something different

I didn't ever come back to the time at the Sharjah International Book Fair last December, where I sat on a panel very much like the one in the picture, with the Minister of this and the Professor of that and a moderator with a frown you could build a temple on.  Serious moderator.   Our discussion was titled: The Nectar Of Meaning, a topic so, um open (that is to say, meaningless, not to say stupid and hilarious), that I spent no time in preparation.  There were TV cameras and translators and an actual audience, and the other panelists pulled out sheafs (or sheaves, like bringing in the sheaves?) of notes, and I sat there, mesmerised by the moderator's lowered mono brow and note taking which was in Arabic (duh) and backward - that is, right to left (also duh. I don't get out much).  I actually stared down at the hand and thought, Cool.  I am such a doofus.

The other panelists spoke first. They used the phrase nectar of meaning a couple of times.  The prof got especially worked up about it.  Thing is, I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about.  I had a translation, all right, but the concepts were so abstract, the sentences so laboriously constructed and hard to decipher that nothing registered in my ear.  They might as well have been saying blah blah blah blah nectar of meaning blah blah.  Half an hour later the darkness was still total.  Then it was my turn.  The moderator wanted to know what I could add to my fellow-panelists' analyses.

I started my own talk with the phrase, And now for something completely different.  Then I told some stories and hoped for one of those scene missing slides. 

The reason I remember this Sharjah moment now, months later, is that I went through a similar experience last week. 

I was part of a quarter of writers at a genre-type literary event.  Now, I have no issues with genre writing -- I read a lot of detective stories and fantasy.  But for all my metaphysical speculation I don't write genre (unless you figure that all writing is one genre or another - which I kind of believe.  The tropes of fantasy - elves and swords, quests and curses and magic rings -- are not much different than the tropes of serious literary fiction --  exotic older love interests, mentally troubled siblings, sexual secrets).  Anyway.  I listened to these talented folks reading about magic and the coming of the Star Cats, about fae and their non-human heroines, and I applauded along with the rest of the audience.  And then it was my turn, and I opened my spiel with:  And now for something pretty darn different.

Funny?

I am no longer going to apologize for blogging infrequently.  Yes, I could be more diligent.  I could also be taller, cuter, richer, and better groomed.  But I'm not so, well, what the hell?  Yeah, that's my defence: the WTH defence.  (I wonder if that would work on a murder charge?  Yeah, your honour, I killed him, but, you know, what the hell? )

Tons of stuff has happened.  Chanukah, Christmas,Kwanzaa, New Year's, Martin Luther King Day, my youngest's birthday.  Tons.  I can't remember New Year's -- I must have had too much fun.  (I can't remember MLK Day either.)  I've been to Florida to visit my dad.  I've been to a bunch of schools to talk about stories.  I've finished editing my magic camera book.  And I've had a haircut. 


Gonna talk briefly about humour today.  Kind of my bread and butter, since I tend to write funny-ish books (that's my story, anyway).   Is anything off limits for humour?  Off the top I'm going to answer, No.  You can tell a joke about anything.  Yes any subject.  But for me to find a joke funny, it can't be mean.  Tasteless, stupid, pointed - sure.  But not mean.  

I like to push boundaries a bit, to shock or surprise the reader or listener.  Without surprise there's no humour. The whole point of the joke is the unexpected element.  When the grasshopper hops up onto the stool and the bartender says, Hey there's a drink named after you, and the grasshopper goes, Really, there's a drink named Bob?  we laugh (maybe not anymore --  it's a pretty old joke) because we don't expect the bug to have a human name.

Shock can be funny -- Robin Williams' favorite joke features incest, and the shock is part of the humour. There's the one about the homicidal pedophile taking the little boy into the woods -- that's pretty funny too.  When I was a kid we'd roll on the ground laughing at dead baby humour. These jokes are not mean.  If some people find them offensive, that says more about the listener than the joke.  I'm happy to ignore any response that begins:  How dare you ... 

