I spend 12 hours in a trailer with no heat, as the rain turns the earth to mud, and a damp chill runs through our little encampment.
I am into hair and makeup at 6:30 am as they want to shoot the reverse shot of the unfinished scene as soon as they can. As soon as they film this establishing shot - me, watering flowers, looking up at Andreas in the wagon, Anne running past me towards her husband - I can go. The shot will be in the can. I'm told this is very important as it establishes everyone in the household. I am vital to this scene!
We never get there.
I am officially considered part of the actors now and so I can hang out in the ladies' trailer, which is a step up from sitting outside under a tarp. Nonetheless, there is something wrong with the power hookup to the trailer so it is very cold. The Unhappy Costume Lady pins up my skirt so it doesn't drag in the mud, and I'm given a parka. We light tea candles to keep warm.
Eventually the ladies have to go down to set and I am alone with my thoughts, my magazine, my crossword puzzle, my script for the solo show I'm performing in Edmonton, my research reading for the job I'm quitting.
As I run into Andreas over hot chocolate at the craft table, he insists I move to the men's trailer - "there's no one in there," he explains, and the heat works. You can't sit in the cold! It's not human!"
He is trucked off to set and I figure I might as well keep warm. Hey, it is toasty in the men's trailer. Lucky bastards. I sit at the winnebago's kitchen table and read the paper. Eventually a German man I haven't seen before comes in. I look up, smile. He looks confused. Then decides not to question it and goes to lie down in the back. I go back to the paper. Eventually Andreas comes back, and sits across from me, reading the German equivalent of Time while I work on my crossword puzzle - no chance the Germans will want that from the Globe. But I'm content. Andreas chuckles - he is reading an article about a place in the Middle East where camel racing is so competitive that they get children to ride the camels - being so light they don't slow the animals down. And others go further and drive their camels with remote controlled robot jockeys perched on top of the humped beasts. Very strange. More unknown German men come through, stop briefly when they see me, then continue on their way. I smile and say hello, but they are less interested in cutting my food than Andreas is.
There are delays and things rearranged all day. The rain doesn't stop and so they have to film a scene inside a church, where they were going to shoot outside of it. The church is empty so the crew has to spend several hours dressing it first before they can cram everyone in there and shoot. There are piles of extras today, all huddled under tarps or in the drafty church up on set. When lunch is called I wander down to craft services. I am instructed to go ahead in the line. I get into a little bit of a "No, no, YOU first," competition. But the extras know their place, and the crew shuttles me ahead of them, out of the rain.
After lunch the ladies have reconvened in the girls' trailer. One of the set guys has found a space heater and it's starting to warm up in there. One of the A.D.s comes down and asks if I can return on Saturday morning between 9 and 12 to finish shooting the scene I am waiting for. Saturday between 9 and 12 is exactly when I am teching my solo show in Edmonton.
It becomes a point of stress - I feel a bit like I am between a rock and a hard place. They hadn't checked my availability til now, and I'm unavailable. I don't want to hold up a multi-million dollar German movie for my little show that might make $3000 if I'm lucky... but on the other hand, I don't want to get up on stage in my own country and look like an asshole because I don't know what I'm doing - I have only this time to set the lights and see the stage before I perform in Edmonton.
As if I don't feel bad enough, the producer, a small dark woman named Winka, comes into the trailer. "It's very important!" she says, and smiles like she's talking to a child. "Make it vork!" She leaves.
Sonsee and Anne are very supportive. "I'd be mad as hell if I were you," says Sonsee. Both of these beautiful delicate flowers have a tough-as-thorns side. I like them a lot. I think I will try to be more like them - more assertive, and more physically beautiful. Or maybe I'll just call my agent and let her sort this all out and keep warm in my parka.
The ladies are called back down to the set, and I am alone again. I see Andreas briefly as he is herded back into the truck. He smiles, "I will see you soon!" He waves, the car door closes, and the truck drives off. That is the last time I will see him. An anti-climactic ending and not one I would have written had I a choice. I had pictured perhaps a hug, or a thank-you, or an email exhange, or a "next time you're in Europe," or an invitation for dinner, or at least a last long wistful glance from those hazel soap star eyes. Even a hearty handshake would have done. Some kind of closure.
On Saturday, as I am teching my show in the Legion in Edmonton, and my director is setting the lights with the technicians, I stand on the stage and imagine Andreas on the plane back to Homburg, back to his sick dog, back to shooting in a couple of days for one of his two television series he stars in, one as a helicopter captain in the army... He is friendly to the flight attendants, and overly helpful to his neighbours. The lights dim in the cabin, and as the plane begins its long journey over land and ocean, he puts on headphones, sits back, and closes his eyes.
I hope the dog is waiting for him.
- Falcon.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Blue Mountain Day Three: Cue Rain
The day starts promisingly enough. Into hair and make-up by 10:30 am (the call was pushed back because of the late finish the night before). I have my own makeup chair, and my own makeup and hair person, Eva, who is the Canadian English girl in the makeup crew.
Andreas stops in to greet all the ladies. Anne bats her pretty lashes and asks the slightly grumpy craft services guy to bring us coffee (since the coffee wasn't ready before we had to be in our chairs). He looks surprised, "What, me? You want me to BRING you coffee?" He seems a little offended. Anne's smile hardens a little like ceramic around the edges and she re-affirms, "Yes. Thank-you. That will be great." She turns back to the mirror. Ooh. She's good. Sugar AND spice.
The first shot of the day involves Henry (Andreas) riding up in a wagon while I am watering the fake flowers planted outside to make the house look "lush." He says (in German), "Have you seen my wife?" She runs past me, over the long grasses in her flouffy skirt, dark hair fluttering behind her, and portfolio of piano music under her arm. She hauls herself into the wagon. She and Henry tease each other, then get sad for a moment, then ride off again...
As you can see, I am vital to this scene.
They rehearse a few times, and then someone notices that it's the wrong wagon. They stop and take half an hour to switch wagons. They rehearse again, and someone notices it's the wrong pony hitched to the wagon. They have to save that pony for Grace later. Another half hour later and we have a new pony. The scene is rehearsed again. Now someone notices that it's difficult for Margaret (Anne) to haul herself up there, so they have to get her a crate. They practice a few times and great, we're set.
We shoot Andreas riding up in the wagon and Anne hopping into the wagon several times until they get it perfectly. "Great! Cut! Print! Check the gate!"
The crew gets ready to turn the cameras around to catch the opposing shot - of me watering fake plants, listening to Andreas, and of Margaret (Anne) running towards the camera, towards her husband in the wagon. But just as they're setting up, the skies open and the rain starts.
It rains the rest of the day.
We stay on set the rest of the day, just in case we can get a clear moment. They have to rearrange some scenes to try and shoot them inside instead of out. But it's not a bad day. Mostly Anne and I stay on the verandah. She huddles under a thick blanket on the verandah's chaise lounge. The clouds lower. The rain drizzles. It's kind of comforting - they skies blanketed in such a bright soft gray. I sit in a wicker rocking chair and read a copy of Plutarch's Lives which is being used as set dressing. It's a beautiful old book - last century, limited edition copy of a series of 1000 printed. No one's read it before me - many of the pages are still uncut, folded over in quarto fashion. Although there is someone's initials at the end of one page in the chapter on Marc Antony. Mysterious.
I read the whole chapter on Marc Antony. It's fascinating. Plutarch really is a fantastic writer. Totally compelling story. Setting up Antony as this fantastic, flawed, brave, human leader, and then setting him up against Cleopatra, who will bring him lower than anyone else could have, through nothing but good intentions - their soul-consuming passions and mutual dependency are awesome, beautiful and terrible to watch - like a forest fire.
She is incredible. After he leaves her and marries the beautiful, smart, and well liked Octavia they are separated for years, but war brings him back to her eventually and he returns with a compelling resignation. He knows this is trouble, but why fight fate? He returns to her and they live this temporary life of outlandish extremes. They hunt, play cards, drink, go fishing, throw big parties and laugh together - but she is also desperate to keep him with her. She turns away from him and squeezes out a tear so that he will see, but will think that she is trying to hide it from him... She breaks his heart. She tells him that Octavia has the glory - the noble title of being his wife, but that she, Cleopatra, is the Queen of All Fucking Egypt and a force to be reckoned with, and yet she is wholly content to be Antony's whore. All she asks is that he doesn't take that beloved humiliation from her...
He meanwhile, is completely helpless and dependent. In a final sea battle between himself and his former buddies in Rome - a battle that she begged him to fight on the water despite the fact that he was the greatest commander of armies on land that Rome had ever had, and his armies knew nothing of being on the water - his side is WINNING. But he sees Cleopatra's ship sail past and away - God knows why she decided the fight was over and it was better to run - and he gives up the battle. He sits in the prow of the ship and watches her sail away. When his men try to get his attention, he just sits there resigned, and tells them to turn the boat around. He will follow her. Plutarch goes on to paraphrase a playwright, saying that "a lover's soul lives in the body of another." It was as if Antony's spirit had left his body and he was powerless to do anything but follow where it went - to Cleopatra.
Oh there's more, there's more, but you'll have to read it yourself! But what an amazing story... And what a writer. Long live Plutarch.
Back to the set. It's also around this time that I notice that I am now really a part of the cast. I have been given my own chair. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my own folding wooden set chair with cloth seat - and my name right there on the back. There they are all in a row: Sonsee, Anne, Andreas, and Nicole. Now I'm in the German Harlequin movie business big time.
At lunch I learn even more about Andreas:
1. The others are teasing him a little in German as he ladles out my asparagus for me. I think he would cut my meat for me if I let him. Mid-conversation he turns to me and looks intently with his hazel soap star eyes into my blue Canadian milk-maid ones and continues his conversation in English, "...I think people know, yah? When you speak one thing and mean another? You know when you speak to someone and there is... sexual chemistry. Yes?" Honestly, Andreas. I have no idea. I blush and turn away and say, "Sure, sure," and steer the conversation towards other humourous examples of linguistical misunderstandings.
2. Over lunch I learn that Andreas' days consist mostly of: getting up and going to the gym, then going to his favourite coffee shop and reading the paper for a few hours, taking the dog - Willy - for a walk, running errands, going home, making dinner, going to the gym again, sitting down by the fire and reading with the dog. Well, the dog doesn't read. Andreas doesn't drink, but he usually has a "stick" after dinner (completely legal in Germany of course), and then another walk with the dog, and so to bed. A nice life, actually. Although he worries about his Willy. His dog, that is. Willy is sick and needs daily injections. He hopes he will still be alive when he gets back to Homborg on Saturday - although he has instructed his friend the vet not to tell him if anything happens while he is away. He knows he will be devastated and unable to concentrate on the rest of the film. It's kind of endearing.
3. He is over the Party Scene. When I mention that I hear Rekjavik is the party capital of Europe, he disagrees with me. "Don't believe everything in those glossy magazines," he tells me. I don't have the heart (or the word in edgewise) to tell him I read it in the Globe and Mail. He tells me of the parties he went to in Cologne and Dubai. "If you fly several hours just to go to a party and the party is no good, you've ruined your night. A party is about the people, not the country it's held in." Well, can't argue with that.
4. He grew up in Homburg, which, like all port cities, has a large population of hookers. Also legal. As he talks about the local girls, I joke that it sounds like he's spent a lot of time there. I don't know if it loses something in translation, but every time I tease Andreas or make a joke I have to explain it after. "I'm teasing," I'll say, or, "It's a joke. I'm kidding." He will look at me seriously and pause for a moment, then continue, "yeah sure, I understand, but still, the thing is that..." and he will continue to explain why he knows so many hookers. Turns out his dad owned a gas station in Homburg and Andreas grew up around the girls. Although he insists he has never had to pay for sex. But sometimes the girls - they are very good looking, very clean - will come to a premiere or something, and then they don't charge... This is all much more than I know about any other living being. If I had to build another Andreas out of raw materials and character traits, I could.
5. Once when he bought his girlfriend a vibrator... This is actually the beginning of a story and a long conversation he winds up having with my makeup gal, Eva. Eva is a good natured earthy gal, plushly roundly built, married to her high school sweetheart, two kids, and surprisingly is quite animated in this discussion of personal intimate preferences with Andreas. I wander in at this point, and it seems odd to walk away, but seems even odder to leave. So now I am awkwardly part of the conversation. Andreas glances at me once in a while, then glances away, preferring to burn his hazel soap star eyes into Eva's giggling ones as they discuss kinks and likes and dislikes. Andreas is back to, "So when I bought my girlfriend this vibrator - " He makes it clear, "that was my girlfriend at the time, I don't have a girlfriend now. In fact, I only had sex 6 times last year. When you think of a man my age that is not a lot. Well 6 times with a girl. I have sex with myself much more than that." Even more than I ever thought I would learn about Andreas. Eva teases him, "Oh you're a WOLF! I can see, you're a heartbreaker, Andreas!" But the Germans are not shy about sex. Andreas makes that clear too. "There is a difference of course, between love and sex," he clarifies. Oh, good to know. He starts detailing the last overtly sexual relationship with a German model...
In the bar, over a pint of beer, maybe this wouldn't seem so strange, but here, in a large wooden husk of a house out on the prairies, at 3 pm in the afternoon, with the rain still drizzling softly outside and the chill and damp slowly warping the wooden planks, it just seems odd. I already know way too much about Andreas. I decide to preserve at least a little of the mystery and find the least awkward moment to slip away.
We never make it back to my scene. I'm asked to come back in two days when they will film the reverse of the shot they took this morning. Oh, how far we've come from Andreas' innocence in the wagon...
- Falcon
Andreas stops in to greet all the ladies. Anne bats her pretty lashes and asks the slightly grumpy craft services guy to bring us coffee (since the coffee wasn't ready before we had to be in our chairs). He looks surprised, "What, me? You want me to BRING you coffee?" He seems a little offended. Anne's smile hardens a little like ceramic around the edges and she re-affirms, "Yes. Thank-you. That will be great." She turns back to the mirror. Ooh. She's good. Sugar AND spice.
The first shot of the day involves Henry (Andreas) riding up in a wagon while I am watering the fake flowers planted outside to make the house look "lush." He says (in German), "Have you seen my wife?" She runs past me, over the long grasses in her flouffy skirt, dark hair fluttering behind her, and portfolio of piano music under her arm. She hauls herself into the wagon. She and Henry tease each other, then get sad for a moment, then ride off again...
As you can see, I am vital to this scene.
They rehearse a few times, and then someone notices that it's the wrong wagon. They stop and take half an hour to switch wagons. They rehearse again, and someone notices it's the wrong pony hitched to the wagon. They have to save that pony for Grace later. Another half hour later and we have a new pony. The scene is rehearsed again. Now someone notices that it's difficult for Margaret (Anne) to haul herself up there, so they have to get her a crate. They practice a few times and great, we're set.
We shoot Andreas riding up in the wagon and Anne hopping into the wagon several times until they get it perfectly. "Great! Cut! Print! Check the gate!"
The crew gets ready to turn the cameras around to catch the opposing shot - of me watering fake plants, listening to Andreas, and of Margaret (Anne) running towards the camera, towards her husband in the wagon. But just as they're setting up, the skies open and the rain starts.
It rains the rest of the day.
We stay on set the rest of the day, just in case we can get a clear moment. They have to rearrange some scenes to try and shoot them inside instead of out. But it's not a bad day. Mostly Anne and I stay on the verandah. She huddles under a thick blanket on the verandah's chaise lounge. The clouds lower. The rain drizzles. It's kind of comforting - they skies blanketed in such a bright soft gray. I sit in a wicker rocking chair and read a copy of Plutarch's Lives which is being used as set dressing. It's a beautiful old book - last century, limited edition copy of a series of 1000 printed. No one's read it before me - many of the pages are still uncut, folded over in quarto fashion. Although there is someone's initials at the end of one page in the chapter on Marc Antony. Mysterious.
I read the whole chapter on Marc Antony. It's fascinating. Plutarch really is a fantastic writer. Totally compelling story. Setting up Antony as this fantastic, flawed, brave, human leader, and then setting him up against Cleopatra, who will bring him lower than anyone else could have, through nothing but good intentions - their soul-consuming passions and mutual dependency are awesome, beautiful and terrible to watch - like a forest fire.
She is incredible. After he leaves her and marries the beautiful, smart, and well liked Octavia they are separated for years, but war brings him back to her eventually and he returns with a compelling resignation. He knows this is trouble, but why fight fate? He returns to her and they live this temporary life of outlandish extremes. They hunt, play cards, drink, go fishing, throw big parties and laugh together - but she is also desperate to keep him with her. She turns away from him and squeezes out a tear so that he will see, but will think that she is trying to hide it from him... She breaks his heart. She tells him that Octavia has the glory - the noble title of being his wife, but that she, Cleopatra, is the Queen of All Fucking Egypt and a force to be reckoned with, and yet she is wholly content to be Antony's whore. All she asks is that he doesn't take that beloved humiliation from her...
He meanwhile, is completely helpless and dependent. In a final sea battle between himself and his former buddies in Rome - a battle that she begged him to fight on the water despite the fact that he was the greatest commander of armies on land that Rome had ever had, and his armies knew nothing of being on the water - his side is WINNING. But he sees Cleopatra's ship sail past and away - God knows why she decided the fight was over and it was better to run - and he gives up the battle. He sits in the prow of the ship and watches her sail away. When his men try to get his attention, he just sits there resigned, and tells them to turn the boat around. He will follow her. Plutarch goes on to paraphrase a playwright, saying that "a lover's soul lives in the body of another." It was as if Antony's spirit had left his body and he was powerless to do anything but follow where it went - to Cleopatra.
Oh there's more, there's more, but you'll have to read it yourself! But what an amazing story... And what a writer. Long live Plutarch.
Back to the set. It's also around this time that I notice that I am now really a part of the cast. I have been given my own chair. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my own folding wooden set chair with cloth seat - and my name right there on the back. There they are all in a row: Sonsee, Anne, Andreas, and Nicole. Now I'm in the German Harlequin movie business big time.
At lunch I learn even more about Andreas:
1. The others are teasing him a little in German as he ladles out my asparagus for me. I think he would cut my meat for me if I let him. Mid-conversation he turns to me and looks intently with his hazel soap star eyes into my blue Canadian milk-maid ones and continues his conversation in English, "...I think people know, yah? When you speak one thing and mean another? You know when you speak to someone and there is... sexual chemistry. Yes?" Honestly, Andreas. I have no idea. I blush and turn away and say, "Sure, sure," and steer the conversation towards other humourous examples of linguistical misunderstandings.
2. Over lunch I learn that Andreas' days consist mostly of: getting up and going to the gym, then going to his favourite coffee shop and reading the paper for a few hours, taking the dog - Willy - for a walk, running errands, going home, making dinner, going to the gym again, sitting down by the fire and reading with the dog. Well, the dog doesn't read. Andreas doesn't drink, but he usually has a "stick" after dinner (completely legal in Germany of course), and then another walk with the dog, and so to bed. A nice life, actually. Although he worries about his Willy. His dog, that is. Willy is sick and needs daily injections. He hopes he will still be alive when he gets back to Homborg on Saturday - although he has instructed his friend the vet not to tell him if anything happens while he is away. He knows he will be devastated and unable to concentrate on the rest of the film. It's kind of endearing.
