Before we begin, a quick joke:
What’s the worst thing to hear when giving Willie Nelson head?
Answer: “I’m not Willie Nelson.”
Ooooooh my aching head.
Technically, today is Day 4 but I couldn’t write last night as Day 3 sort of went off the rails. I was awoken at 11am by the cast of my show coming into the space, where they found me sprawled out in my underwear. This is how I got there….
After my last blog entry, I promptly went for stroll down St. Laurent in search of a smoke meat sandwich. And what a magical walk it was. When I arrived at Schwartz there was no line-up and a place to sit (unheard of). Then I sat in a coffee shop and wrote a scene for my upcoming Fringe show (me being productive, an even more unlikely occurrence). And then I bounced around the frozen streets with a skip in my step and unbridled vigor in my heart (typical). I had a rehearsal in the space and I was jittering with excitement, although I suspect it had everything to do with the seven coffees I consumed. I spent a good portion of the day pissing out what smelled like Columbian Dark Roast. Some people get asparagus pee; I’ve got a small Timothy’s in my pants.
My rehearsal was a blocking rehearsal and to write about it any further would only bore you into a coma, so let’s move on. I don’t need a law suit when OSAP is still knocking on my door.
Sunday Night Improv was fun fun fun even though I was eliminated in the second round. Fuckers.
Just kidding. To be honest, my scene was pretty lame. It was about a guy with a urinary tract infection who could only take epic ten minute pisses (my idea). In retrospect, being a scene partner to a guy pressed against a wall and groaning does not make for compelling theatre. Next week I’ll be better, this I vow! I still had a great time and with the aid of double vodka sodas, networking was a breeze. I think.
Hey, I’ve already made two piss references in this blog. I wonder what that means. Any suggestions, Freud?
Freud: Perhaps it comes from a strong maternal instinct deeply rooted in the subconscious. The act of urination is a shedding of essence, much like the menstruation of a woman. Underneath you search for femininity, for the emotive responses of possessing a womb. Yours was a C-section birth, and this unconscious envy to reconnect to your mother’s….
Ok, Freud. Whatever you say. Fuck off now. What do you think Dr. Dre?
Dr. Dre: Yo, pissing is a fact of life. Stop trying to analyze your shit to death and just start to fucking live. Life is too short for that kind of shit.
And to think they thought we forgot about Dre. Thanks man.
When I start having fake conversations with celebrities you know something is wrong with me.
Freud: If I may, perhaps these conversations are an attempt to…
I SAID FUCK OFF FREUD! Now get back in that kitchen and scrub those pans. Jesus, these new age types, I’ll tell ya.
One really cool thing, I put out a sign-up sheet for actors who would be interested in work shopping my Fringe show while I’m down here. At last count, I’ve got 15 contacts. SWEET. All I have written is one scene. Not so sweet. Time to hit the books.
Money is a perpetual rollercoaster ride and to curb oncoming financial ruin, I decided to buy groceries on Day 3. However, all my salad items froze and turned into a lettuce Popsicle, so I had to throw it all out, thus making their purchase completely unnecessary. Now all I have is salami, mustard, bread, peanut butter and a bag of apples. This has to last me until February 3rd. Anyone who wishes to send me a pork roast by courier can do so anytime now. I promise you that I will repay you in heaven with a nice harp solo and if I don’t make it up there and get sent to hell, I’ll have Satan send you some coupons on twitter. Although this is Satan we are talking about, so it might not be coupons but the Black Plague instead. On second thought, don’t open that attachment. Just assume that my roasting for eternity is in honor of you sending me this roast. On the bright side, it will be nice to lose some weight.
A little known fact about Theatre Ste. Catherine: There is a recording studio in the laundry room downstairs. The master of this chamber of boom is Jeff Louch, brother of Mark Louch, one of the theatres owners. Jeff is doing all the music for Squeegee Nights and after the improv show we all went down and practiced our songs for the play. It was a blast, I was hammer timed as was everyone else and we rocked out with our cocks out, and the singing definitely came from our balls (see Day 2) and I could only assume that for the women it came from their clits. We were dancing around, scatting with the de da bop do da skiddly bop, and generally having a grand ol’ time. Was it good? I have no idea. But man was I enjoying those vodka sodas.
