bondage, no discipline

Before I get to bonding time with the kids, I want to keep my promise to you. THIS --->
is the other possible cover for my new book, out next spring. My publisher can't decide which concept to go with. They both look like the same concept to me; but this is less obviously pixelated. (Remember the one a few posts ago, with the Pac Man type graphics?)
So which of the two images do you like? Can you think of another picture idea you would use as the cover of a book set partly in the west end of Toronto and partly in a hotel in the sky, featuring many dead characters who look like pirates, nightmares, or old ladies with black kerchiefs? Oh, yeah, and there's a pool game in the middle, which is of course what these cover images are capturing. As before, you can email me or post a response here.
And for any kids reading this blog, I am trying to put together a contest about the cover. I'll tell you more about it in a week or so when I have a chat with Peter the web guy.

Enough business for now. Let me address my issue for today -- bonding time with kids. Remember the family dinner? Big table, with stew or roast in the middle, and Mom and Dad at each end? I do. What a great way for parents to catch up with each other and the kids, a re-uniting if you will, a diurnal reweaving of threads into that intimate and colourful that was the family. Well, for a variety of reasons including but not limited to kid scheduling, jobs with long hours, laziness, bent-family dynamics, dietary restrictions and of course more laziness, my kids do not have a serious family dinner very often at my place.
So where do we bond? We take our moments where we find them. Sometimes we bond in the car, on the way to soccer. (I know about Ed's pet peeves, for instance. Fascinating topic of discussion for next time.) We bond in the doctor's waiting room. (Imo's spots have brought us seriously close together. We both hate the radio station playing in the background.) And we bond over homework. (I know way more about the war of the Austrian Succession than I used to. Thank you, Thea.) If you think about it, there are tons more chances to bond nowadays. No, we don't have dinnertime. But there are many more opportunities for kid-parent contact than there used to be, since kids don't seem to go anywhere on their own. In my childhood I only saw my parents at dinner and bedtime. Every other part of the day I got to under my own steam. (All right, they drove me to the hospital. But it's hard to bond when you are in shock from blood loss.) Frederico, Ed's busy friend, has four sports and culture activities every week, and he needs a lift to and from each of these. He has allergies, meaning hospital and drug store visits, a part-time job on the far side of town, and no driver's license. Far as I can figure out, no more than a couple of hours ever goes by without parental input.

I wonder if he eats dinner alone? He might enjoy the solitude.

perfect job

Ed has found the perfect summer job. He isn't working there yet - but he wants to. He was quite excited when he told me about it after dinner last night.

What is this perfect job? I wondered. (Ed, remember, is 15.) Do they pay you to sleep? I asked. Or to play video games and look at naked girls?

No, apparently. But it seems I have the wrong idea about work.

That wouldn't be a job, Dad, he said. In order for it to be a job, it must be something you don't want to do.

(Sounds like Ed has fallen among Presbyterians, eh? If it's fun it can't be any good. Though his assessment is probably correct, at least in terms of what's available for teens in the workplace.)

So tell me about it, I said.

Turns out that the perfect summer job is (wait for it) working at the pool supply store in the mall. (I know -- I didn't guess either). Ed's friend Frederico is there now, and figures to get Ed in by next week. The best part of the job is sweeping the patio. They leave you alone, and you can wander off the patio for hours at a time. Frederico hung around the mall with me for an hour yesterday, he said, and got paid. Isn't that sweet?

I agreed. But you want to be careful, don't you. If they find you wandering around the mall, you'd get fired.

Ed stared at me. What are you saying, Dad?

I'm saying that if you get the job you should maybe stay close to the patio. Maybe even sweep it.

He shook his head. You just don't get it Dad. The job is perfect because you can wander away. If you don't wander away, it's not a perfect job.

I had to admit his point. Bit of a Catch 22.

Let me see if I understand your philosophy, I said. If you get paid to do nothing, and do nothing, it's not really work. But if you get paid to do something, and do nothing, then it's a good job.

Bingo! He patted me on the arm. He'd been eating a fudgesicle, messily, so it wasn't a perfect moment. But I had to smile.

Sounds like this summer job should be good training for your future career, I told him, rinsing my arm under the tap.

In pool supply?

Oh, no, I said. In politics.

Next time -- my publisher's new cover design.

me and death - one

I had many moments in which to ponder this weekend. Many, many moments. Small-town hospitals have their charms, but readily available doctors are not one of them. So as I sat in the Emergency waiting room (and that's an interesting idea, isn't it?) watching the sun sink, and set, and twilight come and go, and the moon rise, and, later set (I'm serious -- poor Imo, her mysterious spots, and I spent Saturday afternoon and night, and some of Sunday morning, in the ER) -- as time passed in a dream of worry, crossword puzzle clues, jokes from The Simpsons and vending machine snacks, I pondered the cover for my new book.

That's it over there, of course. The preliminary draft. My publisher floated it by me last week and I've been thinking about it.

