"I am, a lonely poet. Naked. Virginal. Prostate. Beckoning. Heeding. Dwelling in a deep, foreboding forest of darkness. Cawing like a crow, a raven, a dark bird of some kind...I am...Caw-caw, Caw-Caw I am nothing! I lunge into the flesh of the city beak first, nibbling at this urbanscape called Montreal. Looking for scraps...but hark, what is this light on the horizon?"
I shit you not, that quote is hanging next to a painting here at the Theatre. I think its one of Alain's quotes from his Cafe Cafe play series. I read it when coming home tipsy last night, tore it off the wall and decided to share it with you. No, I do not feel like a crow.
So it's 11:10am, my eyes are full of sleep, my stomach is full of poutine and I'm slightly hung over. I tried to write about day two last night but good writing rarely happens when you're falling asleep at the keyboard.
As I write this, I can hear Mark Louch downstairs preparing the space for today's festivities. Its a busy day here at Theatre Ste. Catherine. First, there is a birthday for Adele, Alain's beautiful baby girl. My hope is to get this blog written before the screaming children come flying in. Then there are two rehearsals taking place later this afternoon, and both are for shows I will be in. However, Squeegee Nights, the one that goes up in 4 days, is the one I will NOT be attending. How does this make sense? It kinda doesn't. But my scene partner from Moans will be leaving for a few weeks, so we are trying to cram in as much rehearsal before she leaves as humanly possible. On Monday, the mad dash to get Squeegee Nights up on stage will begin. I just vomited in my mouth thinking about it. Its going to be hectic!
After the rehearsals, Sunday Night Improv, the weekly improv series here will take place and I hope to be one of the performers tonight. The show is elimination style, with the audience choosing who goes and who stays. The last time I was in town, early July 2010, I participated and won. When I was in high school, improv was sorta my thing. I was a hyperactive class clown and it acted as a means to channel my manic energy. As I got older, and acting became a more serious pursuit, improv took a back seat to intense, brooding drama and choreographed sketch comedy. It was only in 2008, when UNIT 102 (my little loft theatre in Parkdale) was a home to Toronto's improv darlings PROJECTproject and a plethora of other groups, did improv come roaring back into my life. It was inspiring to watch and man, did it look fun. But it was also really intimidating. So when I periodically got invited to perform in improv nights, I politely declined. It had been years, the active performers so good, that I really didn't' think I could match up. Once, during a PB&J show (Pat Thorton, Bob Banks and Jason De Rosse' pro-pot comedy team) I fell asleep during an improv set.
The story goes: PB&J wanted to do a comedy show where audience members can light up joints during the performance. Being an underground theatre venue, and I being a fan of doing that which other venues could not, I agreed to let them host the night at 102. And they were wild, let me tell you. I remember there being a joint the size of my forearm being passed around at one point. The guys invited me to do a guest spot and so I did. When I finished my set, I climbed off the stage and began to drink and smoke with the audience. What I didn't know, was that the guys planned on getting all the people who performed that night back up on stage for a final jam session. When they called us up, I was three-sheets to the wind. My eyes were pretty much clamped shut and I was slurring like a drunken hockey mom. I was awful, I couldn't pick up anything being thrown at me, I couldn't even really follow the stage action. I stood clinging to the back wall hoping to remain anonymous. At one point, a scene was happening in front of me, and being lost in thought, I wasn't really paying attention to it. Suddenly, Julie Dumais (a wonderful improviser and friend) grabbed my arm and said, "Doctor, what do you make of it?" pulling me into the scene. I had not a clue what the scene was about, but there was Pat Thorton, talking like a retarded baby and miming playing with his cock. What the fuck was going on? I don't' remember what I said, something about checking his temperature and I bolted off into the back stage area and promptly fell unconscious.
So as you can imagine, this soured my desire to engage in further improv nights. Not that it was a fair representation of my abilities, its rare that I consume a mickey of rum and a joint the size of my head before a performance. But it certainly had a psychological effect. So I think for tonight, I'll just have a couple bottles of beers.
Day 2 was defined by work. I had an extended 2pm-7pm rehearsal with Gecko and Robin. The scene we worked on is one where I verbally abuse my girlfriend and threaten to punch her in the face. Its pretty intense and Robin wanted to start getting us comfortable with the physicality of the scene. Gecko is a really great actor and we've already started to find a comfort with one another. To be honest, I can be kinda scary when asked to be and when things started getting realer, I began to see the fear in her eyes. But after every take, no matter how much I manhandled her, whenever I asked if what I had done was too much or if what took place was ok, Gekko would smile and say, "yeah". In my experience, its rare to get to that place in so short a time and its actually really exciting.
I may not have mentioned this, but MOANS is a musical. And I have a solo song. This may surprise some, but I am super duper self conscious about singing. Rapping, not so much anymore, I'll do that anytime I'm asked (just ask my friends who are sick of it). But singing, GAH. The last time I sang in a theatrical context was high school, when I played James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause The Musical. In that production, I had a solo. It was Van Morrison's Vehicle. During one of my rehearsals, I was letting out the sounds of herniated cat which prompted my director to come up to me. He tapped me on the chest and said, "Luis, you're singing from here." He then lowered his hand and tapped me on the balls. "I need you to start singing from here." This event is probably why Black Swan had such a profound impact on me. Anywho, our rehearsal had wrapped, Robin turned to Gecko and said, "ok, time to work on your song."
Gecko: Uh, do we have the music?
Robin: No. Do it accupella.
Gecko: Seriously?
Robin: Yeah, you know it. Belt it out, girl.
Gecko:But I need to feel the beat...
Robin:Here's a tambourine. Lets go.
Gecko turned to me and gave me a half smile. Now let me be perfectly honest, what I was watching was my worst nightmare made real. Had it been me up there, asked to sing MY song without the music and a tambourine, I would have burst into tears. And that's the thing, I will probably have to do just that. Suddenly and without warning, Luis is well out of his comfort zone. And that's exactly what I think needs to happen. Not that Gecko needs to worry. She killed that song, with just a tambourine and some good ol' fashioned chutzpah. I clapped in the audience, ignoring theatre protocol that says you should never clap during rehearsals. But I had to, it was awesome. I have a lot of work to do.
My song incidentally is entitled, "Man of the Year". Its a really wicked song that has a David Byrne/Talking Head vibe which is great as I have been obsessed with the Talking Head's "Stop Making Sense" (if you have never watched that live concert, do yourself a favour). Its supposed to be sexy and raw. I guess its time to remember what I learned in High School and sing from my balls. I think for colour I'll throw my dick into the mix as well.
The night ended with me visiting Cassandra and Julia, my two beloved theatre friends from back in my York University days. We sat and reminisced and I talked about, what else, GIRLS. Apparently my love life is amusing when you have the luxury to sit outside of it. They concluded that I am a whiny prick who needs to shut up and enjoy the fact that I have girl problems at all. Many don't and wish they did. I guess. Sometimes I wish I was androgynous and asexual. Then I wouldn't be so needy, so charged, so distracted. But then I couldn't sing from my balls. So I guess all is as it should be.
As a final note, the rise of poutine in Toronto has made the charm of eating poutine here negligible. With Poutini's, Smokes Poutinarie, Stampede bison grill and KFC giving me a constant flow of curds and gravy, the once Montreal exclusive staple possesses very little appeal. I bought one last night as I walked home and upon eating it didn't' get that sensation that I was having something unique and culturally linked. I think today I will go to Shwartz and get me a smoked meat. That should do the trick. Man, I am such a tourist, eh?
Culturally digestive,
That Blogging Bastard
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
The Great Montreal Theatre Escape: Day 1
Dearest and most beloved reader,
Today marks day one of a 25 day journey to the Great Quebec City known in some quarters as "Montreal". For the next 25 days you will be treated to my many madcap adventures as I seek enlightenment as Artist-In-Residence at the Nouveau Theatre Ste-Catherine. Please be advised that what you are about read may be the product of a body polluted with cheap steamed hot dogs, $2 late night chow mien, beers with images of polar bears printed on their labels, and smoked meat sandwiches served with large dill pickles and dark cherry pop. You have been warned.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Outside my plane window I can glimpse heaven. It is beautiful even though a little cliche. Bright sun, Blue to every corner of the earth and clouds lining the open air beneath me like cotton swabs. High above Toronto heading to Montreal, I can only guess at where the next few weeks will take me. Artist-in-residence or, as Alain likes to call it, "Poet-In-Residence". I'm not sure if I'm a poet really. I am prone to writing short and ethereal pieces of writing from time to time, sure, but whether or not these words are indeed "poetic" is really not for me to decide. I tend to think they are honest at best, smug at worse. But hey, call me what you will.
For those who don't know, I am in Montreal for the next three and a half weeks, sleeping at the Nouveau St. Catherine performing in plays, conducting workshops and writing a show for the Toronto Fringe Festival. It is an exciting time, one marked by a true desire to shed my current life for a while as I attempt to recharge depleted batteries corroded with acid. I have amassed a vast collection of distractions at home and my trip here is an attempt to avert my drooling gaze, if for only a moment. I have been in serious regression mode as of late and have tired many of my friends with persistent rants about it. The fact that I can't write a blog in any sort of timely manner has been one of the pronounced effects.
Yes, I promised about a quadrillion times to write Girls Part 2. And yes, there has been an actual response from readers to produce that blog. (and I thank you all for your enthusiasm)
GIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLS. Girls. Girls. girls. g.i.r.l.s.
The word has lost all meaning to me.
The truth is I tried to write it (and this is no excuse for my poor blog production) and twice it was accidentally erased. I mean, I had gone through all of grade 7 and 8 on that second write. But the truth was, even with the blog half written, I was never really happy with it. To be honest, I'm sick of girls. Completely and utterly sick. Puke inducing, fever increasing, pus spouting, stay at home and suck down mama's homemade chicken broth kind o' SICK. Girls have been the only thing I've thought about for the last six months. They are the only thing I ever think about. And in trying to relate my early experiences with them here, I realize I was never any good at understanding them in the first place. It can be said that in some respects I have grown wiser but in regards to my understanding of women? Murky at best. Nothing is as it seems, nothing is what you wish it to be and (and this one applies to most things in life) nothing worthwhile ever comes easy. I love and I bleed and I let the wind pull me off and over the mountain and into the watery rocks below. Where I'll be skewered is any one's guess but skewered I will be. To UNDERSTAND women, to understand any one's motivations really, is well beyond my current capabilities. I can only hope to understand myself and even that is a work in progress. So enough with the women already, as beautiful and mysterious as they may be! My intention here is to get shit done. To work as an artist instead of working as a hotel worker or a beer vendor. Not that I mind working those jobs; they are fine ways to piece together some scratch. But sometimes I forget about the Me that I enjoy, the one that works towards creating something meaningful. The Me that tries to dance with the invisible forces we all know are shaking their booty on the dance floor beneath the surface of our lives, while our cool selves stand slouched against the gymnasium wall. Too cool to dance, too cool to care. I want to find that ME on the hooker laden streets of St. Catherine and St. Laurent as the lights from Pussy Corp (the brothel that sits across the theatre) glint through my bedroom window. I want to sit him down and remind him that he still exists.
