Tuesday, 25 August 2026

Son of Nobody

 



Between the mighty ships of the two great kings,
Zeus-like Agamemnon's one hundred sea-borne
fortresses, and those of his brother, fierce
Lord Menelaus's sixty grand warships
rested on the sands the awe-striking vessels
of god-feared Diomédes, eighty in all.
And next to these, on the Agamemnon side,
lying in wait like a lion about to pounce,
crouched the forty proud ships of Midea,
on which arrived Psoas, the son of nobody.
"What a magnificent sight, our armada of
one thousand one hundred and eighty-six warships!"
said he. "We will make good of our time here.
To take from the rich Trojans, what a dream."

 





Kennedy is kind of having an "Odyssey Summer" — she has seen Christopher Nolan's movie on IMAX screens, twice; her book club read Song of Achilles; and based on my recommendation that it's the better book, she followed that up with Circe — so when I saw that there was an event at Stratford that would see author Yann Martel in conversation regarding his new novel Son of Nobody, I asked Kennedy if she would like to buddy read the book with me and come along to the event; she was interested, so that's what we did.

To begin with the new book: It was just okay. I did like that it was a retelling of The Odyssey from a commoner's POV — the bits that made up the "discovered" epic, The Psoad, were nicely done — but the counterpoint narrative of the academic who pieced the epic together was fairly heavy-handed and predictable; I found little artistry in it. I would give it three stars overall. Just okay.

But when we were done reading Son of Nobody, and before we discussed it, I asked Kennedy if she had ever read Martel's first big novel, Life of Pi, and since she hadn't, and because I was afraid it might be spoiled for her at the discussion because of some crossover themes, Kennedy read it last week, too. And she loved it, as did I back in the day.

We talked about both books as we drove to Stratford, and I asked her if she knew anything else about Martel. Since she didn't, I told her how honoured the author had been to receive a letter from Barack Obama, congratulating him on Life of Pi, because he had found it to be "an elegant proof of God" (which was the big metaphorical payoff that I was afraid would be spoiled for Kennedy at the discussion). And then I told her how, when Martel read that our own Prime Minister, Stephen Harper, was quoted as saying he didn't read fiction, Martel proceeded to send Harper a book, every two weeks for four years, and collected his recommendations (and accompanying letters) in 101 Letters to a Prime Minister. And while I 100% agree that reading fiction is mind-expanding and promotes empathy and the understanding of diverse POVs and experiences, even at the time, this felt like a smug stunt. I then told Kennedy how Martel had once famously said that Canada was just a "Grand Hotel" that people can check in and out of without needing to feel any responsibility toward or need to commit — a quote which our next Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, used as proof that Canada is the "first postnational state in the world", and some would say, led to a drop in patriotism (a word now used negatively in Canada and mostly linked to far-right extremism and Albertan separatism).

So Kennedy asked if I actually like Yann Martel, wondered why we were even going to the discussion, and I replied that of course I like him: Life of Pi is a fairly perfect novel, and while sometimes an author really only has one good novel in them, I was very interested in hearing him speak in person.

The talk was interesting enough — Martel was a little smug discussing his artistic choices for Son of Nobody (which hadn't blown me away on the page; even his explanation for his main character's name, "Harlowe Donne", didn't really justify choosing something so disarmingly twee), and while the concept of adding a commoner's story to the foundational text of Western culture is admirable (we are mostly commoners after all), he did nothing to add women to the story, and as a matter of fact, Kennedy and I were both a little annoyed that Martel seemed to denigrate the recent, and celebrated, new translation of The Odyssey by Emily Wilson (the first published translation by a woman, and the source for Christopher Nolan's epic fim).

Now, before the event started, ushers handed out cards and pencils for the audience to ask questions in the Q & A portion, so Kennedy and I did some thinking on what we'd like to ask. She ended up asking if Martel had intentionally planned to have this novel release the same year as the film. And while the question wasn't read out, at one point Martel happened to mention that it was all a coincidence (which may not have seemed truthy; both projects were in the works for years.) Kennedy joked that I should just write, "Where do you get off?", but I did write: If, as you have said, Canada is just a "Grand Hotel" and citizenship nothing but "an act of faith", does it even matter if we become the 51st state?

