Dear Susan,

I am sorry to inform you that I will not be able to accompany you to New Brunswick. Please accept my letter of resignation. And I do mean resignation, as in admission of defeat.

I hereby give up my valiant attempts to get you to keep your failures quiet, since you are obviously hellbent on sharing every last tiny setback with the entire world, via this blog.

You may think it a bit suspicious that I am quitting tonight; the night when the bar located approximately 6 feet from your hotel room window has suddenly exploded into action, but that is just a coincidence. I am not at all fazed by the frat boys who are yelling obscenities and making terrible grunting noises as they practically dive off the bar’s patio into your window, which must remain open due to the stifling heat produced by this broke-ass “heritage hotel” heater. Nor am I in the least bothered by the hammered sorority girls wearing early (and remarkably slutty) Halloween costumes and screaming at the top of their lungs as they stagger blindly into the alley between your hotel and the bar so they can throw up cheap draft beer and the date rape drugs the festering sore frat boys have tried to slip into their drinks. No, those things do not bother me. This sort of thing is nothing for an experienced tour handler, such as myself. If I wasn’t quitting, I might be able to help you out with this situation.

But alas, our journey together has come to an end. I don’t think you can be effectively handled and I’m going to send the agency a note to that effect. I’ll probably do that in the morning. After I have a good night’s sleep in my own bed. Whoa! There goes another diving frat boy. That one nearly made it in! Thank goodness he lost his grip on your windowsill and plunged down two floors onto the heads of a pair of retching faux-ho sorority girls. That was close!

Okay, well bon voyagey, as Bugs Bunny says. Maybe I’ll see you at the gym. I’ll be the one in the leather-look tights and pointy bustier.

Yours with very little regret,

Xena

If you are writing to me on my blog email address, andfurthermore@shaw.ca I won’t be able to read your messages until I return home. That’s because I’ve forgotten my password. Please don’t tell Xena, my handler. She’s very unforgiving about such things.

S.

Dear Xena,

My last post was nothing like the note on the juice jug! And you should be aware that as a result of that note I became friends with the owner of the jug and we are still best friends today (though she likes to make cracks about keeping the indelible markers away from me when emotions are running high.) Anyway, my confessions weren’t even that bad.

So I will repeat them here:

1. When I first walked into my hotel, which is on frat house row in Toronto, I was seized with a certain sadness. This feeling had nothing to do with the 100 year old brownstone that’s been converted into a “boutique” hotel. It’s because when I first arrived in Toronto when I was 20, and I mean the first day, a frat boy barked at me and another girl when we walked by. I don’t mean that he spoke to us harshly. I mean that he barked. Like a dog. This was apparently supposed to signal to us that he did not find us attractive. That wasn’t nice and it confirmed my dislike of all things frat and all my assumptions about the soulessness of the entire greek movement.

But that’s not why I felt depressed. I couldn’t have cared less about some little barking frat boy. No, I felt sad because the barking memory reminded me that I miss Frank. Of course I also miss James, but at least I’m able to talk to him on the phone. Whatever other excellent qualities he may have, our dog is a lousy phone conversationalist. We’ve tried getting him on the phone but he mostly just pants. Like an obscene caller. (Also, the hotel was fantastically hot. Like a heritage sauna. And that also made me glum.)

So there. What’s so terrible about that anecdote? It’s not even that embarrassing, other than it suggests I wasn’t attractive to frat boys when I was 20. Well really, who would want to be attractive to frat boys, unless the boys in question are actually Luke Wilson, Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell? It also reveals the information that James and I have tried to put our dog on the phone. But who among us hasn’t tried to put a pet on the phone at least once!

2. I can sort of see why you are concerned about the second anecdote, so I won’t go into details. Suffice to say that it finally happened. Someone actually threw up during one of my readings. I always suspected it was just a matter of time. I frequently look out at the audience and think: Oh, oh! Several of these people look on the verge! (My readings are VERY intense.) But the poor person. It must have been very embarrassing, even though it shouldn’t be. What’s most amazing is that no one’s done it before now! This has given me a lot of insight into how the people who made the Exorcist felt when people got sick during the first showings of that film. I realize that people are probably tempted to get sick during my readings for different reasons, such as heat and possibly even boredom, but still. It’s both a burden and a priviledge to have that effect on people. I take it very seriously.

Note to person: Don’t feel bad. Throwing up was practically a varsity sport in my crowd when I was a teenager. That’s how we knew you were “cool”. As I confessed in my first appearance on this tour, during the speech I’ve been asked never to give again, I used to do a terrific amount of it from ages 13 to 20. If you play your cards right, you may, like me, even end up with a career where you get to sicken other young people!

Note to Xena: People love going to events that make them throw up. For instance, carnival rides, Marilyn Manson shows, and experimental jazz concerts. I think I could make this work for me!

See you later,

Susan

Dear Susan,

I’ve taken the drastic step of editing your last post. As your handler, I feel it is my responsibility to do a bit more handling. Part of my job is to prevent you doing things that you will regret.

