I'm still sick and my house is a mess. However, I may be getting better. I'm not saying I AM getting better, because the last time I said that I backslid and got worse. SO, I may possibly PERHAPS be getting better. Who knows...
Rowan sent a comment to my blog! I deleted it because it was a bunch of whiney crap about how I should not blame him and how if he had a budget things would have been better.
Whatever.
I'm always amazed at how people will come up with the budget excuse whenever things go wrong and someone complains. Having produced art on a shoestring for a very long time, I know EXACTLY what a budget can and can't do for you.
And it can't make you better at your job.
It can make you look more like an ass when you fuck up your job though.
I don't think he read the post very well, because he thought I blamed him 100% for everything that went wrong, but I don't think he's was as interested in the content as much as providing some sort of personal PR for himself.
I don't provide a forum for excuses dude.
1) Sign on Marginal Way says "Motorcycles Exercise Extreme Caution." Which made me think "Well, that hasn't ever been my experience, but aparently the City of Seattle sees it differently."
2) In a fait accompli not nearly as impressive as Tina Kunz's, yesterday at Southcenter Mall I coughed, laughed and peed my pants all at once. I think I do get points for being in public when it happened.
A shout out to the baby and to the "real nurse" Diane.
The baby kicked the monitors on her so hard she actually moved them. Yay baby!
To Diane the nurse on the Labor and Delivery floor, who is a real nurse, meaning a nurse who has knowledge, applies that knowledge, asks the patient (me) questions as if she is might have useful information and knowledge and then treats that patient as though the information and knowledge she has and imparts is valuable.
Rock on Baby. Rock on Diane.
I had no idea I'd spend so much time in the hospital as a pregnant person. I went to the ER today as instructed to get my throat cultured (results: neg. for strep. I have a god damn cold) and it turned out my blood pressure was high. Begin! A great three hour adventure of blood pressure checks, IV placement, blood and urine tests and fetal monitoring. All for the viewing pleasure of the risk management office of Swedish Medical Center.
Of course, I'm fine. Went shopping for curtains afterwards. After lying on my left side and moving even though it was against the rules because my back hurt. To be proclaimed as well as I was when I walked in for my throat culture.
In case you don't know, taking the blood pressure of a very pregnant woman lying on her back, you are likely to get a high number because the baby is big and will compress her Vena Cava which is the largest blood vessel in the body. If you get a high number, turn her on her left side and try again. Unless you are an ER doc and can't creatively problem solve. I hold this against him, because he was not an ER doc on his eleventh hour, but actually told me he'd started his shift only an hour or so before I got there.
His last name is Mailman.
I don't know what to make of that. But it's funny. You don't think people still get trade names as last names, but apparently they do.
Plus having an IV sucks ass. It hurts just a little too much to ignore even after seveeral hours have passed. It's THERE and you KNOW it. The representative from my OB's office came in and talked to me about anemia (aparently I'm anemic right now) she asked me if I had any questions. I affected a very languid expression and drawled. "Only one. How quickly can you get this fucking IV out of my fucking arm."
We got up not too early to get to Sacramento and I spent a good deal of time sleeping in the backseat, which meant that I missed the eternal mist in the farmlands between LA and our destination. But it also meant that I missed the part where random chunks of plastic fell off the undercarriage of my car after Bret hit a bump or something. I found out about this after a final big chunk, which protects the oil pan ripped free on the way out of Sacramento the next day.
However! Hector rules! I just want to say that all the time. Hector Rules! He gave me a book that I was reading and was just in general a really nice fellow. Kim Evie and her husband Greg came to the reading and put us up for the night. Megan Histand and her husband went with us to House of Pies, as did Mike Rainey who is my new secret boyfriend. I think it was his explanation that the Shakespeare Bridge in LA was constructed after in depth research of hidden mathematical principles in Shakespeare's works revealed the plans for the bridge that really clinched my secret undying love.
Sacramento has a HUGE silver watertower near the freeway coming into town that says "Sacramento City Of Trees". I repeated "City of Treees" which turned into "Covered in Beees" from Eddie Izzard's "Glorious", immediately after which there was an ad on the radio for the local Beekeeper's Supply Store for all your Beekeeping Needs.
Since we were early I decided to drive around town (not before eating at a Chinese restaurant named Simon's). On the way downtown on 16th Ave, there is a huge ceramic sculpture of a cow that looks like it's decomposing before your eyes twisting it's head in excrutiating pain (as you might imagine) leaping away from a cowboy on a pony, rendered in the same, expressionistic greys of suffering. The cow, which I first mistook for a steer, looks like a texas Longhorn with a rack about 8 feet wide. The only color besides the greys and tans of it's skin, was a deep berry red tiny tiny udder with four teats. It reminded me of those classic sculptures where the model was clearly a man or boy and they just stuck those impossible round floating boobs on them.