In the course of answering audience questions, Martel often went off on political tangents, many times referencing the "madness" south of the border, so after one particularly scathing tirade, interviewer Ali Hassan held up a notecard and said, "I don't know if I should read this one, but it came from the audience, and it seems to tie in to what you were just talking about," and then he read my question. And the audience collectively gasped (Kennedy described it more as a groan, but I think we each heard what we expected, lol).

Martel sighed a bit peevishly and said that that quote had been taken out of context for years, but added that there had been a time when the idea of the ten Canadian provinces becoming part of the sixty United States of North America was an interesting one (why was I the only one who gasped at that?), and he went on to give a non-answer about how European countries had been good at extractive colonialism but not good at spreading Western values around the world, whereas the Americans had won the world-wide culture war through Capitalism (there are McDonald's restaurants everywhere!), but obviously, as their current President demonstrates (and he went on a tangent here about Ulysses S Grant), the American presidency has long been occupied by larger than life characters, whereas our own leaders tend to be boring and safe. In a way, it did feel like I had asked "Where do you get off?" and it felt kind of exciting to have made a small impact on the conversation; even with a non-answer.

Overall: I am really happy to have read the novel — and especially alongside Kennedy and her Odyssey summer — and also happy to have had this experience with her; Yann Martel is a globally respected author and a thought leader and I don't have to always agree with someone to learn from them. (Although Kennedy and I noted that we had a more enjoyable time the last time we went to one of these events — a discussion of Gothic Literature with Margaret Atwood, Mona Awad, and Naomi Alderman — that I used in a Halloween post, here; and not just because the testosterone levels on stage were a little lower.)


I acknowledge that this is no kind of book review, but I will record the fact that Son of Nobody felt like a three star read.






Thursday, 20 August 2026

Tunesday (Part II) : Something to Talk About

 


Something to Talk About
(Written by Shirley Eikhard; Performed by Bonnie Raitt)

People are talking, talking 'bout people
I hear them whisper, you won't believe it
They think we're lovers kept under cover
I'll just ignore it, but they keep saying
We laugh just a little too loud
Stand just a little too close
We stare just a little too long
Maybe they're seeing something we don't, darlin'
Let's give 'em something to talk about
Let's give 'em something to talk about
Let's give 'em something to talk about
How about love?
I feel so foolish, I never noticed
You'd act so nervous
Could you be falling for me?
It took a rumor to make me wonder
Now I'm convinced I'm going under
Thinking 'bout you everyday
Dreaming 'bout you every night
I'm hoping that you feel the same way
Now that we know it, let's really show it, darlin'
Let's give 'em something to talk about
A little mystery to figure out, babe
Let's give 'em something to talk about
How about love, love, love?
Let's give 'em something to talk about, babe
A little mystery to figure out
Let's give 'em something to talk about
How about love?
Ooh, listen up, baby
A little mystery won't hurt
Let's give 'em something to talk about
How about our love, love, love, love?
How about love, love, love?



We happened to see an announcement last week that there were still tickets to see Bonnie Raitt in concert locally, so Dave and I decided to go. As I keep saying, I worry that there might be something sad about seeing performers that we used to listen to on the radio so long ago, now in their seventies and eighties, presumably past their best before dates. But once again, I was proven wrong: even at seventy-six, Bonnie Raitt's voice was powerful, her stage presence was authentically cool, and she skillfully added her bluesy guitar licks to an excellent back up band. Dave and I had a great time. We especially appreciated the love she voiced for her time in Canada and hope she's right when she says that she believes that the world will soon see the return of "love, justice, and science". 

Funny that this is the only Bonnie Raitt song that I could think of off the top of my head, but she didn't even save it for the encore; it was performed just past the middle of the set. Even googling "Bonnie Raitt's most popular song", Something to Talk About barely makes the top five. Huh, maybe it was just bigger in Canada. Either way, it was interesting to hear the singer say that it was recorded quickly, when her album "Luck of the Draw" was doing really well and she needed another single, and she found it amongst a bunch of songs written by Canadian Shirley Eikhard. All the more reason to like it.

And, as always, my favourite part of the evening was just hanging with my favourite human.



 

Let's give 'em something to talk about, babe
A little mystery to figure out
Let's give 'em something to talk about
How about love?