The sun is so bright that it glints off my Steam Whistle can like a lit match. (and yes, there is free alcohol on this flight and although its not even noon, I'm on my second). Over the next few weeks I will be sharing my adventures here if only to remember them as nights of Boreal Blonde and St. Ambroise Rouge claw their way into my memory like a sandstorm kicking up a dusty haze. No doubt I will find something here. Perhaps we can even discover it together.
When I land, I'll have three hours to get to the theatre and rehearse MOANS, a drama written by Alain Mercieca and directed by Robin Henderson. I have yet to meet my cast but already I feel like they are good friends. I'm not sure why, but I somehow know that they will be.
However, Moans opens on Feb. 18th and isn't the first show I'm doing while here. Squeegee Nights, another Alain penned script, opens Feb. 3rd, a week from today. Its a show I did in 2006 at Theatre 314, a small underground space at the corner of St. Laurent and Des Pins. This means nothing, I can barely remember the last 25 minutes. Its like starting from scratch and we only have three days of rehearsal before getting it up in front of an audience. Yeah, I'm kinda freaking out about it. But this is working with Alain and I'm accustomed to throwing myself into the fire.
How far we have come and yet so much remains the same.
Moving from the piecemeal stage of a converted loft to the three-story fully licenced Theatre St. Catherine, I'm really excited for Alain and Mark Louch. They have created something beautiful here.
I realize there is a large spectrum of accomplishment within the sphere of anonymity, and within that spectrum I'm starting to feel quite accomplished. I am like the Bobby De neiro of unknown and unimportant and although this comes with no tangible award and serves no meaningful distinction, I wear this invisible badge proudly. I think it's the little delusions that add up to create our own personal veils of reality. The big delusions are just too phony and too easily crumpled like tissue paper. We need the strong binding of interconnected little lies to make it
durable. Delusion that you can feel between your finger and thumb.
Incidentally, urinating on a plane is an odd sensation. The seemingly mundane act of pissing hundreds of miles above the ground amazes me. Not only have we mastered flight, but we've mastered flight while including the comforts of alcohol, defecation and media consumption. Oh humanity, will you ever cease to amaze?
Now you may be wondering, how did a broke-ass "poet" ever find himself suited up and on a Porter flight? Well it turns out the hotel I work for gets discount flights and apparently this discount means that for $15 more I can fly to Montreal in an hour rather than sit cramped on a bus for eight hours. And if you ever flown on Porter, you will know that this is a significant upgrade indeed. Free coffee+free booze+ free Wi-Fi= free boner. It's almost as heavenly as the clouds billowing outside my window. Almost.
Oh. Apparently the flight is about to land. I just wanted to let everyone know that I'm away, that I'm excited and that I'm going to write here on this blog every bloody day. To all those in Toronto, Au revoir. Keep the city poppin' fresh while I'm away. And to all those in Montreal, Benvienue. I'm here to theatrically rip your town a new one.
My third Steam Whistle is on its way. I'll enjoy it. It's all Quebec microbrewery shit from this point onward.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Its now 3:44am. I'm sitting in third floor office of the Theatre St. Catherine. My fold up mattress sits across from me and the desk I write on is covered in Alains' paper work, scripts and scattered DVDs. Pussy Corps sits outside my window like a leering vampire and the hollering screams of drunken revelry continue to mingle with cars cutting through slush. My first rehearsal was uplifting and I'm pleased to announce that my cast were the insta-friends I had hoped for. Karl, Lise and Gekko (a nickname everyone calls Steph, I figure I'll adopt it) are extremely talented actors who seem geniunely excited to be working on the project. And Robin our director worked on Dance Animal, a show that did extremely well at last years Fringe. I am playing Fritz, a drunk and abusive lover. The material is difficult but I knew I was in good company when Robin asked Gekko if she was comfortable with me being rough and sexual with her on stage and Gekko replied, "Bring it on". These are some dedicated individuals who aren't afraid to take risks. I can't wait to dig in.
Tonight I visited friends for dinner. I would be specific on who they are but when I told them that I'd be writing about them in my blog, they asked me not to name them. Given that I have openly spoke about my awkward experiences with colonoscopys and pubic hair growth, I'm not at all surprised by their reservations on the matter. We drank wine and ate a pizza that instead of dough used 4 types of meat as a base. A meatloaf pizza if you will. It was fucking awesome. The night was fun and I was introduced to Gary Vaynerchuk, a self-proclaimed wine guru who can be found at tv.winelibrary.com. He's quite the character, tasting and reviewing wine with an unbelievably refined pallet while spitting into a New York Jets helmet. Apparently, his parents worked in a wine store but because he couldn't drink until he was 21 years old, Gary Vaynerchuk decided to seek out the ingredients of the wines his family carried and consumed them to better understand the liquor he could not consume. That just seems crazy and I was skeptical but his plain spoken wine information was actually pretty entertaining and he did know what he was talking about. I think I'll post a video of his on Facebook before calling it a night. Apparently, if you drink a bunch of chardonnays from around the world and then drink a Californian Chardonnay while thinking about buttered popcorn, it will change the way you look at Californian Chardonnay. I can't imagine this to be true, but as soon as I can afford multiple bottles of wine, I'm going to give it try. I don't know why I'd want to link the flavor of wine with popcorn but the more I think about it, the more I'd like to.
And so the night ended with me arriving by Metro back to the theatre but being too restless, I decided to go for a walk and pick up a pack of cigarettes. No, I don't really smoke, but when I'm drunk and restless and there is no pot around, I often opt to have a smoke or two. So I set foot through the snow to find a Deppanneur that was still open. And much to my dismay, there wasn't one. I often hear Montrealers say that they dislike Toronto; that their city is more vibrant than ours. And while I can agree with this sentiment on certain fronts, one thing is for sure: If I'm wandering the heart of the city at 1 am where there is heavy foot traffic in Toronto, I would be sure to find smokes if I needed them. I walked nearly 40 minutes looking until my toes went numb and my nose dripped like boots coming in from the snow. Forty minutes. Not a single open convenient store. I eventually ended up at a bar where the people outside smoking spoke English. The man I spoke to seemed generally uninterested in helping my search but told that being from Toronto I should ask the guy from New York (?) who was standing outside smoking against the wall. So I asked the New Yorker if HE knew a place to buy some cigarettes. Since he himself had gone through a similar futile search, he pulled out his own pack and gave me 5 cigarettes. I shook his hand and thanked him for his generosity. His name was Douglas and he was an intellectual property lawyer. I asked him what he was doing in Montreal. He told me he had come up with his brother who had months ago gone through experimental corrective eye surgery. Apparently, laser eye surgery shaves off the top layer of you retina, taking off the defective part of you vision. However, Douglas' brother had too much of his retina shaved and now the fluids that build underneath the retina had nowhere to collect. So his eye bulged out of his socket, throwing his pupil off to the side of his face. On-line he found an experimental doctor in Montreal who invented a way to reverse this by FURTHER removing yet another layer of his retina and then injecting it with a vitamin compound that would thicken it, thus giving his eye fluids a place to collect and thus taking the pressure off his eye and hypothetically reverting it back to its original shape. Sound far fetched? Yeah, Douglas thought so too. That's why he was here to chaperon, to curb his brother's desperate need for a solution with sobering questions and inquires on the success rate of this operation. An experimental procedure was the reason for this mess in the first place, it seemed illogical that an even more experimental procedure could save the day. I could tell Douglas was drinking to alleviate the stress of it all, though hearing the shriek of the live band playing from inside the bar he was drinking at, I couldn't imagine any true peace could be found until he got back to his hotel room. I told him that I was a Torontonian living at a theatre for the month and we both parted ways wishing each other luck in our current affairs. With smokes aquired, I came back here and started to complete this blog.
And I am so tired. Its lonely here at the empty theatre but already I feel something happening. It might just be indigestion, but it's french indigestion and it comes cheap.
Having a gas.
That Blogging Bastard.
Today marks day one of a 25 day journey to the Great Quebec City known in some quarters as "Montreal". For the next 25 days you will be treated to my many madcap adventures as I seek enlightenment as Artist-In-Residence at the Nouveau Theatre Ste-Catherine. Please be advised that what you are about read may be the product of a body polluted with cheap steamed hot dogs, $2 late night chow mien, beers with images of polar bears printed on their labels, and smoked meat sandwiches served with large dill pickles and dark cherry pop. You have been warned.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Outside my plane window I can glimpse heaven. It is beautiful even though a little cliche. Bright sun, Blue to every corner of the earth and clouds lining the open air beneath me like cotton swabs. High above Toronto heading to Montreal, I can only guess at where the next few weeks will take me. Artist-in-residence or, as Alain likes to call it, "Poet-In-Residence". I'm not sure if I'm a poet really. I am prone to writing short and ethereal pieces of writing from time to time, sure, but whether or not these words are indeed "poetic" is really not for me to decide. I tend to think they are honest at best, smug at worse. But hey, call me what you will.
For those who don't know, I am in Montreal for the next three and a half weeks, sleeping at the Nouveau St. Catherine performing in plays, conducting workshops and writing a show for the Toronto Fringe Festival. It is an exciting time, one marked by a true desire to shed my current life for a while as I attempt to recharge depleted batteries corroded with acid. I have amassed a vast collection of distractions at home and my trip here is an attempt to avert my drooling gaze, if for only a moment. I have been in serious regression mode as of late and have tired many of my friends with persistent rants about it. The fact that I can't write a blog in any sort of timely manner has been one of the pronounced effects.
Yes, I promised about a quadrillion times to write Girls Part 2. And yes, there has been an actual response from readers to produce that blog. (and I thank you all for your enthusiasm)
GIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLSGIRLS. Girls. Girls. girls. g.i.r.l.s.
The word has lost all meaning to me.
