The Rise and Fall (and Rise!) of UNIT 102 (PART 2)

Well this is it. We signed the papers, stripped the old space and we are about to take possession of the new Unit 102. Our new location is at 736 Dufferin , just South of Dufferin and Queen. I was walking through the dusty place the other day and it’s going to need a lot of work to get it ready our November 3^rd opening. Cleaning, painting , moving , bitching, sanding, sweating, lifting, wiring and a whole slew of other verbs will be taking place this week. I’m ready for it personally, I’ve been sitting on a milky way of anxiety these last few months and want to sink my teeth into some work.

I say all this while sipping on my third glass of Red Cross pinot Grigio that I picked up with a friend at the grocery store. Which is to say I’m feeling rather comfortable right now. I’m sure if I was writing this tomorrow morning after my third coffee I would have the stench of panic all over these words. But for now, it’s feeling good.

*****

Ok this is me after three coffees and panicking. We have three days to get this studio up and running. I haven’t slept, the money I'm giving the electrician is the last $20 that I have. I am covered in paint, my fingers bleeding and I can’t find the fucking hammer anywhere. It seems absurd to me that my last posting was so positive, this time frame we are working on is ludicrous. Luckily we have so many eager hands to paint or we’d be screwed. Tracy, one of my favorite servers at the Rustic Cosmo, has been rolling black paint onto the ceiling for almost an hour now, by far the worst job in a sea of unsightly jobs. Watching her labor, I wonder what possesses her to help out so intensely. The place is a shithole, just like the original Unit 102 used to be,and it's hard to imagine that a play will be performed here in just TWO days, especially with all this garbage laying around. The last tenant was a tattoo artist and left a container with a biohazard label sitting in the back. The thing was full of used needles. It sat next to a copy of DVD entitled “Young Cummers”, I don’t think the films content needs explanation. This is where we begin. Now where the fuck is that hammer….

*****

I am now sitting among the 40 seats lined up for tonights performance of THE DUMB WAITER. The lights of the stage illuminate two cot beds sitting on Stratical Theatre’s impressive set. The New 102 Theatre sits all around me, a product of two weeks of intense physical work. As you can see from the last two entries, my feeling throughout the process have been all over the place. But now, looking around me, I have to admit to a certain feeling of pride. It was fuckin' hell but we created a new theatre in under a week and we're already in the midst of our second production with two more coming directly afterwards. There is something comforting about these surrounding black walls, a feeling that I am exactly where I belong. That’s a rare feeling for me. My whole life has been a series of uncomforts it would seem, constantly wondering where I am headed, what I’m doing, who I am. Sitting in this box theatre, I get all three of those questions answered simulataneously. This is where I’m headed, this is what I’m doing and most definitely, this is who I am. I would pick up a thousand used needles for such a feeling. ( And I did.) As I finish my second viewing of ‘Young Cummers’ (terrible acting but a great script), I feel inclined to finish my little tale on how UNIT 102 rose, fell and rose again. Join me won’t you?

So when last I left you, oh so many months ago, I was living with Liz and we had decided to go for broke and turn our studio loft into a full out theatrical venue. A stage was built, seats were plundered and we needed some content to officially kick start our adventure.

Our first interested party happened to be one of the most important. Mark Andrada and Julie Dumais, two very talented improvisers, were shopping around to do a show entitled “Manifesto”,a night of experimental improvised work. Due to the nature of their proposed idea, they needed a quirky off-the cuff venue that wouldn’t be financially motivated as experimental work generally has a hard time finding an audience. When they saw the space they immediately were taken by it. Before we knew it, Manifesto was doing a monthly show at our space, and with it came a large swath of the comedy community. Their early endorsement and plugging of Unit 102 was probably the single most significant creative contribution to our space, as it opened us up to Toronto’s young comedy community who at the time was desperate for a venue. Soon many other comedy acts would follow. PROJECTproject (also with Dumais and Andrada), quite possibly Toronto’s greatest improve troupe (in my opinion) would call Unit 102 their home and for nearly a year did a weekly Wednesday night show. They were waiting for the opening of Gary Rideout Jrs. Comedy Bar, now Toronto’s premier venue for new comedy. I often worked on Wednesday nights, and regretfully did not get out to see the show as much as I would have liked . But Liz, being the sole representative for our “company”,would always be on hand to help run it. The amount of joy and excitement she took from being a part of that show was evident every time we talked about it. It brought her, who was always a tad shy, totally out of her shell. I’d imagine she would not disagree with that statement.

PROJECTproject led to a huge comedy explosion at 102. For almost a full year, we were running two to three comedy shows a week. Two of my personal favorites were Tal Zimmerman and Jared Sale’s NSFW, a night of curated viral videos and PB&J (Pat Thorton, Bob Banks and Jason DeRosse respectfully) who would do shows where everyone including themselves would be smoking pot throughout. How they even performed in that state was beyond me but they always managed to be hilarious. Once, I did a special guest spot on their show. When my set was done, I partook in the festivities happening in the audience. Needless to say, I got ripped. Little did I know, the troupe was going to invite all the nights guests on the stage for an improvised jam session. When I got up on stage, I had no idea what was going on. At one point I was in a scene and not knowing what to do, “died” on stage and lay there for the duration of the scene. (possibly the worst “offer” ever made in the history of improve). When that was done, I hid in the back and hugged the wall, hoping to God that it would soon end. It didn’t. I was lost somewhere in my own head when Julie Dumais (who was also a special guest) grabbed me by the hand and through me into the scene with the line, “Doctor, Doctor, tell us what’s wrong with him.” I hadn’t been watching the scene, so I had no idea what the context was but there was Pat Thorton, acting like a retarded child, pretending to jerk off his penis. I stood there, perplexed as to exactly what was going on and proceeded to talk Doctor Jargon for a few seconds before walking off stage and promptly passing out unconscious. I would wake up later to Liz putting a damp cloth on my head. When I asked where everyone had gone, she told me the show was over and everyone left. Not my finest day and it would take a number of years before I would attempt improv again.

And so things were popping fresh over at our little studio, so much so that Eye Magazine called us “best place to see a comedy show” that year. Crazy considering we were just an empty room full of cats. But it was happening before our eyes. Comedy was a great fit for the space but there were attempts to use 102 for other artistic purposes. A few groups did gallery showings, another did a concert. The concert was Toronto’s own Run With The Kittens. It was a crazy good performance. We couldn’t do drums in our spot, so the band’s drummer brought a single kick drum with a pillow stuffed in it and used the lip of the stage to pound out the beat. Even with these modifications, the band was too loud, their sonic output blasting out onto Noble street. After a quick visit from the local authorities, we decided that music wasn’t a possibility in our space. But man, what a show.

Then there was our first “serious” theatre piece. It was a Montreal company doing “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe?” Now we had been a theatre for awhile at that point but never before had we tried to create the illusion that we’re in another time and place. It’s one thing if you’re doing improv and a cat jumps on stage, its another when you are in the middle of reciting a monologue from Hamlet. We needed to make the place a bit more legit. We turned our living room into a back stage space, hung up curtain and for each performance we had to lock ourselves into a room with our three cats so they wouldn’t interfere with the performance. It was weird being stuck in a loft bed with three cats while the words of Albert Albee were coming from the other room.

Then there was the time our lights died in the middle of The Skecherson’s show. At the time we didn’t have a lighting grid and I was using work lamps, those ones used in construction with the grated bulbs, as stage lights. Well during a particularly packed performance, the main stage light burned out so I had to grab a ladder and climb up and replace it DURING the show. When I finished and got the light up, the audience cheered and the show resumed. Then it died again. This time, I didn’t have a replacement, so I took two flashlights and lay on the floor in front of the stage and directed light on whatever was taking place. Pretty ghetto.

Once Comedy Bar launched, all the comedy acts followed. At the time I was a bit bitter but the move made sense. The comedy Toronto's up and coming community was doing was stellar work and they needed to bring it to a legitimate mainstream venue. And they have, Comedy Bar is a thriving place full of extremely talented individuals. Considering our cats and flashlights, it was a big step up for them.

It was around this time that Liz grew tired of living in a theatre space. It was tough having random people open your door at 9am and start screaming and jumping around. We needed a change. The problem was that if we were to move, I couldn’t afford 102’s rent AND rent for an apartment.

So that was when the Unit 102 Co-op was created. The idea was simple. Create an online schedule with a number of artists, split the rent down the middle and do a time share. I assembled a number of people and off we went. But simple it wasn’t. Trying to co-ordinate the time was a hassle, as most people wanted similar times. And many would join the co-op for a month or two, put up their show and then leave. Trying to organize a studio clean up was nearly impossible. There was no singular purpose or vision for the space, it was every man for himself.

So that only lasted about a year before it dissolved. A new formula had to be worked out.

