It's Lost Hour in Montreal

For the most part I don’t much like being sober, awake and alone at 3 a.m. Yet I do find myself here time and again, meeting all three criteria. Of course after a lazy day in a luxury suite in a Montreal hotel I’m not actually crying a river over it. Given that I don’t have to set my alarm and get up for work tomorrow it does turn into a good time for writing. Lost Hour, here I am again, what shall we find here, still so far from dawn? The things I could write, should write are fourfold. I have interview questions to answer for a profile piece on me to promote the Canadian Short Screenplay Competition. I have a series proposal to tart up for submission along with the cheerful and persuasive cover emails. Then there is the short film script at about 1/3 complete. Finally the sample episode of the original TV series that has a broken story and first draft beat sheet but needs some great focus and much key banging to move it along.

The desk in this suite is ideal for me -- tall enough for optimal laptop support, and it faces the window which is by far my favorite writing configuration; one which my current abode sadly lacks. There is me living dangerously with the semi colon usage again. Been a lot of that kind of thing lately. All Coco all the time kind of thinking which has been both tons of fun and very powerful in terms of attracting some very cool and groovy people my way in the last six weeks or so. Must be very aware of the temptation to go dark side with the power rush though. Just because I want to, and I can, doesn’t mean I should. That is what writing is for; keeping me out of jail, the emergency room and the headlines by channeling the dark impulses into something useful, well something saleable anyway. I’ve gotta break the double space at the beginning of a sentence thing though. Maybe I should take a second to find the setting in Word that polices that up for me. Seems a bit lazy, but hey I have other writing issues to mull over, like my erratic use of Oxford commas, and the aforementioned semi-colon conundrum. Not to mention the fact that I am wandering about here in blog land instead of choosing one of those hot stove writing tasks.

Gee, look, Lost Hour is almost over, and there it is folks the mammoth yawn that signals the hour is past and bed is calling. Guess I’ll tackle all this writing stuff and the inner debate on the use and abuse of the weapon of mass distraction that is my wit multiplied by my intellect and raised to the power of ten by my beauty. Lol – I crack myself up – always good to have a laugh snort before sleep. Nighty nite.

The King of Pop is Dead

June 25, 2009

Just in case any of you are wondering, the path of least resistance leads to the outhouse. Trust me, I know, I’ve been wearing a groove in the turf for many a year.

So those of you reading this. Thinking you might play it safe for a bit. Stick with the people who pat you on the head and require about .04% of your effort to make them happy. Fuck off. This post is not for you. This blog is not for you and I am most certainly not for you. I apologize, really I do, if I led you to believe that this was going to be some rah-rah aren’t we all beautiful and shiny journey -- given my track record you may certainly be forgiven your mistake.

This me, this writer, this artist, has resolved to dispense with the platitudes, the niceties and the equivocations. I will still be kind and generous and loyal; but I will not be false. Not for me, not anymore, and not for you either if you can find the courage to hold my hand and walk with me where this path leads.

They tell me the King of Pop is dead. I know I should feel something about this. He as been, after all, a fixture of my life. Of your lives too if you are honest. Yet here we are at the hour of his death and I find him exactly balanced in the spotlight. One side brilliantly lit, the other in deep dark shadow. Irony, maybe, truth for me, certainly. For me his genius is balanced, perhaps unfairly, perhaps not, with his fall from grace and the controversy with which the last decade of his life has been lived.

Tonight I am angry. So there, I do feel something after all. I am angry at those who will take up the cry that genius dies young. This is something I absolutely deny. Those we revere in our generation who have died young and shy of their promise, the James Dean, River Phoenix, Kurt Cobain, Heath Ledger – these are not genius, these are tragedies. Three generations will see them but Jeopardy questions. All of these arguably more pure of reputation than the King of Pop, and younger. But he will live with them for all that for we loved him once and then we didn’t. Tony Curtis, Anthony Hopkins, Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Judy Dench, Anne Bancroft, Maggie Smith, Paul Newman, Mick Jagger, BBKing, Leonard Cohen and so many more that stayed the course that stayed with us and kept being who they are. I sympathize with the family and friends of Michael Jackson and of all those artists who died before their time, but you know what? It was their time. So instead, I do not lament. I thank them, deeply, profoundly for their art. Then I say goodnight. Rest in peace.

Enough then. I so have to stop pontificating. I am off to Montreal for a reunion with two friends of my heart, one of whom is marrying, and the other who will warm my bed and laugh at my jokes and sing for me…ain’t I lucky?

