This parental advice thingy looks like it needs a gag line, but I am not good at gag lines. And since there's hardly any traffic on this blog these days, I don't think any of you will come up with one. I could ask on Facebook, Facebook is more alive than this petty blog. But then if I ask there, and nobody says anything, I'll look like a fool. So I don't think I will. Here it is my very own silence.
Today's newspaper. The drawing is a patchwork of some of the many photo's the China correspondent sent me. Strangely enough a lot of those photo's were of the earthquake, but there isn't a word about the earthquake in the article. Never mind. Most of his story is about a village that is still governed according to strict Maoist rules. In other parts of China they are referred to as a nostalgic myth. I wonder if the same goes for our little Chinatown here in Toronto. We are always puzzled by the magazine section in the shop where we buy our TTC tokens. Mao left right and centre. We call it the Mao shop. They are a DVD rental too, mysterious films play while we wait for our turn at the cash register. Other customers are usually gambling. Which I don't think Mao would approve of.
How's that for a holiday project! I read somewhere that this year is the first coast-to-coast Canadian white christmas in 37 years. That must be just because our family spread all the way to the west coast for the holidays. Piffin also took some breathtaking pictures of Vancouver in the snow, but you have to go and find her Facebook page for those. Facebook is a fantastic tool to spy on your kids, I must say. I never log out anymore. The poor thing has her mom all over her wall.
Nothing like some good old fashioned social realism. Merry Christmas!
I'm almost there, and suddenly I see how I could have done it a lot simpler. Too bad, I am not going to start over. Had a full body exam with a magnifying glass today. If that's not enough to get a girl self conscious, I don't know what is. I am at risk for melanoma, because I have over a hundred moles, and I have them on my foot soles. I am a Dalmatian. I don't even like Dalmatians. My first boyfriend left me for a girl with a Dalmatian, I will never like those dogs.
Look what I got in the mail, the Querido Spring catalog! I thought my book cover was going to be a thumbnail, but I'm going to have to think again! All the other books in the catalog have their covers on the right page, where my author is. And they have their author pictures full page on the left. This is the only book that is the other way around, how great is that! (AFTh is full page on my back, duh) And they even more or less followed my typography suggestion, I am a happy girl.
"A classic is something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read." Mark Twain said that, and my favourite radio program is going to do a christmas series on ten of those. The TV/radio guide runs an extremely easy quiz, which opening sentence is from which of those ten books. Go for it, send in the answers, you can win a book nobody wants to read! I'd give you the sentences, so you could figure it out without even knowing seven of the books we're talking about, but then I'd have to translate them into English, and I don't want to disfigure great literature.
My old refound Irish friend in England asked me whereabouts I have lived in London. So there it is, Cat Hill, the house on the south side with a bus stop in front of it. Broadloom in the bathroom. It must have been around christmas 1990, because I remember bobbies singing christmas carols in the street, and Piffin was just starting to talk. She didn't, and then one day, leaving the bakery, she suddenly produced a very very English sounding "bye bye", loud and clear. I almost had a heart attack. We were in London because Michiel was doing part of his masters in computer animation there. It was a Europe wide organized course, another part was in the south of France, which I think is a much better idea. France came before England, and we had learned there that it is not easy to live with only one car load of belongings. So moving to London, we really really stuffed the car, Michiel even made a big wooden box for on top, we still have it. A British customs officer asked us where we had our kitchen sink. London wasn't very child friendly. There was only one pub in Soho that let us in, as long as we sat close to the door. The art school had its own pub, it opened early in the afternoon, and students could (and would) drink themselves silly from as early as that. We were often playing billiard in that pub, but only as long as the stupid gate at the bar was closed, when it opened we had to leave. As if Piffin was in any danger, pathetic. We had a good time in London for seven months or so, but life was pretty hard. London was extremely expensive, it is the only place in the world where we ever went to McDonalds. We couldn't afford much else. And it was hard to find good coffee. And the Underground was a nightmare with a buggy. And we had very bad skin from the pollution. But we had this car, and my favourite thing was driving through Baker Street, cars almost ticking each other's side view mirrors.
I forgot my running bra this morning, I won't do that again. It must have provided entertainment for the people on the cardio machines around the track. I always like to think some good comes from my mistakes. And then this afternoon I met a new neighbour and I cried. My new neighbour is called Mo, and he was born last Saturday. Oh, and the young parents, so much happiness, they are beaming it. I just happened to step out with Orbit when they turned into their driveway. I took a photo of the proud parents with Mo, before he entered his home for the first time. (I can't help mentioning here that I do find it a little bit strange a baby should come home by car. Mine were born in my own bed, and it took them (or me for that matter) quite a while to even leave the house for a short walk.)