The truth is I tried to write it (and this is no excuse for my poor blog production) and twice it was accidentally erased. I mean, I had gone through all of grade 7 and 8 on that second write. But the truth was, even with the blog half written, I was never really happy with it. To be honest, I'm sick of girls. Completely and utterly sick. Puke inducing, fever increasing, pus spouting, stay at home and suck down mama's homemade chicken broth kind o' SICK. Girls have been the only thing I've thought about for the last six months. They are the only thing I ever think about. And in trying to relate my early experiences with them here, I realize I was never any good at understanding them in the first place. It can be said that in some respects I have grown wiser but in regards to my understanding of women? Murky at best. Nothing is as it seems, nothing is what you wish it to be and (and this one applies to most things in life) nothing worthwhile ever comes easy. I love and I bleed and I let the wind pull me off and over the mountain and into the watery rocks below. Where I'll be skewered is any one's guess but skewered I will be. To UNDERSTAND women, to understand any one's motivations really, is well beyond my current capabilities. I can only hope to understand myself and even that is a work in progress. So enough with the women already, as beautiful and mysterious as they may be! My intention here is to get shit done. To work as an artist instead of working as a hotel worker or a beer vendor. Not that I mind working those jobs; they are fine ways to piece together some scratch. But sometimes I forget about the Me that I enjoy, the one that works towards creating something meaningful. The Me that tries to dance with the invisible forces we all know are shaking their booty on the dance floor beneath the surface of our lives, while our cool selves stand slouched against the gymnasium wall. Too cool to dance, too cool to care. I want to find that ME on the hooker laden streets of St. Catherine and St. Laurent as the lights from Pussy Corp (the brothel that sits across the theatre) glint through my bedroom window. I want to sit him down and remind him that he still exists.
The sun is so bright that it glints off my Steam Whistle can like a lit match. (and yes, there is free alcohol on this flight and although its not even noon, I'm on my second). Over the next few weeks I will be sharing my adventures here if only to remember them as nights of Boreal Blonde and St. Ambroise Rouge claw their way into my memory like a sandstorm kicking up a dusty haze. No doubt I will find something here. Perhaps we can even discover it together.
When I land, I'll have three hours to get to the theatre and rehearse MOANS, a drama written by Alain Mercieca and directed by Robin Henderson. I have yet to meet my cast but already I feel like they are good friends. I'm not sure why, but I somehow know that they will be.
However, Moans opens on Feb. 18th and isn't the first show I'm doing while here. Squeegee Nights, another Alain penned script, opens Feb. 3rd, a week from today. Its a show I did in 2006 at Theatre 314, a small underground space at the corner of St. Laurent and Des Pins. This means nothing, I can barely remember the last 25 minutes. Its like starting from scratch and we only have three days of rehearsal before getting it up in front of an audience. Yeah, I'm kinda freaking out about it. But this is working with Alain and I'm accustomed to throwing myself into the fire.
How far we have come and yet so much remains the same.
Moving from the piecemeal stage of a converted loft to the three-story fully licenced Theatre St. Catherine, I'm really excited for Alain and Mark Louch. They have created something beautiful here.
I realize there is a large spectrum of accomplishment within the sphere of anonymity, and within that spectrum I'm starting to feel quite accomplished. I am like the Bobby De neiro of unknown and unimportant and although this comes with no tangible award and serves no meaningful distinction, I wear this invisible badge proudly. I think it's the little delusions that add up to create our own personal veils of reality. The big delusions are just too phony and too easily crumpled like tissue paper. We need the strong binding of interconnected little lies to make it
durable. Delusion that you can feel between your finger and thumb.
Incidentally, urinating on a plane is an odd sensation. The seemingly mundane act of pissing hundreds of miles above the ground amazes me. Not only have we mastered flight, but we've mastered flight while including the comforts of alcohol, defecation and media consumption. Oh humanity, will you ever cease to amaze?
Now you may be wondering, how did a broke-ass "poet" ever find himself suited up and on a Porter flight? Well it turns out the hotel I work for gets discount flights and apparently this discount means that for $15 more I can fly to Montreal in an hour rather than sit cramped on a bus for eight hours. And if you ever flown on Porter, you will know that this is a significant upgrade indeed. Free coffee+free booze+ free Wi-Fi= free boner. It's almost as heavenly as the clouds billowing outside my window. Almost.
Oh. Apparently the flight is about to land. I just wanted to let everyone know that I'm away, that I'm excited and that I'm going to write here on this blog every bloody day. To all those in Toronto, Au revoir. Keep the city poppin' fresh while I'm away. And to all those in Montreal, Benvienue. I'm here to theatrically rip your town a new one.
My third Steam Whistle is on its way. I'll enjoy it. It's all Quebec microbrewery shit from this point onward.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Its now 3:44am. I'm sitting in third floor office of the Theatre St. Catherine. My fold up mattress sits across from me and the desk I write on is covered in Alains' paper work, scripts and scattered DVDs. Pussy Corps sits outside my window like a leering vampire and the hollering screams of drunken revelry continue to mingle with cars cutting through slush. My first rehearsal was uplifting and I'm pleased to announce that my cast were the insta-friends I had hoped for. Karl, Lise and Gekko (a nickname everyone calls Steph, I figure I'll adopt it) are extremely talented actors who seem geniunely excited to be working on the project. And Robin our director worked on Dance Animal, a show that did extremely well at last years Fringe. I am playing Fritz, a drunk and abusive lover. The material is difficult but I knew I was in good company when Robin asked Gekko if she was comfortable with me being rough and sexual with her on stage and Gekko replied, "Bring it on". These are some dedicated individuals who aren't afraid to take risks. I can't wait to dig in.
Tonight I visited friends for dinner. I would be specific on who they are but when I told them that I'd be writing about them in my blog, they asked me not to name them. Given that I have openly spoke about my awkward experiences with colonoscopys and pubic hair growth, I'm not at all surprised by their reservations on the matter. We drank wine and ate a pizza that instead of dough used 4 types of meat as a base. A meatloaf pizza if you will. It was fucking awesome. The night was fun and I was introduced to Gary Vaynerchuk, a self-proclaimed wine guru who can be found at tv.winelibrary.com. He's quite the character, tasting and reviewing wine with an unbelievably refined pallet while spitting into a New York Jets helmet. Apparently, his parents worked in a wine store but because he couldn't drink until he was 21 years old, Gary Vaynerchuk decided to seek out the ingredients of the wines his family carried and consumed them to better understand the liquor he could not consume. That just seems crazy and I was skeptical but his plain spoken wine information was actually pretty entertaining and he did know what he was talking about. I think I'll post a video of his on Facebook before calling it a night. Apparently, if you drink a bunch of chardonnays from around the world and then drink a Californian Chardonnay while thinking about buttered popcorn, it will change the way you look at Californian Chardonnay. I can't imagine this to be true, but as soon as I can afford multiple bottles of wine, I'm going to give it try. I don't know why I'd want to link the flavor of wine with popcorn but the more I think about it, the more I'd like to.
And so the night ended with me arriving by Metro back to the theatre but being too restless, I decided to go for a walk and pick up a pack of cigarettes. No, I don't really smoke, but when I'm drunk and restless and there is no pot around, I often opt to have a smoke or two. So I set foot through the snow to find a Deppanneur that was still open. And much to my dismay, there wasn't one. I often hear Montrealers say that they dislike Toronto; that their city is more vibrant than ours. And while I can agree with this sentiment on certain fronts, one thing is for sure: If I'm wandering the heart of the city at 1 am where there is heavy foot traffic in Toronto, I would be sure to find smokes if I needed them. I walked nearly 40 minutes looking until my toes went numb and my nose dripped like boots coming in from the snow. Forty minutes. Not a single open convenient store. I eventually ended up at a bar where the people outside smoking spoke English. The man I spoke to seemed generally uninterested in helping my search but told that being from Toronto I should ask the guy from New York (?) who was standing outside smoking against the wall. So I asked the New Yorker if HE knew a place to buy some cigarettes. Since he himself had gone through a similar futile search, he pulled out his own pack and gave me 5 cigarettes. I shook his hand and thanked him for his generosity. His name was Douglas and he was an intellectual property lawyer. I asked him what he was doing in Montreal. He told me he had come up with his brother who had months ago gone through experimental corrective eye surgery. Apparently, laser eye surgery shaves off the top layer of you retina, taking off the defective part of you vision. However, Douglas' brother had too much of his retina shaved and now the fluids that build underneath the retina had nowhere to collect. So his eye bulged out of his socket, throwing his pupil off to the side of his face. On-line he found an experimental doctor in Montreal who invented a way to reverse this by FURTHER removing yet another layer of his retina and then injecting it with a vitamin compound that would thicken it, thus giving his eye fluids a place to collect and thus taking the pressure off his eye and hypothetically reverting it back to its original shape. Sound far fetched? Yeah, Douglas thought so too. That's why he was here to chaperon, to curb his brother's desperate need for a solution with sobering questions and inquires on the success rate of this operation. An experimental procedure was the reason for this mess in the first place, it seemed illogical that an even more experimental procedure could save the day. I could tell Douglas was drinking to alleviate the stress of it all, though hearing the shriek of the live band playing from inside the bar he was drinking at, I couldn't imagine any true peace could be found until he got back to his hotel room. I told him that I was a Torontonian living at a theatre for the month and we both parted ways wishing each other luck in our current affairs. With smokes aquired, I came back here and started to complete this blog.
And I am so tired. Its lonely here at the empty theatre but already I feel something happening. It might just be indigestion, but it's french indigestion and it comes cheap.
Having a gas.
That Blogging Bastard.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Christmas in the NOW
Feliz Navidad, my fellow blogomaniacs!
That Blogging Bastard is here after taking a hiatus that was both as long as it was inexcusable. Apparently, I was so hard at work pouring drinks for the ultra rich at the Royal York that I didn't realize that nearly TWO months passed since my last entry. What the shit?!? It feels like only yesterday I was promising Girls Pt.2 and a more regular blogging schedule. Where did all the time go? Why, the answer is simple my friends.
Time is a relative concept conceived by the human mind. With constant distraction its confines become elastic like a bag made of rubber. Without concentrating on the NOW, we tend to let time move at a more rapid pace, for we are not taking stock in the events that are transpiring right before our eyes. Through a stronger understanding and observation of the NOW, by staying PRESENT in the given moment, we can fully appreciate times constant flow and thus have a greater awareness of where we sit in the grand scheme of things.