Shift is Happening

Sunday June 22

Working on The Conductor’s Escort short script tonight, it was going well, an hour and a half of moving it forward. Then my 5 minute break to stretch, do a few curls with the barbells and get a glass of water has turned into a half hour of dishwasher loading, teeth flossing, toe nail filing and stressing over how many freaking emails I need to answer. I have about one hour before I need to sleep and I could easily spend it answering emails. But you know what people? I HAVE TO WRITE! So the de-stress resolution is that I will get up ½ hour earlier each day to answer emails before work. The magic hours 7-10 p.m. are for writing. No phone calls, TV, reading, emails or on-line poker. But I have Rain Girls submission to get out and thank-you to write post Banff. Maybe I can write those on the plane to Montreal on Friday. TOOO MANY stories, too little time. The universe needs to deliver up a bit of a writing scholarship so I can make shift happen. 1.5 million please and thank you. Maybe I’ll sleep a bit now and get up and write during the lost hour (typically 3-4 a.m. when I am usually wakeful). Yup. I just posted this fracking thing to two other unrelated blogs. Not a good sign when martini free. Nightly nite & remember…

ABF (always be fuckable- the Flash Forward Team Momentum battle cry).

Writing hurts

One of the very hardest things about being a writer-for-hire, aka a hack, is that you have to pick your battles. Sometimes the result that is this sneery cringy face I have on right now. The place I get poked to result in this very distressed look, is my pride. The idea that people are now going to read this report and think that I wrote it and/or let it be written this way hurts me. Hurts me bad. When you have to let some one from the powers-that-be realm tweak your prose from something strong and liquid into something that is awkward and stilted it just fracking hurts. Not to mention she made it 50 words longer and the graphic designer is going to freak out. Sigh.

In my defence

Alright people. I do actually have more than one track to this mind you know and for those of you who’ve called and emailed in your salacious comments on what you think you know about my intentions with young Wicked – shame on you. (By the way, salacious is the word of the day) Especially for not having the courage to post your comments but rather contacting me directly in the hopes of sucking out some juicy tidbit hitherto unposted. Sorry, you can suck away don’t’ blame me if you turn into a big giant blueberry and need to get juiced.

While I admit that my inability to let an opportunity for a ribald jape and my penchant for misdirection may have something to with your stray thoughts into the sexual zone, the truth is I’m afraid of the truth and if I write it down then it is a truth that I have to face. And Wicked, if he is man enough (and I think he his) has to face it too.

So here it is. Reasons it didn’t go down in writing before are, first, I thought it sounded a bit hokey at the time. Second, I didn’t want to freak Wicked (or myself) out. Because it isn’t a small thing, it is a big scary messy everything.

What I want from Wicked, is for him to be brilliant. He has it in him to be, he knows it and I know it. He could have a career like DiCaprio or Phoenix or Crowe – he could. Don’t know about him but that scares me spit less. For myself, why I want him to be brilliant and why I want to be a breath that fans that spark into a blaze is that if he is brilliant then I have permission to be brilliant too.

Okay, I can hear the clamour already and I haven’t even posted this yet. The more militant of my fan club are shaking their heads and shaking their fingers. “What does she mean permission to be brilliant? She is brilliant! She don’t need no frackin’ permission.” But this blog is not about life in your head, it’s about Life in My Head and it isn’t about writer’s in general or the writer down the street or the writer across the pond, it is about this writer. This writer who was raised to be a good girl and a kind girl and a hard-working girl -- things not always compatible with artistic brilliance.

And I don’t need permission to be brilliant from you or my critics, my colleagues or my family – I need it from myself.

So there, I guess that answers my earlier question about why he picked me and I picked him. Also why we scare the shit out of each other. Fasten your seatbelts kids, we’re in for a bumpy night.

Colour Me Svengali

How the frack did I get here?  Since when ever have the desire to take on a protégé? And why in the seven worlds did he choose me?  And why am I letting myself be chosen? First of all, I hate teaching. I’ve always hated teaching. The idea that I have some stuff in my head that others find valuable in the real world is faintly repugnant to me.  I mean come on, only thing I really manage is staggering out of bed every day toward my daily pay cheque and being a law-abiding tax payer. Oh. Rats. Note to self. Do taxes. Crap. Shooter is gonna kick my ass if he reads that. So I can write a little. That’s the funny part. Writing is not the subject matter on the syllabus. 

Teachers are supposed to be morally beyond reproach. Yah, that’s me. Snicker. Frack it, I don’t want to be morally beyond reproach. I want to be morally repoachable in nearly every single way. I want to be the home wrecker, the femme fatale; the mysterious obsession that men want to kill or die for. I am dangerous people! That’s me Mad, Bad and Dangerous to know.  So consider yourselves warned.

Someday I also want to learn the correct use of the semi-colon; but not today.

Oh man. Good thing I still know how to laugh at myself.  It’s been my own private comedy channel in my head lately.

Another thing. I am a liar. A big fat liar. Literally sure, but actually as well. If I don’t tell at least 13 lies a day it hasn’t been a good day. Hey, no apologies, I write. I am a writer. The truth is fluid in my universe.  If  I don’t twist it bend and invent it six ways from Sunday it ain’t been a good day.