So that’s when Jesse Ryder Hughes, Scott Walker, Jenny Westoby, Dave Lafontaine and I created UNIT 102 Theatre and Actors company. In an attempt to take it to the next level, we painted the space in black, put up an actual lighting grid and decided to start doing this for real. We were all actors working together on shows and decided to take things a bit more seriously.

We opened up last year with a season of three shows: Sam Sheppard’s True West (Which I directed), David Mamet’s SPEED THE PLOW and Patrick Marber’s CLOSER. We devised an actual booking system and opened our doors for rental and performance. Over the last year, we grew rather successful and by August of this year, the studio was finally paying for itself. All and all, it was the best of times.

However…

From the moment we began doing this something changed with our neighbors. When we started, as I mentioned in my previous post, we had the community on our side. People from within the building would routinely come down and join us. But when we began to do actual shows, we started an inadvertent war with the upstairs tenenant. His mission? The absolute eradication of our little theatre space.

I am not being overly dramatic by saying that. From the get go, he began banging down at us, screaming profanities, blasting techno music and threatening to use his chainsaw on us (!) For a while we managed to make nice but soon a number of other tenants began to join in the hating. By the end of it, I was scared shitless to put up a show of my own. Everytime we had a renter, I would freak out at any bang or bump that happened on stage. This went on for months, and reached its fever pitch when during one our shows for TRUE WEST, he came down and threatened to kill my actors DURING their performance. It became clear that something had to change. On August 10^th 2011, we were served an eviction notice.

And so it is. We found a new spot, we created a new spot and I write this in a new spot. The NEW UNIT 102 is located at 376 Dufferin Street, just below Queen Street West. It comfortably seat 50, has a working grid, soundsystem, a large playing space, a lobby and front windows. Soon we will have a nice sign announcing us to the busy street. We have three shows this month, two of them still running (Stratical Theatre’s THE DUMB WAITER running November 10^th-20^th and Pandemic Theatres MISS TORONTO ACTS BACK which runs November 25^th-27^th and December 1^st-4^th). We have tons available space starting in December , rehearsals running at $15/hour and shows starting at $175/show. You can follow us on Twitter at @unit102theatre.

Let this be a lesson:. All it takes to make something happen is to actually set out and do it. All I had was a half-assed plan, some extremely good friends and a drive to do some work. That’s it. Let me be perfectly clear: I am an unorganized, lazy and foolish person. And yet, I run a legitimate theatre venue in Toronto. If I can pull that off, then anything is possible my friends. Anything.

Everything but putting together a blog in a reasonable amount of time apparently. Guess I’ve still got a lot of work to do. But before I do that, I’m curious to revisit scene 3 of Young Cummers. There was this one position I just couldn’t quite figure out….

Living the Dream.

That Blogging Bastard

The Rise and Fall (and Rise!) of UNIT 102 (PART 1)

This blog is a story. And like most stories, the plot twists and turns like a paper plane grabbed by the wind.

On November 1st 2011, UNIT 102, the theatre studio I helped create with a handful of others will finally shut its doors. Since its inception, there was a lot of adversity with some of our surrounding neighbors regarding sound and the nature of the kind of work being done at the studio. After struggling to find common ground, we were evicted. Unit 102 had been a hub for emerging performance artists to hone their skills, rehearse their shows and refine their craft. And it provided an affordable space to hold performance and artistic events, at a time when many of our theatre spaces were, and still are, shuttering their doors. And after taking nearly 6 years to establish that kind of theatre space, we finally have no choice but to close it down.

But all is not lost. We have found a new venue, located at Dufferin and Queen and as one place sees its last days, another will grow in its place. In the my next blog I will post more details but unfortunately can’t say more until the contract is finalized.

What I realized while dealing with all this is that many people don’t know of how Unit 102 came to be or that I even ran a theatre venue in the first place. My memory is as fuzzy as left over lasagna, and I’m known for my rampant (and often dangerous) hyperbole but if you will read onward, I would like to tell you the story of how this all came to pass. Perhaps as a final tribute to the place I called my creative and literal home for so long, perhaps because I don’t have cable and I’m bored sipping on this Yankee Jim tallboy.

On July 1st 2005, I moved into a loft space at 46 Noble Street, just north Brock and Noble. I was fresh out of school, nearly broke and had been living in a dumpy three bedroom off of Crawford and Harbord Street. At the time, I was living with two roommates and we existed in that slovenly state that many twenty somethings find themselves living in post University. Fast food cartons littered the floor and a thick tinge of semi-permanent marijuana smoke laced the air and after about a year there, I started to feel stagnant and in need of a change. So when my roommate Jay found an 1800 square foot cavern in the middle of Parkdale, it was hard not to be excited. OF course at the time Parkdale wasn’t the Club land monstrosity it is now. When I mused out loud of its potential as a theatre, people said it was too west and too sketchy to ever really work. Too West now seems like a joke, as the Junction gets eyed as the next emerging place and Queen West extends its shops and entertainments all the way down to Roncy. But to be truthful, sketchy it was.

When I told both my parents I was considering moving to Parkdale, they both warned me of the grave danger I was placing myself in. OF course they were thinking of the Parkdale of the eighties and weren’t aware of the gentrification going on. But that is the reputation Parkdale still has: a place of vice, prostitution and drugs. But trust me, today it is like Disneyland compared to how it was when even I first moved in. I was offered $10 blowjobs by toothless women on a daily basis. I saw crack being smoked in broad daylight. Hell, you had to push through the hookers at night lined up on Brock where the Stamped Bison Grill now sits just to get to 102 in those days.

But despite all that madness (madness that still hasn’t really gone anywhere) it was and still is a great place to be. It’s a place where real people live. And it has a hugely political and progressive community. And although I secretly miss the time when it felt unknown and underground, before the roaming bands of screaming 905ers began drinking their Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, and hipsters opened up their millions of coffeehouses (not that I don’t love those coffee houses, I wrote most of this in one), I am still happy being here six years later.

When I first stepped into 102, the previous tenant was still sleeping on a shaggy couch lying in the middle of the room. When we woke him up, his bleary eyes suggested drug use and partying the night before. Around him sat nearly a dozen empty tin cans; it looked as if he had been eating directly out them. After apologizing profusely and leaving, Jay and I sat in 102 for the first time.

It was a fucking dump.

Our bedrooms were nothing more than wooden coffins hastily constructed out of flimsy aluminum braces and dry wall. When we removed those years later, we discovered they weren’t even attached to the ceiling. My bed was a loft with no ladder, Jay’s was on a make shift landing sitting right underneath our neighbors toilet pipes. The third “room” was about the size of a toilet stall. (I admire both Trevor and Daryn, the two gentlemen who called this their room. Clearly they would have no problem living in Tokyo) the place was an awful yellow stained colour. The radiator hissed, the pipes clanked, the floors creaked and somehow still, I knew that it would one day be a theatre.

No one else did.

I would show people the place and guys would think it was cool, as it resembled the stock hideout for a group of gangsters planning a heist. Females thought it was cool if they bought that I was an artist. Otherwise, they thought I had lost my mind.

But for many it was nothing more than a large hole in the wall to hold parties. And party we did. Our rent was ludicrously expensive and parties were the only way to keep the place afloat.

And without being to immodest, they were fucking huge. I remember at one keg party people kept coming off the street with their own glass wear, help themselves and walking out. At that point my neighbors would come from different units to join and a real sense of community seemed to exist. These nights were truly epic. Standout moments from this era include:

-Two hipster girls walking in. Taking pictures. Walking out. This happened a few times. I have no idea who they were but I would like to imagine they were documenting the place for some trendy magazine. Either that or they were undercover officers keeping tabs. This is all sheer romanticism on my part, but I have an active imagination and that's my best guess.

-Being solicited for sex by a girl who knocked on my door and said, “This is where the parties always are, eh? Why don’t you crack me a beer and introduce me to the place.” At the time, my girlfriend was inside. I was terribly awkward and turned her away but I did feel kind a cool albeit in an extremely dirty sort of way.

-During a particularly raucous party, my friend Matt trying to bike home, and immediately wiping out and breaking his collar bone. We all laughed until he didn’t get up. We carried him back to the party and lay him on the couch. Later, he disappeared and my neighbor found him unconscious at his door step. Not a great story but it sure was memorable.

- I was vending at the Skydome (well, I still do) and I would often run into these two pretty ladies who would flirt with me and buy my $10 beers AND tip. In fact, it would appear they would wait for me to buy the beer, even when I was busy and would neglect them. This happened over a number of games and one day I vowed that if I were to run into them again, I would stop being a pussy and ask them out for drinks. Well the day came and I nervously invited them out.

Luis the stud: So what you ladies saying this weekend?

Linda: Nothing.

Liz: I’m not sure yet. Why?

Luis the stud: Well I was wondering if you wanted to come to my party.

Linda: When is this party?

Luis the stud: when are you free?

Liz: I don’t know. Saturday?

Luis: Saturday?

Linda: Yeah, I’m cool that day.

Luis: That’s great!

Liz: Why is that great?

