Westwood Creative Artists

Thomas King. Rohinton Mistry. Mordecai Richler. Timothy Findley. Michael Turner. Julian Barnes. Bret "The Hitman" Hart... and Sean McCallum? What the ?!?!


In one of the most inexplicable developments in recent memory, the good people at Westwood Creative Artists have decided that I am somehow worthy of their representation in all matters literary and pertaining to the world of publishing... To say that I am shocked and overjoyed would be an understatement of epic proportions.


As some of my loyal readers will know, I have been working on the manuscript for a novel for the better part of the past five years. Despite what some people say, trying to write a novel; particularly a first novel; is a ridiculous amount of work, and it wasn't until about six months ago that I decided that the manuscript was of the quality where I might actually let someone else read it. I kept my audience as limited as possible. My mom. My girlfriend. My sister... You know, the people who will tell you they like it even if it reads like a highschool writer's craft portfolio. Despite the fact that this particular work is about the most masculine story imaginable, all of these women in my life seemed to genuinely enjoy it.

The next step was to hand it to my one and only contact in the publishing world, a friend of mine by the name of Catherine. She agreed to look it over, but warned that she would pull no punches when telling me what she thought of it, which was perfect for me because a good dose of objective reality was precisely what I was looking for. A few weeks later, Cat got back to me saying that she was thoroughly impressed. She had some fantastic suggestions (the kinds of changes you would never think to make while writing the damn thing), and said that the next step was to try to procure the services of an agent. Coming from the publishing side, Cat informed me that most big publishing houses won't even look at an unsolicited manuscript (those that reside for eternity in the aptly christened slush pile). She said that she didn't want to get my hopes up because, in many ways, it is much more difficult to find an agent to represent you than it is to get something published.

So I wrote a letter describing who I was and what I had to offer; mainly, this novel that I'd been working on for the past five years. I sent the letter out to four agents, and heard back from two of them, both of whom said they were interested in taking a look at my manuscript.

To make a long-story-that-goes-down-much-better-over-a-few-pints short, I heard back from both agents on the same day, and both said that they were interested in trying to set something up. But to be honest, going with Westwood was an absolute no brainer. Not only are they an absolute powerhouse in the Canadian publishing world, but they have Bret "The Hitman" Hart under contract... I mean, what more could you want?

(It also didn't hurt that Hilary, my new agent {don't think I'll ever get used to that}, was hands down the most enthusiastic reader I've ever come across, to say nothing of her track record with the authors she represents {pristine}. But more than anything else, she seemed to unequivocally get me and what I was trying to convey in those pages I'd handed to her... And when you have someone going to bat for you with the publishers, that belief is the incalculable X-factor).


When I told Catherine that Westwood had offered to take me on, she really couldn't reiterate enough how rare this sort of thing is. A nothing writer with no publishing background and no established audience to speak of (save for the dotcomrades, of course) does NOT find representation with an agency like WCA. It just doesn't happen.

Well, apparently it does.



If I were Ron Burgundy, I might be inclined to say something like this.

And if I were Mikey hanging with Trent at the Bamboo Lounge, I would no longer need to worry about having to flounder like this.

But instead I'll hearken back to the greatest movie of all-time, Stand By Me, and more specifically to the scene where Chris and Gordie are walking along the train tracks, a hundred yards behind Teddy and Vern, who are in the midst of discussing whether or not a cartoon could beat up a real guy. When they cut back to Chris and Gordie, Chris says: "You could be a real writer someday, Gordie".

I wouldn't say that I'm that real writer quite yet, but I think we're starting to get somewhere.



If you want to read some excerpts from the manuscript, you can catch some of it here:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 7


Thanks for reading.

Guillermo in The Bourne Ultimatum

I think it's safe to say that Jimmy Kimmel Live! is the best show on late night network TV.

Thanks to Llibs for the heads-up.

Bracketology

Fact:

There are 9,223,372,036,854,775,808 ways to fill out your NCAA Men's basketball bracket. It's true. Look.

So if you were ever wondering how ESPN and CBSsportsline can offer those million dollar prizes to anyone who goes 64 for 64, the reason is because the odds against doing so are 9,223,372,036,854,775,808 to 1. Not exactly sure how that would show up as a Vegas line, but needless to say, the chances of you going perfect are not so good.

I'd give you my picks but I haven't completed my bracket yet. Also, as has been well documented in this forum, I am quite possibly the worst prognosticator in the history of sports, going 0 for 2 in my mortal locks picks in the history of this website (ie, taking the Rockies to beat the goggle-disporting Red Sox, and implying that it was out of the realm of possibility for Tom Brady to lose a football game), so you're probably better off allowing Maggie the Monkey to make your binary selections for you.

