It was a wild one.
I woke up on Day 21 at 8am with a rumble in my stomach. I turned over in my knitted blanket and pressed my face hard into the cot mattress. I was half in a dream and grumbled, lost between the escalating light of morning and some fantastical nightmare. There was something going on inside me and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I woke up with a start slick with sweat. It soon became apparent that I was going to be sick. I stumbled down to the green room bathroom, slammed open the unlockable washroom door and for lack of a better metaphor, unleashed hell. I don't want to be graphic, so let's just say I was seeing action at both ends. Wiping off my beard, I slouched my way up the stairs and shivered back under my blanket.
This scenario played out every hour on the hour.
At 10:30 Alain came crashing in, screaming mocked reggae lyrics. I turned to him and said, "I have the flu." "Oh shit, seriously?" I then proved it by going down to the bathroom and barfing violently.
The day was supposed to be a busy one. I had a dress rehearsal for my show from 3pm-5pm, followed by a Stratford audition across town, followed by coming straight back to the theatre opening night of our show. And I was pancaked to my bed, spewing like a punctured water balloon.
When 3pm rolled around, I couldn't join my cast for rehearsal. My head was full of stones and I didn't have the energy to move, much less crawl down the stairs and act. Robin my director was understanding. But I felt awful, both for missing such a critical rehearsal and for upchucking my last two meals.
I decided around 4pm, that I would try to make the audition. I dragged my sorry ass to the shower and attempted to wash away my lethargy. As the water drizzled soap down my body, I stared at my reflection in the glass shower. And there sat Death's face. Although I could see this half-alive look aiding me in my Macbeth monologue, I figured it unlikely that I could travel across the city without keeling over. After dressing, I sat on the couch in my 3 floor office home, and remained stuck there for the next hour. Using all the physical energy I had, I lifted the phone to my ear and promptly called my agent to cancel the audition. This probably irritated him, as he went to great efforts to have my Toronto audition moved to Montreal. But the facts remained, I couldn't be trusted to travel anywhere without a portable toilet.
Mark and his partner Isabelle, having been recently stricken with the 24hour flu, came to the rescue with a care package consisting of chicken noodle soup and "magic juice" which turned out to be water, orange juice and salt. I sipped at both cautiously, afraid to provoke the puke demon curling its knuckles in my guts.
The cast began to get ready for the show, and I couldn't for the life of me wrap my head around the fact that I was only an hour away from performing. I stood in my costume (consisting of leather pants, spiked punk vest and toque) looking like a lost ghost. Karl (the nicest man in show business)bought me a red Gatorade, which actually helped a great deal. I wondered what would become of me during the show. Would I vomit in the back area? Would I run to the bathroom mid-scene? I thought, well I'm playing an alcoholic, maybe it would make sense if I just puked on stage, or shit my pants during the action. Maybe it could add to the realism. But then I thought about the embarrassment, and even worse, the clean up. In the end, I screwed up the last vestiges of self and just did the fucking thing.
It was hard work. All my scenes are high energy, and it was difficult to elevate myself. I didn't puke during my song,but I was sweating profusely and getting light headed. I swigged water out of a prop beer bottle and it made me nauseous. The character I'm playing is truly a loathsome individual and ultimately, I think my physical sliminess only added to the effect. When I got cracked over the head in the plays final moments, the crowd actually cheered. Playing unconscious was the easiest part of my performance.
And so I made it through. Today I am feeling much better, and I wonder if it was truly the flu I had or just some kind of food poisoning. But all in all, Day 21 was not my finest day in Montreal, even if it was the most dramatic.
Nasty.
That Blogging Bastard
Friday, February 18, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Great Montreal Theatre Escape Days 11,12, 13,14,15,16, 17, 18, 19, 20
Ok, so I kinda fell off the daily blog thing. When your in a different city, and you're doing theatre, and there is a whole lot of drinking involved, making a blog gets sorta hard. Plus my friends were making fun of me for always writing them instead of being social. So peer pressure had a lot to do with it. Anyways, here is a summary of things:
I have been living in an upstairs at the Theatre Ste. Catherine. No matter how early or late I go to bed, or whether I pass out on the couch or folding cot provided, I am awoken by bright intense light and/or Alain screaming profanities at me. I have bags under my eyes the size of Gucci catch alls. Thankfully, my fellow actor Karl Werleman is house sitting and gave me the keys to his empty apartment. A sweet repreive, yes, but I often stick around for shows and end up staying at the theatre until late. By the time it's over it's almost 1am and I'm too lazy to leave for the Metro ride to the apartment. So I'm pretty exhausted all the time. The nights I have used the apartment, I become enraptured with the thought of actually living in a cozy 1 bedroom with a spiral staircase in Montreal. But then I step outside my door and bump into a person who says a few quick French sentences and I look up and smile idioidically and whisper "excuse" in an accent that sounds like Inspector Clouseau mixed with a retarded seal, and I remember why I don't. I need to learn French. I just do. And my DS French Coach videogame isn't cutting it.
