Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Taxidermy gone horribly wrong




This is a cheap sort of post, but I'll do it anyway. There are thousands of these pictures on the net, on hundreds of sites, and most of them are now examples of people TRYING to botch taxidermy and make it look funny. My personal favorites are motheaten, threadbare, cheaply-made-with-corners-cut, and perhaps sincere attempts to represent the spirit of the flyblown dead carcass of something.




Not everyone knows how to match the teeth to the animal. Maybe a set of human dentures was cheaper to find than actual polar bear teeth. Break out the Polident.




An awful lot of these, the ones I favor I mean, depict cats of various sorts, domestic or wild. I don't know what this one is. It's someone's idea of what a cat's face looks like. The measuring tape is a mystery to me.






I don't know exactly what it is about this one, but it creeps the bejeezus out of me. Some taxidermists, at least in the bad old days, liked to anthro - anthropo- anthropomorph- oh hell, they liked to give human traits to animals, so maybe that's what's going on here. Reminds me of Snagglepuss, or Snaggletooth, or whatever his name was. A definite Hanna-Barbera look.




Wrong size eyes.




Some of these, due to faulty or non-existent technique, perhaps from following a You, Too Can Be a Taxidermist! ad in the back of a comic book from 1940, may have shrunk with time, or with being shoved in the back of some nightmare closet to get it the hell away from you. A nice gift from Uncle Edgar who has a nice little hobby on the side, so he'll keep his hands to himself. My, how lifelike!






Meow, meow, meow.




I don't often favor the "deliberately cute" school of taxidermy, but there's something about this one. I think it's the zipper, combined with the Burt Lancaster facial expression.




This is a member of the Royal Family who stuck its paw in a lightsocket and became electrified. Obviously it used to be a corgi. Too bad we had to put it down, its eyes were too close together.




A good example of a "What-Is-It".


.

What scares me so much is that I think this guy really tried. Maybe it was even his dog. The fact you can see through its ear creeps me out even more. (Note the nose, or rather the absence of one.)




We can't possibly include them all, but this is a classic not to be missed. Either the donkey was in a bad way and had to run around on its hind legs, or the taxidermist lost the front legs, or lost interest, or else he just ran out of embalming fluid.






This isn't a replica of the subject of that great children's story, Misty of Chincoteague. This IS Misty of Chincoteague. I think I'm going to be sick.




For reasons unknown, this is my favorite. The tubular head, seamlike mouth and drainpipe neck are iconic, as is the stuffing pouring out of its nostrils.

Never was this a moose. Ever.



Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
         It took me years to write, will you take a look. . .



Babycakes (a photo essay)



















Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
         It took me years to write, will you take a look. . .


Tuesday, September 2, 2014

An almost normal life




A young woman sits in the waiting room of a psychiatrist’s office. She flips through old magazines full of celebrity diets and recipes for lavish desserts, uninterested.

“OK, Sandra, you can go in now.”



Into the throne room. The palace of no return. Or something like that. Since her bipolar diagnosis (and why is everyone suddenly bipolar? Wasn’t it multiple personality disorder a few years ago?), everything has been turned upside-down.




She is on five different medications, two of them to deal with side effects from the other three. These are (supposedly) working in tandem at relatively low levels which are (supposedly) easier on body and brain. Or at least that’s the theory, until the next one comes along.

“Sandra.”

“Dr. Turnstile.” (She has never quite gotten used to that name, which made her guffaw the first time she heard it.)

“So how are we doing these days.”

Not a question, but a statement, always in the plural.











“Oh, we’re. .  . just fine. But to tell you the truth, doctor, it could be better.”

“Feeling a touch of depression lately?” (He picks up his clipboard and begins to make notes.

“A touch. It’s been. . .I don’t know. Remember I told you about my brother?”

”The one who got married last year.”

“No, the other one. I mean. . .”

“Refresh my memory.”

“The one I’ve been talking about for the past five sessions.”




“I detect a note of irritability.” He makes another note.

“Yes, a note. He’s in jail now. Embezzlement. The guy is just too clever for his own good. He’s appealing, of course. I don’t mean that kind of appealing.”

“Explain.”

“Never mind, it’s just a lame joke.”