In any event, today puts us smack-dab into the heart of the least productive week in North American history. With the entire Irish-American-Canadian population taking the afternoon off to get completely wasted on Green beer and Guiness on Monday afternoon and nursing the subsequent freight train hangover on Tuesday, the chances are pretty good that most of us spent Wednesday poring over sports websites and blogs in order to catch up on a year's worth of College Basketball so we can pretend to know what we're talking about while filling out our brackets, leading beautifully into today, which will see most of the civilized world spending 24 out of the next 36 hours watching the greatest sporting event on the planet to finish off the week while trying in vain to talk our significant others into the notion that Jesus died so we could watch Billy Packer and Gus Johnson... (cowering from impending lightning bolt...)


All you need to know for today is that Gus Johnson is in Denver. Judging by this set of clips, I think it's pretty safe to say that the best games in College Basketball seem to follow Gus around.



Enjoy the tourney.

St. Patrick's Day

I won't lie to you: my memories of Monday afternoon/evening/early morning are extremely hazy. Judging by the photos I had sent to me, it looks like I managed to hang around until the bitter end, and I know that I somehow wound up naked on a couch in the morning with no explanation as to how I got there. Luckily for everyone involved, the couch was in my own living room.

Needless to say, it was quite a whirlwind marathon of booze and music, with a great deal more emphasis placed on the booze.

My cousin Little Buddy got to The Pour House at 10:30 in the morning because he clearly has a drinking problem. Aside from being awfully fond of the drink, Little Buddy also knew that the bar last year was a complete mad house, so he wanted to make sure he landed a sweet table for the festivities. Being the first person in the bar, he had his pick of the litter and managed to score the best table in the house (the same set of tables we had the year before, for the record). I think Sweet Nate and Jen got there around 1:20, with Dunner and Lemur getting there around 2. As for me, I had a lovely wee McCallan's at home by my lonesome, and then pulled a Matt Bonner and rode the rocket all the way to the bar.

I really don't know what else to say except that the next 9 hours were spent drinking mass quantities of Guiness and acting like a complete idiot, singing along to the Pogues and whatever else the band played, and hugging and bullshitting more people than you could possibly imagine.

I can tell you that we bought a pint for Bob and sat it up on the mantle as we have been wont to do of late (nobody dominated St. Patrick's Day like my Grandfather, and the "Pint for Bob" has become one of my favourite St. Patty's Day traditions - Lord love ya Nate). I can tell you that the Bomber's girlfriend, Susan, spent more money on green party accessories than Elliot Spitzer spends on seven diamond hookers, and that Ronnie somehow managed to sneak the Oakville contingent into the bar (bypassing the lineup, the holding area in the tent, and judging by the condition of Robbie Doon, all semblance of an "already overserved" screening process). I can also tell you that Little Buddy was cut off by 6:30pm, and praying to the subterrainean porcelain Goddess by 7 (photographic evidence has been mercifully witheld).

A few of the other foggy memories I have include tripping up the stairs on my way back from the bathroom, doing shots of Whiskey for Lorne, and Sully and I making a potentially ill-advised $100 bet on the outcome of the OTHL playoffs. Beyond that? I'm pretty much at a loss...

These pictures may or may not go a long way in explaining why I felt like I'd been hit by a mack truck Tuesday morning... Ugh...

Bonus Coverage: A Leprechaun sighting in Alabama!

I'm trying to decide what's better: the amateur sketch, or the lady postulating that it's probably just a crackhead up in the tree. Either way, this might just be the best newsclip to ever come across the www:

St. Patty's Day Preview

The following email came from an unnamed source, but needless to say, I will be doing everything in my power to be in the general vicinity of the Supa Pilot at this point next year. I don't even know what a knee drop is but Supa, you can sign me up. You had me at "this Sunday is more important to me than the potential birth of my child".

The closing line of that email might possibly be the greatest thing I have ever read.



Fellas;

As Porter and Darci will further validate; this Sunday is more important to me than such days as Derby Day, New Years, Fourth of July, my future wedding, potential birth of my child, college graduation, Super Bowl XXXIX, Kevin Garnett trade, Zidane Head Butt, US 1-Columbia 0, George Mason Final Four, sink night, and the loss of my virginity; just to name a few.

To be brief, the Southie Parade along Broadway Street is littered with parties, tons of green beer, organized chaos, roof deck parties, pong, babes, and anything a sweet a dude like me wants on a frieken Sunday, essentially just being Supa. Please note that Saturday St. Pats rage doesn’t compare to the main event on Sunday; it is simply a warm up.