Luis: Because I’m having a keg party that night.

Linda: On Saturday? Oh wait, no, I can’t do that.

Liz: Oh yeah, we have that thing.

Linda: Yeah, shit. Too bad your party’s not Friday.

Luis: Did I say Saturday? No, I meant Friday.

Linda: Really?

Luis: Yeah, I get so confused with my dates.

Liz: No wait, that thing is on FRIDAY not Saturday.

Linda: Oh yeah. Shitty.

Luis: Well it’s kind of a two day thing, so I mean, you could come on either day, I’m sure I’ll have beer and stuff…

Truth was I didn’t have a keg party. After the awkward invite was given, I had two days to set up a keg party in order to meet girls who probably wouldn’t be showing up. By the time the day came, I had a keg of Pabst Blue Ribbon sitting in the centre of my empty space with about 5 or so male friends. We sat with the keg facing the door. I’m sure it was quite a bizarre room to walk into, a bunch of drunken men staring at the doorway with a huge keg between them. I’ll just go out and say it: we were lame. We had a bet going as to when the first women would arrive. It ended up being my buddy’s girlfriend and she clocked in around 11pm. So it looked like a bust…until the Liz and Linda actually arrived. Liz wore a superman tee-shirt, immediately appealing to my inner-geek. When the two girls entered my dungeon, they LOVED it. They looked around and marveled at my comic collection, my Fireball Island board game, my ‘impossible to reach without breaking a sweat’ loft bed. I wondered if I was in the middle of a wet dream. But it was reality, and for the first time, I thought my place was pretty cool. I ended up dating Liz who would become instrumental in 102’s development, more than any single contributor I could name.

-New Year’s party where we recorded the dance floor, served out champagne and rang in the New Year with over 100 people. The party would later be edited and turned into a trippy music video by a friend of mine who now Dj’s with projection. When I watch the video now, it’s hard to imagine that it was 102. In the night vision and with the crazy soundtrack, it looks sort of like a happy hardcore party in East Berlin.

Of course, partying wasn’t the purpose of the space. I wanted a theatre. And as much as I loved partying, I had larger visions in mind.

During this time, I worked with an emerging theatre company called Column 13. They are a young, actor driven collective, that stages intense American works. (I still work with them time to time and they are still doing their thing. You can check them at column13.org if you are interested). Being a company without funding, rehearsal spaces were hard to come by. We would often spend hours bartering our labor for time at Equity Showcase theatre. Sick of vacuuming dirty carpets and moving risers just to rehearse, I tried hard to convince them to rehearse at my space. And for a while they did. But the place was a disaster; there were empty cups everywhere, the smell of stale beer coming off of the sticky blotches on the floor. We had two cats that would jump onto the actors, many of them who were allergic. It didn’t help we were doing a production of Balm In Gilead, a play with over twenty actors in it. It was a difficult production, and I remember in one heated moment an actor blurting out, “well how you can you expect us to work? Look where we’re rehearsing!”

That hurt.

But there was truth in that. We were not a theatre yet.

And so it came to be that Jay would have to move out leaving me alone with a huge empty hole in the wall. 102 was already expensive with the rent split two ways, without him being there, it would be nearly impossible. The time had come to make some big moves or else all would be lost. I sat down with my comedy troupe Stag Nation, hoping they would be interested in turning it into our home base. Sort of a comedy club house where we could develop sketches and routines, throw the occasional fundraiser party, do small shows. The guys didn’t think it was a good idea. We didn’t have any money and we weren’t doing enough to justify having a space for just our work.

So I turned to Column 13. They were in the midst of organizing themselves, putting together a website, getting on top of grant applications, making big plans for upcoming shows. I thought having a hub for our work would be beneficial, so I proposed running the space as a group. However, to many of the company members, 102 was Luis’ apartment and Luis was a drunken hipster train wreck who had two cats too many, and was living some bohemian early mid-life crisis fantasy out in an former crack house deep in the slums of Parkdale. For many, it wasn’t something they were particularly interested in.

Now it just so happened that I was, perhaps for the only time in my life’s history, working steadily and saving money. So by the time Jay moved out I was sitting on nearly $7000 in savings. I decided to hold onto the space until someone would take me up on my plan to make it a theatre. Well it only took three months to wipe out all of my savings. And still no one had joined me on my epic quest.

I was dejected. I spent a few shitty nights crying at Liz’s place, lamenting a world that lacked vision or rather, a world that wasn’t insane enough to indulge me in my particular vision. Liz and I had only been dating for a few months but she offered to move in with me and help make it happen. Of course this was a big deal, I had never moved in with a girl before and at this point I was still too emotionally immature to comprehend such an idea. We discussed it for awhile, and eventually, I decided that it we should. We loved each other, she genuinely wanted to help and moving in with a woman wasn’t a big deal, I mean she was over all the time anyway, right?

Side note: If you ever move in with a woman thinking that it’s no big deal, you are wrong. Moving in with a partner, whether you frame it as such or not, is always a big deal. This is a fact and I advise all those thinking of doing it to proceed with the utmost respect for the gravity of such a decision.

For me, the move in worked out. Liz and I had a fabulous partnership and her fresh energy and eye for details proved to be the piece of the puzzle that had been missing. She introduced the concept of having a “plan”, which I guess was something that I lacked. We started to ask, “How does one start a theatre space?” Well we discovered that the first step would be letting people know that it existed. So we started to post info about it on Facebook, at casting agencies, on-line theatre resources, places where people who had need for a space could see it.

Of course, we didn’t have anything to offer people other than a space. So, with the help of my friend Matt, we built a stage. I remember the day it was completed, Matt turned to me and said, “Amazing things will happen on that stage.” He was right. I think I spent that entire night dancing on it, screaming out random Shakespearean monologues, bowing to an empty room.

As excited as I was, having a stage didn’t mean I had a theatre. People need a place to sit. And that’s when my uncanny luck came into play.

So I work at the Royal York as a bartender. But before that I spent 5 years being a Porter, a guy who sets up the tables and chairs for each event. On the balcony overlooking the Canadian room, the hotels largest ballroom, sat a number of chairs. These chairs were of a different style then the rest of the ballroom chairs and could no longer be used on the ground (mix-matched chairs clashing with the Royal York’s décor naturally). And so they just sat there. It was my fellow performer (and Royal York employee) Kristian Reimer who noted there existence. We inquired as to what would happen to them, I for use at 102, Kristian whose friend was opening a theatre space in Montreal (which would eventually become The Nouveau Theatre St. Catherine but that’s a tale for another blog). Our supervisor informed us that the hotel was going to hire a removal company to get rid of them. How lucky for them here were two employees who would do it for free! We signed off on it with the upper management types and suddenly we were in possession of a number of really well made, dusty and ripped chairs. Score!

And so we had venue, stairs and a stage. What we needed next were people to use it. And luckily for us, some fantastic people did.

Next week: The rise and fall (and rise!) of Unit 102 pt. 2! Join me as I take us through the many shows and events that we hosted!

Side note to readers:

AS you can imagine, the loss of our little theatre is a strenuous and emotional thing for me. But that being said, I did promise a weekly blog and although I will use the move as my excuse for not coming through, I will freely admit that I shit the bed royally. As I’m sure that we have come to expect slovenly service here at youbloggingbastard.blogspot.com, I would still like to formally and humbly apologize for my inability to come through with a single promise I’ve made here. I am very thankful to those who actually take the time to read this thing and I hope you will continue to read. I’m a huge douche bag who loves you very much even if I’m currently drinking those feelings away as we speak.

Second Side note to readers:

Have you ever noticed that Yankee Jim Beer taste like it has sand in it? I mean, it doesn’t matter how much you chill the damn thing, it still tastes like your drinking it off the curb. It was that, Pabst, or Old Milwaukee Ice but Pabst tastes like it has pennies in it, and old Milwaukee ice has that naked girl on the can now and I get self-conscious holding it, plus it only comes in six packs and I only had $4 to spend and wanted to get two cans. I guess this is totally unrelated but shit, just spend the money on getting a half decent beer for Christs’ sake. Drinking is supposed to be pleasurable not a punishment. Seriously.

Times they are a-changin'

Hey Blog Reading Peoples,

Blogging Bastard back after a many month hiatus! I'm sure whatever readership I used to have has moved on to reading more responsible and coherent bloggers, one's who write frequently, post pictures and have some kind of thematic focus. You know, a Roger Ebert type, whose voice we trust to tell us fascinating yarns on 1930's cinema and give us a review on the latest Bradley Cooper film. With that kind of competition, how can I win you back? Well for one, this blog will now be written on a weekly basis. Yes, I know this isn't the first time I've promised to write on a schedule here but it is the first time in a long time that I feel that I have something to say. So every Wednesday, expect some bangin' blogs here at Youbloggingbastard@blogspot.com!

