Waiting for Elvis.

What Have You Seen?

2009-06-25T17:57:00.005-04:00

In my position as Community Manager for the Ottawa Fringe Festival I've been shooting/editing some short videos.

So, what have you seen?

BC Seen

2009-04-30T15:25:00.002-04:00

Sneaking up on us (well, me at least) it seems that festival season has arrived in Ottawa. Or at least theatre festival season has arrived in Ottawa, with BC Scene, Magnetic North, and the Ottawa Fringe all either happening as we type (depending on when you’re reading this, I suppose) or are mere weeks away.

Having lived in Vancouver for two years, I was especially looking forward to BC Scene, since it meant my favourite theatre company was coming to town (and with a show I hadn’t seen), as well as a show I had really wanted to see while I was out there but missed. Add to that a bunch of bands and musicians I’m into, and for me, “excited” would have been an appropriate adjective.

The trick with festivals – especially when you have three back to (almost) back to back – is not to overindulge. Not only for your wallet, but for your sanity. I love going to shows as much as the next guy, but eventually I’m going to burn out and want to spend a night at home on the couch watching Chuck.

Someone smarter than me described festivals as buffets – while it’s great to have so much choice, you have to know when you’ve had enough. Also: you need to watch out, because they can be pricey (and unfulfilling if you load up on carbs). So after carefully deciding what I had the time and money to attend, I had my schedule, which included 5 of the 7 plays. Apparently, this desire not to see everything came as a surprise to a friend of mine when, during a casual conversation at Arts Court the other day, they asked: “so, when are you going to see the Mom show?”

(“The Mom show” for those of you unfamiliar is Moms the Word 2: Unhinged, which is described in the BC Scene program as “Exuberant, life-affirming fun… a riotous exposé of the highs and lows of life with a teenager!”)

“So, when are you going to see the Mom show?”

“Um, never.” I replied.

This was clearly unacceptable. “What do you mean?” my friend pestered. “You aren’t going to see everything?”

Let me set something straight: I love theatre. I love going to the theatre. But I don’t love all theatre. And I especially don’t love going to all theatre. So when a play comes along about five women dealing with the highs and lows of life with a teenager (which interests me zero percent) and I don’t feel obliged to see it because I have a friend in the cast or I said yes to the invite on Facebook and feel guilty or I’m sucking up because I want them to hire me, I’m going to take a pass and go see The Immaculate Machine instead.

So, no. I’m not going to see Moms the Word 2. This is not a judgment on the show or the artists or anyone who may enjoy the show (like Moms). It’s just not for me. And I think it’s time to recognize that not every play is for every person. I avoid films and books and albums and television shows that don’t suit my tastes, why should a play be any different?

Enough about what I’m not seeing. How about what I did see?

LA VUE D’EN HAUTE
I bet this show was 100% fantastic, because the approximately 35% I understood definitely was (next time: put ego aside and go to performance with surtitles). If asked to describe the show I would probably call it “bleak,” but I don’t think bleak quite captures it: it has been raining non-stop for three years. Mom’s feet are rotting. Everyone’s a drug addict. Oh, and there’s a baby made of garbage. Clearly, a piece commissioned by the Vancouver tourism board.

BIO BOXES
This was the piece I was most looking forward to, and it did not disappoint. Admittedly, I was nervous before entering my first box. I was going to be inches away from an actor. An actor who would be acting. What if they made eye contact? (they did) What if they asked me a question? (they would) Moments into the first performance, nervousness was forgotten. Being so close to the performer you can smell each other’s breath (and mints were provided – dare I say encouraged – in the lobby before the performance), the six actors invite you into their world to share a 7-minute experience. A piece of theatre that is equally intimate, theatrical, dirty, and beautiful.

PS – you can touch my knee and talk Cantonese to me anytime, Donna Soares.

ASSEMBLY
Maybe I should have gone to see the Mom show, because I probably would have learned something. Specifically, “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Unfortunately, I’m not going to that show. Even more unfortunately I did go see this one. I don’t like being talked down to in real life, nor do I appreciate it when I go to the theatre.

What have you seen?

Hiatus.

2008-07-02T22:39:00.001-04:00

Post-Fringe, I'm on a brief pause from this.

The Math (or, How I saw every Fringe show)

2008-06-30T23:57:00.003-04:00

As I think has been very clearly demonstrated over the past couple of posts, not having a show in the Fringe is more work than having a show in the Fringe.

Some twelve or so days ago I set out to see every show in the festival. While it quickly became apparent that this wasn't going to happen, it also became apparent that I didn't have to attend every show to say I have seen it. In fact, when you look at the numbers, I saw every show in the festival:

Total shows in 2008 Ottawa Fringe Festival: 52
Total shows I attended: 33

So that leaves, what, nineteen shows? But if you add the following:

Shows I had seen previously in other festivals: 4
Shows in the "Youth" Fringe that only had Saturday morning performances (ie. when I was sleeping): 2
Shows in French that I wouldn't have understood anyway: 1
Shows that looked too scary: 1
Plays I have seen too many times and didn't want to sit through again no matter how good the production was: 2
Shows that, no matter what, I couldn't fit into my schedule because they always conflicted with something else: 3
Shows based on movies I hated (and was therefore prejudiced against): 1
Shows that had performances canceled at times I intended on going: 1
Shows I had friends in and in lieu of going they told me all about it: 2
Shows I had friends in and they asked me not to come: 1
Shows I went to but fell asleep during: 1

SUCCESS! SUCK IT, TANIA!

Ahem.

And because of my photo taking prowess (and because no one else entered) I won the Photo Scavenger-Hunt! My prize? A VIP pass to the 2009 Ottawa Fringe.

Next year, I will definitely see every show. For sure.

The final tally:

A Grimm Tale
A Leave of Absinthe
American Squatter
Boat Load
Busty Rhymes with MC Hot Pink
Circumference
Crude Love
DIE ROTEN PUNKTE - Super Musikant
The Girl in the Picture Tries to Hang up the Phone - A Mother and Son story
Hey, Bartender!
Inferno Sonata
Jem Rolls: How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Mall
Joe: The Perfect Man
Liar's Club
Making Deals With Gods
Mr. Fox
Naked Famous People
Old Growth
Open for Business: The Peacock Cabaret
Raven for a Lark
Shadows in Bloom
She Rules with Iron Sticks
Singing at the Edge of the World
Teaching the Fringe
The Spy
The Triumph of Judith Shakespeare
This is a Play
Totem Figures
Trashcan Duet
Water
The Wedding Night
Without a Clue
Wooster Sauce

Fatigue (or, Why I am Falling Behind)

2008-06-25T15:50:00.005-04:00

So clearly this "see every show" idea was never going to pan out. But I have to tell you, going to Fringe shows is tiring. Add the shitty weather we've been having on top of that and I have only seen four shows in the past two days. A slacker, am I.

But in better news, I won photo of the day for my picture of Tania's boobs (see below) and with it a $25 gift certificate to the Elgin Street Diner, which I promptly spent on poutine and milkshakes. "Paperless Marketing" has a whole new meaning, now.

The not so greatly improved tally:

A Grimm Tale
Boat Load
Circumference
Crude Love
DIE ROTEN PUNKTE - Super Musikant
Liar's Club
Making Deals With Gods
Naked Famous People
Old Growth
Singing at the Edge of the World
Teaching the Fringe
The Spy
The Triumph of Judith Shakespeare
Totem Figures
Trashcan Duet
Without a Clue
Wooster Sauce

Discipline. (or, Why I Wasn't in Bed Before 4:00 am All Weekend)

2008-06-23T16:24:00.000-04:00

Fringing, whether as a performer or patron, requires discipline.

A performer's discipline (or lack thereof) has immediate consequences: you don't flyer lines, you don't have audiences; you slack on your media kits and calls, you don't get reviewed; you stay up all night drinking before your 2:00 pm matinee, your show the next day sucks (this last point, incidentally, is the basis on which the 12 Hour Rule was written).

But as an audience member, you must exhibit a completely different kind of discipline (of which I am quickly learning). A lack of Audience Discipline has no immediate consequences. If you skip out on that fourth show of the night - you know, the 11:00 pm show you'll "catch later in the week" so you can goad Kevin Waghorn into giving you free drinks - you will soon find yourself on the first Sunday of the festival and already realizing you're going to miss a show you really want to see because the only time you can see it is when it's up against something you have to see.*

As a performer, I have moderate discipline (instead of staying at the bar late, I just drink a lot very fast). But as an audience member, I have very little. And it's not the skipping shows that's bad (though it's a little bad). It's the beer. I am very bad at saying no to beer. Especially at 1:00 am with friends I haven't seen all winter. And especially when that beer is followed by poutine. No discipline.

But still: I am totally ahead of Tania. Her car broke down and she missed all her afternoon shows today (did I say "broke down" or "tampered with"?). Now we'll see if I have the discipline not to let this lead go to my head (or to not slip roofies in her vitamin water). The tally so far:

A Grimm Tale
Boat Load
Circumference
Crude Love
DIE ROTEN PUNKTE - Super Musikant
Making Deals With Gods
Naked Famous People
Old Growth
Singing at the Edge of the World
The Spy
The Triumph of Judith Shakespeare
Trashcan Duet
Without a Clue

* a true fact.

Overture, curtain, lights... (or, Trashcan at the Edge of the Old Growth)

2008-06-20T16:13:00.004-04:00

This is a very strange year for me.

For the first time since 2002, I do not have a show in the Ottawa Fringe Festival (and its especially odd since I performed in six (6) Fringes last year).

No flyering. No tech rehearsals. No media kits. No last minute line runs. No flyering. No when-will-the-review-be-published angst. No postering. No constantly checking the advance ticket sales. No flyering.

What am I supposed to do with myself? I asked (myself).

The answer - as they always are - was simple: see shows.

Now originally, I was going to try and see everything. Seriously. I was going to see every show at the two thousand and eight Ottawa Fringe Festival including those in the Bring Your Own Venues as well as any outdoor shows that may be taking place and possibly something random happening in any other location that could be considered part of the Fringe.

Clearly, this was a bad idea.

Instead, in the spirit of I'm going to crush her like she has never been crushed before rivalry, Tania Levy and I are having a Fringe Off (I just named it that now). The challenge: who can see the most Fringe shows. The prize: bragging rights. Why I'm doing it: because I'm a lonely, lonely, man.

Currently we are tied at 3, since we went to three shows together last night. But I predict that soon she will be kicking my ass, since by Sunday I'll probably be more interested in getting high and listening to Keir Cutler read everyone his mail than seeing plays.

But, since I'm full of pre-Fringe optimism, so far I have seen:

Old Growth
Singing at the Edge of the World
Trashcan Duet

Hm. I have seen three plays but only drank two beers. My ratio's off.

Four more tonight.

Nine Months Later...

2008-06-12T14:04:00.001-04:00

Stay tuned.

Edmonton Reviews

2007-08-22T11:26:00.000-04:00

Yes, it's been a while.

Our reviews in Edmonton have been generally fantastic. So fantastic, that after a lack-lustre opening night crowd (it was 51, less than we were hoping for, but still better than ANY of our Toronto or Saskatoon houses, and nothing to be upset about when some shows are playing to 2 or less) we've sold out 2 of our shows, and have more than half the tickets gone for our final show, which is Sunday afternoon. There won't be much need to flyer.

So Saturday, I'm going to the (West Edmonton) mall.

From the Edmonton Journal:

Canadian Hypocrisy the butt of duo's wit
**** (out of 5)
The Churchill Protocol, from Ottawa's Gruppo Rubato, is one of those productions you can't always count on finding at the Fringe. To wit: a new and topical pocket Canuck satire with a Strangelove-ian conspiracy premise, outrageous characters, real actors, sharp direction, and a sting.
It also has a goat. Two really, but I don't want to give away too much. The black comedy, by the team of Patrick Gauthier and Kris Joseph, takes us deep into the heart of our national ambivalence and waffling hypocrisy about all things military.
At the polar bear detention centre in Churchill, Man., mysterious military cargo flights have been arriving from Afghanistan laden with live freight. An ambitious Globe reporter (Gauthier) is sniffing around, convinced he's on the edge of an explosive, career-making scoop about the secret imprisonment and torture of terrorist detainees. That's why he's having a clandestine meeting with the outpost colonel (Joseph, in a performance of riotous bombast and mania). The latter, incidentally, has invented several secret weapons, including a ray gun with digestive repercussions and an ingenious new way of felling the enemy using his mind, sure to appeal to squeamish Canucks tied to the hackneyed old myth that we are a peacekeeping nation.
"We can actually have warfare without war!" proclaims the Colonel triumphantly. "We can actually have the kind of military we think we already have."
There is a mystery here, and a mysterious crate, and some well-aimed barbs at a sanctimonious country where people are too morally lethargic to vote. And the subject of goats just keeps coming up as the plot twists suspensively away.
Funny, furious and smart.

Not as great, but still a good review from the Edmonton Sun:

SHAGGY DOG WITH A SAG IN THE MIDDLE
*** (out of 5)
The Churchill Protocol is a paranoid military fantasy, a satire on Canada's place on the world stage and a terrific acting duel between two fine performers.
The first few minutes don't seem to be going anywhere and are tough sledding. But stick with it and the rewards are ample.
A Globe and Mail reporter thinks he is on the trail of a hot story.
There are reports from Churchill, Manitoba (the polar bear capital of Canada) that the Canadian military is ferrying in prisoners from Afghanistan.

The intrepid newshound tracks down one Col. Ronson who has obviously spent too much time in the north.
The Captain is importing goats from Afghanistan. His premise is we are too dependent on the weapons makers and he will train the goats to go to war as soldiers under the Canadian flag.
Observes the demented Colonel, "Canada doesn't have enough money for research and development."
So he has come up with a made-in-Canada solution to the country's problems.
He also thinks he can render himself invisible and is working on a piece of laxative artillery that will force the enemy into involuntary bowel movements.
The Churchill Protocol is a long, long shaggy dog story. It is really more of a skit and tends to sag in the middle.
The two actors, Patrick Gauthier and Kris Joseph, absolutely believe in their material, no matter how farfetched and ridiculous it seems, and deliver strong performances.
And there is an undercurrent of rather pointed social commentary.

And finally, there is the review from VUE Weekly, which says some very very nice things (and without stars! How great is that?)"

Mixing charmingly silly absurdity with timely (if slightly thick) political observation, this play from Ottawa duo Patrick Gauthier and Kris Joseph is almost note-perfect Fringe fare. Gauthier brings the right mixture of exasperation and desperate curiosity to his muckracking journalist, out to find out what perfectly stone-faced, utterly ridiculous colonel Joseph is hiding at a near-arctic military base. The politics aren’t nearly as subtle as the comedy, which causes a bit of lag, but there are more than enough laughs to leave you guffawing your way right through the down times. (DB)

Since they didn't give out stars, VUE ranked the shows on a James Bond scale (which follows the festival's "Live and Let Fringe" theme), and awarded us the rank of "Daniel Craig" who, according to the weekly paper, ranks just below "Sean Connery" as the best Bond.

We were also reviewed by SEE Magazine, who didn't post their reviews on line, and they're not really worth reading anyway. Not because they gave us a bad review, but because it's more of a synopsis than a critique.

And we were also also reviewed by Global TV (4 stars).

I'll be back with real updates soon. I promise.

So.

2007-08-16T02:16:00.000-04:00

As of 24 hours before our first show, we have already earned almost half what we made during the entire run of the show Saskatoon.

Edmonton Fringe is crazy.

Saskatoon StarPhoenix Review (or, Why I am Cautiously Optimistic)

2007-08-08T14:25:00.000-04:00

So as it turns out, the day after my rant the Star Phoenix decided to run our review. It immediately help much, as our show that day (Tuesday) - or should I say that night - at 10:15 was our smallest crowd yet (25-30, which is still bigger than the majority of our Toronto crowds, but the seats here are filled with comps, so we're making the same amount of money - ie. not very much - but on the bright side, it was probably one of the best shows we've done all summer). It's a good review (4 stars), although it's a bit spoiler-heavy.

BUT we have a fantastic time for our next performance - 8:45 pm on Thursday, our only slot that is after 6:00 pm and also before 10:00 pm - so I am holding out hope that we can get some people who actually paid for the show in the seats.

As an aside: the StarPhoenix, I learned yesterday, was founded when two Saskatoon papers - Star and the Phoenix - merged. I also learned that there is not supposed to be a space between the words "star" and "phoenix." Nor is there a hyphen or an em-dash or any other piece of punctuation.

How then, am I supposed to pronounce it? Starfoenix? StarFeenix? I fucking hate this paper.

From the Saskatoon Star Phoenix (I don't care what they say, there should be a space there), Tuesday, August 7, 2007:

THE CHURCHILL PROTOCOL
Gruppo Rubato
Rating * * * *

In the mind of slightly washed-up (and fictional) Globe and Mail reporter
Neil Allen, a northern Manitoba polar bear compound is likely a cover-up for a
secret Canadian military operation.

In what could be the hot story of the year, Allen is convinced the military is flying suspected terrorists from Afghanistan to the Churchill airport under the cover of darkness, and performing secret weapons technology experiments there. It's enough to make peacekeeper-loving Canadians cringe.

But when the military hears of Allen's suspicions, it has a plan. Soldiers
invite Allen (Patrick Gauthier) up for an unforgettable tour of the facility to
assuage his suspicions. What follows is a snort-inducing two man show that
plays like a series of old movie reels out of order.

The colonel in charge of the compound (Kris Joseph) is entirely batty. A
typical reporting assignment for Allen evolves into insanity, including tin foil
hats, a gun that liquefies enemy bowels and a soldier's attempt to defy gravity
by flapping his arms and wearing a really, really determined look.

As the colonel points out poignantly, what else is the Canadian military to
do with a huge country packed with natural resources to protect and a budget a
sliver the size of what the U.S. spends on defence?

The suspenseful and silly writing is great, and viewers will earnestly need
to know, what are they doing with all those darned goats?

Joseph especially shines with his fearlessly loopy portrayal of the
socially inept colonel.

Take the journey, if you can bend your mind around the ridiculousness, and discover the true aim of the Churchill Protocol.

Theatre is Better at 35 Degrees (or, Why I am Pessimistic)

2007-08-06T21:13:00.000-04:00

Please note: self-indulgent rant to follow.

I have changed my mind.

What started out as a Fringe full of optimism has devolved into a Fringe full of bitterness and frustration.

First - we haven't been reviewed by the Star Phoenix yet. They were at our show on Saturday, but since the paper doesn't publish Sundays, and today is a holiday, there won't be a review - we thought - until Tuesday. However, after perusing the paper's website today, it seems they've posted some reviews that will be published on Tuesday. We, however, are not among them. This means, of course, that we likely won't be published until Wednesday, when a) we don't have a show, and b) we only have two shows left. Thanks a lot.

Also - while our houses have been respectable, they've been filled mostly with volunteers and performers, so we haven't been making any money. Gah.

Third - the venues are HOT. Very fucking HOT. Even the so called "air conditioned" spaces tend to reach about a million degrees by the end of the day. These venues include, of course, an elementary school gym, a high school gym, an elementary school classroom, and a church basement.

Fourth - while sitting in a show a few days ago, a noticed an odd odour. I turned to my left and noticed that the gentleman sitting next to me had taken off his shoes, socks, and shirt. The next day, I was lucky enough to have him sit next to me again. Fortunately, the second time around he only felt the need to unbutton his shirt and rest his hand on his crotch.

Finally - wait! We did get reviewed. Good reviewed. In Saskatoon's Planet S, a bi-weekly entertainment magazine a la the Ottawa Xpress or NOW in Toronto. Unfortunately, since Planet S is bi-weekly, no one really reads or respects it.

PS - the Planet S review - or pre-review - was taken from Winnipeg's Uptown Magazine (their weekly entertainment mag), who, at the time, gave us a B+. When translated to Saskatoon, however, the B+ was converted to 4.5 out of five. Too bad no one cares.

I am looking forward to spoof night, however.