Such a comforting idea that the time wasting habit of watching bad TV can be such an inspiration.
This is my favourite running tune, running is suddenly completely effortless when my iPod plays this. Today I could even run in the park, it was above zero. Just a few ice patches to jump over. And I cleaned up my sleeping Face Book page. I removed some people I didn't even know (actually there is one left of whom I have no idea how he ended up on my FBpage, but his profile picture is too sweet), and invited some new friends. Feels good. All this because a really old friend, 1979 if I am not mistaken, found me. And you don't want to let in old friends without some tidying up, now do you. But now I haven't heard from the old friend after I replied to him. He probably just doesn't email on the weekend, but it's eating away at me. Maybe I chased him away the minute I got back to him. And then I think, oh that is nonsense. Back in the day he would always tell me I was "too much", he must have known what he was getting himself into...
You were dancing before weren't you? What happened? I sat down. Oh, come on, you're the only one in a hot red dress!
I've had a long day, I was up at 4:30. Piffin flew to Vancouver this morning, to reunite with her girlfriend, she was so happy. But 4:30 is too early. I was glad she traveled today and not yesterday, because the highway was a skating rink yesterday. Today was fine, just freaking cold. And I finally went for a long overdue haircut. I hadn't been happy with any of the salons I tried so far in Toronto, so I tried something new, the haircut school. And it was very fun. Very recommendable. They all looked very nice students, Piffin's age, and they really do their utmost (and pay themselves silly, it is a very expensive education). And a good thing about them still being students is they don't have that attitude yet. Mine started with a massage, and after every little part in the hair cutting process she had to go get her teacher before she could carry on. And the teacher, a very nice and gay young hairdresser, showed her where she could do more, or better, or different. I have a head full of curls now. But no photo, Piffin took the camera to Vancouver. And then tonight we were at the surprise party for neighbour Gerald's 75th birthday. Scary thought that we actually have friends who turn 75. He had no idea. He came home after having dined out with a friend, and fifty people started yelling surprise and blowing horns. He was almost in tears. And he was very happy with our Arnon Grunberg. Who didn't win the PC Hooft Prize. Hans Verhagen did. Today. And why are we home so early from this party, you may wonder. Well, I am terribly allergic to Gerald's cats, and since we were already there yesterday, it was much worse today, even though I took an anti-histamine. Some cats this guy has, I went insane, I fled.
Please don't think I photographed the dress against the book shelves to show off our books. It was honestly the only spot where the red would be red in the picture. It is a velvet dress, and velvet has a vleug (too tired now to go look for a translation), and depending on how the light falls on the vleug, the fabric turns out black/brown or red. I need the dress because the party season has started, cheers. And merry christmas. Now all I need is a haircut. And I promised tomorrow's party to bring caviar. I set out to buy a dress this morning. And I went through high street shops and boutiques until I was sick to my stomach from hearing christmas carols. Home. Michiel, who is working from home this week was so good to come with me for a second try, the shops along Queen Street. And where do we end up, yes you guessed right, Value Village. Where else. I am so cheap. The dress looks stunning on me, if I may say so, and it cost me 12 dollars. The book is a nice Dutch present for tomorrow's host. Tonight we had desserts at neighbour Gerald's house. Gerald always empties out the Altitude Bakery on Queen when we come over, thank god my dress is stretch.
This is the uplifting story I promised you the other day. You can tell it to your relatives under the Christmas tree if you want. It is about my neighbour Marilyn. And about my dear father-in-law. And a lady in The Hague. My neighbour Marilyn maintains a website for her father Jan Kiewiet, who is a painter, and who immigrated to North America in 1953. A little over a week ago, she received an email through this website, sent by a lady in The Hague. The lady in The Hague owned a painting (a pastel rather, to be precise) by a Jan Kiewiet, and she was wondering whether the Jan Kiewiet whose website she found was the same Jan Kiewiet. The style looked very different, but then again the painting was very old, 1942. Marilyn had the answer, the painting was not her father's, but her grandfather's, and she was of course delighted to hear from somebody who owned one of his works. It gets better. The lady in The Hague had owned the painting for fourty years, but was now ready to part with it, and wanted to return it to the family, how sweet is that? The next day however, there suddenly were doubts, because friends of the lady in The Hague had tried to convince her to have the painting evaluated. Some people have just seen a few too many episodes of the Antiques Roadshow. Fortunately the day after that, the lady in The Hague had made up her own mind, and decided that she was going to go through with it. Fourty years ago she had gotten the painting as a present, she never paid for it, and she didn't want make money off it now. And that's where the dear father-in-law comes in. Willem drove to The Hague, climbed two flights of stairs with all of his heart problems (oh my), had coffee and cookies, and took the painting home. And now he is going to find a way to have it shipped to Canada. Marilyn feels like her grandfather is sending her a Christmas present from the grave!