Now I realize it is incredibly cocky of me to think that WRITING a blog would be enough to get you to start reading it again, so I guess I should try to sweeten the deal. Ok, how bout this: If you read my blog, I will love you forever (or at least until my brain no longer functions and can no longer produce the necessary chemicals to concoct the idea of love). So if you are reading this, I love you forever!

This is hard to prove I guess. Forever is a long time and if it can easily morph from head over heals to a barely present throb in just a few short hours....I could send you love notes to remind you, but why would you even believe them? People promise to love us all the time, I mean it constitutes a whopping 70% of a man's efforts to get laid.

Hmmmm....I wonder...

How does Deepak Chopra convince us that he loves us? Or Jesus? I mean they say it, but I've never met them before. Is it repetition? If you say something enough times it sorta becomes a reality, right? Like Rob Ford saying he's a politician instead of a mutant hog. After all this time, does anyone remember those pictures of him as a small piglet eating slop on his quaint Orillian farm? Or his surprising star turn in the movie BABE? No, we just think of him as a sweaty, sharp tongued politico, wearing Hawaiian lays and ruining a once great city. Smart marketing works I guess, so maybe that's what I need. Start wearing flowing robes, a heart pendant on a golden necklace, writing forewords in a best selling books, getting a full episode interview on Oprah... now that's the stuff of legitimacy! Interestingly, I just don't think I have it in me to convince you of my love for you. Just read this blog and I promise that somewhere on the back shelves of my dusty heart sits a mantle place with your picture.

So I haven't written here in a long while. I've been busy performing, which is a nice departure from 2010, which was a very difficult year for me and as a result, a very poor year creatively. I did work at two of Toronto's largest performance festivals: Luminato and Fringe. It was a time of much line study, late night pint drinking, shilling my work like a polyester wearing car salesmen, and (in the case of my Luminato show HABIT) alot of showering naked in front of a crowd of leering arts aficionados. During this period I was in what I have dubbed "The Happy Zone", a place where I feel validated with who I am through the things that I am doing. For much of this summer I was an artist and like an artist, ate poorly, drank profusely, and struggled with anything that the suits would consider "reality". And that worked for me quite nicely.

But now I'm here in late August, dealing with a number of big changes at my theatre studio UNIT 102 (changes that will be revealed in an upcoming blog!), busting my hump trying to make my bills, rent, Actra dues, debts, and that $200 I still owe my dad. (sorry pops). In short, things are back to normal.

Or are they?

It would seem as of late things are getting....weird. Well, not weird. DIFFERENT. Perhaps its the turn of the season, when the sustained pressure of heat breaks with the cool autumn breeze. Or it's that I've been so busy schmoozing at Fringe tents, or chugging last call pints that I simply haven't kept my eye on my biological radar (desperately in need of a tech update but their isn't the budget). But things feel like they are changing, for what purpose I am not qualified to say. All I know is that I have a feeling. I can't really put this feeling into words but I would like to share with you a few things that got me feeling this way:

-Jack Layton- So the smiling mustachioed face of the NDP has died, falling victim to a battle with cancer he seemed to be winning. As an NDP supporter and a proud Canadian, I have nothing to say on the subject other than it is a sad loss to the political sphere. What strikes me as disingenuous, is our reactions to his death. Here was a man who never held much legitimacy as a potential Prime Minister until our last Federal election when Quebec changed the political landscape by flatly rejecting the BQ and thrusting their left leaning votes to a bunch of NDP candidates who seemed to be picked out at random from a bar washroom lineup. And suddenly the NDP, and by extension Jack Layton, were thrust onto the world stage as contenders. Jack did his best to sound like an emerging force but to my ears, was just chirping off sound bites about "change" and "brighter futures" with really no actual substance to convince me we were heading towards a progressive future. While people rejoiced, I could only focus on the actual ramifications of that election, that the Conservatives had won a majority. Prior to this upheaval, there was a lot of talk of Layton being a joke candidate, kinda like Parkdale/High Parks Christian Heritage candidate Andrew Borkowski, who no one expects to be elected but love to see struggle with the futility of fighting in a battle that can't be won. But then Mr. Layton tragically died, and wrote a letter before he did, and suddenly everyone is quoting him and posting inspirational status updates on their Facebook. I don't know. I voted NDP because of their local impact to my community, not because I saw Jack Layton as the savior of our fragile National framework. Had that poor man been elected, he would have suffered Obama's fate, handed down a frightful mess from a previous regime who did everything in their power to line their own pockets and in the ensuing struggle to right the ship, get vilified for making any call that would have made transition even remotely uncomfortable. When anyone in the public sphere stands for something even remotely progressive, we scoff at them until they die and then suddenly there are a lot of sad sentiments, quoted bodies of text and some really cool T-shirts. I am saddened by his passing but Jack Layton wasn't the answer to our problems. To fix those we should turn the focus inward to our own apathy and lack of political will. We are a society desperate for hope, and for this blogging bastard, that is what is most apparent in this tragedy.

-The other night I woke up from a horrible nightmare. In it, I sat with a my family gazing at the Toronto skyline, awaiting for the end of the world. The radio spoke of an imminent attack and as the streets erupted in panic, my family huddled close. Without warning, the sky flashed bright and I closed my eyes as the light tore through me and brought with it nothingness. Yes, I read Douglas Coupland's LIFE AFTER GOD and I'm aware that this nightmare is a bit cliche in our post-atomic bomb world. But as with most visceral dreams, it wasn't about the events depicted but rather about how real they FELT. I have had dreams of being in a zombie apocalypse and dreams of being in a city getting crushed Godzilla-style by a gigantic creature and unlike movies of these scenarios (which are often quite campy and goofy) the experience of actually being in them was a great deal scarier. For example, the zombie scenario was scary not so much because the living dead were walking around Dunn avenue but because of the futility of trying to live in a world where the horror would never end. Sure, we were safe in a boarded up apartment, but what about tomorrow, or the next day? Was EVERY SINGLE DAY to be lived with the knowledge that they were coming to get us? That as soon as we stepped out for food or water we could be ripped into fleshy strips? That no matter how long we survived, we would always sleep with one eye open and a unsheathed knife gripped tightly behind our backs? Given that type of anxiety, death seemed almost a reprieve. But I digress. On this particular night I woke up to a dream of nuclear holocaust. My lover, startled by my sweaty screams, asked me what was wrong:

Luis: I just had a dream the world was ending.

Lover: It was just a dream.

Luis: I know. It just felt so real...

Lover:It's ok. It's over now.

Luis: I know. The world ending. What a scary thought. Do you think we'll see that in our lifetime?

Lover: The end of the world?

Luis:Yeah...

Lover:...

Luis:....

yeah. Yeah I think so.

Luis: Me too.

After that she revealed that she saw the end of the world as part of Christ's plan. That it didn't scare her because she knew it was meant to be and would cleanse humanity of our sins. I disagreed. Being Agnostic, I saw the world ending as a sign of our human negligence, a result of our collective stupidity. What stayed with me most of all was that even though we had vastly different opinions as to the meaning of the world's end, we both agreed with some certainty that it would. I wondered what this meant as I went uncomfortably back to sleep.

-I was walking down the street in Parkdale, right around Capitol Espresso. Next door a Public Mobile opened and outside on that particular day, two students were paid to stand outside and hand out promotional flyers. It was an odd sight to see them in Parkdale, young girls handing out corporate literature outside the trendy independent shops and amongst the tattooed hipsters and city project dwellers. Sure, at Queen and Yonge this would be common sight but not in gritty west end Toronto. Just as the thought crept across my mind, the girls attempted to hand a flyer to an elderly black gentleman with a long white beard and cane. As they thrust the bright laminated orange flyer in his face, he turned to them and bellowed, "WHERE IS THE MONEY! HUH!?! WHERE IS IT?". He turned away and grumbled curse words as he continued along his journey. The two girls gave each other, "what the fuck was his problem' looks and continued to go about their thankless job. I sat and thought about how different my neighbourhood was becoming as I passed by the newly minted Tim Hortons and the man panhandling shirtless in front of it.

Writing this and looking it over, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the world is like it has always been. Surely, we are not the first generation to think the world is ending, or take inspiration from a passing statesman or watch gentrification turn a new page in their given neighborhood. I am certainly not the first financially struggling writer to pick up a pen (or in this case turn on their laptop) and speak on it. But change is as inevitable a thing as our human attempts to comprehend it. I guess I just wanted to let you know that I'll be blogging again and that I love you very much for reading it. And that somewhere sits a portrait of you covered in soot, sitting amongst a growing collection of things that I have loved far too easily.

To end, let's give the floor to our good friend Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr (playing this Saturday at the Cameron House!): Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.

