Unlike the slavery I experienced in my last acting gig, the one I did Friday night was at the opposite end of the spectrum. In a word, cushy.
The commercial was for StarChoice, a satellite TV company. This would, in fact, be my second commercial for them as I had just shot a "Casablanca"-themed one a month and a half ago.
So with happy heart I made my way to the SHAW Cable building in the northeast of Calgary; although enroute I was bemoaning this location. In my mind, the Shaw building in the North East was a dilapidated wreck that Gary Horn and I had shot our runner-up award-winning community cable show, Fanscene, at back in 1993.
Upon my arrival, however, I discovered this was not so; in fact, Shaw had constructed an entirely new building, very high-tech, with a glassed-in front that resembled the waiting area of an airport.
Fantastic.
This gig was as labour-UNintensive as the previous gig had been INtensive. It involved me showing up, getting into costume, and sitting around chatting for three hours before we started filming.
 |
| The young Bela Lugosi as a security guard. |
Now comes the sort of down side-- although to me, not so much.
We filmed until 3:30 IN THE MORNING. For a thirty-second commercial. Be advised that those little blipverts you see between the shows you're actually paying attention to represent dozens of man-hours of work by all parties concerned, for thirty seconds of your time.
And yeah, it's tiring, and yeah, it's boring too. But I got to be in this uber-cool building after hours. The sense of the forbidden, of not supposed to be here, only yeah, you ARE supposed to be there.
The actual, real security guards watched my co-star Doug and I with much bemusement, by the way. Fortunately, since all we were doing was sharing dialogue in front of a Matrix-like bank of monitors, we didn't need any professional security guard tips on how to believeably portray our characters.
(Another acting story has me performing at the now-defunct military base here in Calgary, just before it became defunct, and getting chewed out by a military COOK for yelling at a General, in character. I told the career milk baby that as an actor, it was my job to shout at Generals, Presidents, Prime Ministers and Kings while he peeled my potatoes. And to call me when he made Lieutenant. Cripes.)
The director ruefully smiled as he said to me: "Great way to spend your Friday Night, huh?" And I said, without irony: "Well, yeah." Because I was working. Doing what I love. And not even doing it very HARD; sitting around while waiting for them to set up a shot so I can say one of my three lines is not what I would consider "needing a Kit-Kat break" work.
For every crappy acting job, there's a cushy one right around the corner. And although a security guard may not be a glamourous role, I can once again invoke the magic of the acting biz: Tomorrow, I'll be something different.
And GEEZ, that was a really nice building.
You may have already heard the new buzzword going around: Metrosexual. Since I most definitely fit into this category (and a few others, I'm sure my fellow Agents would point out), and because so many of my friends do, I thought we should have a wee chat about Metrosexuality.
Here's the FYI on Metrosexuals: as told by MSN.
Everybody read it? Good.
The way I see it, Metrosexuality is an offshoot of the whole Queer Is Cool philosphy. Let's face it, the gay ethos has been hip since it took its permanent piece of the mindshare in the late 80's. Pink triangles, genderbending, androgyny, Boy George and Annie Lennox-- Queer Culture.
But hey, not everyone can be gay. From what I hear, it's a pretty exclusive club. And in the 90's, men were so inundated with the crystal-light-and breakfast-cereal healing-centre trend to get in touch with their feelings, that eventually there was a massive paradigm shift in middle-to-upper class North American and Western European urban males.
Thus the Metrosexual was born.
There may be other things people could accuse me of being, but I'm most definitely a metrosexual. I like hair care products. I like dressing up. I have actually had manicures, shaved my chest (and arms!) and waxed my back and shaped my eyebrows and spent more than twelve dollars on a haircut.
I have shopped for a wardrobe, not just a pair of pants, I do my own clothes shopping and I accessorize. I have a few scents that I like when I do wear fragrances. I am proficient at interior decorating and even took a course in it for interest's sake. I enjoy a touch of elegance now and then even if I have to engineer it myself in terms of candelight dinners and wine.
It's just RAMPANT, this metrosexuality of mine.
It gets confusing because I'm such a fan of gay culture-- but then, I don't think I'm alone in that, given the surging popularity of the new series, Queer Eye For the Straight Guy.
"Are you angels sent from Heaven?" "No ma'am. We're just gay men."
