"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
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