Uncle Dirty
by Mike Morey
Escape Media, 2003
Reviewed by Scott Albert
Right from the start, I wanted to read Uncle Dirty. A
funny book about Toronto, set mostly in Parkdale -
where cheap rent mixes a bohemian bedroom community
with the luckless, stalled lives of the poor. Exactly
the sort of thing I would like to see more of in Canada
- a novel freed from the grasp of academic literature.
Unfortunately, Uncle Dirty is unlikely to inspire more
of the same.
For a long time, I wondered whether my reaction to the
book was more personal than professional. Maybe I was
over-reacting, and letting my pet peeves about the
world colour my judgement. Eventually, as the weeks
past and the review didn't get any closer to being
written, I figured - fuck it. I'll just do what all
book reviewers do. Make up a bunch of bullshit
justifying how I felt about it. I'm sorry, Mr. Morey. I
really tried to like your book.
Uncle Dirty reads like a Bruce La Bruce film done by
the CBC. Occasionally funny, its satire is mostly a
condescending glance at those who make up Toronto's
underclass. More specifically; Parkdalians, artists,
and students living meaningless lives lacking in Middle
Class values. The book's main comedic focus is the
absence of "normalcy," that is: money, social standing,
and family values. While the poor characters are damned
because they lack these things, the rich we meet in the
book are damned for an undeserved excess of all three.
It's this value filter that drives Uncle Dirty, and
leaves me stalled.
It's the story of how Heather Seywell's life is saved
by the Middle Class aspirations and values of Peter C.
Galloway. Heather is sort of the main character. Since
rebelling against her parents and fleeing to Toronto,
she lives with her blind uncle Odie and hangs out with
various men who want to fuck her. Without her family to
anchor her identity (we're led to assume) she's adrift.
Each day of the week she works at a different part time
job, under a different name, where her obvious artistic
talent is wasted on greeting cards and tattoos. She
wears all black, greets the world with an attitude, and
generally seems happy to be acted upon by the people
around her.
I said Heather is "sort of" the main character, because
the narrative is moved forward not by the overly
passive Heather, but by one of the guys hanging around
trying to fuck her - Galloway. Mr. Morey assures us
Galloway is a wanna-be writer, but all we see is
Galloway's get-rich-quick scheme to sell Heather and
her father's artwork. In the end, normalcy is restored
when both Heather and Galloway get rich, become
successful, and reaffirm their respective lost family
units. Heather even puts on red nail polish; that's how
complete her transformation is from Toronto psuedo-goth
girl to a regular, Middle Class woman. It's a coming of
age story without the coming of age - it turns out the
world really is that simple.
The other characters in Uncle Dirty have little to do
with this plot, and seem drawn from too many late night
viewings of The Simpsons, including an appearance by
Comic Book Guy.
It's not all bad. Mr. Morey makes very good use of
Toronto - like in this bit where Galloway is left
stranded by an angry cabby.
Sipho didn't slow down until he reached the end of
Cherry Street. It was an industrial wasteland,
smattered with low, gray, cinderblock buildings, all
closed and dark for the holidays. There were no signs
of life, but that didn't mean there wasn't a seedy
element lurking in the shadows. When the cab screeched
to a stop, Galloway's forehead struck the front
headrest. "Thank the heavens, you've reconsidered your
bid to slay us both. Now that you're come to you
senses, my good man, kindly--"
"Eighteen muthafuckah dollahs, kubi umama!"
"I beg your--"
"Da fare. Eighteen muthufuckah dollah."
"Surely you can't be serious? You have not delivered
me to my destination. You have not even given me the
opportunity to disclose my destination, let alone take
me there. Now, I must get to the Franklin--"
"Gimme da muthufuckah fare, yaw know what's good
foyah. Eighteen dollah."
"You can't possibly intend to deposit me here, sir."
"Yebo! Yaw betcha muthufackah ass."
"I'll be stranded. I'll perish. You'll be responsible
for committing murder! You can't be serious."
Sipho flashed his yellow eyes, clearly indicating just
how serious he was.
Uncle Dirty works on the levels where Mr. Morey's
intentions are clear. It is weakest when the
motivations seem less intentional. All of the female
characters are mostly defined by their relationships
with men - objects of lust, love, and the family
dynamic. Heather changes herself to fit the needs of
the men who give her jobs and want to fuck her. The
male characters are most strongly defined by their
relationships with themselves, exemplified by the
college boy Brad's compulsive masturbation.
It is almost as if Uncle Dirty was never intended for a
close read, by Mr. Morey or anyone else. Exposition is
often given twice, sometimes on the same page. Or it is
contradicted, as in this condensed passage about
Heather's relationship with her blind Uncle Odie:
"As she navigated the track through the living room,
she began divesting herself of her clothing. Modesty
was of little concern to Heather, since Odie was blind
and the drapes were never open. But Odie's free hand
found her bottom and gave it a squeeze before she could
get away."
Heather takes her clothes off because Odie can't see
her, but throughout the book she lets him "see" her
with his hands?
The book's tone is just as inconsistent as the
descriptions of people's motivations, ranging from
naturalistic to cartoony, often in the same character.
Odie himself oscillates violently from being the voice
of reason to scenes where, for example, he's terrified
that Fed-Ex delivery robots are plotting to get him.
When you look closely, these inconsistencies jump out
from the text. Some were so obvious it made me think,
maybe they were meant to be there? Maybe Mr. Morey
meant for us not to take him at his literal word, and
the opinions formed through the prose's subtext were
exactly what Mr. Morey had intended? Maybe the book was
a brilliant, subtle satire of Canadian life and I just
didn't get it? Maybe it was supposed to be ridiculing
the very Middle Class values I accuse it of pandering
to? Maybe it's a better book than I am a reviewer?
Maybe.
What I do know is that I am guilty of the same crime I
accuse Mr. Morey of - viewing the world of Uncle Dirty
through a political filter. I just wish I could say one
of two things: I agree with Mr. Morey and the book was
good, or I disagree with Mr. Morey and the book was
good. What troubles me is that - subtle satire or not -
I have this image of someone reading this book on the
subway and thinking, "Poor people are lazy! Rich people
are undeserving of their status! Family is the most
important thing!" The three pillars of
neo-conservative, Middle Class tribalism that are at
the heart of mainstream media. The bohemian artists of
Parkdale should be ridiculed not because they define
themselves as rejecting these values - they should be
ridiculed for their shallowness, pretensions, and
elitism. And satirizing the poor is just plain mean.
I'm not saying you shouldn't be allowed to do it, I'm
saying I'm not going to enjoy it.
So that's what it comes down to. Like I said, I really
wanted to like Uncle Dirty, and I didn't. But would I
recommend it to you? Let's say this - given a choice
between Mr. Morey and Ms. Atwood, I would pick Mr.
Morey. At least Mr. Morey tries to make his book fun.
And maybe I'm just too PC for what might otherwise be a
fun, if forgettable, book. Maybe.
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