On meeting Pamela Anderson

Pamela Anderson through the stacks of the Eaton Centre Indigo.

I’m not that familiar with fandom. My personality doesn’t lend itself to such unbridled enthusiasm (I know, I’m the loser here!). But when I saw that Pamela Anderson (who we have dreams of putting in one of our movies!) was going to be in Toronto, my sister and I got excited. This was our chance to say hello—but not be creepy, by say, bringing our script along in a binder—and in the process get a new signed cookbook.

Also we got to enjoy the process of watching true fervent fandom on display.

• The woman in front of us who checked her hair and eyebrows at regular intervals saying she wasn’t a fan of Baywatch per say, but liked Pamela Anderson’s new cooking/life style show and the fact that Pamela now lived on her grandparents’ farm. And “Honestly, I just like to support.”

• Another woman in head to toe turquoise satin, whose look channeled some of the parties Pamela writes about from a time gone by (now that she’s  embraced her makeup-free era). 

• A young girl behind us chatting excitedly about how she felt connected to Pamela because they were both from the same province and how she was only in Toronto for a few weeks and this was her chance to meet Pamela—for her mom (one breath).

• The well kept loner 30-year-old East Asian guy who seemed out of place, but was determined to act “casj.” (I’m in the dark about his story because I got distracted joining a trio of sneaksters trying to catch a photo of Pamela through the stacks, made extra challenging by the security guards standing in our way—moving precisely where we moved.)

Check out Pamela’s current vibe over on the Open Journal. She writes journal-like poems and has a penchant for Proust!

Nature from this past Thanksgiving weekend. (Channeling Pamela now that I’m her new fan girl.)

Gravel under my feet.

Squeaking Crocs.

The high-pitch call of a bird on a wire. Black capped chickadee?

Wings flapping.

Water slapping the rocks as it washes up bits of…sludge.

Perfect.

Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, written 20 years before her Pulitzer winning The Goldfinch and recommended to me by my book loving cousin.

Apparently this book is all the rage in some circles. The phrases “dark academia,” “cult stuff,” and “rich kids getting away with crimes” come to mind. Indeed, the book is about an elite group of Vermont university students (followers of a Professor Julian who believes that Greek is the only subject worth studying) who suddenly find themselves entangled after a bacchanal night gone wrong. It’s got The Perfect Couple vibes without the fun dance sequence. Add the orgy intimations. If you search this book, it will take you down rabbit holes. Happy Friday!