"I guess its time for one of those inspirational speeches. Get ready. Buckle your seat belts. Strap yourself in. What we embark on today is more then just an adventure. Tonight we go below Berri Uqam station to conquer our fears. For every day is a protest. Every day is a revolution. Tonight we join our brothers in the struggle. This is for ARGENTINA! THIS IS FOR THE UKRAINE! THIS IS FOR OUR BROTHERS IN EGYPT! THIS IS FOR SPARTA!!! AS GOD AS MY WITNESS WE are going to find THE RAT DRAGON! WE ARE GOING TO SAVE OUR FRIEND JESSE! AND TOGETHER, WE WILL MAKE THIS WORLD A BETTER PLACE FOR OUR CHILDREN OR WE SHALL DIE TRYING! Who's with me? YAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
-Fernando, Squeegee Nights
Every night, to the booming soundtrack of Tron, I get to deliver this passionate speech to the audience. Its the most fun I've had on stage in a long time.
The last two nights have been dominated by our performances of Squeegee Nights. In theatre, where everything is rehearsed and manipulated in hours of rehearsals, it has been both parts refreshing and nerve wracking going back to my sketch comedy roots, where material is untested, where improvisation is expected,and where the only thing that you can do is give it your ALL every step of the way. Each night leaves my voice nearly broken, sweating profusely and sore across every bone and tendon in my body. It's wild. There is live music, fight scenes, tons of props, and there is something kinetic about the rawness of it all. We didn't have alot of time to get it all together. But when you're in a show that apes a punk aesthetic, doing a polished piece doesn't really fit the material. This is punk theatre, where everything and anything goes.
And the celebrations that follow, with the theatre sound system booming, Appleton's rum coming straight from the jug, cigarettes around the piano screaming, good friends and new friends speaking in two separate languages, and JD shots ringing throughout the night....the celebrations that follow might be my favorite part.
I don't care if this is a romantic notion: Montreal has an energy, a certain quality that is hard to define, especially for an English speaking Torontonian who can only feel it but doesn't have the language to speak it. There is a magic, and that magic has carried me through the last few days here. I am alive. I am happy to be reminded.
Tonight is our closing night. Many suspect it will be a full house. I'm resting my voice until then, as I've nearly lost it from all my screaming, drinking and singing. I just want to ensure I can do it one last time.
If ever I doubted my lot in life, and anyone who reads this blog knows I do it on the daily, I have to say that the last week has really reaffirmed why I do this theatre shit in the first place. It's not just about fun, or glory, or fame. It's not about reviews, congratulations, or expression. It's not about being the centre of attention. It's about building community. And the rapport that's developed, with our cast and our audience over the last week is something special.
So to all those who worry about me: my parents, extended family, friends, co-workers, teachers, doctors. Yes, I drink too much. My diet can be sporadic. My sleep is disturbed. My finances are a jumble. My future uncertain.
But I have the best fucking life this world has to offer. And believe me, I wouldn't change a damn thing.
Tonight's gonna be a party, y'all.
Squeegee Nights. Thou art a thing of beauty.
That Blogging Bastard
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Great Montreal Theatre Escape Day 5 & 6
WOOOOT!
Luis got paid today! I promptly celebrated this exciting development by buying a $20 breakfast. This explains alot about my relationship with money: When I have it, I spend it until I don't. Then I bitch. Repeat.
The reason for the $20 breakfast was I couldn't decide on the big breakfast (ham, two eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast, fruit, crepe) or the eggs Benedict. So I asked if I could get the eggs Benedict with the breakfast. They did it for a cost. Upon receiving this meal, I realized that not being a family of four, I probably should have stopped being so fucking indecisive and just chose one or the other. But I got PAID bitch. I can do what I want. And if what I want to do is give myself severe indigestion, then I god damn will.
Writing about my breakfast, what an entertainer.
So why combine Days 5 & 6 in a single blog? Well for one, I've done almost nothing except rehearse over the last few days, so its not like anything particularly exciting has happened. I pretty much keep to my lovely theatre home, stepping outside for the occasional can of pop or group cigarette. Unlike Toronto, where news of snow sends us into a frenzy of fear, Montreal accepts the fact that it is as cold as stealing from your paraplegic mother and gets more snow than a Cuban drug lord. As of right now, there is about a foot of the white stuff, and no one acts like it's a big deal. For me, it pretty much keeps me from venturing too far from home base. After all I'm from Toronto, the shit freaks me out. I'm contemplating whether or not to purchase a gun, lest the snow finds a way to break in here and eat my brains. Wait is that snow, zombies or children that eat brains? Whatever, I'll shoot any of the above if they try to breach my perimeter.
