Today...

is my birthday. I can't believe I'm 38. I feel at least 68. Just kidding. I'm very happy to report that after a solid week of being very, very sick, I'm finally on the mend. James has, as usual, given lavishly. Presents include a copy of an autobiography of a Bandito's member. (Biker gang lit is one of my favourite genres. I'm thinking of celebrating my 40th birthday by becoming a hangaround.)

While I was sick, Tango also became unwell. He's developed a severe sensitivity to gnats, also known as midges. Each tiny bite swells up into a huge hive. Last week the poor horse had hives on top of his hives. His left eye was swollen almost shut and his right front leg was puffed up like a summer sausage. He looked even worse than I felt. Now he's taking fistfuls of antihistamines twice a day and looking more like himself, albeit a very groggy version of himself.

I'd love to give you all a present, since it's my birthday. What I wanted to give you was the chance to read a recent article in the New Yorker called Anything Pink Rocks by Alec Wilkinson, but it's not up on the New Yorker's site (but you can read the abstract). It's about a man named Jimmy Webb, a clothing salesman at Trash and Vaudeville in the East Village. He once went to a party dressed as a quaalude (an original quaalude, a Rorer 714). This entailed wearing a white unitard, cheap white high-heeled boots, and bleached white hair. He is characterized as "the spirit of everything that rocks." He sent the designer who makes his jeans a photo of a naked Iggy Pop on which he'd written: "I want a pair of pants like that."

It's a great article, funny and sweet and filled with memorable quotes, such as: "It's not rock and roll if your pants don't hurt." Read it if you can find it.







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One Flu

I regret to report that I have the flu. I am ill. I feel unwell.

But mostly, I am feeling sorry for myself.

Let me take a moment to describe my symptoms: a terrible aching behind the eyes reaching back toward the ears. This is accompanied by a sore throat and great deal of muscle pain leading me to hunch over like I'm originally from Notre Dame.

The illness came on when I was in Vancouver to teach. As we live on Vancouver Island, I can safely say I became ill when I was overseas.

When I woke up on Wed. morning, I wasn't sure how I was going to make it home. The headache made it hard to see (and think), the sore throat made it hard to swallow (and breath) and the muscle pain made it tricky to walk. I entertained the notion that this might be a good time to call and see if my Blue Cross coverage included medivac service. The only thing more intolerable than trying to negotiate the variety of buses and ferry required to get home was the thought of being away from my own bed any longer, so I ventured forth.

I elbowed elderly ladies out of the way so I could sit on the bus benches. When there weren't any benches, I settled beside the homeless people on the sidewalk. The other option was to fall down. At one point I became so disoriented I considered giving up on catching the bus to the ferry terminal and instead trying to catch a float plane from downtown Vancouver to Nanaimo. But then I started to worry that I wouldn't make it to the seaplane terminal or worse, that I'd make it but they'd decide I was too sick to fly and I'd end up trapped in their offices for days, weeks, months, sort of like that unfortunate Iranian woman who had to live in the Moscow airport for over a year.

When the bus finally came, I seriously considered telling people that I was about to throw up so they would vacate their seats. Fortunately, seats became available on each of the buses I took. Perhaps people got nervous about the white faced woman with what looked like two black eyes swaying over them.

When I reached the ferry terminal, I lay down on three seats. God, I hate people who lay on three seats. I've only ever seen hungover teens do it and I've always felt quite disapproving. But there I was, laying right there with them and occasionally moaning softly to myself.

The ferry itself was teeming with kids and parents celebrating spring break. It was quite similar to the seventh circle of hell. Screaming, yelling. The worst was the laughing. Those joyous child chuckles were like Satan sticking a pointy unclean fingernail right in my ear. Finally, after an epic journey that I'm pretty sure knocked ten years off my life expectancy, I arrived home and went to bed for 18 hours.

I still don't feel great, but this rant has made me feel better. At least psychologically. And I'm thrilled that I can now swallow well enough to drink coffee.

Okay, now that you've listened to this, you probably have an elderly relative somewhere who enjoys discussing his/her health difficulties... heh.

Into (And Out Of) The Jungle

I have a tortured relationship with Amazon.com. I am not alone in this. For writers, Amazon is one of the only ways of getting feedback and seeing how well one's book is doing. Of course, Amazon doesn't always give the most accurate picture, because not everyone who likes (or dislikes) a book takes the time to put up a review on Amazon and Amazon is only one of many booksellers. However, that doesn't stop writers from visiting Amazon as if the site will somehow reveal their future and that of their book. I.e. "Oh my god! Anonymous in Chicago hates it! I better get myself a trade! Quick, how long does it take to become a plumber?"