I'm sorry. Ever since I became a follower of Depak Chopra on Twitter, I have a tendency to fall into philosophical musings that are so opaque that only I can decipher them. And even then, I've got to make my mind elastic with drugs to fully make sense of it. Go ahead, smoke a joint and re-read what I just wrote. Still nothing? How good is your pot? Well, whatever. I'm still publishing it in a book and selling it for $24.99. I'm sure with some nice illustrations of flowers and a couple computer-generated psychedelic images, it will sit nicely on a Starbucks counter next to Cd's of Annie Lennox and Paul McCartney. Perhaps they will even offer it in a combo package with a bag of dark roast or a box of Cranium. This encapsulates the extraordinary vision I have for my future.
Regardless of my theories on time, I am back and I am blogging. Being laid off until March will probably make regular entries a whole lot easier, and I promise to keep reference to my crushing poverty to an absolute minimum.
I type this as I sit at my grandmothers computer in Buffalo, New York which if I recall correctly was the seventh stage of hell as told by Dante's Inferno. I am happy to announce that I am now the proud owner of a Buffalo Bills leather jacket, given to me simply because it did not fit my grandfather. No, I have no intention of wearing it, but I suspect strongly that in a few years time when the Bills move permanently to Toronto it will be something I will want to rock, it being a throwback to a time when NFL football was still bringing joy to this tiny slum town. (I'm a sucker for brandishing clothes that contain images of things that no longer exist) Either that or I'll put it on whenever I am in need of making myself instantly unattractive to woman. I do however worry that if I am ever caught wearing it while holding a Toronto Sun, I'll be mistaken for a supporter of Rob Ford. You know what, it's best I just burn it upon completing this blog entry.
Now you no doubt wonder what would ever bring me to Buffalo, New York in the first place. Well first of all, its the hometown of my mother and still contains a gaggle of my favorite family members. And it's CHRISTMAS! Well at least it was Christmas. Now its just boxing day. But for me, who worked on Christmas (gak), it's as close as I'm going to get to something resembling holly jolly. Yes my sexy readers, the holidays are upon us like a hungry pack of jackals, showering us with corny music, excessive feasts and panicked days of shopping. Even now, I write this with a stomach sick of sugar and the Sound of Music playing in the background which, if I was to hold someone hostage ,would be the soundtrack I'd put on while trying to ply them for information on the holding place of the ancient gems I seek. "These Are a Few of My Favorite Things" would be an excellent song to have playing while revealing instruments of torture and "Goodbye, Farewell" would prove very intimidating before threatening death.
(I always contended I would make a really a great Bond villain. I love stroking cats, I have very bushy eyebrows and I pre-set my muscial selections before sessions of torture. Of course, this is all a pipe dream now as I work towards being a featured artist at Starbucks. Best I let my book of philosophical musings and Annie Lennox's vocals do the torturing.)
Where was I?
Oh yes! CHRISTMAS! Oh glorious of days! Oh happiest of festivals! Oh great economic stimulant! Oh happy holy harvest of hope! Can you imagine if Jesus had a
Facebook profile? You think you have a lot of bday wishes on your wall? That guys shit would crash the site. Jesus wouldn't be blamed for his popularity though, he's a pretty swell guy. They'd probably end up blaming it on hackers who did it because they are pissed off about wiki leaks being muzzled. (Spoiler Alert! America is engaged in dirty politics. Now you know.)
So it's Christmas, I'm in Buffalo and I have a deeper understanding of time and space due to my passing electronic acquaintance with Depak Chopra. All in all it could be worse. My Christmas haul was a little light this year, which is fine by me, as I have enough crap clogging up my apartment as it is. My father got me a sweater, a Secret Wars T-shirt, a He-Man DVD and THREE action figures of Wolverine. One of them was a give away from Burger King, the other two were molds of Hugh Jackman, one in standard 6" and the other deluxe sized. Ironically, flashback to Christmas two decades ago and you'd find my father buying me very similar gifts (minus Hugh Jackman). I need to start acting my age I guess. Or maybe I've gone back in time due to a Temporal Paradox, a tear in the fabric of space/time! Let me explain:
You see, time is a continuum that is best visualized as a looping string where we are located on two separate axises....whoa whoa whoa! I just realized if I continue explaining time and space, you aren't going to buy my book.
Nice try, you cheap bastards! Go pick up a Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte if you want enlightenment!
My mother did me a solid and decided to give me cold, hard cash. This is my favorite gift, since it allows me the ability to buy my own crap that I don't need. Crap you don't need is always better when you are the architect of its purchase. My mom did keep the tradition of stuffing me a stocking though and I am now the proud owner of a slinky, socks and enough Lindt Chocolate to kill a diabetic child. Not that I would ever do that. I prefer healthy children, its more sporting. (anything to get those gems! Bwahahaha!)
Geez, I just reread this entry. Ok, serious time.
Christmas is here and even with all the warm wishes and a brand new slinky, I was suffering earlier from a severe and gnawing loneliness. It started on Christmas eve upon returning home from my uncle's annual holiday gathering. I sat by the window alone listening to Flying Lotus and looked down at the empty streets and for some reason felt like I was an extension of those streets. That night was spent lying very awake as I wondered why I was feeling so tense. Upon reflection, I can say that much of that nights malaise was brought on by the extreme indigestion cause by a shrimp ring, hot wings, pizza, a smattering of cheese, wine, beer, courvoisier, chocolate, coffee, pineapple and pistachio nuts. Even listing that gives me gas.
Then Christmas came proper. I woke up alone in my house and realized that it had been a great many years since I woke up on Christmas day excited. And why was I ever excited in the first place? It wasn't Jesus's Bday, or seeing family, or eating a Germany's worth of chocolate; it was a ravenous desire for gifts. Now that I am aware of economic realities, I just feel guilty. Guilty that I can never afford good gifts for the people I love, and guilty that the people I love spend money on me when I know they can't afford it either. And so from there I went to work and sat in the back of the Imperial room, making Shirley Temples for rambunctious children. The shift was super boring, and outside of the occasional "Merry Christmas", nothing made the day seem any different from any other day. The same people, the same tired looking eyes, the same platters of cheese and fruit. As boredom seeped uniformly from the top of my skull to the tips of my toes, I decided to see what was happening inside the Christmas buffet. Stepping out into the grand ballroom, I watched children squeal with delight as a man in a Santa Suit made animal balloons and carols played on the overhead speakers. It was in this moment that I realized that Christmas was no longer for me specifically, but about creating myths and joy in our children, reminding the people we love that we still care and reflecting on the end of another year gone by. I think a part of me always wished to recall that excitement I felt as a child, and that being impossible, continued to get disappointed in my inability to capture that feeling again. But the time has come to let that go. It's up to me now to spread that excitement in others, to remind people that I love them and to start focusing on what was gained and lost in passing year.
And so with great excitement I anticipated travelling with my mother to Buffalo, hugging my grandparents and focusing on being there for the people I love.
Which brings us back to the PRESENT that you'll discover , if you buy my book, is something that we should all be focusing on. Because if you don't focus on the NOW, you might find yourself on your grandmother's computer scratching your head wondering how two months went by without a single blog entry. Time is elastic you see.
But I digress. Just buy the fucking book.
Happy Holidays Everyone.
That Blogging Bastard
P.S. I swear to God that I will write Girls Pt. 2 next. If I don't, you can have my Hugh Jackman deluxe action figure. Its ok, I have two more.
That Blogging Bastard is here after taking a hiatus that was both as long as it was inexcusable. Apparently, I was so hard at work pouring drinks for the ultra rich at the Royal York that I didn't realize that nearly TWO months passed since my last entry. What the shit?!? It feels like only yesterday I was promising Girls Pt.2 and a more regular blogging schedule. Where did all the time go? Why, the answer is simple my friends.
Time is a relative concept conceived by the human mind. With constant distraction its confines become elastic like a bag made of rubber. Without concentrating on the NOW, we tend to let time move at a more rapid pace, for we are not taking stock in the events that are transpiring right before our eyes. Through a stronger understanding and observation of the NOW, by staying PRESENT in the given moment, we can fully appreciate times constant flow and thus have a greater awareness of where we sit in the grand scheme of things.
I'm sorry. Ever since I became a follower of Depak Chopra on Twitter, I have a tendency to fall into philosophical musings that are so opaque that only I can decipher them. And even then, I've got to make my mind elastic with drugs to fully make sense of it. Go ahead, smoke a joint and re-read what I just wrote. Still nothing? How good is your pot? Well, whatever. I'm still publishing it in a book and selling it for $24.99. I'm sure with some nice illustrations of flowers and a couple computer-generated psychedelic images, it will sit nicely on a Starbucks counter next to Cd's of Annie Lennox and Paul McCartney. Perhaps they will even offer it in a combo package with a bag of dark roast or a box of Cranium. This encapsulates the extraordinary vision I have for my future.
Regardless of my theories on time, I am back and I am blogging. Being laid off until March will probably make regular entries a whole lot easier, and I promise to keep reference to my crushing poverty to an absolute minimum.
I type this as I sit at my grandmothers computer in Buffalo, New York which if I recall correctly was the seventh stage of hell as told by Dante's Inferno. I am happy to announce that I am now the proud owner of a Buffalo Bills leather jacket, given to me simply because it did not fit my grandfather. No, I have no intention of wearing it, but I suspect strongly that in a few years time when the Bills move permanently to Toronto it will be something I will want to rock, it being a throwback to a time when NFL football was still bringing joy to this tiny slum town. (I'm a sucker for brandishing clothes that contain images of things that no longer exist) Either that or I'll put it on whenever I am in need of making myself instantly unattractive to woman. I do however worry that if I am ever caught wearing it while holding a Toronto Sun, I'll be mistaken for a supporter of Rob Ford. You know what, it's best I just burn it upon completing this blog entry.
Now you no doubt wonder what would ever bring me to Buffalo, New York in the first place. Well first of all, its the hometown of my mother and still contains a gaggle of my favorite family members. And it's CHRISTMAS! Well at least it was Christmas. Now its just boxing day. But for me, who worked on Christmas (gak), it's as close as I'm going to get to something resembling holly jolly. Yes my sexy readers, the holidays are upon us like a hungry pack of jackals, showering us with corny music, excessive feasts and panicked days of shopping. Even now, I write this with a stomach sick of sugar and the Sound of Music playing in the background which, if I was to hold someone hostage ,would be the soundtrack I'd put on while trying to ply them for information on the holding place of the ancient gems I seek. "These Are a Few of My Favorite Things" would be an excellent song to have playing while revealing instruments of torture and "Goodbye, Farewell" would prove very intimidating before threatening death.