The other reason for combining Day 5 & 6? I'm a lazy bastard.
One thing that was a boat load of awesome (I always carry awesome in pairs a la Noah) was The Found Footage festival who came to Theatre Ste. Catherine for one night only. The Found Footage Festival hails from New York and their gig is that they scour the planet for old and bizarre VHS footage (and yes, they adhere to this; they rarely take any material found on DVD) and curate them for a viewing audience. They are in Toronto tonight (Feb.03) at the Bloor Cinema and if you can check it out, I suggest that you do. The video reel they are currently touring is hilarious and includes footage of a parking lot at a Judas Priest concert 1985, a man who produced a Rent-a-friend home video, cats on motorcycles, a do-it-yourself penis injection and how to be a ventriloquist instructional videos. I was pissing myself. You will too.
Tonight opens Squeegee Nights, Alain's opus to Montreal Squeegee kids. I play Fernando, a super intense political activist who learns the meaning of restraint. I know about 25% of my lines, and about 2% of my blocking. But this is punk rock, muthafucka. So I'll give it 100% commitment and 250% chutzpah. Crunching the numbers, this still makes it more compelling than 93.4% of anything happening at the Tarragon right now. (please hire me Tarragon. please.)
The show has a full punk band on stage and the sonic output could very well blow the windows of the theatre out onto the streets. This would leave us vulnerable to a snow or children attack. Yeah, I think I'm going to get a semi-automatic.
And in other news, I might have to fly back to Toronto for one night only. My agent called me and there is a play from New York coming to Toronto for this years Illuminato festival. Apparently, they need non-equity actors and they actually requested to see me. As for why, I can only guess. Perhaps they read somewhere that I'm used to working for soup and half-price tickets to Famous Players Cineplexes. Or maybe they think I'm Zack Galifianakis.
About that. If I have one more person look at my bearded face and go, "hey, are you the guy from The Hangover?", I'm gonna say yes, and try to have sex with them. I figure if people are gonna keep doing it, I should at least try to enjoy it. Or maybe I will just pop a cap in their ass. This gun idea is getting better all the time. (oh such a slippery slope.)
But seriously, I am not the guy from the Hangover. I am far less talented and famous and I wish you would stop making me feel like my appearance is cooler than I actually am. And while we are at it, stop calling me Moses, Kevin Smith, Santa, Huckleberry and a pedophile. It's a fucking beard. Look beyond the hair on my face, and into the soul behind my eyes. (seriously Tarragon, take a look, my soul would be ideal for Richard Rose's incisive direction).
Sorry about all the Tarragon references my non-theatre friends. Its a theatre in Toronto that needs to hire me. I'm an excellent snack stand attendant and my mopping skills are unparalleled.
So we got to set this show up. I'm going to run my lines, sweep, run my lines, mop, run my lines, eat, run my lines, put on my makeup, run my lines, meditate, run my lines, take target practice with my gun, run my lines, kill a bunch of snow, run my lines, run my lines and then run my lines. And then perform for an enraptured audience who paid big money to see Zack Galifianakis.
It's going to be slobber knocker.
Encore!
That Blogging Bastard
P.S. I'm just kidding. I got this shit well in hand. My lines are 85% memorized. You see, I'm a professional. It's all here on my resume, Mr. Rose.
Luis got paid today! I promptly celebrated this exciting development by buying a $20 breakfast. This explains alot about my relationship with money: When I have it, I spend it until I don't. Then I bitch. Repeat.
The reason for the $20 breakfast was I couldn't decide on the big breakfast (ham, two eggs, bacon, potatoes, toast, fruit, crepe) or the eggs Benedict. So I asked if I could get the eggs Benedict with the breakfast. They did it for a cost. Upon receiving this meal, I realized that not being a family of four, I probably should have stopped being so fucking indecisive and just chose one or the other. But I got PAID bitch. I can do what I want. And if what I want to do is give myself severe indigestion, then I god damn will.
Writing about my breakfast, what an entertainer.
