Blog friends, blog foes and all those blog who I just don't knows!
That blogging bastard beautifully bracing you for bales of billowing blog!
How goes your Good Friday? Is it good? Great? Are you staying away from the McFish? (How traditional of you!). Today the big guy got strung up for our sins and we choose to celebrate this sombre occasion by calling the day "good". For me, that would be problematic. I wish for the day I die to be referred to THE DAY WE CRY. Half price wings and patio beers, now that's a good Friday. A man being nailed to wood as people weep? Not so good.
But I am good! Winning even! And although I recognize that this expression conjures up the gaunt face of a bleary eyed Charlie Sheen, I choose to take his butchered word use and turn it into today's blog. Because although I may be winning, life is not about wins and losses. Well sort of...
I guess you could say I don't win very often. Not in the traditional sense I mean. When it comes to the games we play (PS3, Sports, love, money, etc.) I usually find myself off the podium so to speak. Don't get me wrong I'm pretty competitive. But that usually just means I sweat as I lose.
But losing ain't so bad. Baseball has taught me this.
For one: take batting averages. A successful batter hits over .300, that's under a third-of the time. In most things, anything below half is failure, but in baseball, a game where a ball is chucked at you moving over 90mph, we smile when we hit it 1 in every 5 at bats. I think life is very similar. Unlike swinging at a round object with a wooden stick, life is a great deal more complicated. In a sea of Smart phones, health concerns, career choices, Arbys, Twitter, parents, transit, voting, War, new Mortal Kombat, religion, ice climbing, dating, nuclear power plants, pollution, Pepto Bismal, Tsunamis and Charlie Sheen, we'd be lucky to hit .150.
But then there's the small things.
Extra mayo on your bison burger. A streetcar that arrives just as you do. A ten dollar bill in the pocket of your old jacket. A friend telling you that another friend of theirs thinks you're cute. The person who budded in line but ends up not getting in with their expired ID.
Add these up, throw in the fact that you have friends, food and a place to sleep....hell, I think we're batting at least .250. Think about life as a batting average and we're all in the major leagues, even if we're just the Kansas City Royals.
Point the Second: Pressure. I remember when I played baseball there was always alot of pressure. I was ninth in the batting line up and yet it seemed whenever we were down a run with two outs and a man on third, I was always the man to go up to bat. And strike out. At first I thought I just sucked, well actually, no, I totally did.
But what I didn't realize at that time was that it wasn't ALL my shitty skills fault. My father had something to do with it. My brother and I played baseball simply because he wanted the next Jose Canseco (pre-MMA) and he was determined to have it. On weekends he would don his fanny-pack full of baseballs and get us to the park to field line-drives until the sun would go down and we couldn't even see the ball whizzing by our heads. Every game he would be standing, his nose through the chain fence behind the batters box, and watch. He would comment on every pitch, react to every strike, and even once yelled out "WHAT ARE YOU SWINGING AT? FLYS?". When I went up to bat, I was terrified of his reaction, of disappointing him. It wasn't even about the game, it was about me making him proud. I rarely did.
Then on one fine spring day, an early game appeared on the schedule and he couldn't be there. It was the only game he didn't attend. That day I hit a two-run double. Twice. After the first one, I found myself going up to bat in the same situation, man on second and third.
Young Luis: (cocky) Looks like I'll just have to do it again.
Asshole friend: Yeah right.
Young Luis: I am.
Asshole Friend: PFFT. I bet you a million dollars you don't.
Young Luis: (using his incredible cunning) Shake on it.
Asshole Friend: Done. (they shake)
And then I hit another two-run double. He never did pay me, that asshole friend.
I also made a couple sweet catches in the outfield. So without good 'ol dad, I was cocky. I was comfortable. I was relaxed. And I kicked some serious ass. In life we have alot of pressure from outside forces that sap us of our natural ability to achieve. And so its that anxiety that leads us to believe that we can't win. Identify those pressures and get them out of the ball diamond and maybe you'll start winning too.
Point 3.0: Then there is Joe Carters home run to win the World Series in '93. When I watched it, my family (brother, mother, dad) was sitting in our living room with their two friends Matt and Lola. Matt was a proper Brit and could give a shit about baseball. He sat there with his Pinot Grigio and rooted for the Philly's simply to get a rise out of us. The prior year, when the BlueJays won the first time, my brother and I sat up alone in our basement while my parents wooped it up in Tdot streets. This year we were promised to go with them if they won. So as the game appeared to be a dud, Matt continued to sneer.
