Heh!

I've decided to post some images and any other stuff I find this week. My wrists are just barely holding up with work and I don't want to push my luck with more typing. But I'm better, and that's what counts.

Getting Much Better

My bones have been snap, cracklin' and poppin' more than a bowl of rice crispies.

You know, what's really ticking me off is I have a lot on my mind right now, but I can't push my luck. I'm back at work tomorrow and God knows there will be enough typing there. So I plan to be back up and running 100% later in the week. Just wanted to say hello and thanks for all the good vibes. It's working!

can't blog. have arthritis

in my left wrist so i'llbe back as soon as i can.

wuv,
zesty

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

I dream of an old, rambling cottage nestled in the countryside, its stone walls soaked with age. I dream of sitting in my office, staring at the sun in the garden as I mull a paragraph in my latest book, or the chorus of my latest song. I dream of enough sleep and healthy home cooked meals and time to think.

Actually an ice cold beer wouldn't go far wrong either.

"Well, that puts the cup on the bunny."

Yes, I've developed a new expression that essentially denotes the very essence of a fait accompli. My inspiration is above. Feel free to use liberally.

Heh!

I.F.O.A. – Day the Third

In which our heroines, Zesty, Ragdoll and Ms. Stone [who was formerly referred to as Atwood in a previous blog however, that is no longer viable as I speak upon the subject of the real Atwood here and wish to avoid confusion] wrap up this year’s IFOA adventure by going to see the Queen of Canadian Literatti, the aforementioned Margaret Atwood.

“You know,” Esther had remarked earlier in the day, “you sound Irish when you swear.”

“It’s Scottish actually.” I replied.

Dear Esther. I had unwittingly placed her in the path of my roiling, Celtic wrath. Truly Dear Reader it was a day that could not end soon enough. No I take that back. It was a week that could not end soon enough.

Last Friday I found myself eagerly anticipating my evening with Margaret Atwood. Since the rain was absolutely lashing, I interpreted it as a good omen and set about departing for the restaurant at which I had booked a reservation.

The restaurant was Petit Dejeuner, which I had recommended as I had partaken of a fabulous brunch there about six weeks ago. Unfortunately, our waiter appeared to have left his brain on his home planet, as it never quite got through to him that we had to be somewhere at eight. We ordered our dinners promptly at 6:30. By the time 7:15 pm arrived, we were still waiting while everyone else around us was busy nibbling away. Finally Ms. Stone had had enough and spoke to him.

Our dinner was out in another five minutes, minus the frites we had ordered – as a starter. Seriously, how long do fries take? Seriously? We ended up getting the charge removed from our bill and as we left we got an apology from the proprieter, or manager or whomever. It was too little too late really. If there were “problems in the kitchen” why was everyone else eating? Still I gave the waiter the benefit of the doubt and tipped a solid 15%, a notch down for me because I typically tip 20%. Somehow I feel my disappointment will be lost on him.

Then upon heading out to Harbourfront in monsoon like conditions, I had to contend with trying to make a left turn but not being able to because a taxi was essentially parked in the middle of an intersection deciding where he wanted to go, not being able to make another left for two full light sequences because of a cab that stopped to pick people up instead of going around a corner, getting trapped behind someone else who signalled they were turning left at the last minute, and then [and this was the final infamy] waiting at the entrance to the Harbourfront parking lot while a car stopped in front of the entrance and let out four people and then PULLED INTO the parking lot.

Needless to say, by the time I arrived at the theatre I was fit to be tied. I won’t even go into some of the other crap I encountered before the reading started.

As for the reading, what can I say? Well, that I was surprised frankly.

I’ll be honest. I’ve tended to avoid interviews with Margaret Atwood like the plague. For some reason, in all of the ones I’ve encountered I’ve found her to be rather pendantic, with the interview more akin to the tone of a university lecture. Earlier in the day, however, I had listened to a podcast of Bill Moyers interviewing Margaret Atwood at the PEN convention in New York City. It was absolutely fascinating and I really enjoyed it, That being said, Moyers is a consumately talented interviewer so I wasn’t surprised. Still, it raised my hopes.

So there I was, about to see Margaret Atwood in the flesh. Before the evening kicked off, she was presented with an award for helping to save ancient forests. That’s great, I’d just expected my first encounter to be a bit more dramatic. Instead it was a bit awkward. Atwood came out, accepted the award, went backstage, then got introduced by the host and then came out again to read. Weird.

The host was Catherine Belyea from the previous night. Atwood noted that when she had first encountered Catherine she had asked her what she wanted to do and Catherine had replied that she wanted to host a classical music show on the radio, and that Ms. Belyea was now doing that so good for her!

The audience applauded and then Atwood said “And I remember thinking at the time, dream on kid.”

It was the first of many zingers of the evening.

Margaret Atwood read from her current book, Moral Disorder. It’s essentially a novel composed of about a dozen short stories that centre on a female protagonist during various stages in her life. Atwood chose to read part of a story that takes place when her central character is in highschool. At one point she had to stop reading because she was cracking herself up. I can understand why. In highschool, every smart girl has a conversation with a cute dumb boy. That’s just the way it is.

After the reading there was an at times painful interview with Eleanor Wachtel, who hosts Writers and Company on the CBC. It wasn’t painful because Ms. Wachtel was a bad interviewer per se. In fact her questions were interesting and well thought out. However, she wasn’t good at picking up Atwood’s cues and going with them. She tended to stick to the script at all costs, which meant that Atwood essentially took the interview over. Sometimes it was hilarious. Sometimes it was plodding. But it was all essentially interesting.

All in all, after the disaster that was dinner, the evening recovered itself nicely and it was a wonderful way to wrap up another season at the IFOA.

Here’s to next year.