Fifty Shades of Something

Holly, my wife, has been buying me erotic novels.  She tells me it's because she knows I can write one and they are for research.

"Call them 'inspiration,'" she says enthusiastically.

Hmm, sure.

Holly enlisted the aide of a Saint John book store employee to make her choices.  "Bared to You," by Sylvia Day, is a New York Times bestseller and the first book in Day's Crossfire series.  Her other purchase was a Canadian bestseller called "S.E.C.R.E.T.," by L. Marie Adeline.

Dutifully, I read them, sharing passages aloud that I found most poignant.  Okay, "poignant" may not be the correct word, and while one would think "adjectives such as "shocking," "passionate" or "sexy" would be the most common choices, "ridiculous," "implausible" or just plain "stupid" tended to be the more fitting descriptive entries.

I mean, there's a scene in Adeline's book - L. Marie Adeline is a pseudonym for Dragon's Den producer, Lisa Gabriele - where the main character, Cassie, a young widow from a marriage to an abusive alcoholic who has signed up with a secret group where women empower themselves by embracing their sexuality through a series of sexual adventures, is flown via helicopter to a yacht in the Gulf of Mexico during a hurricane, abandoned by the pilot, then is swept overboard and rescued out of the raging waters by the man sent to make love to her.  Not only does she have passionate sex with this man, she's not at all angry about almost drowning!  This is such a distracting bit of idiocy that I could never get past it through the remainder of the novel.

The writing starts out quite strong, but tapers as the story progresses.  Of course, the idea is gold.  The marketing possibilities, since Cassie gets a gold bracelet charm as she completes each of the ten steps, are endless and brilliant, but I was left with the feeling that the book was written in a very short time span without time for common sense - perhaps Kevin O'Leary was getting cranky or the losing of Robert Herjavec from her show was just too much to bear.

Then there's Sylvia Day's Eva, a very young, wealthy socialite/some-kind-of-working-girl and sexual abuse survivor who falls for a gorgeous, young, impressively-endowed billionaire with night terrors - how can you not picture Mayor Mel Norton for this role.  In the best interest of brevity, let's just say I wanted to like this girl, but ended up despising her.  She's spoiled, whiny and entitled, and treats her bisexual roommate/protector like a servant (don't feel too sorry for him though, he's just as much unlikable).  As much as I hate to admit it, I wound up secretly hoping her step brother would come back to finish her off.

While the thought of reading a sequel to either of these books makes me want to take an icepick to my eyes I discovered something about the grapevine - don't listen to reviews no matter how convincing they sound.  I say this because I heard nothing but negativity about the wildly successful "Fifty Shades of Grey," but wound up uploading the eBook to my Kobo from the library, unbeknownst to Holly.  E. L. James may not have had the professional editing behind her the others did, but she did bring something to the table that explains her book's success: originality.

It is not the stuff of classic literature by any means, but the characters are well developed and true - all of them.  James also has a good grasp of human psychology and seems to have done her BDSM research.  It moves beyond the painful predictability of most erotic novels and inexplicably left me sheepishly yearning for more.  That's right, I'm presently nearing the conclusion to the second book in the series, "Fifty Shades Darker" and look forward to the final book in the trilogy, "Fifty Shades Freed."  Nobody's more surprised than I am, but it is a nice surprise.

Now I keep handcuffs beside the bed - just in case.  Holly's not impressed.

Strutting

Saint John shone and shimmered during its Saint Strut event to support the Saint John Regional Hospital's pediatric department, as five hundred gathered at the Delta Brunswick to celebrate fashion, film and architecture and I, in full support of my lovely Holly, played the fly on the wall while she toiled.

Being alone at a public event presents on opportunity for many things and I could have made myself extremely useful, networking our studio or making new connections, but it served more as a time for observation, rejuvenation and absorption - both of the atmosphere and, after paying the $40 ticket price, the complimentary glass of wine.

Vessel in hand, I drank in the many wonderful donations for the silent auction, noticing a couple familiar names on the bid sheet showing their "Kilroy was here," bidding early for recognition.  I bumped the price on the bottle of Chanel No. 5 a whopping fifty cents.

This wasn't the only area in this upscale event where those trying to look as though they fit in stood out from those that actually did.  All seemed to sport fine attire, but most did so effortlessly while those who pushed their club-wear to another level stood out in a way they were likely hoping they wouldn't.  Mel, I'm not necessarily talking about that hideous shirt - I don't think anyone would actually wear that to a club.