3. He is over the Party Scene. When I mention that I hear Rekjavik is the party capital of Europe, he disagrees with me. "Don't believe everything in those glossy magazines," he tells me. I don't have the heart (or the word in edgewise) to tell him I read it in the Globe and Mail. He tells me of the parties he went to in Cologne and Dubai. "If you fly several hours just to go to a party and the party is no good, you've ruined your night. A party is about the people, not the country it's held in." Well, can't argue with that.
4. He grew up in Homburg, which, like all port cities, has a large population of hookers. Also legal. As he talks about the local girls, I joke that it sounds like he's spent a lot of time there. I don't know if it loses something in translation, but every time I tease Andreas or make a joke I have to explain it after. "I'm teasing," I'll say, or, "It's a joke. I'm kidding." He will look at me seriously and pause for a moment, then continue, "yeah sure, I understand, but still, the thing is that..." and he will continue to explain why he knows so many hookers. Turns out his dad owned a gas station in Homburg and Andreas grew up around the girls. Although he insists he has never had to pay for sex. But sometimes the girls - they are very good looking, very clean - will come to a premiere or something, and then they don't charge... This is all much more than I know about any other living being. If I had to build another Andreas out of raw materials and character traits, I could.
5. Once when he bought his girlfriend a vibrator... This is actually the beginning of a story and a long conversation he winds up having with my makeup gal, Eva. Eva is a good natured earthy gal, plushly roundly built, married to her high school sweetheart, two kids, and surprisingly is quite animated in this discussion of personal intimate preferences with Andreas. I wander in at this point, and it seems odd to walk away, but seems even odder to leave. So now I am awkwardly part of the conversation. Andreas glances at me once in a while, then glances away, preferring to burn his hazel soap star eyes into Eva's giggling ones as they discuss kinks and likes and dislikes. Andreas is back to, "So when I bought my girlfriend this vibrator - " He makes it clear, "that was my girlfriend at the time, I don't have a girlfriend now. In fact, I only had sex 6 times last year. When you think of a man my age that is not a lot. Well 6 times with a girl. I have sex with myself much more than that." Even more than I ever thought I would learn about Andreas. Eva teases him, "Oh you're a WOLF! I can see, you're a heartbreaker, Andreas!" But the Germans are not shy about sex. Andreas makes that clear too. "There is a difference of course, between love and sex," he clarifies. Oh, good to know. He starts detailing the last overtly sexual relationship with a German model...
In the bar, over a pint of beer, maybe this wouldn't seem so strange, but here, in a large wooden husk of a house out on the prairies, at 3 pm in the afternoon, with the rain still drizzling softly outside and the chill and damp slowly warping the wooden planks, it just seems odd. I already know way too much about Andreas. I decide to preserve at least a little of the mystery and find the least awkward moment to slip away.
We never make it back to my scene. I'm asked to come back in two days when they will film the reverse of the shot they took this morning. Oh, how far we've come from Andreas' innocence in the wagon...
- Falcon
Blue Mountain Day Two: Just the Ladies
Yes, it's true. Andreas was not on set today. Today was all about the ladiessss.
First of all, Linda is a VERY busy housemaid.
Today I:
- carried out the laundry
- hung up the laundry
- took down the laundry
- watered the flowers
- lit the oil lamps
- cleared the dishes
- served the sorbet
- went to heat the water
Whew! What a busy day.
And don't forget all the reaction shots. Apparently it's All About Linda, since they have to get my reaction to everything that happens in the house.
i.e. There's Linda, taking out the laundry when Margaret comes home with Bad News and Instructions!
And there's Linda again, taking down the laundry, waving to Margaret as she happily waters the flowers (smile, wave) - oh no, wait, she's throwing up! (look concerned) Oh dear! What could that mean? (think about it - then eyes widen as Linda realizes...) It can only mean one thing! Margaret is expecting a child. (look happy and relieved) I guess Henry won't beat her tonight after all! Okay, I'm kidding - this movie is so saccharine, Henry would never even look at Margaret askance. In fact, Henry is so happy about this news he buys Margaret a new piano and they all live happily ever after (with Linda mopping and sweeping and washing dishes like mad).
The movie is appallingly written. In both languages. Even Margaret (Anne) rolls her beautiful big blue eyes before she does a scene where she has to look tearful and concerned over the Missing Boy! Or her Potential Infertilitiy! Nonetheless we muddle through. We bond. I think Margaret (Anne) may really think we are in the 19th c. sometimes. We walk through the long prairie grasses towards craft services and she laughs delicately and puts her arm around my waist in sign of feminine friendship. In our long dresses and exquisitely coiffed hair, we look like two girls in a Shelley poem. Only I'm the poor one.
I'm over the acting stress today too. This part's easy. I can look interested and happy and charming and shy easily enough. In fact, it all goes so well that Oliver, the youngish long haired dirty blonde funky director, takes the time to tell me, in his pretty damn good but still struggling sometimes English: "We make a goot choice vit you. You are very goot Linda. You... make it nice!"
We shoot a bunch of scenes rapidly and then we wait. And wait. And wait. For the light. The Golden Hour they call it. The director wants to have the perfect dusk light on the veranda to shoot this next scene. MY scene! It's time for My Big Line!
Sylvia, the A.D. - a super nice woman with short cropped silver hair and who could also have easily been on the German Pole-Vaulting Team - teaches me the line in German:
"Auf Gottes hilfe, habe ich wedig einfluss - aber das hasse wasser, komt soffort!" I practice all day trying to make it sound conversational, and in the end I do a pretty good job, I think. But I just don't have the speed.
In the end the director just tells me to say it in English. I don't even get to say it for him. Apparently the Germans are expert dubbers and German audiences are used to seeing German words come out of English mouths. Nonetheless, the scene is bound to be a little surreal - and even in rehearsal it seems strange. I am listening to Grace (Sonsee) in German, but I am replying in English. What an odd house.
The Golden Hour approaches - or should I say The Golden 20 Minutes. The light fades fast. They get a shot of the veranda with the ladies talking in the distance. It's just a long establishing shot, doens't matter what they talk about. They get it in the can, and move on to the close ups and more detailed shots of the scene between the two ladies. It's intense. Grace, the Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman character, is in love with this guy whose son had gone missing. She helped him find the boy. But he won't speak of his wife so there's a bit of a mystery. Margaret (Anne) is very sad because she lost a child and she and Henry have had trouble conceiving. Okay, my bit's coming up soon so pay attention! Grace brings out a pouch of herbs from the medicine woman who lives in a shack down by the river. She says to take it in hot water and with God's help it will cause Margaret to conceive. Grace gives the package to me and here goes! I say:
"Well I can't do anything about God's help, but I can sure get the hot water!" I think it loses something in the translation.
By the time we get to this part, it is really really dark out on the bald prairie Lonesome Dove set. The only lights are the ones set up by the cameras and they are attracting insects of enormous proportions. I have to carry a tray of raspberry sorbet to the ladies, put it down, take the herbs, say my line and hustle back to the "house."
Because of the magic of cinema, my entrance is faked - I have to wait through the ladies' tender 4 minute scene, squeezed between Camera B touching my right arm, and a giant flourescent light like a sunlamp up against the house, touching my left arm. My hair is shellacked into submission in a series of thick braids bolted behind my head. The lights, my sticky hair, and the quickly melting sorbet are an incredible attraction for the enormous insects swarming around. They swoop into the flourescents with a buzz and a sizzle next to my left ear - moths the size of Mothra. Some beetle - a species of which I have never seen before - has landed on my arm. It's about 2 inches long, black and thin, covered in orange spots and huge pincers on its head. I desperately try to blow the thing off my arm without getting moths stuck in my hair or knocking Camera B. I eventually knock it off, while another enemy of Godzilla sizzles into the sunlamp. I try to suppress little yelps of fear and surprise and hold the tray steady. Oh no! One of the giant furry kites has landed in the raspberry sorbet. The moth struggles to get out of the gooey pink tarpit but only manages to embed itself further. I can't hold the tray with one hand - I try unsuccessfully to balance it on my knee in my cramped situation - and so I am helpless, watching the Dying Moth perform Swan Lake in the sorbet. There. It stopped moving. Yipes! There's my cue...
And yes, I serve my mistress ice cream with a giant insect lodged in it, but she doesn't seem to notice. Grace hands me the package - I say my line, smile hopefully, and bustle off to squeeze back between the bug zapper and Camera B. Great! Well done!
We only have to shoot it about 8 more times and we're done.
This will be the longest day of the shoot. 16 hours. But I feel I've earned my place among the German constellation of stars. I am confident and hopeful about Day Three... and the return of Andreas, Cattle Baron extraordinairre.
- Falcon
First of all, Linda is a VERY busy housemaid.
Today I:
- carried out the laundry
- hung up the laundry
- took down the laundry
- watered the flowers
- lit the oil lamps
- cleared the dishes
- served the sorbet
- went to heat the water
Whew! What a busy day.
And don't forget all the reaction shots. Apparently it's All About Linda, since they have to get my reaction to everything that happens in the house.
i.e. There's Linda, taking out the laundry when Margaret comes home with Bad News and Instructions!
And there's Linda again, taking down the laundry, waving to Margaret as she happily waters the flowers (smile, wave) - oh no, wait, she's throwing up! (look concerned) Oh dear! What could that mean? (think about it - then eyes widen as Linda realizes...) It can only mean one thing! Margaret is expecting a child. (look happy and relieved) I guess Henry won't beat her tonight after all! Okay, I'm kidding - this movie is so saccharine, Henry would never even look at Margaret askance. In fact, Henry is so happy about this news he buys Margaret a new piano and they all live happily ever after (with Linda mopping and sweeping and washing dishes like mad).
The movie is appallingly written. In both languages. Even Margaret (Anne) rolls her beautiful big blue eyes before she does a scene where she has to look tearful and concerned over the Missing Boy! Or her Potential Infertilitiy! Nonetheless we muddle through. We bond. I think Margaret (Anne) may really think we are in the 19th c. sometimes. We walk through the long prairie grasses towards craft services and she laughs delicately and puts her arm around my waist in sign of feminine friendship. In our long dresses and exquisitely coiffed hair, we look like two girls in a Shelley poem. Only I'm the poor one.
I'm over the acting stress today too. This part's easy. I can look interested and happy and charming and shy easily enough. In fact, it all goes so well that Oliver, the youngish long haired dirty blonde funky director, takes the time to tell me, in his pretty damn good but still struggling sometimes English: "We make a goot choice vit you. You are very goot Linda. You... make it nice!"
We shoot a bunch of scenes rapidly and then we wait. And wait. And wait. For the light. The Golden Hour they call it. The director wants to have the perfect dusk light on the veranda to shoot this next scene. MY scene! It's time for My Big Line!
Sylvia, the A.D. - a super nice woman with short cropped silver hair and who could also have easily been on the German Pole-Vaulting Team - teaches me the line in German:
"Auf Gottes hilfe, habe ich wedig einfluss - aber das hasse wasser, komt soffort!" I practice all day trying to make it sound conversational, and in the end I do a pretty good job, I think. But I just don't have the speed.
In the end the director just tells me to say it in English. I don't even get to say it for him. Apparently the Germans are expert dubbers and German audiences are used to seeing German words come out of English mouths. Nonetheless, the scene is bound to be a little surreal - and even in rehearsal it seems strange. I am listening to Grace (Sonsee) in German, but I am replying in English. What an odd house.
The Golden Hour approaches - or should I say The Golden 20 Minutes. The light fades fast. They get a shot of the veranda with the ladies talking in the distance. It's just a long establishing shot, doens't matter what they talk about. They get it in the can, and move on to the close ups and more detailed shots of the scene between the two ladies. It's intense. Grace, the Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman character, is in love with this guy whose son had gone missing. She helped him find the boy. But he won't speak of his wife so there's a bit of a mystery. Margaret (Anne) is very sad because she lost a child and she and Henry have had trouble conceiving. Okay, my bit's coming up soon so pay attention! Grace brings out a pouch of herbs from the medicine woman who lives in a shack down by the river. She says to take it in hot water and with God's help it will cause Margaret to conceive. Grace gives the package to me and here goes! I say:
"Well I can't do anything about God's help, but I can sure get the hot water!" I think it loses something in the translation.
By the time we get to this part, it is really really dark out on the bald prairie Lonesome Dove set. The only lights are the ones set up by the cameras and they are attracting insects of enormous proportions. I have to carry a tray of raspberry sorbet to the ladies, put it down, take the herbs, say my line and hustle back to the "house."
Because of the magic of cinema, my entrance is faked - I have to wait through the ladies' tender 4 minute scene, squeezed between Camera B touching my right arm, and a giant flourescent light like a sunlamp up against the house, touching my left arm. My hair is shellacked into submission in a series of thick braids bolted behind my head. The lights, my sticky hair, and the quickly melting sorbet are an incredible attraction for the enormous insects swarming around. They swoop into the flourescents with a buzz and a sizzle next to my left ear - moths the size of Mothra. Some beetle - a species of which I have never seen before - has landed on my arm. It's about 2 inches long, black and thin, covered in orange spots and huge pincers on its head. I desperately try to blow the thing off my arm without getting moths stuck in my hair or knocking Camera B. I eventually knock it off, while another enemy of Godzilla sizzles into the sunlamp. I try to suppress little yelps of fear and surprise and hold the tray steady. Oh no! One of the giant furry kites has landed in the raspberry sorbet. The moth struggles to get out of the gooey pink tarpit but only manages to embed itself further. I can't hold the tray with one hand - I try unsuccessfully to balance it on my knee in my cramped situation - and so I am helpless, watching the Dying Moth perform Swan Lake in the sorbet. There. It stopped moving. Yipes! There's my cue...
And yes, I serve my mistress ice cream with a giant insect lodged in it, but she doesn't seem to notice. Grace hands me the package - I say my line, smile hopefully, and bustle off to squeeze back between the bug zapper and Camera B. Great! Well done!
We only have to shoot it about 8 more times and we're done.
This will be the longest day of the shoot. 16 hours. But I feel I've earned my place among the German constellation of stars. I am confident and hopeful about Day Three... and the return of Andreas, Cattle Baron extraordinairre.
- Falcon
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Let the Edmonton SUN shine...
Ahhh fellas. The fringe. Always full of ups and downs.
I had four reviewers at the show on Saturday night and over a hundred folks. I thought "This is going to be the BEST FRINGE EVER!"
Then on Sunday night (the "coveted" MIDNIGHT SLOT)I had 10 people - one of whom was Liz Nicholls from the Journal... It was a fabulous show that night - really really good. But still - 10 people. I thought "This is going to be the WORST FRINGE EVER! What was I thinking?!"
Then I hear that other shows have been having trouble with their late night slots too - playing to houses of 6 or 10 people. "Yay! It's not just me!"
Then my first and only review as of yesterday comes out - in the SEE supplement where they review EVERY fringe show. Two and a half stars. The reviewer is like, "she's good and she talks a lot and stuff, but in the end I didn't get it." I'm like, "I KNOW - there are IRREPERABLE flaws in the script. I could fix them all but what's the point, I should probably just burn it. Hey I've got a great idea for another show..."
Then I see another show which I know for a fact is cringeingly bad (I know this because I saw it) Two and a half stars in SEE - same as my show.
That actually made me feel better. That sort of proved that reviews are pretty subjective. I read all the other reviews written by my reviewer and she said the SAME THING ABOUT EACH OF THEM. The only shows she liked were the kids' shows. "This one had a great moral - sometimes fear is the only thing you're afraid of! Wow! What a great message!" Okay. I see where you're at now. I feel better.
And then this morning, THIS review comes out, page one of the fringe section of the SUN. Ahhhh, boys and girls - I just hope it sells tickets! Oh God let this article sell tickets!!! And if I meet this Steve guy I may have to kiss him on the face.
Love to you all,
- Falcon.
Fringe Festival ReviewsTue, August 23, 2005
Carrying the torch
By STEVE TILLEY, EDMONTON SUN
EFFABLE - Stage 7
There's no better place than the Fringe to fall in love. It's a perfect Petri-dish mix of summer sun, edgy theatre, happy throngs and a communally shared experience, just waiting for infatuation to take root and spread across it like ... uh, bacteria. Wow, that analogy kind of fell on its ass, dinnit?
If you're really lucky, you'll fall in love with a particular Fringe performance. One that so excites or provokes you that you leave the theatre wanting to change the world or better your life or, at the very least, tip the cab driver his due for shuttling your drunk and over-rambunctious butt home after too many hoisted cups of Big Rock in the beer tent.
FATHOMS MORE SHALLOW
Being several fathoms more shallow than that, though, I tend to fall in love every year with a particular performer.
One year the object of my fleeting Fringe affection was Amber Bissonnette in Cheerleader! Another year it was the devastatingly cute little brunette in A Boy's Own Jedi Handbook. Cheerleaders and Star Wars - maybe the subject matter has something to do with it.
Yet another year, it was Shannan Calcutt as her clown alter-ego Izzy in It's Me, Only Better, which must say something about the strength of Calcutt's performance, because normally clowns frighten and confuse me. Hey, just like women!
This year I'm carrying my Fringe torch for Calgary's Nicole Zylstra and her show EFFable, playing at the Royal Canadian Legion, a.k.a. Stage 7. I was a little apprehensive going in, as one-woman Fringe shows are often like the theatrical version of lobster bisque: either really, really good, or so bad that you feel a bit nauseous afterwards and need to go lie down.
EFFable is nothing but delicious. It's not Zylstra's first appearance at our Fringe - my comrade-in-arms Jenny Feniak raved about her show Firebird: 220 Horses of the Apocalypse last year - but it's the first time I've seen her. And I was smitten.
Well, smitten with her character. How much of EFFable's darling Nikki is drawn from Zylstra's own experiences is only for her to know. But over the course of an hour, she paints such an engaging, amusing, touching and arousing (no, not in the sexual sense) (well, not entirely) portrait of this woman that it's impossible not to adore her.
Like many girls, Nikki has crushes. Unlike most, her crushes are on Jesus, and also the devil. And boys, ranging from saints to sinners, preacher's sons to atheists, Star Trek's Capt. Kirk to Fantasy Island's Mr. Roarke.
Religion and sex are not as strange bedfellows as they seem, though a three-way with early '80s pop culture is a little out of the ordinary. In a good, kinky way.
And while EFFable has messages, they're not the kind that conk you over the head. First and foremost, this is a tale of a romantic misfit making the hole fit the peg and occasionally swapping pen-pal letters with the devil, who it turns out is female. No surprise there.
It's also one of those rare one-human shows that is very writerly, yet never feels recited. Zylstra has an ear for the English language and an ability to deftly turn a phrase that makes hacks like yours truly hang his head in shame and envy.
Even the title is a clever play on words, meaning both that which can be easily uttered or explained (effable) and that which you would like to schtup (eff-able.)