Alright kiddies, see you next week. (seriously)

With lots of misguided love,

That Blogging Bastard

Times they are a-changin'

Hey Blog Reading Peoples,

Blogging Bastard back after a many month hiatus! I'm sure whatever readership I used to have has moved on to reading more responsible and coherent bloggers, one's who write frequently, post pictures and have some kind of thematic focus. You know, a Roger Ebert type, whose voice we trust to tell us fascinating yarns on 1930's cinema and give us a review on the latest Bradley Cooper film. With that kind of competition, how can I win you back? Well for one, this blog will now be written on a weekly basis. Yes, I know this isn't the first time I've promised to write on a schedule here but it is the first time in a long time that I feel that I have something to say. So every Wednesday, expect some bangin' blogs here at Youbloggingbastard@blogspot.com!

Now I realize it is incredibly cocky of me to think that WRITING a blog would be enough to get you to start reading it again, so I guess I should try to sweeten the deal. Ok, how bout this: If you read my blog, I will love you forever (or at least until my brain no longer functions and can no longer produce the necessary chemicals to concoct the idea of love). So if you are reading this, I love you forever!

This is hard to prove I guess. Forever is a long time and if it can easily morph from head over heals to a barely present throb in just a few short hours....I could send you love notes to remind you, but why would you even believe them? People promise to love us all the time, I mean it constitutes a whopping 70% of a man's efforts to get laid.

Hmmmm....I wonder...

How does Deepak Chopra convince us that he loves us? Or Jesus? I mean they say it, but I've never met them before. Is it repetition? If you say something enough times it sorta becomes a reality, right? Like Rob Ford saying he's a politician instead of a mutant hog. After all this time, does anyone remember those pictures of him as a small piglet eating slop on his quaint Orillian farm? Or his surprising star turn in the movie BABE? No, we just think of him as a sweaty, sharp tongued politico, wearing Hawaiian lays and ruining a once great city. Smart marketing works I guess, so maybe that's what I need. Start wearing flowing robes, a heart pendant on a golden necklace, writing forewords in a best selling books, getting a full episode interview on Oprah... now that's the stuff of legitimacy! Interestingly, I just don't think I have it in me to convince you of my love for you. Just read this blog and I promise that somewhere on the back shelves of my dusty heart sits a mantle place with your picture.

So I haven't written here in a long while. I've been busy performing, which is a nice departure from 2010, which was a very difficult year for me and as a result, a very poor year creatively. I did work at two of Toronto's largest performance festivals: Luminato and Fringe. It was a time of much line study, late night pint drinking, shilling my work like a polyester wearing car salesmen, and (in the case of my Luminato show HABIT) alot of showering naked in front of a crowd of leering arts aficionados. During this period I was in what I have dubbed "The Happy Zone", a place where I feel validated with who I am through the things that I am doing. For much of this summer I was an artist and like an artist, ate poorly, drank profusely, and struggled with anything that the suits would consider "reality". And that worked for me quite nicely.

But now I'm here in late August, dealing with a number of big changes at my theatre studio UNIT 102 (changes that will be revealed in an upcoming blog!), busting my hump trying to make my bills, rent, Actra dues, debts, and that $200 I still owe my dad. (sorry pops). In short, things are back to normal.

Or are they?

It would seem as of late things are getting....weird. Well, not weird. DIFFERENT. Perhaps its the turn of the season, when the sustained pressure of heat breaks with the cool autumn breeze. Or it's that I've been so busy schmoozing at Fringe tents, or chugging last call pints that I simply haven't kept my eye on my biological radar (desperately in need of a tech update but their isn't the budget). But things feel like they are changing, for what purpose I am not qualified to say. All I know is that I have a feeling. I can't really put this feeling into words but I would like to share with you a few things that got me feeling this way:

-Jack Layton- So the smiling mustachioed face of the NDP has died, falling victim to a battle with cancer he seemed to be winning. As an NDP supporter and a proud Canadian, I have nothing to say on the subject other than it is a sad loss to the political sphere. What strikes me as disingenuous, is our reactions to his death. Here was a man who never held much legitimacy as a potential Prime Minister until our last Federal election when Quebec changed the political landscape by flatly rejecting the BQ and thrusting their left leaning votes to a bunch of NDP candidates who seemed to be picked out at random from a bar washroom lineup. And suddenly the NDP, and by extension Jack Layton, were thrust onto the world stage as contenders. Jack did his best to sound like an emerging force but to my ears, was just chirping off sound bites about "change" and "brighter futures" with really no actual substance to convince me we were heading towards a progressive future. While people rejoiced, I could only focus on the actual ramifications of that election, that the Conservatives had won a majority. Prior to this upheaval, there was a lot of talk of Layton being a joke candidate, kinda like Parkdale/High Parks Christian Heritage candidate Andrew Borkowski, who no one expects to be elected but love to see struggle with the futility of fighting in a battle that can't be won. But then Mr. Layton tragically died, and wrote a letter before he did, and suddenly everyone is quoting him and posting inspirational status updates on their Facebook. I don't know. I voted NDP because of their local impact to my community, not because I saw Jack Layton as the savior of our fragile National framework. Had that poor man been elected, he would have suffered Obama's fate, handed down a frightful mess from a previous regime who did everything in their power to line their own pockets and in the ensuing struggle to right the ship, get vilified for making any call that would have made transition even remotely uncomfortable. When anyone in the public sphere stands for something even remotely progressive, we scoff at them until they die and then suddenly there are a lot of sad sentiments, quoted bodies of text and some really cool T-shirts. I am saddened by his passing but Jack Layton wasn't the answer to our problems. To fix those we should turn the focus inward to our own apathy and lack of political will. We are a society desperate for hope, and for this blogging bastard, that is what is most apparent in this tragedy.

-The other night I woke up from a horrible nightmare. In it, I sat with a my family gazing at the Toronto skyline, awaiting for the end of the world. The radio spoke of an imminent attack and as the streets erupted in panic, my family huddled close. Without warning, the sky flashed bright and I closed my eyes as the light tore through me and brought with it nothingness. Yes, I read Douglas Coupland's LIFE AFTER GOD and I'm aware that this nightmare is a bit cliche in our post-atomic bomb world. But as with most visceral dreams, it wasn't about the events depicted but rather about how real they FELT. I have had dreams of being in a zombie apocalypse and dreams of being in a city getting crushed Godzilla-style by a gigantic creature and unlike movies of these scenarios (which are often quite campy and goofy) the experience of actually being in them was a great deal scarier. For example, the zombie scenario was scary not so much because the living dead were walking around Dunn avenue but because of the futility of trying to live in a world where the horror would never end. Sure, we were safe in a boarded up apartment, but what about tomorrow, or the next day? Was EVERY SINGLE DAY to be lived with the knowledge that they were coming to get us? That as soon as we stepped out for food or water we could be ripped into fleshy strips? That no matter how long we survived, we would always sleep with one eye open and a unsheathed knife gripped tightly behind our backs? Given that type of anxiety, death seemed almost a reprieve. But I digress. On this particular night I woke up to a dream of nuclear holocaust. My lover, startled by my sweaty screams, asked me what was wrong:

Luis: I just had a dream the world was ending.

Lover: It was just a dream.

Luis: I know. It just felt so real...

Lover:It's ok. It's over now.

Luis: I know. The world ending. What a scary thought. Do you think we'll see that in our lifetime?

Lover: The end of the world?

Luis:Yeah...

Lover:...

Luis:....

yeah. Yeah I think so.

Luis: Me too.

After that she revealed that she saw the end of the world as part of Christ's plan. That it didn't scare her because she knew it was meant to be and would cleanse humanity of our sins. I disagreed. Being Agnostic, I saw the world ending as a sign of our human negligence, a result of our collective stupidity. What stayed with me most of all was that even though we had vastly different opinions as to the meaning of the world's end, we both agreed with some certainty that it would. I wondered what this meant as I went uncomfortably back to sleep.

-I was walking down the street in Parkdale, right around Capitol Espresso. Next door a Public Mobile opened and outside on that particular day, two students were paid to stand outside and hand out promotional flyers. It was an odd sight to see them in Parkdale, young girls handing out corporate literature outside the trendy independent shops and amongst the tattooed hipsters and city project dwellers. Sure, at Queen and Yonge this would be common sight but not in gritty west end Toronto. Just as the thought crept across my mind, the girls attempted to hand a flyer to an elderly black gentleman with a long white beard and cane. As they thrust the bright laminated orange flyer in his face, he turned to them and bellowed, "WHERE IS THE MONEY! HUH!?! WHERE IS IT?". He turned away and grumbled curse words as he continued along his journey. The two girls gave each other, "what the fuck was his problem' looks and continued to go about their thankless job. I sat and thought about how different my neighbourhood was becoming as I passed by the newly minted Tim Hortons and the man panhandling shirtless in front of it.

Writing this and looking it over, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the world is like it has always been. Surely, we are not the first generation to think the world is ending, or take inspiration from a passing statesman or watch gentrification turn a new page in their given neighborhood. I am certainly not the first financially struggling writer to pick up a pen (or in this case turn on their laptop) and speak on it. But change is as inevitable a thing as our human attempts to comprehend it. I guess I just wanted to let you know that I'll be blogging again and that I love you very much for reading it. And that somewhere sits a portrait of you covered in soot, sitting amongst a growing collection of things that I have loved far too easily.