From Planet S / Uptown Magazine:

CANUCK CONSPIRACY THEORIES
THE CHURCHILL PROTOCOL
GRUPPO RUBATO
VENUE B—VICTORIA SCHOOL GYM
(Four-and-a-half Planets)

Don’t let the presence of a possibly paranoid schizophrenic attempting to telepathically kill Afghan goats in Churchill, Manitoba fool you: this is a serious story about the apathy of Canadians, and our delusions concerning Canada’s role in the world (or then again, maybe it’s just weird?). A secret military operation involving the shipment of live cargo from Afghanistan to Churchill gets a down-on-his-luck journalist searching for answers—but unfortunately for him, the answers are in the head of a stark-raving mad soldier. The cabin-fevered colonel is convinced he can fly, turn invisible, and basically, use The Force. Channeling Hunter S. Thompson, Family Guy’s Mayor Adam West and your favorite local insaniac (whoever that may be), Kris Joseph shines, playing the part as if he was born crazy. At times, this show can be too strange for its own good, but hey, it’s a fringe play.

It's Saskatoon (or, Why I am Optimistic)

2007-07-31T17:07:00.000-04:00

I have been drinking since 2:00 pm. It's Saskatoon.

The start of very Fringe is generally met with optimism: a new city, new reviews, new audiences. A chance to correct the (potential) mistakes from the previous city or build on the success of your last stop. The chance that this town might get your play in ways that no other town has, and that those people will flock to your show in large numbers - banging down the door, pushing grandmothers out of the way, selling their first born - to get tickets for the show.

A new fringe. A fresh start. A time for hope.

Not, however, in Saskatoon.

In Saskatoon, New Fringe Optimism is replaced by Saskatoon Pessimism: is anyone going to come to my show, will the technician be a high-school student, will I have a place to live. When the touring shows arrive at the festival in Saskatoon, the chatter is all about surviving. Surviving tech rehearsals in under-equipped and under-staffed venues and surviving much smaller audiences than Winnipeg, and surviving the heavy drinking and socializing that inevitably happen at the Performers-and-Hangers-On-Only Bar (where the beer is cheap, the food decent, and the doors stay open until the last person decides they want to go home).

Saskatoon Pessimism is, of course, quickly followed by Saskatoon Apathy. "It's Saskatoon," is the common response of the the defeated Fringe Artist when their technician fails to show up for a performance, or if your billet decides half-way through the festival that they no longer want to house you. "It's Saskatoon," you say. And you drink. Even if you don't (especially if you don't).

In spite of all this, I have a confession to make: I sort of like the Saskatoon Fringe. Sure, you can't poster anywhere because the city has draconian bylaws, but the local stores and restaurants are more than willing to put posters in their windows.

Yes, it's annoying that the beer tent is more geared toward corporate sponsors and street performers than the indoor shows, but the aforementioned performer-only Green Room has cheap beer, free internet, free pool, big TV's, and it's open very very late.

Of course it sucks that you're here for what seems like months and you perform what seems like twice, but I like being high at 2:00 pm four days a week.

Plus, it's not all Saskatoon's fault. The festival is in the unenviable position of taking place between Winnipeg and Edmonton. The two biggest festivals on the circuit. It doesn't matter how good or bad the festival is, anything will seem disappointing after Winnipeg and feel like wasting time before Edmonton.

So this year, I am decidedly PRO Saskatoon Fringe. I am filled with optimism. Our houses will be large, our technicians confident and competent, and our days (and days) off will be productive.

I have been drinking since 2:00 pm. It's Saskatoon!

24 Hour Play: The Recap

2007-07-25T17:04:00.000-04:00

I didn't win the 24 Hour Play Contest. In fact, I didn't even place (bullshit!). Which is too bad, because as much as I like to win things, I really like to win money.

After taking a few days (ish) to let the hard reality of being a loser set in (and allowing myself to think about the contest without crying), I compiled all the notes, scribbles, and (now tear soaked) thoughts I had compiled during the 24 hours (ish) I spent writing in a mostly empty apartment in High Park.

Please enjoy a somewhat exhaustive list of my activities from 7:00 pm on July 4 through to 7:00 pm on July 5, 2007:

Beers drank: 2
Joints smoked: 3.5

Food eaten: Kraft Dinner (3/4 of a box), Lay's Curried potato chips (2 handfulls); Zesty Doritos and chocolate (one bag and two handfulls); bread and peanut butter (2 pieces); milk (2 mugs)

Trips to the bathroom: 5 (6 if you include when I went during tech)

References checked on Wikipedia: 3
References checked from other sources: 0

Things I did to procrastinate: the dishes; had a snack; deflated (deinflated?) my air mattress; reinflated (reflated?) my air mattress; started this blog post; wrote other blog posts; had a snack; made my bed; thought about masturbating; decided not to masturbate; masturbated (after Kris went to bed); finished my snack; wrote parts of another play

Objects easily incorporated: 2
Objects shoehorned in: 1
Objects I forgot about until just before I handed the play in: 1
Number of jurors who could probably tell: 2

Naps contemplated: 6
Naps taken: 1

Facebook Log-ins: 12
Email checks: 30 (I eventually stopped counting)

Ideas for a title: 8
Good ideas for a title: 0
Words in title: 5

Hours spent writing: 16
Hours spent sleeping: 2.5
Hours spent in technical rehearsal: 2.5
Hours spent procrastinating (cumulative): 1.5
Hours spent on Facebook (cumulative): 1
Hours spent in transit: .5
Hours spent masturbating: 3 minutes

Total pages written: 28

Tears when I heard I didn't win: 1. Cried ever so slowly down my right cheek.

How Many Winnipeg Fringers Will Attend a Thursday Matinee? (or, Why I Love the Winnipeg Fringe: Part Two)

2007-07-20T16:10:00.000-04:00

50. At 2:30 pm.

And with that, after two shows in Winnipeg we have sold more tickets than during the show's 7 performance run at the Toronto Fringe. Although, I don't want to slag on that festival too much, seeing how NOW Magazine named Kris one of the "Outstanding Performers" of the festival (along with Alon Nashman, Brendan McMurtry-Howlett, Justin Sage-Passant, and TJ Dawe... good company, for sure). That should also help sell some tickets.

We couldn't have asked for a better reception so far. I'm already hearing very positive feedback when handing out flyers ("I've seen it! It was great!" or, "someone told me it was fantastic; we're coming for sure!" and so forth), and the two reviews that were published today should help: 4.5 stars from the Winnipeg Sun, and 3.5 stars in the Free Press.

We're off until tomorrow night (at 11:30 pm), so we'll see how many flyers we can burn through in the meantime. Maybe I'll even try and see a show or two.

From the Winnipeg Sun:

THE CHURCHILL PROTOCOL
Venue 4, Onstage at the Playhouse
The Canadian military is up to no good, secretly shipping living, breathing cargo from Afghanistan to Churchill (Go Manitoba!), and an over-eager Globe and Mail reporter is this close to blowing the whole thing wide open. While the plot is good and the writing is smart, it's the character the reporter meets up with in Churchill -- the instantly lovable Col. Ronson -- who steals the show. Actor Kris Joseph, whom American Pie fans may or may not be impressed to learn looks just like Chris Klein, makes the colonel hilarious and lively, with brilliant facial expressions and a style of speech reminiscent of the great Mr. Peterman from Seinfeld. The colonel and the reporter keep the audience guessing until the end what exactly is going on up in Churchill -- but whatever it is, they know right from the start that it'll be fun finding out.
Sun Rating: 4 1/2 out of 5

From the Winnipeg Free Press:

THE CHURCHILL PROTOCOL
Gruppo Rubato
Onstage at the Playhouse, to July 27
When the secret weapon of mass destruction is laxative-inducing artillery, you know you're not dealing with a typical military intrigue story.
The Canadian army is secretly shipping live cargo from Afghanistan to a polar bear jail in Churchill, and a Globe and Mail reporter thinks he's found the scoop of his career. It appears Canada may be building its own prison in the north and secretly torturing Afghanee detainees far from prying eyes?
But the truth is way more crazy than anyone could guess in this surreal and very wacky dark comedy from Ottawa troupe Gruppo Rubato, who brought the hit comedy pygM@Ilion to the 2004 Winnipeg Fringe.
Written and performed by Patrick Gauthier and Kris Joseph under the direction of Natalie Joy Quesnel, this satiric take on military conspiracy is inspired by Jon Ronson's book The Men Who Stare At Goats.
Both actors deliver stellar performances: Joseph as the crazy-eyed army colonel who becomes increasingly maniacal, and Gauthier as his foil, an intrepid and impatient reporter. However, the 60-minute comedy does slow down when the sparring between the pair goes on for too long and with too few laughs. But overall, this is a smart comedy with an absurdist twist.
-- Cheryl Binning

The 12 Hour Rule (or, Why I Love the Winnipeg Fringe)

2007-07-19T05:35:00.000-04:00

After the Chicken-Wing Incident, Natalie introduced me to the 12 Hour Rule: 12 hours before your next show (which is 2:30 pm tomorrow), you must be AT HOME and IN BED (I am following the spirit of that law as I am at the moment both those things, however, I am sure "in bed" means "asleep" and not "blogging about the 12 Hour Rule"). And even though I was flirting with a girl I am totally trying to sleep with with, I came home anyway. I am both dedicated and stupid.

We had our first show of the Winnipeg Fringe tonight, and it went very (very) well. The house was somewhere in the 90-100 range (almost surpassing, in one performance, our entire Toronto audience), and they seemed to like it, a lot.

This was due in part, no doubt, to the four bar (star) review, we received from CBC Manitoba (who saw the show in Toronto), the mention from Kevin Prokosh of the Winnipeg Free Press which predicted we would win Best in Fest in our venue, and the 8 minute interview we had on the noon-hour show on CBC radio. CBC also named us one of their "Best Picks" of today, so that also made flyering infinitely easier (it's amazing how the words "four stars" grab people's attention while they wait in line to see TJ Dawe).

The show was a bit nerve wracking, since we had a new Stage Manager. Not new like "she hadn't called the show before," but new like "she wasn't hired until the morning of the first show and wasn't even at the tech rehearsal." Luckily, she was (IS) awesome, calling the show - blind - almost flawlessly. Also, after the show she asked if we could give her some flyers so she could help out with promotion. We aren't paying her enough.

So we're doing okay so far. We'll see how tomorrow's (technically, today's) matinee goes. And in case you don't want to search for the CBC review, here it is:

Reviewed at the Toronto Fringe (July 4-15)

A newspaper reporter, a slightly-off colonel, dead goats, and Churchill, Manitoba. Turns out these are the ingredients for an hour of very sharp (and absolutely weird) comedy of military intrigue and conspiracy. Inspired by Jon Ronson’s excellent book The Men Who Stare At Goats, this show patiently reveals a secret military operation involving transporting live cargo to Churchill from Afghanistan. But it’s not what you think... and if I said any more, I’d ruin the show’s sometimes plodding, but careful, reveal. Under sharp direction by Natalie Quesnel, performers/co-writers Patrick Gauthier and Kris Joseph milk the most out of their characters. Joseph’s military man is all crazy-eyed intensity, but played with enough conviction to be just barely believable; Gauthier’s journalist, desperately trying to unravel the conspiracy, is stuck as the straight man, but provides an appropriate foil to the colonel’s eccentricity. The Churchill Protocol is twisted, funny, and compelling dark comedy - pure Fringe.

CBC Rating: Four Bars

Reviewed by: Joff Schmidt

Hello Winnipeg (or, Why Pearson Airport Owes Me FIFTY Cents)

2007-07-17T01:52:00.000-04:00

We decided to fly from Toronto to Winnipeg because a) we had less than 48 hours from the end of our last Toronto show until our tech in Manitoba; and b) as delicious as the food is in Ignace, it is not worth the 30 hour drive through the scary woods to get there (as any good Moose-fearing Canadian can tell you).

So we flew.

Managing to pack our set into two hockey bags plus a hastily constructed box, we were ready to go. We were also ready for the inevitable questions that would arrive when we attempted to get two stuffed goats through airport security. As far as I knew, the airlines still let you carry simulated livestock as cargo (except maybe Air Canada), but we were ready just in case.

Since we had 5 pieces of luggage (plus our carry-ons) between the two of us, Kris and I needed one of those luggage carts to haul everything from my Dad's car (free ride to the airport!) to the check-in counter. I was weary, at first, since my last experience with the damn carts, but I figured the hassle of not having to lug two hockey bags, a hastily constructed and awkward box, two suitcases, and three pieces of carry-on luggage through the airport was worth $2. Plus, this time I would be sure to get my quarter. Pearson International Airport owed me.

After checking in and doing some quick baggage contents shuffling (because, once again, my suitcase was too heavy), we brought the two hockey bags and hastily constructed box over to Oversize Baggage, where they were scanned before our eyes. And before our eyes, we were asked: "why is there a chain in your bag?"

"It's for the goat," Kris or I said. "To weigh it down."

"Why is there a goat in your bag?"

"It's for a play," I or Kris said, hoping to not be deported to some goat-loving theatre-hating country (although, one could argue we were already there).

We got through (although, we kicked oursleves (ourselfs?) later for not asking for a print out of that x-ray), and brought our empty cart back to its home, in quest for our 25 cents. As Kris shoved it back into position, I placed my hand under the yellow arrow that read "retrieve reward here" and I waited.

Nothing. No quarter.

But wait! The cart wasn't pushed far enough forward. It had to be beyond the red line for the quarter to be won. We pushed, but because of the back-log of carts in the front of the receptacle, it would budge no further. Try as we might, there would be no local calls made from the airport today.

But just as we were about to give up, someone released a cart from the other end! At last! I would have my shiny reward! Kris pushed the cart forward with ease and I triumphantly placed my hand under under the yellow arrow that read "retrieve reward here" and I waited...

Nothing. No quarter.

Expletives were shouted.

An employee, an older gentleman who appeared to have some years on the job, stopped as he was walking by.

"They didn't fill it," he said. "They never fill it."

I stared, incredulous.

"You should write them a letter. This isn't the first time."

It certainly isn't.

My Twelve Mistakes (or, Toronto Fringe: Part Two)

2007-07-13T17:52:00.000-04:00

After Wednesday night's show (which was both our biggest crowd and our best show of the TO Fringe), I went out for some post-show drinks and food with some friends who had come that night, even though it was late and we had a show 14 hours later (mistake #1).

I mostly wanted to drink, so Cheap Beer was more important than Quality of Food (mistake #2). We found a place on Bloor Street, sat on their not-quite-a-patio-since-it's-in-the- restaurant-but-we're-right-next-to-a-large-open-window-anyway-so-it-might-as-well-be and ordered drinks. Being hungry, we also asked for menus.

Their selection (especially at that time of night) wasn't huge, and their lack of vegetarian options meant that I would have to go with something chicken-y (mistake #3). Wings always seem a safe bet, so I ordered 10, and instead of fries, I asked for veggies and dip on the side (mistake #4).

We all sat and chatted and got caught up (I hadn't seen one friend in about 3 years, and I had never met her boyfriend, who she had coincidentally met 3 years ago), not noticing that the food wasn't coming. It had been about 45 minutes by the time we did notice, but still, I didn't ask the waitress (sorry, "server") what was up (mistake #5).

Eventually - of course - the food did come. The wings were not very good, and even a little cold, but I hadn't eaten since lunch (and it was after 11:00), so I ate them anyway (mistake #6). The veggies - carrots and celery - were a bit limp, and the "dip" looked runny and lumpy, but again, I didn't care, so I ate both with abandon (mistake #7 & #8). We hung out there for a while longer, drinking and chatting, and I took the last subway home.

When I woke up the next morning and wasn't feeling the greatest, at first I thought it was because I drank too much. It was 6:30 am (there are no curtains in the place we're staying), so I decided to take a Gravol and sleep for 3 more hours (mistake #9). I'd be fine in a few hours, I told myself (mistake #10).

I woke up almost 4 hours later, still feeling hungover, but now also really drowsy from the sedative I'd taken earlier that morning. But the more I thought about it, the less sense being humgover made. I only had two pints and a bottle - not enough to get me drunk - and I didn't even feel drunk when I got home. "After I shower and eat breakfast," I thought to myself, "I'll feel better" (mistake #11).

As the morning wore on and our noon show drew closer and closer, I began to feel worse and worse. My trips to the bathroom were increasing with a rapid frequency. "There's no way," I thought to myself again "that I can make it through a whole show without needing to go to the bathroom." And not only was I queasy now, but I was also starting to feel headachy (headachey?), probably due to dehydration from the fluids that were leaving my body every 8 minutes or so. Twenty minutes before show time I was hoping no one would show up, so we could cancel the show and I wouldn't feel guilty about it.

Unfortunately (at the time, anyway) people did show up. Including the Artistic Producer of the Summerworks Festival. "If I run off stage during the show," I told Kris, "cover for me."

Luckily, once we started, everything was fine. This was probably due to a combination of adrenaline, the 2 Advil migraine pills, and the additional Gravol (mistake #12 - I was so wiped the rest of the day) I took at the 5 minute call. Despite the amount of drugs in my body, the small house (the smallest we've had yet, but at that time it was to be expected), and my body forcing everything I'd eaten in the past 24 hours out in 8 minute intervals, the show was one of our better ones of this festival.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go drink some water...

Three N Hell

2007-07-10T12:50:00.000-04:00

So here's the thing about our reviews: they are good. Which, you might say, is good. But, another 3 star (or 3 N) review in NOW Magazine yesterday probably dooms us to be lost in the shuffle of the 4 and 5 star (and N) shows that the masses inevitably flock to on the last weekend of the festival.

It definitley didn't affect our house yesterday, as at 4:45 pm we had exactly 13 people in the house. The 13 of them liked the show (one of them was even kind enough to post a comment on our Eye Weekly page), but it's tough performing a comedy for so few people. I have hope, however, that numbers will pick up for Wednesday (9:30 pm) and Friday (8:00 pm).

Here is the quick review from NOW, by Jon Kaplan:

The Chuchill Protocol
NNN

A reporter visits Churchill, Manitoba, for an exclusive about a secret military operation. Writer/actors Patrick Gauthier and Kris Joseph keep us as intrigued as the keen reporter for most of the show, though a twist at the end doesn't work as well as it might. The performances, especially Joseph's as an increasingly maniacal colonel, are sharp and riveting.

Three Star Hell

2007-07-08T11:02:00.000-04:00

It has happened again. Three Star Hell.

Shows "awarded" Three Stars (which we were, on-line this morning by Eye Weekly) are inevitably cursed. It's not a bad enough review to turn someone who planning to see the show off, but it's also not a good enough review to convince someone who was wasn't planning to see - or was on the fence - to come.

Hopefully, we can get a review from Now Magazine, but I'm not holding my breath. If the Star or Sun come I will die of shock. Also, it is raining. Ugh.

Here is Eye Weekly's quick review:

The Churchill Protocol ***

A frequently hilarious, but intermittently confusing satire of the Canadian military with a handful of inspired comic moments. Kris Joseph’s bombastic performance is worth the price of admission alone.

So if Kris is worth the price of admission alone, does this mean I don't have to show up anymore?

Opening Night: Redux (or, Toronto Fringe: Part One)

2007-07-08T02:33:00.000-04:00

Toronto Fringe has been weird so far.

Apart from participating in the 24 hour playwriting contest (a complete wrap-up is coming soon), we haven't had much to do. We arrived in TO on Tuesday (July 3), and didn't open until tonight (July 7) at 11:30 pm. So technically, half our opening night (or 22 minutes of it) was on July 8th. We we the third last show to open at the Fringe here. The two productions that have their first shows Sunday have both been out of town, we are just a glitch of the scheduling system (although not the only the show to open today, just the latest).

We didn't know what to expect tonight. We had given away 27 (of 30) "word of mouth" tickets (a promotional gimmick that the Toronto Fringe sets up - for one show only companies can take up to 40 tickets to a performance and give pass them out like candy to try and get, wait for it, word of mouth spreading for their show), but were unsure of how many would actually show up for the performance.

