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2011. You might have heard. I was published.

Yeah, congrats, I know.

Since then, it seems like every conversation I’ve had is about the book. People tell me that they plan on buying it, have bought it, inform me of where they are in it, tell me their thoughts about it, sometimes ask questions and sometimes express surprise that I can write. It’s all fine. Just a bit tiring.

I’m getting better at lying. No one should ever believe anything I say about the content of Technicolor Ultra Mall. It’s my steadfast belief that it’s completely inappropriate for an artist to offer an honest interpretation of their work. If you’re going to do that, why even bother creating it?

(The single time I came close to doing this was at the launch, where I sought to undercut the marketing of the book because salespeople have even less place in the reader’s head than big-mouthed authors. But that wasn’t to offer my own opinion so much as to warn people away from the pre-packaged ones they were being sold. By me.)

It’s difficult to balance a belief in being open with a belief in being closed. One must give up consistency.

And I’m trying to figure out how this year went . . .

It’s been busy. The editing was done this year. Most off it off my lap as I had no desk. I finally got a desk. And a couple of pairs of bespoke shoes.

My Nan died. I miss her.

Lost a few friends. Have mixed feelings on that.  I don’t get to see the ones I do have often enough.

My wife continued to put up with me. Somehow. I don’t know how she does it. I can hardly put up with me.

Most of what’s important hasn’t made it to these pages. Partially because I’ve been busy and partially because it’s hard to see things when you’re very close to them.

I’ve had good years and I’ve had bad years. The jury is still out on this one. It’s been a busy year. There’s been a lot of incoming data and not much time to arrange it into any sensible shape, let alone one commiserate with my personality. Half the time, I feel like I’m chasing my own tail.

A lot of this has to do with the publicity aspect of being a writer.

I’ve received publicity in the past but, until this year, have never sought it out. The process basically disgusts me. Makes me feel like a hooker and not a very good one. Pretending to give a fuck is exhausting.

And yet, one must pretend. It is the expected thing.

But, if you ask me, most of that is a rain dance. It doesn’t actually make any sort of difference to anything –books succeed without it, fail with it– but it makes everyone involved feel like they’re at least doing something. My challenge is keeping up appearances, that is, actually doing this part of the job, while refusing to let it take over.

Publicity is like a god-damn credit card for your soul. It has its uses but be careful: Bills come due. And they carry a lot of interest.

But it’s not a bad problem to have. I know a lot of people want what I’ve got –a long time ago, I was one of them– and I see them out there, trying to get their shot. It kinda breaks my heart. I just want to say, forget this game, go outside, get fingered. Fuck it. Life is short. But it’s not the sort of advice anyone wants to hear.

Shit, people, young writers in particular, are taught to discard that advice.

I guess that’s about the best summary of my year I’m gonna come up with: Problems I’m Lucky to Have. Hasn’t always been this way. Guess I should be happy it is now.

And, I suppose I am.

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I’ve put some hours in and made an illustrated, tumblr version of Guy Debord’s 1967 book The Society of the Spectacle. You can find the first post here. When you finish reading it, simply hit NEWER and it’ll bring you to the next paragraph.

Some of you are probably familiar with the book. Others of you just don’t know you are. Some of you should be.

You could say that it was the guiding text behind punk, culture jamming and has informed most critiques of commodified culture up to and including the Occupy movement and, certainly, its parent Adbusters.

As for me, I came to this book quite late in life. I knew of it for some time –since it was first recommended to me by a fascist in a bar– but found Debord’s writing impenetrable. This was, perhaps, due to bad translations. A few years ago, I gave it another go. I can see why the fascist recommended it. Quite a bit of my own thinking is made lucid here. I, of course, had the dis/advantage of living in a era that seems to have reached a saturation point of spectacle and commodity.

Tumblr seemed like the perfect vehicle for this book for a couple of reasons: First off, it epitomizes so much of what the book is about. Secondly, the book it made up of 221 single paragraphs, which suits the ADD just fine. Thirdly, full frontal nudity and gifs.

If you’re at all interested in my methodology, and I don’t know why you would be, I used a combination of pictures from my computer but, mainly, just what was coming across my dashboard at the time.

At any rate, it’s my hope that this treatment might make the book a bit easier to digest for those who, like me, found it difficult and that some others might be exposed to it.  If not, I’m just happy to have it for myself.

You can find the first paragraph/post here and advance through it by hitting NEWER.