Tuesday, 18 August 2026

Tunesday : What Dreams Are Made Of

 


What Dreams Are Made Of
(Pitchford, D. and Wilder, M.) Performed by Hilary Duff

Hey now (hey now)
Hey now (now, now, now, now)
Hey now (hey now)
Hey now (hey now, now)
Have you ever seen such a beautiful night? (Such a beautiful night)
I could almost kiss the stars for shining so bright (shining so bright)
Then I see you smile and I go
"Oh, oh, oh"
I would never want to miss this
'Cause in my heart, I know what this is
Hey now
Hey now (hey now)
This is what dreams are made of (hey now)
Hey now
Hey now (hey now)
This is what dreams are made of
I've got somewhere I belong (belong)
I've got somebody to love
This is what dreams are made of
This is what dreams are made of
Have you ever wondered what life is about?
You could search the world and never figure it out
You don't have to sail the oceans
No, no, no
Happiness is no mystery, it's
Here and now, it's you and me, yeah
Hey now
Hey now (hey now)
This is what dreams are made of (hey now)
Hey now
Hey now (hey now)
This is what dreams are made of
I've got somewhere I belong (belong)
I've got somebody to love
This is what dreams are made of
Open your eyes (this is what dreams are made of)
Shout to the skies (this is what dreams are made of)
Then I see you smile and I go
"Oh, oh, oh"
Yesterday my life was duller
Now everything's technicolor
Hey now
Hey now (hey now)
This is what dreams are made of (hey now)
Hey now
Hey now (hey now)
This is what dreams are made of
I've got somewhere I belong (belong)
I've got somebody to love
This is what dreams (dreams)
Dreams (dreams)
This is what dreams are made of
Hey now, hey now (hey, hey, hey, hey)
Hey now (hey, hey, hey, hey)
This is what dreams
Hey now, hey now (hey, hey, hey, hey)
This is what dreams are made of (hey, hey, hey, hey)
What dreams are made of




Kennedy and Mal were the peak age for loving Lizzie McGuire when it was on TV, and Hilary Duff seemed so sweet and untroubled that Dave and I (apparently "tougher" than most of my kids' friends' parents) had no problem sitting and watching the show, and then the movie, with them. As a matter of fact, when the teenaged Hilary Duff left television for a music career, I proposed we go to her concert. And when I discovered that the Toronto show was sold out, I bought tickets for a show in Cleveland — which conveniently landed on our March Break — and we made a big family trip out of it. At the time (twenty-two years ago!) Hilary had a punk princess line of little girl clothes in the now defunct Zellers (Stuff by Duff), and Kennedy and Mal each got to choose an outfit and be prepared for their first concert, at nine and six years old (Mal lost a tooth on the drive there, they were so little). The tickets were not great — pretty high up and to the rear in a hockey arena — but it was really an incredible joy to witness your kids first having this kind of an interactive (singing and clapping) experience with someone they have long idolised through a screen. (Perhaps another time I'll write about the rest of that week and the fun we had at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the zoo, and the science centre; Cleveland was a serendipitously amazing destination after all).

Kennedy and Mal continued to follow Hilary Duff's career through the years — they even went to a Hilary Duff-themed drag concert a couple of years ago — and Kennedy was sorely disappointed when Duff had a very small show in Toronto last year, for which tickets were impossible to get. So when Kennedy told me that Duff would be having a big tour this summer, and confirmed that, yes, she would like tickets for her birthday, I got her a pair. And when it turned out that Zach had to travel for work over her birthday and the concert, Kennedy asked me to go with her. And let me tell you, the joy of watching that kid thirty-one-year-old woman singing along to every song, dancing and clapping and being at one with the thousands of other (mostly) young women who grew up alongside the still seemingly sweet and untroublesome Hilary Duff, was everything to me; what dreams are made of, as it were. And shall I point out the matching T-shirts Kennedy made for us? Hey now!

The concert was plenty of fun — the vibe with an audience filled with positivity was immaculate — and there were plenty of pyrotechnics and costume changes and Hilary Duff said all the right things to make young women feel connected and seen; so happy Kennedy decided to take me along.