So why combine Days 5 & 6 in a single blog? Well for one, I've done almost nothing except rehearse over the last few days, so its not like anything particularly exciting has happened. I pretty much keep to my lovely theatre home, stepping outside for the occasional can of pop or group cigarette. Unlike Toronto, where news of snow sends us into a frenzy of fear, Montreal accepts the fact that it is as cold as stealing from your paraplegic mother and gets more snow than a Cuban drug lord. As of right now, there is about a foot of the white stuff, and no one acts like it's a big deal. For me, it pretty much keeps me from venturing too far from home base. After all I'm from Toronto, the shit freaks me out. I'm contemplating whether or not to purchase a gun, lest the snow finds a way to break in here and eat my brains. Wait is that snow, zombies or children that eat brains? Whatever, I'll shoot any of the above if they try to breach my perimeter.
The other reason for combining Day 5 & 6? I'm a lazy bastard.
One thing that was a boat load of awesome (I always carry awesome in pairs a la Noah) was The Found Footage festival who came to Theatre Ste. Catherine for one night only. The Found Footage Festival hails from New York and their gig is that they scour the planet for old and bizarre VHS footage (and yes, they adhere to this; they rarely take any material found on DVD) and curate them for a viewing audience. They are in Toronto tonight (Feb.03) at the Bloor Cinema and if you can check it out, I suggest that you do. The video reel they are currently touring is hilarious and includes footage of a parking lot at a Judas Priest concert 1985, a man who produced a Rent-a-friend home video, cats on motorcycles, a do-it-yourself penis injection and how to be a ventriloquist instructional videos. I was pissing myself. You will too.
Tonight opens Squeegee Nights, Alain's opus to Montreal Squeegee kids. I play Fernando, a super intense political activist who learns the meaning of restraint. I know about 25% of my lines, and about 2% of my blocking. But this is punk rock, muthafucka. So I'll give it 100% commitment and 250% chutzpah. Crunching the numbers, this still makes it more compelling than 93.4% of anything happening at the Tarragon right now. (please hire me Tarragon. please.)
The show has a full punk band on stage and the sonic output could very well blow the windows of the theatre out onto the streets. This would leave us vulnerable to a snow or children attack. Yeah, I think I'm going to get a semi-automatic.
And in other news, I might have to fly back to Toronto for one night only. My agent called me and there is a play from New York coming to Toronto for this years Illuminato festival. Apparently, they need non-equity actors and they actually requested to see me. As for why, I can only guess. Perhaps they read somewhere that I'm used to working for soup and half-price tickets to Famous Players Cineplexes. Or maybe they think I'm Zack Galifianakis.
About that. If I have one more person look at my bearded face and go, "hey, are you the guy from The Hangover?", I'm gonna say yes, and try to have sex with them. I figure if people are gonna keep doing it, I should at least try to enjoy it. Or maybe I will just pop a cap in their ass. This gun idea is getting better all the time. (oh such a slippery slope.)
But seriously, I am not the guy from the Hangover. I am far less talented and famous and I wish you would stop making me feel like my appearance is cooler than I actually am. And while we are at it, stop calling me Moses, Kevin Smith, Santa, Huckleberry and a pedophile. It's a fucking beard. Look beyond the hair on my face, and into the soul behind my eyes. (seriously Tarragon, take a look, my soul would be ideal for Richard Rose's incisive direction).
Sorry about all the Tarragon references my non-theatre friends. Its a theatre in Toronto that needs to hire me. I'm an excellent snack stand attendant and my mopping skills are unparalleled.
So we got to set this show up. I'm going to run my lines, sweep, run my lines, mop, run my lines, eat, run my lines, put on my makeup, run my lines, meditate, run my lines, take target practice with my gun, run my lines, kill a bunch of snow, run my lines, run my lines and then run my lines. And then perform for an enraptured audience who paid big money to see Zack Galifianakis.
It's going to be slobber knocker.
Encore!
That Blogging Bastard
P.S. I'm just kidding. I got this shit well in hand. My lines are 85% memorized. You see, I'm a professional. It's all here on my resume, Mr. Rose.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Great Montreal Theatre Escape DAY 4
This one shall be brief.
After waking up from a bit of a bender and having a rehearsal where I was essentially a bit character in a George A. Romero film, I spent all of DAY 4 writing about DAY 3. And that is only because I had to write the entry twice.