A few days ago I saw a list of strategies writers can use to sell more books and get better reviews on Amazon. I would like to offer writers one more feature for dealing with Amazon in the form of a twelve step diagnosis and recovery program for Amazonism, a very debilitating condition that can have serious consquences for one's mental and physical health.

Six Steps To Diagnosing Amazonism
1. Do you check your book's sales stats on Amazon more than once per day? More than once per hour?

2. Have you ever purchased your own book on Amazon in an effort to increase your sales stats, even though you already have several boxes full of books that you are currently using as furnishings and resting places for lamps?

3. Have you ever wept over a negative review, even a misspelled one that lamented how "borng" or "stoopid" your book was? Have you ever reread such a review more than ten times in lieu of cutting yourself or some other self-destructive habit?

4. Have you ever created a fictional Amazon account and written a positive review of your own book in an effort to get back up to four stars? If so, did you intentionally misspell words and use poor grammar in an effort to sound more legitimate? Did you get caught doing this? Do you worry about getting caught doing this?

6. Do you spend an inordinate amount of time reading the hundreds of five star reviews of more popular writers searching in vain for a two or three star review?

If you've answered yes to any of the above, you qualify for the Amazonism Recovery Program.

Six Short Steps to Amazonism Recovery
1. Admit that you have a problem with Amazon and that your obsession with the site is making your life unmanageable. Quickly check your book's Amazon page to see if anything has changed or an actual reader has given you a positive review, which would be a nice way for God to reward you for your honesty.

2. Become willing to try and wean yourself off Amazon. Try out some other hobbies that produce the same effect, such as buying a sturdy helmet and running full-tilt into a wall every time you have the urge to look at Amazon.

3. On a yellow sticky note, write yourself a reminder not to visit Amazon. Place it on your monitor. Add another one each time you actually check Amazon. When you are no longer able to see enough of your screen to navigate to the Amazon site, tie yourself to your chair to stop yourself finding another computer.

4. Admit to God, yourself and another human being who is not writer your problems with Amazon. Carefully study the look of distaste and pity on their faces, including God's. Then let the non-writer catch you several times in the process of checking your stats on Amazon after you promised you'd leave the site alone. Feel a great kinship with online porn addicts.

5. Realize that since you can't control yourself and your compulsion to check your situation on Amazon, it's highly unlikely you're going to be able to control the sales of and reaction to your books. Give up. Go back to writing and avoiding Amazon.

6. Repeat process with each new book.

P.S. If you should happen to want to write nice things about my books on Amazon, please don't hesitate to do so. Not that I'll know or anything. Because I'm clean, man. I haven't been to Amazon in at least sixty days. Well, fifty-nine days, four hours and five minutes, but who's counting? If you do go, could you let me know how I'm doing? No, no. Scratch that. I'm okay. Where the hell is that pad of yellow sticky notes?

HEY!

I almost forgot I had a blog!

Sorry for the long delay, especially coming so soon after the last long delay. I suspect updates will be infrequent over the next little while. Life has become very busy.

I have sad news for fans of Alice, I Think, the TV show. The first season will also be the last. As I have written here many times, I loved the show and not just because of my obvious bias. I was fascinated by the things the talented cast brought to the stories and the new directions the writers took. I was crazy about the production design. I am thinking of chaining myself to the house they built for the MacLeod family. I can't bear the idea that it will be torn down. Anyway, I'm too depressed about it to say much more than thanks so much to everyone who made such a great show. I am convinced several of the cast will be going on to superstardom.

Who knows, perhaps some wise soul at another network will decide to pick it up. I've had a sneek peek at some of the scripts that were prepared for a second season and they were incredibly funny.

The only comfort is that Alice is among some very fine fallen/non-renewed shows: Arrested Development, Dead Like Me, Freaks and Geeks, while other complete crap shows, which I will not name, go into their third,fourth and fifth seasons. I've heard nasty rumours that Battlestar Galactica, one of the best television shows ever made, is on the chopping block, as is Friday Night Lights. It's practically a mark of quality to get cancelled!

Switching to a happier topic, I hope everyone in Canada is watching the second season of Robson Arms, which was created by the same people who made Alice. It's set in the West End of Vancouver and is terrific.

In other news, my bangs are a bit blunter than they were. No one has noticed, but I've spent considerable time thinking about them. Also, I got some white boots with large green birds painted on them. They have a tongue located at the back. Amazingly, they look even stranger than they sound. They are deeply impractical. I love them.

Until next time.