Of the 27 tickets, 12 showed up. A good number. But when you add the three people who payed, plus the reviewer from Eye Weekly, we had a house of 16. Not terrible for an 11:30 pm show from an out of town company, but a bit lower than we had hoped, considering the number of freebies we had out there.

The show itself was... meh. There were two fairly significant tech snafus (a friend in the audience said only one was noticeable); but that's what touring without an SM will do for you (this wouldn't have happened, of course, if someone hadn't been "having a baby"). Beyond that, the show was fine. It was a bit loose, with a few line snafus (we've made some cuts since Ottawa, and aren't 100% on the changes yet, even though we thought we were after line runs yesterday and this afternoon), and scene change where I couldn't get my costume on in time (it was half-on, and the other half was covered by a goat).

The audience was quiet but seemed to be enjoying themsleves. I flirted with a couple of pretty girls in the second row. They didn't stick around after.

We should have a review sometime tomorrow, and it could go either way. It's a good show and we know it, but the performance was flawed, so we'll have to see. Either way, the size of our house at the 5:45 (pm) time-slot tomorrow should be an indication of how much our three days of intense flyering (by our count we've burned through about 300-400 of the 700 flyers we came to Toronto with) has helped.

Time for bed.

6:55 PM

2007-07-05T21:55:00.000-04:00

Done.

Written, proof-read, printed (although that was more difficult than expected), and submitted. With 5 minutes to spare, even.

Now, since I haven't eaten since somewhere in the neighbourhood of 9:30 this morning, it is time for dinner. And a beer.

5:39 pm

2007-07-05T20:39:00.000-04:00

Just got back from tech. Got through everything (set-up, levels, and a run) in 2.5 hours exactly.

Now, I have an hour and twenty minutes to finish the play, proof read it, print it, and hand it in at the Advance Box Office.

Why the fuck am I blogging?

2:09 pm

2007-07-05T17:09:00.000-04:00

I am stealing internet (and writing the play) in front of Tarragon theatre (thank you, Richard Rose, for not encrypting your wireless connection!).

Hopefully my battery lasts long enough to get some work done. 2

1:22 pm

2007-07-05T16:22:00.000-04:00

Just out of the shower. Not quite finished the final scene, but I'm at the bottom of the 22nd page.

A taxi is on its way to bring us and our inordinately heavy set to Tarragon for our 2:30 tech (Kris likes to be there 45 minutes early). Hopefully, I can find a power outlet somewhere in the neighbourhood and finish up before then (my laptop has the World's Worst Battery).

It's going to be a race to finish by 7:00...

12:26 pm

2007-07-05T15:26:00.000-04:00

I need a title.

12:06 pm

2007-07-05T15:06:00.000-04:00

Just finished the third of what is looking like a four-scene play. About 1/3 of the way down page 18, which, at this point, likely put the play in the 30 minute range. I'm hoping to hit 25-30 pages, but we'll see.

If I could, I'd like to get the final scene written before 1:00, so I have time to shower and maybe eat a bit of lunch before our tech (which is at 2:30). Since I lose 3 hours for the rehearsal, plus the transit time, the 24 Hour Playwriting Contest is more like the 19 Hour Playwriting Contest. We'll be done our rehearsal at 5:30 (it's not likely we'll finish any earlier), which gives me just enough time afterwards to make some quick edits and get the thing printed.

10:54 am

2007-07-05T13:54:00.000-04:00

I want to go back to bed.

9:24 am

2007-07-05T12:24:00.000-04:00

Two scenes done. Three-quarters of the way down page 11. Nine and a half hours to go.

Time for breakfast.

7:41 am

2007-07-05T10:41:00.000-04:00

Just woke up from my two-and-a-half-hour "nap." I want to go back to bed.

On to page 8.

4:08 am

2007-07-05T07:08:00.000-04:00

I am so tired.

2:07 am

2007-07-05T05:07:00.000-04:00

I am way too high to be writing right now. Fuck.

2:01 am

2007-07-05T05:01:00.000-04:00

I just smoked my first joint of the night. Held out pretty long, I think.

12:38 am

2007-07-05T03:38:00.000-04:00

Just back from a short break which included Kraft Dinner and a trip to the washroom. I have just begun work on page 4.

10:53 pm

2007-07-05T01:53:00.000-04:00

Finished my first page! Granted, it's mostly scene setting and stage directions, but a page is a page. It's a psychological hurdle, I guess.

FATHER
It sticks.

MOTHER
What?

FATHER
The front door key. It sticks. The front door key sticks. I have to change the lock.

MOTHER
Right now?

FATHER
Of course.

MOTHER
Right now. You have to change the lock right now. You have to change the lock right now?

FATHER
If I leave it, it’s only going to get worse. You don’t want someone breaking in here tonight, do you?

This probably means nothing without a) the stage directions; and b) the 4 objects. But, I have to save something for 4:00 am, don't I?

The 24 Hour Play (or, Why I am Jack Bauer)

2007-07-05T00:40:00.000-04:00

For some reason, I entered the 24 Hour Playwriting Contest at this year's Toronto Fringe.

The premise is simple: at 7:00 pm this evening (July 4) 60 playwrights were given four "objects" (the term being used loosely, as the objects could be people, places, things, bits of dialogue, metaphysical riddles) to be incorporated into a script. Twenty-four hours later (7:00 pm on July5), a hard copy of a play no longer than 45 minutes long.

The winner gets $500, plus a staged reading of their play on the closing night of the festival. Second place is $300, and third place - besides having a hairy chest - gets $150.

I just got home from flyering, etc., and am about to begin. I doubt I'll be up all night (we have to tech tomorrow at 2:30. This, I forgot about when I signed up), but likely until 6 or 7 in the morning I'd say. And in order to procrastinate, I will likely be posting updates throughout the night.... if you're reading, let me know!

How Much Does a Fitted Sheet Weigh? (or, Why I Packed Too Much)

2007-07-04T02:40:00.000-04:00

I have a packing problem. Specifically, I have an over-packing problem.

It's part vanity, part stupidity, part neurosis. I know I don't need to bring two hooded sweaters on a short trip, but what if I spill mustard on one? Do I want to walk around for the rest of the time in a mustard stained sweater, or do I want the option of wearing a mustard-free hoodie? Also: you can never have too many pairs of socks. If there's a flood or the floors are really dirty or if it's cold at night or if you just like to masturbate a lot, it is always a good idea to have plenty of socks on hand (or foot).

Last time we toured I packed too much. I realized half-way through the trip that I just wasn't going to wear my team Canada jersey, and I kicked myself for allow myself to convince myself I would. So I promised (myself) that it wouldn't happen again. This time I would pack only the essentials.

It turns out, however, that there were plenty of essentials. Where last time we were only on the road for 6 weeks, this year I would be gone from mid-May until the last week of August (and potentially the first week of September). 16 weeks. Four months. 1/3 of the year.

And I wasn't going just anywhere. I was going everywhere. Ottawa, Toronto, Winnipeg, Saskatoon, Edmonton, and Vancouver; with potential short-stops in Montreal, Guelph, Port Colborne, Calgary, and points in between, above, and below.

And I wasn't just doing one thing. I needed everyday clothes, but I would also be attending a first communion, pitching a play at the Magnetic North festival, going to play openings, maybe swimming, maybe going to a baby shower, and, unbeknownst to me at the time, attending my brother's wedding. I needed more than shorts and t-shirts. But I had to bring more than one pair of pants, since Ottawa can be fucking cold in May. Ugh.

So I brought too much. This time, however, I have worn - at least once - every piece of clothing I brought. I may not wear it again (I'm looking at you, Magnetic North pitch session rehearsal shirt), but I wore it once.

But there's a different problem this time. When I flew in from BC, my bag weighed in at 59 lbs. The weight limit per item of checked luggage when you fly with WestJet (and I always do) is 60 lbs. "Fine," you say. "You're under. Just barely under, but under nonetheless." While you're correct, you're leaving something out of the equation. You're leaving out what I left out until I arrived at the airport on Friday to fly (with WestJet) from Ottawa to Toronto.

I was going to take the train. I always take the train from Ottawa to Toronto. It's cheaper than flying, but not as depressing as taking the bus. It makes me feel very bourgeois. And like any good Bougie, rail passengers don't concern themselves with how much luggage they bring on a train. As long as you can haul it up that impossibly skinny staircase, you can bring it on.

But then the natives decided to protest, so I decided to fly. Being stuck on a train sucks. I wasn't going to risk being stuck on a train in Caledon.

I arrived at the well-lit Ottawa airport on Friday. I got my boarding pass, and I put my bag (with the help of a friendly WestJet owner) up on the scale. 64 lbs. I had left "all-the-shit-you-accumulate- randomly-when-you-live-somewhere-for-six-weeks" out of the equation. Damn.

The West Gentleman offered me a choice: pay a $40 "overweight" fee; or cram 4 lbs. worth of shit from my checked bag into one or both of my already overstuffed carry on bags. I fought with him for a moment. I told him that their policy didn't make any sense. I told him that it was ridiculous that I could have two bags that weighed a combined 120 lbs., but I couldn't have one bag that weighed 64. It's not like it's going to cause the plane to crash! I am owed 56 more pounds of luggage, and I am cashing in!

He then informed me that the policy isn't there to keep the planes from falling out of the sky, but to keep the baggage handlers from injuring themselves.

I skulked to the corner and attempted to weasel a measly 4 lbs. out of my suitcase. Inside I found an Old Navy bag. In it was a fitted sheet and a pillow case that I'd borrowed from my parents and was returning to them. Perfect! I also threw a pair of shoes and the box from my new camera in there.

Nervously, I returned to the scale and heaved my bag upon (up on?) it. 54! 54 lbs.! I beamed as they tied the blue "HEAVY / LOURD" sticker on my bag. I'll keep my $40, thank you very much.

But seriously: 10 lbs. from a sheet, a pair of shoes, and a tiny cardboard box with my warranty information inside?

Obviously (or, Why I Got Dating Advice from a Seven Year Old Girl)

2007-07-02T20:09:00.000-04:00

Excerpt of a conversation between myself (26) and my niece (7):

"Uncle Patrick, what's that in your ear?"

"It's a piercing. It's called an industrial."

"Why do you have it?"

"Because I like it."

"Did you get it so you could find a girlfriend?"

"Um, sure."

"Well, obviously it doesn't work."

Obviously.

Best in Venue (or, Ottawa Fringe: Part Four)

2007-06-25T02:50:00.000-04:00

On Saturday they announced the "Best in Venue" awards at the Ottawa Fringe. The process works thusly:

At each of the 5 main venues (excluding the BYOV's) there are ballots placed at the box-office table where audience members can vote for their favourite show in that particular venue, with the winning company (ie. the show with the most votes) receiving an extra show on Sunday night. Unlike other festivals, where the "Best in Fest" shows are chosen by the festival based on things like tickets sales, buzz, and show momentum, Ottawa places the power directly in the hands of the audiences (and, whether they admit it or not, the artists, who generally vote for themselves, and if they don't vote because it "doesn't feel right" they're being foolish... if you were running for PM you'd vote for yourself, wouldn't you?).

The "Best in Venue" shows, however, do not always go to the best show in the venue. Some years, there have been accusations of ballot stuffing, companies have also been known to ask audiences to vote for them during curtain call speeches, or to have handed out ballots (and pens!) to audience members as they leave the theatre. Like any election, it's not necessarily the best show that wins, but the show that best gets the vote out.

Kris and I really wanted to win. Not only for our egos (but that was definitely part of it), but because "Best in Venue" looks really good on posters across the country. So, like many shows before us, after we plugged a couple of other shows during our curtain call, we also asked audience members - if they liked the show - to vote for us. Since we sold out 3 of our shows and had large audiences for our other 3, we had a good a shot as anyone else in Venue #3.

We faced some tough competition, however, as we were sharing Studio Leonard-Beaulne with Vision Theatre's popular Crazy Eights, the very funny Tippi Seagram, one-man musicologist Alex Eddington, and the always popular Jem Rolls, among others.

When announcing the winners on Saturday night, Ottawa Fringe Executive Producer Kevin Waghorn (that's a lot of capitals in a row) said the vote was close. The closest of all the races. But he didn't say what we would find out later: that it came down to one vote.

One vote.

For us.

And that one vote was cast by a cast member of another show from our venue because, she said, "I really liked your show... and your pitch at the end of the was really good... you guys need it."

So we got another show. And a sexy quote for our Toronto posters.

My Bad Review (or, Ottawa Fringe: Part Three)

2007-06-20T15:05:00.000-04:00

We've been fortunate enough to get very good reviews and word of mouth for the show. Last night, in fact, we sold out, becoming the first official sell-out of the festival.

The Ottawa Sun, however, seems to disagree. Please note: the following review is BAD. I mean, it's bad because the critic (and I use the term very loosely) says some not nice things about me and the show, but it's also bad because he obviously was making the play up in his head while he was watching (exploding sheep?).

Not that I'm biased or anything.

The Churchill Protocol
Sun Rating: 1 out of 5
The Churchill Protocol on the other hand, is a comedy choking on far too many storylines and subplots going in all different directions. The story (think Dr. Strangelove shot in Churchill, Man., by the National Film Board) stars Gruppo Rubato's Patrick Gauthier as a whiny newspaper reporter tracking a possibly insane colonel (Kris Joseph) who uncovers a plot to use mind control and exploding sheep as a means for the Canadian military to keep peace in Afghanistan. It has a couple laughs but is high-maintenance theatre, making the audience work too hard. Joseph is splendid as the megalomaniac-inspired officer while Gauthier is shrill and annoying as the dubious reporter.

Okay, so I bolded the part about "high-maintenance theatre." Seriously, though, I think we should apologize. People are paying to see the show. It is a bit presumptuous of us to also expect them to think.

But as Kris said: "he's comparing us to Kubrick! He's a GENIUS!"

Second Show Slump (or, Ottawa Fringe: Part Two)

2007-06-19T02:38:00.000-04:00

You forget about it. Nothing happens.

You ignore it. Nothing happens.

You talk about it. Nothing happens.

The Second Show Slump.

Despite the fact that Kris, Nat, and I were very well aware of SSS, there was nothing we could do to stop it, despite our best efforts.

I dropped props backstage. In the dark. Twice.

Kris flubbed some lines.

Nat missed a cue or two.

One of our dimmers was on the fritz.

Still, another good house, and more positive feedback post-show.... four to go...

Ottawa Citizen Review

2007-06-17T10:32:00.000-04:00

And a very (very) good one at that. If only they had printed a picture as well.

From The Ottawa Citizen, June 16, 2007:

What if they're shipping Afghan prisoners to Churchill, Man.? And interrogating them in the polar bear jail? It would be one hell of a story, that's what.
A Citizen reporter, hot on the trail of a scoop, travels to Churchill for a clandestine meeting with the mysterious Col. Ronson. That's the set-up for the Churchill Protocol, a loopy, entertaining and sometimes biting satire on Canada's military and our national squeamishness about warfare.
The two actors, Pat Gauthier and Kris Joseph, are also the co-writers. Opening a brand new play at the Fringe Festival is a gutsy move, but their company, Gruppo Rubato, has done it successfully several times
The Churchill Protocol is another success. Smartly directed by Natalie-Joy Quesnel, it plays cat and mouse with the audience. For the longest time it appears as if Col. Ronson (a wacked-out Joseph) is insane. A ray gun that causes diarrhea and killer goats are on his agenda.
Towards the end, it becomes a bit of a talk-fest, but throughout most of its 60 minutes, Protocol is funny, smart theatre. The Churchill Protocol continues to June 24 at Studio Leonard-Beaulne.
-- Catherine Lawson

The full article (along with other reviews) is here.

Opening Night (or, Ottawa Fringe: Part One)

2007-06-17T02:59:00.000-04:00

And we're off...

The first Churchill show went surprisingly well, considering the fact that since the show is tech-heavy (62 cues!) we didn't have time to do a full run in the space during our 3 hour tech time. I was, needless to say, very nervous.

I was even more nervous when we almost sold-out our first show, and that that first audience was filled with a) an Ottawa Theatre Awards jury member; b) 4 Ottawa Fringe Festival Awards jury members; c) an Ottawa Citizen reporter (who we knew was coming); and d) other Ottawa people (including many many friends). Thankfully (for Kris, at least), I didn't vomit backstage.

The show, incidentally, was great. Better than great. I think we're going to do very well here, as there's a good buzz about the show already. Even the Citizen thinks so:

Buzz is a factor that's difficult to define, but it's essential to drawing an audience...Gruppo Rubato has an audience for its new show, The Churchill Protocol, based on previous original productions like The Man Who Came to Work One Day and Was Eaten By a Bear.

Get your advanced tickets now...

The Hard Sell (or, Why I Owe Lise Ann Johnson a Beer)

2007-06-08T02:24:00.000-04:00

We got the flyers for The Churchill Protocol the other day.

Since Fringe doesn’t start for another week, we haven’t really had the chance to give any out, but I’ve started carrying some around, because you never know when you’re going to run into someone to whom you would like to shill.

The Magnetic North Theatre Festival, then, would (and should) present itself as a great place to pass them around. After all, these people are at plays, so it’s safe to assume they might want to see another one, yes? The problem, of course, is that the Festival’s audience isn’t exclusively local, so a lot of our “targets” won’t be around in seven days (eep) when we open. This is probably what led Kris and I to NOT be flyering as we sat in the lobby of Arts Court Theatre before The Russian Play (which you need to see).

As we sat (not flyering) we were joined by Lise Ann Johnson (Artistic Director of GCTC, for those not in the know), and we chatted about what we’d seen at Mag North, and what we were planning to see at Fringe, as we combed the respective guides to each festival. Lise Ann said she was going to come out and see our show, so we took the opportunity to give her a flyer (why we gave one to someone who’d already committed is beyond me… we probably just wanted to show them off…).

“You guys should be out working the crowd,” she suggested. “These are nice.”

“Yeah,” Kris responded, apathetically. “I’m not really a fan of the hard sell.”

I just kind of sat there. Out of laziness as much as indifference. After a day that included eight hours of a directing Masterclass, a malfunctioning iPod, a bus ride to little Italy, and a play about crystal meth – which was to be followed by another play and a rehearsal with the Brown Bag Bards – I wasn’t really feeling like “being on” as it was.

There was a moment of silence, and then Lise Ann reached across the table, grabbed a stack of flyers, and started placing them on the tables. “It’s easy,” she said, as she walked through the lobby of the theatre not only placing flyers on the tables, but also handing them out to people who were waiting in line before the doors opened.

She returned soon afterward: “see? That wasn’t so hard.”

The Chruchill Protologue (or, My YouTube Debut)

2007-06-03T00:37:00.000-04:00

The other night, Kris and I spent a couple of hours shooting a video prologue for The Churchill Protocol (it was actually our second shot at it, as the first version, was a bit too dark and didn't quite capture the play's tone).

There are a bunch of hints as to what you'll see in the show, some sight gags, and some hard acting.

Thirteen days until opening!

Lazy Eyes (or, Why the Left has Let Me Down Again)

2007-05-30T23:34:00.000-04:00

I went to the optometrist the other day.

I did this for two reasons. First, I have crazy-good health insurance, thanks to the UBC, so it didn't cost me anything. Also, sometimes when things are far away, the look blurry.

Now, I'm not sure if they actually are blurry or if they just look that way, but it was worth getting checked out, and for free, no less.

I haven't had my eyes checked in years. Decades, actually (two). The last time I remember getting my eyes checked was elementary school, and I had to pick out animals from varying distances. They put up a chart, and asked what you saw. "A kangaroo," you say.

"Very good," as the chart is changed, "how about now?"

"A bear!"

But instead of using fancy equipment, they would just change the chart and ask you to move further away (such is life in Guelph, Ontario). Why they used animals instead of letters is beyond me. I wonder if there is anyone walking around with glasses because their seven-year-old self didn't know what an alpaca was.