Best of luck.

Continue reading »]]> I’m gonna file this one under – when it’s not evil to blog straight off a press release . . .

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When you're a fancy pants writer, you get a chair. And cookie service.

Having my book launch and doing my first reading was a lot like losing my virginity. Except I was sober, did not ejaculate in my pants and no one cried.  But both experiences were discombobulating.

And no one asked me to sign the bedsheets.

So far, every authorial moment has been very different than advertised.

I’ve received the acceptance letter and signed the contract, gone through the edits, held the first physical copies and read the first reviews. None of it has been what I thought it would be or what I was led to expect. At this point, I don’t know if writers are lying about a lot of this stuff –which I find hard to fathom– or if I just process it a bit different.

When I held my first copy, for example, I had no feeling of “shit just got real” or even pride. It was more like a sigh. A kinda, thank God that’s done with. If you’ve ever written a book, you probably know that, even when out of sight, it stays in your head, nagging you from the next room. Holding that copy was like it finally shut up.

Or left.

No one had told me it’d feel anything like that. I’m not even sure it was supposed to. Yet that’s how it felt. So I had no idea what to expect from the launch. Much like the first copy, this experience is often modeled in the young writer’s head as either a triumph, farce or tragedy.  It seems like it’ll be either the Beatles landing in America or you, alone, in a bookstore waiting for anyone to show up. The truth is nowhere in between.

My main feeling was almost nostalgia. I say almost because it wasn’t a yearning for the past –frankly, I don’t care very much for my past– but a weird collision with it. I felt superimposed. My past over my present and my present over my past. My consciousness dislocated as I tried to make sense of who I was when I wrote the book, even as that past figure tried to make sense out of me.

How the hell did I get from one place to another? It was fucking odd. Don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it.

And, while going through that, I was asked to speak and read.

This man is reading about a violent blow job.

This was the part that made me most nervous. I’d never done anything like this before and didn’t even know if I could speak loudly enough to be heard. I’d made some plans about what I wanted to say, most of them formed on the walk over, but had no concrete material. I just knew I wanted to be honest and avoid boring everyone.

I think it went well.

Attempting honesty.

And when it came down to it, I wasn’t all that nervous. A lack of preparation helped. I wasn’t expecting to be perfect so I wasn’t terribly disturbed when I wasn’t. I think, if I forced myself to memorize a speech, I might have panicked the moment I deviated from it.

The reading was the strangest moment. Possibly because, when I was in school, I was almost expelled and was certainly suspended for only writing things like that. To now be standing in front of a group of people, reading it out loud, to be congratulated for doing something that has more typically resulted in threats against my future, angry letters to my parents and requests/demands from almost everyone* who knew anything to stop or at least change what I was doing, well . . .

I don’t think you could’ve convinced me that this would ever happen.

Never have I been more sure that, just because a man is wearing a suit and addressing a group, you shouldn't assume he actually knows anything.

It’s entirely outside my experience.

That’s not to say it’s bad. It’s not. It’s just new. And I like new things. But it is odd.

Like, how can you be you when people react to you exactly opposite to what you’re whole history has prepared you for?

I don’t know that you can be.

But, like I said at the start of this process, I’m more interested in meeting people and, hopefully, working on things with them than I am in getting patted on the back. I’d hoped and still hope that my book, like this blog, facilitates those sorts of meetings and projects.

It’s like planting a seed. I don’t really care if money or a career grows -though, not lying, both would be nice– but I’d like to see a community take root. Of misfits, by misfits, for misfits. I’d like to contribute to that. Insofar as I’m able to make money or build a career, I’d like it to be in helping with that. Not as any sort of leader or any of that shit –in my experience people who are willing to be led aren’t worth the leading– but as a comrade and a node. A commode? Yuck.

In a brass tacks sort of fashion, this just means that every event I’m a part of, I hope everyone there feels included and walks out with more people than they walked in with (even if it’s just me) and the possibility of constructing a mutually profitable and beneficial relationship with each other.

That’s all I want. And, as far as that goes, I think this reading and launch was a good first step.

Vandalizing another book.

I still have little to no idea what I’m doing so I hope you’ll bear with me as I try to figure out my role as host and how best to introduce you all, help you be comfortable while leaving you with something you can use and a way to contribute.  Please understand that I’ve never been in this situation before and will make mistakes. But I’m trying to learn. There doesn’t seem to be an instruction book about turning events involving speeches and spectators into open source gatherings. If you know of one . . .

