David Fennario

Blue Mondays. The book had an ugly old cover, the author was from my neighborhood -Pointe St. Charles, and it was cheap. I bought it. Outside the building the ubiquitous Guy-Smoking-A-Cigarette, standing like a sentry, looked at the book as I passed and said, "I hope you like it."
"You've read it?" I asked.
"I used to play video games in the author's apartment."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," the sentry told me. "David Fennario. He'd be like, 'what the hell is this you're playing!? Oh, wait -that was interesting. How'd you do that?"
I started reading on the Metro home, Leah at my side listening in on people's conversations. It was pretty good. Really good.
A lot of my enjoyment is coming from the fact that the story is set in places I go every day; my street sometimes.
But it's really a good book. About an Anglo in Pointe St. Charles who can't speak French and is looking for work. Yeah.
Blue Mondays.

I'll post my film here shortly. shortly shortly.