Money is getting tight. Some days I settle for a few spoon fulls of Kraft crunchy peanut butter and a couple slices of cheddar (not mine) as a meal substitute. Luckily, people have stepped up to provide some good meals and for that I am greatful. Just yesterday my Director Robin made a vegetarian chilli that was delicious even if it converted my butt into a wind instrument. That meal had more nutrients in it then I probably had all week.
And so I prepare for Moans, a muscial where I play a terribly abusive alcoholic who terrorizes his girlfriend until a good friend comes in to put an end to it. It's a great play and I'm excited to do it; it opens tomorrow (Thursday Feb. 17th). My cast is fun, the script is deep and I get to swear alot and sing a rock song. So all in all, its going to be a blast.
Interesting story: Moans was born of a 24 play night. The writers had a limited amount of hours to work on it, then a group of actors came in and their headshots were picked at random. Finally, with scripts and cast matched, directors came in to stage them. And with lightening quick speed they were presented to an audience. MOANS was borne of this process and so well did the actors, director and actors gel, they decided to expand it and turn it into an hour long theatre show. I am very honored to be apart of this workshop and look forward to being part of the remount in June for the Montreal Fringe. More details to come when I've got them.
So this has been my focus over the last week or so.
I did watch the Super Bowl. Yup. It was football alright. Exciting game I guess, I just had nothing invested in it. It was fun to gossip with my friend Cassandra and eat pizza though. As for the half time concert, I have to give it to the Black Eyed Peas for making a spectacle of a hundred neon glowing dancers nearly unwatchable. And c'mon, Slash? Are there no other iconic guitarists around to schlep a solo with? I mean other than Carlos Santana.
I also watched Blue Valentine on Valentines Day which was a big mistake. It was well acted but so fucking sad. The two friends I went with were crying their eyes out, so I suggested getting Martini's. After two, I was no longer sad, just comfortable and sleepy. I've decided that Valentine's day was only fun when we gave each other little cards with corporate cartoon characters on them. Or when you have a few stiff Gin based beverages. OR if you're in love and with your lover, I guess. By having the gin, I was doing my very best to be festive.
I blew down to Toronto for under 24 hours for an audition. My friend Katie came down with me and made the most of her brief time there. In fact, she photo blogged about he whole thing and I was surprised at how beautiful Toronto is when you watch it through a newbies eyes. In fact, the whole trip made me a little home sick. I look forward to having a bedroom again.
Kid Koala's Monday nights were cool but it wasn't the scratch fest I was hoping for. It was just a nice gathering of artists. But I wanted to jump around to hip-hop, wanted to see some beat juggling, get rowdy. Nope. Cookies, coffee, tea. Some Bjork. A little Fela Kuti. Some nice patio lighting. Again, it was cool, I just wanted some boom boom pow. And not the Black Eyed Peas kind, cuz I'm not into wearing circuit boards on my shoulders.
And so it is. I'm inspired. Blah blah blah.
I am getting ready for a rehearsal that runs 10pm-1am. I am doing this by drinking beer and running lines. The lighting plot is now being tested and I'm getting a bit tipsy. I keep telling myself this is fine, since my character is a drunk. And this is how method acting becomes my enabler. I'm a bearded Portuguese man, so I'm not usually cast as the hunky jock or sterotypical white leading man, and this is something I am comfortable with. As a result, I'm always cast as drug dealers, junkies, villians, street toughs, shady business men, hustlers and various other forms of scumbag. But being something of a lunatic, I tend to take getting into character a little too literally. And I often find myself doing things that could be construed as destructive. Today I started drinking a tad early, and the burn out is hitting me something fierce. So whether or not this helps in my role is questionable. But this I will promise: There will not be a more convincing drunken asshole on stage than I. Now someone get me some water, I think I'm going to be sick.
Ok. I'll blog about opening night. And soon, very soon, I will be back in Toronto. I'm sorry if I start slapping you around and yelling profanities when you see me. It means I've probably just got cast as your dad.
Peace homies.
