Cannonball Entry #9: Adverbs - Daniel Handler

What better way to start off a review of Daniel Handler's gleefully romantic Adverbs then with a horribly sappy story of my own? Here goes: I can still remember my first kiss with Clyde. We were at Campus one day chatting with someone else when he told us that we were a cute (albeit, unofficial) couple. It was at this point that he asked us to kiss, and we did. I know this doesn't seem that romantic, but here's the thing: I can remember every singly detail about the kiss. If you were to bring me back to Campus, I could pinpoint the stools we were sitting on. I can remember that the music pretty much muted, what his lips felt like, and the first thing we said afterward.

Clyde: Are you wearing chapstick?

Me: Berry-flavoured.

Clyde: I like it.

I can also tell you that I still have the same tube of chapstick in my room and that anytime I feel sad or nervous (or if my lips are chapped) I'll put some on. But if you focus too much on the stools or the berry-flavoured chapstick or the way he'd feed me french fries dipped in mayonnaise whenever we were home alone, you'd miss the important part, the reason why any of this mattered to me at all or the reason why I'm currently biting my lip and mentally willing myself to stop crying.

It was love.

That's the central message of Adverbs, a sort of collection of vignettes tied together with recurring themes, ambiguously-named characters and dry narration. Each story seems to exist withing one another like a Russian nesting doll, each one tangentially related to another in a way that you can't ever quite put your finger on.

If this sounds confusing, that's because it is. Handler repeatedly either uses characters with the same name or reuses the same characters, transplanting them from one story to the next. Everyone falls in love with everyone, and they love Immediately, Soundly, Clearly, Barely, and just about every other word that ends with the suffix -ly that you can think of.

The whole point is that you can try to follow the characters or the magpies or the taxis around all you want as the weave in and out of the book with the sort of grace and precision that only someone with the impeccable writing style of Daniel Handler can perform, but the point Handler is trying to get across is that it's how they love, not who they love, that really matters. Something the people in Maine and California could do to learn eventually.

Unfortunately, you can only get so much mileage out of this before you start to run out of gas. Adverbs would have been better suited wrapping up with the chapter entitled 'Truly', but unfortunately tried to eek out a few more chapters before finishing up. I can appreciate the added the reading material, but like a Christmas present you receive in February, it felt like it was wrapped up a tad too late.

That being said, if you're someone who needs to be reminded that romance isn't dead and that unflinchingly honest and witty portrayals of love in literature is alive and well too, do yourself an enormous favour and give it a read.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to put on more berry-flavoured chapstick.

10 Greatest Cancelled Shows Of The Aughts

10 - Drawn Together


9 - Angel


8 - Veronica Mars


7 - Dead Like Me


6 - Pushing Daisies


5 - Freaks and Geeks


4 - Wonderfalls


3 - Firefly


2 - Futurama


1 - Arrested Development

Ben Patrick Johnson Is Totally Boss

My apologies for the lack of posting recently, but for lack of a better term, I've been up to my ass-crack in both work and snow recently, so doing absolutely anything of note is kinda out of the question. But that's not important. What is important is that Ben Patrick Johnson sent me a signed copy of his new book, If The Rains Don't Cleanse, for the Cannonball Read. Who is Ben Patrick Johnson you may ask? Watch the video below, and prepare yourself to shit bricks.

Yup. He is THE voice guy. The man behind the only redeeming quality of every trailer ever made. And he has a body most fly to boot. Anyway, you're all mandated to buy a copy of his book, which you can do by clicking the pic below and ordering off of Amazon. Also, poutines are delicious. That is all.

Keep Fishin'

In a true sign that my career in the gay adult entertainment industry is slowly climbing the alphabetic ladder (I've gone from Z-list to D-List in only a matter of months. Huzzah!), Dominic Ford is coming up to Montreal in a couple weeks for a vacation/film shoot and they asked me to help them scout models. I'm not entirely sure what they were thinking asking me of all people to scout for models, but the idea of finally being given a big break was enough to get me to shut my big stupid facehole and get crackin'.

