BookLust

Merry Merry and All that Stuff

Wishing everyone a wonderful Christmas full of family, friends and lots and lots of books!

Silly Poetry Friday 47

Yeah, I know, I know...it's been a while since I posted a Silly Poetry Friday poem. In my defense, it's the Holiday Season, and relatives have descended upon the Storms' humble abode, and so quite frankly all regular schedules are shot to hell and a handbasket. But as a way of making it up to everyone, I will post on my blog a very special Silly Poetry poem. And why is it so special? 'Cuz it's written by my Grandad, that's why!

My maternal grandfather was a very witty man who loved puns, opera, a good stiff drink, and yes – silly poetry. I have very fond memories of him reciting to me the nonsense poem, Betty Bought a Bit of Butter, while I sat on his knee, and listened with great interest. He even wrote his own poetry from time time. And I am very fortunate that my Mom managed to get a copy of a wonderful poem he wrote for his employer, Desnoes & Geddes, not long before he retired from the company. If you've never heard of Desnoes & Geddes, then you've never had any Jamaican Red Stripe Beer, man!

And so, without further ado, my Grandfather – Michael Leopold Levy – and his Swan Song poem:

I am not what you'd call a Saint
I like my bit of fun;
Still I'm no Devil, that I ain't
When all is said and done.
And Life to me is one long spree
Of Joy and fun and laughter,
'Tis time to think when on life's brink
Of where you'll go hereafter.

The flowers ope their petals fair
To soft sweet zephyrs sighing,
Their radiant perfume, rich and rare --
Tomorrow they are dying.
The mayfly hovers o'er the stream
To joyful pleasures winging,
Their life is but one short day dream,
The end and the beginning.

And you whose stay on earth is brief,
Oh! why should you be pining;
Ah! shut your eyes to gloom and grief,
Look for the silver lining.
Remember you are growing old,
Each day but makes you older.
Youth makes your passions gay and bold,
Age makes your passions colder!

Youth comes but once, and since that's so,
I ain't a-going to let it
Slip from my grasp so easy! No!
And then go and forget it?
Not me! I'm a little wren
And now this is my song time.
'Tis time enough to think that when
You're dead, you're dead a long time.

It's my own life, and why should I
Ask others how to live it?
If afterwards from Youth I sigh
Who is there now to give it?
So why should I let joys go by
And miss earth's fun and laughter?
'Tis time to think when on life's brink
Of where you'll go hereafter.

– Michael L. Levy

Cheers, Grandad, I hope you've got a drink wherever you are; for as you often liked to say – bird can't fly on one wing!

Don't Know Whether to Laugh or Cry...

Seen in the Village 8

It's been a while since I've written in detail about my beloved Bloor West Village, hasn't it?

I've been wanting to write about this specific person for quite a while, but I've always struggled with how to approach this tale. Why? Because it concerns the subject of love – young love, that is.

When I was a shy, chubby, funny-looking preteen, I fell in love with the boy next door. I'm serious. He really did live right next door to us. There was something funny about that house – families kept moving in and moving out on a fairly regular basis. No one stayed there for very long. I hope it didn't have anything to do with our family, but hey – ya never know. So the year that that family moved next door, I didn't think much of it, until I saw him. He was skinny and had a great big smile that seemed to fill his entire face.  He had long golden brown hair that always hung over his dark eyes. He was my brother's age, and so after a short period of time (kids being kids, and friendships forming fairly quickly and all) he became friends with my brother, and they starting hanging out and doing boy stuff together. It didn't take long for me to discover that he was the love of my life.

He loved to laugh. He didn't like to follow the regular rules of social decorum. He could belch better than anyone I had ever known, even my brother. Rather than knock on our side door, he would climb in through our kitchen window, put his feet up on the kitchen table and bark at my sister and I, "get me a milkshake". I would have done it in a heartbeat, if I could. He actually seemed to have an aversion to knocking on doors, in fact. Instead, he would stand outside by our dining room window while we were eating dinner, and yell out my brother's name, until my brother would come to the window to talk to him. He was cocky and mischievous, and always up for some reckless fun. Oh how I adored him. Did he ever have a clue that he had stolen my heart? I doubt it.

Sadly, the house-next-door-curse was still going strong, and a year or two later, his family moved away. For a brief period of time, I thought my life was over. But me being the poster child for tormented unrequited love and all, I quickly found someone else to adore from afar, so as to continue my miserable love life.

