where's Hercules when you need him?

I do not think of myself as a stuff guy. I do not collect china, or weapons, or art. Or ceramic chickens (a friend does this -- her house is full of the darn things. Makes Christmas and birthday present buying easy, but I can't imagine moving her. You'd need a separate van for the poultry.) I'm a minimalist. I own two pairs of jeans, a dozen shirts, a suit, a sport jacket, and three pairs of shoes. So you'd think that moving me would be easy. One suitcase. Add a couch, a can of coffee, and a computer, and that'd be it, right? Well, not quite. There are the kids, for one thing, and they need beds. And food (yes, I am an indulgent father). And entertainment.

But these are not the biggest time-takers in my current move. Not at all. It has happened before, and it is happening now. I am coming, once again, to realize how wrong about myself I am. I don't think of myself as a stuff guy, but I am. I may be exaggerating, but I swear I have carried seven hundred and fifty thousand boxes of books to and from house and moving van and house. It's not that I'm a packrat. Every move I make, I throw out books. But every move I make, there are more books than there were last time. How does this happen? Why does the universe conspire to fill my space with words on paper? If I collected rare antique autos they'd take less space (way less -- in fact, they'd take no space at all since I couldn't afford any). Or ceramic chickens, say. The dumbest aspect of my book collection (I don't like the word, but don't know what else to call it) is that they are mostly books I don't like. Books I mean to read but don't get round to. Books I start, and then put away. Books that I should read, if I weren't too busy reading murder mysteries, or playing frisbee, or trying to finish my new book.

I'll give you an example. Romola. I've mentioned this baby before. A masterpiece, say some. Maybe, say I, but I don't know since I have never been able to get past page 104. I have carted that book around since college, starting it eighteen or twenty times. I can't remember for sure what took my attention away from page 105. The Blue Jays were in the World Series, I think. Which shows you how long ago this all was.

I'd like to give up on Romola and Tito and the rest of the Florentine crew. But I feel as though, having invested this much time and labour in lugging the book around, I owe it to myself to finish. There is a bit of compulsion involved here, I know. I'm like a gambler who keeps doubling up in order to break even. Maybe if I read Romola this year, I won't have to carry it to my next place.

But I'm scared. For every book I throw out, two more appear in its place. If I chuck Romola, who can say what might show up to replace it? Maybe (shudder) Daniel Deronda.

No, I can't risk it. Romola goes in the box -- same one she travelled in last time.

maybe Austin Powers looks like me

I was going to talk about moving house -- nothing too brilliant, no new insights, but there's still lots to say as you strike the old set and get ready to put on your show from a new theater -- but I just caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth and considered shaving, and was mesmerised by the fact that I look like someone else.

I guess we spend our lives looking like other people. It's one of the reasons why it's so hard to hang onto an identity. As babies, we look like boxers, or monkeys, or Winston Churchill (those are the three basic baby types, though I did see one newborn recently who looked exactly like a Pouting Buddha). Later on we come to resemble TV stars or politicians or figures in art (a good friend is the spitting image of Parmagianino's long-necked Madonna -- except for her neck, which is normal length). As a high-school student I looked a lot like Austin Powers (true -- there's a picture). I could have used some of his mojo then, but of course the movies were still to come, and no one knew.

Or sometimes you'll remind someone of a friend from back home. I get that a lot: a stranger will stop me on the street, or come up to me at a party and stare. Hey! Did you know that you look exactly like Irwin Michaels? Hey, Stephanie, come here and look at this guy. Doesn't he look like Irwin? Hey, you ever been to Beamsville? These conversations can go on a long time as I explain that, no, sorry, I am not related to their friend, though, yes, I suppose it is theoretically possible that my mother or grandmother could have had a secret Beamsville boyfriend named Michaels ... I figure I must have one of those lowest-common-denominator faces, looks like a lot of people.