Needless to say, I was unprepared for the giant Fritz Lang inspired machine they sat me behind that kept blowing in my eyes. If I couldn't see before, do you think stabbing my eyes with air is going to help?

After I stopped crying, dude wheels over the device of a thousand lenses. You all probably know the drill: read the chart with lens one, read it with lens two, tell him which one looks better. Read the chart with lens three, read it with lens four... you get the idea.

Thirty lenses or so later, my eyes have been tested (and they're tired. I don't think my eyes have ever been tired before....). The result? I need glasses. Why?

Because Left Eye is a total slacker.

Right Eye? Totally pulling his weight. Sees up close, sees down far, sees peripherally like a pro.

But Left Eye? Totally letting the team - team binocular vision - down. Oh sure, he sees up close and peripherally fine, but when it comes to distance... he sucks. He sucks HARD. V's look like U's and A's are indistinguishable from X's. Consequently, Left Eye and I haven't spoken since the test (as a result, I've been falling down a lot... thanks for nothing, evolutionary dependence on depth perception...).

And now? Now, I have to go shopping for glasses.

Pat vs. Kris: Round One (or, Why I am not Off-Book)

2007-05-28T11:17:00.000-04:00

We had a deal.

Our director had asked us to be off-book for today's Churchill Protocol rehearsal. At the time, it didn't seem like a big deal. We'd have the a three-day weekend to work our texts, and we didn't rehearse until Monday afternoon. No problem.

But: Kris had to work Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, as well as work some editing for the show's video prologue.

And: I had some rewrites for the Rideau Project that were due Monday (ie. today) as rehearsals start Thursday.

This was going to present a problem. As such, Kris and I made a deal. Neither of us would be off-book for the rehearsal. We'd try to learn some lines, but we wouldn't stress out too much about it (we even "not off-book" fived on it), as Nat couldn't yell at both of us, could she?

So what happens? Last night - when I am not learning my lines - I get an email from Kris: "I'm off-book . Nyah."

Kris: 1
Pat: 0

Well played, Joseph. Well played.

It's Like Herding Goats (or, Why I Smell Like Livestock)

2007-05-19T01:22:00.000-04:00

Maybe you remember last year's photo shoot.

This time, we decided to call ahead.

Needing to start publicity for The Churchill Protocol before the Fringe Tour, Kris and I (along with our photographer, the lovely and talented Jennifer Scrivens) went out to Bearbrook Farm (where they have a petting zoo and an abattoir on the property... creepy) in search of goats.

And man, were there ever goats. Petting Zoo Goats.

As we approached the fence they all trotted over, looking for pellets no doubt. Since we had no, they decided to try and reach the long grass just beyond the fence, while completely ignoring the long grass just inside the fence. There was a decided lack of sympathy on my part as the whined (brayed?) for our help. After trying our hardest to ignore the surprisingly cute livestock, we headed into the pen to have the photos taken.

You want to know the dark secret of the petting zoo? They are covered in shit. Seriously, we could barely take a step without landing in goat poop (don't tell our costume designer). It is everywhere. Boots definitely rode home in the trunk.

No sooner had we made our way through the gate then the whole herd (gaggle?) of goats made their way over to us. "This time," their goat-brains though, "they'll have pellets for sure!" Unfortunately for them, we did not. But, as we looked for the best spot to take he pictures, the goats followed us around anyway. Eventually, some of them got bored and started grazing in another direction, but for the majority of the goats - goats that are exposed to people all the time - we were fascinating.

You know how they say "goats will eat anything"? This is ABSOLUTELY TRUE. We couldn't put anything on the ground, because a) it was covered in shit; and b) as soon as something that wasn't goat shit touched the grass, all the goats would make their way over and gum it for five to fifteen minutes (unless we got it away from them sooner, which we always did).

Then, and I can't remember how or when it happened, but suddenly, the goats turned on us. No more photos and no more cooperating the silently brayed (baa-ed?). Now, I don't know of "herding goats" is an expression - as in, "trying to do something very difficult and frustrating is like herding goats" - but it should be. Because man, trying to herd those goats was like herding goats. We chased them around and around the pen, and whenever we had one cornered, he somehow managed to escape (no, we weren't outwitted by them. Goats are much stealthier than their cloven hooves let on).

Eventually, we caught one, and one of his kids followed, enthusiastically following his dad. Well, probably not his dad, since every eight seconds or so, Little Goat would try and mount Big Goat. Little Goat would mount, and Big Goat would buck. And no matter where we moved or how many times Little Goat was shooed away, there he'd be again, on his hind legs behind Big Goat.

(those are before and after pics... we didn't catch him in the act, unfortunately (fortunately?).)

Eventually, we got rid of Little Goat, and wrapped the photo shoot up shortly thereafter, as Big Goat (aka Marcel) was very cooperative from that point onward (it's amazing what getting rid of a tiny goat penis will do for another goat's morale).

But at the end of the day, after all the goat feces was cleaned from our boots and a weird greasy goat-fur substance was washed from our hands, I think we have our poster shot...

Get you tickets now.

You Know What Fucking Sucks? (or, You Know What REALLY Fucking Sucks?)

2007-05-09T02:46:00.000-04:00

What sucks: when your favourite show - which has just recently been cancelled, by the way - has only two episodes left, and you sit down to watch the second last episode, but 20 minutes in the show is interrupted by "breaking news" and the rest of the episode doesn't air. And this happens just when Logan (who shares my birthday, by the way) is about to propose to Rory. In front of everyone. At her graduation party. From Yale. And the last words Logan speaks before being interrupted by coverage of an LA brush-fire are "Will you..."

What really sucks: then I was all high and had nothing to watch. Well, I had 40 minutes of Los Angeles brush-fire coverage, but it's just not the same. That KTLA anchor is no Lauren Graham, that's for sure.

Did anyone tape tonight's Gilmore Girls?

300 Kinds of Awesome (or, Why the Universe and I are on Speaking Terms Again)

2007-04-20T02:32:00.000-04:00

Question: how is it possible for a film to be such a blatant right-wing parable and overtly homoerotic at the same time?

PS - it was great.

I Have a Weirdo in My House (or, More Evidence the Universe is Against Me)

2007-04-14T02:27:00.000-04:00

We have a lot of people stay at our house.

Besides myself, Doctor Roommate, and Fringe Roommate, we have Metaphysical Roommate (he doesn't live here but he's around a lot and since he lives in West Van sleeps on our couch and makes eggs almost every weekend), Man Doctor Roommate (Doctor Roommate's) boyfriend who lives in America and visits every so often), and Girls Who Don't Make Out With Me (PS - if you sleep on the couch, you are not allowed to call it a sleepover...).

A week or so ago, the Metaphysical one had an acquaintance come into town. We'll call him Weirdo. So Weirdo can't stay in West Van with Metaphysical, because he has all this stuff to do in town, and getting from there to here is a pain in the ass. So, Metaphysical asks if he can stay with us. It would only be for a couple of nights, and he would be leaving early in the morning and getting back late. We wouldn't even notice he was there.

He arrives late one night, and I'm already in bed. I'm awake, but I'm stoned and reading Batman comics, so I don't much feel like being social. "I'll just meet him Tomorrow," I think.

Tomorrow comes. I get up about 10:00 am (because I was up all night reading), thinking I'm alone. Not so much. Weirdo is still asleep on the couch.

Trying to be polite (maybe he got high and spent the night reading Superman comics, I don't know...), I crept around the house, trying not to make too much noise while I made breakfast. I even turned down my radio and closed my bedroom door, so he wouldn't be woken by the dulcet voice of Shelagh Rogers and Sounds Like Canada.

About 10:30 or so, there's a knock on my door. He's standing there, ready to introduce himself. Only, he's not wearing any pants.

"Hi. I'm Weirdo," he says as I try to keep my eyes from wandering down to his surprisingly (for some reason) fair-haired legs. "It's nice to meet you," he continues, and I mumble something, only I can't remember what because I was too busy trying to work out whether he was wearing underwear, or just the tiny t-shirt that just barely covered his ass. And if he wasn't wearing underwear, who would I call to get the futon cleaned?

Then he told me that he'd be out of my way soon, that today was his day to sleep in, that he wouldn't be here at this time tomorrow, that he'd be out late tonight, that he had somewhere to be in about an hour or so.

"I'm just going to take a shower," he says, "do you mind?"

Not having to leave the house for about 90 minutes myself, I didn't. And after a few more minutes of listening to Shelagh, I hear the "click" of the bathroom door (which, if you don't know the geography of the house, is right outside my bedroom door. Which sucks because I can hear people shower and poo, but it's great because I can also hear them coming and rush in there if need be. Suckers).

A few minutes pass. Then a few more minutes. And a few more. Then a lot more minutes. I don't hear anything. Not the shower starting, not someone taking a poop. Nothing. I'm beginning to get a little worried. Is he okay in there? Was I so wrapped up in The Dead Dog Cafe that I didn't hear him get in to or out of the shower?

I wait.

Ten minutes later and he still hasn't made a sound. He went in there (or, I thought he went in there) almost 40 minutes ago. Now I'm worried that he died masturbating to a Betty and Veronica Double Digest. I carefully approach the bathroom door. I am about to knock...

The shower turns on. Thank God. That would have been embarrassing.

A few minutes pass. Then a few more minutes. And a few more. Do you see where this is going? After about 15 minutes, dude is still in the shower.

Now I really have to pee, and I also need to start getting ready myself.

Again, just as I am about to knock on the bathroom door (I really had to pee), the shower turns off.

A few minutes pass. Then: the shower starts up again. A few minutes pass. It turns off. A few more minutes. The shower starts up for a third time, and dude has been in the bathroom for close to an hour, now. It does finally stop. And after twenty minutes (which I can only assume were all spent toweling himself off, since he took THREE SHOWERS).

Of course, this meant I didn't have time to shower. He left, and shortly afterward, I did too. Stinky.

I get home that night, late. 1:30-ish, if I recall. I had been at a show or a rehearsal or something, and had been out "socializing" afterward.

I unlock the door, and there he is, sitting on the couch. First thing Weirdo says to me, before I even have time to get my coat off, he says to me "the internet isn't working."

"Did you get the password?" I ask, not caring.

"Yeah. And it was working, but now it isn't."

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

But then, he offers me deal: "your DVD, for tech support," he says. He flashes a copy of Teen Witch (maybe the third greatest teenager-gets-witch-powers movie ever, behind The Craft and Kiki's Delivery Service), which he had gone into my room and taken.

I went to bed. He'd be gone in two days.... he'd be gone in two days...

Dorky in Seattle (or, Why I am Afraid of Margot Kidder)

2007-04-10T02:12:00.000-04:00

When I moved to BC I made two lists: Places I Should Go; and Places I Should Go But Won't In A Million Years.

The second list includes Yukon/Alaska, Portland, California (somewhere fun like LA, not somewhere lame like San Jose), and Japan.

The first list is much more reasonable, as it includes Whistler, Victoria, Portland (it made the list twice!), and Seattle.

Two weekends ago, some friends asked if I wanted to take a trip to Seattle for the Emerald City Comic Con (read: Dork Convention). Since a) Seattle was on the list; and b) I like comic books, I went.

We we supposed to leave super early (5:30 am) early because we were going to take the bus. Since there were to be four of us going, however, it would be cheaper to rent a car. Besides the dollars saved, this also meant that we could sleep in, since our car wouldn't be stopping Coquitlam, Belligham, Mount Vernon, and Everett on the way.

We decide to meet on Saturday morning at 7:30 am in front of the rental car place. By 7:40, three of us - M, A, and myself - all varying degrees of late but there now nonetheless, are waiting for R, who has yet to show or call. A calls him. It seems that R has slept in. But he should be here soon.

8:00 am and R still isn't there. A calls him again. R can't find his passport. But A assures us that things are going to be okay. R has a car. "It won't take him long to get here," says A (here being, you remember, a rental car place. Why we're renting if R owns a car is a question best saved for another time).

Some time (just) before 9:00, R shows up. We would have done all the paperwork and checked the car out already, but it was reserved under R's name. Good planning, that.

So after typing directions into our female-voiced GPS system (I had such a crush on her, she was strangely bossy, yet always correct. Her sweet voice soothes much better than that of Emily, who works for Bell, and never understands me when we talk. I want "moving and new connections" dammit!), we were on the road. Just over three hours later (including about an hours delay at the border because of traffic, a bathroom break, a lost passport, and a giant birth certificate), we arrived in the parking lot. I am still in shock that they actually let me across the border. You know, after last time.

Unfortunately, after all the getting up early and waiting and driving, the Comic Convention was lame. Comic Conventions are pretty lame generally, but this one was extra lame, because:

a) all the signs outside were pointing people toward the "Trend Convention," and these events, my friends, are in no way trendy. I grown man wearing a tie-dyed (tye-died?) Spider-Man t-shirt, a tilly hat with a Punisher logo, pleated jeans, and sandals are not there for the trends. He is there to buy cheap back issues of Legion of Superheroes, get his favourite artist to draw a sketch of him as Wolverine, and ogle the lesbians dressed as anime characters;

b) one bank machine - which is not even inside the convention centre so you have to exit and if you forget to get your hand stamped then you have to plead with the security people to please let you in and even when you show them a receipt from inside the hall they still make you go back and buy another $12 US ticket which equals $14 and change on your Visa so overall it costs you almost $30 just to step foot inside this crappy convention and you still forget to get your hand stamped the second time;

c) apparently, a Canadian driver's license is not a valid form of ID. Where the fuck is Ontario, anyway?

Beyond the lameness, comic conventions are inherently sad places. They're sad because 90% of the attendees really want to write and draw comic books, and go on at length to their favourite writers and artists about what they would do if they were writing or drawing Superman (read: make him fight giant Nazi robots controlled by intelligent chimps the Soviets sent into space, and monsters from beneath the Earth's crust. Constantly. I mean, Superman just needs to kick the shit of big things, then go home and make out with Lois).

These fans are augmented by those who also have aspirations to create, but know they don't have any talent, so instead these fans fill the void in their hearts by bringing piles and piles and piles (or, in one case, three rolling suitcases full) of comics for Mark Waid to sign. And personalize. Then they try to quiz him on obscure trivia. Nothing's more fun than waiting in line for 15 minutes (and all you want to do is buy a book from the guy and tell him you like his work) while the guy in front of you is celebrating because he knew Iron Fist's phone number, and the book's author did not.

Nothing is more sad, however, than the C-list celebrity table. This year, you could buy a photo and autograph from Peter Mayhew (the dude who played Chewbacca. In his official convention photo he is wearing a t-shirt with Chewbacca on it. Do you think all the Star Wars actors wear t-shirts of their characters around the set, so everyone else knows what they look like under all that make-up? If not, they totally should), Matthew Atherton (winner of the first So You Want to Be a Superhero? reality TV show, or Gigi Edgley (not a porn star, but close: an "actor" from Farscape), among others.

One of those "others" being Margot Kidder. There she was, all alone at her table, surrounded by colour (sorry, "color." We were in America, after all) and black and white 8x10's, Sharpies at the ready. And people just... passed her by. Is it because no one knows who she is anymore, after Kate Bosworth stole her role? Is it because Robson Arms is a pretty crappy TV show? Is it because she went crazy a few years ago? We'll never know. I really wanted to go over and talk to her, maybe get my picture taken, but I was afraid that if I mentioned I was a director, she would ask me for work. I just couldn't take that chance.

So to console myself, I found someone else to pose with:

And he didn't even charge me.

Three Hundreth Time's the Charm (or, Why The Universe is Against Me)

2007-04-06T23:53:00.001-04:00

I really want to see 300.

I want to see it a lot. I wanted to see it tonight.

In fact, I should be seeing it right now. I should be in the cinema. But I am not. I have missed the movie.

But this isn't the first time. I have tried to see this movie on five separate and individual cases, but each time a separate and individual incident prevented me from doing so.

I wanted to go opening night. It was playing at a theatre just up the street. Less than ten minutes by foot. And it's cheap. For students: $7, all the time. I showed up just before the show. Sold out.

I wanted to go the next night. I wanted to arrive earlier, so I would get a ticket. I wanted to see this movie. I didn't want to get wet. I didn't want to walk the less than ten minutes in the sideways rain. I didn't want to arrive at the cinema soaking wet and have to sit through the movie that way. Stupid rain.

I wanted to go the following Friday. It had been open for a week, so the crowds should have been smaller. It had also been a long day at school, and you know how it is after TAing two classes and sticking around for three hours after them so you could make a 4:30 production meeting that lasted almost an hour and a half so when you finally get home it's almost 7:00 and all you want to do is smoke pot, eat some Doritos and leftover Hershey's Valentines Kisses that you got for cheap at the Superstore, and watch some Friday Night Lights. Apathy, 1; 300, 0.

I wanted to go some time the week after that. To ensure my attendance, I got someone else to come along with me. There's nothing that could stand in my way this time. But then he gets sick. And he gets his girlfriend (who was also going to come but stood me up to "take care of him") to call me and cancel. He thought it was Norwalk, but it ended up just being a case of the sniffles. No attendance due to illness.

I wanted to go tonight. It was all set, but there was a problem on the SkyTrain. The power was out on one side of the tracks and no one knew why (or, they weren't saying). It was all very mysterious and intriguing, but it meant that trains were going both east and west on the same track, and there was a huge backup because of it.

But that was okay because I was warned. I was warned by the couple from the previous attempt. The couple I thought I would be seeing the movie with. I left early to compensate for the expected delay. I would take the bus.

The bus, however, was busier than usual because of the delayed train, so I wasn't able to get on, and there wouldn't be another for a few minutes, since it is Good Friday and transit is running on a holiday schedule. It was time to take a risk. I would attempt to take the train in the hope that a westbound car would arrive in the next 15 minutes.

Only three trains passed in the next 20 minutes, and they were all going east. And they were all so packed, even if they were going west, I wouldn't have been able to get on anyway, due to the curiously large three hour backlog of Easter weekend commuters leaving the downtown core.

Tonight makes it oh-for-five.

I haven't seen 300 because: it was sold out; it was raining really hard; apathy; bird-flu scare; potential suicide on the metro tracks.

Maybe I should just give up.

Karma.

2007-04-01T19:37:00.000-04:00

Just got back from seeing Half Life at the Arts Club.

As I'm waiting in line to buy my Rush ticket (for $19.50! Can you believe that? I thought Rush = cheap, but anyway...) I hear a friend of mine (who had beaten me there and already had her ticket) say "he still needs a ticket!"

I turn around, and a ticket for the show is thrust in my face: "My daughter couldn't make it," the lady tells me, "would you like her ticket?"

"Sure," I say. But, since I only had American money on me (because I was in Seattle on Saturday... photos et al coming soon), I would have to run to the bank.

"Oh, don't worry about it," she says. "It's just going to go to waste if you don't take it."

So I took it.

"The only catch is that you have to sit with us."

So I did. In the front row. Dead center. And I mean for real dead center - my seat was the actual literal for real center seat. I counted to make sure.

Thank you Lady Who Gave Me A Ticket. It is much appreciated.

PS - Half Life is awesome.

PPS - is your daughter single?

Spring.

2007-03-28T15:44:00.000-04:00

Why does anyone live anywhere else?

An Open Letter to Theatre at UBC

2007-03-19T03:42:00.000-04:00

Dear Theatre at UBC,

Thank you for informing me that my thesis production will be Moliere's The Learned Ladies. I would also like to thank you for the note asking if I have any "special production requirements" for elements that may not be covered by the standard production budget.

Since I received word that I would be directing TLL (the official thesis acronym), I have been doing quite a lot of thinking on the subject. My needs are summarized below.

1.) A choreographer - this, I feel, is essential, as I would like to end the production with a splashy dance number. Think The 40-Year-Old Virgin or a recent episode or Scrubs.

2.) A dialect coach - I know the play is set in 17th century, but let's face it, it was a pretty boring century. Instead, I'd like to move the play forward in time, to the 20th century, circa 1936. And instead of French, I'd like all the characters to be German (with real German accents!). That should spice things up.