But, as much as I’m in a sort growing pain process here, I was really happy to meet people I hadn’t met before, to introduce them to other people and hopefully build some connections that might harden up and result in some strange culture.

Having met some of you and discovering you’re just as weird and wonderful as I might have hoped, I have a lot of faith that it’ll work out. I feel less alone than ever. And for that, all the people who made it out, were there in spirit or helped to make this happen, for all of that and probably some shit I’m forgetting, you all have my gratitude.

Thank you. I hope I’m worth it. I’ll try.

I left with more people than I arrived with. That's about the best anyone can hope for. Thanks gang.

*There are a couple of notable exceptions to this: One of them being Canadian SF giant, Robert J. Sawyer, who was a great source of encouragement and, though delayed by traffic, was, happily, in attendance for this launch. 

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The people at Open Book Toronto recently subjected me to the Proust Questionnaire.

The Proust Questionnaire was not invented by Marcel Proust, but it was a much loved game by the French author and many of his contemporaries. The idea behind the questionnaire is that the answers are supposed to reveal the respondent’s “true” nature.

You can find my answers here.

And, curiously enough, I recently blogged about this questionnaire. It was given to chatbots. I fear my answers were more sensible and thus less interesting than theirs.

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If you’re in Toronto this Saturday, I’m launching my novel, Technicolor Ultra Mall.

Here’s the details:

When: Saturday, Oct. 22, 3pm

Where: Bakka Books. 84 Harbord St.

What: You’ll get to meet and chat with me, buy a book, have it signed, hear me give a short talk, then after, we’ll all head down the pub.

Here’s the dirt:

I’ve never read anything in public before. I haven’t even spoken in front of a group since they made me give a speech in elementary school. I have no idea what I’m doing and this whole thing could be a train wreck.  But if I go down, I’m taking you all with me.

Also, if you check  the facebook page for the event, you’ll see that some heavy hitters might be coming out.  If you just want to meet them, I won’t take it personal. But buy a book for God’s sake. It’s polite.

There’s refreshments but no booze at this event so you’ll have to show up drunk. We will be hitting a pub afterwards and you’re invited. After that, if things go that long, we might head to a party, where you’ll be able to shake your ass. (I will be not be shaking mine.) Basically, I’m using the forces of evolution to select for the drunkest.

The Etc.:

I really hope that you –yes, you– come out. What I’ve enjoyed most about blogging is meeting readers, both online and in person, and sometimes even working with them. I hope writing a book provides the same experience. You’re an interesting bunch of maniacs.

Don’t come out to meet me. Come out so I can meet you.

Continue reading »]]> . . . I know I’ve been one lately and you, dear reader, have my apologies.

I’ve been quite busy. Doing publicity for my book requires a certain amount of effort and I’m rewriting another one. In the meantime, I’m trying to keep some activity on here by putting up pictures I have stored on my computer. I can’t remember where I got these so there’s no link to their source. (If you know, feel free to share in the comments.)

I’ve also taken to drinking milk.

I have some strange sleeping habits. A couple of these are the grinding my teeth in my sleep and, a touch more worrying, scratching myself until I bleed.

It’s gotten considerably worse lately and the wife thinks it might have something to do with the amount of caffeine I take in. (I just think it’s stress.) For some reason, I have the notion that milk calms me down, so I’ve been drinking it.

For all the bloody good it’s done.

But I have started craving the stuff. Ordering it in bars even. There is nothing more sinister than a full grown man drinking milk in a bar. It makes me feel like some sort of pervert. Frankly, I don’t mind that.

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I never turn down an opportunity to travel to the suburbs. While quite a few of my urban cohorts view the regions outside Toronto with disdain, I see them as exotic foreign climes. Perhaps because, unlike a lot of people in Toronto, I’ve never been native to one. I grew up in a village and moved to the city.

The suburbs seem post-geographical. When in one, you could be in any one. They have the same strip malls with the same shops, surrounded by the same houses. Whatever may be unique in the region is polished away. In this, they seem, somehow, more modern and advanced than the cities.

Indeed, the cities seem to be undergoing a process of suburbification; existing not as cultural laboratories and engines of enlightenment but mainly as playgrounds and shopping centers for the people who live around them; providing jobs only in serving and entertaining these people.  The differences between the two regions is ever shrinking – becoming one of quantity rather than quality. What is Dundas Square except a huge strip mall, complete with a parking lot to hang out in? It is the suburbs perfected.