Our agent in Sac was an interesting fellow named The Lob. His real name is Richard (I saw a piece of his mail) and he used to be a manager for a bunch of punk bands. Real punk bands. Back when punk was an actual movement. The folks here were older. Aging hippies and activists. People who had masters degrees but also spent some time in prison in the seventies. There was a guy named Eugene Bloom who read, actually shouted, a poem about reading poems over the sound of a cafe blender. He had arranged for the barista to run the blender the whole time and then he shot the blender at the end.
I actually did not last that long. I'd passed into the stage of pregnancy where there is no such thing as a comfortable position. I stood up and ached, sat down and ached, when I lie down I flip like a pancake. I start on my left side and when I can't stand it anymore I flip over to my right until I can't stand it anymore... you get the idea.
So after Bret's set I went outside and walked around in the dark and tried to call SGNP who wasn't answering, stopped at the corner of the block, where a kid was doing tricks on his BMX and cried. And cried. And tried to call SGNP again, and he didn't pick up, so I cried some more. I think I cried for like a half an hour or something. The second half of the open mike started, and a nineteen year old whose boyfriend is in Iraq started reading her poetry and, well, it was pretty easy to leave at that point.
I slept very well that night, but we all slept really late. We stayed with Bret's Uncle Bill and Aunt Lucinda in Rocklin. Lucinda is about my height and so the shower head in the front bathroom came right up to the top of my forehead. I finally have had the experience of ducking my head under the shower. It was awesome. We didn't get on the road until about 11:45 which meant we'd get into Seattle at about 1:30am, which is exactly what happened.
Not much happened on the trip home, except for the aforementioned plastic ripping off the car. Except a perfect example of Bret's charm gone wrong. I sat up after napping and looked out the window and in the car next to us was a cute spotted dog sitting the backseat looking around. I said "Hello, dog." Bret asked me what I had said and I told him and he said that was funny because he was just thinking that, with my hair sticking up all over like it was, that I looked like a little dog.
That's right. I look like a dog.
Thanks Bret.
When we stopped in Yreka (pronounced Why-Reeka), I found a liquor store and got a small bottle of whisky. So I could have some once I got home. Which I did. I EARNED it, yo.
So we're back home. I have some kind of horrible sore throat thing that I have to go to the hospital and get checked out, because that's what happens when you're pregnant. You stub your toe and you have to go to the hospital. It's my fault. I called and asked them if it was okay for me to wait and get checked out at my appointment on Tuesday. Of course they said NO. I was supposed to go in last night, but I opted for having dinner and sleeping a lot instead.
JP is back in the House Bitches!!!
I like Los Angeles MUCH more than I thought I would. Maybe it's just because I ate really good cheap tacos within a half hour of coming into the city and there's a place called House of Pies. Which has Pie. I'm going to get some later.
We're at Sandpaper Books and our agent tonight is Hector. Who is super sweet and made sure to Britta some water for me. That's right, I've just made Britta a verb. Please hold your applause.
So the Perpetual Motion Roadshow is a fucking joke. At least this little branch of it is. They promise two things: A venue and A place to Sleep. So far only in Portland did anyone make arrangements for us, so Bret called ahead to our next two venues and the agents there also said they had no idea that they were supposed to get us a place to stay. Bret wrote a nasty email to the coordinator who supposedly is new, but who also told at least one agent who told her he could offer a venue and nothing else, "Oh, well that's totally fine!"
Grrr.
The other thing is that these agents are so hapless about getting us a place to stay. I mean if someone showed up in Seattle and I hadn't arranged a place I would, say, get on the fucking phone and call a few of my friends and make something happen.
I have a theory about what the real problem is though. The real problem is that there is no purpose for this tour. It's a tour so they can say they have people on tour all the time. So there's no theme, no momentum, no goal or objective. There isn't even a sense that they want to get artists exposure in new literary scenes. I get the feeling that the coordinator calls people and they say "Yeah, uh, they can read here if they want, I guess." And that's about it.
I slept a lot in the car today. The baby is going crazy because we haven't worn ourselves out. "What was with all that Sleeping, Mommy?!?"
Jordan, who is the third member of our party is driving me crazy. I'll tell you about it sometime. I've had a few moments. You know. Those moments where you seriously consider stopping the car and saying "Out. Just get the fuck out of the car." And then driving off.
He's obsessed with getting shot, since he's in America (he's Canadian) and keeps feigning disappointment when we tell him it's unlikely in most of the places we're going. I decided to abandon this tactic today and started suggesting ways in which he could get shot. I also told him if he wanted a true American Experience he should get shot by a cop. Then I started concocting ways in which we could all make that happen. Calling the cops on him, saying I didn't know him and he wouldn't get out of my car and then he could reach quickly for something in his pocket, like his wallet...
Strangely, he wasn't too keen on any of my ideas.
Fucker.
I'm too tired to write really. So this will be just a summ up you know kind of thing.