I was asked to choose three of of a list of ten classic novels, and produce an illustration like this one. They are remakes of old covers. They sure don't make 'em like that anymore. I wish they did though, I wish I did! So cold here in Toronto right now! Minus ten with blowing wind. Last night we went to the islands, in blowing snow, to celebrate Sinterklaas, we sang:
Hoor de wind waait door de bomen.
Hier in huis zelfs waait de wind.
Zou de goede Sint nog komen,
Nu hij 't weer zo lelijk vindt.
Nu hij 't weer zo lelijk vindt.
Ja, hij rijdt in donk're nachten
Op zijn paardje, oh zo snel.
Als hij wist hoe zeer wij wachten,
Ja gewis, dan kwam hij wel.
Ja gewis, dan kwam hij wel!
With Martin on guitar. And Piffin had baked kruidnoten. And we got so many presents, thank you, Sinterklaas. I always postpone everything to the last second, so I had to ask Michiel to go shopping, because I was doing these book covers. And Michiel went shopping big time, I guess he was still in a Las Vagas mood. Typical Canadian Dutchies conversation; no, I don't really like the President's Choice Aussie-style soft & chewy licorice. Oooh, you haven't been away long enough!!! And I find it quite remarkable that almost everyone I meet knows who Sinterklaas is. I suspect it's because of David Sedaris.
This is just a small part of what I have been doing to day. It'll all make sense by Sunday. What's more important is that Michiel is almost there! His plane is almost crossing the Canadian border right this moment. I am tracking his flight. He will be so happy to have left Las Vegas.
Look what I found, Walter Trier's successor! After Trier's death in 1951 Horst Lemke illustrated Erich Kästner's books. I've said it before, research is the best part of illustrating. I'm doing something literary again, you'll see. Oh and it was my little radio moment again tonight. You can download the podcast if you want. I explain the whole Steven Harper uproar, so it's maybe even worth it. And I tell an uplifting story. One I will also publish on my blog, but not before I have the imagery. Do I sound mysterious?
One of Michiel's colleagues sent me a very scary picture of him in Las Vegas, such a pity Michiel doesn't want his face on my blog. I myself have no shame as you well know. This is me posing for my friend Michele's (who joined the dear readership since she bought an iBook) camera phone. I am showing you the Business Idea of the Year; the clarinet case for the Canadian climate. Michele bought a down jacket at Loblaws and floopdeewoop, we turned it into a clarinet case warmer. My living room looks like we slaughtered a farm load of ducks. Michele you see lives on the Toronto islands, so she has to take the ferry twice a day. And her bike to which ever theatre she is performing at. And regular clarinet cases, however warm, have zippers. And the Canadian cold can easily penetrate zippers. And when the clarinet gets cold, it cracks. And when it cracks, it needs expensive repairs. And now it stays warm. Voila.
Michiel left the charger for his blackberry behind, and now he is sending me emails with his iPod. He doesn't know how to turn off his automatic spell checker:
Via gmail of via webmail sen beetje sen gedoe omdat I'm niet west hoe I'm de automatische spellcheck uit most zetten. I'm hooede operamuziek bin de fontijn. Town I'm gong kijken clerk het been sopraan maar een groepje living sculptures. Het was so mal dat ik in schaterlachen uitbarstte. I'm heb eenstukje gefilmd.
Rest asure dear non-Dutch readership, nobody can make much sense of this message. Over to Elvis.
And on the day of a historic flood in Venice, Michiel checks into this hotel in Las Vegas. I am not making it up. He blackberried me that there is a trompe l'oeuil sky, so it is daytime eternally. I feel for him. Michiel is probably the last person on earth to appreciate so much fake around him. Let's play him some comforting music.