I settled into my chosen seat, as the majority of the crowd was doing, and took notice of one exotic couple that was working the room like peacocks, not really making contact with others, but making certain everyone saw that they were present.  She, younger than he, led the way, as their fingers formed a possessive bond that sent a message to the room - this one's mine - as though it was only this contact that held the relationship together.  Both were tall and attractive, she wearing a tight, stylish dress that ended just past her bottom, and he looking like an older Mike Bossy - distinguished yet athletic and powerful.

At the intermission I spotted the opportunity to check in with Holly (and claim possession of her wine glass) then, after resigning myself in error that dessert consisted only of cheese, grapes and crackers, found the holy grail of delectable sweets and was brought right back to elementary school class parties when my best friend and I would gorge ourselves so quickly and egregiously that we would spend most of the time in the hallway nursing our ridiculously upset digestive tracks.

My hat goes off to the organizers and participants who all had a hand in delivering a unique evening of fashion, film, architecture and fundraising.

The Young and the Restless

This city breaks my heart.  Even with all its natural beauty and past splendor it is having a horror of a time trying to keep up with the rest of the world.  I have stated before how happy garbage day makes me, although it may simply be the notion or ritual involved with purging your home of its waste, but a troubling thought has recently entered my head:  what if the city's attempt at a recycling program is merely a way to reduce the waste management budget?

Think about it.  Instead of picking up our recycling like other cities, they have us cart it to easy-to-manage depots, essentially eliminating a large portion of our household trash from the garbage routes.  I have seen days where the garbage truck pulls up and the driver has to get out and put the trash into the back, then return to the driver's seat and pull up to the next house.  There is nothing efficient or safe about this, although it does seem to keep the employees from loud tirades of profanity.  Nevertheless, we can now add sanitation engineers to our resume.

Saint John is not a city where you can expect to have any measurable quality of life without owning a car, so try thinking about carting waste on the bus or by foot.

Then I started wondering what kind of market there is for the materials we are recycling which led my brain its next illuminating realisation:  maybe this stuff isn't even being recycled; perhaps it just ends up as trash anyway.

I thought about contacting Anderson Cooper or, at least, Rick Mercer, but it dawned on me that by simply putting the words in print I'll soon get an answer:  if there's truth to this, I won't hear anything; but if it's not true, the city will bring suit.

Mel Norton, the strapping young hero that felled the mighty and terrible Ivan, has Saint John swooning and basking in his eminence.  The men all want to be him and the ladies want to be with him.  I'm pretty certain I was woken from my slumber the other night by Holly tossing and passionately calling out his name, although she wants me to believe she was telling me to "move over."  The simple truth, for me, is that I have a difficult time putting my faith in a mayor who seems content with the past administration's decision to address animal management concerns by removing cats from the bylaws.

Please, young Mel, see the opportunity you have to lead this city toward a semblance of its former glory.

Cats and Dogs

In Saint John, as well as all of New Brunswick, we are reaching the eve of the municipal elections and, as dull as that may sound, it is the talk of the city.  The council presently in court is attempting to offer for re-election with upstanding decisions such as removing cats from the city by-laws and animal control services, as announced by the Animal Rescue League, and, well, let's just say 'pension fiasco' and leave it at that.  (I bring up that last item because nobody can fathom the idiocy and because I'm hoping I'm not going to be sued for stating my opinion.)

One thing is painfully clear, the reign of Ivan (The Terrible) Court has to come to an end, but I'm not going to harp on this subject because telling people not to vote for the fat man would be like telling them the sky beyond the Saint John fog is blue.

Returning to the animal control problem, it concerns me that the current council has missed the painfully obvious solution and hope the newly elected (come Monday) will implement the path to economic independence for this city.  I can see collective heads nodding in approval as everyone reads this.  There is a bountiful free range, pesticide and drug free (they drink from puddles, not Saint John water - damn, is that another law suit?!) food source just ripe for the plucking in our literal back yard: those stray cats and dogs.

Every problem is an opportunity, so instead of looking upon the situation as a financial burden, these frisky critters can be collected, processed and sold locally, heck, globally.  I am a vegetarian, but if I chose to eat meat, I see no rational reason why these felines and fidos can't be the perfect source of protein and cholesterol for city dwellers.

Think of the publicity.  Saint John, stop trying to tout your dulse (who the hell actually eats that?) and peddle poodles.  Kitty can keep your family plump and happy.  Animal groups in Toronto estimate anywhere from 100,000 to 250,000 stray cats in their city, so a little entrepreneurial ingenuity could see huge profits as four legged friends are trucked into Saint John like wood chips heading to the mill.  I wouldn't recommend using this seemingly unending supply of meat for pet food though, that would just be wrong.

So, if the candidates for Monday's election don't have their heads in the game, feel free to pass the word on to Matthew Thompson; notify Joseph Allan Callahan; and, for goodness' sake, tell Mel!