To end, let's give the floor to our good friend Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr (playing this Saturday at the Cameron House!): Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.

Alright kiddies, see you next week. (seriously)

With lots of misguided love,

That Blogging Bastard

Losing and #winning

Blog friends, blog foes and all those blog who I just don't knows!

That blogging bastard beautifully bracing you for bales of billowing blog!

How goes your Good Friday? Is it good? Great? Are you staying away from the McFish? (How traditional of you!). Today the big guy got strung up for our sins and we choose to celebrate this sombre occasion by calling the day "good". For me, that would be problematic. I wish for the day I die to be referred to THE DAY WE CRY. Half price wings and patio beers, now that's a good Friday. A man being nailed to wood as people weep? Not so good.

But I am good! Winning even! And although I recognize that this expression conjures up the gaunt face of a bleary eyed Charlie Sheen, I choose to take his butchered word use and turn it into today's blog. Because although I may be winning, life is not about wins and losses. Well sort of...

I guess you could say I don't win very often. Not in the traditional sense I mean. When it comes to the games we play (PS3, Sports, love, money, etc.) I usually find myself off the podium so to speak. Don't get me wrong I'm pretty competitive. But that usually just means I sweat as I lose.

But losing ain't so bad. Baseball has taught me this.

For one: take batting averages. A successful batter hits over .300, that's under a third-of the time. In most things, anything below half is failure, but in baseball, a game where a ball is chucked at you moving over 90mph, we smile when we hit it 1 in every 5 at bats. I think life is very similar. Unlike swinging at a round object with a wooden stick, life is a great deal more complicated. In a sea of Smart phones, health concerns, career choices, Arbys, Twitter, parents, transit, voting, War, new Mortal Kombat, religion, ice climbing, dating, nuclear power plants, pollution, Pepto Bismal, Tsunamis and Charlie Sheen, we'd be lucky to hit .150.

But then there's the small things.

Extra mayo on your bison burger. A streetcar that arrives just as you do. A ten dollar bill in the pocket of your old jacket. A friend telling you that another friend of theirs thinks you're cute. The person who budded in line but ends up not getting in with their expired ID.
Add these up, throw in the fact that you have friends, food and a place to sleep....hell, I think we're batting at least .250. Think about life as a batting average and we're all in the major leagues, even if we're just the Kansas City Royals.

Point the Second: Pressure. I remember when I played baseball there was always alot of pressure. I was ninth in the batting line up and yet it seemed whenever we were down a run with two outs and a man on third, I was always the man to go up to bat. And strike out. At first I thought I just sucked, well actually, no, I totally did.
But what I didn't realize at that time was that it wasn't ALL my shitty skills fault. My father had something to do with it. My brother and I played baseball simply because he wanted the next Jose Canseco (pre-MMA) and he was determined to have it. On weekends he would don his fanny-pack full of baseballs and get us to the park to field line-drives until the sun would go down and we couldn't even see the ball whizzing by our heads. Every game he would be standing, his nose through the chain fence behind the batters box, and watch. He would comment on every pitch, react to every strike, and even once yelled out "WHAT ARE YOU SWINGING AT? FLYS?". When I went up to bat, I was terrified of his reaction, of disappointing him. It wasn't even about the game, it was about me making him proud. I rarely did.

Then on one fine spring day, an early game appeared on the schedule and he couldn't be there. It was the only game he didn't attend. That day I hit a two-run double. Twice. After the first one, I found myself going up to bat in the same situation, man on second and third.

Young Luis: (cocky) Looks like I'll just have to do it again.

Asshole friend: Yeah right.

Young Luis: I am.

Asshole Friend: PFFT. I bet you a million dollars you don't.

Young Luis: (using his incredible cunning) Shake on it.

Asshole Friend: Done. (they shake)

And then I hit another two-run double. He never did pay me, that asshole friend.

I also made a couple sweet catches in the outfield. So without good 'ol dad, I was cocky. I was comfortable. I was relaxed. And I kicked some serious ass. In life we have alot of pressure from outside forces that sap us of our natural ability to achieve. And so its that anxiety that leads us to believe that we can't win. Identify those pressures and get them out of the ball diamond and maybe you'll start winning too.

Point 3.0: Then there is Joe Carters home run to win the World Series in '93. When I watched it, my family (brother, mother, dad) was sitting in our living room with their two friends Matt and Lola. Matt was a proper Brit and could give a shit about baseball. He sat there with his Pinot Grigio and rooted for the Philly's simply to get a rise out of us. The prior year, when the BlueJays won the first time, my brother and I sat up alone in our basement while my parents wooped it up in Tdot streets. This year we were promised to go with them if they won. So as the game appeared to be a dud, Matt continued to sneer.

Matt: (in thick British accent) Looks like the boys aren't going to celebrate tonight.

I guess not all the dicks in Britain are spotted and edible.

And so it was with the game nearly over that Joe Carter would step up to bat.

Mom: OH he's going to hit a homerun!

Dad: Yeah right, Ang.

Mom: He is.

And he did. (my mom has an uncanny ability to call shit. Mutant power?) WE all erupted in joy. My dad, jumped up on the table and mooned Matt. It wasn't just your regular moon either, but a spread cheek red eye. And I was sitting next to him. So I saw my dad's asshole. Gross yes, but Matt deserved it. His face scrunched up as he was truly offended. I would pay to see that reaction again, the face of an evil villian foiled as the police cart him away. My dad was as much a hero as Carter that night, throwing up a finger to the estbalishment masked as a really inappropriate use of rectum. My dad doesn't fuck around when he wins that's for sure.
Anyways, my entire family instinctively ran outside and as we did, so did all my neighbours. WE started to high five and hug, which was crazy because we weren't all that close with our neighbours. And as we moved down Euclid to College street, the world erupted from every store and home along the strip until the entirety of College street was awash in humanity. As you walked through the street, people high-fived you as you went, even the ones hanging from the lamp posts. It was magical.
That was the biggest win I've ever experienced and it happened on a day where I saw my dad's anus. I'm not sure what my point is with this one: I think I'm fairly traumatized.

Well, no. There has got to be a point.

Life brings with it wins regardless of how much we may lose.

Hmmm.

Maybe winning in Life is as simple as pushing a ball with a stick over a fence.

Nah, that ain't it.

I guess winning and losing is just something that happens. But its not always in our hands, we just have to ignore the snide British guy talking shit and watch the game unfold.

That will do.

Happy Great Friday.

That Bloggging Bastard

Oprah is God

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your screens….

It’s been awhile since I’ve written here, so I thought I’d throw something new into the ring. Since returning from Montreal it has taken me a while to adjust back into my life here in Toronto. After embracing the laid back Quebec style of life with no job and only theatre work to distract me between parties, getting back into the daily Toronto grind was initially. I don’t think we ever stop to consider how quickly shit moves here in the big city, how easily we can get lost when life is set to Fast Forward. Am I the only one who feels like if I blink an entire year has passed? It seems like only yesterday I returned from Montreal with a duffle bag full of dirty clothes and a beard that could conceal small weapons. Now it’s nearly April, I’m back at my two jobs, I’m knee deep in setting up my Fringe show (P-DALE come out this July! Stay tuned for more!) and my beard is trimmed down to a respectable blanket of scruff. The clothes in the duffle bag are still dirty however and they're starting to emit an odor that conjures up images of wet gym shorts left sitting in a plastic bag. I hate doing laundry but that’s no excuse for contaminating my entire building. I’ll get on it. Eventually.

This morning I woke up with a pound of near processed food sitting in my stomach. This is how I often wake up, with a sudden and violent bowel movement. It’s my fault really; I’m a notorious midnight snacker. Inebriated, I’m liable to grab the first thing in my fridge i can lay a hand on and stuff it mightily down my throat with little regard for its after effects. Bowls of cereal and milk, slices of processed meat, dill pickles, marshmallows, cheddar cheese, and left over chocolate cake….there is no consistency to what I might add to my night’s beer. Sadly, this method of waking up has permanently replaced my alarm clock; my body seeming to prefer this ticking biological clock to the artificial wail of a buzzer. Why share this with you? Well, if you are one of those types who can sleep through an alarm or presses snooze 3.7 times on an average morning, then perhaps my method is for you. Simply eat something that will cause you great gastrointestinal upheaval, brush your teeth and call it in. When the wake up comes, trust me, you won’t want to stay in your bed.

Warning: If you don’t sleep alone, this might affect your partner’s sleep as there is scent issues linked to this method. Proceed with caution.