That is one of the deeply troubling things about my day with Wicked yesterday.  I told the truth.  Pretty much all day.  Hard pressed to find a lie. It was fun. Twelve hours of good clean fun. Well, relatively clean. Dirty words and dirty dishes and dirty thoughts don’t count. Do they? We talked. We went to a movie. I made dinner.  He swooned at my extraordinary culinary skill. We drank champagne. Worked on a scene from Bull Durham. Negotiated our relationship. Talked about Shooter. I taught him a new word – décolletage – its French.  He wants me to teach him a new word every day.  I’ve got a few Latin words I’d like to teach him. At least half of you let out a shocked gasp at that.  He just laughed I bet, and smiled that Wicked, Wicked smile. Okay, fine, today we'll stick with English.  Word for the day is "enigmatic".

Enigmatic - puzzling, cryptic, baffling, mysterious, perplexing - one of the definitions online says "darkly expressed". Ain't that just frackin appropriate. It's from the Greek.

Wicked is lovely and grateful for my time and attention and life wisdom (hah) He wants to know what he can do for me.  Truth is, I don’t know. Okay there it is, the lie du jour. I do know. But nope, not putting it in writing. Despite all recent evidence to the contrary I do still have secrets. That's what makes me enigmatic. 

 

Hmmm. Maybe next time I’ll at least get him to take out the recycling.

Home Again

Okie doke. Here I am. Home again. I feel I should write something pithy and bubbly. Um. I smell good? Kinda lemony. I bought lots of fruits and vegetables.  I drove in from Kelowna today and despite the entire provincial road system being under construction - it was lovely.  Talked briefly to the Empress to tell her I have her lip gloss hostage and to hear the insanely good news about The Empress of the North. Okay everyone, visualize a green light... Checked in with the Shooter who is doing something mysterious and businessy on the Eastern Seaboard.  My basil died (no surprise). Now must email those Flash Forward Alum of Team Momentum who are skipping tomorrow's team meeting and give them some love. Well, maybe after a nap on the purple velvet couch with the fan on Hi. Will write on next short script post nap...really...zzzzzzzzzzz

Banff 2009 - Favorite Things

• Snow falling as I turned off Hwy 1 to Banff
  
• Dancing with Mr. Mystery at the BBQ
  
• Walking into a room of 800 strangers alone and picking the Producer out of the crowd in less than 5 minutes
  
• The Producer being even nicer than I thought he would be
  
• The weird wi fi access that forced me out of my room and into the foyer, where I had to engage with the world
  
• Getting Paul Gross to autograph my copy of Passchendale
  
• Paul Gross’s delightful interview
  
• Paul Gross’s terrible weave for the Gunslinger
  
• Everything Paul Gross
  
• The shocked look on the face of the head of the Shaw Fund’s face when I told her my hand injury was from shark bite
  
• The Empress’ success
  
• Thankful I packed socks
  
• The Flash Forward flock approaching through the lobby – Mr Mystery and the Empress expected, Shooter and Delicious a wonderful surprise
  
• Having my weekly Flash Forward assignment to do “something outrageous” be so outrageous that I can’t put it in writing cause that would be evidence
  
• The great bathtub in my little jewel box of a hotel room under the eaves
  
• The petite Ramsey’s Lounge and its handsome and accommodating bartenders
  
• Drinking too many Strongbow and laughing too loudly with Delicious and Shooter in the middle of the afternoon
  
• The kindness of strangers – including the agents!
  
• The long gloaming and twilight of the mountains nearing solstice
  
• Learning to navigate the labyrinth that is this extraordinary hotel
  
• The cut of Ron Moore’s suit (Battlestar Galactica, Roswell, etc.) and his revival of the usage of the word ‘frack’
  
• The gift of a large bourbon and useful poker tips from the Appalachian Princess
  
• Joe Novak’s Rookie Forum
  
• All the surprised and delighted comments on Po’s graphic design of both my card and the Rain Girls two sheet
  
• Grabbing the courage to pitch to the CTV exec at the Women in the Director’s chair launch party
  
• The CTV exec liking the pitch and asking for materials to forward to Space
  
• The cheese burger with the million dollar view in the Rundle Lounge
  
• So excited about my Rain Girls two sheet I made everyone at the table take one, including the reluctant friend of Mr. Mystery’s, only to discover later she is a big development exec - oops, should remember to ASK people before shoving paper
  
• Someone with a biz card with a 30 Rockefeller Centre NY address asking for my permission to forward the Rain Girls pitch to the “West Coast group” 
  
• The great rah-rah emails and Facebook posts from absent friends
  
• A goodbye hug from a development exec
  
• Feeling frackable just about every moment of every day!
  

Banff 2009 - Last Dispatch from the Front

For those of you who have been following the exploits of our heroine as she attempts to transform the life in her head to match the life without I realize that I do need to fill in some gaps in the reporting of my activities over the last few days.