(I always contended I would make a really a great Bond villain. I love stroking cats, I have very bushy eyebrows and I pre-set my muscial selections before sessions of torture. Of course, this is all a pipe dream now as I work towards being a featured artist at Starbucks. Best I let my book of philosophical musings and Annie Lennox's vocals do the torturing.)
Where was I?
Oh yes! CHRISTMAS! Oh glorious of days! Oh happiest of festivals! Oh great economic stimulant! Oh happy holy harvest of hope! Can you imagine if Jesus had a
Facebook profile? You think you have a lot of bday wishes on your wall? That guys shit would crash the site. Jesus wouldn't be blamed for his popularity though, he's a pretty swell guy. They'd probably end up blaming it on hackers who did it because they are pissed off about wiki leaks being muzzled. (Spoiler Alert! America is engaged in dirty politics. Now you know.)
So it's Christmas, I'm in Buffalo and I have a deeper understanding of time and space due to my passing electronic acquaintance with Depak Chopra. All in all it could be worse. My Christmas haul was a little light this year, which is fine by me, as I have enough crap clogging up my apartment as it is. My father got me a sweater, a Secret Wars T-shirt, a He-Man DVD and THREE action figures of Wolverine. One of them was a give away from Burger King, the other two were molds of Hugh Jackman, one in standard 6" and the other deluxe sized. Ironically, flashback to Christmas two decades ago and you'd find my father buying me very similar gifts (minus Hugh Jackman). I need to start acting my age I guess. Or maybe I've gone back in time due to a Temporal Paradox, a tear in the fabric of space/time! Let me explain:
You see, time is a continuum that is best visualized as a looping string where we are located on two separate axises....whoa whoa whoa! I just realized if I continue explaining time and space, you aren't going to buy my book.
Nice try, you cheap bastards! Go pick up a Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte if you want enlightenment!
My mother did me a solid and decided to give me cold, hard cash. This is my favorite gift, since it allows me the ability to buy my own crap that I don't need. Crap you don't need is always better when you are the architect of its purchase. My mom did keep the tradition of stuffing me a stocking though and I am now the proud owner of a slinky, socks and enough Lindt Chocolate to kill a diabetic child. Not that I would ever do that. I prefer healthy children, its more sporting. (anything to get those gems! Bwahahaha!)
Geez, I just reread this entry. Ok, serious time.
Christmas is here and even with all the warm wishes and a brand new slinky, I was suffering earlier from a severe and gnawing loneliness. It started on Christmas eve upon returning home from my uncle's annual holiday gathering. I sat by the window alone listening to Flying Lotus and looked down at the empty streets and for some reason felt like I was an extension of those streets. That night was spent lying very awake as I wondered why I was feeling so tense. Upon reflection, I can say that much of that nights malaise was brought on by the extreme indigestion cause by a shrimp ring, hot wings, pizza, a smattering of cheese, wine, beer, courvoisier, chocolate, coffee, pineapple and pistachio nuts. Even listing that gives me gas.
Then Christmas came proper. I woke up alone in my house and realized that it had been a great many years since I woke up on Christmas day excited. And why was I ever excited in the first place? It wasn't Jesus's Bday, or seeing family, or eating a Germany's worth of chocolate; it was a ravenous desire for gifts. Now that I am aware of economic realities, I just feel guilty. Guilty that I can never afford good gifts for the people I love, and guilty that the people I love spend money on me when I know they can't afford it either. And so from there I went to work and sat in the back of the Imperial room, making Shirley Temples for rambunctious children. The shift was super boring, and outside of the occasional "Merry Christmas", nothing made the day seem any different from any other day. The same people, the same tired looking eyes, the same platters of cheese and fruit. As boredom seeped uniformly from the top of my skull to the tips of my toes, I decided to see what was happening inside the Christmas buffet. Stepping out into the grand ballroom, I watched children squeal with delight as a man in a Santa Suit made animal balloons and carols played on the overhead speakers. It was in this moment that I realized that Christmas was no longer for me specifically, but about creating myths and joy in our children, reminding the people we love that we still care and reflecting on the end of another year gone by. I think a part of me always wished to recall that excitement I felt as a child, and that being impossible, continued to get disappointed in my inability to capture that feeling again. But the time has come to let that go. It's up to me now to spread that excitement in others, to remind people that I love them and to start focusing on what was gained and lost in passing year.
And so with great excitement I anticipated travelling with my mother to Buffalo, hugging my grandparents and focusing on being there for the people I love.
Which brings us back to the PRESENT that you'll discover , if you buy my book, is something that we should all be focusing on. Because if you don't focus on the NOW, you might find yourself on your grandmother's computer scratching your head wondering how two months went by without a single blog entry. Time is elastic you see.
But I digress. Just buy the fucking book.
Happy Holidays Everyone.
That Blogging Bastard
P.S. I swear to God that I will write Girls Pt. 2 next. If I don't, you can have my Hugh Jackman deluxe action figure. Its ok, I have two more.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Here is where I stand
Sometimes its nice to stop and take in your surroundings. Dig your feet into the soil, wiggle your toes in the mud. Rub your heel into the scruff of the carpet, or feel the bite of cold tile as you tiptoe to the bathroom. Some days it pays to consider your feet, where they stand and for whom they are standing.
Yesterday as I was getting ready to leave work, an older employee who works in the rank dungeons of the hotel was also leaving. He was donned in his trademark grey bomber and corduroy cap. I nodded a casual farewell to him but he was too lost in his glassy stare to take notice. He just trudged past oblivious, like a tortoise passing through the edge of a forest trail. I realized right then that this man was probably coming off an 8 hour shift, his fifth in a row. And for twenty days of the month he stood unhappily hosing grime off of green recycling bins. And for two hundred and forty days of each year marched through the sunless depths of the hotel walking on the same dingy red tile surrounded by the same greasy yellow walls. And for the last twenty years he followed that same path, pushing those same bins until the punch clock stamped off his shift and he could stumble home with a blank and broken stare.
This was where this man stood, his life passing with each banquet function and out-of-town check-in. This was his life as it was mine. And in the infested basement of a hotel is where we stood together.
I am now sitting in the living room of my apartment. The sun is shining and there is a distinct sense of play in the air. As I type, motors push across Queen Street and I can hear children laughing, the product of too much sugar and skipped fourth period classes. I wonder why I sit here of all places, staring out a window in Toronto, watching pedestrians cross the street with purpose in their legs.
It would appear that everyone in Toronto has somewhere to be. Judging by the look of serious intent in their eyes and aggressive foot work through the lagging throngs, it appears critical that this somewhere be reached immediately. I sometimes imagine being similarly busy. A day stuffed with appointments, coffee dates and late night parties. With agendas and meetings and team building exercises. With midday Caesars and BBM conferences. I'm not sure why that feels so impossible, it seems easy enough.
My average day consists of sitting in coffee shops writing or reading or both. I enjoy walking through busy streets, watching people and taking in the bustle. Sometimes I'll take a notebook and jot observations while sitting in a park. On the odd day, I'll show potential renters my theatre space or go audition for a Crispy Wheat Thins commercial. Otherwise, I'm at a hotel stacking glassware while serving Chardonnay to Blue Hairs attending tea galas.
Perhaps I lack a certain ambition. Or maybe I haven't thought enough about the feet in my shoes and where they tread.
I've never known a place other than Toronto. My travels have never taken me off the Continent, and even within the Continent I've seen very little. The most exotic locale I've been to was Florida and I was only there because I won a drinking contest at System Soundbar. (a tale for another time). I do visit Montreal, by all measures a truly wonderful and magical place,but although it draws me to it, my pitiful french language skills keeps me from committing to it as a permanent residence. Halifax too proved gorgeous, but it was a little too quaint and charming for someone like me.
And so, Toronto, by default, has always been my home. It's where I've forged an existence and developed relationships with its many locales. I have favorite everything: martini bars, dance floors, doctors offices, vintage shops, smoking spots, makeout benches, disc golf courses, and ice cream cafes. I have three jobs. I have a gaggle of friends, and even more acquaintances. Family is right around the corner whenever I need support. I am embedded. I love it here, I truly do.
But I wonder if I'm like the man at the hotel and ubiquitous with my surroundings. This great Ontarian gem has been my only home and I'm not sure how to separate myself from it.
How much do you suppose we are a product of our surroundings? Am I a reflection of the shiny glass towers, concrete roads, dingy orange rubber pylons dotting the torn up streets? Does my eyes speak of Starbucks, my smile of billboards and condominiums? When I talk do I carry Toronto inflections? Do I have mannerisms and styles of my own or is it all simply borrowed from the city's hipster underclass to whom I'm constantly exposed? How much of me is the product of this place I've lived for almost thirty years?
Like most, I am painfully unaware of myself. And until now, I've never thought to think of my feet, and why they choose to walk where they walk. I have grown into my geography and I unwittingly carry its full cultural impact on me where ever I go.
My mother is an American citizen. She has recently acquired the documentation that would allow me to be a dual citizenship with the United States. I am a Canadian through and through and the prospect of living among the great gun slinging folk of the South scares me.
But then again....
I have started dreaming of sitting in a New York park overlooking the Manhattan skyline. I envision drinking in a Chicago Pub, the Bears having just lost another critical game. I imagine the rush of wearing my Blue Jays gear in a tide of black and white at Yankee Stadium. I picture taking in live music and not knowing where I am or who is even playing on stage. I wonder who I'd be when pressed against new backdrops full of different accents moving at a different pace. In short, to see how I stack up outside my comfort zone.
Perhaps what you are witnessing is the birth of a burgeoning sense of adventure. And it all began by looking at my feet and taking the time to look at where I stood. And knowing that wherever I wish to be is where I am.
Thanks for reading.
That Blogging Bastard
p.s. Girls part 2 is coming up next. Bring a hanky and a nice bottle of brandy. Enjoy yourself.
Yesterday as I was getting ready to leave work, an older employee who works in the rank dungeons of the hotel was also leaving. He was donned in his trademark grey bomber and corduroy cap. I nodded a casual farewell to him but he was too lost in his glassy stare to take notice. He just trudged past oblivious, like a tortoise passing through the edge of a forest trail. I realized right then that this man was probably coming off an 8 hour shift, his fifth in a row. And for twenty days of the month he stood unhappily hosing grime off of green recycling bins. And for two hundred and forty days of each year marched through the sunless depths of the hotel walking on the same dingy red tile surrounded by the same greasy yellow walls. And for the last twenty years he followed that same path, pushing those same bins until the punch clock stamped off his shift and he could stumble home with a blank and broken stare.
This was where this man stood, his life passing with each banquet function and out-of-town check-in. This was his life as it was mine. And in the infested basement of a hotel is where we stood together.