And now with metrosexuality men get to be in the club without actually playing for the team, if you get my drift. In other words, straight guys actually have permission to be as cool with the savoir-faire as gay guys.
"Oh my god, your apartment is fabulous! Who decorated it?"
"I did."
"Oh, are you gay?"
"No. I'm just a metrosexual."
Hot damn.
For more information on metrosexuality (and a really good example of contrasts between a metro and an oh-so-NOT metro, read this interview with two ESPN jocks, Mike & Mike.)
...which are, I suppose, the opposite of Social Security.
My post about the pagan coffee got me thinking about the little tricks I've picked up over the years for social situations; ways to keep an outing going smoothly with little fuss or unpleasantness.
While many others, it seems, don't bother with learning these niceties, I'm more than happy to share what I've learned in the hopes that it may help others out there to enjoy those social outings with fewer awkward situations.
1. PLAN YOUR ESCAPE ROUTE.
Have an "out" prepared. It's best if you have your own car or other method of transport, or if you came with a friend, to arrange to be able to depart with or without their help. There's nothing worse than being stuck at a party where you'd like to gnaw your arm off while your ride is having a good time.
The corollary to this is:
1b: KNOW WHEN TO LEAVE.
Don't be the last to leave. Also don't be the first to arrive. Less is more. Like Seinfeld, leave people wanting more-- not wishing for less. Knowing when to leave is the key to good grace. Hint: If your host(s) start referring to the evening in the past tense, as in: "Wasn't this a great evening," it's time to go.
2. BRING A FRIEND.
As I've said before, if you're unsure of the crowd you're going to be with, bring a friend. That way you have a guarantee of a comfort zone and a good time even if the evening is a bust.
The corollary to this is:
2b. DON'T BE CLIQUE-ISH.
Bring a friend, but don't spend your time exclusively joined to that friend's hip. You're there to socialize, and also broaden your social horizons a bit. Be comfortable, but not too comfortable. Get your host to introduce you around, if they haven't already. Or introduce yourself. Hint: Some of the best common ground watering-hole type mixing of people happens in the kitchen, if you're at a house party.
3. BRING A GIFT.
If it's your first time going to someone's house that you don't know, bring a gift of a bottle of wine or something. Don't go overboard; this is a gesture, not a bribe. And it's just nice to do.
4. DON'T COME ON TOO STRONG.
If you're like me, then you deal with nervousness by being gregarious. Be careful with this-- personality is like perfume; too much of it and you can make the people around you sick. Give everyone a chance to participate in the evening, and try not to draw too much of the focus.
The corollary to this is:
4b. DON'T BE A WALLFLOWER.
You're there to socialize. Talk to people you don't know. If your friend abandons you for a moment or two, don't hang around in a corner-- mix with the people.
5. DRESS UP A BIT.
You don't have to whip out the Armani or the Prada shoes-- but dress just a little nicer than you would at home. Show off a little bit. It can leave a very nice impression of you on the host and other guests.
These are just some of the things I've learned over time. If it helps you, great! If you already knew this stuff, even better!
And here's an idea-- if you have questions, post 'em. Let's all pitch in with a "Dear MFiles" concept and see if we can't work out those social kinks.
Heh. I said kinks.
OH! And, geez, I almost forgot. The most important part of any party:
Hi, my name is Agent M and I'm a Pagan.
"Hi, Agent M."
Years ago I might have had more blog entries extolling the virtues of Paganism or at the very least, reporting on my perspective on it. But as I got older, I actually wanted fewer people to know about it. It's a faith, after all, kind of a private thing.
But I need to bring it up again because I just have to talk about this before the pressure of my thoughts causes my eyes to shoot out of their sockets like hamsters propelled by ignited methane. (Don't ask.)
I used to be quite active in the Pagan community. But, like so many other subgroups whose interests I shared and pursued, I began to become increasingly disenchanted, pardon the pun, with the behaviour and mannerisms of the other individuals who shared these interests.
I'm serious about my Paganism. This is part of the reason why I try not to mention it in public anymore. I'm not out for recognition, or conversion of other people (not that I ever was), nor do I feel a need to rebel against any particular oppression that I was subjected to (I never was).