I’m writing this post-dinner Wednesday night sitting in the Harry Potter bathroom. Bigger than my apartment and only three stalls. Big swaggy silk drapes and settees designed for women wearing big hoop skirts.  Wi Fi not working here, and no bar service though, so won’t linger for more than a paragraph or two. Though I can still see a slice of the sun teasing the mountain peaks from my vantage though the leaded stained glass, it is only a slice and I know of a dozen places here to taste the full vista.

When the Empress, Mr. Mystery, Delicious and the Shooter showed up Monday I had no idea how they would become so central to my Banff experience and to the metamorphosis of self that has transpired. The Empress took meetings, Delicious alternated between sharing her sparkle via the Internet and popping into whatever conversation the rest of us had on the go to contribute knowledge and humour.  Mr. Mystery and I kept leaping up and off to various sessions only to locate and report back into the group.  A blessing was the little couch alcove off my room where set up base camp, hauling the chairs from my room and having a bit of space and privacy to bounce ideas, thoughts, fears, hopes and reactions off each other.

 

While Delicious was the cheerful Vicarious Rex of the herd, Mr. Mystery was the grizzled campaigner, and the Empress and I alternated between elation and self-doubt and over-analysis and back, (me so much more than her of course!) but each of us in our way hustled, yes we did. Shooter was our hero-- always hyper aware of our surroundings, scoping out a free table, first there with the extra chair, an eye on the clock to ensure each of us was where we needed to be when we needed to be there, taking care of us.

But if my Banff was more than the surface hustle and bustle, the biz cards and summer camp for grown-ups who can’t stop believing in stories, then Shooter deserves both the praise and the blame. Like the twin ravens of Norse mythology, Thought and Memory, he sat on my shoulders speaking first into one ear, then into the other.  Every moment I wasn’t in a panel or pitching he was asking questions. Asking questions and damn him, challenging my answers! Can you imagine?  His insatiable curiousity about the process was only matched by his enthusiasm for minute detail. If that was the Thought manifestation of him, Memory was the weapon he used to tear down the walls of my inner world and drag out both the treasures and the trash for his education and my transformation. He asked me some very, very hard questions about myself and my life and my dreams. And when I gave him one of my standard answers, nooo, wouldn’t settle for that. Why I didn’t just tell him to frack off? Who knows?  His charm?  Certainly his attention flattered and those of you who know, know what an idiot I am for flattery. The man is a force to be reckoned with, that is for damn sure. He is that weird combination of kindly and hard-assed, hold your head when you puke and kick your butt when you’re being stupid. Oddly both joyful and deadly serious.  Man certainly didn’t require a gun to be a deadly shot, that I can tell you. He’ll be a formidable producer and those of us lucky enough to be in his care will indeed count ourselves blessed. And though I’m still kind of pissed at him for poking me in places that I really don’t like to be poked, I also find myself desperately hoping that our conversation is just beginning. Crap. I guess I like him. And we are planning to work together. Frack. Just what I need, a producer that makes me get shit finished. Bastard. At least he gives okay hugs. Needs a bit of practice at it though.

Banff 2009 - 7:40 p.m. - Dear Duder

Tonight you and I had dinner together in the Bow Valley Grill and as my writing skills are far too weak to describe the view of the snow capped peaks and the onset of the long slow summer twilight, I will skip to describing the room briefly. Baronial Scottish is the intent, fairly well executed, but the thing you would like the most I think are the squirrels on the carpet. Yep, vast swaths of green and brown and gold under foot with oak leaves and birds and squirrels. Curiously, no acorns, but hey, maybe it is spring or maybe I need my contact lenses upgraded.

We began our celebration with my signature drink a Fear of Commitment – not poorly executed, but not with nearly the bang-on alchemy demonstrated by the Rumble Lounge Bartender. Llym, not Liam, as  it is the more traditional Gaelic spelling. Alas, it is his night off and the lounge a mere 12 staggering steps from my garret room is closed, so I had to forsake my planned evening of too many martinis and too much flirting for the grown-up restaurant.  Fortunately, you recently posted the short fiction piece “Stir Sticks I” to your blog and thus I was able to enjoy your acerbic wit and insightful commentary on the plight of the modern accounting professional during my otherwise solitary repast.

You may have made a sharp comment at my ordering of the PEI mussel appetizer given the menu note about the local heirloom cherry tomatoes.  Yes, Coco’s crack of vegetables; cherry tomatoes just a few hours from the vine. And yes not only do they trigger my asthma like nothing short of an old hippie in Patchouli and tie-dye, but the addition of the altitude, and the stress of trying to be f***able every second of every public moment means a fair amount of heavy breathing is issuing from me at even a modest walking pace.  In my defence, I am a) celebrating, b) spending the most of the next two days behind the wheel of the car and c) many of the men in my vicinity have mistaken the heavy breathing as sexual excitement prompted by their proximity so it has actually positively contributed to my f***able mystique.