I am now sitting in the living room of my apartment. The sun is shining and there is a distinct sense of play in the air. As I type, motors push across Queen Street and I can hear children laughing, the product of too much sugar and skipped fourth period classes. I wonder why I sit here of all places, staring out a window in Toronto, watching pedestrians cross the street with purpose in their legs.
It would appear that everyone in Toronto has somewhere to be. Judging by the look of serious intent in their eyes and aggressive foot work through the lagging throngs, it appears critical that this somewhere be reached immediately. I sometimes imagine being similarly busy. A day stuffed with appointments, coffee dates and late night parties. With agendas and meetings and team building exercises. With midday Caesars and BBM conferences. I'm not sure why that feels so impossible, it seems easy enough.
My average day consists of sitting in coffee shops writing or reading or both. I enjoy walking through busy streets, watching people and taking in the bustle. Sometimes I'll take a notebook and jot observations while sitting in a park. On the odd day, I'll show potential renters my theatre space or go audition for a Crispy Wheat Thins commercial. Otherwise, I'm at a hotel stacking glassware while serving Chardonnay to Blue Hairs attending tea galas.
Perhaps I lack a certain ambition. Or maybe I haven't thought enough about the feet in my shoes and where they tread.
I've never known a place other than Toronto. My travels have never taken me off the Continent, and even within the Continent I've seen very little. The most exotic locale I've been to was Florida and I was only there because I won a drinking contest at System Soundbar. (a tale for another time). I do visit Montreal, by all measures a truly wonderful and magical place,but although it draws me to it, my pitiful french language skills keeps me from committing to it as a permanent residence. Halifax too proved gorgeous, but it was a little too quaint and charming for someone like me.
And so, Toronto, by default, has always been my home. It's where I've forged an existence and developed relationships with its many locales. I have favorite everything: martini bars, dance floors, doctors offices, vintage shops, smoking spots, makeout benches, disc golf courses, and ice cream cafes. I have three jobs. I have a gaggle of friends, and even more acquaintances. Family is right around the corner whenever I need support. I am embedded. I love it here, I truly do.
But I wonder if I'm like the man at the hotel and ubiquitous with my surroundings. This great Ontarian gem has been my only home and I'm not sure how to separate myself from it.
How much do you suppose we are a product of our surroundings? Am I a reflection of the shiny glass towers, concrete roads, dingy orange rubber pylons dotting the torn up streets? Does my eyes speak of Starbucks, my smile of billboards and condominiums? When I talk do I carry Toronto inflections? Do I have mannerisms and styles of my own or is it all simply borrowed from the city's hipster underclass to whom I'm constantly exposed? How much of me is the product of this place I've lived for almost thirty years?
Like most, I am painfully unaware of myself. And until now, I've never thought to think of my feet, and why they choose to walk where they walk. I have grown into my geography and I unwittingly carry its full cultural impact on me where ever I go.
My mother is an American citizen. She has recently acquired the documentation that would allow me to be a dual citizenship with the United States. I am a Canadian through and through and the prospect of living among the great gun slinging folk of the South scares me.
But then again....
I have started dreaming of sitting in a New York park overlooking the Manhattan skyline. I envision drinking in a Chicago Pub, the Bears having just lost another critical game. I imagine the rush of wearing my Blue Jays gear in a tide of black and white at Yankee Stadium. I picture taking in live music and not knowing where I am or who is even playing on stage. I wonder who I'd be when pressed against new backdrops full of different accents moving at a different pace. In short, to see how I stack up outside my comfort zone.
Perhaps what you are witnessing is the birth of a burgeoning sense of adventure. And it all began by looking at my feet and taking the time to look at where I stood. And knowing that wherever I wish to be is where I am.
Thanks for reading.
That Blogging Bastard
p.s. Girls part 2 is coming up next. Bring a hanky and a nice bottle of brandy. Enjoy yourself.
Monday, October 18, 2010
GIRLS. Pt. 1: The early years
Hey my peoples!
It's that Blogging Bastard here. I am undergoing a health scare right now. My chest is a flaming ball of death right now and being very resistant to medical treatment, I thought I'd channel my fears into a brand new blog entry.
The reason I've been away so long is that I no longer have a computer and sitting next to the 300 pound grease balls playing Call of Duty at the local Internet cafe is too distracting to get any real writing done. My roommate keeps his computer by the bed, so as I write this I am lying flat on my belly and the position is already giving me a wrist cramp.
The year is 2010 folks and I can't seem to get technology to work in my favour no matter how hard I try. At last count: I've been through at least fifty cell phones, my last one being so buggy and unusable that I actually punched it until it shattered. I'm on my third Ipod, having lost around 3000 songs with the last one and my current one only emits sound out of the left ear bud. My PS3 hard drive is corrupted and has erased all my saved game files not once but twice in the last week. I have no computer, no smart phone, my laptop has a half burned out screen, my stereo is crapping out, my sound equipment at my theatre studio is missing, my stove only has two working burners, my washing machine dances across the room when running and my nintendo DS has stopped reading my game cards unless I jiggle them for twenty minutes. So it is only fitting that my body would stop working now as well.
The only thing that fucks up more frequently then technology in my life is my relationships with women. For me there is no topic more confounding, no mystery more intriguing then that of the opposite sex. I have a long history of miscues, misunderstandings and horror stories that have left me with some serious issues that I would like to share with you. In recent times, I have been described by many a women as being a "man whore". While there is a certain smirky charm to this title, I think its time for the women in my life to understand that the events which have shaped me into what I currently am (not that I'm confirming these rumours or agree with this assessment mind you) have been long and traumatic. The subject of girls, being a long and varied topic, I've decided to split it into a six part series (a blogging bastard first!). Today we talk about the early years.
It all began when I was in grade one. For some reason or another, during reading time, girls in my class had chosen me as someone that they felt comfortable laying their heads on. Literally every time our teacher read a chapter from Charlotte's Web or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, some girl would put a pillow on my crossed legs and lay on me. Even though I couldn't identify why, I FUCKING LOVED IT. Soon, I had the nickname "pillow" which I'm glad didn't carry into my adulthood as it would probably have a very different meaning now, particularly if I ever found myself in a jail. One girl, a freckly ginger lass named Lee-Anne, was a frequent rester of mine and decided that she didn't want to share my leg space with the others. This was surprising. Not but a few weeks before we were playing Pippy Longstocking (she was a big fan, most likely because she looked exactly like Pippy), and we were pretending to eat pancakes. As I was scooping the fake flapjacks into my mouth I accidentally punched her in the face. She burst into tears and as she did a huge blood bubble came out of her nose. It was pretty gross, but as I recall it now, I can't help but laugh...I really clocked her good. I was sent to the principles office where I was told that hitting girls, even accidentally and lost in my imagination was wrong. (only later would I realize that most of my life would be spent in my imagination, so this was sound advice indeed). So, yeah, I was pretty surprised that she wanted to "go steady". So we did what all first graders do when they're ready to commit: we got married. I can still remember the ceremony, the entire class stood around and someone read from a book and people threw leaves and twigs at us as we walked down the aisle. I felt so special and valid, we were the talk of the class. This all happened right before summer hit, so I only had a few classes to enjoy the married life: holding hands, closed mouth kisses, access to hanging out with the girls at recess, all very exciting stuff.
That summer, all I could think about was my wife. I was thrilled at the thought of going into second grade, getting my kiss on, having her sweet smelling red hair on my leg as we learned about dinosaurs. Unfortunately, upon my return to school I was informed immediately that we had been divorced. No explanation was given, nor was I asked to sign anything. Apparently, our marriage had been annulled. This shattered me. How fickle the world was. And that my friends was my first recorded memory of heartbreak. Oh, but it was FAR from the last.
Let's flash forward to grade four. I was an early pubescent, having gotten my first pubic fibres around this time. That alone was challenging enough. Once, while getting naked for a shower at the Toronto Island School, a developmentally challenged student caught me changing by my bunk bed and saw that I possessed naughty hairs crying out, "LUIS HAS A HAIRY WIENER! LUIS HAS A HAIRY WIENER!" Suddenly, I had become a circus oddity, with all my mates asking to see my dick and laughing at me while making crude jokes. This may be politically incorrect but its a very humbling experience when all the developmental kids join the other kids in making fun of you...I mean, they were our go to scapegoats. To have them make fun of me...well, irony is fun on a hipster tee shirt but when applied to real life situations, stinks of high tragedy.
This trauma aside, I was also plagued with lingering confusion about girls. I thought about them constantly but I had no idea why. What they wore. What they smelled like. How they talked. How they wrote with sparkly pens, saved eraser clippings, made interesting paper things that told you your fortune, knew the words to many songs, always had elaborate candies. Girls were fucking cool. Back in those days, I had more in common with them then the guys. The guys were too busy playing sports, or showing off. Girls TALKED. They sat and talked to each other, usually about things like who was cute or who wasn't cool. Real insight. Guys were always busy engaging in contests, contests I was never equipped to win. So unskilled in certain sports was I that the other kids would make me the "referee". Then when I would make a call during the game, they would ignore it, thus proving the uselessness of my being there. To this day when the refs are booed at a hockey game I shed tears.
My first "girlfriend" was my next door neighbor Jenny. She was a tom boy who loved to play board games and wasn't afraid to punch me in the stomach whenever I got lippy. Often, we would play in my back yard and when no one was around we'd smooch. Without fail, whenever we did, we'd get caught and I'd get a lecture about how that was wrong. It was confusing to say the least. What was wrong with it? I saw my parents kiss. Isn't that what people did? One time, we were playing outside while my dad built a book shelf. Jenny had to use the washroom. I asked my dad if she could use ours. He said, "yeah, take her upstairs." Alone with her in the house? Unprecedented! As we walked up the stairs, Jenny turned to me and asked the age old question that many kids curiously ask one another, "If you show me yours I'll show you mine." I was petrified, I had never purposefully shown anyone my naughty bits and they were hairy and weird at that. I insisted she go first. Now mind you, I didn't have any conception at this point of the vagina, so my expectation was that it would be similar to the penis, it being the only object between a persons legs I had ever witnessed. (my dad routinely walked around in the nude...is this common?) So when she pulled down her pants to reveal nothing but a bare mound, I was underwhelmed. Where was her doodle? Now it was my turn and I felt gyped. I hadn't really seen anything and frankly, she was about to get alot more bang for her buck. So I pulled down my pants....and showed her my belly button. As to why I thought this would even work, well, my bellybutton had a lot more in common with her junk then my dick did. And even though she was young and impressionable, she didn't buy my ruse. "Show me yours!", she bellowed, hands clenched ready to sock me. I reached to pull my down my pants....and couldn't do it. I got two punches for my insolence but she never did see my dick.