This happens all the time. I write a blog, I press the wrong key and hours of writing is gone in a blink of an eye. I scream, I shed a few tears, and I stop writing blogs for about a month. This time, in my usual flustered rage, I accidentally dropped my loaner cell phone on the ground shattering it. (and there goes my $50 deposit. Bah.)
Having established out the gate that I was going to chronicle my Montreal trip day by day, I could not allow my latest fuck up to sap my determination.
So even though KID KOALA was in house tonight (more on this is a second), I stayed up in my third floor office apartment and painstakingly rewrote the entire thing. And considering my head was a ping-pong game from hell, it wasn't easy. But I did it. And now I write DAY 4 with an eye for minimalism. (And really, I've got very little to talk about).
One of the most exciting aspects of my Montreal excursion was that for every Monday night I am here, KID KOALA, and yes he gets bold caps every time I type his name, is running his Music To Draw To series. Obviously, I am a huge fan, so this made me mess my pants when the news came in. What the night entails is KID KOALA comes to the theatre, sets up his DJ booth, sets up a bunch of tables, unveils a bunch of goodies for purchase like cookies and hot chocolate, and spins music while people drop in to draw, write and apparently knit. The whole atmosphere is very relaxed and really quite nice. I won't lie, even though I would love to see him rip that shit with the scratch and fade turntablism that he is known for, I will still take any opportunity to eat a chocolate macadamia biscuit whilst writing on my lappy as one of my favorite DJs selects songs in my very own living environment. So SICK.
Still, I had to write a blog twice today and being barely alive, decided to do so in the comfort of my upstairs lair. So next week I'll get down to enjoying my incredible fortune. Today, well, let's just put this one on the Forget Me list.
Got aspirin?
That Blogging Bastard
p.s. Just before posting this, I finally discovered where blogger stores our saved data. What a kick in the teeth. The good news is that some of my lost blogs might be salvageable, and this might include excerpts from my lost epic GIRLS 2. Even though I am annoyed, this makes my plight a little more manageable. More as things develop.
After waking up from a bit of a bender and having a rehearsal where I was essentially a bit character in a George A. Romero film, I spent all of DAY 4 writing about DAY 3. And that is only because I had to write the entry twice.
This happens all the time. I write a blog, I press the wrong key and hours of writing is gone in a blink of an eye. I scream, I shed a few tears, and I stop writing blogs for about a month. This time, in my usual flustered rage, I accidentally dropped my loaner cell phone on the ground shattering it. (and there goes my $50 deposit. Bah.)
Having established out the gate that I was going to chronicle my Montreal trip day by day, I could not allow my latest fuck up to sap my determination.
So even though KID KOALA was in house tonight (more on this is a second), I stayed up in my third floor office apartment and painstakingly rewrote the entire thing. And considering my head was a ping-pong game from hell, it wasn't easy. But I did it. And now I write DAY 4 with an eye for minimalism. (And really, I've got very little to talk about).
One of the most exciting aspects of my Montreal excursion was that for every Monday night I am here, KID KOALA, and yes he gets bold caps every time I type his name, is running his Music To Draw To series. Obviously, I am a huge fan, so this made me mess my pants when the news came in. What the night entails is KID KOALA comes to the theatre, sets up his DJ booth, sets up a bunch of tables, unveils a bunch of goodies for purchase like cookies and hot chocolate, and spins music while people drop in to draw, write and apparently knit. The whole atmosphere is very relaxed and really quite nice. I won't lie, even though I would love to see him rip that shit with the scratch and fade turntablism that he is known for, I will still take any opportunity to eat a chocolate macadamia biscuit whilst writing on my lappy as one of my favorite DJs selects songs in my very own living environment. So SICK.
Still, I had to write a blog twice today and being barely alive, decided to do so in the comfort of my upstairs lair. So next week I'll get down to enjoying my incredible fortune. Today, well, let's just put this one on the Forget Me list.
Got aspirin?
That Blogging Bastard
p.s. Just before posting this, I finally discovered where blogger stores our saved data. What a kick in the teeth. The good news is that some of my lost blogs might be salvageable, and this might include excerpts from my lost epic GIRLS 2. Even though I am annoyed, this makes my plight a little more manageable. More as things develop.
The Great Montreal Theatre Escape DAY 3
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.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Great Montreal Theatre Escape DAY 2
"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
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
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.
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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.
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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.
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