That blogging bastard
P.S. Marvel vs. Capcom 3 just came out yesterday. If you are a huge nerd like me (there are a few of you out there), this marks an exciting time to waste our life energies on playing videogames and shit talking each other. If you'd like to join me in some button mashing goodness, give me a shout. Oh, I'm sooooo excited. Women reading this, yes, I am not worthy of your love or respect. Now you know.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Great Montreal Theatre Escape DAYS 9 & 10
Daily blogs are a lot harder than I thought. I simply don't know what to say quickly enough.
So much has happened in the last 5 days, its impossible to encapsulate the experience succinctly. Whenever I write here, I try to condense my thoughts, keep it brisk and entertaining. But still, I get caught up and my long windedness takes over.
So how to tell you what made the last two days so profound? Is there a way to experience my feelings when even I don't have the words for them?
All I can give you are the following stories:
-After our first performance, where only 5 audience members attended, some members of the cast stayed behind and drank. By the the mid-way point of a huge bottle of Appleton rum, we were on the piano singing. My voice was raw from screaming in the play, but I sang an improvised ballad about skinning dogs. I don't' know how that started or why, but it was the first time in my life someone hearing me sing said, "wow I really like your voice." Energized by this sudden confidence, I spent a good part of Closing night jamming onstage with a variety of musicians. In front of three Quebecois teens, I did three improvised blues songs with an acoustic guitar and simple drum kit. The lone kid who wasn't involved sat and watched. Afterwards, he would turn to me and tell me it was amazing. I have never sang before. This experience, and I make no illusions of being any good, has in one fell swoop helped me get over my fear of singing. It's taken 29 years, but I think I'll see you at karaoke tonight. Seriously, this is a gift.
-During squeegee nights there is a part of the show where I kill a golf swinging yuppie. Cafy, the lead squeegee asks what we should do with the body:
Cafy: What should we do with his dead body?
Fernando: Conservation first. Waste not want not, my young squeegee friends. We're going to eat him. I spent two years with the Inuit and they believe in using the whole carcass. We'll start here with the buttocks and thigh, its where the most meat is.
At this point, I pull out a packet of prosciutto deli meat (hidden naturally) and proceed to mime cutting off chunks of person and feed the cast. My enemy, Glenn, a former hipster turned squeegee won't eat.
Glenn: Actually guys I can't. I'm a vegetarian actually.
Fernando: Oh come on Glenn!
Cafy: I'm a vegetarian too Glenn, but I eat fish....and human.
Fernando: And I'm a free-gen. You say you're a squeegee pretty boy, start eating like one!
I hand him some prosciutto and he partakes reluctantly. The final night, without telling the actor playing Glenn (Glyn Jones, a class act if ever there was), I replaced his prosciutto with an ACTUAL VEAL HEART. It was huge, bulbous, and only cost me a cool $5. It was disgusting. The whole cast knew I was going to play this practical joke, we were all excited to see what would happen. The script demands the he has to eat the meat.
Well it happened and I pulled out the heart on stage and the look on Glyn's face was PRICELESS. The heart split open in my hand, revealing the inside of it to the audience. The crowd was physically repulsed, I could feel and hear them shudder. Glyn, contemplating in his mind what was happening, took the heart and delivered his line:
Glenn: Free-gen it is!
He then (with great hesitation) rubbed his face in the heart, getting a delighted (and disgusted) squeal out of the audience. Against all my actors training, I broke out in laughter. I couldn't believe it. It was one of the funniest moments I have experienced on stage.
-Walking along the Montreal streets at God only knows what hour, down one of those picturesque streets with brick houses and spiral staircases, and realizing that all the snow on the streets was untouched, that as far as the eye could see was one solid blanket with no imperfections. Holding that moment and breathing in the frozen air.
-Waking up a bag of shit after a raucous night of partying and slinging my ass across a city I don't really know, to find a man at a piano waiting to teach me a song. Getting there and knowing that I could, without a fear of looking foolish.
-Standing in an empty theatre barefoot. Remembering the ghosts of things that had passed. Sitting across an empty stage; a blank canvas with unlimited possibilities. Yesterday held great moments on stage that lived and died and would never be seen again. Another will quickly take its place. And that setting up and tearing down, that constant cycle of human expression, the ritual of experiencing temporary things, that's what theatre is about.
-Being away from the people I love, and knowing that great love exists no matter where your feet land. Knowing that distance can't erase the permanent marker on our heart. Knowing that every day contains something worthwhile to experience. And above all, remembering that we are a part of creating that experience.