But it sure seemed that everyone ELSE had those issues. "Hi, my name is Raven Moonwing Silverleaf and I'm a WITCH." "Pleased to meet you, Dewy Fluffbunny. Cult deprogramming is to your left."
In fact, it seemed that there were very few actual Pagans in the Pagan community. Just a bunch of Blessed Wanna-be's. So I withdrew. Even my own coven developed its own weirdness problems involving sexual misconduct and freaky University-philosophy rationalizations of weirdness so, y'know, hasta.
Now, eight years later, I'm a father. And my spirituality is important to me, moreso because I want to be a good example to my son. So I thought I should try to reach out again, have a peek at what the community is like NOW, see if it has matured and/or attracted people who are into frank discussion and not "isn't that NEAT?" types of dialogue.
I went to Pagan Pride Day here in town last Saturday. It was like going to a science-fiction convention. People in costumes in robes, most of them black, and then actual GOTHS walking around in leather trenchcoats and pants with their tarted-up deadgoyle girlfriends. Claiming to be DRUIDS for god's sake. (Hey, maybe they were. It's just disappointing to me that an Earth Religion somehow gets mixed up with Goth-- which is a very Industrial, Modern and may I say Fatalistic lifestyle. Sure, The Crow came back from the dead, but was he a DRUID? No.)
But Pagan Pride day was a sort of "bonus" experience; what I was really waiting for was this coffee meet I'd found on meetup.com. A smaller, more intimate gathering of Witches for the very PURPOSE of frank discussion. So, last night, I dragged my mom along and off we went.
(AGENT M's SOCIAL INTERACTION TIP: If you're going on an outing where you don't know anyone and aren't sure you're going to enjoy yourself, take a friend along. That way even if the event is a TOTAL BUST, you'll at least have gone out with a friend, which is always good. And yes, my mother is a friend (and also Pagan-positive. Don't take an incompatible friend to an event you know they'll HATE, Agents.))
We got there and noticed a cliquey group off in the corner right away. Mom and I got our coffees and sat across the room; I planned to observe the group's behaviour before introducing myself. Familiar faces appeared, although they didn't recognize me. I watched some more-- they seemed to be having a good time, but all seemed to know one another and talking about stuff they had all done together previously. Kind of an insular feeling, not a vibe I felt I could (or wanted to) partake in.
Eventually a couple of chairs opened up at their table and we ventured over. I re-introduced myself to the familiar folks (who hadn't seen me since I had my hair down to the MIDDLE OF MY BACK in 1994) and sat down to chat.
They weren't freaks. But, by and large, I realized they weren't what I was looking for-- which was established, certain, and definite in their particular paths in a way that was compatible with what I wanted to discuss.
I also noticed familiar (and unwelcome) patterns: Poor Social Skills (are you people GROWN-UPS or NOT? Speak the hell UP and don't interrupt when someone else is talking), Too Much Information (I don't need to hear about your teenage attempt at wrist-slitting when I've only known you for ten minutes) and Meandering Lack of Self-Interest (if you're not interested in what you're saying, trailing off the end of your sentences, I'm sure as hell not going to be interested in what you have to say.)
All that being said, I wasn't offended, just accepting of my disappointment.
However, ironically it did help me to gel some things in my head. Mainly, that I don't need networking to "solidify" my spirituality; a GROUP is not required for me to "validate" my own thoughts. All that I need is my own dedication, and serious pursuit. There ARE books on the subject, and even the Internet, despite the huge amount of garbage out there.
My spirituality is safe in my own keeping; and no amount of "group discussion" is going to strengthen it. I can do this on my own, and give my son a good perspective on his father's beliefs without having to take him to a convention of oddness to impress them upon him.
It's just a little depressing to me that my faith, which I put such stock in, seems to attract so many broken people. But I've said that before-- and now I see that no one else needs to know my beliefs for them to be valid. Not that they ever did, but sometimes one wants to discuss beliefs with someone with whom one has something in common.
Trouble is, I just realized I don't have that much in common with the community. And I, in the final analysis, am okay with that.
A final thought: On both Pagan Pride day AND the coffee meet, someone who knew me greeted me with this question:
"Are you still married?"
How the hell am I supposed to take THAT? And from where is it motivated? That my wife isn't Pagan? That I'm not the marrying type? That Pagan relationships are all on a time-limit?