3.) A composer - obviously the play is going to be a musical (after all, it's already in verse! And how much of a waste would it be not to put some jazzy tunes to those couplets?). This is also an opportunity to get some extra work out of the choreographer. Lazy bastards.

4.) A fight director - because they are going to all be ninjas. And ninjas fight. All the time.

5.) The ability to fly all the actors, simultaneously - since the play will take place ON THE MOON!!!

Please feel free to contact me should you have any questions or concerns. I'm the guy whose shows always seems to have siblings making out.

Sincerely,

Patrick Gauthier
MFA Candidate, University of British Columbia

PS - how awesome are the space ninjas?

What's the Protocol? (or, The Man Who Went to Work One Day and Wrote About a Goat)

2007-03-18T22:33:00.000-04:00

It seems that Kris has already beaten me to it (damn you, Joseph!), but for the one or two of that might not read his blog (I'm looking at YOU, David Savoy), allow me to recap:

Gruppo Rubato presents...

The Churchill Protocol
written and performed by Patrick Gauthier & Kris Joseph
directed by Natalie Joy Quesnel & her unborn baby

Our government is secretly shipping live cargo from Afghanistan to northern Manitoba. A reporter is hungry to find out why… but the truth might stop his heart.
A new comedy from the producers of 2006’s sold-out hit The Man Who Went to Work One Day and Got Eaten by a Bear.

“Gauthier’s work is smart, funny, cynical and urban…”
- Ottawa Citizen

How I'll Spend My $90 (or, Why I Won My Oscar Pool)

2007-03-13T03:06:00.000-04:00

It took a week or so to tabulate the votes (those Oscar accountants don't work fast. Or cheap), and then another week or so (I don't work fast. But cheap I can do) for me to get around to writing what will amount to be about 200 words or so (and even more if I extend the meta-ness even further through this unnecessary parenthesis) about how, with 16/24 categories correct, I won my Oscar pool by a narrow-yet-comfortable margin of 2 (two). This totally beats last when a) I hadn't seen more of the films; and b) I tied for first place and had to split the money.

That makes two years in a row (take that Sean Fitzpatrick) I have victorious in my Oscar predictions. This does put unwanted pressure on next year, though. I may just have a nervous breakdown. Imregardless, I think I'll take my $90 and put it towards a Wii. It's video games and exercise! Everybody wins!

Especially me.

How Long Does it Take to Re-tile a Floor? (or, Why I Really Have to go to the Bathroom)

2007-03-08T14:03:00.000-05:00

I can't use my toilet. My toilet is currently in the front hall. My toilet is mocking me.

When we moved in, the tiles close the tub on the bathroom floor were chipped and peeling. The Landlord said she's have someone in soon to get them fixed. The catch, we were told, was that we wouldn't be able to use the floor for 24 hours, to allow for the tiles or the glue or the nails - whatever keeps them stuck to the floor - to dry (or something. I don't know much about masonry). I don't know if you've ever tried to be in a room without using the floor, but it is tricky.

So after much stalling, a Christmas vacation that would have been the perfect time since no one was here for two weeks, and a funeral, two weeks ago the whole process finally got started Because really, do we even care all that much? I mean, it's not like water leaks into our apartment whenever we take a shower. Downstairs neighbour should suck it up. He lives in Vancouver, why isn't he used to be wet?

First, a gentleman appears at our door and, in fractured English, asks if he can "do our bathroom." Maybe it's because I was home alone, but I was somewhat reluctant to let a stranger in. Especially since he wanted access to the washroom. That place is private. It's where I keep my toothbrush and Archie comics.

In order to aid communication, however, the gentleman pulls out a piece of paper with our address (in Performance Artists Roommate's handwriting) scrawled down. He is the Floor Guy. Floor Guy comes in. But Floor Guy has forgotten his tiles (isn't that the whole reason he came? Was he just in the neighbourhood? Did he just really have to use the bathroom?). But, he says, he can level the floor for us and come back at a more convenient time (read: convenient for him. Probably when he doesn't have to pee).

The next while is filled with phone calls from Floor Guy trying to set up a time he can come and "finish" (read: "start") the job. Generally, we receive these phone calls at about 10:00 pm the night before he wants to be here. We, generally, said "no."

But there was no avoiding the inevitable, and since I was going to be home this afternoon anyway, when Floor Guy called last night and asked if he could come today, we acquiesced.

And while I was prepared to "not use" (read: be careful when I walked on) the bathroom floor, I was not at all ready when Floor Guy asked in his rapidly improving English "do you have another toilet? Because I'm going to have to take this one out."

"Take it out?"

"Yes."

"Can you not just lay the floor around it?"

"I could, but it's easier to take it out."

Now, I don't know much about plumbing, but IT'S EASIER TO TAKE A TOILET OUT THEN TO CUT THROUGH THE CHEAP LINOLEUM YOU'RE LAYING ON MY FLOOR?!? (okay, I didn't say that.... but I thought it... and I thought it loud)

What I did say, was, in a cleverly veiled bid to hopefully discourage him: "Where is it going to go?"

"I don't know," Floor Guy says as he scans the house and points to a corner in the main hall. "There?"

I hope he knows how to put it back. I really have to pee.

Lucky 16? (or, Why I Might Win My Oscar Pool)

2007-02-26T01:06:00.000-05:00

I chose Little Miss Sunshine.

A sentimental choice, for sure, and maybe not the smartest move if I want to win me some money (but it paid off for Best Supporting Actor and Best Original Screenplay), but I did end up with a score of 16/24, which is only one less than last year (when, you may recall, I totally WON).

So we'll see. But a pretty good showing again, I think, especially considering I hadn't seen many of the films, save for Sunshine, the much too long Dreamgirls, and the over hyped but still very good (hey, it got me 2 points, but really fucked the dog on Best Foreign Film... thanks Guillermo) Pan's Labyrinth.

Still, even though the show was done by 9:30 out here, I'm left with an empty feeling. Maybe it's because last year's actual best picture had zero nominations...

My Fictional Birthday Buddy (or, Why I had the Best Birthday Ever)

2007-02-21T23:20:00.000-05:00

A lot of people were born on February 20.

But, while watching Gilmore Girls last night I learned that some one else shares my birthday: Logan Huntzberger.

Yes, he is a fictional character, and yes it was never explicitly stated that his birthday is also February 20, but the episode aired on that day and that is proof enough for me.

What does this all mean?

Rory Gilmore's boyfriend having the same birthday as me = Greatest. Birthday. Ever.

Maybe it was all the pot I smoked before watching.

...

...

Nope. It's a day later now. Still awesome.

Hello 26 (or, Good-bye 25).

2007-02-21T00:40:00.000-05:00

So last year I made a list of things I would do (and would not do) in my 26th year (it was my 26th year even though I was turning 25. This is my 27th year even though I have been 26 for about 22 hours - depending on your time zone. Would someone mind explaining this to me?).

I will not be making such a list this year. And for two reasons:

a) I pretty much (and by "pretty much" I mean "TOTALLY") didn't accomplish anything on my "to do" list (except "grow a beard," but it was itchy so I gave up earlier than I wanted...), which is depressing.

2) I accomplished everything on my "to not do" list (except "become a morning person" but that was only for a few days, and I blame the change in time zones...), which is also depressing, mostly because it seems that the only things I accomplished were things I set out not to accomplish. Ugh.

Now if you'll excuse me, my birthday joint and birthday Gilmore Girls are calling.

Vancouver(2007) (or, Why I Might Have the Bird Flu)

2007-02-18T02:34:00.000-05:00

Things have been insane.

The Short Version: the entire BFA class came down with the plague, and I have been putting the finishing touches on the first draft of a play commissioned by the Magnetic North Theatre Festival (which is the reason for the lack of posting after the unlack of posting - all the writing time was spoken for), which was handed in on Thursday.

The Long Version: it all started innocently enough. A cough here. A sneeze there. A missed class (or two) by a student (or two). It is flu season after all. These things are to be expected. Especially since the show currently in rehearsals has somewhere in the range of 20 actors that are together day and night six days a week. That, and their parties generally end in making out.

But no one counted on the entire 2nd (or, Intermediate) year of the BFA to get sick. At once. It was kind of a catastrofuck.

And what was especially disconcerting was that the puke hit the fan last Monday. The day in which I was in charge of the class (one of the classes) I TA. And by in charge I mean that the Professor was not going to be there and that it was up to me to get 13 actors ready for a Friday performance of a Commedia piece we had created and hadn't rehearsed very much because a few people (most notably our Pantalone and Dottore.... who tend to be integral to a Commedia plot) had been sick the previous week as well.

So the night before (last Sunday) I get a call from N, the Class Rep (the Rep is the student the other students call if they are going to be sick/late for class). N tells me that he has heard from a number of people who won't be in class Monday. Won't be in class because they are a) vomiting; b) diahrreaing; c) shaking; d) coughing up blood; e) in the hospital; or f) all of the above. For real. It was so bad that the day before a rehearsal for Mother Courage (UBC's next production) was cancelled because 9 of the actors were too sick to play dead people in a crowd scene. Ugh.

So Monday Morning rolls 'round, and N calls to inform me he is also deadly sick himself now, and he had, at that point, spoken to 8 (of 12) other people who were either bedridden or vomiting (and again, in some cases, both).

I took the 40 minute bus ride to school anyway, thinking that even if a few (read: 4) showed up, then maybe we could do something. But on the ride there, I received more phone calls, and soon, 10 of 13 people had called in sick. Of those who did make it in, one was so high on painkillers (she had gone to the hospital because she burst a blood vessel in her throat from coughing so much) that all she could do was grin. And giggle.

So I cancelled the class. And went home and hypochondriaced myself by drinking about 8 litres of Orange Juice. It made me feel kind of sick.

What to Eat for Lunch (or, Why I Love Science Week)

2007-02-06T02:43:00.000-05:00

It's Science Week at UBC.

And that can only mean one thing: Campus Bar-Be-Que Season is back!

After starting strong in September, the season trailed off for a bit with all the rain in November. But now that we don't have to wear gloves (or hats, or scarves, or even coats if the sun is out), we can start grilling again!

UBC (or, Bar-Be-Que-BC, as I am wont to call it) must have quite a few BBQ's lying around, because the BBQ's, they are everywhere and there is usually more than one Bar-Be Queing at any given moment. Because of this, the university always smells like meat.

So inevitably, once the season begins, at any time of day or night, somewhere on campus some club is having a BBQ. Sometimes they are FUNdraisers (oh look, a pun... clever... never seen that before... it makes it seem like eating is nourishing and fun!), sometimes they raise awareness (you know, for like, Iraq and shit), and sometimes they build cultural bridges (who doesn't want to be Baha'i?). You have to read the hastily painted banner to get all the details.

But sometimes - if you're lucky - they're free. All you have to do is pretend to be a scientist or a Christian or black, and... BAM! free ham (or veggie) burger, courtesy of some club. Thanks, Asian Debate Club. I'll debate the perfect garnish for a burger with you any time.

But this week is special. This week is also the week leading up to V-Day. And we all know what that means. Besides another production of The Vagina Monologues (for which UBC's production, I have overheard, has something like 300 cues... and two dance sequences), it means:

Chocolate vaginas. On a stick.

And let me say, chocolate vagina (on a stick) makes for a fine dessert after a free Science Burger.

Tech Week - FINALE (or, How I Spent my Opening Night)

2007-02-02T14:02:00.000-05:00

You know what's always a crowd pleaser?

A play about incest.

That shit is money in the bank.

Just sayin'.

Agatha opened last night, and aside from the girl sitting next to me (who had brought a lunch, or is it dinner? - in a paper bag - to eat during the slowest, quietest thing I've directed since The Jewish Wife) and the group of people behind me who commented about half-way through the show, "oh, there's only going to be two people in it. I hate plays with only two people," everything went off relatively hitchless.

The cast stayed out drinking far later than I got to because a) I was offered a ride home and when you're offered a ride from UBC to Commercial Drive, you take it; and b) I had to TA at 9:00 am this morning (and every Friday), and there is not much that is worse than TAing with a hangover. Especially when that class is Theatre 120 (the 1201 equivalent, for all you Ottawa U kids) and you are supposed to be leading a seminar on the design elements of Big Love.

Actually, TAing a Commedia class in which you are expected to run around and tumble is worse if you're hungover (hanged over?). I take it back.

Tech Week - PART TWO (or, Why I Missed 24)

2007-01-30T20:42:00.000-05:00

UBC doesn't really have a "tech week." And by "doesn't really" I mean "not at all."

It is more of a "tech weekend," which consists of back-to-back 12 hour days in the theatre (a Saturday and Sunday, naturally), followed by Monday and Tuesday tech runs, a Wednesday preview, and the Thursday opening. So once you're in the theatre, there isn't much time to do any non-tech related rehearsing, unless you're lucky enough to get into the space before or after your scheduled run.

This problem is made even more difficult in my current situation, as I'm part-one of a double-bill, so IMMEDIATELY after my show finishes the set is struck (striked?) and set-up begins for part-two. The whole process only takes about 15 minutes, which is amazing, considering that in between shows What is really inconvenient (for me, anyway) is that the shows have a shared crew (and my SM also acts as the other LX operator), so if I have any tech notes I can't give them until after both shows are done, which leaves me sitting around a whole lot (which is, incidentally, what I'm doing now, as I was done class at 4:00, but we don't run until 7:30, and going home - an hour long commute each way - isn't possible).

Regardless of my frequent boredom, tech week(end) went smoothly. A costume tweak here, a sound level adjustment there. No big issues.

And last night, for the first time, I was able to see the second show on the double-bill, Diary of a Madman, written by David Savoy (fellow 1st year MFAer), and adapted from the short-story by Nikolai Gogol (I was missing 24 for this.... so it better be good).

Since there are only fifteen minutes between the shows, and my actors also wanted to see Madman yesterday evening, they were in a bit of a rush to get out of costume and into the theatre. But their dressing room was locked.

So, wanting to expedite the process, I offered to run over to the theatre (passing the Madman cast, who were outside sharing a pre-show smoke on my way) and get the key (did I mention that the dressing rooms and the theatre are in different buildings? Well, they are).

When I returned, I realized I had the wrong key. Damn.

So I ran back to the theatre (passing the Madman cast on my way), grabbed my keys - since I am, apparently, important, a set of keys to the theatre buildings have been bestowed on me - and ran back to the dressing rooms.

Upon my return, I remembered that I had given my keys (the ones that I needed, anyway) to my Stage Manager.

This was becoming farcical.

One more time I ran back to the theatre (and once again, passing the Madman cast... how many fucking cigarettes do these guys smoke before a show?), asked for Someone Else's keys, and was subsequently tossed three sets.

We got in. And I took a rest (read: collapse).

Directing's hard.

Fog.

2007-01-29T02:55:00.000-05:00

Since I have moved to Vancouver it has rained and snowed and rained some more and winded and slushed and snowed again and sunned.

I didn't think there was any weather left to have. What's left? Locusts?

I didn't think there was any weather left to have until I woke up yesterday (and again this morning) and saw the fog. The fog which is "quite normal." The fog which burns off (a phrase - when relating to fog - that I've never understood) in the morning and comes back thicker and meaner in the evening.

For two days, this fog has lurked. And this isn't just illconvenient makes it a little hard to drive or maybe you miss a stair and trip on the UBC campus fog, either. This is Victorian-erotic-slasher-fiction Fog. This is successful-at-making-Main-and-Hastings-even-sketchier Fog.

At least the football stadium is still standing.

Tech Week - PART ONE (or, Why I Hate Setting Levels)

2007-01-27T02:26:00.000-05:00

So I'm directing a play. Maybe it seems obvious (since I'm doing an MFA in directing) but, except for the occasional post about getting drunk and damaging the furniture, I haven't spoken about it much (read: at all).

The reason? Well, there really hasn't been much to say. Rehearsals are rehearsals, production meetings are production meetings, and level setting sessions are level setting sessions.

Until now.

With less than a week before tech, I find out that my Sound Designer is in the hospital (which should not have taken me by surprise, as he was sick before Christmas, was late returning to Vancouver because he was still sick over the break, and when he did return was still so sick that he wore a mask to rehearsals so as not to infect the actors. But surprised I was all the same). My show is not terribly tech heavy (one lighting cue, zero props, no entrances or exits... not that the last one is tech, but doors are a pain in the ass). It does feature, however, an 80 minute sound cue with a whole lot of changes in level, as well as additional underscoring. If there's one designer I need not hooked up to an IV, it's my sound guy.

Thankfully, he was released (escaped?) in time to set levels this evening (can I just rant about what a useless exercise level setting sessions are for a moment? Thanks. Do I really need to be there? So all this sound is played for me and it sounds fine. But then tomorrow, when I have actors acting, they're going to be either a) too loud; or b) too soft. They will not be c) just right. So we'll have to fix them. Then, when we get an audience, the levels will be either a) too soft; or b) too loud. Once more we'll have to adjust. And it's the same with lights. As soon as there are people on stage the levels will be all off. I understand the designers needing "somewhere to start" but do I really need to be a part of that? Start without me. I'll catch up). It sounds great.

We cue-to-cue (Q2Q?) tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Sun?

2007-01-24T13:38:00.000-05:00

I almost didn't believe it myself. But when I woke up... sun! Sun? The Sun.

I'm still not quite sure how I feel about it.

But I do know this: the weather for the rest of today: (ooh, two colons in one sentence!) 10 degrees, more sun, and only a 10 percent probability of precipitation (I like those odds). Take that suckers!

Almost makes the last 4 months worth it.

Almost.

How I Had a Heart Attack (or, Why We Have Too Much Furniture)

2007-01-23T02:17:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, my roommate got a new bed and I went out and got drunk after rehearsal.

These events are more closely related than they appear.

After spending a couple of days in our living room, my roommate's bed moved into (and was set up in) her room. This meant, however, that her old bed (read: futon) had nowhere to live, since our landlord - for reasons known only to the cosmos - won't let us store anything in our basement. Nothing. Not even our suitcases. Which doesn't make much sense since a) there is tons of room down there; and b) there is tons of room down there because she's letting us use a couch and chair that belong to her that used to live down there. Putting the futon down there would actually take up less room than her couch and chair, I don't think she sees it that way.

We decided that, ultimately, the futon would replace the couch on the living room because even though the couch makes our house look more grown up, it can be stored in the basement without us getting a talking to the next time she pops in. The trick, however, is that we need to take the couch into the basement through the outside of the house since it's too big to fit through the inside basement door. And since this is Vancouver, it has been raining non stop for the past few days, so there hasn't been an opportunity to move the couch without getting it wet.

So with no place to go , the once-bed and soon-to-be-couch futon was relegated to the kitchen. Not the best place for it (it hampered our eating), but we all agreed that there really wasn't room for it in living room yet, what with all the other furniture in the way.

Then I went out and got really drunk.

To be fair, first I put in about 8 hours of rehearsal, and after directing a two-hander about incest for that long on a Sunday, a drink (or 12) is in order. So the cast and I went to a bar, and then looked for another bar when the first bar closed at 10, and then went to one of my actors' (actor's? actors's?) houses when we couldn't find another open bar, and then got very drunk on sparkling wine, and then we smoked a hookah, and then we drank unsparkling wine, and then it was 3:00 am.

I stumbled up my front steps around 3:15, and after opening my front door (and quite stealthily, considering my state), started making my way through the living room. I made it about, oh, three steps, before BAM! I smacked my knee against something. Hard (the something was hard, as was the force with which I smacked the something).

"Jesus Fuck!" I whispered, as my eyes adjusted to the light (read: dark) and I discovered that my roommates had moved the futon into the living room and placed it mere feet from the front door. Not a much better location than the kitchen. A much worse location, in fact.

And as stealthily as I had (thought I had) been, my profanity woke my roommate (she of the new bed), who came out to investigate the commotion. Being a much better sneak than I, she managed to make it out of her door and into the living room without me noticing her. In fact, I probably would not have noticed her at all had she not whispered "Pat?" while standing about six inches in front of me, at which point I definitely almost shit myself while screaming like a 14 year old girl.