The entrée of a AAA Albert Ribeye (one must after all do, when in Rome…) was a bit forgettable and over buttered.  To be perfectly honest, my butter de maitre d’ hotel is better.  While the “e” in that should have one a them hats, I really can’t be bothered to find the right keyboard or key combo – blame the very fine Mission Hill Merlot. 

No dessert, at least not here, they have a big giant buffet thing and you know my disdain for the buffet.  Crème Brule is the thing I want and not to be had, so I will wander off in search of other adventures, but will definitely find a spot to witness the gloaming. The mountains have shadows on their shoulders so it shouldn't be long.

Thanks for the company and I look forward to seeing you soon.

Lots of those air kissey things you hate so much,

Coco

 

Banff June 10 - 4:17 a.m.

Ah the entertainment business – where the line between the personal and the professional can be very blurred indeed. As a young struggling actor, I don’t think a single person ever told me that the success of my career would be dependant on my ability to form and maintain relationships. Suppose that might be the reason it never went any where to speak of. In the past month I think I’ve heard my career is dependant on my ability to form and maintain friendly relations from about a million people, oh, about 6 trillion times. Now, I don’t suck at relationships exactly.  Most people, I think, find me loyal and sincere and fun at parties. However I am most comfortable having a couple dozen relationships. Dozen family, dozen friends and for arguments sake another dozen work friends. I do recognize that these million people aren’t saying that I need to be intimate with each and everyone of them. They are saying though that not only do I need to remember their names, but I need to know about their marital status, kids, pets, hobbies, taste in wine, preference for boxers or briefs – as well as memorizing their resumes, box office, market share and relevant charity interests.  Fair enough.  Where I’m supposed to find time to write with all this researching and cataloguing of personal facts I am a long way from figuring out. As to where to draw the lines…not sure I’ll ever be capable of doing that in any kind of way that makes sense to anyone, particularly myself. I’m sort of an all or nothing kind of girl.  You are either on my bus or you are off my bus.  I’ll either do anything for you, or don’t give a rat’s ass.

My first Banff is drawing to a close. I’ll never be a Rookie in the Rockies again. The experience has certainly been transformative; in ways both predictable and totally shocking.  It was both what I expected and beyond my wildest imagination. I expected to meet people and network and get contacts and share ideas.  What I didn’t expect was what it would be like to be isolated in one of the planet’s most extraordinary landscapes at an iconic hotel with 800 people who all care as passionately about a-good-tale-well-told as I do.  The thing that happened to me beginning at Flash Forward has been picking up speed like a freight train at Banff and hurtling me into a tomorrow full of promise and terror is…is what? I’ve been staring at the cursor blinking in the middle of that sentence for 10 minutes. Maybe I should just go to sleep. It is after all 4:27 a.m. and I still have one more big pitch tomorrow. But I’m not comfortable. I have thoughts and feelings about myself and others that are making me profoundly uncomfortable. Feelings that are alien to me.  I seem to give a rat’s ass about far too many of these people.  Their stories fascinate me. Every time someone opens their mouth I learn something new. Yep, you read that right. Ms. Know-it-all and happy-to-tell-you about it feels sixteen again, profoundly alive and deeply terrified of what the future holds.  Good thing I have a long drive to think on these things because right now I don’t recognize what is in my head nor my heart nor even my reflection in the mirror. 

A Little Sweet, A Little Sour

So why do I feel like its Jr. high and I’m new and wearing my best duds and everyone’s eyes skate over me, pausing only for a nano second then dismissing me and moving on. I am a fracking awesome writer.  I am a super loyal and giving friend. Talk to me God damn it! Do I really have to do all the heavy lifting and approach every single person?  Will no one look at me and say “Hey! She looks interesting, I’m going to see what she’s got going on.” Yah.  Three hours after the rookie session and I am already discounting their advice. Guy terrified me by likening the process to dating and marriage.  Like I’ve ever been good at that shit.  Left at the alter for the Tupperware woman/Highschool dropout. Haven’t had a real date since the 1997. Why am I here?

Okay. It’s all better now. Breathing. Having fun. Taking it all a little less seriously.  I thought lot’s about not including the above passage, but all singing and dancing sunshine and postivity is not a writer’s lot and to pretend otherwise would just not be right.  There will be these little bubbles of noxious gas bubbling up from time to time. Despite the fact that I no longer allow my Dark Side to rule, it still exists and by its existence gives greater sparkle and depth to the joyful.