What the hell, Pagans, is up with THAT?
All actors are whores.
It's been said before, and to me, but it is nevertheless the truth. For every fantastic, glamourous, I-can't-believe-you-got-that-part-it's-so-COOL role an actor portrays, there's another one somewhere that they've done that they're somewhat less than proud of.
I did one of those yesterday.
Strictly speaking, it wasn't my role; it was a friend of mine who had signed up to do a publicity stunt downtown and then found that he couldn't make it, and asked me to sub for him. So I did.
Holy crap. By the time it was done, I had to ask myself if he had been MAD at me when he asked me to do this thing.
The stunt was for Out There, a mountain equipment type of store downtown. The talent was provided by a local "events and characters" type of agency here in town.
Normally, I never work for this agency. Their rates are RIDICULOUSLY low. For my four hours' work yesterday, I made a hundred dollars. Agents, just FYI my rates start at a hundred dollars AN HOUR for talent-on-demand stuff, just to give you a ballpark.
But it was for a friend, so off I went. I got there at 9:35 and at 10:15, a panel van arrived to disgorge my prop for today's event (talk about a "spy" themed rendezvous!): a filing cabinet. Which was then chained to my person.
Yes, I knew I'd be dragging office furniture around a three-square-block radius downtown. The whole "chained to your office" symbolism, y'know? But I thought it would be PROP furniture.
Oh HELL no.
It was real, HEAVY, honest-to-god office equipment, Agents. My filing cabinet was a big, black, two-drawer metal monstrosity-- and not that namby-pamby "tissue paper" metal like the cabinets you'd get at Wal-Mart-- oh no. This was Old Skool.
And I had to DRAG it-- no wheels, no sissy-mary DOLLY to cart it around-- it was chained to me with STEEL CHAIN and I had to drag it three blocks up, three blocks across, down, and back again.
For a hundred bucks.
He works hard for the money, Agents, to paraphrase Donna Summer. That song was about a prostitute-- and so it was with me, yesterday. I've been on stage, screen, radio and web-- but I'm not too good to risk pelvis and leg injuries dragging fifty pounds around my waist on a chain for mortgage money.
Because I am, after all, a whore.
Naturally, of course, I ran into a couple of Marci's family members downtown; they just couldn't believe what I was doing. "Welcome to my glamourous life. Next time I tell you how cool being an actor is, remember this day," I said. They laughed and strolled on. I headsmacked myself and dragged forward.
Some observations I made while downtown: Those who work the STREETS in our city centre-- the bike messengers, coffee couriers, street sweepers and boardroom caterers wheeling their dessert and sandwich trays-- they're the ones who know What's Going On. They GET it. They've seen it before, they understand it, they know. The Suits-- those who work INSIDE the concrete and glass towers-- have NO clue. Nothing exists for them outside their Career Capsules. If it isn't to do with them, (and nothing ever IS,) it doesn't exist.
On the whole, the stunt failed. Nobody understood what the heck these 20 people were doing dragging office furniture. Our scripts that we were supposed to follow did nothing to explain.
"Hi, can you tell me how to find Out There? I hear they can liberate me."
The store's name isn't conducive to answering questions.
"Out There? Yeah, you sure are. What are you protesting?" and so forth.
Ironically, it was a street sweeper who got it. "Hey, you're like the Ghost of Christmas Past-- shackled to your earthly works. OH! I get it! That's like, symbolism for being chained to your job! I hear ya, brother." I was agog. I praised him and told him he was the ONLY PERSON TO GET IT. Then we chatted about how marketers are crazy and how we were just working stiffs putting up with the craziness.
Visions of Metropolis the movie in my head, I dragged along my merry way, ripped thighs gleaming, my sweat-sheened shoulders heaving with...oh, sorry, that was all in my head.
The most disturbing encounter I had was with a Dutch man. Perhaps he was from South Africa. I don't know. He looked at me with DISDAIN-- and hauled me aside to say "That is SLAVE LABOUR." As if he were accusing me of something. And the impression I got was that I, a WHITE MAN, shouldn't LOWER myself to do it. I don't know if that's what he meant, but man, it gave me SHIVERS.