A caveat, though: EFFable is not a show for those who need to be spoken at instead of to. There are no sets, no props - real or mimed - no pratfalls and no fart jokes, at least that I recall. Just a girl on a stage, telling you about herself, not because she wants to impress or amuse you, but just because she wants to share.
Occasionally the creaking of the Legion's folding chairs would signal that the audience was losing the thread of the performance, and a few of Zylstra's zingilicious religious/sexual/pop-culture references seemed to inexplicably coast over their heads. Come ON, people!
FICTIONAL DREAM GIRL
But Nikki is my fictional dream girl, funny and smart, introspective yet extroverted, and, if I understood her timeline right, born the same year I was, though Zylstra herself looks significantly younger. The long red hair and cute little overbite don't hurt, either. The torch has been lit.
Whether that's also your bag is only for you, Joe and Jane Fringe, to decide. But hey, if all else fails, the venue serves beer. Just remember to give the cab driver a good tip on the way home. Chances are you'll want to anyway.
4 1/2 SUNS (OUT OF 5)
I had four reviewers at the show on Saturday night and over a hundred folks. I thought "This is going to be the BEST FRINGE EVER!"
Then on Sunday night (the "coveted" MIDNIGHT SLOT)I had 10 people - one of whom was Liz Nicholls from the Journal... It was a fabulous show that night - really really good. But still - 10 people. I thought "This is going to be the WORST FRINGE EVER! What was I thinking?!"
Then I hear that other shows have been having trouble with their late night slots too - playing to houses of 6 or 10 people. "Yay! It's not just me!"
Then my first and only review as of yesterday comes out - in the SEE supplement where they review EVERY fringe show. Two and a half stars. The reviewer is like, "she's good and she talks a lot and stuff, but in the end I didn't get it." I'm like, "I KNOW - there are IRREPERABLE flaws in the script. I could fix them all but what's the point, I should probably just burn it. Hey I've got a great idea for another show..."
Then I see another show which I know for a fact is cringeingly bad (I know this because I saw it) Two and a half stars in SEE - same as my show.
That actually made me feel better. That sort of proved that reviews are pretty subjective. I read all the other reviews written by my reviewer and she said the SAME THING ABOUT EACH OF THEM. The only shows she liked were the kids' shows. "This one had a great moral - sometimes fear is the only thing you're afraid of! Wow! What a great message!" Okay. I see where you're at now. I feel better.
And then this morning, THIS review comes out, page one of the fringe section of the SUN. Ahhhh, boys and girls - I just hope it sells tickets! Oh God let this article sell tickets!!! And if I meet this Steve guy I may have to kiss him on the face.
Love to you all,
- Falcon.
Fringe Festival ReviewsTue, August 23, 2005
Carrying the torch
By STEVE TILLEY, EDMONTON SUN
EFFABLE - Stage 7
There's no better place than the Fringe to fall in love. It's a perfect Petri-dish mix of summer sun, edgy theatre, happy throngs and a communally shared experience, just waiting for infatuation to take root and spread across it like ... uh, bacteria. Wow, that analogy kind of fell on its ass, dinnit?
If you're really lucky, you'll fall in love with a particular Fringe performance. One that so excites or provokes you that you leave the theatre wanting to change the world or better your life or, at the very least, tip the cab driver his due for shuttling your drunk and over-rambunctious butt home after too many hoisted cups of Big Rock in the beer tent.
FATHOMS MORE SHALLOW
Being several fathoms more shallow than that, though, I tend to fall in love every year with a particular performer.
One year the object of my fleeting Fringe affection was Amber Bissonnette in Cheerleader! Another year it was the devastatingly cute little brunette in A Boy's Own Jedi Handbook. Cheerleaders and Star Wars - maybe the subject matter has something to do with it.
Yet another year, it was Shannan Calcutt as her clown alter-ego Izzy in It's Me, Only Better, which must say something about the strength of Calcutt's performance, because normally clowns frighten and confuse me. Hey, just like women!
This year I'm carrying my Fringe torch for Calgary's Nicole Zylstra and her show EFFable, playing at the Royal Canadian Legion, a.k.a. Stage 7. I was a little apprehensive going in, as one-woman Fringe shows are often like the theatrical version of lobster bisque: either really, really good, or so bad that you feel a bit nauseous afterwards and need to go lie down.
EFFable is nothing but delicious. It's not Zylstra's first appearance at our Fringe - my comrade-in-arms Jenny Feniak raved about her show Firebird: 220 Horses of the Apocalypse last year - but it's the first time I've seen her. And I was smitten.
Well, smitten with her character. How much of EFFable's darling Nikki is drawn from Zylstra's own experiences is only for her to know. But over the course of an hour, she paints such an engaging, amusing, touching and arousing (no, not in the sexual sense) (well, not entirely) portrait of this woman that it's impossible not to adore her.
Like many girls, Nikki has crushes. Unlike most, her crushes are on Jesus, and also the devil. And boys, ranging from saints to sinners, preacher's sons to atheists, Star Trek's Capt. Kirk to Fantasy Island's Mr. Roarke.
Religion and sex are not as strange bedfellows as they seem, though a three-way with early '80s pop culture is a little out of the ordinary. In a good, kinky way.
And while EFFable has messages, they're not the kind that conk you over the head. First and foremost, this is a tale of a romantic misfit making the hole fit the peg and occasionally swapping pen-pal letters with the devil, who it turns out is female. No surprise there.
It's also one of those rare one-human shows that is very writerly, yet never feels recited. Zylstra has an ear for the English language and an ability to deftly turn a phrase that makes hacks like yours truly hang his head in shame and envy.
Even the title is a clever play on words, meaning both that which can be easily uttered or explained (effable) and that which you would like to schtup (eff-able.)
A caveat, though: EFFable is not a show for those who need to be spoken at instead of to. There are no sets, no props - real or mimed - no pratfalls and no fart jokes, at least that I recall. Just a girl on a stage, telling you about herself, not because she wants to impress or amuse you, but just because she wants to share.
Occasionally the creaking of the Legion's folding chairs would signal that the audience was losing the thread of the performance, and a few of Zylstra's zingilicious religious/sexual/pop-culture references seemed to inexplicably coast over their heads. Come ON, people!
FICTIONAL DREAM GIRL
But Nikki is my fictional dream girl, funny and smart, introspective yet extroverted, and, if I understood her timeline right, born the same year I was, though Zylstra herself looks significantly younger. The long red hair and cute little overbite don't hurt, either. The torch has been lit.
Whether that's also your bag is only for you, Joe and Jane Fringe, to decide. But hey, if all else fails, the venue serves beer. Just remember to give the cab driver a good tip on the way home. Chances are you'll want to anyway.
4 1/2 SUNS (OUT OF 5)
Friday, August 19, 2005
Edmonton Fringe-a-go-go
DAY ONE, FRINGE FANS:
This was a good day to start. All days should be like this.
10 AM I go to a Fringe Forum on a new Capital Fringe being started in Washington. I walk into the boardroom, not knowing who else will be there. I slip in, surreptitiously, but look up when I hear my name: "Nicole!" Hey! It's Trevor S! And Darrin Haggen! (BitchSlap!) And there's Jocelyn! She's looking gorgeous and enormous - 1 day before her due date. Hey - and there's Belinda! Awesome! Things are off to a good start with all these friends in the room.
The forum is being held by a man named Damian - ha! now that's funny, considering I'm doing a show featuring the devil in various guises. He's a member of Woolly Mammoth Theatre in Washington D.C. whom I've heard great things about. He is here to scout and promote for a new fringe festival in Washington. Before I show up I think going to Washington for a fringe sounds like a crappy idea. But Damian makes it sound like a really incredible idea, and so now I am thinking about it... Damian also points out that the new Capital Fringe will take place just before New York's highly competitive juried fringe, which is just ahead of Philadelphia's. He also hints that he knows both of the organizers for these festivals as well, the gist being that if he likes your show maybe he can make it possible for a Canadian to come down and do three really cool fringes in a row. It sounds awesome.
As for billeting in Washington - funnily enough, I met a great retired couple at a show last year in Vancouver, who live in Washington, and who invited me to stay with them any time I was down that way. That's what's great about events like the fringe - you meet friendly like-minded people from all over the world, who are supportive of artists (if they aren't already artists themselves).
Damian says he's read my write up in the program and is looking forward to checking out the show, and tells me to look for him in the beer tent this weekend so he can buy me a beer. Sounds like a good deal to me.
Trevor and Darren are starring as Bette Davis and Joan Crawford in BitchSlap! and Trevor offers to sneak me in the back door at 6:30 pm. Fantastic. This show's is bound to be hilarious.
11 AM I stop in the Arts Barns heading for the bathroom. I stop at the long line of handcards by the ticket boards, checking to see if mine are still there... and who do I see standing next to me? It's Confessions of a Class Clown - Ryan G. He's got his first show today at 12:30. He offers me his password - I guess I'm going to my first show today.
Outside the Arts Barns I am staring at a poster on a pole, and a fellow appears beside me. "Hey! Are you EFFable?" That's about the best introduction I've had in a long time. "Why yes! Yes I am..." It's Jonah of Gloomology. He gives me his password - he has a show at 4:30. Looks like I have my day booked.
12:30 Confessions of a Class Clown
Standing behind me in line is an older lady. Purely co-incidentally she says out loud - "This is my grandson's show!" Hey - no kidding. Ryan and I used to work together at the Deane House. Before you know it Ryan's mom is in line too. More old friends.
The show is great - Ryan has piles of stage presence and his ability to work with a crowd is inspiring. A cel phone goes off and Ryan jumps off the stage to answer it. "Mom? Is that YOUR phone?" Sure enough, it is. This little accident is comedy gold. Couldn't have planned it better.
2 pm Head over to ye olde Army and Navy. I know it's only my first day of the fringe, but I already go on a bargain spending spree. However, it's perfectly justified as I decide to double up on some items so that I can save my costume for the stage. Yesterday as I hopped from puddle to muddy spot in my bright pink sneakers (which I wear in the show) I decided that maybe it would be best if I saved the shoes for the stage. Ditto my fantastically comfortable perfectly partially faded serendipitous $25 jeans. So I was on a search for alternative sneakers, alternative pants, and a backpack to stuff it all in. It's a very successful trip, and the $10 backpack will come in handy when I fly to Toronto for my training session next week too.
3:30 pm Lunch over at the New York Bagel Stop. I missed this place when postering last week, so I introduce myself, and the waitress smiles and says "Go right ahead!" All the surrounding shops and cafes are fantastic in this town when it comes to fringe. Everyone is supersupportive. I stay for lunch. Life isn't half bad when you can sit in a little bit of shade, on a sunny flower-strewn patio, listening to klezmer music, drinking steamed milk and hot coffee, with a salami-kiwi bagel plate with potato salad. It's a bit of an indulgence, but I'm sure the rest of the week will be limited to take out coffees and muffins for breakfast, and food-stand samosas (4 for $2.50 - the best deal anywhere in the world, I'm sure). So it's worth it. This, THIS, is the Life...
4:23 pm On my way to the next show I see Emily Pearlman (Radio Caller) and - that guy who did the spooky stories with the big moustache and that big silent guy from Thunder Bay. Fantastic! Emily and I hug and exchange flyers and passwords - the business card of the fringe. I run to catch Jonah's show.
4:30 pm Gloomology. The show is really great - a Tim Burtonish/Ghastlycrumb Tinies schoolmaster's lesson that includes the evisceration of the puppet pupil Barnaby in order to demonstrate the finer points of human biology. (Last summer I had an ill-fated affair with a Clown from Leeds named Barnaby, so this, the vivisection of poor hapless Barnaby, is particularly amusing to me... Jonah knew Barnaby last year as well: perhaps the puppet is a tribute to him, in that it is the perfect ill-fated English schoolchild's name. Who knows. Maybe I'll ask him.)
I get the last free ticket - the place is packed, but there are a dozen fringe performers here as well. Jonah the Gloomologist is very good - very subtle with a very unsubtle character. He also handles the crowd well, teaching us our lessons and punishing us with wicked looks. Mr. Slurch, his top-hatted/long velvet coated character, is strangely obsessed with hair and at one point lifts up a lock of mine and sighs creepily, "Hmmm... lovely hair..."
Walking back after the show I run into a reviewer from one of the weeklies who's been at both shows I was at today. He recognizes me and we chat for a while. He's very kind about my show last year, and is looking forward to seeing this year's, which is always encouraging to hear.
I also pass a poster for a show called Burning Bush - hey! That's Tracey Smith! I went to McGill with her! No kidding... More friends. I will have to track her down.
6 pm Checking my email in the Artists' Lounge, which is a convenient spot to regroup for a while when you're on site for a good part of the day. It features comfy couches, daily newspapers, a computer for email checking, and fishbowls full of candy and condoms - the latter for use off site, naturally. The lounge itself is fairly clinical with large warning signs forbidding the use of alcolhol and drugs on the premises. They run a clean house here.
Good thing I checked my email too - there's a message from a FFWD reporter who will be at my show tomorrow night and hopes to interview me afterwards. Fantastic! I feel like a STAHHHH!
6:30 and it's time for BitchSlap! I wait by the back kitchen door of one of the seediest looking bars on Whyte Avenue until someone from the show, who has instructions to come get me, shows me in. The show itself is, as I imagined, HYSTERICAL. Very funny and great storytelling, not to mention the pitch perfect renditions of the two stars of Who's Afraid of Baby Jane. Trev, in particular, is splendid as Bette - squeaking out precise syllables and batting his long lashes, lips curled down at the edges in a just-so way. They are wonderful bitches.
8 pm and I decide to be a good girl and bypass the beer tent and head home - better run the show, I figure, before I open tomorrow. On the way home I decide to pick up a few groceries - maybe I can save myself a little bit of cash by at least having breakfast and one or two other meals in-house. On the way I run into the King of Winnipeg - the Scottish performance poet and fringe celebrity Jem Rolls, and his fabulous girlfriend Kate on their way to cram themselves with Chinese food. They have been on the circuit since the beginning of the summer and begin to weary of the prairies, but are excited to head to Victoria, which is like the Vacation Beach House of the fringe circuit, before the last stop Vancouver.
So far that's 14 familiar faces and three shows in my first 10 hours on fringe. A good tally. There are so many familiar names here - I am encouraged to see so many returnees, and look forward to running into more of them as the days go on.
I head back to my billet's - a friend's mom has graciously taken me in, and it's a lovely comfortable house, walking distance to my venue. Couldn't be better. I make a little dinner, and write up my notes here. I will go to bed late tonight, but it's training for the next few days: tomorrow's show, my first here, will be at 10:15 pm. And Sunday night I have the coveted (not) MIDNIGHT slot! So I might as well get used to staying up late for a bit.
All in all - a perfect day.
So here I go - I'd better run my show.
Woof woof,
- Falcon.
This was a good day to start. All days should be like this.
10 AM I go to a Fringe Forum on a new Capital Fringe being started in Washington. I walk into the boardroom, not knowing who else will be there. I slip in, surreptitiously, but look up when I hear my name: "Nicole!" Hey! It's Trevor S! And Darrin Haggen! (BitchSlap!) And there's Jocelyn! She's looking gorgeous and enormous - 1 day before her due date. Hey - and there's Belinda! Awesome! Things are off to a good start with all these friends in the room.
The forum is being held by a man named Damian - ha! now that's funny, considering I'm doing a show featuring the devil in various guises. He's a member of Woolly Mammoth Theatre in Washington D.C. whom I've heard great things about. He is here to scout and promote for a new fringe festival in Washington. Before I show up I think going to Washington for a fringe sounds like a crappy idea. But Damian makes it sound like a really incredible idea, and so now I am thinking about it... Damian also points out that the new Capital Fringe will take place just before New York's highly competitive juried fringe, which is just ahead of Philadelphia's. He also hints that he knows both of the organizers for these festivals as well, the gist being that if he likes your show maybe he can make it possible for a Canadian to come down and do three really cool fringes in a row. It sounds awesome.
As for billeting in Washington - funnily enough, I met a great retired couple at a show last year in Vancouver, who live in Washington, and who invited me to stay with them any time I was down that way. That's what's great about events like the fringe - you meet friendly like-minded people from all over the world, who are supportive of artists (if they aren't already artists themselves).
Damian says he's read my write up in the program and is looking forward to checking out the show, and tells me to look for him in the beer tent this weekend so he can buy me a beer. Sounds like a good deal to me.
Trevor and Darren are starring as Bette Davis and Joan Crawford in BitchSlap! and Trevor offers to sneak me in the back door at 6:30 pm. Fantastic. This show's is bound to be hilarious.
11 AM I stop in the Arts Barns heading for the bathroom. I stop at the long line of handcards by the ticket boards, checking to see if mine are still there... and who do I see standing next to me? It's Confessions of a Class Clown - Ryan G. He's got his first show today at 12:30. He offers me his password - I guess I'm going to my first show today.
Outside the Arts Barns I am staring at a poster on a pole, and a fellow appears beside me. "Hey! Are you EFFable?" That's about the best introduction I've had in a long time. "Why yes! Yes I am..." It's Jonah of Gloomology. He gives me his password - he has a show at 4:30. Looks like I have my day booked.
12:30 Confessions of a Class Clown
Standing behind me in line is an older lady. Purely co-incidentally she says out loud - "This is my grandson's show!" Hey - no kidding. Ryan and I used to work together at the Deane House. Before you know it Ryan's mom is in line too. More old friends.
The show is great - Ryan has piles of stage presence and his ability to work with a crowd is inspiring. A cel phone goes off and Ryan jumps off the stage to answer it. "Mom? Is that YOUR phone?" Sure enough, it is. This little accident is comedy gold. Couldn't have planned it better.
2 pm Head over to ye olde Army and Navy. I know it's only my first day of the fringe, but I already go on a bargain spending spree. However, it's perfectly justified as I decide to double up on some items so that I can save my costume for the stage. Yesterday as I hopped from puddle to muddy spot in my bright pink sneakers (which I wear in the show) I decided that maybe it would be best if I saved the shoes for the stage. Ditto my fantastically comfortable perfectly partially faded serendipitous $25 jeans. So I was on a search for alternative sneakers, alternative pants, and a backpack to stuff it all in. It's a very successful trip, and the $10 backpack will come in handy when I fly to Toronto for my training session next week too.
3:30 pm Lunch over at the New York Bagel Stop. I missed this place when postering last week, so I introduce myself, and the waitress smiles and says "Go right ahead!" All the surrounding shops and cafes are fantastic in this town when it comes to fringe. Everyone is supersupportive. I stay for lunch. Life isn't half bad when you can sit in a little bit of shade, on a sunny flower-strewn patio, listening to klezmer music, drinking steamed milk and hot coffee, with a salami-kiwi bagel plate with potato salad. It's a bit of an indulgence, but I'm sure the rest of the week will be limited to take out coffees and muffins for breakfast, and food-stand samosas (4 for $2.50 - the best deal anywhere in the world, I'm sure). So it's worth it. This, THIS, is the Life...
4:23 pm On my way to the next show I see Emily Pearlman (Radio Caller) and - that guy who did the spooky stories with the big moustache and that big silent guy from Thunder Bay. Fantastic! Emily and I hug and exchange flyers and passwords - the business card of the fringe. I run to catch Jonah's show.