“So apart from your brother going to jail. . . “

“Oh, everything’s just hunky-dory.”




“I detect a note of sarcasm.”

“That’s because I’m lying. Everything isn’t hunky-dory. You remember my boy friend, Robert –“

“The accountant."

“Lawyer. We broke up. It was. . . I don’t know, pretty bad.”

“Are you taking your medication?

She blinks. “I wouldn’t dream of going off it.”




“Would you like me to raise the doseage on the Seroquel?”

"No.”

“The Lamotrigine?”

“No.”

“The lithium?”

“No.”



“Then let’s discuss non-medication-oriented strategies for managing the mild depression you seem to be experiencing right now.”

“Strategies.”

“Yes. You remember what I told you in our previous sessions. The principles of cognitive therapy indicate that feelings arise from thoughts. If thoughts are excessively negative, emotions will soon follow suit.”

“I always had a problem with that one.”

“Yes, I realize there has been some resistance to treatment. This must be overcome if you are to become truly well.”

Can I be truly well if I’m bipolar?”

“Not in the usual sense. But in a relative sense, as opposed to experiencing severe episodes, then it’s possible for someone with bipolar disorder to live an almost normal life."




“Almost normal. I see. So nut cases can only get so much better before they hit a wall.”

"Sandra, that is a completely irresponsible statement.”

“But I’m just sayin’. There’s only so far a bipolar can go. The chain is pretty short.”







“That’s why it is so imperative for you to adhere strictly to the principles of cognitive therapy.”

“You see, there’s where I can’t follow you. I find it hard to believe that every emotion is just an offshoot of a thought, and that every thought can be controlled.”

“Maybe not every thought. But people have more control than they think.”

“Do they now. Then I wonder why we even need medication.”




“Sandra, you know why. You have inherited a chemical imbalance of the brain which tends to trigger extreme mood swings, which in turn skews your thoughts toward the negative.”

“But the thoughts lead to the mood swings, don't they? I'm confused."

“There is no need to twist my words around."

“OK then, cognitive therapy. That means I’m supposed to reframe negative events – “

"Now you’re on the right track.”



“. . . Reframe negative events so that they become positive. Let’s see. So breaking up with Robert was really a good thing.”

“Yes, yes – continue – “

“No matter how much I loved him, I – I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.”

“How about this for an alternate hypothesis. There is a possibility that this breakup will free you to explore other possibilities. You’re young. There are other fish in the sea.”

“Other fish.”



“Maybe even better fish. Have you thought of that? And how about your brother? Can we shed a more positive light on his situation, which is, after all, self-created?"

“Oh, maybe he’ll turn his life around in jail. Have a religious conversion, write a book, marry some woman on the outside who’s willing to wait fifteen years until he gets out.”

“Again, the note of sarcasm.”

“Yeah, but I just can’t do this. This cognitive therapy, it implies we can control just about every thought, and thus every feeling that we have. We can just decide.”

“Yes, more than most people realize.”




“Isn’t this creating your own reality? Isn’t that what crazy people do?”

“Sandra, you are deliberately poking holes in the therapeutic process.”

“Poking holes. Doctor, I wish it were as simple as deciding how to feel.”

“But to a large extent, Sandra, it is. Cognitive therapy is, after all, the primary mode of treatment in modern therapeutic practice.”

"Then why have they stopped saying that about being gay?”




He looks disconcerted, puts down his clipboard.

“You know. They used to say being gay was something you could change if you just decided to. You know, made up your mind.”

“That was many years ago.” He shifts in his chair.

“In other words: yes, you might be attracted to men, but that’s a choice. You can choose something else, a girl in other words, any time you want to.”

“That’s very simplistic.” He is turning a shade of pink.




“But according to the principles of cognitive therapy, it should work. You should be able to change your feelings of attraction to men just by changing your thoughts. Am I right?”

”The DSM specifically states – “

“Forget the DSM. Say you’re gay. You want to be straight, or your mother wants you to be straight. Hell, let’s face it, even with the progress we’ve made, it’s still easier to be straight than gay. You don’t have to explain yourself all the time.  So, just change your thoughts about the subject and you won’t have those feelings any more! Think about girls instead. Finito. Problem solved.”

“We aren’t discussing sexual orientation now, Sandra.”