Eventually I finished. Which was fortunate, because my MOM saw me doing it and, after testing the weight of my chained burden, was about to try and find my boss and tell them Her Son shouldn't suffer so-- what if I HURT myself?-- fortunately, I managed to re-focus her in her quest for office furniture of her OWN.
Adventures in Acting indeed, Agents. Every time. But just remember: Prostitution can be an adventure, too. And if you ever really want to feel dirty-- like you've just gone down on a wino behind the dumpster at the liquor store for five bucks' beer money-- by all means, be one of the actors that does publicity stunts. OH yeah.
GOD, I'm such a whore.
Simple Simon met a pieman,
Going to the fair.
Said Simple Simon to the pieman,
"Let me taste your ware."
Said the pieman unto Simon,
"Show me first your penny."
Said Simple Simon to the pieman,
"Indeed I have not any."
I baked pies yesterday. Pies, plural. As in, three. Partly as a celebration of being done my Atkins diet, partly because I wanted baked goods, a little bit because I wanted to fill my home with the smell of baking, but mostly-- mostly because pies are a tad more difficult to make than simple cake.
I get such a tremendous feeling of accomplishment from baking. And the rewards are apparent and immediate (minus a small cooling period) and I get the triumphant assertion that I have created something with my hands.
This is a big thing for me. I'm not good with my hands-- can't build stuff. Was never good at artsy-craftsy things in school, sculpting, or anything that, to my mind, takes actual WORK.
As an actor, the things I create are ephemeral-- they're performances. I can do one on the spot, but I can't give you one to take home with you. Unless I pack a bunch of VCD's or VHS tapes of my demo reels around with me.
Some people might find the ability to act enviable, but perversely of course I'm envious of those that can create with their hands. So therefore, baking is my one solace for these otherwise talentless appendages of mine.
I baked three pies: Another apple pie (since Mrs. M polished off last week's without any help from me! Although Mom helped a bit.), a chocolate cream pie, and a lemon meringue.
It was also my first time making meringue. And I screwed it up the first time, so I threw it out and started it over. The second time I was successful.
I made all my pie crust from scratch. I peeled and cored the apples myself. I used pudding mix for the chocolate cream (because the Bernard Callebaut shop closed at five, the bastards. I was only a MINUTE late). Same with the lemon-- hey, isn't that what the whole Jell-O pudding economy is based on?-- and by 9:30 pm, I had three pies.
Agent ACK was kind enough to come over and offer a supervisory hand and his expertise in sampling said pies -- and coming with me on a Starbuck's run as they baked. Store-bought coffee and home-made pie. AW yeah.
I've learned that you shouldn't bake when you're tired (that's how I messed up the first meringue), and that baking in a social setting (with friends over) is the entire reason I bought my house with the floorplan that it has. Friends can sit at the kitchen table or at our breakfast bar while I putter in the kitchen, making for a fun, social kitchen affair.
My god, I AM my mother.
I also learned that there's no way I can reasonably expect to eat these three pies in any reasonably measurable time period. So I hereby extend the invitation to anyone I know reading this blog-- to come on over and help me eat these pies!
Give me a call and let me know when you'd like to come over. The Great Agent M pie sampling! Acceptance of this offer means you consent to have your picture taken for later posting on this blog. ;)
Here's to wonderful, luscious, sweet-tasting PIE. It's a field assignment worth volunteering for, Agents.
This offer valid while supplies last! Void where prohibited, prohibited where void.
ATKINS WATCH |
| Elapsed Time: Two Weeks Time Remaining: None Pounds Lost: Twelve Goal Remaining (target 200 lbs.): FOUR POUNDS. |
I finished my second Atkins induction today. I did two weeks in June, where I lost twenty-three pounds in two weeks. This last time, during the middle two weeks of September, I lost twelve pounds.
Basically, I had less fat to lose than before; my waist however looks AMAZING in comparison to what it was before, I feel much more trim and fit, and (although I had this before) I have a greater education about what's going into my body when I eat.
Mr. and Mrs. ACK have yet to summarize their experiences-- but I'm anxious to hear if they thought it was worthwhile. I did this mostly to support them, but also because I thought I might need a "purge" after this summer's indulgences. (I gained three pounds in Slurpee Fat.)