I hope you gents are around, please join me on this adventure, it wont disappoint- I have like 6 parties lined up, yep, I am that sweet. Porter has a full lime green suit and is bringing passion back on his Red Eye from Vegas just so he could be Supa. I plan to meet a bunch of people at high noon Sunday at the Mariott Longwharf where we will grab a cab to get us as close to the parade that starts at 1pm. Maybe stop by the Sailoft if open and say hi to Dennis. Call me if you would like to be a Supa dude- 603 860 ####, I would suggest just bringing a backpack with cold beers etc for spontaneous knee drops. If you have a big Monday work day, no worries, I haven’t ever stayed out(made it) past 5pm, sheer day rage.

Babes are allowed, but last year someone threw up on my girl at Shenanigan’s Pub and she dumped me, but it was Supa.


-Supa Pilot




For more information on the South Boston Parade (but really, what more do you need?), click here.

If by any chance you're looking for me Monday afternoon, I'll be conducting impromptu Sustainable Roofing seminars at The Pour House (Bathurst and Dupont) from about 2pm onwards.


Bonus Coverage: The best known documentation of the Southie St. Patty's Day parade.

Parking Disaster

As far as spring-like days go, today was probably the closest we've come to having one this year in Toronto, so naturally I spent it following my girlfriend around on College Street as she shopped for shoes and clothes and cosmetics and a birthday present for her mom... Anyway, I was sitting on the steps of this shoe store, wanting to kill myself, when all of a sudden I see this lady pull off the most disasterous 30 seconds of driving I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing in my life.

We were at the corner of College and Beatrice and this lady was driving some silver little Honda. The space she was trying to parallel park in could have easily fit a Greyhound bus, but she still somehow managed to mangle everything in her path. She began by hitting the side of the car parked in front of her. I have no idea how she pulled this off because it wasn't like she just clipped the back end of the car; she actually hit this thing at the driver's side door. Not letting a minor detail like denting another vehicle deter her, she proceeded to back into the car behind her not once, but twice. It was as if she didn't take enough paint off the first time, so she decided to drill it even harder just for good measure the second.

By this point I was laughing hysterically, but this lady was clearly losing it. Instead of stopping where she was, she jerked the car forward, right into the middle of the streetcar tracks, and jumped out of her car, denying that she'd hit anything despite the fact that both cars were covered in silver paint and both owners of the cars she'd mangled were standing there in stunned disbelief, having watched the entire debacle unfold. It wasn't until one of the guys she'd hit asked for her insurance papers that she realized she'd locked her keys in the car... in the middle of the streetcar tracks!

Forty-five minutes later, with the streetcars backed up eight-deep and the traffic stopped for two miles in both directions, they finally managed to move this lady's car. If I'd had a camera, this could have easily been the YouTube clip of the year.

Obviously, this little episode was the hightlight of my day.

"I mean, who the hell doesn't like Bruce Springsteen, for God's sake?"

Australian woman kills husband in fight over Bruce Springsteen


BRISBANE, Australia - An Australian woman who stabbed her common law husband to death because she was tired of being bossed around says an argument over Bruce Springsteen was the last straw.

Karen Lee Cooper pleaded guilty to manslaughter Thursday and was sentenced to eight years in prison for killing partner Kevin Watson in a drunken argument at their home in northeastern Queensland state in July 2006.

Cooper, 50, called an ambulance after suffering what her lawyer Greg Maguire called a brain snap and stabbing Watson, 49, once in the chest with a kitchen knife.

He died at the scene.

Cooper told police she had become fed up with Watson telling her what to do during their two-year relationship.

On the night of the killing, she tried to play a Springsteen CD and he took if off the stereo, triggering a bitter argument.

"I mean, who the hell doesn't like Bruce Springsteen, for God's sake?" Cooper told police in a record of interview presented to the court.

"I just picked up a knife and I went 'boom'."

Cooper, who swallowed a handful of painkillers after calling the ambulance in a suicide bid, regretted stabbing Watson and believed he did not deserve to die, Maguire said.

In handing down the sentence, Justice John Byrne noted Cooper was a mother of three with no previous convictions and said he was taking her remorse and guilty plea into account.


It's really tough to find fault with Karen Lee Cooper on this one. Because don't get me wrong: I love bossing my girlfriend around as much as the next guy. But if you're willing to take someone's Springsteen CD off the stereo, you'd better be prepared to face the consequences. And in this case, the consequences involved suffering multiple stab wounds and being left to bleed to death on the carpet while your girlfriend swallows a handful of painkillers and listens to The River in its entirety. Tit for tat. You just have to know these things going in.

Unlike Karen Lee Cooper, however, I believe her boyfriend did deserve to die.

"I mean, who the hell doesn't like Bruce Springsteen, for God's sake?"

Case closed.


Thanks to Rosco for the heads-up.