As it turns out, handing out once in a lifetime opportunities is nowhere near as easy as you'd think. On top of the fact that asking random hot guys on the street if they ever though about fucking another guy is generally frowned upon, most guys tend to act just a teensy bit skeptical when some scrawney little thing comes up saying he's scouting for one of the biggest names in porn today. Why is that?

Anyway, I devised a plan: I would create a spiffy little flyer on MS Paint (since I have zero talent and have no idea how to use photoshop), print it out and hand it out to gay strip clubs in the hope that the five actually gay strippers in all of Montreal would see it.

This made perfect sense to me for some reason.

So after banging out a pretty decent flyer that even Michael Lucas would tip his $15,000 Marc Jacobs hat too (Marc Jacobs makes hats, right?), I ran off to work to print out a couple copies of the flyer on the company's time. It was only after commuting 50 blocks to the restaurant and getting onto the decade old computer that I realized the one mistake in my whole plan: They had absolutely no program on which to open it.

I had diligently worked to ensure that absolutely NOTHING could go wrong, and the only thing I overlooked was that they wouldn't have so much as a pirated copy of Microsoft Office. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

It was at this point that I realized God hated me.

It was 8:30 on a Sunday night already, and I had about as much a chance of finding an open Kinkos in Montreal (in walking distance no less) as Ricky Sinz had of becoming a Catholic Priest. I walked into a drug-store with a photo printing booth only to be told pretty much exactly what I just said in the last sentence.

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to grab the pimply teenaged mimimum-wage lackey, slap him across the face and ask him to lie to me. To tell me that I could find a place to print this and that I could find models and that I wasn't a complete schmuck. That the fact that my abs didn't stick out like rocks wasn't a personal indictment, that the ulcer eating its way through my stomach lining was just some bad Mexican food, that the stress of my ineptitude was doing wonders for my blood pressure and that I wouldn't keel over before I outlived my teens.

As it turns out I don't handle stress well. Who knew?

I walked forlornly back to my apartment, pretty much convinced that I had managed to fuck up the most un-fuck-up-able project ever when I saw it: A 24 hour internet cafe with a working printer. This was the equivalent of Jesus himself coming down in a chariot of fire with a robot that could vacuum my apartment, balance my checkbook and crap general tao chicken.

But lo, for if there's one thin you should have realized by now it's that even when I'm handed a golden opportunity on a silver platter, I can and for all intents and purposes will find a way to bust ass-first in my hurry to get to it. So of course, the first computer I would log onto wouldn't open the damn thing until I tried to shut it off, only then opening up about ten copies of the flyer while I frantically clicked them closed while people wondered who the hell tweaked-out twinky was and why the hell he felt the need to open ten different documents with Matthew Rush's face on it.

Needless to say, by the time I actually managed to print out enough copies I had reached the end of my proverbial rope. I hated the flyer, I hated Matthew Rush's gorgeous stupid face and I hated me, who's success had previously been hindered by studios not wanting to give me a chance to show myself and in a cruel twist of irony, was now hindered by the fact that no one in Montreal wanted the chance to prove themselves.

As you can see, self-loathing is like an extreme sport for me.

I handed out to the two major strip joints, talked the managers into a porn-dream induced giddy frenzy and shook hands with anyone with biceps and a pulse, promising fame, fortune and cocks in 3-D that looked like they were jutting out of the computer monitor. It was at this point that I realized that porn scouting agents are the most overlooked and underrated people in the business, because sweet holy Jesus this shit is impossible.

Casting Call For Dominic Ford Montreal Shoot

Dominic Ford visiterai Montréal pour un exclusif projet de filme, et nous cherchons des modèls. As-tu qu’est-ce qu’il faut pour être partie du seule Haute-Definition, 3-D site de gay porno au monde? Cherches-tu du monnaie pour la saison de fête? Si tu pense que t’as qu’est-ce qu’il faut, envoyez votre info et photos au castingmtldom@gmail.com. Doive être 18 ans ou plus avec identification valide.