But for today, I feel fit, I feel trim, and just for today-- everyone who didn't suffer for the last two weeks with no sweets is a fat bastard. Screw you, all of you self-indulgent pablum-breathed softie-babies, I'm having pie today. While I'm still feeling superior.
Yesterday I had a voice-over gig downtown at SyncSpot studios, nestled in the heart of Mount Royal Village-- a posh mall on the ritzy 17th avenue strip of shi-shi foo-foo stores, bistros and salons.
My appointment was at ten, and I was done by 11:30-- and then only because they had to do three voices in sequence, one after the other instead of all at once. MY part only took half an hour.
And then I was done. I had done my work, made my money, and my "work" day was over. And then I stepped outside into the morning sun.
Wow.
It was mystical. Like the feeling of getting away with something-- except that you've done nothing wrong whatsoever. It felt like I had stolen a piece of time and had made it my own.
I went to work, at a job I love, and was done very rapidly. I had made money, done my duty as it were, and it was not yet noon.
And when I stepped outside, the warm sun on my face telling me that the day was still young, still so full of potential-- I felt almost giddy.
Couple that with the fact that, all around me, folks were INSIDE WORKING while I had the street to myself-- myself, and a very few folks who were on their way somewhere or who, like myself, had leisure.
Leisure Rules, to quote Ferris Bueller.
It was amazing. Like I had discovered a secret no one else had; some magic formula for happiness and serenity and general well-being, all rolled up into one moment.
I'm not trying to brag. I don't want to rub anyone else's nose in this. I just want to share this transcendental experience.
In high school, I had a lot of stress and depression-- teen angst, I think they called it-- and I would often skip class to decompress and try to get my head on straight. And on those mornings, the feeling was the same-- stolen time-- except then I really was stealing time, FROM SCHOOL, (and kids, that's never a good idea so don't do it. Stay In School.) so I always had a taint of guilt.
But yesterday? I was working. And I had finished my work, good boy, yay me, and so being out in the morning was a REWARD. A totally justified break in my day. It's like having a free pass. To what, I don't know-- but knowing that you have the rest of the day to do what you want is a feeling that just sparkles.
Too many times, we share our bad days. But I had a day SO GOOD yesterday, I wanted to do my best to impart a little of that feeling to you. The world still waits outside for us, beyond the nine to five, there are little bits of pleasure and Paradise waiting unexpectedly around the corner, outside the office.
Have faith. Rest assured that, when you're feeling frustrated or down, that good things exist and are just waiting for you to find them wherever you can.
And Sunday, I'm baking pie again. Life is good.
...and HOW.
In this world of marketing and slogans and corporate branding, all vying for the real estate in your brain-- or "mindshare" as they call it-- there's an undercurrent of rebellion that seeks to wipe out the corporatization, or "branding," of North America. People like these guys.
I am SO not one of them.
I don't know if it's because my teen years happened during the 80's, or because of the demographic I was born into, or what-- but I love our commercial, corporate society.
When Mrs. M and I went on our trip to Banff in June, we enjoyed the Rockies and the park and the scenery-- but then we stopped for coffee in the new mall they have there, and we breathed a dual sigh of relief.
It was like coming home! Here was the smell of fresh-brewed Starbucks coffee, and there, the lights and scent-of-the-month of The Gap; the food court below and the fashion circle above. And we loved it.
When we go to our neighbourhood Chapters, we shiver with pleasure as soon as we walk through the doors: the smell of books and coffee, the FEEL-- the VIBE-- of people Just Like Us sharing in the pleasure of being One Of The People Here At Chapters. It's a fantastic feeling, like everyone knows a special secret that only the people in the store at that moment are privy to. It makes us want to stay, makes us feel welcome.
When we go to the mall-- that's OUR mall. It's Our Place To Be. When we go to the mall with MONEY, well then. We OWN the place. Isn't that fantastic? We, the consumers, feel that the mall belongs to us. God Bless The Mall.
This feeling isn't constant. The older malls and seedier stores don't draw us in. But the ones I mentioned above: Chapters, The Gap, Starbucks-- they all have something that makes Mrs. M and I feel like family. Whether it's lighting and decor, smell, or product-- or a combination of the three-- I couldn't say. I only know that my Corporate Masters have got a firm grip on me, and I'm happy to be there, held in their caring, inviting Land of the Free Gift With Purchase.