The Sage who has been hosting the Rookies in the Rockies laid it out at 7:30 this a.m. it’s hard. Suck it up. Grab some courage. Everyone here had a first Banff once and pretty much without exception they’ll soften up a bit when you tell them it’s yours. Because they remember. So I only met 7 people yesterday. They were all nice. Even the first two ladies who didn’t laugh at my sharkbite joke. And hey, I did pick the Producer out of the crowd and had a really lovely chat with him.  Met three more people while at his side who likely forgot me 2 seconds after they glanced my way. It was very very very interesting to watch people relate to him.  He said it was a bit odd being on the other side of the table – all his previous Banffs he’d been here pitching, now he was the pitchee.  And I think I managed to be me with him as well as set him free from the conversation in a timely manner so I do feel good about that.  I get to formally pitch him tomorrow at 9 a.m and I’m really looking forward to it.  Today I met 3 people before 8:30 a.m. and now am prepping for my Face to Face meetings with a couple of agents.  Lots learned already, like I should have emailed folks whose meeting times were all booked up and ask for a few minutes outside of the formal sessions. But I didn’t so I’ll have to be diligent about following up.

Thirty minutes to my first meeting so I will wrap up.  Meeting the Empress for lunch at noon which will be so nice to see a fellow Flasher Forward. ‘Kay kids, here I go strolling to the edge of my comfort zone!

Quick and Dirty

This just a quick and dirty post as I should be at the CBC opening cocktail and instead had a panic attack at the crowds and ducked into the tiny little lounge near my room for some Dutch Courage and a snack.  Large woman can't be seen to eat at a cocktail party.  Sigh. Was that my Mother's voice? Besides, bartender Llyam (the old irish Liam) has mastered the Fear-of-Commitment. Calamari was awesome with capers and lemon and those tiny little olives - much more authentic Italy than last night's  Carabonara log.  Seem to be having some trouble hitting my stride here kids. I introduced myself to two table mates just before the opening keynote (both women) and if you can picture lead ballon with puzzled embarassed looks  - they both shook my hand - fairly gently, but looked mortified like they might catch something - and then sooo Canadian - didn't laugh at my "Sharkbite" comment likely fearful that I was actually serious.  Okay Shaw blah blah fund, whomever they work for - not gonna have me on their "must work with list" Maybe next year I'll hire Buttercup and Leading Man to come with as my entourage. Hey free luxury time in Banff - producers everywhere - and actor's wet dream, not?

Okay. Enough avoidance. Will sign bill. Will pitstop in room to dump laptop and stagger to the next building. will take glass of beer and find a wall to prop up. trying to look f***able. (that was the dirty part)

Wow, do I miss My Boys

And no, I am not referring to small children or assorted pets that I’ve kept in a secret cupboard under the stairs for years and years. I mean my Boys, my guys, my posse of mostly younger sexy smart  men who have entered the Cocoverse at various points in my checkered career and due to their unswerving devotion and unflagging amusement at all things Carolynne still pop up from time to time to lend a hug and a hand where required.

Mostly when I miss them it is the hugs that I miss.  They all give the absolute best of the best hugs.  One of the standards of admission to the club really.  They throw their arms open and step right on in.  None of this A-frame shoulder squeezing pseudo hug crap.  If you don’t get an “ooof” or a sigh of contentment, or best of all a faint crackle of vertebra popping, you ain’t doing it right. Some of them even have the strength and enthusiasm to lift me off my feet. Yep, you read that right some young men are soooo happy to see me that they assume the strength of ten men. Some of them even have the courage to hug me that full-hearted way in front of their women. Well, maybe a little more briefly. The correct length is between 5-7 steamboats by the way.  In truth if you don’t feel you can achieve the standard of hug I’m looking for, I’d prefer a couple of cheek kisses and we can all pretend we are very continental and sophisticated.

The girlfriend hugs are nice in theory, but they always leave me feeling like a bit of a dancing bear.  They are all so teeny and breakable. Girlfriends give the best rah-rah emails though – lots of CAPS and smiley faces and exclamation points and chick power slogans.

All this rumination on my absent friends is because I’m feeling a bit exposed up here in the mountains.  Suddenly feeling like base camp is too far behind and the air is a bit thin and when did I sign up for summiting solo?

You may have noted that earlier when referring to My Boys I said “mostly when I miss them” that means that this time, this day the hug would be super, but mostly I NEED TECHNICAL SUPPORT! That is the other thing my boys bring, calm assured manipulation of the zeros and ones until suddenly I can bloody well do what bloody well needs to be done. Like solve the mystery of why suddenly I can’t get my iPhone pictures to upload to iPhoto I’ve checked and unchecked and rechecked all the freaking boxes and it keeps telling me it is about to replace the pictures on the iPhone with those from iPhoto.  I have done it before, witness the few photo’s I managed to get onto facebook.  I even managed to post one to my sister’s wall. I’m not a total incompetent you know. Or how about Entourage – I find the web support page that tells me how to adjust Entourage so that I can receive from home – except they use Comcast as an example and I am shawmail so I just left that – but nooooo.  So now I’ve probably bloody screwed it up for getting email back home too. ARRRGHHH. Not to mention that webmail won’t download my email from raingirls which is really super as I am about to hand out 500 biz cards with exactly that email address. Not to mention I really ought to replace the pdfs of my CV and the Raingirls one sheet and takedown Gatehouse for another day, but I’ve suddenly developed a fear of my own content management system. Sigh. I guess I can still try phone support. But I bet I doesn’t come with a hug.