Portland was great. John and Petra the hosts were great. Dog at the house was cute and funny and great. Her name was Stella and she was utterly entranced by Bret and would not leave his side unless forced to by nature or dog-parents. I slept like a baby and woke up only once to pee. Which is like a miracle. Then we got up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 and drove 11 1/2 hours to San Francisco.
The host in San Francisco had no place for us to stay and did not want to organize or emcee the evening and was very put out by having to do so. She offered us the floor of her studio apartment. We stayed with Bret's brother and his at their beautiful house in Alameda.
Hightlights: A friend of Paul's, Allegra, came to the reading and we got to talk and hug and say hello and all that.
Lowlights: Kristin, of "Holy Shit, She's a Fucking Nightmare" fame showed up at the reading in Portland. I used my bitch-fu to ward her off.
I'm too tired to write really. So this will be just a summ up you know kind of thing.
Portland was great. John and Petra the hosts were great. Dog at the house was cute and funny and great. Her name was Stella and she was utterly entranced by Bret and would not leave his side unless forced to by nature or dog-parents. I slept like a baby and woke up only once to pee. Which is like a miracle. Then we got up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 and drove 11 1/2 hours to San Francisco.
The host in San Francisco had no place for us to stay and did not want to organize or emcee the evening and was very put out by having to do so. She offered us the floor of her studio apartment. We stayed with Bret's brother and his at their beautiful house in Alameda.
Hightlights: A friend of Paul's, Allegra, came to the reading and we got to talk and hug and say hello and all that.
Lowlights: Kristin, of "Holy Shit, She's a Fucking Nightmare" fame showed up at the reading in Portland. I used my bitch-fu to ward her off.
T. Paul was the second or third impossible person we met in Vancouver. It depends on whether you count Rowan or not. Upon reaching Vancouver, BC, Bret and I went first to Lush and bought very fancy and expensive soaps and things. Bret spent over $100 on fancy soap. Hehehehe. I bought a couple of these things called Bath Melts which make bubble bath and are shaped like little cakes. I found them much less intimidating than those bicarbonate "bath bombs" that sound like they're for getting rid of ticks and fleas.
We wandered up to The Butchershop where the reading was supposed to be and waited around for a bit. There was a gallery showing called Brown, and the theme was... Brown. There was one whole wall taken up with brown owls. My favorite thing was a painting of a little girl with a kitten in her panties. She was pulling the red panties open at the front and looking down at the kitten. The title of the painting was "Brown Pussy".
Rowan was our contact or "agent" as they kept calling him in emails. I had imagined a small thin-nosed, red-haired hippie chick. HA! Rowan is a six foot something dude with a bushy black ponytail and a bushy black beard and a big face. Rowan as an agent of anything should be fired. He didn't know if the featured reader was going to show up. He was supposed to find us a place to stay and he opened his hands toward the concrete floor of the gallery and said, "My roommates are not as into hosting folks as I am. I can offer you this building." We asked him if he knew who was coming. He said he didn't know, maybe nobody. Enter Magaret the french lady.
Magaret was a dancer who recited poems in French and dances at the same time. It was very sweet. Not good, but very sweet and charming. She had this impossible accent. An accent that does not exist in reality. An accent that only comes of being harrangued for months by a professional dialogue coach to get that perfect sexy, sweet French accent so she can play the darling little French waitress in a movie based on some Hemingway novel. The fact is, it was her real accent. It just turns out she lives in a world where people talk like that for real. And you and I, well we just don't.
After waiting around for a while and being informed by Rowan that people sometimes don't show up to these things until around 9 (a full hour after we were to start). I was so tired, that concrete floor started to look like a reasonable place to sleep for a seven months pregnant me. The featured reader, Brandon, did show up and informed us that there was an open-mike at a place up the street and did not have a featured reader that evening. He couldn't do it, because he'd just done it the week before. Rowan walked up there and talked to the currator and came back and told us we should go up there, though the audience was mostly people who'd signed up to perform, there would at least be people there to listen.
There at the Monmartre, the name of the place with the people in it, we met T. Paul. T. Paul the curator of this particular open mike. T. Paul. T. Paul was wearing an immaculate pressed red and blue plaid flannel shirt, an immaculate pressed white t-shirt underneath, a pair of immaculate pressed Levi's rolled up twice at the bottom about a palms width and pressed into place.. He wore a red dyed rabbit's foot on a chain clipped to a belt loop and a black leather belt with an enormous immaculate shiny belt buckle. T. Paul's hair was an absolutely prefect facsimile of Mickey Rourke's in Sin City. Black and slick. Too high and far back to be called a pompadour. Two perfect immaculate rolls of hair at the crown leading to a perfect duck tail. Sideburns long and thin following his jawline for so long they almost meet at his chin. T. Paul is a man who does not exist. T. Paul inhabits a reality that you and I simply do not. We just do not.