Matt: (in thick British accent) Looks like the boys aren't going to celebrate tonight.
I guess not all the dicks in Britain are spotted and edible.
And so it was with the game nearly over that Joe Carter would step up to bat.
Mom: OH he's going to hit a homerun!
Dad: Yeah right, Ang.
Mom: He is.
And he did. (my mom has an uncanny ability to call shit. Mutant power?) WE all erupted in joy. My dad, jumped up on the table and mooned Matt. It wasn't just your regular moon either, but a spread cheek red eye. And I was sitting next to him. So I saw my dad's asshole. Gross yes, but Matt deserved it. His face scrunched up as he was truly offended. I would pay to see that reaction again, the face of an evil villian foiled as the police cart him away. My dad was as much a hero as Carter that night, throwing up a finger to the estbalishment masked as a really inappropriate use of rectum. My dad doesn't fuck around when he wins that's for sure.
Anyways, my entire family instinctively ran outside and as we did, so did all my neighbours. WE started to high five and hug, which was crazy because we weren't all that close with our neighbours. And as we moved down Euclid to College street, the world erupted from every store and home along the strip until the entirety of College street was awash in humanity. As you walked through the street, people high-fived you as you went, even the ones hanging from the lamp posts. It was magical.
That was the biggest win I've ever experienced and it happened on a day where I saw my dad's anus. I'm not sure what my point is with this one: I think I'm fairly traumatized.
Well, no. There has got to be a point.
Life brings with it wins regardless of how much we may lose.
Hmmm.
Maybe winning in Life is as simple as pushing a ball with a stick over a fence.
Nah, that ain't it.
I guess winning and losing is just something that happens. But its not always in our hands, we just have to ignore the snide British guy talking shit and watch the game unfold.
That will do.
Happy Great Friday.
That Bloggging Bastard
Friday, April 22, 2011
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Oprah is God
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your screens….
It’s been awhile since I’ve written here, so I thought I’d throw something new into the ring. Since returning from Montreal it has taken me a while to adjust back into my life here in Toronto. After embracing the laid back Quebec style of life with no job and only theatre work to distract me between parties, getting back into the daily Toronto grind was initially. I don’t think we ever stop to consider how quickly shit moves here in the big city, how easily we can get lost when life is set to Fast Forward. Am I the only one who feels like if I blink an entire year has passed? It seems like only yesterday I returned from Montreal with a duffle bag full of dirty clothes and a beard that could conceal small weapons. Now it’s nearly April, I’m back at my two jobs, I’m knee deep in setting up my Fringe show (P-DALE come out this July! Stay tuned for more!) and my beard is trimmed down to a respectable blanket of scruff. The clothes in the duffle bag are still dirty however and they're starting to emit an odor that conjures up images of wet gym shorts left sitting in a plastic bag. I hate doing laundry but that’s no excuse for contaminating my entire building. I’ll get on it. Eventually.
This morning I woke up with a pound of near processed food sitting in my stomach. This is how I often wake up, with a sudden and violent bowel movement. It’s my fault really; I’m a notorious midnight snacker. Inebriated, I’m liable to grab the first thing in my fridge i can lay a hand on and stuff it mightily down my throat with little regard for its after effects. Bowls of cereal and milk, slices of processed meat, dill pickles, marshmallows, cheddar cheese, and left over chocolate cake….there is no consistency to what I might add to my night’s beer. Sadly, this method of waking up has permanently replaced my alarm clock; my body seeming to prefer this ticking biological clock to the artificial wail of a buzzer. Why share this with you? Well, if you are one of those types who can sleep through an alarm or presses snooze 3.7 times on an average morning, then perhaps my method is for you. Simply eat something that will cause you great gastrointestinal upheaval, brush your teeth and call it in. When the wake up comes, trust me, you won’t want to stay in your bed.
Warning: If you don’t sleep alone, this might affect your partner’s sleep as there is scent issues linked to this method. Proceed with caution.
