Complaint Letter

Dear Phlog,

Your service is disappointing, and I wish to request a full and complete refund. When I elected to follow "Another Phlog", I did so under the pretense that it would be a full, complete, and satisfying entertainment service with saucy anecdotes, witty thoughts, and clever stories. Seeing as how "Another Phlog" has not been updated for well over a year, I wish to file formal complaint and insist that this situation be rectified immediately, henceforth and herewith.

Regards and chocolate cake,

No Pants Island

The dreams that you dare to dream...

Right now, I'm enjoying a morning coffee. Looking at the sunshine outside. Listening to the Lord of the Rings score courtesy of Philsy. I am completely at peace with the world and everything - and everyone - in it.

Yesterday, my career really began.

When I arrived at my meeting, I told myself I would not be nervous. Not have expectations. I told myself I would enjoy the experience, and whatever would be, would be.

Introductions and small chat were a good warm up. We did a bit of creative brainstorming, and they gave me some notes and thoughts. And then after that, the only words I really remember were:

Option.

Contract.

Financing.

Pilot.

I found myself floating towards Gastown a short while later, imagining how fan-fucking-tastic it is going to be to work with experienced people who I can learn from, and to see my show come alive. There are still a lot of hurdles ahead, but I'm not too worried. This is the beginning of something wonderful.

For the past three weeks, I have ritualistically been singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" every day. Last night, while Philsy and I enjoyed a lovely meal on a patio in Gastown, a fellow walking past burst into song... "Somewhere, over the rainbow... skies are blue..."

I did my best not to burst into tears.

Thank you. To all my friends who've supported me and encouraged me, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Here we go!

The Sun Will Come Out.

Sometimes, I Like To Capitalize My Titles. Sometimes, I don't. I honestly can't remember if that's grammatically correct, or not. It usually depends on my mood. Right now, my mood calls for caps.

For the past few days, I've debated on posting any career related updates, because if things don't work out - do I really want to post a sadsauce update alongside the happy hopeful one? Life is full of ups and downs though, and while I'm hoping for more ups I'll try not to be too intimidated by the potential downs.

Tomorrow at 10am I will be meeting with the potential future foster parents of my show. Although I'm still trying to maintain the same attitude as when I embarked on this journey (Nothing will likely happen. The chances are slim. These are not the droids you're looking for...), I am now into full-blown fantasy mode, dreaming of working as a staff writer under the skilled tutelage of some fabulous showrunner, who will make my series as hot as a burlesque show on flaming coals in the desert. With fire spinners.

I've come to accept that I will never feel completely prepared for this meeting, so I've stopped pressuring myself to have a flawless pilot script, a perfectly packed show bible, a crystal clear premise. Truth is, if I had all that, I'd have a show. I need help, and I know it, and here I am looking for help.

Help!

Fingers crossed for an up.

Interwebs. I See What You Did There.

Perhaps I should have pursued a career in research.

Early this morning, I received a voice mail from a prospective employer who saw my resume on Monster.ca. He very quickly mumbled the name of his company, and his name, and said he had "lots to discuss" with me.

Me: cynic. Yeah right. I bet you have lots to discuss.

So I dial up a few Google tabs and get to work. Within minutes, I have his name confirmed, I know his address - I know that he's trying to sublet his apartment. I know his girlfriend's name, and his dogs name. I know his birthday, and where he went to school, and what he looks like.

Scary.

So I stopped to think for a moment about how much of my information is out there on the interwebs. I try to keep a cap on how much I give out - I keep Facebook set to "friends only." I'm cautious about posting phone numbers - even email addresses, anywhere. My address doesn't exist online - at least, it shouldn't. But still, anyone could Google me and probably come up with enough information to piece a few things together.

The most important piece of information I ascertained, was that this is not a company or a job I'm interested in. So I guess I've saved myself a long, awkward phone call by being early morning Screeny McCallerson.

Buddy's got a great view from his living room window, though.

Oh Please! PLEASE!

Please just give me an answer. Preferably a second yes. Half a greenlight is not enough - I want a whole greenlight in all it's career kick-starting glory.