But I slept great.

Why You Should Watch Scrubs (or, How Many Times Can I Use "The" in a Post?)

2007-01-17T02:31:00.000-05:00

This is not something I normally do, but all you theatre types out there should watch the Scrubs on Thursday, January 18 (that's THIS WEEK) at 9:00 pm on the NBC.

Why?

Mostly because the episode is titled "My Musical" and is written by Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx (of the Avenue Q), and guest stars Stephanie D'Abruzzo (an original cast member of the Avenue Q) and is - according to the rumours - is completely sung through (like the musicals tend to be).

Now, I have never seen the Avenue Q, but someone I know can't shut up about it, and I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt once in a while.

Anyway, two of the songs have been posted on the YouTube: check out Guy Love and Everything Comes Down to Poo. Then, tune in (or set the PVR and/or the VCR).

(and yes, I am aware that I could have "embedded" the videos in the blog, but I'm not ready to go there emotionally...)

24 Kinds of Awesome (or, Why I Have a Man Crush on Jack Bauer)

2007-01-16T02:02:00.000-05:00

To reiterate: do we all remember what I love?

Pretty People Doing Awesome Things.

After (or, maybe before) the newest James Bond film, 24 is pretty much the closest thing pure awesome around. If I could reach into my television, extract the program's awesome, and somehow liquefy it - thereby allowing me to consume it as a beverage - I think I would get all kinds of girls. Or maybe just headaches. Either way, something to think about (but please, don't order if you're allergic to bees!).

It probably comes as no surprise that I have spent the past 36 hours or so (give or take when I'm in the washroom - that's when I read my GQ) thinking about and/or watching the two-night four-hour season premiere of 24.

Unlike Jack Bauer, who doesn't seem to require sleep (or food, for that matter), I am rarely up before 10:00. He then, tends to get much more accomplished in a typical day than myself. And seeing how he is a fictional character, this is somewhat disheartening. But instead of spiralling into a sorrowful depression (characterized by excessive pot-smoking) I have decided to embrace my inadequacies by living vicariously through the Super Agent (characterized by excessive pot-smoking) from the comfort of my living room every Monday from 9:00-10:00 pm, Pacific Standard Time.

So, what awesome things - nay, feats - did Jack Bauer accomplish from 6:00-10:00 am?

he was released from a Chinese prison camp in order to be sacrificed to a Terrorist to gain information on Another Terrorist.
he cut his own hair and shaved his Methuselah-length Chinese prison camp beard and came out looking pretty hot for a dude that had been tortured for 22 months (although, the fact that he buttoned his shirt all the way to the top - even though he wasn't wearing a tie - proves that he didn't get to read GQ when he was in the washroom. He looked kinda dorky).
he was tortured for what seemed like longer but was actually only about 14 minutes.
and he bit some guy to death (in the neck!) and escaped, relatively scathed.

Then I got some ice-cream (yum). This is hard work.

But to continue, he then:

escapes through the sewers.
steals a car and a cell phone, calls CTU to let them know he's still alive, has a fight with the President over the phone, and hangs up in disgust.
saves Another Terrorist from an air strike, and then teams up with that terrorist (who is now Terrorist Turned Ally) to stop Terrorist and his terrorists.
breaks into someone's home while they're in the process of moving out and steals a shirt that a) they conveniently left behind; b) has no buttons; c) fits; and d) made him look dorky no more!
intimidates a fare inspector into riding the subway for free (Jack Bauer does not carry change).
locates a pair of terrorists on the subway, and then kicks Terrorist Number One out the back window of the rail car just as he detonates his bomb, causing the terrorist to explode in a ball of flames and roll down the track.

And that was all before 8:00 am.

And then I had to wait a whole 24 hours myself (in which I overslept, forgot to eat lunch, and spent three-quarters of a rehearsal talking about how fucking incredible this episode of 24 was) for more. And more I got.

To wit:

Jack jacks some fat guy's SUV, cuts through a parking lot or two (and rams through a chain link fence or three) all so he can t-bone Terrorist Number Two's Corolla and then get out and yell at the terrorist for getting in his way. Then he drives off without swapping insurance info (this was, of course, all a ruse so the terrorist could hitch a ride with the Terrorist Turned Ally - who conveniently showed up as Jack sped away - and lead them... somewhere).
he uses a cellphone to bug the conversation between Terrorist Number Two and Terrorist Turned Ally (this feature is available for $3.95/mth through Verizon) so CTU can hear where they're going because, unfortunately, all the surveillance satellites are busy spying on innocent people.
he tracks Terrorist Number Two to a self-storage place, saves his best friend Curtis (we'll get back to him) from a grenade attack (and the third giant fireball Jack has had to contend with so far today, and he's only been in the country since 6:08:22 am), and hacks into the charred remains of a laptop to gain information about a "suitcase nuke" and the dude who is going to detonate it: Shaun Majumder. I shit you not.

While flipping through the commercials thanks to the magic of the PVR, something dawns on me: is Jack even getting paid for this? I mean, dude's been in China for two years. You think CTU's been continuing the direct deposit? If I were Bill Buchanan, I'd have used his salary to get a hot-tub. Fact: you can't stop terrorism with a sore back. You just can't.

Suddenly it's 9:00, and in the final shit-hits-the-fan-hour of this marathon, Jack:

leads an assault on a suburban home where a Teenage Terrorist is holding Teenage Terrorist's Unsuspecting Best Friend captive, while Teenage Terrorist's Unsuspecting Best Friend's Dad runs an errand (ie. delivering an important component for the nuke) for Teenage Terrorist because Teenage Terrorist got beaten up earlier because some neighbours thought he was a terrorist (which he was) and decided to kick the crap out of him (which they did).
facilitates and agreement between Terrorist Turned Ally and the President.
has to kill his best friend Curtis (who goes off the deep end when he hears about the agreement) to stop him from killing Terrorist Turned Ally (who you just know is going to betray Jack around 2:00 am).
pukes, cries, and tries to rip out his hair ('cause of the whole killing his best friend thing a moment or so before), and then quits CTU.
watches the sky light up as the suitcase nuke is detonated some twenty miles up the road in Valencia (for those of you keeping score, it's fireballs: 3; mushroom clouds: 1).

Why are you not watching this?

Why My Roommate Needs a Cell Phone (or, How Not to Get Reception on the Mountain)

2007-01-14T22:45:00.000-05:00

One of my roommates doesn't own a cell phone.

In fact, she flat out refuses to own a cell phone.

When pressed for information - when asked why she has decided to live in the eighteenth century - she responds with the usual platitudes of the Luddite: "I don't need to be available all the time" or "what if I get brain cancer" or "if we're not careful technology will rise up and enslave us all" or "I'm Amish."

This, of course, doesn't really affect me that much. I mean, it's a bit obnoxious when you're trying to meet her somewhere and you're going to be late and there's no way to get in touch with her and then you get there and she gives you this look like "you're late" and you're all like "I know and I tried sending you a smoke signal but obviously you didn't get it."

But whatever. Like I said, this didn't really affect me all that much. It didn't really affect me all that much until the other day, while puttering around the house (as I am want to do) I noticed the "message waiting" light blinking.

I move to pick up the phone. Not on its cradle.

I push the locate button. Beeping is not heard.

I check the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom(s), the bathroom. Not on the counter, under the couch, on the bed(s), in the toilet.

I write on the dry-erase message board. "Where the FUCK is the phone?!?"

Apparently my roommate, when leaving for school had decided to pack the phone in her knapsack.

It is pretty apparent that, despite being a Graduate student, she is unable to distinguish between a telephone and her lunch.

Oh, and did I mention: all this while my Mom was trying to call me because SHE WAS AFRAID THE WEATHER MAY HAVE CAUSED A TREE TO FALL ON ME IN STANLEY PARK.

(my Mom was soon able to get a hole of me via my cell phone, but that is beside the point.)

You can deny all you want Anonymous Roommate Who I Met On The Fringe And Who Goes To Simon Fraser, but it's time to pay a visit to Telus Mobility...

Snow: Redux (or, Why I Can't Stop Writing About the Weather)

2007-01-12T03:33:00.000-05:00

Fuck. Seriously.

Seriously?

It's not that I don't like the snow. I LOVE snow. Snow is awesome. Snow is much much much much much much (much) more preferable to rain. Much.

But when it snows, even a little, even the 5cm it snowed the other night, Vancouver goes into full-on panic mode.

You would think that a city that likes it outdoors - its skiing and snowboarding - would be thrilled that they could actually partake in those activities.

Instead the radio tells you to stay off the roads, the airport shuts down, and you can't get bottled water at the supermarket.

When I moved out here, I lamented the loss of snow. Said I would miss it. "I hope it snows," said I. "At least once or twice."

Well, it has. Thrice. I've had my fill. DO YOU HEAR ME WINTER? Take your icy grip elsewhere, please. I like snow, but no one else on this side of the country knows what to do with water in semi-frozen unique flake form. They carry umbrellas while it's snowing, for fucks sake. I guess it makes them feel safe. Protected.

Anyway, I appreciate you looking out for me, but I think it's time we both moved on.

Why not go bother Ontario? They're getting smug.

How to get the Part: Redux (or, So you want to be a playwright?)

2007-01-09T03:39:00.000-05:00

I'm writing a play that is going to be a part of UBC Brave New Play Rites festival.

The five-day festival of new work is completely student directed (by students in the undergrad directing class - which I am not in), completely student written (by students in the undergrad playwriting class - which I am not in - and students in the graduate playwriting class - which I am), and almost completely student produced (save the odd House Technician and Faculty Advisor).

The thirteen short plays (which are usually twelve; but we'll get to that...) are produced in repertory over the five days (and six performances) of the festival, which each play being performed - wait for it!- three times.

When I first heard about the festival I made an ass out of you and me that these were simply staged readings. No friends, they are full on productions (albeit with limited resources). The actors will have memorized their lines and everything.

When I first heard about the festival I also thought I wouldn't get to be a part of it, as there was room for only the twelve already-selected playwrights, to perfectly match up with the twelve directors in the undergrad class. And we didn't want to fuck up that mass wedding. So, since I joined up late (three weeks into the semester) there just wasn't room for me.

Le sigh.

HOWEVER! Because I have been known to "direct plays" a solution occurred: I could enter my play (which at that point was a play, any play... and it was going to be about rubber ducks) in the festival, if in return I would direct one as well. I would marry myself. Since I'm pretty hot and I buy myself nice things all the time, it was something to think about.

Here's how the deal would break down: if I wrote a play in my overly-crowded first term (read: semester), then I would have the opportunity to direct another play at the end of my second semester (nee: term) while I simultaneously directed another play to fulfill my course requirements.

I said oui.

HOWEVER! Because directing two shows at the same time is labelled either "too much work," or "impossible," or "not allowed" at UBC, the engagement was cancelled.

When I first heard about this I was bummed, because a) the play I was slated to direct was really good; b) I wouldn't get to have a play that was no longer about rubber ducks but is still referred to as "the duck play" in the festival; and c) I was totally going to put out.

Le pout.

HOWEVER! Since I am awesome (it's the only explanation I can come up with, as the official reasoning I was given was "because"), Brave New Play Rites will still include thirteen plays this year it's 21st season.

Anyway: all this to say that auditions are being held this weekend. If you don't mind working for free over the Easter weekend, come on out.

Slush.

2007-01-05T22:22:00.000-05:00

Slush is usually a combination of snow and water, brought about by temperatures being just warm enough for snow to melt a little and just cold enough to keep it from completely washing away. And sometimes, when it rains after a snowfall, slush will appear.

When I left my house this morning it was raining slush (it was snowing slush?). It was Slushing.

Don't be fooled into thinking that it was just wet snow falling. Wet snow, when it hits the ground, does not linger. Snow in the air, wet on the ground.

Would wet snow, after falling from the sky and hitting one's pants, soak straight through to the skin and cause someone to be wet at rehearsal all day?

Would wet snow linger on your jacket, so when someone sits next to you on the bus their wet wets the bag, scarf, and book you happen to carrying, holding on your lap because it's hot on the 99 B-Line, and reading?

Would wet snow gather curbside, waiting for an unsuspecting grad student to walk through, thinking its only a centimetre or so deep, when in reality it is a soaker-inducing ankle depth?

Would wet snow collapse the roof of a football stadium?

I. Don't. Think. So.

But slush would.

Merry Trek-Mas (or, How I Spent My Christmas Vacation)

2007-01-03T00:03:00.000-05:00

The Highlights:

The two (that's 2) times that I had to sit in the centre seat on a five hour cross-two-thirds-of- the-country flight.
The second flight (return to Vancouver) an old man fell asleep on my shoulder, and my new suitcase (that I just got for Trek-Mas) lost a zipper (well, not the zipper, but the little tab that connects to the device that does the actual zipping). Still, it was better than putting my keys into my checked luggage, and then having WestJet lose my bag (which, incidentally, happened last time I flew into Vancouver...)
Having missed the Survivor finale because the wind knocked out my cable, only to ask my parents record the finale on their PVR, only to have my brother erase the finale from the PVR before I could watch it.
Season 6 of Gilmore Girls on DVD.
The "Trek-Mas Day" Marathon on Space, of which I watched all or parts of 5 Star Trek films (PS - Generations is as bad as you remember).
Getting some work done on a Half-Titled Goat play.
YouTube, YouTube, YouTube...
Not registering for Facebook (despite the constant flood of invitations via email, I was able to hold off).
Not doing any MFA-related work.
Feeling bad about not doing any MFA-related work.
Feeling angry that I lugged heavy books across two-thirds of the country and didn't do any MFA-related work.
Did I mention YouTube?

Regular intermittent blogging will return at some point.

Wind.

2006-12-18T12:26:00.000-05:00

Vancouver's great.

Except when there's weather.

When it rains, the city floods (you think, with all the water falling from the sky that this place would have better irrigation), the power goes out, and you can't drink the water.

When it snows, streets and schools and universities are closed, the power goes out, and the buses don't run.

When it winds, trees fall over, the power goes out, and the Bell ExpressVu Satellite on my roof gets blown down and there isn't an appointment available to get it put back up until January 3rd (lucky for me that Gilmore Girls is in repeats until then).

When it suns...

When it suns...

I'll let you know what happens when it suns.

Snow.

2006-12-15T02:46:00.000-05:00

I wanted to avoid the cliche of "Vancouver shuts down whenever it snows a little bit," but Vancouver shuts down whenever it snows a little bit.

Sky Trains did not move. Sky Planes did not land. Ground Buses that normally get you from Granville and Commercial in 20 minutes take more than a hour (the Sky Buses, however, maintained normal service).

University Street - which, essentially, connects UBC to the rest of civilization - was closed for more than three weeks because of the snow. This, consequently, would add almost 10 minutes to an already 40 minute bus ride (one way) each day.

Also of note: Vancouverites (Vancouverons? Vancouvonians?) still carry umbrellas when it snows. It's in their DNA.

For a while, the power was out and the city was still under a boil water advisory, so everyone was cold, dark, and thirsty.

But I didn't really get to experience any of it (except for the closed street, and the 20-minute-becomes-an-hour bus ride), since I was in Ottawa that weekend. I got back, however, in time for the no-one-in-this-town-owns-shovels-and-neither-does-the-city-in-fact
-Jerusalem-has-more-plows-than-we-do-I-heard phase, wherein the sidewalks stay frozen for weeks at a time because, while it's just warm enough for the snow to melt, it's also just cold enough for the snow to freeze again at night, and while it rains every other day, when there's snow on the ground you are hoping will melt and reveal the dog poop hidden for eight days on your front lawn, it does not. It will not. No matter how many extra pairs of socks you leave at home or how many cheap umbrellas you neglect to purchase.

It just won't.

And three weeks later you still can't take the bus to school.

Eight Kinds of Awesome (or, Why Casino Royale is the Greatest Movie Ever Made)

2006-11-22T18:15:00.000-05:00

The criteria to get me to like a movie is pretty simple: pretty people doing awesome things.

This is why I am able to declare Casino Royale the greatest movie ever made (now, granted, I haven't seen them all, but I doubt The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants contains more awesome than Royale. Although, it does star Alexis Bledel...).

But, "why is Casino Royale the greatest movie ever made?" you ask? Let me break down for you. Let me give you eight reasons. Let me give you eight reasons, in ascending order of awesomeness.

(let it be known that none of these reasons is the newest trailer for Spider-Man 3, which is its own kind of awesome... and of course, there are SPOILERS for the movie below... don't say I didn't warn you...)

Number 8: James Bond Goes Rogue

Nothing makes a Bad Ass more bad ass than being a Bad Ass. In Casino Royale, Bond manages to act tough by a) breaking into an embassy, b) breaking into M's apartment, c) making fun of a guy with a scar on his face who cries blood, d) killing a guy in the men's room by drowning him in the sink and then shooting him, e) killing a guy in the middle of a crowded museum, f) making out with that guy's wife just before he kills him, g) asking a bartender if it "looks like I fucking care" whether his martini is shaken or stirred, and h) taking the SUV of some dude who thought he was a valet for a joyride in the parking lot.

Those are eight pretty awesome things right there. But the list continues.

Number 7: Chase Sequence #2

Wherein James Bond tracks a terrorist to the Miami airport (after killing The Middleman at the Miami exhibit of Body Worlds), follows him onto the tarmac (it's complicated), and tries to stop him from driving a bomb-laden refueling truck (it's complicated as well...) into the prototype of a Very Big Airplane.

Throughout the chase Bond, naturally, ends up on the roof of the truck, the side of the truck, being dragged along the ground by the truck, on the windshield of the truck, and through the windshield of the truck. All this before eventually kicking the crap out of the terrorist, clipping the tiny bomb that was attached to the terrorist's keychain (the reason he was able to get through security) to the terrorist's belt loop, and almost getting hit by a landing plane.

And, of course, when the terrorist eventually rolls out of the truck (just before Bond, luckily, manages to not ram the Very Big Plane even though the Brakes Had Been Cut (somehow)) and detonates the keychain-bomb-that-airport-security-can't- detect-that-is-now-clipped-to-his-belt-instead-of-the-truck.... he explodes. But good.

Number 6: High Stakes Poker Game #1

I am not a fan of the televised poker. To tell the absolute truth, I know exactly one thing about poker: I am bad at it.

So, it would stand to reason that I would have a reason to be less than interested in the extended poker scenes.

Not so.

Not only does James Bond win all the time (like Maverick!), but he wins big. And he wins cocky. And he wants to win more. So, after cleaning out The Middleman (who he will kill at Body Worlds later that night, remember) - which includes taking his beloved Aston Martin - at the weekly game The Middleman always wins, Bond picks up TM's hot and (due his life of crime) neglected wife Solange, brings her back to his place, and totally makes out with her. And then he continues to make out with her, while she is on the phone with The Middleman.

Unfortunately, they don't end up doing it (mostly because Bond has to leave for Miami to kill TM), but before he runs off Jimmy is kind enough to order champagne and caviar for Solange. A class act.

Number 5: You can bring your girlfriend

Let's face it, girls don't like to watch pretty people doing awesome things. Unless, perhaps, there is a chance that the characters may take a break from all the guns and kicks to the face and have a chance to talk about their feelings. Or, some hunky dude takes his shirt off. They are of equal importance.

Fortunately (for everyone) Casino Royale features both of these things.

First, we have telling Vesper that he loves her (on a beach... in Venice... sigh...) and that he will quit MI6 and travel the world with and for her. This was the point in the evening when I heard a collective swoon from the female audience members (although, it may just have been someone shooting up. You never can tell in Vancouver). And moments later we have Bond trying to rescue her as she drowns in the Venice canals. When was the last time your boyfriend held his breath for eight minutes while he got you out of an antique elevator you were trapped in under water? That's what I thought.