So the world burns, eh? In Libya, Western Block planes drop bombs on a city populace, intervening in the affairs of Middle Eastern country for the third time this decade. Tokyo’s drinking water is irradiated; the product of an earthquake that physically moved Japan while massive waves of destruction swept away the Eastern Coast. Our very own Canadian Federal Government was found in contempt of the very institution it’s meant to uphold and yet the Conservatives who did it still find themselves with a clear majority in the polls. Egypt goes thorough a revolution that captured our imaginations for a brief moment before our gazes turned to Steven Tyler's awesomeness on American Idol, conveniently giving the media a reason to grow suspiciously quiet on the subject. Children continue to wait in the rain for a 16 year old pop star with a lesbian haircut while downpour drizzles out the gel in their own lesbian 'doo inspired by the same. All this while Charlie Sheen dominates our social media in between hits of crack and sloppy porn sex. I would like to state officially that our world is falling into chaos but really, the world never stopped being crazy, we can all just watch it for free now on YouTube.
And Oprah has her own television station. Really, when will it end? I’m absolutely convinced that Oprah has found a way to control our minds. No, seriously. Oprah Winfrey has invented some kind of sinister wavelength that takes control of the section of our brain that filters mediocre crap so she can continue to shovel mainstream literature, self-help advice and home decor down our poor, barely resistant minds. We must put an end to this beforBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ….I just love A New Earth, the new book by Oprah and Eckhart Toll! It's as informative as I awaken to a new world of experience that only Oprah could provide! I think Oprah’s website says it best:
In his insightful look into humanity's ego-based thinking, Eckhart Tolle provides practical teachings for waking up to a new, enlightened mind-set. If you're seeking a more loving self and a more loving planet, A New Earth has the tools to begin your transformation. Start reading today!
Tips for Reading A New Earth
Are you having a difficult time reading A New Earth? Don't be so hard on yourself. Even Oprah only read five pages at a time! These suggestions will help you ease into your reading experience.
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I can’t wait until Oprah brings me to spiritual awakening! Can you?
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ...bzzzzzzzzzzzzz. bzt.
Whoa. I feel light headed. And kinda tired.
I don’t know if I’m always tired because of my diet or because I don’t really sleep. As a combo, they seem to be the actions of a man who must accept that his body is on the decline. Luckily, I’m aware of it. But unluckily, I tend to drink when awareness strikes, as reality is often quite frightening. Strangely, drinking every day does not scare me as much as reality seems to. But because drinking leads to spending, money gets tight and reality rears its ugly fanged head and reasserts itself as the dominant cause of fear in my life. Fear (and by extension anxiety), then leads to a loss of appetite and insomnia.
Reality-drinking-poverty-fear-decline-Reality. The circle of life. If you’re an emo Elton John perhaps.
But I choose to believe that good things are always around the corner. Because there is alwways community and love, right? And if we try a little harder to be honest, to ourselves and to others, I think we’d be a lot less afraid, even if all our friends are busy giggling at online videos of animals voiced over by British actors.
I’m sorry for getting all Oprah Winfrey on you this blog. She's just so good, y'know? Really, it's like her fingers are gently rubbing the pleasure button in my mind. Even now thinking about her gorgeous ebony face, I'm smiling so hard there are tears in my eyes. Oprah is just so....legion.
I was just cooking perogies and as I eagerly pulled out the ingredients for my killer Perogie sauce, I knocked over a bottle of Frank’s Red Hot. As it hit the floor with a dull thud, it spilled onto the ground, creating a perfect heart shape with a single streak of what looked like blood coming from it. Betwixed by the image, I spent roughly 45 minutes trying to photograph it. Why? Because I was thinking about all the above things, getting needlessly depressed over stuff that I cannot control, when my absent mindedness created a beautiful moment that reminded me that beautiful moments are always bred out of chaos. And that my perogies were burning. But mostly the beauty/chaos thing. I smiled thinking of the millions of beautiful moments that would come from a world in flames. Then I cleaned up the spill in my kitchen and played a game of Marvel vs. Capcom 3.
BTW if you’re looking to spice up your next dinner party, try this hot summer sauce that adds zip to any late night gathering! : 1/3 franks red hot, 1/3 ketchup, 1/3 Diana Sauce, pinch of ground cayenne pepper, oregano, parsley flakes, butter. I thought about it after getting inspiration from an article in O magazine. Fantastic!
Friday, February 18, 2011
The Great Montreal Theatre Escape Day 21
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
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
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.
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