It’s fracking snowing

Not kidding. Of all the weather planned for, snow was not in the forecast. I even checked the forecast. Of course NOW the forecast says snow, but for tomorrow, for the golf tourney – Tee Hee. And wireless Wi-Fi for again, off course I am thinking this caliber hotel, of course they have Wi-Fi. And they do, but only in the public spaces. And not free. Looks like 13 bucks per 24. Via cable in the rooms but of course with my sexy new laptop IT CAN’T PLUG in an Ethernet cable without an adapter. Cool really, forces me to sit in one of the glorious lounges instead of my garret room and interface with people. So far the bartender hates me. He was not amused by my opening banter and detailed instructions on a martini my way. Good thing this is not his regular post. Hopefully the regular gets Carolynne cause this lounge is easy staggering distance to my room and located between the conference center and my room. Not that I’m plotting anything, and those of you who think I am, can just get your minds back on message. I am here to advance my career with my brilliance, charm and wit. Oh, and my writing, how could I forget. Though I did have an interesting phone call from the young lad at the front desk at the Holiday Inn last night. Okay, don’t panic. Not going anything further with that line of thought.

Astonishing but the bartender really is not getting my charm. Those of you who know me long time will also be astonished. Charming serving staff is most definately part of my core skill set. So I dialed it way back and ordered some food. Might as well have been ordering an oil change. So to be pissy I gave him a very specific and complex food and bev order. Guy is really cute in a very buttoned down banker kind of way. Hopefully he smells tip and gets the nuts and bolts right cause he ain’t getting tipped on the fantasy, that’s for sure.

Love, love, love the hotel though. Even though the valet and the bell man had way more charm than the bartender. Irony of ironies I was ready to tip both of them handsomely, even been saving up my fives and tens for a couple weeks. Alas, on check-in I was told only to tip the food and bev staff. Nice chat with Sam at the desk who told me a little star struck story about almost meeting Kim C. last year. Told her Kim was lovely but I had my sights set on Paul Gross. “Oh, yes”, she gushed. The bell man not only delivered my luggage about 2 minutes after I got to the room but showed me all the bells and whistles, commiserated with my Wi Fi issues and then rushed out to get me a bucket of ice after treating my guitar like the Holy Grail. I like that. He cant’ know that I play like a mitten wearing pelican, so I like that he treats it as if I just might be brilliant at it.

Okay, bartender smells tip and gave me his patented-charm-the-cougar smile. Little does he know that this cougar has a nose for sincerity. I love to be lied to if the lie is pretty. Just lie to me really well, because I reward the effort, regardless of my cynicism as to the validity of the sentiment that you are purportedly expressing.

Back to the hotel. It really and truly is one of the world’s great ionic hotels. In truth I am as excited by staying here as I am about the festival. I think I may just wander around tomorrow a.m. and look at things. I have a Rookie Reception at 3:30 I think. Just realizing though that it is already 8:45 local time and I am at least 5 hours from beddy bye. Excited! You bet. I will likely type until the hand says NO.

Had the scallop appetizer nice. Didn’t realize it was a risotto, other wise wouldn’t have ordered. Well executed but one thing that North Americans really don’t get about Italian food. I want an anti pasti, pasta, and an entrée – can’t do it at a NA version of Italian food. Portions are too big. Funny hah hah I complained about that at the Galiano Inn too. Yup, big yuks for the kitchen staff, the big woman complaining the portion sizes are too big. But you know what? They are! I want to sample many textures and flavours if I am paying premium price! And not feel like I need a stretcher to get home. Carbonnara is okay but not if you’ve been to Italy. It should be smaller and richer. My neighbour was very impressed with his pizza. Though he has thrown a couple random “wows” out to the room when the bartender is absent. Frack. He just did it again. Mmmm wine is sooo good though. That is a real Piedmont wine and with a little garlic and proscuttio on the tongue is heaven. Villa Antinori – Toscana 2005.

Now I am in the large alcove outside my room with a sideboard and two couches and tables. Plus wi-fi and power so I think I’ll just prop the room door open and make this my office. This place is creepy in a super sexy way. Beamed ceilings, tons of really expensive fake silk plants. Lighting that would make Joan Rivers look 22. There is a faint Steven King’s “The Shining” vibe going on, but mostly, is just sexy.

I’ll try and post some pics with this - let’s see if I can master the intricacies of iPhoto and a blog post after 2 martini’s and a glass of very nice Barolo. I'm in this weird little wing that only has six rooms and I appear to be the first one checked in as I've been phaffing about in the lounge area for more than an hour and haven't seen a soul.

Things to do tomorrow. Learn how to spell proscuitto. Sleep late. Check out pool. Figure out what to wear for the Rookie reception. Enjoy every single second.