BUT is there a funny racist joke? Is there a funny joke that makes fun of the way some people speak? Not to me.  Because they're mean jokes.  I happen to think Leminy Snickett is a smart and talented guy, and I have tons of sympathy for an emcee trying to be funny and grabbing what he thinks is an easy laugh (I have done this myself - and got in trouble for it).  But that joke at Jacqueline Woodson's expense is a loser because it's kind of mean.  If Leminy were African-American it would still be a lousy joke because it makes fun of a stereotype, and that's not good. Mort Sahl standing up halfway through the premier of the (very long) movie Exodus and shouting at the director:  Otto, let my people go! is funny because he is making fun, not of a stereotype, but of something that happened to the Jews.  So, Holocaust humour - sure. But jokes based on how Jews, or any group of people, are perceived will be a harder sell.  That's victimizing.  You'll have to really surprise me.

Is there a funny Ghomeshi joke?  I'm going to say it's possible.  Because the only one you'd be victimizing is him, and he kind of deserves it.

Saskatchewan and Sharjah

Did I talk about my time in Sharjah?  I didn't?  It has been a while.  Yeah, I scored the trifecta for literary travel this fall -- Brazil, Arab Emirates, Saskatchewan.  All it takes is a bit of luck and the ability to say, Yes, when someone asks if you want to go someplace. 

So, Saskatchewan.  Walked across the tarmac in Regina shivering like a bunch of castanets. -45 with the wind chill.   No I am not kidding.  You know how it is when you take a breath and your lips, lungs and inside of your nose freeze solid?  Like that.  Thank heavens my car, air bnb, local restaurant and schools were all well heated.  Actually, I had a great time in Regina and Saskatoon, hanging out with a couple of the '7' authors and chatting to large bunches of goofy kids.  Among other things I learned that St Timothy was one of the guys Paul sent letters to.  (Apparently the fast route to sainthood is to be on Paul's Christmas list.)  Man, the prairie cold is a real thing -- not like our southern Ontario version.  Yeah, I know, wet cold get here is supposed to make you feel worse than dry cold, but numbers don't lie and -45, no matter how dry, is plenty plenty cold.  

 A week earlier I was jogging around a person-made lagoon in dry, sunny, 27-degree weather, on my way to the 'blue' souk to grab prezzies for my kids (there are two kinds of souks -- blue and gold.  The gold one only deals in precious metals, and my kids are not getting those kinds of prezzies).  I saw a totally unexpected --

Shoot, time has done its thing and I am late.  How does that happen?  I still haven't said much about Sharjah.  Remind me to tell you about my televised panel discussion with the lit. professors and minister of education.  Topic:  'The Nectar Of Meaning.'  Oh yeah. Scrimger playing with the big kids. Til soon.

charades in Brazil

So I'm back, and if you didn't know I was away, that's, well, realistically, my fault, since I don't update my status very regularly. (Lot of commas in that sentence, did you notice? I'm not fond of them normally but there they are. Anyway --)

Brazil.  That's where I was, representing my country loud and proud at the Porto Alegre Book Fair, the - ahem - largest outdoor book fair in the world.  The fair is proud of that claim and makes it often.

Porto Alegre is a real city, biggish but understandable, not like Sao Paulo which is bigger than most countries. Porto Alegre has a university, some industry, a huge marketplace (that's it in the picture) and government stuff floating on top.  There's a good vibe, lively and friendly.  Not touristy.  Not at all.  In fact I had real trouble making myself understood.

I'm used to travelling in Europe where people, especially service people, are polyglots, and since I can get by in English and (sort of) French, I can hail a cab and order a meal and avoid getting run over most of the time.  Not in Porto Alegre, though.  I almost missed my flight because they changed the gate and only told us in Portuguese.  The desk guy at my hotel (The Grand Amazing Metropolitan or something - totally normal mid-price place close to the fair) smiled widely but shrugged at my questions, pointing at my room number and pantomiming opening the door. 

And that was the norm.  For me Porto Alegre is the city of charades.  Thank heavens for the fair volunteers who made sure I got to my various events.  Thank heavens for the English-language-based schools I talked to, and the journalists, and the other Canadian authors, who maybe preferred French to English but spoke it well and didn't mind me bumbling away in their language. 

