Man, I am being slayed by springtime allergies or else I have a flu. Oy. Ugh. Urf. Had to lie down most of the afternoon. Seems to be the season for writing conferences too. I just attended the BC Federation of Writers AGM and conference, now preparing to go to the Pacific Festival of the Book in Victoria this weekend, driving down with my buddy, poet Pete Trower on Friday. I’m going to do a couple of readings and meet my new publisher, Richard Olafson of Ekstasis Editions. I’m also looking forward to seeing some old friends. I used to hang out with Solly Reeve in the punk rock scene. She now runs her own design business, Zola. Jenn McLennan and Nathaniel Poole worked with me at the Edgewise ElectroLit Centre in the 90s. Things got hairy at the demise of the organization but we’ve reconnected on Facebook and it sounds like they’re both doing well in Victoria.

So both events have snuck up on me and I haven’t had a lot of time to prepare. I took a Pitch Your Fiction workshop on Saturday with novelist June Hutton that was quite insightful. Good timing as I gear up to complete a final draft of the Town Slut’s Daughter. June inspired me, made me think about possibly starting up a writing group again, which I would be happy to host here at my home every two weeks. June’s writing group Spin with Jen Sookfong Lee and Mary Novik and June Hutton who met in a writers’ workshop in 2002, became friends and made a commitment to stay together until they finished their novels. Seven years later, they’re celebrating the publication of Jen’s The End of East, (Thomas Dunne Books) Mary’s Noviks’s Conceit (Doubleday Canada) and June’s Underground, (Cormorant Books) the story of a Vancouverite’s journey from the Somme to the Spanish Civil War. She reminded us that a writing group is good for sharing information and providing moral support and encouragement. It’s a tough road to hoe and so helpful to have someone to commiserate with. I don’t’ want it to be a large group, maybe four or five at the most, otherwise the evenings drag on too long.

Gamely attempting to blow up, or inflate rather, my new 65 cm core stability ball. Man, I must the consummate barometer of the times, trying to get fit. I used to be fit, not sure what happened. Someone dropped the estrogen bomb on me, or more accurately the lack-of-estrogen bomb. (My girlfriend Candye Kane wrote a hilarious song called the Estrogen Bomb.) I will blame peri-menopause, when an inordinate amount of poundage crept onto my frame, seemingly overnight. Ah, nobody can figure this shit out. Should they pump up our depleting stores of hormones ala Suzanne Sommers or prescribe anti-depressants and sleeping pills like my GP is wont to do. I’m not going there tonight, too damn sick of the subject and this damn ball is taking way to long to inflate, doesn’t look right. Finally, it became a family affair, with my son and hubby plugging in the hand pump that came with the ball. Now, just have to use it, right? I hate working out. As athletic as I used to be, working out is just another chore, another task on my long To Do list. I went for a hike down to Cape Roger Curtis on Sunday though and that is so much more fun than climbing onto the elliptical, will try to do that more often but it takes all afternoon.

I have been feeling discouraged lately about performing, went on a rant with Roderick on the phone the other day. Our logistics are so daunting, they overwhelm me at times. It’s not like the days of punk rock. I was so spoiled, used to have my own space and rehearse all the time, whenever I wanted to. Now it takes days of planning, and it’s expensive. I pay his travel expenses and a fee, which I am happy to do but I wish someone would pay me!  I love to perform but I’m having a hard time juggling all my projects and responsibilities. I should be ruthless with my time and priorities focus on my kid’s needs and my own work, which is really all I have time for. Same with the salons I was trying to host here on the island. I’m pretty discouraged. Josef and I have hosted some very lovely poets and artists and attendance has been dismal. Pearls before swine said my friend Russell. It makes me mad because they’re always going on about how arty we all are on Bowen Island. Music events are usually well attended but not poetry. So, screw it.

Recently I joined the LA Weekly alumni group on Facebook and coincidentally heard from the old publisher Michael Sigman who asked for stories, anecdotes. I sent along the ones I could remember.

-First day on the job, fellow production assistant give me speed so we can make deadline.

-We used to throw Anelcy burritos out the window or drop our wads of bubblegum or balls of wax (used to paste up ads) onto the heads of the hookers administering blow jobs to the johns in the parking lot below. One hooker extended her hand to see if it was raining.

-LA Weekly staffers often went to the Red Lion to socialize and enjoy tall boots of beer, the best sausage platters and bodacious frauleins in short lederhosen and low cut peasant blouses and the one-man band-accordionist. There were always a lot of LAPD in the place too, which didn’t stop us from driving home drunk. They never bothered us.

-Staffer Walter Kaufman’s dog Angie, the blue heeler who instinctively shepherded us around on deadline day when the offices were packed and bustling with people. He would come up behind us and nip our heels, attempting to *herd* us. So funny!