4:30 pm Gloomology. The show is really great - a Tim Burtonish/Ghastlycrumb Tinies schoolmaster's lesson that includes the evisceration of the puppet pupil Barnaby in order to demonstrate the finer points of human biology. (Last summer I had an ill-fated affair with a Clown from Leeds named Barnaby, so this, the vivisection of poor hapless Barnaby, is particularly amusing to me... Jonah knew Barnaby last year as well: perhaps the puppet is a tribute to him, in that it is the perfect ill-fated English schoolchild's name. Who knows. Maybe I'll ask him.)
I get the last free ticket - the place is packed, but there are a dozen fringe performers here as well. Jonah the Gloomologist is very good - very subtle with a very unsubtle character. He also handles the crowd well, teaching us our lessons and punishing us with wicked looks. Mr. Slurch, his top-hatted/long velvet coated character, is strangely obsessed with hair and at one point lifts up a lock of mine and sighs creepily, "Hmmm... lovely hair..."
Walking back after the show I run into a reviewer from one of the weeklies who's been at both shows I was at today. He recognizes me and we chat for a while. He's very kind about my show last year, and is looking forward to seeing this year's, which is always encouraging to hear.
I also pass a poster for a show called Burning Bush - hey! That's Tracey Smith! I went to McGill with her! No kidding... More friends. I will have to track her down.
6 pm Checking my email in the Artists' Lounge, which is a convenient spot to regroup for a while when you're on site for a good part of the day. It features comfy couches, daily newspapers, a computer for email checking, and fishbowls full of candy and condoms - the latter for use off site, naturally. The lounge itself is fairly clinical with large warning signs forbidding the use of alcolhol and drugs on the premises. They run a clean house here.
Good thing I checked my email too - there's a message from a FFWD reporter who will be at my show tomorrow night and hopes to interview me afterwards. Fantastic! I feel like a STAHHHH!
6:30 and it's time for BitchSlap! I wait by the back kitchen door of one of the seediest looking bars on Whyte Avenue until someone from the show, who has instructions to come get me, shows me in. The show itself is, as I imagined, HYSTERICAL. Very funny and great storytelling, not to mention the pitch perfect renditions of the two stars of Who's Afraid of Baby Jane. Trev, in particular, is splendid as Bette - squeaking out precise syllables and batting his long lashes, lips curled down at the edges in a just-so way. They are wonderful bitches.
8 pm and I decide to be a good girl and bypass the beer tent and head home - better run the show, I figure, before I open tomorrow. On the way home I decide to pick up a few groceries - maybe I can save myself a little bit of cash by at least having breakfast and one or two other meals in-house. On the way I run into the King of Winnipeg - the Scottish performance poet and fringe celebrity Jem Rolls, and his fabulous girlfriend Kate on their way to cram themselves with Chinese food. They have been on the circuit since the beginning of the summer and begin to weary of the prairies, but are excited to head to Victoria, which is like the Vacation Beach House of the fringe circuit, before the last stop Vancouver.
So far that's 14 familiar faces and three shows in my first 10 hours on fringe. A good tally. There are so many familiar names here - I am encouraged to see so many returnees, and look forward to running into more of them as the days go on.
I head back to my billet's - a friend's mom has graciously taken me in, and it's a lovely comfortable house, walking distance to my venue. Couldn't be better. I make a little dinner, and write up my notes here. I will go to bed late tonight, but it's training for the next few days: tomorrow's show, my first here, will be at 10:15 pm. And Sunday night I have the coveted (not) MIDNIGHT slot! So I might as well get used to staying up late for a bit.
All in all - a perfect day.
So here I go - I'd better run my show.
Woof woof,
- Falcon.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Things I Learned From My German Sheize Film
Okay, first it's not really a sheize film - but it really is German.
I had my first of three days of shooting on a German Harlequin-romance/Hallmark movie of the week/Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman style film today. I play Linda, the maid to rich, handsome cattle baron Henry, and his beautiful refined city slicker wife Margaret.
I sucked in my scene, but other than that, it was a great day!
I really did suck - I ain't exaggerating. I can't cry on command. And there's something absurd about the first shot of the day being, "Okay, Andreas is going to jump off of ze horse and shake his head to Anna. She's going to go into ze house - you look at her, hit your mark here, hold ze dinner plate up close to your face so we can see it in ze shot. Andreas will then say somezing to you in Cherman. Look sad, shake your head or something, und go in ze house." The director is patient with me, talking to me a little slowly like I'm mildly retarded. He doesn't mean anything by it, but in film it's assumed that if you have a small part you're really a shoe salesman by day and so require a little extra positive reinforcement.
In this case he may have been right. I'm more naturally suited to comedy than tragedy, and I'm terrified of overacting the serious stuff, especially in a close-up shot on camera where your face is the size of the screen. So I'm TRYING, I mean I'm FEELING it! As hard as I can! But it's hard. I even try some acting exercises - you know, thinking, "What's my relationship to this couple? Why am I soooo sad because she can't have kids after little Fiona died? Do I have kids, so I know what she's going through? Or was I really the one taking care of little Fiona all the time? What am I DOING (silently) to Henry while he's speaking to me?" And then I laughed a little for taking myself too seriously, sighed, and waited to hit my mark and hold my dinner plate close to my face. We did it three times - as soon as I got the plate in the shot it was, "Cut! Print! Check the gate!" and they were on to the next set up.
Later, when I was alone in the trailer (I don't get a trailer, but the two female leads do, and they are super sweet to me, and invited me to stay in the trailer instead of sitting out in the blazing sun all afternoon) - at any rate, I'm in the trailer and looking in the mirror, recreating my morning's take, and I realize - I am completely expressionless. I mean, NOTHING. My fear of overacting has caused me to be frighteningly stony in the face of Henry and Margaret's crisis. Well, let's hope the dinner plate looks good.
I have also learned something very important: German girls are hot. Holy cow, these two I am working with are both stunning - one is very light blonde, one is very dark brunette, both have deep deep tans and big blue eyes. They have tiny waists and builds, but the biggest natural breasts I have ever seen. It's disconcerting. They also have pretty dresses and delicate little shoes, and I have this voluminous heavy grey outfit and apron and combat boots. I really do feel like the plain, milk-skinned, round-faced dairy maid around them. But they are also extremely sweet and gracious. They treat me a little like a favourite pet.
Henry, the rich handsome cattle baron, is played by Andreas, who is I guess quite the big soap star in Germany. (He's also been in a lot of German TV movies with titles like "Das Liebe Verboten." I think he specializes in "rugged handsome.")
He is
1. 42
2. used to be a model
3. lived in Toronto, L.A., and Australia, as well as his native Homburg.
4. secretly dislikes Berlin and thinks Berlinners have funny accents.
5. has had occasion to spend time with the likes of James Cameron, Gwyneth Paltrow and Jennifer Aniston at big German premieres.
5. He went to business school before he became an actor, once caught some kind of spotted skin disease from a modelling shoot where he had to frolic in Lake Ontario during the dark days of lake pollution, used to have a tarantula (now he has a dog), and has decided never to contact his natural father. His mother is shy and dignified with a good sense of humour and is very proud of him. Needless to say, we had a lot of time to talk on set.
He was very kind - to the point that I thought he might be flirting with me. "With me?" I'm thinking. "But have you SEEN your wife? And the other gal?" But being a plain Canadian gal is obviously kinda exotic - Andreas was quite the gentleman; paid me a lot of attention, offered to teach me my line in German, dished up my dinner for me and threw out my popsicle stick for me afterwards. He even ate lunch down under the burning hot crew tent with me instead of retreating to his trailer.
That's what I learned about Germans - they're surprisingly POLITE and genuinely NICE. At least these ones were. And were continually putting the one Canadian Costumer's nose out of joint by offering to make me more comfortable, or try to get me released when it was obvious we weren't getting around to my next scene that day.
That's it - from now on I say, "Ich Bin Eine Homborger!" Um. That sounds somehow wrong.
- Falcon.
I had my first of three days of shooting on a German Harlequin-romance/Hallmark movie of the week/Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman style film today. I play Linda, the maid to rich, handsome cattle baron Henry, and his beautiful refined city slicker wife Margaret.
I sucked in my scene, but other than that, it was a great day!
I really did suck - I ain't exaggerating. I can't cry on command. And there's something absurd about the first shot of the day being, "Okay, Andreas is going to jump off of ze horse and shake his head to Anna. She's going to go into ze house - you look at her, hit your mark here, hold ze dinner plate up close to your face so we can see it in ze shot. Andreas will then say somezing to you in Cherman. Look sad, shake your head or something, und go in ze house." The director is patient with me, talking to me a little slowly like I'm mildly retarded. He doesn't mean anything by it, but in film it's assumed that if you have a small part you're really a shoe salesman by day and so require a little extra positive reinforcement.
In this case he may have been right. I'm more naturally suited to comedy than tragedy, and I'm terrified of overacting the serious stuff, especially in a close-up shot on camera where your face is the size of the screen. So I'm TRYING, I mean I'm FEELING it! As hard as I can! But it's hard. I even try some acting exercises - you know, thinking, "What's my relationship to this couple? Why am I soooo sad because she can't have kids after little Fiona died? Do I have kids, so I know what she's going through? Or was I really the one taking care of little Fiona all the time? What am I DOING (silently) to Henry while he's speaking to me?" And then I laughed a little for taking myself too seriously, sighed, and waited to hit my mark and hold my dinner plate close to my face. We did it three times - as soon as I got the plate in the shot it was, "Cut! Print! Check the gate!" and they were on to the next set up.
Later, when I was alone in the trailer (I don't get a trailer, but the two female leads do, and they are super sweet to me, and invited me to stay in the trailer instead of sitting out in the blazing sun all afternoon) - at any rate, I'm in the trailer and looking in the mirror, recreating my morning's take, and I realize - I am completely expressionless. I mean, NOTHING. My fear of overacting has caused me to be frighteningly stony in the face of Henry and Margaret's crisis. Well, let's hope the dinner plate looks good.
I have also learned something very important: German girls are hot. Holy cow, these two I am working with are both stunning - one is very light blonde, one is very dark brunette, both have deep deep tans and big blue eyes. They have tiny waists and builds, but the biggest natural breasts I have ever seen. It's disconcerting. They also have pretty dresses and delicate little shoes, and I have this voluminous heavy grey outfit and apron and combat boots. I really do feel like the plain, milk-skinned, round-faced dairy maid around them. But they are also extremely sweet and gracious. They treat me a little like a favourite pet.
Henry, the rich handsome cattle baron, is played by Andreas, who is I guess quite the big soap star in Germany. (He's also been in a lot of German TV movies with titles like "Das Liebe Verboten." I think he specializes in "rugged handsome.")
He is
1. 42
2. used to be a model
3. lived in Toronto, L.A., and Australia, as well as his native Homburg.
4. secretly dislikes Berlin and thinks Berlinners have funny accents.
5. has had occasion to spend time with the likes of James Cameron, Gwyneth Paltrow and Jennifer Aniston at big German premieres.
5. He went to business school before he became an actor, once caught some kind of spotted skin disease from a modelling shoot where he had to frolic in Lake Ontario during the dark days of lake pollution, used to have a tarantula (now he has a dog), and has decided never to contact his natural father. His mother is shy and dignified with a good sense of humour and is very proud of him. Needless to say, we had a lot of time to talk on set.
He was very kind - to the point that I thought he might be flirting with me. "With me?" I'm thinking. "But have you SEEN your wife? And the other gal?" But being a plain Canadian gal is obviously kinda exotic - Andreas was quite the gentleman; paid me a lot of attention, offered to teach me my line in German, dished up my dinner for me and threw out my popsicle stick for me afterwards. He even ate lunch down under the burning hot crew tent with me instead of retreating to his trailer.
That's what I learned about Germans - they're surprisingly POLITE and genuinely NICE. At least these ones were. And were continually putting the one Canadian Costumer's nose out of joint by offering to make me more comfortable, or try to get me released when it was obvious we weren't getting around to my next scene that day.
That's it - from now on I say, "Ich Bin Eine Homborger!" Um. That sounds somehow wrong.
- Falcon.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
4 Day Penguin
Morgan Freeman narrates a movie called March of the Penguins. As the graceful/awkward birds amble about, looking to find The One, Morgan Freeman says, "No one knows exactly what they are looking for in a partner, but it's obvious when they've found it." These birds - without thinking about things like compatibility and job prospects and past relationships and obvious neuroses and commitment issues and allergies and geography and all the myriad things we busy our minds with every day - know exactly when they've found what they didn't know they were looking for. It's beautiful.
It makes me think love is an instinct, like any other powerful emotion. Like fear, or pleasure. It's not just lust these creatures display after all. It's remarkably tender. It only lasts a season, but within that season there is an unmistakable aura of love about it. These beautiful/weird creatures, so serene and still with each other, standing breast to breast, and beak to beak, comfortable in the silence of being together.
When I first saw this man that would become this four day romance, I recognized something in him instinctively, and then my conscious mind pushed it away. "Don't be silly," I thought. "This is exactly the kind of thing I don't want to get mixed up in."
When I heard him sing later on that day, he was like a bird, I thought. He sang for the pleasure of it. He was glad to sing for all of us, but if the room had been empty he would have sung for the room itself. It was just in his nature to sing. I joked to my friend and said, "I have such a crush on that guy." I said it like a joke, but in that moment, I was, purely, and without even the limited expectation or desire of saying hello to him, in love with that impulse in him that made him sing that way.
When we spoke for the first time, later that night, it was as if we picked up in mid-conversation something we had been talking about for years. It was immediately comfortable. When the party was breaking up, he asked if I was coming to the bar for a drink. I said I'd think about it. I wanted to, instinctively, but in the end decided against it. After all, this wasn't the kind of thing I was looking for.
When he called me at 1:30 in the morning, from the home of a mutual friend he was staying with, he left a message as if he had left this message a hundred times before. As if this was something we did regularly. "Just calling to see what you're up to. It's late, you're probably sleeping. Maybe I'll call you tomorrow. You can call me here too, I'll probably just be sleeping."
When I went to a friend's house the next afternoon, I thought about going to see him play. But then I thought, "No, no, no. Be reasonable. What's the point." So I stayed with my friends. Even when he called later that night while we were all at dinner, to remind me where he was playing, and to let me know that I could find him there all night, and to say he would try to phone me later, and to let me know where I could phone him too, if I wanted to, even then I resisted. I didn't pick up the phone. But I listened to the message.
When dinner was over with my friends I walked towards my home - and then walked right by and up to the place where I knew I would find him. "It can't hurt to talk to him," I thought. Even though I knew better. I had to tell my brain a reasonable lie just so that my instinct could lead me where it was bound to go.
When he asked if he could sleep on my floor that night, I told him he was welcome to the floor, but that there would be no smooching. I lied to myself as much as to him, and it was equally unconvincing, I fear.
When we stayed up til five drinking water and talking, sitting on my kitchen floor, I said, "I'm just trying to be morally responsible." He answered, "Isn't it being morally responsible if a little romance helps me write better songs?" He meant it, but what he couldn't know was that it was the moment I knew there was no point in fighting it. He had made a good point. Maybe it wouldn't be for anyone else, but it spoke to me - instinctively. After all, I know what it is to be an artist.
When he shook the Magic 8 ball on the kitchen table, read the answer and laughed, I knew what he was asking, but I made him tell me anyway.
When I said I was sleepy, and asked if he was too, he nodded and laughed. I know why he laughed, but I made him tell me anyway.
When I moved over and sat next to him, he put his arm around me. He ran his fingers through my hair, but we sat, essentially, still. Shoulder to shoulder, and nose to nose. Serene. Comfortable in the silence of being together. He never got carried away into saying things he would later have to contradict. He never said anything he didn't mean. But he did look in my eyes and promise, "Don't worry, I'll kiss you soon enough. I just want to look at you for a while."
Staying over was inevitable, as was sharing the same side of the bed, as was feeling him tucked around me as I fell asleep and when I woke up in the morning. As was curling into each other in the morning. As was making a break for the coffee machine only to find him following me to the kitchen a few minutes later, feeling his arms gently around me, his nose in my hair, his voice saying, "Don't mind me, you just keep doing what you're doing." As was me eventually being unable to continue what I was doing.
As for talk - the small talk was surprisingly at a minimum. It was almost impossible not to talk of bigger things. Impossible not to talk about what was most important. At the same time, there was no talk of the future, other than a promise to call next time he was coming through town, which I never expected nor asked for. And although I won't hold him to it, he said it with an intense earnestness. "You'll probably be spoken for by then," he said. "But that's okay - I ain't a jealous sort. And I can still look at you." I didn't answer him. I just let my penguin heart beat against his chest.
Something in the way he looks at you sideways and smiles and says something clever and quiet or honest and insightful; something in his bright but unpretentious thinking; something in his manner that is democratically kind and polite, yet firm and honest; something in his passion for his music and how he lives his life... Something in him is soulful and tender and unapologetic like a penguin. These are all things that make my soft heart melt and make me want to make his life a little easier in whatever small way I can. Isn't that a little bit like love?
It's true he can't stay. But he can gently scratch the back of my head while I'm driving, and browse through my clothes with reverent curiosity, and make himself comfortable with my music and look in my eyes and say, "Gee, you sure are sweet," and offer me part of his sandwich and pay for my drinks and offer to pay for my gas even though the bar stiffed him on the gig the other night, and spell out all of his email addresses over the phone so that I can send him my mailing address and he can send me a CD of his friend's music that he thinks I'll like, and call me at home twice and on my cel phone three times until he catches me on his way back from High River to say "I went for a swim but I'm coming back to Calgary in an hour and I know what you're thinking, but I slept on the couch, will you meet me at the bus station?" and stroke my hair in the car, and point to my forehead when we're in the kitchen and let out slyly, "I know what you're thinking," when I won't come to him right away, and in a moment of petulance say, "That's a heck of a way to say goodbye..." until I can't help it, I can't be cool and "whatever," I have to put my arms around him and ask him what he wants from me, and he whispers, "just look in my eyes and kiss me once in a while..." And that, in its own way, might be a little bit like love too.
Whatever it is, it sure is nice.
If you find your penguin - even if you weren't looking for him - you have to respect that instinct, even if you aren't meant to spend more than four days together. What's the point in fighting your nature?
Ultimately, I have another story, and he'll have a great song somewhere.
- Falcon
It makes me think love is an instinct, like any other powerful emotion. Like fear, or pleasure. It's not just lust these creatures display after all. It's remarkably tender. It only lasts a season, but within that season there is an unmistakable aura of love about it. These beautiful/weird creatures, so serene and still with each other, standing breast to breast, and beak to beak, comfortable in the silence of being together.
When I first saw this man that would become this four day romance, I recognized something in him instinctively, and then my conscious mind pushed it away. "Don't be silly," I thought. "This is exactly the kind of thing I don't want to get mixed up in."