I am reassured when I drive by a 7-11 or a McDonald's. Civilization has reached here, I find myself thinking. Huzzah. Or when I see that an older mall has received a facelift instead of falling to urban decay.
(The counterpoint to this feeling of well-being: When I see a mall rotting away, customerless, or one being torn down, I feel uneasy. Here, civilization failed. Here, some corruption got in at the roots and rotted our society away like a cancer. Here isn't safe. Here isn't a Good Place.)
Next time you stop in to a brightly-lit, cheerful retail or convenience stop, take a deep breath and smile. We are safe. We are welcome. We are civilized.
Oh-- and that's a Grande Breve Latte with sugar-free shot of vanilla, please. To GO.
Sure, you know them. The special people.
They're not like the rest of us. Oh no. They're better. They just ARE. You see them everywhere-- restaurants, movie theatres, driving down the street, talking on their cell phones.
They're not common, oh no. They're not part of the milling crowd. They stand out. They shine. They're above it all: they're special.
Thanks to the overwhelming influence of Political Correctness, you may think that "special" referring to a person means someone handicapped, or to whitewash it even further, "differently abled." Oh no. In this instance, the special people are much better-- at everything, it seems-- than you or I.
How are they better? Well, they must be, mustn't they?
Because, while the rest of us were being raised to Wait Our Turn and to Be Polite, the special people were being taught to Always Be First and Pay No Heed To Those Beneath You, Which Is Everyone.
You see these people chatting on their cell phones during a movie. You see, THEIR time and schedules are more important than ours. We need to understand that they need to be on that cell phone. And if we complain to them, why, we get put RIGHT in our place, don't we? Because, obviously, their needs come first.
Sometimes you'll see them in a fast food joint. Not for them, the bussing of tables or picking up after themselves--no, no. You can hear them exclaim: "Why should I do the work that someone else is paid minimum wage to do?" Why indeed? And so they leave their trays of wrappers and debris right there on the table, rather than soil themselves by dumping it into the "Thank You" swing-top bins.
Hey, waiting in line at the bank or the checkout line? Watch for The Special Person who will bypass all of the "little people" because, after all, their needs come first and hey, they'll only BE five minutes, as they explain to the rest of us who wait patiently. See, their time is imperatively valuable-- we can't understand that, ten minutes from now, they have to be saving the world and can't wait in line. Disaster could occur! We, the lesser people, just aren't built to understand.
Once, a friend of mine invited a buddy of his to a movie with us. Afterwards, as we walked to the parking lot, he lit a cigarette and tossed the empty cigarette carton over his shoulder. I picked it up, unable to believe such self-centred carelessness. Having no garbage receptacle handy, I held onto it until we got back to my friend's place, whereupon I put it in the trash.
I was later told by my friend that, seeing my action, his buddy smirked and said: "People like him will always pick up after people like me."
Was I mad? Furious. Because he was right, after all-- when I see something like that, yes, I WILL pick up other people's trash and put it in the garbage. Just the same way I'll plug someone's parking meter if it's expired.
These people, who obviously believe themselves so very special, are the ones that will cut you off in traffic because you are in their way. The ones that will break the rules for their own convenience. And, generally, they do not get caught.
They do not suffer consequences, it seems. In fact, to all appearances the world seems to smile on them for this very reason.
I'm all for bending the rules when they don't work-- you know, break the mold to succeed through innovation and creativity-- but what the hell is with these people who simply ignore common decency and manners? Hell, Ferris Bueller was one of these people but at least he was still NICE. Oh, wait, right-- that was a MOVIE.
And yet, there's no point in confronting or attempting to deal with these people yourself. Because they actually don't understand why you're upset. The sun shines in their world, so what must your problem be?
Arrgh. The bane of my existence. The Special People. Do you have any Special People in your life? Let's hear about them.
I think Autumn has got to be one of my favorite seasons. The bite in the air. Not cold, but enough to make your cheeks all rosy. The feeling of exhilaration, the quickening of the blood when you step outside.
The crisp, sharp tang of the air-- perhaps the occasional scent of someone's wood-burning fireplace?-- and the root-cellar smells of Mother Earth getting ready to bed down for the winter under her big white blanket.