-The sales department and the art department indulged in a kind of friendly war of words. We thought they were a bunch of yuppies and they thought we were a bunch of lunatics—so we didn’t mix much although Cass D’arlon used to come over and visit.  was appalled when he asked me if I had any grey kittens to go with the decor in his living room.  (I had recently rescued a litter of feral kittens from the crawlspace of my Echo Park apartment building)

-We were robbed late one night! A bunch of us-me, Anni Siegel, KIm Jones, Gloria Ohland, Jon Wrasse, Cynthia Maughan, Ted Shatz, and several other staff we working hard to meet deadline when some masked Latino men burst in, guns drawn. Without a word, I ran down the hall, flew down the stairs, climbed up the back fence, which was really high! I have no idea how I did it, but I managed to hurl my body over and ran across the street to call the police. They grabbed a bunch of business machines and jumped into a waiting cab and sped off. We were terrified and I felt guilty for leaving everyone behind. Here is the episode immortalized in my novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter.

The office is abuzz. It’s a big deal for one of Lost Angel’s acts to be nominated for a Grammy—Hairy Fist is up for Best New Group.
“Nobody signs the right bands,” I grumble to Ted.
“The Grannies are a joke. They’re about album sales, not artistic merit.”
Leo’s even buying ads in Billboard and Rolling Stone. He’s asked us to help capitalize on the opportunity and work late so the promo gets out in time. We’ve been directed to, actually, bribed with speed and coke.
The microwave beeps for attention. Pearl goes to it and returns with a big bowl of popcorn, warming the room with its aroma. “Come and get it.”
We gather round. Liam tosses a kernel into the air, throwing his head back to catch it in his mouth.
Pearl attempts the trick, only to have it bounce off her nose. “You make it look easy!”
I grab a handful. It’s going fast. “Is there no end to your talents Liam?”
He throws some at my head. It fastens to my hair like burrs. Pearl giggles as Liam points and laughs.
“No food fights,” admonishes Lily. “Remember.”
It seems the work gets done and the deadlines met despite all the horseplay. We rally. Teamwork. A good feeling.
Pearl shows me the mailing list we spent all night photocopying last week. “He better not find out,” she whispers.
“Who, Leo? Don’t worry. He won’t.”
“He could fire me.”
“He wouldn’t fire you. But don’t worry, I’m being very discreet.”
We hear a screech in the circular driveway. I peek out the window and spy three small, dark men with red bandannas over their faces, brandishing huge handguns.
“Shhhh!” I stand still, straining to hear, the night air on my bare arms suddenly cold. We hear several alarmed shouts, loud bumps, banging and “Oh my God!” through a hubbub in the foyer below. Reports of “Robbery!” are shunted up the stairs like an ill wind.
Everybody freezes, embracing their desks like delegates at a trade show. Everybody except me. I command my legs Move! Bolt through the office, down the long, narrow hallway, ram open the fire exit door and dart down the stairwell, nearly tripping over my feet, hands pushing off the railing at the bottom as though to achieve flight.
I don’t look back. No moon tonight. My pupils swell at a dizzying rate. Blundering, peering into the murky night, I hear nothing except the roar of the blood in my head.
“Parada! SenoShannon, parada!”
No way, Jose!
I hear him, feel him gaining on me, the ground seeming to give way. Wind in my ears. No. The sound of breath. His? No, my breath, giving me up, lungs pumping like a bellows. Where will I go? The alley—so far away, clear across the entire length of the parking lot. Still can’t see anything. Where is the bastard with no face? What’s he doing? He’s going shoot me! I must be in his cross hairs. Look! No, can’t afford to. Run. Moving target, zigzagging fool, like old rubber legs Lamont.
Oh, oh. Dead end. Tall, board fence. Where is he now? Fucking fence must be eight feet high! Rickety. I can’t stop. He’s going to kill me! Run at it, vault, extend my arms, grab the top, flesh of my palms punctured by crags of rotting plank. It takes very ounce of strength I possess to hoist myself level and up. I teeter a few long seconds, searching. Footsteps grow louder, heavier. Still can’t see him, the bottom, or a stinking dumpster to the right. Toes bump wood, damp with dusk. A little prayer to Mother Mary. I hurtle both legs over, pitch my body to the earth. Farther than it seems. Feet smash into concrete. I fall forward, width of my knees smack the ground hard, take most of the impact.
“Oooowwww!” I wince, squint through tears, and will my body up, hobble across Sunset Blvd, dodging hookers and traffic. Get to the pay phone, dial 9-1-1. Stare in disbelief as three banditos emerge from the building—like a movie—beast-like dwarfish frames burdened with computers, electric typewriters. They scramble into a cab, yelling, cursing. An adding machine crashes to the pavement. Oh no! They’re taking the microwave.
Gawd! What if they see me? I sink down into the booth, yell out the address into the receiver.
Pearl! I left Pearl in there! Oh man . . . I hope she’s okay.