Dominic Ford is coming to Montreal for a once-in-a-lifetime film shoot, and we’re looking for models. Think you have what it takes to be a part of the world’s only High-Definition, 3-D gay porn site? Looking to make some cash for the holiday season? If you think you have what it takes, send your information and pictures to castingmtldom@gmail.com. Must be 18 years or older with valid ID.

Kill, Fuck or Marry: The Triumphant Return Edition!

I know I haven't done one of these in, like, forever, but after special request I'm bringing it back: Kill, Fuck or Marry! Anyway, once again:

1. You're given a list of three people
2. You have to choose who to kill, who to fuck and who to marry.
3. Suicide is not an option.
4. You have to do it for both the men AND the women. It's purely hypothetical, so quit being such a pussy.
5. If you need help making up your mind, you can click on the name to see a pic.

Jake Gyllenhaal, Chris Pine or Chace Crawford?

Blake Lively, Taylor Swift or Katrina Bowden?

Stephen Moyer, Ryan Kwanten or Alexander Skarsgard?

Rashida Jones, Felicia Day or Evan Rachel Wood?

David Taylor, Austin Wilde or Tristan Jaxx?

Gwenno, Riotbecki or Rosay?

Ben Patrick Johnson, Perez Hilton or Guillermo Diaz?

Marilyn Manson Says Eat Healthy

...Or you'll DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!!!!!

Cannonball Read Entry #8: I Love You, Beth Cooper - Larry Doyle

For the sake of Full Disclosure, I should probably mention straight off the bat that I didn't really get the typical high school experience: I went to a Catholic Private High School (whose graduates include Sam Roberts as well as two of the cast-members Royal Canadian Air Farce, if you happen to be one of the twelve people who watched that show.) The hallways were predominantly infested with upper-class white kids from good, shame-based households, and the entire population of kids who were black and/or Jewish could be counted on one hand.

Needless to say, if I ever describe High School as the best years of my life, by all means, take me out behind the shed and give me the Ol' Yeller treatment.

Which is probably why I enjoyed reading I Love You, Beth Cooper as much as I did. As someone who pretty much got the Baskin-Robbins taste-test of High School instead of the full scoop, I still found that it held a sort of fond, contemptuous familiarity. It's a book that celebrates the good side yet pretty much mercilessly mocks the golden cows of teenage existence.

The plot is a fairly standard coming-of-age fare: Adorkable hero Denis Cooverman declares his love for Beth Cooper (Spoilers!), then goes on a madcap adventure with her, his movie-quoting-possibly-gay-best-friend, and Beth's loyal sidekicks, the sarcastic Cammy and the bubble-headed Treece. Denis drinks beer, gets into a fist-fight, sneaks into the women's washroom, and flees frantically from Beth's big scary demon boyfriend.

If this all sounds like one big teeny-bopping amalgamtion of cliches...Well, that's probably because it is. And so what really? There really is something to be said about cliches. Sometimes you want the plain boy/girl to whip off their ugly glasses, become insta-hot and get the dream boy/girl. Sometimes you want the sassy up and comer to beat the big mean corporation. Sometimes you want the rag-tag team of ruffians to beat the douchey rich ones. Why? Because shit like this doesn't happen in real life. Pretty people date pretty people (or ugly people with money), the corporation will always beat the little guy, and the Yankees are still doing fairly well.*

But of course, cliches are fucking boring if that's all they're putting on the menu, and thankfully, Larry Doyle doesn't just dump a pile of Same Ol' Shit on your plate. The characters are remarkably fleshed out, the narrative so meticulously mapped out and the humour bone-dry. Beth herself is a thing of wonder: Despite her beauty and popularity, she has a surprisingly existential underside to her as well. She's accepted the fact that life for her has essentially ended, and that her highest ambitions don't really excel past mediocrity. Between that and her own family secret, she's an incredibly deep character really.

My only real problem with the book would probably have to be that Kevin, the antagonist of the book, is a homicidal lunatic and is portrayed as being a by-the-books military man. This is probably just me trying to find something negative to balance out the critical blowjob I just gave Doyle, but as someone with an aunt, an uncle and a cousin in the military, I was a bit miffed that our armed forces were little more than Machiavellian kill-bots.