I do not resemble Austin Powers today. I'm aiming higher. With a case of monumental bedhead, the image is almost perfect. I am the Sun King, in those pictures where his hair shoots out like rays of the sun. Now, if only I had a bunch of people running around to dress me. Unfortunately, I do not even have a change of pants, since my dresser is at the new place and I am here. I'm moving, see, and it makes for some life complications. I'll tell you about them sometime.

complements to the chef

My friend Don is an excellent cook, a bit of a perfectionist in the kitchen (gee, is that possible? Is perfectionism relative? Like calling something mildly unique. He really is a perfectionist, but I don't want him to sound weird), which his wife is not. It's not that she can't cook. Her meals are less frequent and more casual than his, but quite tasty. Her gift is appreciation. She loves Don's food. His face lights up when she praises his craft. The set-up works really well.

You might say that he's a tireless giving person and she a carefree lazybones, or that he's a compulsive control freak and she a self-denying saint. Neither description fits. They are both happy. And lucky to have found each other.

I don't know about opposites attracting -- I think it might be more like an awareness of different gifts. Robertson Davies described his relationship with his wife in a phrase (I don't have the interview in front of me, and I'm not going to bother to look it up) something like, We complement each other. She can drive, and I can spell.

Me, I'm tidy. I'm not a clean freak -- not at all. I mean, I shower and change my clothes every now and then, but I can stare at the same small stain on the door for days (in fact, I'm staring at it now) without feeling compelled to wipe it off. A pile of laundry, on the other hand, affects me viscerally. When I see a stack of dirty dishes or a sprawl of magazines, I shiver. Returning from a trip, having left my teenage daughter in charge of the house, I find myself moving towards various offending areas in a haze, muttering like a superhero under my breath, Must ... put away. Thea is not tidy. (I wonder how she'll do next year at university, in a room about the size of our shower stall? I figure she'll either adopt neatness, or suffocate.)

What kind of person would complement my tidy gift? Someone who would vacuum, maybe. Hmmm. Not bad. So to all my friends out there who have been offering to set me up: my ideal partner would be clean. Of course, knowing how to spell would be an asset too.

not tidy and clean

Surreal conversation in the hotel bar the other night, when I was accosted by a very drunk lady in charge of a software convention. I said something unintentionally funny, and she followed me outside to the table I was sharing with another writer and her husband. What should have been a brief conversation took a long and winding turn when the husband, for reasons known only to him and his psychiatrist, said that he wrote clown porn.

Lots of things go to making a good joke, but surprise is close at the top. I was so surprised by Neal's statement that I laughed out loud. So did his wife. But the drunk lady didn't see it as funny. She could not -- simply could not -- get enough of the concept. She insisted on details. Neal (who for the record does not write clown porn) cited websites and statistics, and the drunk lady got more and more excited, practically climbing into his lap. (His wife smiled and gave a you-go-girl wave.)

I got to thinking about the progress and limits of humour. An inspired idea is like a glob of butter on a piece of bread. You spread the butter to enjoy it better, running the changes on the joke, but there's only so much there, and as time goes by the humour begins to get thin and just a little ... mean. I don't mind making fun of drunks, who are almost co-conspirators in the joke, but I was glad when the lady finally left us to return to her neglected software party.

Clown porn? I said to Neal. He nodded. Real deal. Costumes, false noses, big feet, XXX rating. A buddy sent me a link. Want me to write it down? I shook my head. I didn't find the idea repulsive -- just bizarre. I didn't know whether to giggle or make a face. I compromised, and had a sip of scotch.

All right -- next time we'll do tidy versus clean.

not clown porn

And we're back from five days at our remote location. Home to domestic bliss -- or the amount of bliss you can get when moving day is approaching and your teenage daughter is in charge. (At the end of the month I will be changing headquarters, from my charming slanted unheated house on a hill to a slightly less quaint but more practical dwelling in town.) Thea has been moving some things in my absence. And by things I mean the contents of her bedroom and the bathroom, and the couch and TV. Things that matter to her. She picked me up at the train station, drove me home and disappeared with the car, leaving me towel-less, pillow-less, and unable to sit down in the living room. Fortunately I had lots of unpacking and laundry to do.