I've got somewhere I belong (belong)
I've got somebody to love
This is what dreams (dreams)
Dreams (dreams)
This is what dreams are made of






Tuesday, 11 August 2026

Tunesday : Lake Fever

 

Lake Fever
(Written and Performed by The Tragically Hip)

We can take a bit of a breather
We can skip to the practical part
We can skip to the time of neither
When we're together and even
When we're apart
I'll tell you a story about the Lake fever or
We can skip to the coital fury
You didn't say yes or no, neither
You whispered, hurry
Hurry
Hurry
Hurry
We can take it a little bit further
We can stick to the after effects part
'Not trying to make you a believer,
Don't want to a lil' piece of your heart
Just telling you a story about the Lake fever
Or we can skip to a neutral fury
You didn't say yes or no neither
You whispered, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry
Want to be a nobody without peer
Want to be a thought that's never done
Want to shake your faith in human nature
Want to break the hearts of everyone
Want to be your wheezing screen door
Want to be your stars of Algonquin
Want to be your roaring floorboard
Want to break the hearts of everyone
'Cause discontent until they,
Cease in their investigation
Bring back the days events
Good citizens and time well spent
'Til we're talking in whispers again
Until we're talking in whispers again (you whispered, hurry)
Until we're talking in whispers again (you whispered, hurry)
Until we're talking in whispers again (you whispered, hurry)
Until we're talking in whispers again



After my brother Ken died and was cremated in April, his wife Laura said that she wanted to bury his ashes at the lakehouse in Nova Scotia. And after checking everyones' schedules, it was decided that it would happen this past Saturday, August 10th. As we did last summer, Conor and I drove down together with my dog, Cormac, and we arrived without incident. (I chose this song, despite the mildly spicy lyrics, because Conor said he brought his drumkit down to the lakeshore last summer to honour his Dad by playing this, one of Ken's favourite Hip songs. And, of course, that's a picture of Cormac out on the lake.)

Now, to be fair, my other brother, Kyler, has a lot going on with his life, and as he is now the owner of the lakehouse, planning events at his property should go through him. I have to say, however, that he made this trip so uncomfortable for me that I don't know if I'll ever stay there again. From his douchebag conservative politics — I asked him if he's a fan of John Cleese and he said, "I used to think he was alright, but somewhere along the way I think he got based..." and I cut him off with, "I'm just asking if you think he's funny because Dave and are going to see him live in October and bought tickets for the meet and greet" — to actually complaining about what Laura was cooking every night when she was the one buying the food and planning the meals for the whole family before his wife arrived ("Please tell me we're not having that coleslaw again, I just can't handle it.")

It has been a tradition, starting with my dad, that we get a bucket of KFC one night and go out on the pontoon boat for dinner, throwing the bones overboard for the lake bass. Kyler decided that this would happen on the Thursday — before most of the family arrived — because he had to go into town that day and he could pick it up. He got back to the lakehouse around 3 pm, and when he saw that Conor and Henry weren't around (I had sent them to the local store for Red Bull because Dave was coming the next day), Kyler got pretty annoyed, talking about how he hadn't eaten all day and how long would he have to wait (even though none of knew when to expect him with dinner, he had been gone all day.) When the boys arrived, we had to pack up the food and utensils quickly, follow Kyler out to the boat, and he pulled it out, puttered around the first rocky point, and anchored us in the full sun of a 35°C day. It was not pleasant. And when I saw that Cormac — who is never given human food — was chomping on something, Kyler said, "What? I gave him some chicken skin." Ella asked, "Isn't Cormac allergic to chicken?" And I said yes. And Kyler said, "Do you know how many people say their dogs are allergic to chicken? I call bullshit. And if Cormac had a reaction? Do you know how much sleep I'd lose over that?" So, I got up with my plate of chicken and my dog on his leash and went to the front of the boat, telling Conor that I wanted to swap places with him. What a miserable experience.