Coffee me, coffee me, COFFEE ME.

Okay you know when you get to the end of the Fraser Valley and run smack into the mountains dense with the shimmering green fur of fir trees? I did that yesterday. And this time of year, not the sober melancholy of the evergreen of winter, but that amorphous swirl of new growth green that actually seems to pulse and move, daring your eye to settle too long on one spot. If you do though you will cast aside all thoughts of your destination and abandon your car at the side of the road. Step into the forest and chase the light glimmering off every new leaf and bough. Dangerous beauty indeed.

Well, totally not what I thought I would write about when my fingers started moving. Though you probably get the idea that the drive was magical. I am so grateful that I decided to spend some quality time with self and drive. Despite the rough edges of the previous 24 hours it does seem that the time honoured tradition of the road trip is still balm to the soul. Maybe even more so for writers than for all other artistic groups. Something about the complete lack of the familiar routine that reaches inside with a little brass hammer and cracks open that crusty crap that has hardened across the magic internal door to the land of what-if-and-maybe.

My face hurts today from smiling all day yesterday. Ow, that made me smile again. It’s been four or five years since I made that trip and did think fondly of the Earth Mother who last made the journey with me. Though I did enjoy the rollercoaster flow of the Coquihalla much more with out worrying about her white knuckling every rise and fall. Fear of hills. Kinda tough since if you look at the map of BC – pretty much bumpy bumpy bumpy. But hey, we are all afraid of something. I’m afraid of barking dogs(even small ones) and meringue – go figure.
I wonder what that drive would be like on a sunny day in a car that had more than 4 cylinders and less than 15 years on it. Like a Porsche, or a Ferrari or even a Lamborghini Testarossa! Woot! (as Skyhamer would say) Not that I could pick a Lamborghini Testarossa out of a line-up, but I just like the name. Testarossa! Said with tons of attitude and a flourish. Testarossa! I like to think it means testosterone in Italian. Come to think of it, maybe it does, in the actual sense, if not the literal. I know it is supposed to be either figurative or literal, but I am a Language Artiste and I like having senses which are also actual, fantastical, rationale, and crazy right.

I seem to be unable to convey the pure radiant joy of my afternoon yesterday. Maybe because now that it has passed and I am prepping for today’s journey and thinking I really to find a tissue very soon and how much coffee can I drink without having to pull off in Vernon to pee; it feels almost too personal to share all the weird little golden moments of yesterday’s joy. That makes me a bit sad because surely I thought about each and every one of you during that time; the Earth Mother, Lil’ Surfer Dude, Ultimate, Ms. Fitness, Duder, Skyhammer, Squishy, Po, Pablito, Davids #1,2,3, 3.5 and 4*, Buttercup, Leading Man, Coach, Ingenue, Dr. Y, Princess, Angel, Mom, and all my assorted family.

*Davids are numbered in the order that they were kissed. David 3.5 is designated so because I think his name was David (might have been Peter). Usually I just think of him as Australian Life Guard Guy – he was world champion at one of those events where you jump in the rip with a tiny piece of Styrofoam board and save people. Crazy, but really, really, really nice abs. I remember those abs –name, not so much.

This lil' lite o' mine...

I'm gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!
That is the theme song for the day.
Big shout out to Lil'Dude who talked me down off the ledge last night and reminded me that I've been planning this Banff thing for two years so the fact that total health and recovery from head cold was mandatory before getting in the car and sallying forth. That sentence didn't really make a whole lot of any kind of sense but whatever. I just need to pack up my Mac Air - remembering the power supply and mouse - take out the trash and head for the bodega to get some water and snacks for the road. Got Dave Matthews band, Jesse Cook and of course my boys - the Canadian Tenors - loaded on the iPhone, not to mention Lisey's Story by Steven King and a few yuks from Ricky Gervais. I will start out with my pal Duder's playlist though as it is custom cool for running or driving. I have 500 biz cards and 100 one sheets for Rain Girls thanks to Po!!!I printed 10 cvs late last night. Why is it that updating the CV is always such a deadly painful task? It seems to take fracking hours and hours fiddling with formatting and then you read it a billion times but never see the typo till you've already printed ten? Anyhoo - finished (at last) my last few Flash Forward thank yous for which the hand is NOT thanking me - but hey, gotta be the best way in the universe to start a road trip - rested, calm and full of thanks for the great people in my universe.

I wonder why it is so hard to write when my feet hurt? It’s the switchover to flip-flops of course; always a yearly event fraught with peril. As lovely is it is to let the little toosties out for their annual romp in the air and sun, the period leading up to the unveiling is filled with doubt and apprehension. Do I need to trim my nails? Shave my big toes? What about the hoof like texture of my heels? Sand it off or retain for a few weeks as armour against the insults of the outside world? Then there is the epic question of shaving or waxing. And thus with such pressing issues filling my head, how could I possbily be expected to write? Or spell possibly?