman
Kris' Picks
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
The Smiths
Agreed Picks
The Cult
The Cure
The Who
Queenie's Picks
Radiohead
Low
My Bloody Valentine
Chocolate Socialist quite rightly pointed out that I got the lyrics to The Smiths entry assways.
Apologies for that.
I had most of a bottle of wine in me.
Rottenhat contributed in a positive way.
The Fall
Roxy Music
And a vote for The Smiths from his wife.
So the voting list is as follows right now:
Himself's Picks
Led Zeppelin
Nirvana
BB King
Neil Young - based on Harvest
Jimi Hendrix
Theory of a Deadman
Kris' Picks
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
The Smiths
Agreed Picks
The Cult
The Cure
The Who
Queenie's Picks
Radiohead
Low
My Bloody Valentine
Friday, April 18, 2008
I am the sun and the earth
Kris is listening to 'How soon is now?' by The Smiths.
Where would you put this song?
In the 'Greatest Band in the World' canon.
It is just a song.
But still.
It is at the point in the evening when Kris wants me to type the words of the song out while it's playing.
Why do I always have to do the typing?
Himself is asleep with his head on the table.
He talked the whole way through Radiohead.... then fell asleep.
I am the song. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
Tum ti tum ti tum
You shut your mouth. How can you say
That I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I want to be loved
Just like everybody else does.
I am the sun. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
At this point, Himself woke up to say that that is it really for him with that song.
I thought it was pretty good...
What would you pick?
Where would you put this song?
In the 'Greatest Band in the World' canon.
It is just a song.
But still.
It is at the point in the evening when Kris wants me to type the words of the song out while it's playing.
Why do I always have to do the typing?
Himself is asleep with his head on the table.
He talked the whole way through Radiohead.... then fell asleep.
I am the song. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
Tum ti tum ti tum
You shut your mouth. How can you say
That I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I want to be loved
Just like everybody else does.
I am the sun. I am the earth
Of a shyness that is criminally broken
At this point, Himself woke up to say that that is it really for him with that song.
I thought it was pretty good...
What would you pick?
The Last Snowflake
Kris, Himself and I are starting the summer debate.
This year's debate is: 'Who is the greatest band ever?'
'Besides Led Zeppelin', says Himself.
This is a simple ploy on Himself's part to try to make sure he picks the winning band.
In case Nirvana doesn't win.
Kris is hedging her bets.
She's changed her mind twice, but I love all her choices so far.
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
And one more, she can't remember.
You can pick four bands.
You can change them as many times as you like.
At the end of the summer we will agree on the best band in the world.
We are listening to Nirvana, right now, we started with Santana and Coldplay.
And we don't have a gun.
Says Himself.
And later, I'll get Radiohead on.
Because I'm doing the typing, that's why!
We cannot wait to hear what you think.
Ta ta , says Himself, broadcasting from a free Melwood.
This year's debate is: 'Who is the greatest band ever?'
'Besides Led Zeppelin', says Himself.
This is a simple ploy on Himself's part to try to make sure he picks the winning band.
In case Nirvana doesn't win.
Kris is hedging her bets.
She's changed her mind twice, but I love all her choices so far.
U2
The Doors
Coldplay
Stone Temple Pilots
And one more, she can't remember.
You can pick four bands.
You can change them as many times as you like.
At the end of the summer we will agree on the best band in the world.
We are listening to Nirvana, right now, we started with Santana and Coldplay.
And we don't have a gun.
Says Himself.
And later, I'll get Radiohead on.
Because I'm doing the typing, that's why!
We cannot wait to hear what you think.
Ta ta , says Himself, broadcasting from a free Melwood.
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