This compulsion you have to confess various real and imaginary humiliations must be curtailed! The post you had planned to put up on this blog would have done your career harm. Or at the least, it wouldn’t have done it any good. So while you were out for dinner (good for you going to that vegetarian place with the elaborately named health food dishes! In no time at all you might fit into one of my vinyl outfits!) I took the liberty of erasing your last blog entry.

Remember when you told me that story about how you met your friend? How you were rooming together and you, in a fit of pique, wrote a nasty note in capital letters using indelible marker on a plastic juice jug because someone had left it empty in the fridge? And then you found out that it was your friend’s juice jug, and not, as you’d imagined, the communal jug?

Well that last entry would have been like the note on the juice jug. Not a good idea.

You’ll thank me for this later.

Your Friend and Handler, Xena.

Dear Ms. Juby,

I presume you mean Linda Carter, not Linda Hamilton. And my look is much more Star Trek than Planet of the Apes.

If you would like a media escort with lower standards, just say the word. I bet Pee Wee Herman’s guy is looking for work.

Your Handler, Xena

P.S. We had a border collie once and all it did was shake. I find it alarming that you are so anxious to claim intellectual inferiority to a dog.

P.P.S. Please don’t be late to teach your class today. It’s bad enough that you posted the wrong day on your website. You are as bad with dates as you are with directions. If you don’t mind my saying so.

Dear Xena,

For a media escort who dresses like Linda Hamilton on the set of Planet of the Apes (Bright Eyes! Bright Eyes!) you are very timid about the subjects of talks and about social interaction generally.

I DO NOT tell everyone about the bidet! Sure, I may have mentioned it to the festival director, but it was just an “in passing” comment. I’m sure she didn’t think me any less sophisticated.

And you are all wrong about Jaclyn’s talk. I am not in the least embarrassed that I am dumber than her dog, Lucky. If you were listening carefully, you would have heard her say that Lucky was a border collie. Border collies are smart! Very smart! It’s no secret that your average border collie is much brighter than your average 14 year old who is in the middle of a Duran Duran phase! Never mind a DRUNK 14 year old in a one piece jean jumpsuit. There’s no shame in it Xena.

Anyway, if you are going to be so sensitive, you should find another author to handle. I am a very busy person and don’t have time to mess around with assessing the extra space in mini-bars. Maybe you could escort Margaret Atwood. I’m guessing she’d sound smarter than an entire pack of border collies and wouldn’t let on for a minute that she has never used a bidet.

See you in the morning. Please don’t stay up all night thinking of things I shouldn’t have done. Save some disapproval for tomorrow!

Best regards,

Susan

Dear Susan,

You are now two events into your tour. You have given a heartfelt talk called “Five Bandannas and a Barf Bag” about your jean jumpsuit and multiple bandanna Duran Duran phase (the one that ends with you throwing up all over your friend’s car and getting the nickname “The Hurler” for much of Grade 10). I don’t think it’s necessary for you to dwell on the fact that Jaclyn Moriarty’s charming and witty talk about her dog made it clear that, at least on the subject of “fitting in and standing out”, the animal was considerably smarter than you. (A word to the wise: you may want to consider giving that talk an early retirement.)

Also, please don’t keep telling everyone you meet in awed tones that there is a bidet in your room and you “have no idea how to use it.” I’m not trying to be rude, but that is not a good opening conversational gambit. The other writers don’t care. They are busy thinking about how they just won/lost the Booker/Giller/Orange Prize and have no room left for contemplating the wonders of your hotel bathroom. A sophisticated front: that’s what you’re going for here.

Okay, I’ll talk to you soon. I just need to go and apologize to the housekeeper for the mess you made when you tried to stuff your Chinese food leftovers into the minibar fridge. Nothing like General Tao’s chicken to stink up a room!

Love,

Your Handler, Xena

I leave Thursday for the Vancouver International Writer’s Festival, followed by a tour of the Toronto Library system and then the TD Canadian Children’s Book Tour in New Brunswick. Woo hoo!

If you are in Vancouver this Thursday I hope you’ll come out to the event at Waterfront Theatre on Granville Island from 1:00 – 2:30 . I’ll be appearing with Jaclyn Moriarty and Kevin Major, both great writers. And for the record, you have my word that I won’t hit anyone in the audience with rootbeer-flavoured Lipsmackers.

Stay tuned for blog updates, which may be incoherent and sporadic, but will certainly be well-intentioned. Now I have to go and prepare another talk featuring a humiliating tale from my teenage years… Thank goodness I have so many to choose from!

Rocks my world.

http://www.highstakes2004.com/

It’s now 20 degrees! Sunny, sunny, sunny! Relentlessly sunny, even. And this in a supposed rainforest climate! Interesting fact: if you look at the statistical averages, the mean temperature for this time of year is usually 10 degrees. Isn’t that fascinating!

Now, I you’ll excuse me while I go and dig my fan out of storage!

This is Susan Juby, Global Warming Weatherwatch Girl, signing out. And it’s over to you for Sports, Kevin.