That's the best I can do. Obviously, I am inspired and a being a tad too romantic, have made it a big deal in my mind. I promise a lot of shit jokes in the next one. Perhaps a fake conversation with a fictional character. That should do the trick.
A poet-in-residence
That Blogging Bastard
So much has happened in the last 5 days, its impossible to encapsulate the experience succinctly. Whenever I write here, I try to condense my thoughts, keep it brisk and entertaining. But still, I get caught up and my long windedness takes over.
So how to tell you what made the last two days so profound? Is there a way to experience my feelings when even I don't have the words for them?
All I can give you are the following stories:
-After our first performance, where only 5 audience members attended, some members of the cast stayed behind and drank. By the the mid-way point of a huge bottle of Appleton rum, we were on the piano singing. My voice was raw from screaming in the play, but I sang an improvised ballad about skinning dogs. I don't' know how that started or why, but it was the first time in my life someone hearing me sing said, "wow I really like your voice." Energized by this sudden confidence, I spent a good part of Closing night jamming onstage with a variety of musicians. In front of three Quebecois teens, I did three improvised blues songs with an acoustic guitar and simple drum kit. The lone kid who wasn't involved sat and watched. Afterwards, he would turn to me and tell me it was amazing. I have never sang before. This experience, and I make no illusions of being any good, has in one fell swoop helped me get over my fear of singing. It's taken 29 years, but I think I'll see you at karaoke tonight. Seriously, this is a gift.
-During squeegee nights there is a part of the show where I kill a golf swinging yuppie. Cafy, the lead squeegee asks what we should do with the body:
Cafy: What should we do with his dead body?
Fernando: Conservation first. Waste not want not, my young squeegee friends. We're going to eat him. I spent two years with the Inuit and they believe in using the whole carcass. We'll start here with the buttocks and thigh, its where the most meat is.
At this point, I pull out a packet of prosciutto deli meat (hidden naturally) and proceed to mime cutting off chunks of person and feed the cast. My enemy, Glenn, a former hipster turned squeegee won't eat.
Glenn: Actually guys I can't. I'm a vegetarian actually.
Fernando: Oh come on Glenn!
Cafy: I'm a vegetarian too Glenn, but I eat fish....and human.
Fernando: And I'm a free-gen. You say you're a squeegee pretty boy, start eating like one!
I hand him some prosciutto and he partakes reluctantly. The final night, without telling the actor playing Glenn (Glyn Jones, a class act if ever there was), I replaced his prosciutto with an ACTUAL VEAL HEART. It was huge, bulbous, and only cost me a cool $5. It was disgusting. The whole cast knew I was going to play this practical joke, we were all excited to see what would happen. The script demands the he has to eat the meat.
Well it happened and I pulled out the heart on stage and the look on Glyn's face was PRICELESS. The heart split open in my hand, revealing the inside of it to the audience. The crowd was physically repulsed, I could feel and hear them shudder. Glyn, contemplating in his mind what was happening, took the heart and delivered his line:
Glenn: Free-gen it is!
He then (with great hesitation) rubbed his face in the heart, getting a delighted (and disgusted) squeal out of the audience. Against all my actors training, I broke out in laughter. I couldn't believe it. It was one of the funniest moments I have experienced on stage.
-Walking along the Montreal streets at God only knows what hour, down one of those picturesque streets with brick houses and spiral staircases, and realizing that all the snow on the streets was untouched, that as far as the eye could see was one solid blanket with no imperfections. Holding that moment and breathing in the frozen air.
-Waking up a bag of shit after a raucous night of partying and slinging my ass across a city I don't really know, to find a man at a piano waiting to teach me a song. Getting there and knowing that I could, without a fear of looking foolish.
-Standing in an empty theatre barefoot. Remembering the ghosts of things that had passed. Sitting across an empty stage; a blank canvas with unlimited possibilities. Yesterday held great moments on stage that lived and died and would never be seen again. Another will quickly take its place. And that setting up and tearing down, that constant cycle of human expression, the ritual of experiencing temporary things, that's what theatre is about.
-Being away from the people I love, and knowing that great love exists no matter where your feet land. Knowing that distance can't erase the permanent marker on our heart. Knowing that every day contains something worthwhile to experience. And above all, remembering that we are a part of creating that experience.
That's the best I can do. Obviously, I am inspired and a being a tad too romantic, have made it a big deal in my mind. I promise a lot of shit jokes in the next one. Perhaps a fake conversation with a fictional character. That should do the trick.
A poet-in-residence
That Blogging Bastard
Saturday, February 5, 2011
The Great Montreal Theatre Escape DAY 7 & 8
"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
-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
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.
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