Book Kismet

Immigration hits the all time crap low. Application is confirmed lost. We receive a phone message which we must reply to by fax, as you do. But at least we know which end is up (even if its the wrong one) and all of this will be ok eventually. Which is certainly not to say that I've got a positive attitude, but we're just trying not to think about it.

Friday night was spent delightfully at Revival, where the fabulous KC Roberts and the Raw Blue were performing, with a new friend and co-worker of mine on bass. They were amazing and we had a lot of fun. And yesterday was pretty much passed on the porch with Curtis, the front porch until it got too cold and then out back where the sun still shone, and we had a bbq. Lately I have been craving hotdogs like they're lifeblood. Miraculously, this weekend stretches out long and we've still got two days left. A trip to High Park is planned, although probably not today because the sky is black.

Picador Shots, a wonderful new way to market the short story. On why the fabulous Lionel Shriver is planning to bequeath her estate to the Belfast Libraries. Camilla Gibb in The Globe. The CBC reports on Eurovision. (Daz Sampson came 19th, for all you curious).

I just finished reading The Golden Apples by Eudora Welty, and it was pretty wonderful. But most amazingly, my comrade in bookishness o'er London way, Ms. Bronwyn, happened to be reading it at the exact same time. Which is odd, because the book was published sixty years ago, so it's not like we're both reading the latest bestseller. And we've never mentioned Eudora Welty, or The Golden Apples, in my recollection. Of all the millions of books we could have been reading, that was it. Shivers delightedly. I just plucked Sarah Bastard's Notebook by Marian Engel off my shelf, apparently the first unabashedly feminist Canadian Novel. I loved Engel's The Lunatic Villas. I have never read Bear and I never, ever, want to.