Grade 5 is when the real shit hit the fan. It was at this age that I met Micha, a comely blond girl that wore her hair in a side ponytail with over sized pastel sweaters. Even thinking about her now, I have to say she was pretty hot...is that creepy? Bah. Anyways, Micha was one of those attractive ladies who knew she was attractive and pranced around with an assured air about her; the type of girl who could huck a spit ball at the black board when no one looked and could rest assured SHE wouldn't be blamed. Anyways, I liked her from afar but had nary a shred of balls to actually talk to her. In fact, whenever the chance occurred, I literally would talk in a high pitched squeal that sent our class pet rabbit Clinton running circles in his cage. Anywho, one of my good friends at the time Adrian, took it upon himself to let her know that I liked her behind my back. And so it was, I was in the school yard one day when Micha and Tara (her best friend) approached me. They had a strange way of walking in unison as if they were one single entity which unto itself was quite unsettling.
Tara: So, we heard you like Micha.
Lil' Luis: Uh, no.
Tara: That's not what Adrian said.
Lil' Luis:(shooting Adrian dagger eyes) How would he know?
Tara: Cuz.
Micha: What, you don't like me?
Lil' Luis: ........ (answer given in barely audible high pitched squeal)
Micha: What?
Tara: ANYways, if you like her so much why don't you sit in that huge puddle over there?
Lil' Luis: (contemplating while looking at huge puddle) I don't think so.
Tara: Well, Micha won't talk to you anymore unless you do.
Lil' Luis: But she doesn't talk to me....
Micha: Well I won't start.
Lil' Luis: ...... (high pitched squeal disturbs a flock of birds overhead)
Adrian: Can I talk to my friend for a second?
Now before I get back to the ensuing drama, it is important to note that Adrian was a huge Star Trek: The Next Generation fan. He was wearing his homemade Captain Picard shirt with tin foil communication device at the time....in fact, he always did. He also carried a wooden "phaser" that had an acutal LED lights built in. This guy was an uber geek. He even once had a birthday party where his new age parents created a make shift Enterprise bridge in their basement and we all enacted an actually Ferangie attack. I was given the role of Wharf. Racist bastards. Anywho....
Lil' Luis: Why did you tell her I liked her?
Adrian: Because you'd never tell her yourself.
He was right.
Lil' Luis: Well, I'm not sitting in a puddle....
Adrian: Don't you see? If you sit in the puddle, you'll show her you REALLY care.
Lil" Luis: What?
Adrian: Its a romantic gesture. Its like your willing to do anything for her.
Lil' Luis: But...
Adrian: Don't waste this opportunity.
Looking over, Micha and Tara were standing waiting. In truth, this was the most interest she had ever showed in me ever. And I really did like her....
So I fucking sat in a huge fucking puddle.
And the girls pointed, laughed and walked away, never to invest interest in me again. This was and still sort of is, one of the most humiliating experiences I have ever experienced. I sat there for a good minute with my eyes closed, I just couldn't move. When I finally got up, I went right to the school entrance where a teacher supervising asked what happened. I sarcastically remarked, "What do you think? I pissed my pants." Well apparently I had not yet mastered the art of sarcasm as the teacher took it literally and called my parents telling them that I had in fact pissed my pants. When my mother came to the school to bring me a new pair of pants, she was as embarrassed as I was. "How could a boy your age piss himself?" Sadly, I didn't have the heart to tell her the real story, proving two things: a)It is less embarrassing to say you lost control of your bladder then it is to say you did something incredibly stupid for the love a women and b) never trust a man who says, "engage number one" when entering a room.
And that takes us to Grade six, our final tale in our blog this evening.
When I was in Grade six there was one girl I wanted more then anything else: Hailey. But I never got a chance to talk to her because I was incredibly hyper-active and disruptive and was constantly being put to sit in the cloak room away from the other kids (the joke was on them though, the cloakroom desk had an apple computer with Bubble Bobble loaded on it, explaining why I am so comfortable to this day playing video games rather than socially interacting...hmmm, perhaps the joke is still firmly on me). The one time I was reintegrated with the other children I was placed at table two: right next to Hailey! What an exciting stroke of luck! Sitting there, she smiled and talked to me and for about thirty minutes I was in heaven. At this point, my high pitched whine was refined into a soft whisper...still not a manly tone but I was able to converse, a big plus. At the table with us was Anton, a big, burly blond kid who farted alot and had a kick ass mansion home at Palmerston (have you seen the houses at Palmerston and College? Geez.) Anton was a kid who would throw loonies on the ground and watch kids scramble for them in a frenzy while he laughed hysterically. Anyways, we had these little rubber made bins that contained all of our notebooks. Our teacher called for us to grab one and reaching down into my bin I unleashed a small but very audible fart of my own. I was absolutely TERRIFIED that Hailey heard it. Those days whenever an unexpected toot came out, I'd start farting with my mouth, thus creating the idea that the initial sound was just the beginning of random child noises. It actually works quite well when your ten years old but as you get older, its sometimes better to admit you've broken wind rather then create the image that your a nut job who makes uncontrollable sound effects for no reason. But in this class situation, that simply wouldn't fly. Getting up, I looked around the table. To my surprise, no one noticed....no one but Anton. He had that sadistic look in his eyes that he reserved for watching kids tear each others limbs of for petty change. "LUIS FARTED!" "DID YOU HEAR THAT HAILEY? LUIS FARTED!" I went nuts. I started screaming, "NO I DIDN'T! YOU LIAR! I DIDN'T!" annnnnnd....got sent back to the cloak room where I remained for the rest of the school year.
So no, I never got together with Hailey. But I did get some.
Shaunna was a lovely Korean girl who was a grade younger then me. With her, I didn't have to do anything, she was one of those go-getter types. She pursued me and she did it with style and substance. Basically she invited me to her bday party, where Anton and I were the only boys invited (we weren't supposed to be there, it was all girls. At one point the two of us had to hide from her dad underneath a pile of winter jackets) and we played spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven, which is really how sex is taught. Shaunna made a point to get me in the closet and it was there that the tongue was added to my kissing repertoire. We would from then on find places to hide and make out and once, when her parents were out, we snuck into her house where she took of her shirt. Now I was suddenly entering a higher echelon of hanky panky...and I wasn't complaining. The guys could play all the football they wanted with their hairless penises, I was getting dirty.
Now this would seem like a happy ending but as most of my tales go, this one has a shitty ending. First of all, during our school talent show, Shaunna took my hand and stuck it between her legs. Now mind you, I didn't know what I was doing, I just sort of left it there. However, the teachers noticed and they took us to the office and chastised me for being a pervert. I wasn't sure why, but I quickly came to realize that although female genitalia was uneventful (oh how wrong I was) it was a not an open playground. From that moment onward, sneaking away with Shaunna became nearly impossible and our sexy kiss sessions ceased. I guess without them I was not very desirable because one day while playing Mighty Morphine Power Rangers on my Super Nintendo at home, I got a call from my friend Ian who revealed that Shaunna had invited him over to her house. I didn't believe him, so he put us on three way call (the best way back in '91 to catch a cheating lover...now we've got the Internet) and lo and behold it was all true. I was very sad as I fought with my Blue Ranger that night.
So how did I deal with that trauma? Well perhaps it had been the puddle incident not but a year earlier but I set out to destroy her. I went to school and immediately started dating Jaya, a girl I had never showed any interest in prior and proceeded to flaunt our relationship in front of Shaunna. And it worked, she was really hurt.
And it is there, on this fateful day, that my title of "man whore" can officially said to have begun. I had my first tastes of being hurt by the fairer sex and it brought me much satisfaction to finally strike back. And it would not get prettier from here on in, this I promise you.
And that my friends ends part one of this six part retrospective. Thank you for joining me in this exploration. Please join me next time for GIRLS: Pt. 2 Tweens where there are knife fights, bike chases, alley way roses and lots of heavy petting. OH its a wild one alright.
My chest is hurting a great deal. I'd get xray to check myself out, but knowing me, the damned thing wouldn't work anyway.
Engage, number one.
That Blogging Bastard
P.S. Due to my medical emergency, I'm going to forgo the usual rigorous editiing and just post this sucker. Please feel free to correct my grammar as you read. Thanks.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
nothing particularly serious
Greeting participants of the Internets!
It's that blogging bastard banging out a blog again. Bang.
August was a bit of an off month for me, as I spent much of it drinking and thinking, in about a 60-40 ratio drink to think. Being the end of summer, I always use this time as an excuse to party my ass off and as a result am only just barely able to peel my sorry ass out of bed in time for what little work I have. Blogging during these boozy summer days is nearly impossible as the back light of my screen makes me nauseous. Plus I get sorta brooding when I drink unless there is a dance floor involved. And who wants brooding? Not here cuz this blog is FUN TOWN, baby! We can't stop having fun when we're in FUN TOWN can we? Yay, FUN TOWN, oh yeah!!!
[editors note: Fun Town, the fictional hamlet in Luis' mind, was burned to the ground two days after this blog was written. A gas stove was left on in an old women's first floor kitchen and a fire broke out. The women, one Mildred Horseclap, was allegedly upstairs in her games room having too much fun instead of paying attention to the family supper she was preparing. The fire, now a raging inferno, spread to a nearby propane bottling plant where the workers, too busy having fun in a nearby stock yard, were not present to notice the creeping flames. The resulting explosions tore apart two city blocks, and Fun Town being only two and half blocks, was pretty well razed to the ground. The only two structures still standing are the public aquarium (very fun, you should visit!) and the Town Hall. Luis, having been mayor at the time of this accident, was devastated. He feels personally responsible for failing his civic duty to protect and maintain the thriving tourist destination that existed only in his mind. Please do whatever you can to refrain mentioning Fun Town to him as it will spiral him into a complete and total mental breakdown. Thanks. We will now restart this blog on a more serious note. We appreciate your readership.]
It's fall again and with it comes a crisp wind scented like burning wood. I love that smell. I have no idea where it comes from considering I'm sitting in the urban jungle, but autumn always seems to bring it no matter where you are.
I like the fall. Yes, there is something sad about falling leaves, crunchy walks underfoot and barren branches. But this change, even in a mangled world of concrete, refuses to stop its inevitable course. And in a world where we either resist change to the point of stagnation or embrace it to the point of utter confusion, it is nice to see something that always happens as it should.