When I heard him sing later on that day, he was like a bird, I thought. He sang for the pleasure of it. He was glad to sing for all of us, but if the room had been empty he would have sung for the room itself. It was just in his nature to sing. I joked to my friend and said, "I have such a crush on that guy." I said it like a joke, but in that moment, I was, purely, and without even the limited expectation or desire of saying hello to him, in love with that impulse in him that made him sing that way.
When we spoke for the first time, later that night, it was as if we picked up in mid-conversation something we had been talking about for years. It was immediately comfortable. When the party was breaking up, he asked if I was coming to the bar for a drink. I said I'd think about it. I wanted to, instinctively, but in the end decided against it. After all, this wasn't the kind of thing I was looking for.
When he called me at 1:30 in the morning, from the home of a mutual friend he was staying with, he left a message as if he had left this message a hundred times before. As if this was something we did regularly. "Just calling to see what you're up to. It's late, you're probably sleeping. Maybe I'll call you tomorrow. You can call me here too, I'll probably just be sleeping."
When I went to a friend's house the next afternoon, I thought about going to see him play. But then I thought, "No, no, no. Be reasonable. What's the point." So I stayed with my friends. Even when he called later that night while we were all at dinner, to remind me where he was playing, and to let me know that I could find him there all night, and to say he would try to phone me later, and to let me know where I could phone him too, if I wanted to, even then I resisted. I didn't pick up the phone. But I listened to the message.
When dinner was over with my friends I walked towards my home - and then walked right by and up to the place where I knew I would find him. "It can't hurt to talk to him," I thought. Even though I knew better. I had to tell my brain a reasonable lie just so that my instinct could lead me where it was bound to go.
When he asked if he could sleep on my floor that night, I told him he was welcome to the floor, but that there would be no smooching. I lied to myself as much as to him, and it was equally unconvincing, I fear.
When we stayed up til five drinking water and talking, sitting on my kitchen floor, I said, "I'm just trying to be morally responsible." He answered, "Isn't it being morally responsible if a little romance helps me write better songs?" He meant it, but what he couldn't know was that it was the moment I knew there was no point in fighting it. He had made a good point. Maybe it wouldn't be for anyone else, but it spoke to me - instinctively. After all, I know what it is to be an artist.
When he shook the Magic 8 ball on the kitchen table, read the answer and laughed, I knew what he was asking, but I made him tell me anyway.
When I said I was sleepy, and asked if he was too, he nodded and laughed. I know why he laughed, but I made him tell me anyway.
When I moved over and sat next to him, he put his arm around me. He ran his fingers through my hair, but we sat, essentially, still. Shoulder to shoulder, and nose to nose. Serene. Comfortable in the silence of being together. He never got carried away into saying things he would later have to contradict. He never said anything he didn't mean. But he did look in my eyes and promise, "Don't worry, I'll kiss you soon enough. I just want to look at you for a while."
Staying over was inevitable, as was sharing the same side of the bed, as was feeling him tucked around me as I fell asleep and when I woke up in the morning. As was curling into each other in the morning. As was making a break for the coffee machine only to find him following me to the kitchen a few minutes later, feeling his arms gently around me, his nose in my hair, his voice saying, "Don't mind me, you just keep doing what you're doing." As was me eventually being unable to continue what I was doing.
As for talk - the small talk was surprisingly at a minimum. It was almost impossible not to talk of bigger things. Impossible not to talk about what was most important. At the same time, there was no talk of the future, other than a promise to call next time he was coming through town, which I never expected nor asked for. And although I won't hold him to it, he said it with an intense earnestness. "You'll probably be spoken for by then," he said. "But that's okay - I ain't a jealous sort. And I can still look at you." I didn't answer him. I just let my penguin heart beat against his chest.
Something in the way he looks at you sideways and smiles and says something clever and quiet or honest and insightful; something in his bright but unpretentious thinking; something in his manner that is democratically kind and polite, yet firm and honest; something in his passion for his music and how he lives his life... Something in him is soulful and tender and unapologetic like a penguin. These are all things that make my soft heart melt and make me want to make his life a little easier in whatever small way I can. Isn't that a little bit like love?
It's true he can't stay. But he can gently scratch the back of my head while I'm driving, and browse through my clothes with reverent curiosity, and make himself comfortable with my music and look in my eyes and say, "Gee, you sure are sweet," and offer me part of his sandwich and pay for my drinks and offer to pay for my gas even though the bar stiffed him on the gig the other night, and spell out all of his email addresses over the phone so that I can send him my mailing address and he can send me a CD of his friend's music that he thinks I'll like, and call me at home twice and on my cel phone three times until he catches me on his way back from High River to say "I went for a swim but I'm coming back to Calgary in an hour and I know what you're thinking, but I slept on the couch, will you meet me at the bus station?" and stroke my hair in the car, and point to my forehead when we're in the kitchen and let out slyly, "I know what you're thinking," when I won't come to him right away, and in a moment of petulance say, "That's a heck of a way to say goodbye..." until I can't help it, I can't be cool and "whatever," I have to put my arms around him and ask him what he wants from me, and he whispers, "just look in my eyes and kiss me once in a while..." And that, in its own way, might be a little bit like love too.
Whatever it is, it sure is nice.
If you find your penguin - even if you weren't looking for him - you have to respect that instinct, even if you aren't meant to spend more than four days together. What's the point in fighting your nature?
Ultimately, I have another story, and he'll have a great song somewhere.
- Falcon
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Damage Control
This is a postscript to the previous post re: How to Have a Casual Affair.
Sometimes things happen. Bad things. Sometimes you may think you're having a casual affair, but your partner has mistaken your daily love messages and love tokens and intense declarations and romantic acts for genuine emotion. This can result in some feelings - bad feelings - when the jig is up. Now there are a couple of ways you can deal with this situation:
1. Denial: Leave town and never have contact with this person again, and if someone brings up their name, simply reply, "Who? Never heard of them." NOT RECOMMENDED.
This defense is too easily contradicted by friends, family, and work contracts.
2. The EnRon defense: "Hey, I wasn't malevolently trying to manipulate you to get exactly what I wanted; I'm just INCREDIBLY stupid. I know, I know. Sounds impossible. Sounds like I SHOULD have known what I was doing. Any idiot would. But I'm not any idiot. I'm a super-idiot. It's a wonder I'm not drooling now, in fact!" NOT RECOMMENDED.
Sure, you're an idiot - for thinking you could get away with it. But for not knowing what you were doing in the first place? That's implausible. Asking someone to believe you're that stupid when you can still functionally participate in society otherwise will only lose you respect.
3. Confess and own up to your part of the misunderstanding. "Okay, you got me. I really would have said anything to sleep with you, and I thought that by writing you romantic notes and bringing you flowers and sending you stockings and telling you you're pretty and smart and special it would get me somewhere. And hey - it totally worked! I thought it would be fun to have a sexual relationship that entirely mimicked a romantic, caring, respectful relationship, without actually having to be in one of those. Whoopee! What fun! It's like I'm flying a spy jet in a simulator program! I get to feel what it's like without having to be responsible at all! After all, I'm just driving a machine! Uh, whuh? You're not a machine? Well, for me you were, and that's all that really matters. I'm sorry that you misunderstood my intentions. I should have been more clear (and perhaps not have told you I loved you. But hey - that was fun, wasn't it? Pretending that I was in love with you? Oh right, that was fun for me. But boy, you bought it hook, line, and sinker! You're pretty gullible, hey?)" RECOMMENDED.
Now you may think that the last coping mechanism seems a little cruel - you're calling your partner stupid for falling for it, after all. But she will already believe she's a caber-sized moron for believing your romantic gibberish anyway. No harm done there. At least acknowledging it allows everyone to have a good laugh. Or allows her the freedom to punch you in the throat, which should make you about even.
Now good luck folks! And PLAY SAFE!
- Falcon
Sometimes things happen. Bad things. Sometimes you may think you're having a casual affair, but your partner has mistaken your daily love messages and love tokens and intense declarations and romantic acts for genuine emotion. This can result in some feelings - bad feelings - when the jig is up. Now there are a couple of ways you can deal with this situation:
1. Denial: Leave town and never have contact with this person again, and if someone brings up their name, simply reply, "Who? Never heard of them." NOT RECOMMENDED.
This defense is too easily contradicted by friends, family, and work contracts.
2. The EnRon defense: "Hey, I wasn't malevolently trying to manipulate you to get exactly what I wanted; I'm just INCREDIBLY stupid. I know, I know. Sounds impossible. Sounds like I SHOULD have known what I was doing. Any idiot would. But I'm not any idiot. I'm a super-idiot. It's a wonder I'm not drooling now, in fact!" NOT RECOMMENDED.
Sure, you're an idiot - for thinking you could get away with it. But for not knowing what you were doing in the first place? That's implausible. Asking someone to believe you're that stupid when you can still functionally participate in society otherwise will only lose you respect.
3. Confess and own up to your part of the misunderstanding. "Okay, you got me. I really would have said anything to sleep with you, and I thought that by writing you romantic notes and bringing you flowers and sending you stockings and telling you you're pretty and smart and special it would get me somewhere. And hey - it totally worked! I thought it would be fun to have a sexual relationship that entirely mimicked a romantic, caring, respectful relationship, without actually having to be in one of those. Whoopee! What fun! It's like I'm flying a spy jet in a simulator program! I get to feel what it's like without having to be responsible at all! After all, I'm just driving a machine! Uh, whuh? You're not a machine? Well, for me you were, and that's all that really matters. I'm sorry that you misunderstood my intentions. I should have been more clear (and perhaps not have told you I loved you. But hey - that was fun, wasn't it? Pretending that I was in love with you? Oh right, that was fun for me. But boy, you bought it hook, line, and sinker! You're pretty gullible, hey?)" RECOMMENDED.
Now you may think that the last coping mechanism seems a little cruel - you're calling your partner stupid for falling for it, after all. But she will already believe she's a caber-sized moron for believing your romantic gibberish anyway. No harm done there. At least acknowledging it allows everyone to have a good laugh. Or allows her the freedom to punch you in the throat, which should make you about even.
Now good luck folks! And PLAY SAFE!
- Falcon
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
How to have a Casual Affair
There are rules for this kind of thing. And to my surprise, some people don't know what they are, which leads to all kinds of unpleasantness. So just for the record, here are some pointers for enjoying a safe and happy mutually beneficial casual sexual relationship:
NOTE: If you're going to do something a little kinky, like play "let's pretend we're in love but not really mean it," make sure the other person knows that before you start. Like, be really really REALLY clear. Talk about it - more than once. And if the game is, "Don't trust me," and the first thing you say after that is, "Okay I was just kidding, now trust me, really. No, trust me, please please trust me," then don't be surprised if the person does. Even if afterwards you look at them in stunned disbelief and say, "But I told you not to!" People generally acknowledge that things change, and are likely to take you at your word. So if "Don't trust me no matter how many times I tell you to trust me" is really the game you want to play, then make sure you select a mutually agreeable "safe" word, like "King Emperor Penguin," which, inserted into the conversation, means that the game is officially over, and people can start saying what they really mean.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. That's for the advanced romantic narcissist. We should start with the basics. If you are embarking on a casual sexual relationship with someone you know and like (at least enough to sleep with them), keep the following in mind:
1. If you were friends before you slept together, don't pretend you don't know your friend afterwards. Be nice. But don't pretend to be in love with them either - unless you actually are.
2. Never engage in public displays of affection, which includes kissing, but also, most importantly and most seriously - no hand holding. That's a very emotionally intimate act. That's something you do with a lost child you're taking to the safety station, or with someone you really want to be close to and are proud to display your interconnectedness to the public at large. In other words, it implies trust and caring.
3. Don't ever be gentle, tender, or affectionate unless it's directly related/limited to sex. Maybe you can get away with a public hug, but only if you're the kind of person who hugs everyone they meet. This can be important because if you don't hug after everyone else at the party does, that in itself can be a clue to others.
4. Never tell the other person things like, "This is something I could get used to. I don't ever want to let you go. I'm going to keep you here forever." This can easily be misconstrued. Similarly with things like, "You make me feel things that I haven't felt for a long time," or, "You've changed me." These are often things said by people who are in love. So if this is not the kind of relationship you want, make sure that you avoid the lingo.
5. No romantic gifts, or love tokens. A home-burned CD of some downloaded upbeat alternative songs is acceptable. So is a drink in a bar. But nothing special or meaningful that you wouldn't also give to anyone on your cute-email-forwards list.
6. Try to avoid spending more than two hours together at any given time. Preferably, no sleepovers, unless it really can't be avoided, i.e., 'I'm too drunk to drive," or if you're in another province with no other place to stay for some reason. Always try to have another place to stay, or encourage the other person to stay somewhere else. At the very least, if you do wake up in the same bed, make sure you're on separate sides, not touching, and once you're fully awake make a break for the coffee machine as soon as you can.
7. No nicknames, endearments or words of affection, not even if they're the kind you'd use on a dog - it's too easy to misinterpret as genuine affection.
8. Keep it light - talk about public events, work, politics, philosophy, the Roman Empire, but never about feelings, hopes, fears, dreams, the future, etc. - don't talk about anything that might promote intimacy. Remember, intimacy is not what you want with this person.
9. And most importantly, never never mention the the most dangerous thing, the "L" word, unless you're talking about the pasta or a hockey team. That's the worst thing to pretend about. Noooooobody does that. Even people that really mean it don't say it for a year into a committed relationship. That stuff is emotional dynamite.
I hope this will prevent a few unlucky emotional accidents. With any luck, nobody reading this will actually need this information. Hopefully, everyone is successfully paired. But for those who aren't, it's best to be prepared. Just like hopefully you'll never have to know what to do when a bear attacks, but it's good to read the pointers anyway.
Okay. Now I feel better.
- Falcon
NOTE: If you're going to do something a little kinky, like play "let's pretend we're in love but not really mean it," make sure the other person knows that before you start. Like, be really really REALLY clear. Talk about it - more than once. And if the game is, "Don't trust me," and the first thing you say after that is, "Okay I was just kidding, now trust me, really. No, trust me, please please trust me," then don't be surprised if the person does. Even if afterwards you look at them in stunned disbelief and say, "But I told you not to!" People generally acknowledge that things change, and are likely to take you at your word. So if "Don't trust me no matter how many times I tell you to trust me" is really the game you want to play, then make sure you select a mutually agreeable "safe" word, like "King Emperor Penguin," which, inserted into the conversation, means that the game is officially over, and people can start saying what they really mean.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. That's for the advanced romantic narcissist. We should start with the basics. If you are embarking on a casual sexual relationship with someone you know and like (at least enough to sleep with them), keep the following in mind:
1. If you were friends before you slept together, don't pretend you don't know your friend afterwards. Be nice. But don't pretend to be in love with them either - unless you actually are.
2. Never engage in public displays of affection, which includes kissing, but also, most importantly and most seriously - no hand holding. That's a very emotionally intimate act. That's something you do with a lost child you're taking to the safety station, or with someone you really want to be close to and are proud to display your interconnectedness to the public at large. In other words, it implies trust and caring.
3. Don't ever be gentle, tender, or affectionate unless it's directly related/limited to sex. Maybe you can get away with a public hug, but only if you're the kind of person who hugs everyone they meet. This can be important because if you don't hug after everyone else at the party does, that in itself can be a clue to others.
4. Never tell the other person things like, "This is something I could get used to. I don't ever want to let you go. I'm going to keep you here forever." This can easily be misconstrued. Similarly with things like, "You make me feel things that I haven't felt for a long time," or, "You've changed me." These are often things said by people who are in love. So if this is not the kind of relationship you want, make sure that you avoid the lingo.
5. No romantic gifts, or love tokens. A home-burned CD of some downloaded upbeat alternative songs is acceptable. So is a drink in a bar. But nothing special or meaningful that you wouldn't also give to anyone on your cute-email-forwards list.
6. Try to avoid spending more than two hours together at any given time. Preferably, no sleepovers, unless it really can't be avoided, i.e., 'I'm too drunk to drive," or if you're in another province with no other place to stay for some reason. Always try to have another place to stay, or encourage the other person to stay somewhere else. At the very least, if you do wake up in the same bed, make sure you're on separate sides, not touching, and once you're fully awake make a break for the coffee machine as soon as you can.
7. No nicknames, endearments or words of affection, not even if they're the kind you'd use on a dog - it's too easy to misinterpret as genuine affection.
8. Keep it light - talk about public events, work, politics, philosophy, the Roman Empire, but never about feelings, hopes, fears, dreams, the future, etc. - don't talk about anything that might promote intimacy. Remember, intimacy is not what you want with this person.
9. And most importantly, never never mention the the most dangerous thing, the "L" word, unless you're talking about the pasta or a hockey team. That's the worst thing to pretend about. Noooooobody does that. Even people that really mean it don't say it for a year into a committed relationship. That stuff is emotional dynamite.
I hope this will prevent a few unlucky emotional accidents. With any luck, nobody reading this will actually need this information. Hopefully, everyone is successfully paired. But for those who aren't, it's best to be prepared. Just like hopefully you'll never have to know what to do when a bear attacks, but it's good to read the pointers anyway.
Okay. Now I feel better.
- Falcon
Monday, July 18, 2005
A Mid-Stampede Night's Dream
So my friend Big Red and I are walking down 8th avenue the other evening, after an already satisfying night out. We saw a film called March of the Penguins, that made me cry ALL THE WAY THROUGH it.
Sidebar: Those crazy penguins, man. They know how to work. They don't bitch, they don't complain, they don't go, "Hey, it's FUCKING cold out here! I'm HUNGRY! I'm TIRED of balancing this damn egg on my feet!" They just huddle together for warmth and comraderie, while half their substantial body weight dwindles away, waiting for their ladies to come back from the ocean full of fish, and their eggs to hatch. Whenever I think my life is kinda rough, I'm gonna think like a penguin and just get on with it. It ain't that bad.
Okay, back to the main story. Red and I dry our tears and head out into the beautiful summer mid-Stampede night, where the streets are crowded with people and buskers and friendly conversations. Gee, it's almost like being in a REAL city! We stop for a fancy cocktail on a patio - Red tries Brazil's national cocktail, which includes soda, some kind of sugar cane liqueur, and a real stick of sugar cane, stuffed with limes. I try a fairly exotic Blood Orange Mojito. Life is good.
The sky deepens in colour, and the lights on 8th twinkle more brightly. We walk out among the Stampede stragglers. Two fellas start up a conversation with us. They are Big Silent Type and Little Wacky Guy. Little Wacky Guy, looking like a 22 year old Dustin Hoffman in Urban Cowboy Drag, is obviously tipsy, but starving for conversation. Or at least the opportunity to banter. Big Red and Big Silent figure out the details, i.e. names, workplaces, destinations, etc. Little Wacky and I simply volley quips.
Little Wacky is the kind of guy - young, short, funky - who is probably used to being the smartest guy in the room. He works for the railway, we eventually learn, and I can guess that maybe the people he works with are more like Big Silent. You know, Big, and Silent. Not the most sparkling conversationalists in the world. At the same time, Big Silent is the guy who is constantly on his cel phone, making contact with their other friends in the city, who they are hoping to meet up with somewhere at sometime tonight. So while Big Silent answers his cel phone every 3 minutes, Little Wacky is indulging in a public display of verbal preening. Like a peacock who struts around with a "look at me! I'm pretty! I've got a big tail!" kind of attitude, Little Wacky is prancing out his wit and charm. However, Little Wacky is also quite young, and he has no idea what he has gotten himself into. After all, Red and I are improvisers - our job is "wit and charm."