But the rest of the trip -- hilarious!  I love walking around a new city, getting a sense of it.  It's my favorite thing to do.  I did a lot of walking around in my few days in Porto Alegre.  And everywhere I went, every question I asked, every encounter with a native, broke down to the lowest common denominator of personal exchange: charades. 

Yup.  Just like this. Take coffee, for instance.  I drink a lot of it and Brazil makes good coffee.  But I wasn't able to convey that I drink my coffee with milk. Coffee with milk is easy in English, in French, in Spanish.  But not Porto Alegre Portuguese.  I tried milk on the side.  I tried a glass of milk.  I got a hundred frowns, shrugs, enlightened nods followed by whipped cream (and once a cream-filled doughnut.  That made me laugh out loud).  I mimed pouring milk into coffee, and got sugar.  I mooed and got a startled response, which I can't really blame the waiter for.  Cappuccino worked, but I don't want cappuccino all the time and I couldn't get across the idea that I didn't want the milk foamed. 

Not until I lunched with the the Canadian Trade Commissioner, on my last day there.  Paulo is friendly and hard-working.  We got on well.  He blinked when I explained my request, said something to the waiter.  The coffee arrived the way I like it - the milk was even warm. 

Thanks!  This is great!  How do I order it? I asked Paulo, who frowned at his own espresso.

I drink a man's coffee he said, and changed the subject.

This part of Brazil - gaucho country - has a strong sense of machismo, and Paulo is a man's man.  If I go back I'm going to have to learn the Portuguese for woman's coffee.

where am I again?

I'm terrible.  I should be posting more frequently. I have lots to say.  Stuff is happening.  But, alas, though my life keeps getting fuller, the number of minutes in the day stays the same.  So not only am I not posting as often as I'd like, I am not able to write as lengthily as I used.

So, like, I am in Alberta now, land of farms and oil and cities like Edmonton, where the streets are numbered and change numbers from block to block so that what used to be 66th is now 75th ...  and then it turns into 66th again.  As if the city was designed by a numerate geek who had too much to drink and then started punching away at the calculator.

It's easy to get lost (in fact it's almost impossible not to get lost) , which is too bad if there's a  schoolful of kids waiting for you to talk to them.

On the good side, it's not boring. 

guys n gals n fuss

Let's talk stereotypes.  Not race or age or class ones, they're eye-rolling and I often get them wrong. (Those guys - they're the ones who can't jump, right?  No? Then are they the ones who can't parallel park?  Who marry their cousins?  Wait, that's us?  Oh.  I'm bad at this.)

Let's talk sex, because even at their most misleading, sex-stereotypes can be funny and embarrassing.

Someone called a stereotype the shortest distance between two minds (unless one of the minds is mine, and we're talking about those incestuous non-parkers), so there's some truth buried in the lies around guys and gals.  I was talking with a gal pal about birthdays today.  Her husband had forgotten hers, and she was mildly steamed.  We've been together for 28 years, you think he'd remember even though he's only a guy, she said, or something like that.  My mom and sisters remembered, she said.  My co-workers took me to lunch, she said.  There was wine and cake, she said.  Come to think of it, maybe she was a bit more than mildly steamed.

I got to thinking.  With application, I can come up with a dozen or two birth dates for people in my life, but how many of those do I remember on the date? (And by remember I don't mean gifts from the jeweler or bakery or lunch with wine.  I'm talking a phone call or email, a Hey, slugger today's the day kind of remembrance.)   And the answer came back -- the ones whose birthdays I note are the ones who remind me.  And all of those -- a solid one hundred per-cent -- are female.

My first thought is Eek. Not that I don't remember more dates on my own.  I am ok with that.  My Eek is that so many more woman than men worry about this stuff.  Of course my test sample is small, and my data aren't valid.  But they are overwhelming, and if they are valid, I want to know why?  Why?  Aren't women supposed to fear getting old (not like men -- we love it).  What's the good of an official notice that you now have a bigger number beside the AGE column of your various applications?  How is this fun?  Even the cake and wine don't do as much for you as they did when you were eight or eighteen.  The fuss doesn't make - pardon me - sense. 