Years later, when I was about fourteen, I heard from my mother that his family had moved back to our city, and in fact, he would be attending our high school!! I could not believe my great fortune. And as luck would have it, I had lost all that chubbiness, having discovered the art of not eating, and so I felt that I didn't look half-bad. Perhaps I had a chance! One night his family came over for a visit. I spent hours in the bathroom agonizing over my appearance. When we finally met again, though, he seemed...different. He didn't smile very much. His hair was shorter, and of course, he was no longer skinny – he was quite muscular, in fact. He explained that he would be playing for our highschool football team. When we reminded him of all the funny things he used to say and do, it was as if he was a completely different person. "Do you remember when you did this, and this?" we would ask him. "Uh...no," he'd say. What happened to that amazing boy?

Ok, I said to myself. It doesn't matter that much, I suppose, that he's forgotten the past. I'll just wow him in the present. But I was in grade 9, and he was in grade 12, and it became very clear very quickly that he had no desire to hang out with a moony-eyed nerdy girl like myself. Even though I had absolutely no interest in the sport, I hung out after school in the freezing cold to watch the football games, hoping above hope that somehow while he was running by the end zone that he would suddenly realize what an amazing girl I was, and what a fool he'd been, ignoring me all these years. I had about as much luck getting his attention as our highschool football team had winning any damn games.

Fast forward to the present. So what the heck does this have to do with the Bloor West Village, you might ask? Well...quite a few years ago, I was walking in the village on a weekend, when wouldn't you know it, I see him!! Did he remember me? Sort of. What was he doing in the city, in my beloved Bloor West Village? He lives here now!! The boy next door, was practically next door yet again! And just like before, it's all so different, and so...bizarre. Because I see him almost all the time now. Since I love to walk whenever I can, and he has a dog, I often run into him when he's walking his dog around the neighbourhood. Or, sometimes I like to go to the village in the early mornings during the week, and guess what he does for a living? He delivers the mail in the village! So yeah, for some odd reason, I keep bumping into him. Sometimes I say hi, and sometimes I don't. He never initiates the greeting. Even though I'm happily married, the minute I see him, it's like I'm that nerdy, awkward fourteen year-old all over again, trying to impress the cool, disinterested football player. Or every now and then, like the other day when I last saw him on his mail rounds, I'll suddenly be transported back to when he was that energetic, laughing wonder-boy, and I'll smile, and wonder where that boy is hiding.

Bloor West Toonin'/Town Cryin' 19

The December Town Crier cartoon.

I don't think that's too much to ask for, for Christmas – do you?

TRANSITory Reading 9

Ok, I didn't actually see this guy on a subway or bus, but I was in transit so to speak, when I saw him, 'cuz I was waiting in a coffee shop before a meeting with some editors (a subject which I hope I can talk about in the near future).

An older gentleman sat down across from me in one of those comfy chairs that are so much in demand at Starbucks. I could not help but notice that he had two very different kinds of books in his possession – some Stephen King book, whose title I could not read, and the Selected Poems of Frank O'Hara. Me being me, I had to say something, so I casually said, "Your reading selection runs from the sublime to the...I don't quite know". He laughed, and replied that he had only just started reading King, having had a good recommendation from a friend. We both agreed that Stephen King was a great storyteller. I said that I was aware of Frank O'Hara, but didn't know his poetry. In fact, I said, I had a terrible habit of mixing Frank O'Hara up with the writer John O'Hara, the author of Butterfield 8. He said that he'd never heard of John O'Hara, or Butterfield 8. Hmmm. The man obviously never watched any Elizabeth Taylor movies in his youth. He then insisted that I read this one poem by Frank O'Hara, so he turned the pages until he found it, and then passed it to me:

ANIMALS

 
 Have you forgotten what we were like then
 when we were still first rate
 and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth
 
 it's no use worrying about Time
 but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
 and turned some sharp corners
 
 the whole pasture looked like our meal
 we didn't need speedometers
 we could manage cocktails out of ice and water
 
 I wouldn't want to be faster
 or greener than now if you were with me O you
 were the best of all my days

Lovely, I said, as I handed the book back to him. I don't read enough poetry. 
I read too much, he replied. Are you a writer?, I asked. 
No, I'm a painter, he said. Actually, he said, I'm quite famous. 
He handed me his card. I'm a commercial illustrator, I replied. 
Actually, I said, I'm not famous at all.

He did not ask for my business card. 

BiblioQueria 22

If you haven't noticed lately, times are tough. Lots of companies are laying off staff. The publishing biz ain't doing so great, either. And I'm sure plenty of folks are looking at their budgets, and trying to cut back on excess spending wherever they can.