So while Red is working recon with Big Silent, I am spiking the ball (verbally speaking) with Little Wacky. In fact, by the end of the night, I was pretty proud of my power's of reincorporation. If only I could be that clever at the Soaps!
Samples:
Wacky: I'm from Montreal, but the hospital I was born in burnt down."
Falcon: That's okay, I wouldn't take it personally if I were you.
We head down fifth street, and I make a comment about Freedom Street. The others have not heard of Freedom Street, but it's a common understanding. The guy who lives under the bridge has dubbed it Freedom Street, because he lives there without paying taxes. You can talk to him any time about it. He even had his picture on the front page of the Herald a few years back. At any rate, Little Wacky is giving me a hard time for taking the word of the guy who lives under the bridge.
Wacky: So you're taking political theory from the guy who lives under the bridge?
Falcon: Why not? He's got a point. Besides, I have a soft spot for him. He's my dad.
Takes Little Wacky a Little While to process this. He feels crappy now for ribbing me, until I let him off the hook. He's not my dad, don't worry.
Later on, as we make our way down 17th, the fellas are obviously going the wrong direction.
Falcon: The bar you're looking for is the other way.
Wacky: No it isn't. I know where I'm going. It's this way.
Falcon: Well, maybe there's another bar with the same name down that way, but the one you're looking for is in the other direction.
Wacky: I will indulge you for a block or two, but I bet you - FIVE DOLLARS - that you're wrong.
Falcon: I'm not wrong.
Wacky: Okay, but FIVE DOLLARS is riding on it.
Falcon: Okay. But I'm not wrong.
Wacky: We'll see. Okay, where's your five dollars. I want to see it.
Falcon: I don't have five dollars on me. I'll have to borrow it from someone.
Wacky: From who?
Falcon: Someone on the street.
Wacky: What? You're going to take five bucks from some homeless guy?
Falcon: It's okay. He'll have to lend it to me. He's my dad.
Ba-dum-pum.
I got a handshake for that one.
And sure enough, the bar was where Red and I thought it was. We deposited the two urban cowboys into the lineup, and we went on our merry way.
- Falcon
Sidebar: Those crazy penguins, man. They know how to work. They don't bitch, they don't complain, they don't go, "Hey, it's FUCKING cold out here! I'm HUNGRY! I'm TIRED of balancing this damn egg on my feet!" They just huddle together for warmth and comraderie, while half their substantial body weight dwindles away, waiting for their ladies to come back from the ocean full of fish, and their eggs to hatch. Whenever I think my life is kinda rough, I'm gonna think like a penguin and just get on with it. It ain't that bad.
Okay, back to the main story. Red and I dry our tears and head out into the beautiful summer mid-Stampede night, where the streets are crowded with people and buskers and friendly conversations. Gee, it's almost like being in a REAL city! We stop for a fancy cocktail on a patio - Red tries Brazil's national cocktail, which includes soda, some kind of sugar cane liqueur, and a real stick of sugar cane, stuffed with limes. I try a fairly exotic Blood Orange Mojito. Life is good.
The sky deepens in colour, and the lights on 8th twinkle more brightly. We walk out among the Stampede stragglers. Two fellas start up a conversation with us. They are Big Silent Type and Little Wacky Guy. Little Wacky Guy, looking like a 22 year old Dustin Hoffman in Urban Cowboy Drag, is obviously tipsy, but starving for conversation. Or at least the opportunity to banter. Big Red and Big Silent figure out the details, i.e. names, workplaces, destinations, etc. Little Wacky and I simply volley quips.
Little Wacky is the kind of guy - young, short, funky - who is probably used to being the smartest guy in the room. He works for the railway, we eventually learn, and I can guess that maybe the people he works with are more like Big Silent. You know, Big, and Silent. Not the most sparkling conversationalists in the world. At the same time, Big Silent is the guy who is constantly on his cel phone, making contact with their other friends in the city, who they are hoping to meet up with somewhere at sometime tonight. So while Big Silent answers his cel phone every 3 minutes, Little Wacky is indulging in a public display of verbal preening. Like a peacock who struts around with a "look at me! I'm pretty! I've got a big tail!" kind of attitude, Little Wacky is prancing out his wit and charm. However, Little Wacky is also quite young, and he has no idea what he has gotten himself into. After all, Red and I are improvisers - our job is "wit and charm."
So while Red is working recon with Big Silent, I am spiking the ball (verbally speaking) with Little Wacky. In fact, by the end of the night, I was pretty proud of my power's of reincorporation. If only I could be that clever at the Soaps!
Samples:
Wacky: I'm from Montreal, but the hospital I was born in burnt down."
Falcon: That's okay, I wouldn't take it personally if I were you.
We head down fifth street, and I make a comment about Freedom Street. The others have not heard of Freedom Street, but it's a common understanding. The guy who lives under the bridge has dubbed it Freedom Street, because he lives there without paying taxes. You can talk to him any time about it. He even had his picture on the front page of the Herald a few years back. At any rate, Little Wacky is giving me a hard time for taking the word of the guy who lives under the bridge.
Wacky: So you're taking political theory from the guy who lives under the bridge?
Falcon: Why not? He's got a point. Besides, I have a soft spot for him. He's my dad.
Takes Little Wacky a Little While to process this. He feels crappy now for ribbing me, until I let him off the hook. He's not my dad, don't worry.
Later on, as we make our way down 17th, the fellas are obviously going the wrong direction.
Falcon: The bar you're looking for is the other way.
Wacky: No it isn't. I know where I'm going. It's this way.
Falcon: Well, maybe there's another bar with the same name down that way, but the one you're looking for is in the other direction.
Wacky: I will indulge you for a block or two, but I bet you - FIVE DOLLARS - that you're wrong.
Falcon: I'm not wrong.
Wacky: Okay, but FIVE DOLLARS is riding on it.
Falcon: Okay. But I'm not wrong.
Wacky: We'll see. Okay, where's your five dollars. I want to see it.
Falcon: I don't have five dollars on me. I'll have to borrow it from someone.
Wacky: From who?
Falcon: Someone on the street.
Wacky: What? You're going to take five bucks from some homeless guy?
Falcon: It's okay. He'll have to lend it to me. He's my dad.
Ba-dum-pum.
I got a handshake for that one.
And sure enough, the bar was where Red and I thought it was. We deposited the two urban cowboys into the lineup, and we went on our merry way.
- Falcon
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Best Spam Header (Ever)
"Repel your afflictions quicker than before with our worth buying remedies."
- Falcon
- Falcon
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Radio Duty Call
Someone phoned me today to ask if I had the time to answer a few questions - just a research survey, not selling anything, no pressure.
I said yes, thinking of my friend who is always happy to answer research surveys at home. She feels it is a welcome distraction, and she feels a sense of satisfaction in helping someone out, as well as getting complete permission to talk about herself for a few minutes.
The woman on the other end of the line is obviously reading off of a script written by a technical writer with no flair for language. She has probably been doing this for hours. She really doesn't care if I answer the questions or not. She could hardly be more dynamic if she was reading the side of a cereal box.
There is a bit of a mystery afoot however: what is the object of the survey? Who is collecting this research? What can I learn about THEM by the questions they ask of ME? All in good time. Patience, patience.
The first few questions are demographic. I am between the ages of 25 and 69, which is apparently a good thing. Female, that's fine, too. Now come more leading questions. "I am going to ask you a series of questions and you may answer with any of the following responses: always listen, sometimes listen, seldom listen, never listen, here is the first question, how often do you spend listening to the radio or to cds or dowload songs from the internet to the following artists, adult contemporary artists like Mariah Carey, Andy Williams, and Celine Dion? Or classic crooner like Frank Senatra, Din Martin, and Sammy Davie Jr.? Or instrumental music like Herb Alpert, Louis Armstrong and Pat Methany (rhymes with "Bethany")? Sarah McClachlan, Abbeh - uh Abba, Bee Gee, Air Supply, and Ricky Englesias? (she had obviously been doing this for a long time, and although her voice sounded like the right demographic, she had obviously never heard of some of these "classic crooners" before). Sadly, the only positive feedback I could give her was to answer "seldom" once - to Sammy Davie Jr., of course.
It's a strange thing - there were singers on the list that I would definitely listen to, but not in conjunction with some of the other choices on the same list. I would never think to mix Frank Sinatra and Pat Metheny, for instance. And although who doesn't love Ella Fitzgerald? Somehow the thought of llistening to her back to back with Mariah Carey or Abbeh makes my skin crawl.
Then came a few more leading questions: "How important are the latest sports scores to your listening pleasure? How important is it to be able to hear people phone in and discuss important issues in your community? How important is it to hear a wide variety of music?" All of which I answered "Not At All" too.
I was beginning to think I was disappointing her.
After all, I really wasn't much help at all. I was in the right demographic - over 35 even! And yet I was not disappointed with the lack of variety available in current radio stations. I was quite happy with the ones I was listening to. And although I am very familiar with Air Supply and Bee Gee, I am not interested in listening to a radio station that would give them prominent airplay.
Then came the weirdest part of the survey. She said, "I am going to play a few short examples of music for you now. There are three selections. It will take a few minutes. I will then ask you if you would listen to this kind of music - Definitely, Probably, Probably Not, Definitely Not." I told her to let'er rip, drop the needle. She started the music, but it seemed to be coming from a tape deck close, but not close enough, to the phone. I told her I was having trouble hearing it. She seemed to be holding the phone up to the speaker, but she would get tired, and sometimes it would slip. So through my receiver I was hearing this distant, tinny, a.m. sounding instrumental noise at varying volume levels.
I have to admit I wasn't listening very carefully. About 15 seconds into it I was ready to pass out. So I started checking my email and doing other productive things, while this "music" was playing through what was apparently a tin can tied to a string tied to the late 70s.
When this strange ritual of ours had come to a close, she asked me if I would Definitely, Probably, Probably Not, or Definitely Not listen to a radio station like this. I think the sigh that breathed through my "DEFINITELY not" may have made her uncomfortable. Or smile.
Her next question was, "Even if you would not listen to a station like this yourself, is there someone else in your household who might? Would they Definitely, Probably, Probably Not, or Definitely Not listen to it?" I tell her there's just me. She says I have to answer the question anyway. I tell her I guess I could count the cat, but he probably wouldn't be interested either. Put the cat down for "Probably Not," I say. After all, I'm not in his head, I should leave room for doubt. This time she really does laugh.
The disconcerting - but interesting - part of these kinds of surveys is that you start to get a picture of yourself though this other person's eyes, through their particular lens. So in this case, I start to see myself: over 35, female, single, lives with a cat, post-graduate degree, makes a living but has stopped listening to the income categories about 3 in and can't believe the woman on the phone is still going on 15 income brackets later, and listens to primarily hip hop music and Sammy Davis Jr.
Here's the thing - sometimes I feel a little self-conscious listening to my hip hop radio station in the kitchen, or in the car. After all, who do I think I am? I'm not a kid anymore. I don't want to be embarrassing myself by dressing too young, or listening too young. On the other hand, I do think that it's important to keep abreast of what is currently going on in the world of popular culture. I used to listen to another local station; at first it was novel that they played all these 80s songs I remembered from my high school days. "Hey! Icicle Works! Whatever happened to those guys?" But eventually it became too tedious. "Hey, didn't I listen to this over and over again already when I was in high school? Do I have to listen to it over and over again FOREVER now?" I don't want to be one of those people that is frozen in time. Who don't think "rap" is "music" just because it became popular after 1990. Who don't think music has progressed much since Images In Vogue took the stage in Vancouver with their tinny synthesizers and phony British accents. Look, even Duran Duran has moved on, okay?
That isn't to say that I don't listen to anything from the past. I listen to lots. In fact, I am catching up now on my 80s screaming metal anthems - last year it was my time to discover and appreciate Guns'n Roses. And this year, I'm very much enjoying AC/DC - stuff I wouldn't be caught dead listening to when I was a teenager wearing Bauhaus t-shirts and idolizing the Smiths.
But I'll admit it - I LIKE contemporary pop music! This is my secret shame. People think because I like things like Books By Dead Russians that I should only listen to - I don't know what they think I should listen to. But they're generally surprised when I tell them I like Beyonce! The Killers! And sure, The Arcade Fire is awesome, but so is Usher. Blush. I think K-OS is incredibly talented. And wait for it - so is Eminem. They're catchy, they're clever, they have great rhythms. And one day they'll get old too. And something else will be shaking up the airwaves. And that's the great thing about popular culture it's fluid. Heck, even the biggest, most intellectually dense author in the world - Umberto Eco - has written a book about how important pop culture is in shaping identity and memory.
Check it out: http://www.cbc.ca/arts/books/eco.html
I can't tell you how happy that made me. The fact that someone else admits that there is something very comforting in "low" art that is entirely compatible with an appreciation of "high" art. Whew.
All this to say that although I welcome any new radio station to the dial - after all, variety is the spice of life, and I'm sure there IS a market for a station that plays Ricque Englasias and gives all the latest news in professional sports - but it's just not me. But, in the words of Gwen Stefani, "I aint' no Hollaback Girl."
Sadly, you will still be able to catch me and the cat dancing to the Black Eye'd Peas singing "Don't Phunk With My Heart" any given morning while the coffee's brewing.
- Falcon
I said yes, thinking of my friend who is always happy to answer research surveys at home. She feels it is a welcome distraction, and she feels a sense of satisfaction in helping someone out, as well as getting complete permission to talk about herself for a few minutes.
The woman on the other end of the line is obviously reading off of a script written by a technical writer with no flair for language. She has probably been doing this for hours. She really doesn't care if I answer the questions or not. She could hardly be more dynamic if she was reading the side of a cereal box.
There is a bit of a mystery afoot however: what is the object of the survey? Who is collecting this research? What can I learn about THEM by the questions they ask of ME? All in good time. Patience, patience.
The first few questions are demographic. I am between the ages of 25 and 69, which is apparently a good thing. Female, that's fine, too. Now come more leading questions. "I am going to ask you a series of questions and you may answer with any of the following responses: always listen, sometimes listen, seldom listen, never listen, here is the first question, how often do you spend listening to the radio or to cds or dowload songs from the internet to the following artists, adult contemporary artists like Mariah Carey, Andy Williams, and Celine Dion? Or classic crooner like Frank Senatra, Din Martin, and Sammy Davie Jr.? Or instrumental music like Herb Alpert, Louis Armstrong and Pat Methany (rhymes with "Bethany")? Sarah McClachlan, Abbeh - uh Abba, Bee Gee, Air Supply, and Ricky Englesias? (she had obviously been doing this for a long time, and although her voice sounded like the right demographic, she had obviously never heard of some of these "classic crooners" before). Sadly, the only positive feedback I could give her was to answer "seldom" once - to Sammy Davie Jr., of course.
It's a strange thing - there were singers on the list that I would definitely listen to, but not in conjunction with some of the other choices on the same list. I would never think to mix Frank Sinatra and Pat Metheny, for instance. And although who doesn't love Ella Fitzgerald? Somehow the thought of llistening to her back to back with Mariah Carey or Abbeh makes my skin crawl.
Then came a few more leading questions: "How important are the latest sports scores to your listening pleasure? How important is it to be able to hear people phone in and discuss important issues in your community? How important is it to hear a wide variety of music?" All of which I answered "Not At All" too.
I was beginning to think I was disappointing her.
After all, I really wasn't much help at all. I was in the right demographic - over 35 even! And yet I was not disappointed with the lack of variety available in current radio stations. I was quite happy with the ones I was listening to. And although I am very familiar with Air Supply and Bee Gee, I am not interested in listening to a radio station that would give them prominent airplay.
Then came the weirdest part of the survey. She said, "I am going to play a few short examples of music for you now. There are three selections. It will take a few minutes. I will then ask you if you would listen to this kind of music - Definitely, Probably, Probably Not, Definitely Not." I told her to let'er rip, drop the needle. She started the music, but it seemed to be coming from a tape deck close, but not close enough, to the phone. I told her I was having trouble hearing it. She seemed to be holding the phone up to the speaker, but she would get tired, and sometimes it would slip. So through my receiver I was hearing this distant, tinny, a.m. sounding instrumental noise at varying volume levels.
I have to admit I wasn't listening very carefully. About 15 seconds into it I was ready to pass out. So I started checking my email and doing other productive things, while this "music" was playing through what was apparently a tin can tied to a string tied to the late 70s.
When this strange ritual of ours had come to a close, she asked me if I would Definitely, Probably, Probably Not, or Definitely Not listen to a radio station like this. I think the sigh that breathed through my "DEFINITELY not" may have made her uncomfortable. Or smile.
Her next question was, "Even if you would not listen to a station like this yourself, is there someone else in your household who might? Would they Definitely, Probably, Probably Not, or Definitely Not listen to it?" I tell her there's just me. She says I have to answer the question anyway. I tell her I guess I could count the cat, but he probably wouldn't be interested either. Put the cat down for "Probably Not," I say. After all, I'm not in his head, I should leave room for doubt. This time she really does laugh.
The disconcerting - but interesting - part of these kinds of surveys is that you start to get a picture of yourself though this other person's eyes, through their particular lens. So in this case, I start to see myself: over 35, female, single, lives with a cat, post-graduate degree, makes a living but has stopped listening to the income categories about 3 in and can't believe the woman on the phone is still going on 15 income brackets later, and listens to primarily hip hop music and Sammy Davis Jr.
Here's the thing - sometimes I feel a little self-conscious listening to my hip hop radio station in the kitchen, or in the car. After all, who do I think I am? I'm not a kid anymore. I don't want to be embarrassing myself by dressing too young, or listening too young. On the other hand, I do think that it's important to keep abreast of what is currently going on in the world of popular culture. I used to listen to another local station; at first it was novel that they played all these 80s songs I remembered from my high school days. "Hey! Icicle Works! Whatever happened to those guys?" But eventually it became too tedious. "Hey, didn't I listen to this over and over again already when I was in high school? Do I have to listen to it over and over again FOREVER now?" I don't want to be one of those people that is frozen in time. Who don't think "rap" is "music" just because it became popular after 1990. Who don't think music has progressed much since Images In Vogue took the stage in Vancouver with their tinny synthesizers and phony British accents. Look, even Duran Duran has moved on, okay?
That isn't to say that I don't listen to anything from the past. I listen to lots. In fact, I am catching up now on my 80s screaming metal anthems - last year it was my time to discover and appreciate Guns'n Roses. And this year, I'm very much enjoying AC/DC - stuff I wouldn't be caught dead listening to when I was a teenager wearing Bauhaus t-shirts and idolizing the Smiths.