And putting things in boxes. Don't forget that. An important part of moving. I am a winnower (there's a speech impediment joke here, but my ex-wife is in good health and I am too politically correct to stoop) which means that my book collection gets fined down every time I move. I tend to hang onto unread classics, and chuck detective stories. (There's a copy of Romola that I will take to my grave, I think.) I'll put off buying the new Peter Robinson until I've moved in.

I think that's all for now. Next time: either the difference between tidy and clean, or clown porn.

star treatment

This entry comes towards the end of a rock star week. The Humber School For Writers offers an intensive seminar in July, and I have taught there several times now. I always enjoy connecting with students, but what makes the Humber gig special is the ... what shall I call it ... ambience. I am a working stiff writer, slaving away in the trenches of literature, quite unused to luxury in my professional life. So it makes a nice change to wake up in a five-star hotel, climb into a limousine and punctuate my teaching day with fine food and wine at the college's expense. And when I say a nice change I mean it never happens to me anyplace else. For a week, I am a star. And it's fun.

I wonder how long it would be fun? I'm serious. I like a deep bathtub and a soft bed as much as the next guy. I'll certainly take a glass of wine. But I have real trouble with being treated as special. The first time the limo driver opens the door for me, I smile and climb in. But after a few days of this treatment I start to wince inside. The students here are so deferential, the perqs so plentiful, the service so eager. The assistants are all incredibly helpful. Anything I can do for you, Richard? Anything you need? Don't worry about me, I want to say. I'm okay. I'll pour my own coffee. I'll sit in the front.

Perhaps if I had grown up in the lap of luxury I would be better able to handle this. But I was on some other part of luxury's anatomy (I bet there's a joke here, but I can't seem to find it. Luxury's elbow? Shoulder? Nope, it's gone. Damn). Perhaps if in addition to being insecure I was also crazed and talented and superrich -- if I was a real rock star -- I could take it all as my due. But I can't. I enjoy the Humber gig, but a week is enough. Tomorrow afternoon I will return to my real life with a sigh that is partly kids/laundry/deadlines/groceries and partly relief.

go down kicking

One of my favorite characters in fiction is Nigel Molesworth, a slacker who attends St Custard's skool along with a variety of cads, swots, snekes, prigs bulies and headmasters (all sic) in a series of books penned in the 1950s by Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle. I remember laughing myself silly, even when the light of meaning was so faint I could barely make it out. (A chiz is a swot or a swindle as any fule kno.)

One of Molesworth's guiding dicta came up in conversation the other day. No matter wot skool you go to, your team always lose. I got to thinking about the truth in that statement. It's not that we lose every game or fail every test or get dumped by every employer -- but those are the moments we remember. Somehow -- some asinine how -- we focus on the losses in our life. They matter more. When I win at poker, I am pleased. When I lose, I am sickened. The stakes are not high, but somehow I can get quite upset thinking about ten dollars I no longer have to spend. Sinking a long putt (this never happens, but if it did) makes me feel good -- but not as much as a missed short putt makes me feel bad.

I can tell you (thirty years later!) how it feels to miss the home-room class presidency by one vote. I can tell you (more recently!) how it feels to have her shake her head and say, Oh, Richard, I don't think so. I can't tell you much about my good reviews, but I sure remember the bad ones. (There's a librarian in Ohio who urged people not to read one of my books because the premise was so disgusting. Don't buy it, she wrote. If you have bought it, take it back without opening it. She didn't offer any advice if you had read it. I guess you were beyond saving at that point.)

Why are we made like this? Why is pain stronger than joy? Is it a deep-seated all flesh is grass kind of thing? I do not believe in original sin, but if I did, this would be one of my arguments in favour.

Molesworth shrugs off losing. So wot, he says. Go in and hack someone. Maybe that's the best approach. At least you get in a few kicks before the referee blows the whistle.