Shuck by Daniel Allen Cox

Get out your agendas, folks.

Daniel Allen Cox's new novel Shuck (Arsenal Pulp Press) is the semi-autogiographical diary of a New York City hustler who tries to make sense of his life through pieces of found trash.

The official launch is October 3 at Chapters bookstore (1171 Sainte-Catherine) from 7pm-9pm.

Word on the street is - Ms. Julie will be there to fawn over the gathered literati and bubble over with enthusiasm at the first sight of an autograph pen.

Come support Montreal writers, you philistines!

Interviewing

Following Mr. Robertson's departure and my meteoric rise to the Big Desk, there have been many changes in the office.

In addition to creating a brainstorming space with a fabbo peanut-shaped table and fun flowerboxes for the wall, Martino* and I have also reorganized our office to welcome two new colleagues - a full-time English copywriter (Dario** starts in ten days) and a French editor/content strategist (send your CVs to emplois@90degres.ca).

As candidates must work very closely with us, Martino and I have been sitting on the interviews for both positions. We were initially worried that it would cut into our work time, but the dynamics that unfold during the interview process are too fascinating to pass up.

(because whenever the human ego is involved, it's going to be one helluva show).

For those of you that doubted it, yes, it is possible to understand the essence of someone's character during a half-hour interview. Even with a marshmallow-soft-good-cop like me on the panel.

Interesting things noted during our many interviews:

• Candidates are always trying to impress you with their positive attitude, but if they get comfortable with you, and they are not truly positive, their true attitude will present itself (usually at Minute 26).
• You need a 'bad cop' in the room to make the magic happen.
  
• Candidates will try to pull the wool over your eyes by presenting work that is not entirely their own, never realising that when the ooh-ing and aah-ing is done, their poorly executed writing test will give it all away.
  
• There are some truly atrocious spellers out there. That's a-t-r-o-c-i-o-u-s. In the test, this may be overlooked due to the limited time given to finish the exercise. In a cover letter, however, it is instant death.
  
• It's getting increasingly easier to identify boob jobs - even through the layer of business wear. The tan is usually the first indication.
• Many people overestimate their talents, just as many people underestimate. Thus the importance of the writing test.

There are more interviews to come. I just hope they're half as entertaining as the last batch.

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*Martin is not Italian. I just like to wopify the names of my colleagues whenever possible.
**Dario is of my tribe. Viva Italia! There are 2.5 Italians in the office now. Almost enough for a conspiracy...

September

September is usually my favourite season, my most golden month of the year. I love the clothes. I love the weather. I love the smell of the air, and the mellow yellow of the sun.

But this September (all two days) has only been remarkable for the terrible headaches resulting from my persistent crying.

I wish it were last September. Even though I was living with a very dysfunctional roommate, I was happy. Epanoui, as Mr. Robertson put it. Work was brisk, I was surrounded by an army of crazy good friends, thoughts of the future made me feel tingly, and I had a sweet, gorgeous sexy boy who made me feel grounded and gorgeous and... epanoui. This September (all two days of it), I feel overwhelmed by doubt, distanced from my friends, completely not grounded, unattractive and undesirable and doomed to... well, something unsavoury.

My heart feels like a pile of withered ashes in my chest, I don't sleep in my bed anymore because I hate sleeping alone in that big room. Can you believe this? I am a walking, talking neurote. I have the best life a girl could have and yet, these thoughts have been running through my head non-stop for two days.

I'm not writing this to start an avalanche of reassurances. I'm not asking for your compliments, so please don't send any. Any other day and I would be the first to tell you how fantastic I am (because I am!). I'm writing this to let you all know that it's okay if you sometimes feel unreasonably horrible. It happens and you should just ride it out.

No feeling is final.

So exorcise your demons. Hide in a closet and scream out obscenities. Rip up magazines. Run so hard, so fast that your lungs burst out your chest. Write every shameful thought you've been entertaining in a blog for all the world to see. Get all that venom out. Because once it's out, the words look less powerful, less true, less painful.

If you've read this - consider yourself lucky. It's very probable that in a few hours, when I've realized just how ridiculous I'm being, that I'll delete this post and good.