But I'll admit it - I LIKE contemporary pop music! This is my secret shame. People think because I like things like Books By Dead Russians that I should only listen to - I don't know what they think I should listen to. But they're generally surprised when I tell them I like Beyonce! The Killers! And sure, The Arcade Fire is awesome, but so is Usher. Blush. I think K-OS is incredibly talented. And wait for it - so is Eminem. They're catchy, they're clever, they have great rhythms. And one day they'll get old too. And something else will be shaking up the airwaves. And that's the great thing about popular culture it's fluid. Heck, even the biggest, most intellectually dense author in the world - Umberto Eco - has written a book about how important pop culture is in shaping identity and memory.
Check it out: http://www.cbc.ca/arts/books/eco.html
I can't tell you how happy that made me. The fact that someone else admits that there is something very comforting in "low" art that is entirely compatible with an appreciation of "high" art. Whew.
All this to say that although I welcome any new radio station to the dial - after all, variety is the spice of life, and I'm sure there IS a market for a station that plays Ricque Englasias and gives all the latest news in professional sports - but it's just not me. But, in the words of Gwen Stefani, "I aint' no Hollaback Girl."
Sadly, you will still be able to catch me and the cat dancing to the Black Eye'd Peas singing "Don't Phunk With My Heart" any given morning while the coffee's brewing.
- Falcon
Thursday, June 23, 2005
D'Oh!Ritos
Is anyone else weirded out by the latest Doritos commercial? You know, the one that seems modelled on a kind of Ice Storm 70's Key Party?
In it a seemingly nice young man (in the "funny" mould of tv stereotyping) is hosting a party for some other very nice looking, clean living 20 somethings. Our host opens a bag of Doritos and pours them in a bowl. He then gives a sly raised eyebrow look as he snaps one in two. He then gives a slyer look as he offers the bowl to a nice young guy and he picks out a chip. Our chip-picker then shyly steps forward as an attractive girl looks at her chip, smiles, and steps forward. Their two chips make a whole one, we see, and they smile and walk off.
Next, another nice young man and attractive young woman are pleased to find that their chips fit together as well - only there is a tiny piece broken from her chip. A large "comedy sidekick" type steps forward, cheering because his tiny chip fits into the twosome's. The nice man seems disappointed as the large guy continues to be very pleased with himself.
What is going on at this party? Is it really what it looks like? Are these kids really going off to have sex with each other now that their Doritos have bonded? Are those two nice kids really going to have a threesome with the other guy just because of a Dorito malfunction? Is this possible? And does Doritos really want its image to conjure up unpleasant promiscuity? What's the point here? Am I just prudish because I never had an anonymous sex snack food party?
Or has Doritos achieved its goal only because I am still thinking about their product? Is controversy as good as a sale? Who knows. I'll tell you when I buy the next bag of Doritos.
- Falcon
In it a seemingly nice young man (in the "funny" mould of tv stereotyping) is hosting a party for some other very nice looking, clean living 20 somethings. Our host opens a bag of Doritos and pours them in a bowl. He then gives a sly raised eyebrow look as he snaps one in two. He then gives a slyer look as he offers the bowl to a nice young guy and he picks out a chip. Our chip-picker then shyly steps forward as an attractive girl looks at her chip, smiles, and steps forward. Their two chips make a whole one, we see, and they smile and walk off.
Next, another nice young man and attractive young woman are pleased to find that their chips fit together as well - only there is a tiny piece broken from her chip. A large "comedy sidekick" type steps forward, cheering because his tiny chip fits into the twosome's. The nice man seems disappointed as the large guy continues to be very pleased with himself.
What is going on at this party? Is it really what it looks like? Are these kids really going off to have sex with each other now that their Doritos have bonded? Are those two nice kids really going to have a threesome with the other guy just because of a Dorito malfunction? Is this possible? And does Doritos really want its image to conjure up unpleasant promiscuity? What's the point here? Am I just prudish because I never had an anonymous sex snack food party?
Or has Doritos achieved its goal only because I am still thinking about their product? Is controversy as good as a sale? Who knows. I'll tell you when I buy the next bag of Doritos.
- Falcon
Friday, June 17, 2005
Most Annoying Poet
So I was at a Bachelor Poker Tournament hosted by a local magazine the other night.
There's a long story about how I got invited to this thing, but it's not that interesting. The point is that I was invited and I brought my friend J-Fo along for the ride.
The first thing we noticed when we arrived was that was an awful lot of women in the room, and very very few bachelors. There were 5 in total. And about another half dozen guys who had all been brought there by their girlfriends. Apparently the Bachelor part of the Poker Night was a bit of an afterthought, and it had originally been conceived as a Women's Poker Night, which explains the odd gender ratio. Some people actually had to pay to get into this thing, but J-Fo and I were there on a whim.
After about a half hour of nervous mingling, somewhat smoothed by a ticket for a free drink, we were all invited to come inside the Poker Room and take a ticket that would tell us where we were sitting. J-Fo and I were separated and left to fend for ourselves at tables of eleven strangers each, about 5 tables in total. We were allowed to play a practice hand of Texas Hold'em Poker after receiving brief instructions and cheat-cards that told us what hands were higher than others. The dealers were serious about their jobs, and the Poker Guys running the joint could have come out of any Harvey Keitel Las Vegas film. We were instructed to keep our drinks off the table and our cards on it, face down. We could peek, but weren't to pick them up. We were also told to keep a stack of our house chips on our cards - something to do with the fact that if someone else's card hits yours, the cards are redealt. I think...
A buzzer goes, the Casino Guys watch over us like mother eagles, and we begin to play. I'm not the first one out at my table, but I have one big win, and a series of big losses that means I'm out about an hour into the evening. Just before the blinds go up again, the bosses call a ten minute pee break, and I retire to the bar to reconoitre with J-Fo.
She's doing all right, I guess. Still has a big stack of chips in front of her, anyway. As it turns out, at her table she was seated next to one of the few Bachelors at the party. Her assessment? She whispers, "He's INSANE," as we huddle in the bar. Almost on cue, he turns up next to her, babbling something incoherently. Apparently he thinks he's pretty funny. He has been pissing off the dealers and the other players by not playing the same game as everyone else. He has chosen to take this as a big joke, and while neither J-Fo and I are really poker players, or really care about the outcome, we have come in good faith to try to participate in a social activity with other people. Not so, Bachelor #1, who has made himself annoying by placing outrageous bets and tossing money and cards around the tables. No one finds him as amusing as he finds himself. He is bouncing in place, next to J-Fo, as she tries to introduce us. "This is my friend, Falcon. She brought me here," she offers cheerfully. He replies with something completely incoherent about running a communist table. I try to hitch a ride on the mental train he's running through town, but he doesn't stop to let me on. This is a guy who is always "on," always being "wacka wacka," always trying to be "funny." I hate these guys. They are pathologically unable to hold a conversation, obsessed as they are with being "funny," which in their case translates to being as bizarre and anti-social as possible, at the same time that they refuse to let anyone around them participate in normal human social activity. They are really noisy ants at the human picnic.
After ten minutes, it's back to the tables for the competitors still in the game. I'm out but I'm waiting for my friend, so I hang around the bar with some others who have also been relieved of gambling duty. Here I meet Bachelors #2 and #3.
I am standing with two other gals, one a nice lady in her forties who works as some kind of accounting consultant, and a shy gal who is in customer service for a wireless company. Bachelor #3 arrives and disappears practically within the same breath. He seems like a nice enough fella, he sells transformers, or super-conductors, or semi-conductors, or semi-transformers, or something technical that I don't understand. He is an earnest fellow, too young to be so serious, and seems slightly confused by the evening. He disappears in a puff of smoke.
Bachelor #3 is the eponymous Most Annoying Poet of this story. He buys the three of us ladies a glass of shiraz, which is nice enough, but he tarnishes it by being pretentious with the waitress at the Stampede Casino. Here they are used to two types of wine, "white," and "red," but Poet Boy needs to show everyone that he doesn't really belong here by asking them for a recommendation - something not too heady, but full bodied and blah blah blah who's listening not me. He then begins a game of hosting that is only slightly more socially ept than Bachelor Wacka Wacka. He asks us each what we do for a living, and waits patiently until he can reveal his Big Important Job. "So, what do you do?" asks the Nice Lady. He looks away for a moment, setting up for the punch, "I'm a Poet. Quite a good one in fact. In fact, I'm an Internationally Renowned Poet." He's pleased with himself now. He takes a backhanded stab at self-deprecation which is intended to impress with its "humility." He comments that being an Internationally Renowned Poet is kind of like being an Internationally Renowned Croquet Player. It's a pretty obscure kind of fame. Nonetheless, he REALLY wants us to know that he REALLY IS world famous. Yes, yes, yes, we get it.
We are talking about pop culture, and I am trying not to behave like I'm in a press interview, which I am more familiar with than I am with making small talk at Bachelor Poker Parties. Here is the difference between Poet Boy and I. I am trying not to break out too much "stock interview material" because it's not my job to be entertaining or impress anyone. I'm just making conversation with strangers. Poet Boy, on the other hand, is laying out his stock material like he's putting in laminate flooring - he's determined to fit it all in there and anyone be damned who gets in the way. He is one of those guys who will ask you a question and not let you answer it, because what he really wants is to answer it himself.
He describes his latest poetic project: to write a really long poem, translate it into a four letter alphabet, and have some scientist/geneticist friends of his translate that four letter alphabet poet into a genetic sequence that he will then have INJECTED into a one-celled organism, an E. Coli bacteria or something, replacing its own DNA sequence with that of the Poem.
Huh?
Okay, is it just me, or is this about the most egocentric thing a guy can do? I know that all artists want to pretend they're gods, but this is just making it a bit literal. "Look! Everyone! I have created Life in my own image! I have written a Poem that is a Living Thing!" Um, hubris, anyone? The only amusing thing I can make of this is wondering what effect such a genetic poem sequence might have on an E. Coli bacterium. What would happen to it? Would it get artistic ideas of its own? Change its name to e.e. coli?
The Most Annoying Poet in the world does not find this amusing in the least. He grins, sort of, but he is taken aback that anyone would think this isn't The Most Fascinating and Engaging Project In The World. I expect he is used to people either saying, "Wow! You're SO COOL to even THINK of something like that!" or else making poetry undergrads cream themselves over something so mastabatory and academic at the same time.
We eventually have a brief argument about the Nature and Meaning of the Universe, until he excuses himself, still grinning but probably relieved at getting away from this Argumentative Woman (me) as much as I was grinning and relieved of the company of this Pretentious Ass.
I turn my attention back to the Poker Room - and wouldn't you know it? The winners at each table have gathered for a final showdown of skill and savvy, and who is right in the thick of it? My friend J-Fo. While I was baiting the self-important World Renowned Poet, she was in there kicking butt the whole time!
The game takes on the glitzy, smoky glamour of a celebrity poker match. The final table is made up entirely of women, the bachelors and boyfriends having been smoked out by these sly dames. It's exciting! Chips worth thousands and thousands of dollars are being piled into the centre of the table and swept back and forth as people win and lose more (imaginary) money than I will make in a year.
Sidenote: Here is my problem with gambling. I sat at that poker table with a stack of chips in front of me, which, had it been REAL money, I would have just as quickly taken off the table and said to my other poker players, "Have fun! I'll be at Gravity Pope." Gambling is stressful. I hate making decisions and poker is full of them. I am a "pair of shoes in the hand" kind of gal and don't like speculating. Not to say that I don't take risks in life. I take tons and tons of stupid risks all the time. But most of them are emotional in nature, and I figure this is one arena (money) where I can hold back.
Okay, back to the game. While I have been yabbering on here, the competition has slowly been eliminated one by one until only two fierce competitors remain - a gal who is late for a stagette party at the nightclub Tantra, and my friend J-Fo. Every time she wins a hand I cheer and point, "That's my friend!" I beam to the others. The Most Annoying Poet in the world asks how I can really be happy for my friend. Aren't I bitter about my own lack of success tonight? Wouldn't I rather be in the spotlight myself? Uh, short answer is "no." Unlike the Most Annoying Poet in the World, I don't feel like I'm in competition with the rest of the world and particularly with my friends. I don't need to show off every moment of the day, and don't need to sulk when I'm not the Special One at the party. I have plenty of Special Times, believe me (refer to above comment where I take ridiculous emotional risks - I have been the star of my own story for a long time, I don't need to be the star of everybody else's story too). Anyway, I'm am VERY exciteed and VERY proud of my friend. She is kicking some serious ASS! Go, girl!
In the end, the two gals are sweating it out. This is high stakes. The blinds are up to $2000! (see, I did manage to learn what "the blinds" are - I did learn something useful). The pressure is immense. J-Fo is making a big gambit. She's had some crummy cards, and the two have had several hands that were so close - it came down to holding a six vs. an eight. J-Fo seems calm, cool, and collected. Later she will tell me she was shaking, she was so nervous. This last hand should decide it, and...!!! J-Fo bets it all. "All in!" she says and pushes all her chips to the centre. The other gal calls and they lay down their cards. J-Fo.... loses this hand. Awwwww!
Ah, but before you get all sad and whistful, listen to what the top two got as prizes. First place got a spot in the Big Stampede Poker night - a chance to play against 1300 professional poker players for a possible $50 000 pot. Sounds like a lot of stress, and no chance to actually win. These guys are pros. On the other hand, what did second place come home with? J-Fo got a gift bag full of Prada perfume, plus a Caban waffle robe and eye mask, etc. Who needs winning when coming in second means getting the goods you really want?
In my head of course, J-Fo is the biggest winner anyway, just for coming out and trying something new and kicking ass at something she didn't even know she was good at.
And the biggest loser? The Most Annoying Poet in the world. The only one he went home with was himself - but come to think of it, that's the only person he was interested in anyway.
And me? I have a good story to tell, so I win too.
- Falcon.
There's a long story about how I got invited to this thing, but it's not that interesting. The point is that I was invited and I brought my friend J-Fo along for the ride.
The first thing we noticed when we arrived was that was an awful lot of women in the room, and very very few bachelors. There were 5 in total. And about another half dozen guys who had all been brought there by their girlfriends. Apparently the Bachelor part of the Poker Night was a bit of an afterthought, and it had originally been conceived as a Women's Poker Night, which explains the odd gender ratio. Some people actually had to pay to get into this thing, but J-Fo and I were there on a whim.
After about a half hour of nervous mingling, somewhat smoothed by a ticket for a free drink, we were all invited to come inside the Poker Room and take a ticket that would tell us where we were sitting. J-Fo and I were separated and left to fend for ourselves at tables of eleven strangers each, about 5 tables in total. We were allowed to play a practice hand of Texas Hold'em Poker after receiving brief instructions and cheat-cards that told us what hands were higher than others. The dealers were serious about their jobs, and the Poker Guys running the joint could have come out of any Harvey Keitel Las Vegas film. We were instructed to keep our drinks off the table and our cards on it, face down. We could peek, but weren't to pick them up. We were also told to keep a stack of our house chips on our cards - something to do with the fact that if someone else's card hits yours, the cards are redealt. I think...
A buzzer goes, the Casino Guys watch over us like mother eagles, and we begin to play. I'm not the first one out at my table, but I have one big win, and a series of big losses that means I'm out about an hour into the evening. Just before the blinds go up again, the bosses call a ten minute pee break, and I retire to the bar to reconoitre with J-Fo.
She's doing all right, I guess. Still has a big stack of chips in front of her, anyway. As it turns out, at her table she was seated next to one of the few Bachelors at the party. Her assessment? She whispers, "He's INSANE," as we huddle in the bar. Almost on cue, he turns up next to her, babbling something incoherently. Apparently he thinks he's pretty funny. He has been pissing off the dealers and the other players by not playing the same game as everyone else. He has chosen to take this as a big joke, and while neither J-Fo and I are really poker players, or really care about the outcome, we have come in good faith to try to participate in a social activity with other people. Not so, Bachelor #1, who has made himself annoying by placing outrageous bets and tossing money and cards around the tables. No one finds him as amusing as he finds himself. He is bouncing in place, next to J-Fo, as she tries to introduce us. "This is my friend, Falcon. She brought me here," she offers cheerfully. He replies with something completely incoherent about running a communist table. I try to hitch a ride on the mental train he's running through town, but he doesn't stop to let me on. This is a guy who is always "on," always being "wacka wacka," always trying to be "funny." I hate these guys. They are pathologically unable to hold a conversation, obsessed as they are with being "funny," which in their case translates to being as bizarre and anti-social as possible, at the same time that they refuse to let anyone around them participate in normal human social activity. They are really noisy ants at the human picnic.
After ten minutes, it's back to the tables for the competitors still in the game. I'm out but I'm waiting for my friend, so I hang around the bar with some others who have also been relieved of gambling duty. Here I meet Bachelors #2 and #3.
I am standing with two other gals, one a nice lady in her forties who works as some kind of accounting consultant, and a shy gal who is in customer service for a wireless company. Bachelor #3 arrives and disappears practically within the same breath. He seems like a nice enough fella, he sells transformers, or super-conductors, or semi-conductors, or semi-transformers, or something technical that I don't understand. He is an earnest fellow, too young to be so serious, and seems slightly confused by the evening. He disappears in a puff of smoke.
Bachelor #3 is the eponymous Most Annoying Poet of this story. He buys the three of us ladies a glass of shiraz, which is nice enough, but he tarnishes it by being pretentious with the waitress at the Stampede Casino. Here they are used to two types of wine, "white," and "red," but Poet Boy needs to show everyone that he doesn't really belong here by asking them for a recommendation - something not too heady, but full bodied and blah blah blah who's listening not me. He then begins a game of hosting that is only slightly more socially ept than Bachelor Wacka Wacka. He asks us each what we do for a living, and waits patiently until he can reveal his Big Important Job. "So, what do you do?" asks the Nice Lady. He looks away for a moment, setting up for the punch, "I'm a Poet. Quite a good one in fact. In fact, I'm an Internationally Renowned Poet." He's pleased with himself now. He takes a backhanded stab at self-deprecation which is intended to impress with its "humility." He comments that being an Internationally Renowned Poet is kind of like being an Internationally Renowned Croquet Player. It's a pretty obscure kind of fame. Nonetheless, he REALLY wants us to know that he REALLY IS world famous. Yes, yes, yes, we get it.
We are talking about pop culture, and I am trying not to behave like I'm in a press interview, which I am more familiar with than I am with making small talk at Bachelor Poker Parties. Here is the difference between Poet Boy and I. I am trying not to break out too much "stock interview material" because it's not my job to be entertaining or impress anyone. I'm just making conversation with strangers. Poet Boy, on the other hand, is laying out his stock material like he's putting in laminate flooring - he's determined to fit it all in there and anyone be damned who gets in the way. He is one of those guys who will ask you a question and not let you answer it, because what he really wants is to answer it himself.
He describes his latest poetic project: to write a really long poem, translate it into a four letter alphabet, and have some scientist/geneticist friends of his translate that four letter alphabet poet into a genetic sequence that he will then have INJECTED into a one-celled organism, an E. Coli bacteria or something, replacing its own DNA sequence with that of the Poem.
Huh?