Is that it?  I wondered.  Is it the fuss? Queen for a day is a stereotype after all -- there's no real guy equivalent.  (Tsar for a day?  Daily Despot ...) 

Gee, I hope I'm wrong.  The feminist in me demands that we women value ourselves every day of the year, rather than trying to persuade others to notice us on one special day.  Secretary's Day is demeaning.  I don't want charity.  As a women I would SO not remind my guy self that I have a birthday coming up.

Of course, I am not a woman, and I like to make people feel good.  One way to do this is to listen to them.  My gal pal had finished talking.  It was my turn.  There was silence on the line, and then - belatedly, for the dumb guy stereotype has some truth to it - it dawned on me.  Happy Birthday, I said.  Many Happy Returns.  I'm sending you some flowers.

Aw, thanks -- you remembered, she said. 

I hung up and started googling florists. 

boy2man

Your kids are your pride and joy, your cross and anchor, your pillar and post, your hopes and fears for all the years. They need your love and attention, advice and consent, support and validation.  And they grow.  And somewhere along the way to adulthood you stop thinking of them in terms of yourself.  They stop being primarily your anything and you can see them as themselves.

Ed spent the first part of the summer hitch-hiking across Canada without texting or phoning much, which has been just fine with me.  A friend asked if I was even a little bit worried when I didn't hear from him?  No, I said, emphatically, I'd worry more if did get in touch a lot, because that would mean he was bored or broke.  Or dead in a ditch, said my friend.  Or that, I agreed, but of the three possibilities -- bored, broke, dead -- the first two are way more likely.  My friend said she was glad I was not her dad, and I agreed.

Ed finally called from Vancouver last week.  I could hear the satisfaction in his voice, the sense of accomplishment.  He'd made it all the way across the country.  I decided to fly out and meet him, because I like Vancouver and seldom get a chance to see my friends out there and, well, because I missed my boy. Also because I believe in story arc, and Ed hitch-hiking home would be a long denouement. Sam and Frodo don't have to walk home from Mount Doom.  Ed had got all the way to the coast, thrown his ring into the fire, and he should go home on the back of an eagle (well, a Boeing 737).

So I fly out, and Ed and I end up one evening in the Alibi Room (such a great bar) and on my way back from the bathroom I see that he seems to be getting on very well with the table next to ours, half a dozen mixed twenty-somethings with Teutonic-type accents. Lots of laughter.  And then, as I approach, I see everyone, including Ed, lean forward and snort something off the backs of their hands.  Like this.

Seriously.  Now I am not more of a hypocrite than I can help.  I can't say I have never ingested anything off my hand - or someone else's hand, come to think of it.  So I am not appalled at what I see.  But I probably look a little quizzical. Hey Dad, says Ed, wiping his nose, you should try this stuff.  It's great! 

Turns out they are snorting snuff, which I have always associated with pre-cigarette culture but which seems to be enjoying a renaissance what with smoking being so uncool (like horking up your nose is sexy?  Not that I am judging.  But, you know, really?) and socially complicated.  Whatever.  Anyway, we move the tables together and hang out together until the bar closes, another hour or so.  Yes, I try the snuff too.  I get a zippy feeling and a huge hit of mint -- seems I am snorting menthol, funny because back in the day these were so not the cool cigarettes.

I am dazzled -- positively dazzled -- at how easy Ed is with me and all these strangers.  He is confident, careless, funny, teaching some English and learning some Schweizerdeutsch, palling with the guys and flirting with the gals, unself-conscious, putting it out there and not worrying about looking like a dork.  It's not a chrysalis-butterfly transformation, but Ed has modulated, modified, altered over the last few months.  Or maybe the change is partly him and partly the way I see him.  Yes, he'll always be my boy but he is also, clearly, totally, himself.