I've certainly had to cut back, too. Being a freelancer in a recession is not much fun, I must say. Especially when you get your second goddam property assessment in three years, and it just so happens to assess the value of your house right before the real estate values tanked, so your property increase will be based on very unrealistic, and very unfair numbers. But I digress, a tad. Sadly, one of the areas where I have had to cut back on is book-buying. I find this very, very hard, 'cuz I walk into bookstores and see all the pretty new and delicious books and I just want to buy them all!! But I can't. So instead, I trek it over to our local library and sign out books that only a few months ago, I would have bought. Or I choose to reread books, or get to the to-be-read pile, or even pick up books that I have initially given up on. For example, a few months ago I tried reading Richard Russo's Empire Falls, but just could not get into the story – I found it dull and plodding and depressing. Then about two weeks ago the hubby brought home the DVD televised series of the book, and I watched the first episode, and was thoroughly hooked. I went back to the book, and finished it in a few days, then finished watching the DVDs of the series. I'm still not particularly impressed with the book, and quite frankly cannot understand why it won the Pulitzer, but I can appreciate some aspects of Russo's novel. Honestly though, I thought the televised series was much, much better. Anyone else out there like the book? Anyway back to what the heck I was talking about...

How ironic, huh? I am asking folks to please purchase any and all of my own books, even though for now, I have sworn off buying any books at all. In fact, I know it's kinda unfair, but hey – if I could make mega bucks with this career, trust me, I'd be buying up whole stores of books! So if you can afford to buy books, and you are compelled to buy one of mine – don't let me stop you! Heh. So my question this time 'round is...

Have any of you stopped buying books as a way of saving money because of this economic crisis?

You're My Guy...Again!!

Yes, I know that I have already mentioned this lovely little book in the past, but it dawned on me this week, that Christmas is just around the corner, and maybe, just maybe some of you lovely ladies are scratching your pretty heads, wondering just what the heck to get your sweetie for that perfect Christmas gift! Or perhaps you've already found the perfect big-ticket item for your special guy, but maybe, just maybe, you are scrambling around like a little lost kitten, in a little Christmas tizzy, trying to figure out just what the heck to get your fella for that perfect stocking stuffer. Well, fret no more. You're My Guy Because covers all the bases, don't ya think? It's small, it's sweet, it's funny, it's cute, and created it's by me!! What more do ya need? Heh.

But seriously, I do think it makes a great gift for that special man in your life. I don't know if anyone else has noticed this in the past few years, but I have certainly noticed a glut of gift books out there that mock or make fun of men. And hey – some of them are quite funny, and I actually have an idea for a gift book that, um, kinda mocks men, too. (Will it ever see the light of day? Meh, who knows). But wouldn't it be a refreshing change to find a book that actually praises men, albeit in a slightly tongue and cheeky manner? This book hopefully sets out to do just that. Here's some examples, so's ya know what I'm talking about.

You're My Guy Because...

I love men. And I especially love my man. Men are cute. Men are funny. Men do silly things. Sometimes their habits drive us insane. And sometimes, we take them for granted. All the more reason to give them a lovely little reminder of how wonderful they really are, even if they do eat every damn thing in the fridge when you turn your back on them for one freakin' minute. Or even if they insist on answering the door in their undershirt and long underwear, right? Or even if they fall asleep on the couch with a chocolate bar in their pocket on a hot summer's night and it ends up melting all over his clothes and your lovely new couch...but I digress.

So I say, yay for men! Let's celebrate them! You're My Guy Because is available for celebration not only at Borders and Barnes and Noble,  Amazon.com and Amazon.ca, but it's also now available at Indigo stores, too! I've even got photographic proof that they're selling at Indigo stores...looky! Here I am signing some of my You're My Guy books!

The photos were taken in October by my friend Laurie Chaner (also a writer) when we went to The World's Biggest Bookstore to find her book. I must say the next best thing to going to a bookstore and finding your book on the shelves is watching someone else experience that same indescribable elation. So while Laurie signed copies of her book, I asked one of the staff if any of my books were around, and lo and behold, they were! It was quite the surreal experience, being with a high school friend, signing our books together at a bookstore. Especially since all those years ago, we both had dreams of doing something special with our creative talents. If someone had told me then, that this day in October would happen, I simply would not have believed it.

But anyway...back to my book! ('Cuz it's all about me, ya know). Don't forget to get that special gift for your special man!

Oh God Please Make It Stop

I don't really know what else to say.

Drawing on the Cash-Strapped Side of the Brain

One of my last sketches from my life drawing class at the Toronto School of Art. Sadly, my class is now finished, and at this point in time, I cannot afford to go to the advanced class. Pooh! So disappointed. I had an amazing instructor, and I loved the positive energy flowing in that classroom. It was such a wonderful experience, entering that messy, grubby room, and sharing with the students, the instructor, and the model that genuine reverence for art and observation and the human form, for three magical hours. So good for the soul.