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Rowing Row in the rowboat

Do you ever get the feeling that you're too old to learn something new? Or at the very least, that you're no longer able to learn things in the same way you used to? I know it's the wrong attitude to have, and it's mostly inaccurate, but the universe is trying to tell me something here and I'm trying to listen.

EXAMPLE 1

This weekend I was lucky enough to be invited to a summer cottage/palace for a few days of overeating, too much wine, and sloth. Between two hammock naps, I followed Row down to the water and we took the rowboat out for a spin. I had never rowed a boat before. In fact, I'm fairly certain my hands had never touched an oar.

Row got us across the lake to the small island where loons, mallards and even the occasional beaver paddle around (I felt like I was in a Hinterland Who's Who segment). At the halfway point, I took the oars. It was hard. And it required a lot of effort before I understood the principles of rowing backwards, of pointing the boat in the right direction, etc. I couldn't find the fluidity of the motion and most of my strokes were uneven.

At one point, pleased with the rhythm I was setting, I looked to both sides and noticed that the paddles were barely skimming the water. I was basically rowing oxygen. *Sigh*

By the time we took the boat out for a second time though, I was showing big improvement, but some things still weren't coming naturally to me.

EXAMPLE 2

The NDG Y gang tried to introduce me to tennis. 'How hard can it be,' I thought 'to hit a ball with a racket?' Plenty, apparently. I was a hot, hot mess, no matter what racket they placed in my hand, no matter how gently they lobbed the ball.

The tennis balls gaily sailed past my racket with the insouciance of a brattish child, bouncing towards the fence with a sound not unlike "nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah". I managed to return some serves, but I generally put too much power into the stroke and arced the (meanie) balls over the tall fence and into the adjacent play area.

Me: Where's my young and attractive tennis coach? Like in Caddyshack.

Some smarty-pants: I don't think there's a tennis coach in Caddyshack. Just caddies.

Me: Shut up and teach my racket to hit the fuzzy yellow things, ok?

CONCLUSION

I don't learn new skills as organically I used to. I have to learn to embrace research, coaches and diagrams with more gusto.

Bridesmaid revisited/2

Fall 1998. Long, gold satin empire-waisted dress with large bow over the bum (really). Matching gold satin wrap. Chopsticks with fake flowers Krazy-glued to the end.

What I was thinking:

"Hummm. What is this now? Fourth bridesmaid experience? I can't believe it took me four tries before I got a dress with a bow on the butt. And if I lean just a little over that-a-ways, there's my ex in his tuxedo standing as the best man. What better conditions for being caught in a gold satin dress with a bow on the butt? Am I still standing here? I hope the faux marble background brings out my eyes. What? Is that the sound of my ex seething and hating me? Why, yes it is! Maybe I'll get to hear it allll day long. Can I start drinking yet?"

Note:

The dress was eventually recycled. I cut it up into triangles and made quilt-style pillow cases with the fabric. Two of them are currently adorning the back seat of my car (you know, for passengers!)

Bring on the comments!

I found the function that permits anyone to leave comments on this blog.
Even those of you without Gmail accounts. Viva technology!

Also, more bridesmaid photos on the way. Send yours to adriana.palanca@gmail.com.

Bridesmaid revisited

July 1990. Royal blue sequins with fabric flowers, beaded head piece, dyed-to-match satin shoes, and pre-crinkled elbow-length gloves, also royal blue.

What I was thinking:

"Heels sinking into ground. Don't fall over. How much longer could this possibly last? I think they braided my hair too tight. Tension headache. Don't fall over. Cuchi-cuchi... haha, I feel like Charo. Bet you Charo didn't have to endure this on The Love Boat. Probably just leaned on the small guy. Or was that Fantasy Island? How MUCH LONGER could this possibly %$*#-ing last? Breathe. Breathe away the nasty headache. This is your brother's wedding. Be graceful. Breathe. Soon there will be cake. Or me stabbing someone with my high-heeled shoe. One or the other..."

So I think I may want to start a segment in which people send their bad bridesmaid photos and I get to add some sassy interior monologue. Like Cake Wrecks, but with less icing. Send me your snaps, peops. The more hideous the sartorial/facial expression, the better.