When that was done we went upstairs to find that many of the improvisers were still kicking around so we continued to pound the beers like racing cyclists handed plastic cups. Around 2am the place started to empty out, and I was about to get ready to write my blog and hit the hay. That’s when Jeff suggested going to a bar called the Sparrow up in the Mile End for one beer (keep in mind that last call is 3am in Montreal). One beer. The idea of “one” beer is a fallacy. I just can’t do it. It’s as fake as “one” lays chip (don’t make that bet) and “one” love. Sorry Bob Marley.
Bob Marley: Hey, it’s no problem.
What the fuck are you doing out of the kitchen!?! Get back in there! And make sure to rinse thoroughly, my last coffee tasted like Sunshine ultra shine!
Bob Marley: Hey, don’t worry 'bout a thing, 'cuz every little things gonna be alright.
Very cute. Now pass me that spliff and make sure Dre gets a hit.
Ok, back to life, back to reality. So we went out to the Sparrow and surprisingly it was only one beer. That’s because the bartender wanted to get the fuck out of there and let us know that our first beer would be our last beer. For a brief window it seemed like I was actually going to be in bed in a timely fashion. But then Jeff revealed that he had two bottles of wine and suggested we go to a friend’s house nearby and that’s when the shit hit the fan.
Without getting too specific, there were a lot of things being passed around and the night was lost in a haze of music and love. Liquorice tea was made and a friend of Jeff’s was passing out cigarettes like a cancer giving Santa Clause. Turns out he was the former owner of an afterhours club here in Montreal. The stories he told were pretty CRAZY. For instance, he told us about the time he purchased Vodka from a Native reserve and bottled them in plastic water bottles to sell. The next day, the vodka was so strong it warped the plastic. I said, “shit, do you think that would have killed someone if had been consumed?” He replied, “I hope not, I still sold it all.” Yup.
Long story short, Mark and I arrived back at the theatre at 7am. I ate three salami sandwiches and passed out in an awkward position where I was found by my cast. I had to get up and go right into rehearsal. I wondered why the fire alarm was going off only to discover it was the ringing in my head I was hearing. It was embarrassing when I pulled out the fire blanket and told everyone to drop and roll.
And for my finale, a funny story. Earlier at the Sparrow, I mentioned to the posse how I have often thought about moving to Montreal but my lack of French language skills is what keeps me from committing to the idea. I would like to imagine myself as generally charming, and it’s hard to work that charm when you can’t be understood. Little did I know my theory would be put immediately to the test when we entered the house party. From the moment I arrived an attractive French girl took notice of me and struck up a conversation.
French Girl: (something in French)
Luis: Sorry, I speak English.
French Girl: You don’t speak French?
Luis: It’s embarrassing, I know.
French Girl: Not even a little bit?
Luis: (attempting to be charming) Non.
French Girl: Well you should learn. It’s sexy.
Luis: What, you’re saying I’m not sexy?
French: No, you are, physically. And talking to you, I think you would be charming. It’s too bad. (Walks away.)
And that’s how that went down. Why? Why didn’t I pay attention in French class? Or for that matter, math class, geography class, music class, gym class and home economics? All I ever paid attention to was English and Theatre. And upon reflection, I guess that says a hell of a lot about my current lot in life.
It just occurred to me, if you send me a roast, and I die and you get a Tweet from Satan, it’s probably because I force dead and living celebrities to clean my kitchen. Perhaps I need to re-evaluate my life. Or my sanity.
C’est la vie.
That blogging bastard
P.S. This was my second time writing this piece of shit entry. If blogger craps out one more time and I lose one more entry, I’m gonna…well nothing. I am powerless in this electronic era.
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