Covers are important. They are the first thing a reader sees, and very (very!) often the deciding factor in whether to buy. They are designed to get you to pick up the book. Once it's in your hand, you're halfway to the check-out.

Sometimes you know about a cover. The first time I saw the cover for Mystical Rose, I knew. That lady in the dated photo, staring away from the camera, was perfect. Same for Into the Ravine. I opened the email attachment, saw the rough mock-up, and went, Wow.

I'm not saying, Wow, this time. Not right away. My own first idea was to have a dead black cover -- Metallica style -- with the only writing on the spine of the book. Cool, huh? I said to my publisher. No, she said. But it's about death, I said, all cool and black. No, she said. (She's got her considering and thoughful side, my publisher, but when she doesn't like something she lets you know. I still hear about a shirt I wore in 1998.)

So you've had a minute or two to look at the cover. Look again. No, not the Metallica one -- mine, up at the top. Okay. What do you think? Let me know. Pixel art is supposed to be a hot ticket right now. Retro-chic. The designer has just come up with another version. I'll run it in a couple days. You can get in touch here or through the website contact page. (If you are too lazy to check back it's hello@scrimger.ca) I'm interested. Would you (this is the question) -- would you, without knowing anything about the book, pick it up?

Okay, enough for today. Imo's awake now. I'm afraid to ask how she's feeling.

I wants to make your flesh creep

More tales from the job hunt front. This one from Imo, who has finished school and is handing out resumes.

Does your neighborhood have an officially creepy building? When I was growing up there was an old house with a turret which, we believed, was owned by witches. I remember walking past it one Wednesday night on my way home from choir practice (this was during my brief flirtation with organized religion, a story for another day -- briefly, I was attracted not by the theology or music but the prospect of a monthly salary) when the front door opened and a tremendously tall thin lady emerged. Her face was chalk white, bloodless from being drawn up to the full moon. I ran as from a hound of hell. Here's a picture that looks something like the place.


There's a tiny restaurant on the main street of my small town. To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever crossed the dusty threshold. My children hurry past the place, faces averted from the fly-specked front window that always displays the sign: OPEN. So I was surprised to hear that Imo had applied for a job there. Ed was not surprised. He was ... I don't know what. Flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. I know no word strong enough to express the strength of his gob-smacked-ness.
You went inside the Mid-Town Restaurant? he said.
Imo nodded. I was walking past it and I thought, Why not? she said.
(Quick sidebar: How many horror movies have begun with the words, Why not? I'll just check on that noise in the creepy dusty attic. I'll run down to the abandoned campground where the kids were all murdered years ago. I'll investigate that funny thing I saw in the corn field. Why not? )
I couldn't help wondering what kind of tips Imo could expect in a place with no customers, but I wanted to encourage her. Good for you. What happened? Do you think you got the job?
She sat down and clasped her hands together. Gathering our attention.
I walked in, she began slowly. The floors were sticky. The air was clammy, with smells of rot and mildew and old old grease. No one was there except ...
She paused. The kitchen clock ticked loudly.
Except what? asked Ed.
Except an old man in a table off in the corner. He looked up from his cigarette, his face wreathed in smoke, and said (making her voice all raspy) , They're waiting for you ... in the back ...
Ed's eyes were the size of saucers.
What did you do? he whispered.
I ran, said Imo. I'm never walking down King Street again.
I didn't feel like laughing. The place sounded awfully darn creepy.

I wonder if the library is hiring storytellers this summer. Imo would be a natural.

life cliches

I'd have got up earlier, only the alarm clock didn't work properly because I didn't set it right -- which makes it my fault. Hmmm. Or you could say that I'd have got up earlier, only I was too dim to buy an alarm clock I could use. Again, my fault. I want to blame the alarm clock, but I can't seem to get there. It's hard to overcome your early training, and one of the phrases of my childhood was: It's a poor workman who blames his tools.

Don't know why my parents picked this particular life cliche to fasten on, considering that my dad is possibly the least handy guy in the world after Stephen Hawking (and what a cheap joke that was. Apologies, Dad. You are way handier than Stephen Hawking. Apologies to you too, Steve. Problem is that there aren't enough famous quadriplegics. You and Christopher Reeve are it, no? I suppose I could have used a blind icon instead of a paralysed one. Helen Keller: not handy around the house. Ray Charles: lousy choice to host a home reno show. You would not want to give a reciprocating saw to Louis Braille, or John Milton, or Tiresias, or Michael J. Fox for that matter, which brings us to a whole new aisle in the supermarket of bad taste) -- but that was the phrase we heard most often. No matter what went wrong -- broken bikes, broken hearts, goals unmet, goals against -- you were never allowed to blame the outside world. My parents were teaching us a tough truth: whatever happens to you, it's your fault.

Kind of a bleak life cliche. Not a lot of room for miracles or metaphysics. Bad luck if you are born in disease or abuse or Darfur. But there's a strong element of usefulness there too: your life is what you make it.