So the world burns, eh? In Libya, Western Block planes drop bombs on a city populace, intervening in the affairs of Middle Eastern country for the third time this decade. Tokyo’s drinking water is irradiated; the product of an earthquake that physically moved Japan while massive waves of destruction swept away the Eastern Coast. Our very own Canadian Federal Government was found in contempt of the very institution it’s meant to uphold and yet the Conservatives who did it still find themselves with a clear majority in the polls. Egypt goes thorough a revolution that captured our imaginations for a brief moment before our gazes turned to Steven Tyler's awesomeness on American Idol, conveniently giving the media a reason to grow suspiciously quiet on the subject. Children continue to wait in the rain for a 16 year old pop star with a lesbian haircut while downpour drizzles out the gel in their own lesbian 'doo inspired by the same. All this while Charlie Sheen dominates our social media in between hits of crack and sloppy porn sex. I would like to state officially that our world is falling into chaos but really, the world never stopped being crazy, we can all just watch it for free now on YouTube.

And Oprah has her own television station. Really, when will it end? I’m absolutely convinced that Oprah has found a way to control our minds. No, seriously. Oprah Winfrey has invented some kind of sinister wavelength that takes control of the section of our brain that filters mediocre crap so she can continue to shovel mainstream literature, self-help advice and home decor down our poor, barely resistant minds. We must put an end to this beforBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ….I just love A New Earth, the new book by Oprah and Eckhart Toll! It's as informative as I awaken to a new world of experience that only Oprah could provide! I think Oprah’s website says it best:

In his insightful look into humanity's ego-based thinking, Eckhart Tolle provides practical teachings for waking up to a new, enlightened mind-set. If you're seeking a more loving self and a more loving planet, A New Earth has the tools to begin your transformation. Start reading today!

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I can’t wait until Oprah brings me to spiritual awakening! Can you?

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ...bzzzzzzzzzzzzz. bzt.

Whoa. I feel light headed. And kinda tired.

I don’t know if I’m always tired because of my diet or because I don’t really sleep. As a combo, they seem to be the actions of a man who must accept that his body is on the decline. Luckily, I’m aware of it. But unluckily, I tend to drink when awareness strikes, as reality is often quite frightening. Strangely, drinking every day does not scare me as much as reality seems to. But because drinking leads to spending, money gets tight and reality rears its ugly fanged head and reasserts itself as the dominant cause of fear in my life. Fear (and by extension anxiety), then leads to a loss of appetite and insomnia.

Reality-drinking-poverty-fear-decline-Reality. The circle of life. If you’re an emo Elton John perhaps.

But I choose to believe that good things are always around the corner. Because there is alwways community and love, right? And if we try a little harder to be honest, to ourselves and to others, I think we’d be a lot less afraid, even if all our friends are busy giggling at online videos of animals voiced over by British actors.

I’m sorry for getting all Oprah Winfrey on you this blog. She's just so good, y'know? Really, it's like her fingers are gently rubbing the pleasure button in my mind. Even now thinking about her gorgeous ebony face, I'm smiling so hard there are tears in my eyes. Oprah is just so....legion.

I was just cooking perogies and as I eagerly pulled out the ingredients for my killer Perogie sauce, I knocked over a bottle of Frank’s Red Hot. As it hit the floor with a dull thud, it spilled onto the ground, creating a perfect heart shape with a single streak of what looked like blood coming from it. Betwixed by the image, I spent roughly 45 minutes trying to photograph it. Why? Because I was thinking about all the above things, getting needlessly depressed over stuff that I cannot control, when my absent mindedness created a beautiful moment that reminded me that beautiful moments are always bred out of chaos. And that my perogies were burning. But mostly the beauty/chaos thing. I smiled thinking of the millions of beautiful moments that would come from a world in flames. Then I cleaned up the spill in my kitchen and played a game of Marvel vs. Capcom 3.

Then I sat down here and wrote about shitting as a means to getting to work on time. I would like to say more but what more is there to say really? Other than….

ALL HAIL OPRAH. OPRAH IS OUR LEADER. OPRAH SHALL BRING THE LIGHT THAT ILLUMINATES MANKIND'sS DESTINY. HAIL THE QUEEN STAR THAT BURNS BRIGHTEST IN OUR SKY. HAIL OPRAH.

That Blogging Bastard

BTW if you’re looking to spice up your next dinner party, try this hot summer sauce that adds zip to any late night gathering! : 1/3 franks red hot, 1/3 ketchup, 1/3 Diana Sauce, pinch of ground cayenne pepper, oregano, parsley flakes, butter. I thought about it after getting inspiration from an article in O magazine. Fantastic!

The Great Montreal Theatre Escape Day 21

It was a wild one.

I woke up on Day 21 at 8am with a rumble in my stomach. I turned over in my knitted blanket and pressed my face hard into the cot mattress. I was half in a dream and grumbled, lost between the escalating light of morning and some fantastical nightmare. There was something going on inside me and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I woke up with a start slick with sweat. It soon became apparent that I was going to be sick. I stumbled down to the green room bathroom, slammed open the unlockable washroom door and for lack of a better metaphor, unleashed hell. I don't want to be graphic, so let's just say I was seeing action at both ends. Wiping off my beard, I slouched my way up the stairs and shivered back under my blanket.

This scenario played out every hour on the hour.

At 10:30 Alain came crashing in, screaming mocked reggae lyrics. I turned to him and said, "I have the flu." "Oh shit, seriously?" I then proved it by going down to the bathroom and barfing violently.

The day was supposed to be a busy one. I had a dress rehearsal for my show from 3pm-5pm, followed by a Stratford audition across town, followed by coming straight back to the theatre opening night of our show. And I was pancaked to my bed, spewing like a punctured water balloon.

When 3pm rolled around, I couldn't join my cast for rehearsal. My head was full of stones and I didn't have the energy to move, much less crawl down the stairs and act. Robin my director was understanding. But I felt awful, both for missing such a critical rehearsal and for upchucking my last two meals.

I decided around 4pm, that I would try to make the audition. I dragged my sorry ass to the shower and attempted to wash away my lethargy. As the water drizzled soap down my body, I stared at my reflection in the glass shower. And there sat Death's face. Although I could see this half-alive look aiding me in my Macbeth monologue, I figured it unlikely that I could travel across the city without keeling over. After dressing, I sat on the couch in my 3 floor office home, and remained stuck there for the next hour. Using all the physical energy I had, I lifted the phone to my ear and promptly called my agent to cancel the audition. This probably irritated him, as he went to great efforts to have my Toronto audition moved to Montreal. But the facts remained, I couldn't be trusted to travel anywhere without a portable toilet.

Mark and his partner Isabelle, having been recently stricken with the 24hour flu, came to the rescue with a care package consisting of chicken noodle soup and "magic juice" which turned out to be water, orange juice and salt. I sipped at both cautiously, afraid to provoke the puke demon curling its knuckles in my guts.

The cast began to get ready for the show, and I couldn't for the life of me wrap my head around the fact that I was only an hour away from performing. I stood in my costume (consisting of leather pants, spiked punk vest and toque) looking like a lost ghost. Karl (the nicest man in show business)bought me a red Gatorade, which actually helped a great deal. I wondered what would become of me during the show. Would I vomit in the back area? Would I run to the bathroom mid-scene? I thought, well I'm playing an alcoholic, maybe it would make sense if I just puked on stage, or shit my pants during the action. Maybe it could add to the realism. But then I thought about the embarrassment, and even worse, the clean up. In the end, I screwed up the last vestiges of self and just did the fucking thing.

It was hard work. All my scenes are high energy, and it was difficult to elevate myself. I didn't puke during my song,but I was sweating profusely and getting light headed. I swigged water out of a prop beer bottle and it made me nauseous. The character I'm playing is truly a loathsome individual and ultimately, I think my physical sliminess only added to the effect. When I got cracked over the head in the plays final moments, the crowd actually cheered. Playing unconscious was the easiest part of my performance.

And so I made it through. Today I am feeling much better, and I wonder if it was truly the flu I had or just some kind of food poisoning. But all in all, Day 21 was not my finest day in Montreal, even if it was the most dramatic.

Nasty.
That Blogging Bastard

The Great Montreal Theatre Escape Days 11,12, 13,14,15,16, 17, 18, 19, 20

Ok, so I kinda fell off the daily blog thing. When your in a different city, and you're doing theatre, and there is a whole lot of drinking involved, making a blog gets sorta hard. Plus my friends were making fun of me for always writing them instead of being social. So peer pressure had a lot to do with it. Anyways, here is a summary of things:

I have been living in an upstairs at the Theatre Ste. Catherine. No matter how early or late I go to bed, or whether I pass out on the couch or folding cot provided, I am awoken by bright intense light and/or Alain screaming profanities at me. I have bags under my eyes the size of Gucci catch alls. Thankfully, my fellow actor Karl Werleman is house sitting and gave me the keys to his empty apartment. A sweet repreive, yes, but I often stick around for shows and end up staying at the theatre until late. By the time it's over it's almost 1am and I'm too lazy to leave for the Metro ride to the apartment. So I'm pretty exhausted all the time. The nights I have used the apartment, I become enraptured with the thought of actually living in a cozy 1 bedroom with a spiral staircase in Montreal. But then I step outside my door and bump into a person who says a few quick French sentences and I look up and smile idioidically and whisper "excuse" in an accent that sounds like Inspector Clouseau mixed with a retarded seal, and I remember why I don't. I need to learn French. I just do. And my DS French Coach videogame isn't cutting it.