And, because the Bond franchise is about nothing if it is not about the objectification of its male leads, Daniel Craig has his shirt off. A lot. Pretty much every time anyone who might be a terrorist even looks at him he rips the thing off as if he were Clark Kent. And at one point, he is tied naked to a chair while Le Chiffre (he's French and has a scar; that's how we know he's the bad guy) tortures him by repeatedly whipping him in the balls (which, standing alone, is not at all awesome. But the fact that Bond is later able to do it with Vesper certainly is). And while we don't see anything south of the border, I'm sure if you pause the DVD you could get yourself a money shot.

Women of the world: pre-order your copy now.

Number 4: Chase sequence #3

Wherein James Bond chases The Guy With The Eyepatch through the streets (er, canals) of Venice, causes an in the process of being refurbished heritage building to sink (but slowly, so they can still fight in it), drops the suitcase carrying $120 million in poker winnings into the canals, gets shot with a nail gun and shrugs it off, and kills Eyepatch Guy with a nail gun. Through the eye (but not his good eye... he needs that to see Jesus).

I think the scene speaks for itself.

Number 3: High Stakes Poker Game #2

More poker? Seriously?

Well, to be honest, we don't see too much of the actual game. Instead, the film decides to follow Bond - who keeps getting up from the table - around the hotel where he a) eavesdrops of Le Chiffre and his lady-friend, b) gets into a sword fight with two Ugandan thugs, c) kills said thugs and hides their bodies under the stairs before putting them in someone's trunk and framing them for the murder, d) does it with Vesper in the shower, d) changes his shirt (twice), and e) gets poisoned by Le Chiffre's lady-friend and goes into cardiac arrest, but makes it to his car in time to inject two giant needles into his neck and defribulate himself before passing out.

He wakes up moments later (all better!), smooches Vesper (who made her way out to the car, because that's the meeting place in case of accidental poisoning), returns to the game and wins something like $120 million dollars.

Number 2: Girls

Casino Royale features three women who aren't Judi Dench, and let's face it, only one of those four is ever going to have an Oscar to obsessively compulsively polish. The three who won't be making acceptance speeches are, in descending order of their acting talents:

1.) Vesper Lynd (played by Eva Green) is pretty awesome, and that's mostly when she's doing her best Lady Macbeth impression after watching Bond kill two dudes in a stairwell ("I can't get the blood off my hands...") And she is super-hot. And not only is she super-hot, but she manages to get her clothes soaking wet on three separate occasions.

2.) Solange (played by Caterina Murino), doesn't get a last name. But that's okay, because there's only two things you need to know about Solange. When we first meet her, she's horseback riding. On the beach. In a bikini. In slow motion.

I can't remember the second thing.

3.) Valenka (Ivana Milicevic) must be sleeping with the 3rd AD, because she has no lines besides screaming while almost getting her hand chopped off by an angry Ugandan (but she looks good doing it), and nothing to do except poison Bond's drink (which I suspect they had a body-double do... opening and pouring the vial into the martini glass was probably a bit much for poor Ivana...) I would question her inclusion in the film, except she wears a tight backless leather dress the whole time, so I won't question very hard.

Number 1: Chase Sequence #1

Wherein James Bond tracks a terrorist to Madagascar and finds him watching (and betting on) animal baiting. The match up? A Cobra vs. a Ferret (my money's on the Ferret - he got a couple of good shots in early on - but we don't get to see the result; sadly, for some reason, the film decides to follow Bond chasing the terrorist...).

Spotting Bond, the terrorist flees to a construction site, where Bond - a few paces behind - decides the best way to catch up to the terrorist is to hot wire a bulldozer and bulldoze through everyone in his way. This tactic only works for so long, and, as the terrorist has made his way to the top of the currently-being-built-building Jimbo has no other way to get to him than to free climb the steel girders like a monkey and run up the arm of a crane positioned at a 75 degree angle while being shot at by the terrorist and his sympathizers working on-site.

This (of course) leads Bond to another crane, which he climbs, and upon which Bond and the terrorist ninja each other while almost falling off each time they move or breathe. A wily character, the terrorist manages to jump from that crane to another conveniently placed crane to a rooftop and disappears back into the construction site.

But, James Bond is no fool, and follows the terrorist, leaping from crane to roof to construction site (dodging bullets and cries of "scab!" all the while) and following the terrorist through the streets of whatever the fuck city they are in, until the wily bucker (that'd be the terrorist) manages to take refuge in an embassy.

Not one to be stopped by something as trivial as an international incident, Bond bursts into the embassy, cold-cocks the Ambassador, and continues to chase the dude through the halls. All the while, what seems to be a force equal to the American presence in Iraq starts chasing Bond (who is still chasing the terrorist) through the halls, and are shooting at him with Many Automatic Weapons. Not wanting to further damage international relations, Bond doesn't kill any of the guards, choosing instead to shoot at pipes (so they get hot and wet) and knock down the point man, who stumbles and causes all the guards following him (in a perfectly straight line) to fall down as well. Apparently, the embassy has out-sourest its security to the Keystone Cops.

Bond eventually corners the terrorist in the embassy's, um, backyard. But, soon he is surrounded by the guards that weren't incapacitated when they tripped and fell, and he is forced to drop his weapon. Fortunately for Bond, however, he has another gun, which he first uses to shoot the terrorist in the spleen, and then uses to shoot the stack of propane tanks the embassy had carelessly left out for the barbecue later that night. Needless to say, things blow up real good, and Bond makes off with what he was after all along: the terrorist's cell phone. Apparently, he has free nights and weekends.

Why MI6 won't spring for that plan is a mystery for another film.

Don't Drink the Water (or, Why I Need Two Umbrellas)

2006-11-16T23:23:00.000-05:00

For a city with so much rain, you would think it would be better irrigated. Or at least, that it would have bigger bus shelters....

You know what they don't put in the brochure?

The wind.

You hear all about the rain. "The rain doesn't stop." "It rains for months." "Get a good pair of boots for the rain."

The rain, I can handle. I have a good umbrella. And a sturdy pair of boots.

But what the wind does, you see, is it makes the rain horizontal. So now you're carrying your umbrella in front of you like The Penguin, but the wind is pushing you back like a Bad Mime. But then, the rain starts hitting you on the other side. For some reason the wind is blowing in both directions!

There's nothing you can do. You get to school all wet.

Everyone else, however, is remarkably dry. As you pass them they glare at you and whisper to you as you pass: "how's the weather in Ontario?"

And to top it all off, this morning, GVRD (that's the Greater Vancouver Regional District) residents were told not to drink the tapwater if it was coming out brown. Then, we were told not to drink the tapwater if it was coming out brown on cloudy. Then, we were told not to drink the tapwater.

Turns out there were a few mudslides, and the entire water purification system was overloaded. So now I'm really thirsty (and you know what's going to suck? Getting up tomorrow with the morning pasty-mouths and having to milk).

Oh, and then: the wind blew a building down. I don't know if that's a comment on the strength of the wind or the shoddiness of the BC labour force, but either way: fucked up.

Lucky Number 2 (or, Why I should play the Ponies)

2006-10-31T23:35:00.000-05:00

Kris has already beaten me to it, but I figured for the one or two of you who read me and not him might want to know that we were one of the five Canadian companies drawn in the CAFF (Canadian Association of Fringe Festivals) lottery. In fact, we were drawn second. This means that the yet-to-be-titled-play-about-a-goat will not have to be performed in a basement cafeteria with poor sightlines.

But maybe a Pilates studio.

After last year's debacle this is good news indeed.

Overheard (or, Why I Live with Two Girls)

2006-10-23T23:34:00.000-04:00

So I was in my room, minding my own business (read: procrastinating) this evening, when I overhear, circa 11:15 pm (PST), my roommates:

"First, I'll do your in you bed."

A pause.

"Then, you do me in my bed. That way when you're done, I can just fall asleep."

I think I will just leave it at that (although, needless to say, I did immediately leave my room to investigate...).

Three's Company (or, I've Got Spies)

2006-10-16T21:22:00.000-04:00

The roommates and I had a party the other night.

And by the other night, I mean three weeks ago. The theme was spies (you may remember, I am a big fan of the Theme Parties) , which consisted of the girls dressing up, me wearing a black shirt, and someone bringing a "KGB Crumble" ("Krumble"?) for dessert. Say what you want about the Soviets, they produced one hell of a dessert tray.

Unregardless, I have been lax with the updating.

There was also a vegetarian Thanksgiving Dinner. One thing about Thanksgiving is that you spend all day cooking - even if there's no Turkey - for a meal that lasts about 10 minutes and that you can't even finish because you are too full from the beer you have been drinking whilst cooking all day and then you do the dishes which even though you've been keeping up with them while cooking - in between the beer drinking - still take an hour so by the time the games get broken out it's late but not as late as you think because it's not a school night and speaking of schooled that's what your roommates do to you while playing board games you've never heard of.

Or maybe that's just me.

I am sure there are lots of stories and incriminating photos I could share, but really, I think we're past all that.

And, besides a weekend spent catching up in Gilmore Girls and Prison Break, nothing of note has happened.

But! because I know you're all starved for content (I know you've been complaining), I'll introduce my as yet unintroduced roommates (I'm very rude). Just remember, none of us were able to work the stove.

First up, there is Emily, whose interests include infrequent blogging, the wanky arts, and not letting me turn the heat up.

Then, we have Jenny. Jenny enjoys composting, following lobsters around, being American.

And, of course, there's me (I'd link but you're already here). I like Lauren Graham, the Globe and Mail, and bears.

And, since you made it all the way here, an incriminating photo:

Strut and Fret (or, So I Want to be an Actor)

2006-10-05T23:20:00.000-04:00

Those of you in the know, know that it's Samuel Beckett's birthday.

Not today, but when you get as old and as dead as he is, you get to celebrate your birthday all year.

"What does this mean?" you might ask. "If Samuel Beckett gets to celebrate his birthday all year, why don't I get to celebrate my birthday all year?"

Because this is not the year you turned 100 (or would have, had you not died 17 years too early). And if it is the year you turn 100, then please, go ahead and celebrate your birthday all year. I think you've earned it.

Because of this momentous occasion (the passage of time), the such-a-natural-pair-why-didn't-we-put-them-together-before of Theatre at UBC and Ireland are co-presenting Beckett Cent, "a festival of plays, films, lectures and a master class" (what's being taught in the masterclass I don't know, but I bet it's esoteric).

Opening night was tonight (October 5). And because I obviously don't have enough to do, my advisor asked me to play a small role in the show he was directing, Catastophe. I would be playing "Luke," the unseen character that only has 3 lines (well, 4. But I say one of them twice).

There are two other short plays going up as well, and since I came into the rehearsal process at the very end, I got to meet everyone else yesterday and today.

Tonight, I found out two things: the first, is that everyone has played this part before. "Oh, hey, you're playing Luke? I did that a few years ago," said every other actor in Vancouver. It's the part the director reads in for at rehearsal and only casts at the last minute because it's cheaper. It's the part the guy in the lobby "filled in for" when his buddy's (who was playing the part at the time) wife went into labour. It's the part the technician from the theatre played, because last time it was done the director forgot to cast someone.

If you can walk and talk - and not even at the same time, because he has these long pauses that you can use to get to the other side of the theatre on the poorly lit catwalks you deliver your lines from - you too can play Luke.

The other thing I found out, was that if you come in late to the rehearsal process, and you wear a black t-shirt and hat because you should try and blend in with the poorly lit catwalks ("honey, is that a person, or is that face just floating up there? Spooky.") people will mistake you for the Stage Manager. And they will also call you Luke, because they think it's your real name.

Catastrophe went up second of the three shows, and since I have to get to the catwalks to deliver my lines (I won't bore you with the geography, but the only way to the booth and catwalks is a set of stairs whose only door opens House Left), I'm upstairs for the first two shows. The theory was that I could come down the stairs between shows 2 and 3, and either a) make it to the house and backstage before the curtain call; b) make it into the house and watch the third show before curtain call; or, c) wait at the bottom of the stairwell before the curtain call.

But what no one counted on was a) the fact that the stairwell would be very loud a echo-ey; b) my boots were loud and squeaky; or, c) the last show, through which all this noise would be happening was Rockaby.

I had the good sense, however, to wait in the middle of the stairwell (as far as I got between the shows) until the curtain call. At which point (when the applause started) I ran as fast as I could (in clunky boots on slippery concrete) down two flights of stairs, into the house, behind a row of seats out of which people were exiting, on to the stage, where I ended up...

In the middle.

Well, not the middle. Next to the middle. Billie Whitelaw was in the middle, but only because she had just finished her show.

It didn't matter to any of the actors who stood where - it's an ensemble piece - but what about the poor audience?

They sit through three entertaining yet intellectually challenging plays that they may or may not have understood ("Time she stopped. Time she stopped." ?), and then, during the curtain call, a guy they've seen before shows up on stage.

"Oh, that Beckett," they're saying. "Controlling to the end. Did you see how that unkempt, unshaven man showed up at the very end?"

"Yes, yes," a friend replies. "It represents Man's inability to control the circumstances of His interaction with other people. Sometimes we must endure the pain of somewhat taking our glory, someone taking his bow during our curtain call... why, the play makes no sense without it!"

How Many Grad Students Does it Take to Turn On a Stove?

2006-09-28T20:36:00.000-04:00

I live in a really nice 50's-style bungalow (I say 50's style because that's when it was built. I'm not an architectural historian or anything like that), that come with various 50's-style accoutrements (I say 50's-style because that is what I have been lead to believe by TV and its ilk. I wasn't there or anything): an ironing board that's built into the wall (people ironed), a big kitchen (people liked to cook), a small bathroom (people were littler). You get it.

It also comes with - came with - a 50's style stove (I say 50's style because it's big and bulky - like it appeared from the Kitchen Of Tomorrow - and is good for cooking big meals that Soviets wouldn't eat), which, when we moved in, did not work.

Well, that's not completely accurate. The elements on the stove didn't work. The oven worked just fine. So fine, in fact, that it wouldn't turn off. And when it was on, it smelled really bad. So we had no stove/oven for about week. Which wouldn't have been so bad, but my Foreman Grill (can you believe it has a Wikipedia entry?) was still on the truck, so, um, hot food, was not an option.

Our landlord, Dortothy (or, The Dolph; or, D-Squared!; or, Double D - alright, the last one's new, and grossly inappropriate...), being an on the ball and not wanting her tenants to live without food kind of person (she didn't know about the stove, apparently) got a... mechanic (an electrician? Whatever. A guy who fixes stoves) to come in and take a look (although, because of the Labour Day weekend, it took about a week to get an appointment).

He did (while the three of us were out). Apparently, there was nothing wrong with the stove, and we were just idiots. But when next we went to use the stove... no dice. After an hour with the burner on "8" water had not boiled.

So, we (and by we I mean Emily, who, since she found the house, has all the dealings with DD by default) call up the Landlord again.

I wasn't there, but I imagine the conversation went something like this:

"Hi Dolph-meister, it's Emily. "

"Hello Emily. What miniscule and easily solvable problem are you bothering me with now." (she doesn't use question marks when she speaks because she doesn't want an answer)

"Um, yeah. The stove still isn't working. We turned it all the way up to 8, and after an hour the water still hadn't boiled."

"That's because 8 is the lowest setting. You need to turn the stove up high if you want to cook something. Set it to 1 or 2. How on Earth did the three of you get into grad school?" (she used a question mark there because she was genuinely curious)

But seriously: 8 is the lowest setting? What kind of fucking temperature scale does this thing use? Now I don't do a lot of cooking, but where I come from, when things are hot, the numbers get BIGGER.

Could you imagine the chaos if this took off? "How hot is it outside?" you'd ask. "One," someone would say. So, when you left the house, you'd bundle up (that's the sensible thing to do. Why? Because when it's one outside, it's COLD). And you know what sucks? Being bundled up when it's one degree outside, when by "one" some idiot meant "hot enough to boil water."

How many grad students does it take to turn on a stove?

More than three.

How to get the Part (or, Why I feel like Farley Flex)

2006-09-26T23:48:00.000-04:00

Never perform a monologue that you wrote yourself. If you must, please do not tell the auditioners that you wrote it. It makes things awkward. Even if it's really good, it's distracting.
If it's not really good, then it's really distracting.

Just because a play a play has the word "monologues" in the title, doesn't mean that it's appropriate for an audition. Especially if it's preceded by the word "vagina."

If you are going to perform a piece from The Vagina Monologues, please don't look at the only woman in the room (that's not just awkward for her), please don't be a man, and please, please, cut the monologue down (preferably before it gets to the really vagina-ey parts).

"Summertime" is a very hard song to sing without accompaniment.

Just because you memorized something, it doesn't mean you are "prepared."

* * * * *

I spent the better parts of Friday and Saturday, as well as 90 minutes on Monday night auditioning students for... nothing in particular.

Well, that is not completely true.

This past weekend was (were?) the annual General Auditions, where not only the BFA students are seen (because they have to), but any other University students who might want to "be in a play" as well.

The problem this year, however, is that the final year class is very small (5). The intermediate year is of average size (13), but the 1st-year BFA actors (all 14 of them) are cloistered, so while they'll be available for shows next year (along with the intermediates, who will be in their final year then), this year they can only perform in class projects, which means that right now there is less talent available - only 18 BFA's, as opposed to an average of 25 - than usual.

Which is not to say that there is a lack of talent - that show's couldn't be cast with those 18 - at the school. Not at all. But there are also two 2nd-year MFA directors, each with big shows to cast (9 and 20 actors, respectively) who get first crack at casting; as well as the other 1st-year MFA director, with whom I will fight over the scraps with.

It's the Perfect Storm.

I have two one-acts to direct next semester, but they haven't been "announced" (read: chosen) yet, so most of the weekend running through plays that I was thinking about doing, and eliminating the ones I am not able to cast.

What's really tricky is that of the one-acts I'm considering (the "frontrunners" if you will), one is a two-hander that will require two students with some real chops (acting? what a concept!), and the other has eight characters, but due to the nature of the piece, the casting is much more flexible.

The problem, however, is that I should do the two-hander second (as it's more of a "language play" which my supervisor for the project has told me to look for), but it will be harder to cast then, as it will rehearse at the same time as the 20-hander. I could - in theory - do it first, but that would leave me in the position of casting the eight-character play in that slot.

What I should do is just ditch the eight-hander (the Octoplay?), and keep looking. Or, ditch the two-hander. Or, ditch them both and start all over again. But at this point, it feels like I've read every one-act ever written.

Things You Shouldn't Buy at the Dollar Store

2006-09-19T18:10:00.000-04:00

I love Dollar Stores.

The lands of cheap dishes, Asian knock-offs, and brand names you've never heard of ("Smiling Dumpling" potato chips, anyone?). In my neighbourhood there are two dollar stores just a quick walk away, right across the street from each other.

The first, Dollar Giant, promises "Nothing Over A Dollar!" (technically, the sign says "Nothing Over a $!), but I assume that's what they mean.

On the west side of Commercial Drive stands the Superior Dollar Store, which is superior in cleanliness and selection, but it has many items over a dollar (eight bucks for a shoe rack?), and is tiny. But they cut keys.

Having shopped at both over the past close-to-a-month (has it been that long?), I have discovered that no matter how cheap a product may be, there are some things in life you should pay more than a dollar for.

THE PRODUCT: Shower Curtain
THE REASON: If you don't mind a thin, clammy piece of cheap plastic groping your thighs as you shower, then you can ignore this warning. If, however, you prefer not to be violated as you're bent over washing your legs, I recommend investing in a liner with a bit more heft. Or, at the very least, magnets that stick to metal.

THE PRODUCT: Batteries
THE REASON: Generally, I like my camera to take more than three pictures, my CD player to play more than two songs, and my remote to change more than one channel. But maybe that's just me.

THE PRODUCT: Razor Blades
THE REASON: Ouch.

THE PRODUCT: Misc. Shaving Products
THE REASON: Is shaving cream supposed to burn when you put it on? Should aftershave smell like paint?

THE PRODUCT: Frying Pans
THE REASON: Only applicable if ingesting that non-stick material that rubs off the pan actually does give you cancer.

