As attendance was open to everyone, last night I visited the latest boozeup, presented by Ink Canada, for teleplay- and screenwriters. Seven of the 15 people I talked to were presently being paid to write for the screen, an impressive proportion. (The number was dragged down by the Canadian Film Centre grads huddled – and standing up – in the centre of the Paddock. Established hacks were getting shitfaced at tables.)
I openly betrayed my fondness for Being Erica, though it dearly needs some chest hair. I lectured a low-level writer on The Border about linguistic verisimilitude, something he didn’t even hear right the first time, necessitating a second lecture. I know: He just works there.
The conveneress wore a shocked expression when I introduced myself. The two women she was talking to reacted like I were trying to pick them up, plus one of them mocked my name. When I asked if she were getting paid these days, the conveneress wondered if I might not be familiar with her résumé. And did you know she only watches TV if she can download it? This ice princess regally oversees the industry.
I avoided McGrath. I wasn’t the only one, I inferred from a conversation.
I quite enjoyed myself. Later, waiting with the mob for the streetcar, a cab pulled up to the light and a handsome guy in the front seat glared our way. “Where you going tonight?” he asked. “Onto that streetcar,” I said, pointing. His gaze shifted, as if with an audible click, to the chicks standing next to me. “Where you girls going tonight?” “The streetcar,” one of them said, eyes rolling. My kinda gal. Check her résumé.