Money is getting tight. Some days I settle for a few spoon fulls of Kraft crunchy peanut butter and a couple slices of cheddar (not mine) as a meal substitute. Luckily, people have stepped up to provide some good meals and for that I am greatful. Just yesterday my Director Robin made a vegetarian chilli that was delicious even if it converted my butt into a wind instrument. That meal had more nutrients in it then I probably had all week.

And so I prepare for Moans, a muscial where I play a terribly abusive alcoholic who terrorizes his girlfriend until a good friend comes in to put an end to it. It's a great play and I'm excited to do it; it opens tomorrow (Thursday Feb. 17th). My cast is fun, the script is deep and I get to swear alot and sing a rock song. So all in all, its going to be a blast.

Interesting story: Moans was born of a 24 play night. The writers had a limited amount of hours to work on it, then a group of actors came in and their headshots were picked at random. Finally, with scripts and cast matched, directors came in to stage them. And with lightening quick speed they were presented to an audience. MOANS was borne of this process and so well did the actors, director and actors gel, they decided to expand it and turn it into an hour long theatre show. I am very honored to be apart of this workshop and look forward to being part of the remount in June for the Montreal Fringe. More details to come when I've got them.

So this has been my focus over the last week or so.

I did watch the Super Bowl. Yup. It was football alright. Exciting game I guess, I just had nothing invested in it. It was fun to gossip with my friend Cassandra and eat pizza though. As for the half time concert, I have to give it to the Black Eyed Peas for making a spectacle of a hundred neon glowing dancers nearly unwatchable. And c'mon, Slash? Are there no other iconic guitarists around to schlep a solo with? I mean other than Carlos Santana.

I also watched Blue Valentine on Valentines Day which was a big mistake. It was well acted but so fucking sad. The two friends I went with were crying their eyes out, so I suggested getting Martini's. After two, I was no longer sad, just comfortable and sleepy. I've decided that Valentine's day was only fun when we gave each other little cards with corporate cartoon characters on them. Or when you have a few stiff Gin based beverages. OR if you're in love and with your lover, I guess. By having the gin, I was doing my very best to be festive.

I blew down to Toronto for under 24 hours for an audition. My friend Katie came down with me and made the most of her brief time there. In fact, she photo blogged about he whole thing and I was surprised at how beautiful Toronto is when you watch it through a newbies eyes. In fact, the whole trip made me a little home sick. I look forward to having a bedroom again.

Kid Koala's Monday nights were cool but it wasn't the scratch fest I was hoping for. It was just a nice gathering of artists. But I wanted to jump around to hip-hop, wanted to see some beat juggling, get rowdy. Nope. Cookies, coffee, tea. Some Bjork. A little Fela Kuti. Some nice patio lighting. Again, it was cool, I just wanted some boom boom pow. And not the Black Eyed Peas kind, cuz I'm not into wearing circuit boards on my shoulders.

And so it is. I'm inspired. Blah blah blah.

I am getting ready for a rehearsal that runs 10pm-1am. I am doing this by drinking beer and running lines. The lighting plot is now being tested and I'm getting a bit tipsy. I keep telling myself this is fine, since my character is a drunk. And this is how method acting becomes my enabler. I'm a bearded Portuguese man, so I'm not usually cast as the hunky jock or sterotypical white leading man, and this is something I am comfortable with. As a result, I'm always cast as drug dealers, junkies, villians, street toughs, shady business men, hustlers and various other forms of scumbag. But being something of a lunatic, I tend to take getting into character a little too literally. And I often find myself doing things that could be construed as destructive. Today I started drinking a tad early, and the burn out is hitting me something fierce. So whether or not this helps in my role is questionable. But this I will promise: There will not be a more convincing drunken asshole on stage than I. Now someone get me some water, I think I'm going to be sick.

Ok. I'll blog about opening night. And soon, very soon, I will be back in Toronto. I'm sorry if I start slapping you around and yelling profanities when you see me. It means I've probably just got cast as your dad.

Peace homies.

That blogging bastard

P.S. Marvel vs. Capcom 3 just came out yesterday. If you are a huge nerd like me (there are a few of you out there), this marks an exciting time to waste our life energies on playing videogames and shit talking each other. If you'd like to join me in some button mashing goodness, give me a shout. Oh, I'm sooooo excited. Women reading this, yes, I am not worthy of your love or respect. Now you know.

The Great Montreal Theatre Escape DAYS 9 & 10

Daily blogs are a lot harder than I thought. I simply don't know what to say quickly enough.

So much has happened in the last 5 days, its impossible to encapsulate the experience succinctly. Whenever I write here, I try to condense my thoughts, keep it brisk and entertaining. But still, I get caught up and my long windedness takes over.

So how to tell you what made the last two days so profound? Is there a way to experience my feelings when even I don't have the words for them?

All I can give you are the following stories:

-After our first performance, where only 5 audience members attended, some members of the cast stayed behind and drank. By the the mid-way point of a huge bottle of Appleton rum, we were on the piano singing. My voice was raw from screaming in the play, but I sang an improvised ballad about skinning dogs. I don't' know how that started or why, but it was the first time in my life someone hearing me sing said, "wow I really like your voice." Energized by this sudden confidence, I spent a good part of Closing night jamming onstage with a variety of musicians. In front of three Quebecois teens, I did three improvised blues songs with an acoustic guitar and simple drum kit. The lone kid who wasn't involved sat and watched. Afterwards, he would turn to me and tell me it was amazing. I have never sang before. This experience, and I make no illusions of being any good, has in one fell swoop helped me get over my fear of singing. It's taken 29 years, but I think I'll see you at karaoke tonight. Seriously, this is a gift.

-During squeegee nights there is a part of the show where I kill a golf swinging yuppie. Cafy, the lead squeegee asks what we should do with the body:

Cafy: What should we do with his dead body?

Fernando: Conservation first. Waste not want not, my young squeegee friends. We're going to eat him. I spent two years with the Inuit and they believe in using the whole carcass. We'll start here with the buttocks and thigh, its where the most meat is.

At this point, I pull out a packet of prosciutto deli meat (hidden naturally) and proceed to mime cutting off chunks of person and feed the cast. My enemy, Glenn, a former hipster turned squeegee won't eat.

Glenn: Actually guys I can't. I'm a vegetarian actually.

Fernando: Oh come on Glenn!

Cafy: I'm a vegetarian too Glenn, but I eat fish....and human.

Fernando: And I'm a free-gen. You say you're a squeegee pretty boy, start eating like one!

I hand him some prosciutto and he partakes reluctantly. The final night, without telling the actor playing Glenn (Glyn Jones, a class act if ever there was), I replaced his prosciutto with an ACTUAL VEAL HEART. It was huge, bulbous, and only cost me a cool $5. It was disgusting. The whole cast knew I was going to play this practical joke, we were all excited to see what would happen. The script demands the he has to eat the meat.
Well it happened and I pulled out the heart on stage and the look on Glyn's face was PRICELESS. The heart split open in my hand, revealing the inside of it to the audience. The crowd was physically repulsed, I could feel and hear them shudder. Glyn, contemplating in his mind what was happening, took the heart and delivered his line:

Glenn: Free-gen it is!

He then (with great hesitation) rubbed his face in the heart, getting a delighted (and disgusted) squeal out of the audience. Against all my actors training, I broke out in laughter. I couldn't believe it. It was one of the funniest moments I have experienced on stage.


-Walking along the Montreal streets at God only knows what hour, down one of those picturesque streets with brick houses and spiral staircases, and realizing that all the snow on the streets was untouched, that as far as the eye could see was one solid blanket with no imperfections. Holding that moment and breathing in the frozen air.

-Waking up a bag of shit after a raucous night of partying and slinging my ass across a city I don't really know, to find a man at a piano waiting to teach me a song. Getting there and knowing that I could, without a fear of looking foolish.

-Standing in an empty theatre barefoot. Remembering the ghosts of things that had passed. Sitting across an empty stage; a blank canvas with unlimited possibilities. Yesterday held great moments on stage that lived and died and would never be seen again. Another will quickly take its place. And that setting up and tearing down, that constant cycle of human expression, the ritual of experiencing temporary things, that's what theatre is about.

-Being away from the people I love, and knowing that great love exists no matter where your feet land. Knowing that distance can't erase the permanent marker on our heart. Knowing that every day contains something worthwhile to experience. And above all, remembering that we are a part of creating that experience.

That's the best I can do. Obviously, I am inspired and a being a tad too romantic, have made it a big deal in my mind. I promise a lot of shit jokes in the next one. Perhaps a fake conversation with a fictional character. That should do the trick.

A poet-in-residence
That Blogging Bastard