“Yes we are. Haven’t you been listening?”




Dr. Turnstile has the look of a fish sliding down a chute and landing helplessly in the ocean. It is imperative that they change the subject before he loses any more ground.

Sandra fixes him with her incandescent blue eyes.

“It just comes down to a decision. Am I right? But the thing is, doctor – you haven’t made that decision yet. Have you?”




A young woman sits in the waiting room of a psychiatrist’s office. She flips through an old magazine with screaming headlines about Lindsay Lohan’s latest arrest on the cover, bored.

“OK, Sandra, you can go in now.”


Blingee rat



Monday, September 1, 2014

I Need My Pain




It's a good thing I need my pain, because I got the mother of all bad reviews today. "Bad" meaning pretty much dismissing The Glass Character. I was totally spoiled by my first two novels, which were widely (and with two exceptions, positively) reviewed. This included two in the Globe and Mail that compared my work to that of Anne-Marie MacDonald, Alice Munro and even Stephen Leacock.  Excuse me while I blow my nose.

The gods made me pay for all that. Obviously. I got very little coverage this time, no newspaper reviews that I could find, a little bit on the internet here and there. Newspaper review sections have dwindled, faded or disappeared entirely, a setup that isn't so good for novelists. I set up Amazon and Google author pages, this blog, a web site, a Facebook page as well as a special page for the book. But it didn't help much. When this sort of thing happens, a writer feels very alone.

It didn't ruin my day or anything - in fact I had a quite pleasant day for the most part, and I plan to have another one tomorrow. No boo-hooing or petulant foot-stamping or head-tossing or point-by-point counter-evisceration - that's childish. I did however find out who the guy was. He's a poet of the competitive "slam" variety, standup comedian and performance artist working out of Winnipeg. I'll quote in its entirety an autobiographical piece he wrote for the Globe and Mail, the "little essay" that runs on the back of the first section every day and is coveted by writers everywhere because it's one of the few paid freelance gigs left in the country. (I did a few of them myself, back in the day.) Illustrations are of course never literal or one-to-one on this blog, but arise directly from the subconscious, where Gumby reigns supreme.



I have a certain amount of difficulties at parties, for a number of reasons. Chief among them is my struggle to answer the boilerplate question, “What do you do?”
There is no complete answer I could give, aside from a downright facetious one like: “I convert food calories into muscle and fat, and in doing so contribute in my small way to the heat death of the universe.”

According to the taxman, I am the proprietor of a number of struggling small businesses. By my roommates’ accounts, I am a generally fun guy who occasionally vanishes into his room for a few hours to do something inscrutable.


To myself, I am terribly few things at all during the cruel honesty of the day, but a veritable da Vinci in those precious moments of hallucination just preceding sleep.




Call it a protracted adolescence, that novelty of our time. It may be that I drank too deeply from the cup of praise during my formative years, and have remained drunk on the possibilities of my own potential. This has no doubt been a problem for the bright and lazy for centuries, but I think that our modern world creates the conditions for this disease of habits to become a pandemic.
This is why I consider myself a New Idler, certainly distinguishable from the Renaissance Man or the Victorian Amateur or the Parisian Saloniste.
For one thing, I am not landed gentry. I am not independently wealthy, or dependently wealthy, or even well-to-do. This must be the first time and place in human history when a young man with no skills, no income and no direction can not only survive, but thrive!




I have never been healthier, more romantically successful, or more full of zest for life than right now, and I can assure you that I am both penniless and unemployable. Oh, what wonders our age has wrought!
Secondly, there is that great equalizer, the Internet. Education and meaningful work once surely conferred a great social advantage on people, the ability to condescend. Whether they tried or not, the intelligentsia would simply have access to exciting new ideas, challenging modes of thought and fresh experimental data. Their speech would be condescending for no other reason than that they had all the facts.



Enter Radiolab. Enter BuzzFeed, HuffPost, the Daily What and, for that matter, the mandatory Twitter feeds of the greatest thinkers of our age. Not only is all the wildest new gossip from politics and the natural sciences completely available – for free if you happen to be one the 28 million Canadians living within walking distance of a coffee shop – but it is collated, curated and prepackaged into witty banter.
Every morning, while brewing coffee, I can stream a lesson in erudite, educated conversation that would make Henry Higgins sound like a backwoodsman.
So, with education and hard work appearing grossly obsolete, how else am I to define myself? That’s the central question for my epoch of wandering youth.