But yes, one petty little argument aside, I loved pretty much everything about it. If it were a girl, I would totally invite it to my prom since same-sex dancing was seen as abominable sin in the eyes of our principal.

*ZINGER!

Cannonball Read Entry #7: You Suck! - Christopher Moore

Christopher? Sweetheart? We need to have a talk.

Listen, I think you're a great guy. I really do. I've read all your books and you have the whip-smart, hysterical and sarcastic writing style that seems to be all but missing from literature today. You have empathetic characters, deeply emotional story lines that never delve into schmaltz, and you make me laugh.

But we have to talk about You Suck here. Listen, I think it's great that you decided to write a sequel to 1995's Bloodsucking Fiends for your fans. I think it's great that this time around, you let Jody bring her boyfriend Tommy into the fold. And it was sweet of you to let them work through their issues together while contending with the head-vampire and a demonic blue hooker.

But here's the thing: You might be falling just a bit too much in love with your own writing. I know a lot of people love your writing, and for good reason. But enough with the winks and nudges. Enough with the character's that forgo common sense or realism for a quick laugh. Look, if we wanted a bad joke that doesn't have anything to do with the actual plot, we'd watch Family Guy.

And as much as we wanted a sequel to Bloodsucking Fiends...Well, you're trying to write a sequel to a book published twelve-years ago. You can't just magically pull a bunch of previously unmentioned technology out of your ass when you're trying to connect to connect two books over a decade apart from each other. And for God's sake, would it kill you to tone down Abby a bit? Christ, I think the poor girl was barely a wrung up on the annoying-side-kick ladder from Jar Jar Binks.

I like you, I really do. And You Suck was still an immensely enjoyable read that for all its flaws is still funny and irreverent in a time where people are gleefully content to scrape the bottom of the barrel. But please, stop with the all-too-self-conscious act already. Masturbation is fun, but if you're going to do it in front of an audience, it wouldn't kill you to let others in on the act as well, would it?

Back To Black

Two months.

Two goddamn months and I'm still not over it. I kind of wish I could say I was okay with it, but that would imply that in some small part, this situation is even remotely okay. As if the idea that the first person I ever really loved dying is somehow just peachy keen. I mean Christ, when you ask someone my age about their relationship troubles, they usually say something about not spending enough time together or not talking enough. Meanwhile, I have to contend with the fact that the one person who could make me feel beautiful just by smiling at me is in box six feet underground in Windsor fucking Ontario (a city I'll be cursing to my grave).

All in all, the entire thing has validated my opinion that pessimism is the most rational way to go about life. Think about it this way:
If you're optimistic, you're only two available outcomes to life are either a sense of moderate contentment, or crippling disappointment. But if you never get your hopes up about anything, you'll already be prepared for whatever shit comes your way, or you will forever be pleasantly surprised. It's like Christmas: When you got what you expected, it didn't mean as much as all the cool, surprising shit you never thought you'd get, right? Likewise, it sucks when you don't get what you want for Christmas. It's like flipping the world's most existential coin: Heads, you're okay. Tails, everything is just horribly depressing. Sometimes it's best to just not take that chance to begin with.

If that sounds cold and bitchy...Well, that's probably because it is. On top of my current feelings of doom and gloom, I've been getting zero sleep lately because of some seriously effed nightmares. I mean REALLY effed. The kind where evil demon witches trap you in a car and splatter blood-filled corpses on the windshield. I normally don't talk about dreams, mostly because they're fucking boring as hell, but when your dreams feature bodies that burst like satan's personal water balloons, that's usually the time when you should start talking about that. If dreams are your subconscious' way of making sense of things, I'm pretty sure my subconscious is trying to fucking murder me.

Anyway, point is that no matter how much I say otherwise, I might not be quite as fine and okie-doke as I say I am. Sorry, but you're asking me to be okay about a situation that is so far away from okay you'd need a passport and five hours in customs just to get back to being okay.