And the functions of the city, the creation of sub and counter cultures, experimental forms of commerce and cosmopolitanism , have moved online where they are accessible to anyone with an internet connection. Yet even here, through Apples, Facebook and Google, the suburban ethic and aesthetic encroaches.

Facebook is an online cubicle, a cubicle is a miniature suburban home a suburban home is an investment – the worth of which is determined more by property values, commute (load) times and security rather than the sentiments of hearth and home. You sell it when you can make a profit because, well, you can buy the same one somewhere else anyway.

It’s not as if you built the thing.

And the decorating was done with goods from the same box stores you can find anywhere. Just life apps bought and downloaded into your home.

So when I was invited to the launch party of a shop in Woodbridge, I took the opportunity to attend. I’ve never been to Woodbridge before, yet I have been to Woodbridge before.  And there, I was confronted by a lovely metaphor for Toronto. A tent, containing a fashion show, in a strip mall parking lot.

The models on the runway might as well have strutting their stuff down Queen West. The exotic dancers were a PG version of Club Paradise. The drummers straight out of Trinity Bellwoods Park and the fellow who pretended to play the guitar was like so people who pretend to be musicians in pubs.

Our culture is lit up air guitar.

And I enjoyed the show. Not so much for the clothing –it’s not the sort of clothing I know anything about– but because it was actually a show. There was fire. I like fire. Fire makes everything better. It sets me to looking for exits and wondering who I can push out of the way to reach them.

Mapping a route to the exit.

It was like a bizarro club district. Rather than the suburbanites coming downtown to express their particular sense of mayhem on our streets, downtown traveled to the suburbs and briefly colonized a strip mall parking lot. Concerned suburbanites stood around the tent, gawking like it was an alien landing craft from mothership Toronto and wondering if any communication was possible. Did we come in peace? Need they fear for their women-folk? Was it possible to copulate with ours?

Would the dread homosexuals finally convert them?

In these times of renewed hostilities between Toronto and its suburbs, when de-amalgamation seems like the only sensible course, when the suburban mayor and  his cronies deride downtown as being full of pinko elitists and these pinko elitists regard the surrounding regions as being populated by barbarians, when every policy seems designed to make the city more suburban, it seemed an interesting maneuver to reverse the trend and take downtown into the burbs.

I could be shilling anywhere.

While I have no problem with the suburbs when they’re in the suburbs, imagining them in the foggy and idealized images of any hash-addled orientalist, I view their cancerous  self-replication through every facet of culture as personally dangerous. I’m not actually sure I can survive in a mono-culture, especially not one controlled from the top.

In my experience, any sort of top-down organization, regardless of ideology, tends to squash me. I require a certain degree of liberty and diversity just to make a living and find the things that make living worthwhile. Even in the thriving eco-system of a city, these things can be rare. In a suburb, I fear my habitat is destroyed. That leaves me like a spotted owl.

A rare bird, going extinct.

Perhaps its time to reverse the trend of suburbification. To travel to their neighborhoods and make them as dangerous for dim children as they try to make ours friendly to the stroller classes; to ship our fashionistas out there just as they shipped their hobos to us, even as they self-righteously cut off our ability to raise the funds to help them; to hand out free books in the Tim Hortons; to explain that while many of us might be pinkos, calling us elitist – us, who make our living serving the moneyed classes from surburbia before returning to our rented hovels on foot or bicycle– is as fucking daft as calling your butler uppity; time to show these people that the amalgamation of the city with the suburbs was a horrific move that only dis-empowered the urban workers and that they who did it will, like us, have to pay for that by having us in their parking lots, behind velvet ropes, trying to convert, exclude and civilize them on Monday nights in the same manner that they, on Friday nights, are lined up in our streets, vomiting, smashing windows and punching each other in the face.

That if we have to live with them, they will have to live with us. That they too may know the dread of the other.

And while this event had nothing to do with any of that (it was about selling shoes or jackets or something and therefore part of the problem – as am I, as are you) it should point to a possible way forward for the interested anarcho-dandy. It’s possible that we’ve thoughtlessly accepted that the the suburbs are always allowed to come to us but we’re never allowed to go to them.  I wonder what would happen if that were to change. If the shoe was on the other foot.

I suspect they’d call the army.

It is, I suppose, theirs to call.