To be sure, the answer lies in bountiful possibilities of some vague, delayed tomorrow. To that end, I starting collecting lists of great books to read so I might improve my mind. The Modern Library, Time magazine, The Guardian, everyone had their say. My combined list currently has 1,028 entries, and far surpasses the number of books I could possibly read in my natural life, particularly since so much of my time is taken up with list-collecting.




I am on a trial membership with 12 different skills-building websites, each taking me right up to edge of the dedication and sacrifice it would take to make progress. I run so many free services that my laptop screen blazes and blares like a Times Square of squalid gratification.
These distractions slow down my already-glacial progress, of course, but it doesn’t matter! I have all the time in the world, and the joys of laying myself down to sleep, dreaming into the future where I am a concert pianist, a foreign correspondent, a Saturday Night Live cast member and Jonathan Franzen’s best friend, are all I need for sustenance.
In my mind, I am already there, and since a recent podcast informed me that time is unified and unmalleable, I am already there in reality as well.




The only thing that could defeat this vision of a perfect and masterful future is to collapse this superposition of histories and dedicate myself to one thing at the expense of all others. So this is the one path I must not take.
I would give up everything I have in this life, my pasta maker, my Bowflex home gym, even my ribbonless vintage typewriter, in order to preserve the dream that is me. I would sweep out every cobwebbed corner of my hobby-filled apartment to make room for more of that one truly renewable resource: potential.



Every night, I concentrate on a still more perfect future, and escape that much further from a still more banal present.
That is what I do, but this answer is a little too wide-ranging for casual party talk, so I had to spell it out for you here.


Steve Currie is an improvisor and poet in Winnipeg. In any other century, he would have died of consumption by now.




OK, this is sideslapping and knee-splitting  (or is it the other way around), I admit it, but it's also pretty revealing. From his  many YouTube videos performing in (I can only assume from audience response) comedy clubs in Winnipeg, I've discovered he's pretty young. He lives with "roommates", so is not married. From my perspective he's a child, and in the literary sense, I can't help but see him as a poseur. If I am to take his Globe piece at all literally, unless he is making the entire thing up, he's a very serious idler (he said it first, and made a point of it over and over again), with no prespects of anything much, so sharpening his teeth on poor Harold might have served him as a form of sport. Satire would not be funny if it had no truth in it: you need something real to "send up". 

By the bye, though it seems another lifetime now, I indulged in what was then called theatre sports, not doing too well in them because they resembled, to me, a sort of smackdown wrestling rather than verbal jousting. I am not unfamiliar with performance, in other words, for laughs or for not. 
But I wasn't going to do this. I wasn't! Oh all right, I'll try to find the GIF I made of him to send Matt, who as usual was a brick through the whole thing. Here are only a couple of his rejoinders to the man's hatchet job (as well as some timely advice for me):




He likes you. He did the litcrit's equivalent of the gradeschool boy putting a frog down the blouse of the girl he crushes.
Send the jerk a live scorpion.


He needs a good Vuhjinya ass whuppin.  I'll gather up the bubbas...





And a couple more of them, my favorites, are kind of unprintable.

In any case, it made me feel like a warm puppy inside. I just wish someone else would give this thing a fair trial. If one negative review stands as the ONLY review, I feel like I'm in an uncomfortable position. He has a right to like, dislike, diss, not diss, or make a paper airplane out of Harold. But I wish there were something on the other side of the balance. 


Is all.







Post-post post: And this. I am glad I have friends, though they be few and far away. The ones I have, the few who "get" me, and I them, are precious to me. This is what my pal David West posted on my FB page after the review debacle:




Margaret Gunning, I say your The Glass Character is a wonderful book for all the many reasons I have mentioned to you. Ignore the rave reviews, ignore the scathing ones. In fact, ignore them all. It's what you think that matters.
You are a real trouper and a real professional.
Three novels, Margaret. I consider that a triumph. I want to hear you are hard at work writing instead of reading s***ty reviews. A waste of time.