Okay, is it just me, or is this about the most egocentric thing a guy can do? I know that all artists want to pretend they're gods, but this is just making it a bit literal. "Look! Everyone! I have created Life in my own image! I have written a Poem that is a Living Thing!" Um, hubris, anyone? The only amusing thing I can make of this is wondering what effect such a genetic poem sequence might have on an E. Coli bacterium. What would happen to it? Would it get artistic ideas of its own? Change its name to e.e. coli?
The Most Annoying Poet in the world does not find this amusing in the least. He grins, sort of, but he is taken aback that anyone would think this isn't The Most Fascinating and Engaging Project In The World. I expect he is used to people either saying, "Wow! You're SO COOL to even THINK of something like that!" or else making poetry undergrads cream themselves over something so mastabatory and academic at the same time.
We eventually have a brief argument about the Nature and Meaning of the Universe, until he excuses himself, still grinning but probably relieved at getting away from this Argumentative Woman (me) as much as I was grinning and relieved of the company of this Pretentious Ass.
I turn my attention back to the Poker Room - and wouldn't you know it? The winners at each table have gathered for a final showdown of skill and savvy, and who is right in the thick of it? My friend J-Fo. While I was baiting the self-important World Renowned Poet, she was in there kicking butt the whole time!
The game takes on the glitzy, smoky glamour of a celebrity poker match. The final table is made up entirely of women, the bachelors and boyfriends having been smoked out by these sly dames. It's exciting! Chips worth thousands and thousands of dollars are being piled into the centre of the table and swept back and forth as people win and lose more (imaginary) money than I will make in a year.
Sidenote: Here is my problem with gambling. I sat at that poker table with a stack of chips in front of me, which, had it been REAL money, I would have just as quickly taken off the table and said to my other poker players, "Have fun! I'll be at Gravity Pope." Gambling is stressful. I hate making decisions and poker is full of them. I am a "pair of shoes in the hand" kind of gal and don't like speculating. Not to say that I don't take risks in life. I take tons and tons of stupid risks all the time. But most of them are emotional in nature, and I figure this is one arena (money) where I can hold back.
Okay, back to the game. While I have been yabbering on here, the competition has slowly been eliminated one by one until only two fierce competitors remain - a gal who is late for a stagette party at the nightclub Tantra, and my friend J-Fo. Every time she wins a hand I cheer and point, "That's my friend!" I beam to the others. The Most Annoying Poet in the world asks how I can really be happy for my friend. Aren't I bitter about my own lack of success tonight? Wouldn't I rather be in the spotlight myself? Uh, short answer is "no." Unlike the Most Annoying Poet in the World, I don't feel like I'm in competition with the rest of the world and particularly with my friends. I don't need to show off every moment of the day, and don't need to sulk when I'm not the Special One at the party. I have plenty of Special Times, believe me (refer to above comment where I take ridiculous emotional risks - I have been the star of my own story for a long time, I don't need to be the star of everybody else's story too). Anyway, I'm am VERY exciteed and VERY proud of my friend. She is kicking some serious ASS! Go, girl!
In the end, the two gals are sweating it out. This is high stakes. The blinds are up to $2000! (see, I did manage to learn what "the blinds" are - I did learn something useful). The pressure is immense. J-Fo is making a big gambit. She's had some crummy cards, and the two have had several hands that were so close - it came down to holding a six vs. an eight. J-Fo seems calm, cool, and collected. Later she will tell me she was shaking, she was so nervous. This last hand should decide it, and...!!! J-Fo bets it all. "All in!" she says and pushes all her chips to the centre. The other gal calls and they lay down their cards. J-Fo.... loses this hand. Awwwww!
Ah, but before you get all sad and whistful, listen to what the top two got as prizes. First place got a spot in the Big Stampede Poker night - a chance to play against 1300 professional poker players for a possible $50 000 pot. Sounds like a lot of stress, and no chance to actually win. These guys are pros. On the other hand, what did second place come home with? J-Fo got a gift bag full of Prada perfume, plus a Caban waffle robe and eye mask, etc. Who needs winning when coming in second means getting the goods you really want?
In my head of course, J-Fo is the biggest winner anyway, just for coming out and trying something new and kicking ass at something she didn't even know she was good at.
And the biggest loser? The Most Annoying Poet in the world. The only one he went home with was himself - but come to think of it, that's the only person he was interested in anyway.
And me? I have a good story to tell, so I win too.
- Falcon.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
My Dumb Skills
Someone recently told me that Blue Jays can see ultra violet light (the birds, not the baseball players). My response was, "Great, something ELSE that's cooler than me."
The same person told me to buck up, after all, a Blue Jay can't write a play (the bird or the baseball player are interchangeable at this point.)
Yes, but I pointed out, Blue Jays can also FLY. Now just ask anyone on the street, "Which would you rather be able to do? Write a play, or FLY." Personally, I pick the latter. But I don'thave a choice in the matter.
(I might be feeling a bit blue these days. Not ultra violet, of course, because I can't SEE that... It's funny. I thought just yesterday, "it's not so much that I'm depressed, but just that I'm tired of living." "How Somerset Maughm of you," a friend said in response. Another told me I'm too Rousseaian. I love my friends. I'm better today, by the way.)
- Falcon.
The same person told me to buck up, after all, a Blue Jay can't write a play (the bird or the baseball player are interchangeable at this point.)
Yes, but I pointed out, Blue Jays can also FLY. Now just ask anyone on the street, "Which would you rather be able to do? Write a play, or FLY." Personally, I pick the latter. But I don'thave a choice in the matter.
(I might be feeling a bit blue these days. Not ultra violet, of course, because I can't SEE that... It's funny. I thought just yesterday, "it's not so much that I'm depressed, but just that I'm tired of living." "How Somerset Maughm of you," a friend said in response. Another told me I'm too Rousseaian. I love my friends. I'm better today, by the way.)
- Falcon.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Love Crack
In the words of the mighty Robert Palmer: Might as well face it, you're addicted to love.
It's true. I am.
People ask me, "Falcon - when you put together all the time that you spent with this guy, in real time, face to face, it amounts to like, 92 hours. How could you get so hooked in such a short time?"
It's like asking someone who just tried crack, "How could you get so hooked from just that one time?"
Some love is like pot - it slowly grows on you. Some is like acid - it takes a while to kick in and sort of sneaks up on you. Some is like Extasy - makes you feel good until one day you realize you're rotting from the inside and have to stop.
Well this love was crack. And I was addicted. And in truth, it was more than 92 hours. There were at least three months of long distance wooing and getting to know each other and the biggest addictive drug of all time - emotional intimacy. And the whole thing spiralled wildly out of control, like a brushfire that comes too close to the city. The whole thing happened in what I call, "reality show time," which means that the actual dimensions of time shifted when we were together, spreading out exponentially, so that an hour becomes a day, a day becomes a week, and a week becomes a month. I know of what I speak. I was ON a reality show. And so these 12 weeks (including those 92 hours) felt like something else. In fact, it was one of those scary situations when you meet someone and you feel as though you've known the other person your whole life. Not like you're starting from scratch, but like you're picking up where you left off.
But it was crack. The more I got, the more I wanted. And he was dealing me more than I could handle. And because it felt so good, it was hard to see the bigger picture. It's only when you're out of love, when you've been detoxed, that you can see the damage that it was doing to you while you were on it.
So now I'm clean. But it was a rough three days - standard detox time. I had all the classic syptoms; I couldn't eat, I was nauseous, I had the shakes, and of course bouts of hopeless crying. But now I feel better, if somewhat...emptier. It will take a while to fill up I guess.
It's also been a little bit like aversion therapy. You know, when someone tries to get a kid to stop smoking by making them smoke an entire pack, or eat a cigarette? So that every time they see a cig after that they feel sick to their stomach?
That's how I feel now.
I've had people ask me out on dates, and I go, thinking, "This will take my mind off things - see? There are other fish in the sea, he's not the only one with options, etc. etc." And then I sit there with some nice guy, and I look at him, and I just start to feel my stomach lurch into my mouth. I get a little barfy. Seriously.
I see a nice-looking fella on the street, and I think, "Hey, he looks like a nice - " quick, hand covers the mouth, swallow it back down, breathe a little.
Even the thought of Love, right now, literally makes me sick to my stomach.
I think that's a healthy response though. For now, at least. I need to time to heal.
My last analogy of the day:
It's like I've been shot in the chest. And I'm objective enough that I can look down and say, "Gee, that's gotta hurt." And let it hurt. I mean face it, a sucking chest wound is going to be a little painful, a little sensitive for a while. But at the same time, I've agreed with myself that I'm not going to get sucked into the whole, "Well if I was younger, smarter, prettier, funnier, then I wouldn't HAVE this sucking chest wound!" I'm getting healthy enough to realize that perhaps these things are not related.
My only fault is for walking in the path of the shotgun to begin with. But hey, shit happens.
At least I'll have a really cool scar.
- Falcon
It's true. I am.
People ask me, "Falcon - when you put together all the time that you spent with this guy, in real time, face to face, it amounts to like, 92 hours. How could you get so hooked in such a short time?"
It's like asking someone who just tried crack, "How could you get so hooked from just that one time?"
Some love is like pot - it slowly grows on you. Some is like acid - it takes a while to kick in and sort of sneaks up on you. Some is like Extasy - makes you feel good until one day you realize you're rotting from the inside and have to stop.
Well this love was crack. And I was addicted. And in truth, it was more than 92 hours. There were at least three months of long distance wooing and getting to know each other and the biggest addictive drug of all time - emotional intimacy. And the whole thing spiralled wildly out of control, like a brushfire that comes too close to the city. The whole thing happened in what I call, "reality show time," which means that the actual dimensions of time shifted when we were together, spreading out exponentially, so that an hour becomes a day, a day becomes a week, and a week becomes a month. I know of what I speak. I was ON a reality show. And so these 12 weeks (including those 92 hours) felt like something else. In fact, it was one of those scary situations when you meet someone and you feel as though you've known the other person your whole life. Not like you're starting from scratch, but like you're picking up where you left off.
But it was crack. The more I got, the more I wanted. And he was dealing me more than I could handle. And because it felt so good, it was hard to see the bigger picture. It's only when you're out of love, when you've been detoxed, that you can see the damage that it was doing to you while you were on it.
So now I'm clean. But it was a rough three days - standard detox time. I had all the classic syptoms; I couldn't eat, I was nauseous, I had the shakes, and of course bouts of hopeless crying. But now I feel better, if somewhat...emptier. It will take a while to fill up I guess.
It's also been a little bit like aversion therapy. You know, when someone tries to get a kid to stop smoking by making them smoke an entire pack, or eat a cigarette? So that every time they see a cig after that they feel sick to their stomach?
That's how I feel now.
I've had people ask me out on dates, and I go, thinking, "This will take my mind off things - see? There are other fish in the sea, he's not the only one with options, etc. etc." And then I sit there with some nice guy, and I look at him, and I just start to feel my stomach lurch into my mouth. I get a little barfy. Seriously.
I see a nice-looking fella on the street, and I think, "Hey, he looks like a nice - " quick, hand covers the mouth, swallow it back down, breathe a little.
Even the thought of Love, right now, literally makes me sick to my stomach.
I think that's a healthy response though. For now, at least. I need to time to heal.
My last analogy of the day:
It's like I've been shot in the chest. And I'm objective enough that I can look down and say, "Gee, that's gotta hurt." And let it hurt. I mean face it, a sucking chest wound is going to be a little painful, a little sensitive for a while. But at the same time, I've agreed with myself that I'm not going to get sucked into the whole, "Well if I was younger, smarter, prettier, funnier, then I wouldn't HAVE this sucking chest wound!" I'm getting healthy enough to realize that perhaps these things are not related.
My only fault is for walking in the path of the shotgun to begin with. But hey, shit happens.
At least I'll have a really cool scar.
- Falcon
The Devil's Final Chapter
So he calls me up a few days ago to chat about some writing we've been doing together. We talk and laugh and exchange stories and notes for an hour. He yet again reiterates how great he thinks I am, how close he feels to me when he reads my writing, etc. etc. He then gets all excited about the possibility of coming down to my part of the world for a few days to help me with this project. "I'd LOVE to work on this. Do you need someone to take a look at it?" he says. "I think I have time. Let me just check my schedule. "There's one thing I would have to drop out of but I could make it over for five days here... But wait, what do YOU want?" He asks.
As if it matters.
I tell him of course I would love it if he came down for a few days, I'd love it if he could work on this project, I'd love to see him again, so soon.
He says, "I should tell you something." He tells me that being with me has changed his life. That the time we've spent together was so wonderful, it made him realize that he didn't want to be dating all these different women he's been with recently. He wants to have a girlfriend. And I've inspired him to get serious. Beat. Beat. Beat. With this other girl.
I'm not kidding.
After another hour on the phone of being in shock, listening to him talk, I hang up. I receive this text message on my phone: "This time I mean it. I love you."
Okay, let's analyze the syntax here. "THIS TIME I mean it." Cause the other times I really didn't. But now, now that it's too late, now that it's MEANINGLESS, I'm going to mean it. Gee, thanks. That makes me feel better. In fact, I feel so great that I want to have a few shots of tequila and lie down to celebrate, except that I'm immobilized with grief. Maybe later.
From here on in it gets a little dramatic. We are both rather dramatic personalities - him on the surface, me deep down. He writes me a letter the next day AGAIN going on and on with the "...thank you for changing my life I love you I'm in love with you and even though we can't be together I will always have you in my heart I hope you remember how beautiful and wonderful you are thank you for everything you've given me I'd do it again in a second and when I read your last letter I cried where I sat you broke my heart again when I thought it couldn't be broken anymore..." etc. etc. etc. Seriously.
What is the point of this? Why is he telling me about how I broke HIS heart right after he told me how he loves me so much that he's going to be with this other woman? And he says we can't be together as if this is something that has HAPPENED TO US, as opposed to a choice he made.
He's lost his mind. And I am shattered. He calls me his Viola, and now I am truly shipwrecked; at sea. And he's making it worse. Actually, forget Viola, I'm Rose, floating on an icy door from the Titanic in the middle of the Atlantic, and Jack has managed to slip into a lifeboat while I was asleep. He's shouting over his shoulder from the lifeboat as he's paddling away from me, "It's breaking my heart that I won't see you again - I'll never forget you!" while I tread water going, "Wait! But I'm not dead yet! Come back!"
Further dramatics; I send him a letter telling him of his unspeakable cruelty; I call him my Chupacabra - Mexican Vampire Bat. I tell him that to thank me is grossly inappropriate and cruel, and that it would be better if he just said, "I'm an ass." I tell him the gods are kind - I had spent four days with him, while auditioning for a job I didn't get, which at the time seemed like a drag, and now seems like a blessing. I tell him how the gods have spared me the "daily humiliation of your happiness." Seriously. I say that. Because apparently I'm living in a Dostoevsky novel.
We engage in a battle of literary wills. I ask him, the Devil, to answer one more letter where I goad him to be funny and cruel, and explain how he's "Just Not That Into Me." He refuses to play along, and sends a self-serving missive about how he loves me SO MUCH that he's letting me go. Because he has a Higher Purpose for me on earth. So apparently the novel HE'S living in is "The Yearling," or "Born Free" where he gets to love me and set me free and cry because he misses me. Only in this version of the classic animal tale, I was doing just fine until he came along, lured me home with lumps of sugar, then broke my leg and THEN tried to set me free. And there I am, confused and limping in circles around the African Veldt while he drives away in the jeep, crying and singing, with his arms around the pretty gazelle in his lap that he's taking home instead.
Ah, but stop with the metaphors already. What happens next?
I get a text message saying, "I'm an ass."
It helps.
The devil's last letter ends, "See you in the hereafter," which if I understand it correctly, means,
See you in hell.
- Falcon.
As if it matters.
I tell him of course I would love it if he came down for a few days, I'd love it if he could work on this project, I'd love to see him again, so soon.
He says, "I should tell you something." He tells me that being with me has changed his life. That the time we've spent together was so wonderful, it made him realize that he didn't want to be dating all these different women he's been with recently. He wants to have a girlfriend. And I've inspired him to get serious. Beat. Beat. Beat. With this other girl.
I'm not kidding.
After another hour on the phone of being in shock, listening to him talk, I hang up. I receive this text message on my phone: "This time I mean it. I love you."
Okay, let's analyze the syntax here. "THIS TIME I mean it." Cause the other times I really didn't. But now, now that it's too late, now that it's MEANINGLESS, I'm going to mean it. Gee, thanks. That makes me feel better. In fact, I feel so great that I want to have a few shots of tequila and lie down to celebrate, except that I'm immobilized with grief. Maybe later.
From here on in it gets a little dramatic. We are both rather dramatic personalities - him on the surface, me deep down. He writes me a letter the next day AGAIN going on and on with the "...thank you for changing my life I love you I'm in love with you and even though we can't be together I will always have you in my heart I hope you remember how beautiful and wonderful you are thank you for everything you've given me I'd do it again in a second and when I read your last letter I cried where I sat you broke my heart again when I thought it couldn't be broken anymore..." etc. etc. etc. Seriously.
What is the point of this? Why is he telling me about how I broke HIS heart right after he told me how he loves me so much that he's going to be with this other woman? And he says we can't be together as if this is something that has HAPPENED TO US, as opposed to a choice he made.
He's lost his mind. And I am shattered. He calls me his Viola, and now I am truly shipwrecked; at sea. And he's making it worse. Actually, forget Viola, I'm Rose, floating on an icy door from the Titanic in the middle of the Atlantic, and Jack has managed to slip into a lifeboat while I was asleep. He's shouting over his shoulder from the lifeboat as he's paddling away from me, "It's breaking my heart that I won't see you again - I'll never forget you!" while I tread water going, "Wait! But I'm not dead yet! Come back!"
Further dramatics; I send him a letter telling him of his unspeakable cruelty; I call him my Chupacabra - Mexican Vampire Bat. I tell him that to thank me is grossly inappropriate and cruel, and that it would be better if he just said, "I'm an ass." I tell him the gods are kind - I had spent four days with him, while auditioning for a job I didn't get, which at the time seemed like a drag, and now seems like a blessing. I tell him how the gods have spared me the "daily humiliation of your happiness." Seriously. I say that. Because apparently I'm living in a Dostoevsky novel.
We engage in a battle of literary wills. I ask him, the Devil, to answer one more letter where I goad him to be funny and cruel, and explain how he's "Just Not That Into Me." He refuses to play along, and sends a self-serving missive about how he loves me SO MUCH that he's letting me go. Because he has a Higher Purpose for me on earth. So apparently the novel HE'S living in is "The Yearling," or "Born Free" where he gets to love me and set me free and cry because he misses me. Only in this version of the classic animal tale, I was doing just fine until he came along, lured me home with lumps of sugar, then broke my leg and THEN tried to set me free. And there I am, confused and limping in circles around the African Veldt while he drives away in the jeep, crying and singing, with his arms around the pretty gazelle in his lap that he's taking home instead.
Ah, but stop with the metaphors already. What happens next?
I get a text message saying, "I'm an ass."
It helps.
The devil's last letter ends, "See you in the hereafter," which if I understand it correctly, means,
See you in hell.
- Falcon.
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