THE PRODUCT: Toilet Paper
THE REASON: Not for it's lack of softness, or it's one-plyness, or it's unabsorbingness. The reason to invest in TP (the one thing, I'm convinced, you should never skimp on), is the Dollar Store variety's conspicuous lack of perforation. You might as well wipe your ass with the phone book.

I will, however, keep shopping in the Dollar District on "The Drive" (where the drugs, stores, and whores are all only a buck). Everybody loves a bargain.

The Man Who Went to Vancouver and Got Eaten by a Bear (or, The Urban Jungle Book)

2006-09-18T23:16:00.000-04:00

These bears are all over the place. They're called Spirit Bears in the City. They can be pretty scary when you're stumbling home at night drunk, mostly because they look like they're going to karate-chop you with their fibreglass paws.

Except for this one. He's wearing pyjamas. Pussy.

But besides running for my life down Granville Street, I have done a number of other things which, it appears, are mandatory when you move the BC. They include:

Getting caught in the rain without an umbrella.
Going to the naked beach.
Smoking some BC pot.
Growing a beard.
Eating organic vegetables.

There are still some items on my "new to BC To-Do List," however:

Get a hot Asian girlfriend.
Adopt a small dog.
Do yoga.
Do yoga with a small dog.

I have lots to do.

Rain.

2006-09-11T01:33:00.000-04:00

Yesterday it rained for the first time since I arrived. That was 17 straight days of beautiful weather.

In other news, my stuff arrived at 7:30 am on Friday, after I was told they'd be there between 8:00 and 8:30.

"At least you can't say we were late," the (very friendly) gentleman said to me.

Disoriented (or, Why I Went to a High School Dance)

2006-09-09T22:31:00.000-04:00

Grad students are dorks.

A sweeping generalization, I'm aware, but it's true. And I include myself in this. I hadn't realized it until this past week, at UBC's "orientation week" for Grads (and while I usually don't attend these sort of events, I decided before I came out here that I would (be social)). It's intention, I believe, was to be a sort of Frosh Week for the Graduate students, but instead of drinking and peeing in the ocean, everyone would just sit around sipping lattes and discussing Kafka.

My senses were piqued to dorkiness as I walked through the halls that morning and noticed the unusually high amount of ill-fitting plaid shirts, socks with sandals, pleated jeans, and pleated jeans with socks and sandals.

First up was the actual orientation - to which I arrived late because of a production meeting. Which was for the better, really, as it was Random University Administrator after Random University Administrator congratulating us on our acceptance into "Canada's best university" and subsequently thanking us for our patience and promising to be brief, before speaking (or rather, reading from a Power Point presentation) for 20 minutes.

But you know what always makes these events more interesting? Skits. Yep, nothing like a skit to liven things up. And what's better than one skit? Four. Especially when they are poorly written and acted.

I didn't go to any of the workshops (with titles like "How to Manage Your Money," "Getting Along With Your Advisor," and "Where the Fuck Do You Buy Pleated Jeans" I wasn't that interested) held that afternoon, but my roommates and I did attend the "Dis-Orientation" Party (even though one of them goes to SFU. We snuck her in anyway. If anyone asked, she was definitely an MFA Sound Design, whose thesis will be on composing a show using only a theremin) on Saturday night.

Remember a High School Dance. Then remember all the kids who never went because they a) couldn't dance; and b) were dorks. That was this party, complete with self-conscious but un-ironic conga and kick lines. Lines of all kinds, in fact (except coke and for-the-bathroom).

The party was also reminiscent of high school, because that's when all the evening's music was recorded. Nothing released after 1997 was played, and when I asked if they had any New Pornographers, the DJ said yes, but "they won't go over very well with this crowd." (translation: everyone here but you and your friends has been too busy studying for the past ten years to pay attention to music. Why don't I play some Great Big Sea instead? Or, "Living on a Prayer" twice?)

The highlight of the night, however, was playing "Guess Their Program." The rules are easy. Pick someone. Get your friend(s) to guess what that person's program is. Approach them and ask. There are no points, but if you can find an Ethnomusicology student, you automatically win

If you ever play, know pretty much everyone is in Physics (even the supposed Ethnomusicologist), except for the couple making out all night, who I interrupted (making out) and discovered that he was a Zoologist (from Britain) and she was in Archival Studies (not from Britain).

As it got late people drifted outside, and after I smelled some pot the place cleared out pretty quick. Maybe everyone's parents were called. It's a mystery. So, we stole two bags of half-full (half-empty?) party mix and a big bag of peanuts and left.

We picked the Sun Chips and Doritos out of the bag the whole ride home.

Crocodile Tears (or, Dude, Where's My Stuff?)

2006-09-07T02:47:00.000-04:00

A lack of internet connection (and phone connection, and cable connection) have kept me out of the loop. I'm finding out about everything late. Which has also led to a lack of posting (not that I post that frequently to begin with, but I'm trying to make an effort) despite dorky dance parties, John Ritter impressions, drunk teenagers, and a bear sighting.

This should all be fixed Friday, when things will be hooked up and connections will be made. In the meantime, I am intermittently stealing wireless internet from the park next door (if I stand under just the right tree...), and using more than the alotted 10 minutes on the courtesy computers at UBC.

In other "news": The moving van (with all my, um, possessions) was supposed to arrive last Friday. It is now set to pull in sometime this Friday (that's a week late, for anyone keeping score at home). It looks to be a busy day.

It left Ottawa on August 28th. Which means, if it shows up when it's supposed to (and I'm not counting on it), it will have taken 11 days to cross the country.

Maybe they tried to cut through the States.

Always Bring a Sweater (or, You Wreck Me Baby)

2006-08-31T00:08:00.000-04:00

When I told people that I was going to be attending UBC, they said two things:

1.) "British Columbia is beautiful and you'll never come back."
2.) "There's a nude beach on campus."

And not necessarily in that order. And not necessarily alumni.

Wreck Beach surrounds most of the campus' western border, with three trails leading from the campus proper down to the shore.

Now, in Ontario when someone says "trail," it usually refers to a shortcut through an undeveloped area. A meadow, a small patch of trees, a gravel pit. In British Columbia, however, a trail is a long steep incline through the forest that you should defimitely not traverse in flip-flopsn you bought a year ago at Payless. It is also something that is much easier to go down than up.

I remember watching the Family Feud when I was younger, and one of the questions was (and I'm paraphrasing here) "what piece of clothing would someone bring to a nudist colony?" Ignoring that the obvious answer should be everything (what would they arrive in? are they driving naked?), the top answers - if I recall - were socks, shoes, hats, and a sweater.

The day I visited it was a bit chilly, so I hoped/didn't expect there to be anyone around (from my - admittedly limited - experience with nudists, they are usually people I don't want to see naked. They are very rarely petite indie-rock girls), because I really wanted to see the beach, without some dude's dick mucking up the view.

Imagine my surprise when, about 10 minutes into my (fully clothed) visit, someone walked by, waved, and answered the question Ray Combs asked all those years ago.

A knapsack.

What do you suppose he keeps in there?

Good-bye, Ontario (or, Why Lester B. Pearson Owes Me Twenty-Five Cents)

2006-08-26T17:15:00.000-04:00

And here I am.

But first, let me tell you about the Toronto airport (or, "Pearson" as those in the know call it). It is not so much an airport, as a Pyramid Scheme. Its only purpose is to take your money.

Carts, for example. You need them to haul around your heavy stuff, because, like an idiot, you always pack too much. I don't care what you think, you will not wear all those pants, and read 3 books (hardcovers!) on the 5 hour flight to Vancouver.

But you still need a cart. And Pearson, for some inexpicable reason, charges you for the courtesy of being too stupid to own luggage with wheels. Two bucks! And the machine doesn't even take nickles (well, it takes them, but they don't count). It's the only airport in Canada that does this (well, the only one I've been to. And I've been to five).

They do promise, however, to give you a "reward" if you return the cart. Twenty-five cents! If they were giving me my twoonie (toonie?) back - like at the supermarket - I could understand. But my reward for returning a cart - that I couldn't steal anyway because I'm getting on a plane - is a quarter?

The airport assumes (and rightly so, I'd imagine) that I'm too lazy to go back outside and return the cart after waiting in line, getting my boarding pass, and handing off my luggage to a Friendly WestJet Owner. It assumes I'll be runnung late, and have to quickly consume all my liquids and use all my shaving cream before going through security. It assumes I'll just abandon my cart, like so many lighters and nail files.

No way.

This is a matter of principle.

Bringing it back isn't as epic as it feels it should be, but the stares of airport employees thinking "cheap bastard" as you pass them a second time are unexpected.

Also unexpected? When I returned the cart - no quarter! My "reward," it seems, was a valuable life lesson: a good deed is its own reward, regardless of the fact that the initial motivation was monetary, and I was cheated out of what was rightfully mine by a malfunctioning machine owned by a faceless corporation which will probably spend the money on more signs telling me what I can't bring on an airplane.

Or, buy some of that damn mobile luggage.

Adventures of an Ottawa Extra

2006-08-22T13:14:00.000-04:00

I am not "hip" to the Ottawa film and TV scene. I don't know the producers, the directors, or even many of the actors (unless, of course, they also slum by appearing in plays every once in a while).

But I have, on occasion, appeared in some of these locally shot productions as an Extra (or, if you prefer the more politically correct title, a "Background Performer").

It strikes me, however, that these movies-of-the-week (movie-of-the-weeks?) are all pretty similar. I've become quite good at picking out the killer (because they are all, invariably, murder "mysteries"). Hint: it's the male in his late 40's/early 50's who plays the long lost and recently returned friend of the female lead - on hiatus from her role as an abused wife on an American soap opera - who becomes infatuated with her daughter/co-worker/friend/husband (but the last one only if the MOW is to air on OutTV) but can't have her. The female always has a somewhat exotic profession, which is somehow tied to the title of the film through a pun and the word "murder" or one of its variants.

For example: if she were a realtor, the movie would be called Dealing in Murder. The story of a gynecologist would be Miscarriage of Justice. Other titles include Prescription for Murder (pharmacist), Digging for Murder (archaeologist), and Murder by Numbers (a mathematician, or an artist who isn't very talented).

Most recently I spent two days "on set" (a term used by many an extra - sorry! Background Performer - to make them sound important. It translates to "sitting around") for a film whose name I can't remember. But it did star Michelle Stafford. I think she played a fighter pilot.

Day One was typical and therefore uneventful. The call was earlier than I'm used to (there's a 6:30 am?), but there were some fun people on set (and really, the job of an extra is essentially walking or sitting), and it was a beautiful day. I had to stick around until 7:30 (that's pm), because, since I'm not a member of ACTRA (although I should be, since I'm a member of Equity... I won't tell if you don't), I don't count.

Just before I left, I was asked if I would possibly be available the next day, as they were (potentially) short on people and could use the bodies (is that all I am to you?).

So I said yes....

Kicking and Screaming (or, Scour! You're on Candid Camera)

2006-08-17T21:55:00.000-04:00

During our show the other day, Robin's sister stopped by to watch (by the way, we only have one show left, if you haven't seen it yet) and take some pictures of the previously undocumented production (which is really just 20 minutes of running around screaming, pirate jokes, and Ray forgetting his lines).

While we generally have a pretty good idea of what is going on around us, we (or at least I) sometimes forget that people are passing behind us as well.

And this person, it seems, doesn't seem to think that a woman who is seven-months pregant kicking (well, kneeing; she used to kick him. Then she got lazy) Jordan Hancey in the butt is as funny as we do.

"Hello, Child Protection Services?"

Moving Still Sucks (or, What Not to Pack)

2006-08-14T11:57:00.000-04:00

I think I've been pretty clear in the past that I hate moving.

This move is proving worse than the last, however, because I can't be lazy about it. Whereas before, my roommate and I could just pack and be on our way, this time - since we're moving to separate places - we have to separate our stuff. We've lived together for so long, arguments are starting over who owns what. But since we're both trying to take as little as possible, we're each renouncing ownership of everything that sucks.

PAT
Hey Roommate, where would you like me to place all your bongs and old copies of GQ magazine?

ROOMMATE
Those definitely belong to you, you vain pot head.

PAT
Me? I have no idea what you're talking about! I would never smoke pot, wander into Shopper's Drug Mart and buy a magazine with Justin Timberlake on the cover!

And later that same night....

ROOMMATE
Hey Pat, what do you want me to put all your tampons?

PAT
Those definitely belong to you. As a man, I do not menstruate.

ROOMMATE
You sexist asshole! I hope you learn some manners at your fancy school!

I mean, sure, I could throw all the tampons and GQ's into boxes destination Vancouver and I could sort it out when I get there and I could throw whatever I don't want into the ocean, but I didn't win the lotto the other night (I would have, had I remembered to play), and moving things as heavy as magazines and Kotex is expensive, so I can't.

I wanted to divide my stuff is divided into three groups: going to Vancouver; going to my parents' basement; going to the side of the road.

The last group is easy to identify. Anything too old (clothes, furniture, props), too ugly (clothes, furniture, props), or too useless (clothes, furniture, props) either gets tossed, sent to Goodwill (or whomever), or claimed by someone else (there's still time to get your hands on an authentic Poseidon fountainhead - as seen at GCTC! - if you act now. It does not, however, spit blood). Also, anything still in boxes from my last move (or, in one embarassing case, two moves ago) also gets tossed.

It's everything else that is proving problematic. I know what I'll need in Vancouver: plays and other books for school, my laptop and printer, and clothes. That's it, essentially. I'm sure I'll want to bring a pen or two, and maybe some paper, but I'm sure British Columbia has a store where I can pick those up.

What I want to bring, however, is a different story. Do I need my DVD's, CD's, non-school books, graphic novels, Playstation, et al? Not really. Do I need to bring my desk, even though I really like it and I checked Ikea online and it's not available anymore? No. Do I need to bring a TV to put in my bedroom, since I've started setting the sleep timer at night and am starting to depend on it to fall asleep? Not at all.

But I will bring all (or most of) these things. Because I like them, and I'm also afraid they'll miss me (there's also the nagging feeling that anything I leave in the basement will be liberated by my brother, who seems intent on living with my parents as long as possible so he can claim any available spoils).

So now, my stuff is divided into five groups: going to Vancouver; maybe going to Vancouver; maybe going to my parents' basement; going to my parents' basement; going to the side of the road.

(the difference between groups 2 and 3 is that the second group is more likely to go to BC, and the third group is more likely to go to Guelph, but there's still a chance that if something buys me a present or looks at me the wrong way, that it could change status. Those Arrested Development DVD's have been acting awful smug lately...)

Uninspired (or, Ininspired?)

2006-08-04T23:59:00.000-04:00

Updates have been infrequent (read: non-existent) for a while. This really won't help much. More to just get the ball (as it were) rolling again.

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was all the time I've been spending watching season 2 of Scrubs. Maybe it's the fact that I haven't been doing much besides (until this past week, anyway) wrangling teenage Spaniards. Yeah. The last one. Probably.

But I just realized - not just this moment (you'd have to be reading over my shoulder as I type. Which you're not) - but just recently. Today. Today I realized that I move to BC in two weeks.
Two weeks.

Exepct to hear about packing.

It's too Hot to Live (or, It's too Hot to Think of a Clever Subtitle)

2006-07-17T20:51:00.000-04:00

In all my days (all 9,278, as of today) I do not remember being so hot.

I remember, in my last apartment, when the heat was broken, waking up at 3:30 am covered in sweat because the radiator in the ceiling (I was in the sous-sol) had been blasting for 20 hours. But that went away (and then it got very cold).

I remember, in Collingwood, calling the show from a tiny hot-box (in the not-as-fun sober sense of the word) of a booth. But after 90 minutes or so, I could escape. And I had an intermission in there too.

I remember, sitting in a car, on the way back from Saskatoon, whose air-conditioning mysteriosuly went on the fritz outside Manitoba, and driving the rest of way home a silent, stifling, rent-a-car. But, 40 long hours later, that was over too.

But prolonged, inescapable, I-can't-sleep-at-night, I'm-hungry-but-the-thought-of-eating-makes-me-even-hotter-heat like this?

I cannot recall.

Which is complete and utter bullshit. How long have I lived here? Six years? "Welcome to Ottawa!" There are always two weeks in the winter when it's so cold you want to kill yourself (but the canal freezes), and two weeks in the summer when it's so humid you want to kill yourself (but it's an excuse to sit on the patio, drink beer, and avoid doing prep work for some Spaniards).

The problem is, I have a solution. I have an air conditioner. It came with the apartment. Bulit in to the wall. Ready to condition my air.

But it's old. Way old. I look at it and my Hydro bill goes up $20. Plus (because it's so old), the air coming out of it smells funny. Plus (because it's sooo old), it's really loud, which scares the cat, who then won't use her litter box, because it's practically right next to it, and I have to hope she holds it in. Plus (because I'm easily frightened), I just saw the Al Gore movie, and the thought of using it seems hypocritical. I'm not very young or very old or at all pregnant or living with a heart condition. I can (I should) take it. People didn't have air conditioning for centuries, and they dealt with it (of course, people also didn't have PVR's for centuries either, and that I couldn't deal with. I can't miss Scrubs).

But, my aforementioned cat is having a harder time coping than I, frantically searching (well, as frantically as one can search when they're covered in fur) for the coolest possibe location.

But I have to hand it to her, however. She found it.

It's not under the couch. It's not the bathroom floor, or next to the toilet. It's not in front of my fan or underneath my bookshelf or next to the fridge or in back of my closet or on my patio.

It's my lap.

I - no matter where I am - am apparently the coolest part of the apartment. No matter where I go or what I do, the cat is always trying to rub up against me, sit on my lap, or generally touch me. Eating, sleeping, reading, or watching TV, she's there. She's suffering. And she wants me to suffer too.

Picture this: Pat sits, covered in a thin layer of humid, watching Gilmore Girls and trying not to move (because that's when the heat gets you!). Up strolls Sneezy. She stares up at me, like she's asking for my permission to sit on my lap. I tell her no. I look away. And in that instant - BAM - there's a cat on my lap. I shoo her away, but it's too late. Now Pat is covered in a thin layer of humid and fur. Repeat every 2 minutes.

Or this: it's 2:00 am. You need to get up the next morning and teach Romeo and Juliet to exchange students from, let's say, Portugal. You've found a position that, while not comfortable, is at least going to allow you to sleep, when - BAM - there's a cat lying right up against the side of your stomach. You change positions. She counters. You change positions again. She counters again. You get up, throw her out of the room (metaphorically and literally - it's now 2:14 am and it's fucking hot). She keeps vigil in front of your door all night, gently reminding you by "mewing" every 13 seconds. You eventually let her back in, thinking that the heat from her little cat body is a lesser evil than her whining. You realize you were wrong. You curse your ex-girlfriend.

I'm being stalked by a furry furnace.

Home Alone (or, Why I can Walk Around Naked)

2006-07-13T23:41:00.000-04:00

My roommate is going away.

This is thrilling.

Not because I hate my roommate. Not at all. We get along well, she and I.

But she's going away.

I'm going to have the place to myself.

This is thrilling because it doesn't happen very often. My roommate, like most roommates, has a job. A job that doesn't allow her to leave town for more than a couple of days at a time. And while having the place to myself (yourself) for a couple of days is nice (much cartoons are watched and many pants are not worn), it doesn't match the feeling of having the place to yourself for almost a month, knowing that someone else is still paying for half of it.

I'm very neat - partly out of neurotic obsession (mostly), but also out of guilt for leaving my shit places.

I try and do my dishes regularly in case she needs a pot; I don't leave my laptop in the living room in case she needs the table; I vacuum all the time because my cat sheds two other cats a week; and, I don't make fun of her for storing an inordinate number of Beverly Hills 90210 episodes on the PVR (but you can).

But for the next three weeks there will be much pantsless pot-smoking and eating in front of the laptop and TV while my cat - disregarded by me - weaves me a new rug. And I don't have to care about what anyone else wants to do.

Because my roommate is going away.