Compare a poor workman blames his tools with some other life cliches. A high-school friend had: If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. What does this teach? Don't bother dreaming, kid. I'm kind of partial to dreams myself. I'm glad I didn't get that drilled into me. Or a how about the classic: Never complain, never explain. I didn't hear that until I met my ex in-laws, and then I heard it all the time. Surely that advice is just plain wrong. Communication is a good thing. We'd never know about abuse or Darfur if no one complained. Mind you, I have never been described as the strong silent type, and complaining does make you look like a bit of a ween (my kids' new favorite word. I want to use it while it's still current).

Notice that all these rules for living share a basic underlying philosophy: Life sucks. Sheesh. Are there any happy life cliches?

Time's up for today. Back to real work. Hey, I've seen the cover for my new book, and I don't like it. I'll get to that next time.

the kind of guy I am

I do not shop for sport. I buy food and electricity and things like that, because without them I will suffer. I do not shop for the pleasure it gives me. But I do quite enjoy shopping with my daughter Thea, because she is having so much fun. Don't get me wrong about Thea. I may be at one with nature in my shopping habits, eating what I kill, but Thea is not Buffalo Bill. Not by any means. She enjoys shopping but doesn't have to buy much. I guess she's an amateur, in the true sense of the word.

We were at Ikea the other day, and her only indulgence was a magazine rack which she plans to use as a file organizer. Won't this be perfect, Daddy? she enthused, beaming away.

I don't know about perfect, I said, since it's not designed to organize files. You know, they have actual file organizers here. Why not get one of them?

Because this (holding out the magazine rack) is cooler.

But it's not a file organizer.

Yeah, well, a cow is not a potato. She walked off with the magazine rack under her arm. I had no comment.

Then I saw the alarm clocks. There was a shelf full of them, and I quickly bought the cheapest one, because that's the kind of guy I am.

Buy this round one -- it's weird looking, said Thea.

What about that one? I pointed. You turn it off with a laser.

Oh, Daddy, that's just dumb.

Really? I said. (There it is in the picture. I was tempted, I tell you.) Well, they're all alarm clocks. And this one's the cheapest.

What a classic case of false saving! I spent the rest of the day programming my cheap clock. For six dollars more, I could have saved twelve hours. (What's that -- fifty cents an hour. Yup, that's the kind of guy I am.)

You know these clocks? There are only two buttons, MODE and SET, and in order to get the clock to do anything -- even tell time -- you have to punch each button in a strict pre-determined sequence. To activate ALARM function, first press MODE button six times, then press SET button until the correct HOUR appears. Press MODE three more times, and then press SET until the correct MINUTE appears. The alarm is now activated. To activate ...

Turns out I programmed it correctly, because the alarm went off at the right time this morning. I jumped out of bed feeling chipper, reset the alarm for tomorrow morning, made the coffee and got to work. The alarm went off again an hour later. And again an hour after that. I apparently programmed a TIMER function without meaning to. I could spend another hour figuring out how to de-activate the times. Or I could take out the battery -- but if I do that, the clock will need to be re-programmed.

I think I may have to go shopping again.

kvelling

So much to report. Let's see. Sam decided, after much internal philosophizing, to visit the shearer, reasoning that hair grows back and job opportunities do not. His ears and neck appeared to the world after an absence of many months. I could see he was somewhat traumatized by the appearance change. (Casey the dog reacts similarly, requiring much encouragment and sympathy after a haircut.) Thea, ever the sensitive twin sister, told Sam he looked like a dork. Then stared at the rest of us. What? she said. It's what we're all thinking. Sam smiled and shook his head -- he's known his sister since they shared a womb.

He took his haircut to the interview and between the two of them managed to secure the job at the yacht club. Now he gets to wear a golf shirt and navy shorts and hang around with nautical people.

That is so cool! I told him. Do you salute them?

No, he said.

Do you talk about starboard and port?

Sometimes, he said.

I tingled. I love sea stories. In my dream life I sail with Nelson or Cook. Or Edward Teach. (And thank heavens for dreams. The only time I have ever been on board a real yacht at sea -- well, at lake -- I was sicker than a dog.)

And do you use the nautical words for things? I asked. Decks and bulkheads? Heads and hatches?

No, he said.

You should. I'm sure it would impress people if you talked about swabbing the deck or battening the hatch. They would think you were knowledgeable.

They would think I was a jerk, he said. Or a pirate.

That was enough for me. I got all misty eyed. I remembered Sam in diapers, in kindergarten, in the science fair (this was not one memory, you understand, but a series. Sam was toilet trained well before his science fair days). Now he was all grown up and out in the big world. Some parents beam and brag at their children's success in medicine. Not me.

My son the pirate, I said.

He sighed.

I was going to give him a big hug, but the phone rang. It was my editor, wanting to argue about the cover for the new book. I told her I was in no mood to fight. How would you feel, I said, if you had just learned your son was going to be a pirate?

My editor knows me well. Call back when you're sober, she said.