Well, I guess we've delayed it with global warming... We've affected even that haven't we? Shit, I thought that was pretty well said. Well, I'm just happy that it seems to be coming when its SUPPOSED to this year. Not a very popular sentiment, I know, but I like my Septembers crisp and cool. Yes, yes, the summer sun is everyone's drug, but I'm a fall kinda guy.
For one I'm better dressed in the fall. I am no fashionista but I can look pretty good with a little effort. But the summer is just too fucking hot to look good. Sure, I could be dressed to the tits but does it really matter when you've sweat your shirt translucent? It's hard to make bodily fluid sexy...well, its hard to admit publicly that it is. Either way, bodily fluid never did me any favors. Ok, there was that one time my semen drove my mom to the airport but that doesn't count. He owed me big time....
So all I have to wear in the summer is a bunch of ironic tee shirts and shitty sports shorts. And ironic tee shirts are like quick hit jokes; funny only the first time you hear them. After the third time you're sick of it. There is a shelf life. And some of my tee shirts expired around the same time the milk in my fridge did. Oh but Fall! Suddenly there is a host of jackets, hats and scarves that come into play. When your bearded this turns you from crack bum to pretentious intellectual faster then you can say Fun Tow....never mind.
My point is I can now go back to being a pretentious intellectual, which is where I want to be. Or rather I just want to look that way as I bum around for crack.
I get very mellow in the fall. Its around this time that I feel like every element of my life needs to be held and reminded that it is loved. I guess its because fall reminds us that change is around the corner at all times, and that we should be thankful for what we have now...hey, I guess thats why Thanksgiving happens around now. Am I stupid for just realizing that now? Probably, right? Bah.
And Halloween is the shit. I'm a sucker for dressing up in a costume, drinking profusely and making out with someone dressed like a cat, only to realize it was in fact your best friends father dressed as Yogi the Bear. That was one wild Halloween, I'll tell you sir.
Clearly, I am just not capable of being serious right now.
I just like the fall. Alright? Do I have to explain everything? It's a nice time. It smells good, I have clothes, I get all heady, I can wear pants. Now I've got some random observations.
Random observation #1:
There is this older guy at the SkyDome who is one of my regular customers. He always buys a single Bud Lime Beer and chats with me pleasantly. He seems to be rather wealthy and talks with what I am guessing is a dutch accent. He calls me Jimmy. I haven't the heart to correct him. Is it weird to ignore an obvious mistake, accept it and then have it become so widely accepted for such a long period of time that to correct it now would unearth a huge lie that most likely will make him wonder why it was not corrected in the first place? Yeah, I thought so too.
Random observation #2
People stop understanding english when the TTC streetcar driver yells, "EVERYONE COULD YOU PLEASE MOVE TO THE BACK! I can not stand this. He isn't asking a question, he is making a statement. There is an entire third of the streetcar empty at the back and yet people who are waiting outside aren't admitted on because there is no room. PEOPLE, MOVE YOUR FUCKING ASS TO THE BACK OF THE FUCKING STREETCAR. This is not about human rights. There is no longer a stigma with sitting at the back of the bus. People need to get on, so move it. I swear to you, people are told this and they stand unmoving and blank faced. "Nope, I don't have to move nowhere, I'm an important person doing important things". UGH. Mark my words I will be more vocal about this in the future. If you are a friend of mine on transit with me, I am truly sorry but I am going to embarrass us.
Random Observation #3
I was coming home with my home slice Brittney in a taxi cab and we were bantering like a drunken Abbott and Costello. This somehow affected the taxi cab driver who amused and smirking asked, "Can you play cassettes?". I was unclear as to what this meant. "You mean like VHS?" "No" he replied, "Like music cassettes. Cassette tapes." Truth be told I couldn't and still can't, but smelling free offerings I replied, "Uh , yeah. " After our ride was completed he pulled out a HUGE box of cassette tapes. "Yeah, I gave them to my daughter, but she moved and made me take them back." It was solid gold baby. Everything from The Guess Who to the Dire Straits. Britt took home Motley Crue but who could blame her? Since then, I've been telling people about this find. No one cares. "Yeah, you ever heard of a computer?. You can have any song you want. Now you've got a huge box on your floor" I guess I'm a dinosaur cuz I'm loving this cosmic gift. Now if only I could find some way to play these cassettes....
ARRRRRRRGGGH!!!!
I'm sorry. Fun Town is gone. And its all my fault. They're all dead! DEAD! I just can't do this right now.
That Blogging Bastard
[editors note: Ok, who mentioned Fun Town? Seriously guys, he's gone off the deep end now. Who was it? Who the fu... Oh wait, he probably read the editors note...this is my fault. Oh God, this is all my fault. ARRRRRGGGH! I just can't do this right now. ]
[random observation #4: Absinth and blogging make for some pretty bizarre writing, no? Oh, I'm sorry? Who is writing this if Luis and his editor are gone? Hi, I'm Peter. I'm Luis friend's dad who he met dressed as Yogi the Bear. Now that was a wild Halloween, let me tell you sir....]
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Uncertainty
Hello there.
Today's blog was going to be about hip-hop music and women but for some reason, as the rain drizzles off my dusty ledges and I sip on coffee bought for me by an abandoning lover, I have no choice but to change my tune and speak on something entirely different.
Today's blog is about life.
As I get older, I can't help but question the meaning of my existence. Each and every day, I wake out of my bed, stubble blindly through my apartment with sleep in my eyes, sit on the toilet and look into the mirror. And when I look at my bearded face I realize I don't recognize myself at all. Who am I? And why do I exist? And why don't I know the answers to the most basic questions of self?
For far too long I've plowed ahead in life with the expectation that life would reward me for simply trying my best to make sense of it. I went to school. I have jobs. I have friends. I have objects. I create art. I remain bitterly opposed to all temptations to give it up, to join the corporate world, to seek a lasting partner and allow anything to deter me from what I want to do NOW. And in doing all this, by remaining staunchly individualistic, I figured a path would eventually form that I could just follow until true purpose was found. Or at the very least, an identity would materialize that I could feel proud of possessing.
But it hasn't. And with each passing day I wonder if somewhere in the tumble of life, I missed something critical because I've spent the whole of my twenties running head first into life, never asking questions, only doing the work that sat in front of me or idly partying away the nights with friends and lovers, saving the real questions for another time.
But increasingly, I wonder if the concept of tomorrow is only an excuse for not dealing with the problems of today. Without trying to seem morbid, tomorrow may never come. And unless one believes in the concept of heaven or reincarnation, there will never be another time to deal with these questions. And even if a heaven exists or the chance to see the world through a new set of eyes is possible, I will never have the opportunity to think THESE thoughts or see the world through THESE eyes again. I exist now and for a limited time only.
So if NOW is the only time we have, then why do we waste it? Or more accurately, because I don't know you or your problems, why do I waste it?
I was reading Chuck Palahniuk's PYGMY, a novel about a young terrorist infiltrating an American family in order to take down the government. As a story, it's only just OK. The narrative, told in broken English from the terrorists perspective, is kinda grating and the story itself is pretty basic and unoriginal. But one thing that did strike me was how the protagonist describes our freedom here in North America. He says:
"Making all effort resist absorption into American cult of the individual, traditional method entrenched oligarchy so maintain own power: Fracture citizen isolated into different religion, different race, different family. Label as rich culture diversity. Cleave as unique until each citizen stand alone. Until each vote invested no value. Single citizen celebrated as special-in actual, remaining no power."
In this statement, that our individuality is merely a way to separate us, to take away our power of community, I see a truth about myself. I have always maintained that I am unique and my story is special. That outside of my own story exists nothing. I am the protagonist, and my personal happiness and discovery is all that matters.
And this is how I have lived. And why shouldn't I? That is the freedom of our world. The freedom to make choices. The freedom to pursue whatever it is we wish.
But what should we pursue exactly? It seems like all we have to look forward to is more money, more objects, more excess. These things cannot enrich our souls, they simply contain the power to distract. And the things that are pure: Love, relationship, philosophy, morality, faith, these things are intangible and created solely in the voids of our minds. They exist only in theory and can be of no use in a society of price tags. We can feel them and they are real, but they are as fleeting as melting snow.
I'm not saying they are purposeless, I am saying that they are not physical and it's the physical and tangible that are society covets. I'm not saying that I don't believe in them; quite the contrary, I believe in them very much. As I've said in previous blogs, I believe Love is the most powerful force in the world. But Love requires a give and take, and needs two or more people to power it into existence. To love unconditionally with no return is to let this ever moving world get ahead of you while you remain stuck in place. To love is to make yourself vulnerable when wolves are always at the gates ready to prey. And in a world of shifting allegiance, of individuality and Capital, where everyone is made to believe their story to be the most important, how can two people find a common ground in which to facilitate love when our focus is solely on ourselves? Why should we compromise our wants when another lover is around the corner, when opportunities are endless, when our media saturated minds treat everything like a new product waiting to be bought? And why should we love aloud when others will take without giving back?
Simply put, I no longer know what is truly worth racing towards. I can no longer distinguish the difference between doing nothing and doing something when I don't know what it is I require to bring about personal satisfaction. No one respects philosophers because they sit around all day lost in thought when action could be taken. And those of action can get ahead and achieve the world, but when they sit alone with their accomplishments and wealth they can never find true contentment when there is always more to be gained. Because nothing is ever good enough; there is always more bounty waiting to be plundered.
So where to go? I've been making theatre for over ten years. It has been my life's work. But I wonder what motivates this work. If it is a true desire to express myself, to evoke thought and speak on the human condition, why choose a medium that is dying when other more direct mediums exist? And if its to make money and a career, why choose an art notorious for impoverishing its creators? And if its to feel important, why does each show close with me sitting at home wondering who I am and why I do it in the first place?
Love is grand but it doesn't pay the bills. Neither does theatre. Neither does blogging.
But this is who I am. This is what I believe. This is what I do. And I, for the life of me, can't figure out why that is.
The rain outside is clearing and the sun breaks through the clouds for the first time. As I sit alone at my computer, thoughts racing around the room like a runaway horse, I contemplate all that I am and where it is I must go next. With no one to hold, no path to walk and no God to guide me, I realize this is my trouble and my trouble alone. We are individuals, all unique as blades of grass, no two are the same. And that is where they get us. Maybe if we joined hands and walked together we could forge something new, discover something better, and figure out why we are here in the first place. But for now, I am an individual and so very, very confused.
"When I became a man, I put away childish things"
Corinthians
Thanks for reading.
That blogging bastard
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