Dave, Kennedy, Zach, and Mal came the next evening, and of course it was better with my own family there. Laura had this craft for us to do: she had bought modelling clay with concrete in it for us to make little pseudo-rocks to build a cairn-type memorial over Ken's buried ashes, and while the rest of us had made our rocks a couple days earlier, my family got up early to make theirs and let them dry. My Uncle Billy and Aunt Dianne had come from PEI the previous day to be a part of the memorial, and their son — with his wife and two teenaged sons — informed us that they would be arriving on the Saturday, too (although there were no rooms to put them up in). Kyler looked and acted stressed about all these people in his house — he asked me who invited them all, and I said they invited themselves — and he was feeling pretty sick, not spending much time around everyone. When Mum and Dad showed up (with the lobster rolls Dad had planned for and the extra food he was told to bring because of the additional people, not all of whom like lobster), we got the show started.

Conor and Dave had dug a good sized hole in the center of three trees down by the lakeshore, and Laura had transferred Ken's remains into an organic, compostable cotton bag she had sewn up. Laura spoke first, making just a few remarks, lamenting the "Ken-sized hole" that was now in her life, and she placed the bag into the grave, Conor gently filling it in again. Laura called for anyone else who had remarks to come forward, and my dad — a really fine speaker — came forward and said (something like), "It was November 9th of 2023 that our firstborn, Ken, came down for a visit by himself, which was unusual. We went out for a drive alone one day and he told me about his cancer diagnosis, saying that they gave him six months to live, and said he just didn't know how to tell his mother. I told him, 'Just tell her, she's strong'" (frail Mum piped up with a quivering, "Yes I am") "So Ken did tell her, and she took it hard, but she is strong, and she accepted it. And then he lived for another two and a half years. And from the first day, Ken told me that he had no bitterness. He had led a good life and he didn't want anyone feeling sorry for him. And he kept telling me that right up until the end, and I believed him, even if he said it to make us feel better about it." (Something like that, probably longer, definitely better.)

No one else really had remarks, but each of us who had made a stone came forward to lay it over Ken's remains, and when I had placed my stone and touched the ground and said, "Goodbye, brother" I then broke down in Dave's arms. In a stroke of inspiration, we had decided to get little plastic shot glasses and provide everyone present with a small vodka and diet coke — Ken's signature drink — and although I had prewarned my cousin that there was a bit of alcohol in the drinks his sons would be given, and although I had announced what they were and that people could use them to toast Ken or pour one out for him, I do believe from the grimaces that everyone took the shot (Dave taking an extra from the tray to pour over Ken's remains) and Ken would have loved it all. Dinner was a communal, festive touch — Kyler feeling too unwell to eat with us — and first Mum and Dad left for home, and then my cousin announced that they were driving straight back to PEI (and I believe they made it home at 2 am; I do hope it was worth it for them).




My family and Laura's went into town the next day to visit again with Mum and Dad, and after lunch in Lunenburg, I took my people to the airport to end their quick weekend. Laura and her family left the next day, and uncomfortably, I had allowed Conor to set our agenda, and as the place I had booked for us to stay at wasn't until the Tuesday night, Kyler let me know that that was inconvenient for him. He and Christine were expecting their good friends from Calgary to come Monday evening, and although I said, because my dog are I were sleeping out in the bunkie, that they wouldn't even know I was there (and I told Conor to join me out there now that my family was gone), Christine said that wasn't necessary; I was expected to join them for dinner. Kyler, on the other hand, said later, "Just so you know, this visit with Darrel and Melanie was arranged months ago. And, by the way, I don't remember inviting anyone else to come down here this summer." He says this two days after we buried our brother. I told him it would never happen again. Conor reminded me that after he had done some work around the place last summer, Kyler had asked Ken if he should pay Conor for the work and Ken said, "Just make Conor feel welcome here. That's all he wants in the world." So, of course, Kyler paid Conor then and paid him again this summer; if there's one thing Kyler doesn't want to feel, it's in someone's debt. And if there's something I don't want to feel, it's unwelcome. I don't know if I will ever go there again; I have a responsibility to visit my ageing parents, but I don't have to stay where I don't feel wanted.

In the end, Darrel and Melanie ate on their way in from the airport, so Christine recommended we have our dinner around six, making it plenty late enough when Kyler's friends showed up that I could make my excuses for an early departure the next morning and take Cormac up to the bunkie and stew on, "And, by the way,..."

The drive home was fine and uneventful. I can't imagine making that drive again; I certainly won't be bringing Cormac down again.


We can take a bit of a breather

We can skip to the practical part

We can skip to the time of neither

When we're together and even

When we're apart