More news to come. For now, that's all you get. Nothing else to see here folks - move along, move along.

Health Shmealth

I try not to complain too much about aches and pains. But this week has been off the scale.

Last week I planned to "pound the pavement" and find myself a job. Any job. Mid-last week, I came down with a killer cold/flu. So I wound up pounding the sofa and the bed, instead. By Monday, I was feeling a bit more like myself, so I went out for a walk with a friend. Halfway down Burrard, I start coughing - and bam! Threw my back out. How embarrassing.

I've had a lot of back problems over the past few years, and since I've been ignoring them like I ignored my gall bladder for so long, I decided maybe it was time to go talk to the doctor. I woke up Tuesday morning, bright and proactively early to go see my doctor - and Philsy said, "Maybe you should look in the mirror..."

Hives. Face, elbows, knees.

So I went to the doctor. He tried not to laugh - I was a mess, after all. Suspicious that my woes were stemming from an old injury sustained while PA'ing on a TV show (note to self: even if it costs you your job, do not try to keep up physically with the boys - it's not worth it), he sent me for an X-ray and gave me a referral to a chiropractor. He gave me some cream for the hives, though I know full-well that creams won't fix this. I went through this once before, in '93. Am I old enough now to start quoting years gone by as double digits? I think so. I feel so, after this week.

Off for the X-ray, then home again to await what I was sure would be a full-blown mess of hives by the end of the day. Sure enough, I was right - covered, head to toe. However, when it started to affect my breathing Tuesday evening, I cried uncle and off we went to the ER at St. Paul's. The staff whisked me in, to the head of the line; as much as I'd like fast service, I know what service that fast means and it worried me.

After being assessed by one of the Docs, we concluded together that no point of origin for the hives could be determined. So they shot me in the ass with some heavy-duty anti-histamines, gave me a prescription for more, plus predisone (immune suppressant), and sent me home to sleep. They gave me a verdict of five to ten days - sounds about right, given what I remember from last time.

So I'm stuck indoors right now, like some sort of leper. At least I can use my hands again to type - they were fat as footballs the first few days, so I couldn't even be productive and get some writing done. I did struggle to the chiropractor on Thursday, and found some back relief. And I'm firing off as many resumes as I can, and hoping that I won't hear about interviews until at least Tuesday of next week. Because I'm still scary looking, ya know.

Generally, I really don't like to complain about health problems. I know a lot of people who have had much more sicky than I this year, including several of my readers. My Dad, for example, who in the past ten years has been through three rounds of chemo, had numerous flu's and pneumonia due to his compromised immune system, and then spent last Christmas/New Years in the hospital battling a heart infection - yet still gets up every morning and does his thing, without much complaint. Amazing.

I think this post rambled on a bit. Sorry about that. I'm done. Back to bed, for now.

Pick Me! Pick Me! Pick Me!

Right now, I should be worried about finding a job. But I'm not. Not completely, anyway.

Friday night, in the middle of a wicked summer cold, awake and unable to sleep - I cracked. I started daydreaming (nightdreaming?): "What if I'm accepted into the CFC's Primetime Program?"

Bugger. I'd promised myself I wasn't going to get worked up and excited because, statistically, my chances aren't good. Though I don't know exactly how many applications they receive each year, I'm sure they get plenty - and of them, only eight lucky aspiring television writers make the cut. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to sell myself short. Sure, I've got a shot. But I also have a brain that likes to wander deep into the forests of fantasy land, frolicking happily in what might be before reality comes crashing down, clear cuts that forest and puts up an office block.

However, now that I've let it outside, I'll have to indulge my enthusiastic ego and let it run around and play kick the can until the sun's completely set. Hoo, boy. I hope it doesn't get bruised and come home crying.

In the meantime, I have resolved to carry on and look for other options. Masters programs at UBC and SFU look interesting - despite daunting wait lists. I'm not particularly keen on going out-of-province for any extended periods of adult education, but I suppose I should research and see what's out there.

And of course, the job hunt carries on. Hopefully to be resolved before next month's rent is due. Otherwise, Houston: we may have a problem.