The frenetic activity twice a day as children go to, and come home from, school.
Ah, The Fall. How is it that a season that is turning towards a cold hibernation can feel so alive?
I guess it's because, before we were industrialized, we had to hurry and harvest what remains of our crops, store and preserve as much food for winter as possible, get our houses ready for the cold, and basically batten down the hatches.
A flurry of activity; maybe it's some kind of racial memory. In my family, the grandmothers still can fruit, make preserves, and jars of pickles; they bake as if all the ovens will stop working once December hits; and they clean house in preparation for having to keep the windows closed all winter.
And it's only September.
This behaviour was handed down from grandmother to mother, and from my mother to me. There's just something about the autumn that makes me shift into Ancestral Recall mode, and I start wanting to do things around the house, too.
I spent all this weekend cleaning. We're talking Mr. Clean in a bucket with hot water, a sponge, squeegee mop and scrub brush applied to walls and windowsills type of cleaning. I vacuumed and dusted. I put things away neatly in closets and did every load of laundry I could find. Changed the bedding. Re-arranged things. Decided on new "rules" for myself to keep the clutter down to a minimum.
And afterwards, I baked an apple pie. Not because I wanted pie, but because I wanted my house to smell like apples and cinnamon. Hell, I can't even EAT any pie until my Atkins induction is over next Monday. But it's FALL, y'see, and pies must be baked. Floors must be cleaned.
Mrs. M and I are even discussing the decoration plans for fall. I've already bought some of those teeny little pumpkins from Safeway to grace our mantel. The predominant colors in our living room accessories are switching from green and gold to orange, red and brown.
It's a whole celebration, this turning of the seasons thing. It excites me. It's always been a time of beginnings to me-- of new projects and renewed vigor; kind of an eternal Back To School feeling, I guess.
What rituals do you go through in the fall? Does fall excite you the way it does me? I'd love to hear about it!
The Internet magnifies life. Life under a microscope. The big fish in the small pond. Or, y'know, really huge fish in an infintessimally large ocean, all milling around interconnecting with each other but still, y'know, BIG. Except the large ocean is actually just a puddle. But the fish swimming in it don't have, y'know, perspective.
I live on the Internet. It's where I do business, where I go to entertain myself, chat with friends, communicate. I bank online. I'm in that category of people who sometimes forget that if you need to get ahold of someone RIGHT NOW, and they're not on ICQ, there's always this thing called a phone.
It's like the 'Net is my whole world. I go into withdrawals if I have to spend a day without email. If I've been out, the first thing when I get home is check my email, rather than my answering machine messages (what is that phone thing anyway?) so I can stay CONNECTED.
This, by the way, isn't very healthy over the long term, kids. Go play outside like your mom told you. I'm not kidding.
The danger inherent in this level of 'Net immersion (other than Vitamin D deficiency from lack of sunlight) is that everything that happens in this virtual world becomes of vital importance.
Disagreements, for example, become HUGE. Instead of a momentary "you're SO full of crap," they become a huge diatribe that is SO MEANINGFUL and one MUST at all costs GET ONE'S POINT ACROSS, NO ISSUE TOO SMALL, as one screams across the void, desperate to be heard.
Emotional states magnify because there's no way to convey emotion across the web. Emoticons can only do so much. There's eye contact, vocal timbre and a thousand little body-language postures and gestures that are lost. So we attempt to make up for them with words. We try to convey our human expressions, evolved over centuries, with mere text-- which can convey quite a different emotion (and thereby cause a vastly opposite reaction) than we intended.
A buddy of mine says "You make the mistake of thinking conversations on the net aren't real. They ARE real. You can't trivialize them."
Balls.
Saying that a 'net conversation is "real" the way a face-to-face, sit 'em down talk with a REAL HUMAN BEING is "real" is like saying that seeing a .jpg image of a Rembrandt is as real as seeing the original work in the Louvre.
Chatting over ICQ relies only on text, and strips all the humanity out of what one is saying. One has only one's inner perceptions to go on; I can't tell you how many online arguments I've got into because the person on the other end is judging my words by their own example, completely removing me from the equation.
So how does this equate to the Internet magnifying things?
We fill in the blanks. With our imagination. And because we do that, things are ever so much bigger, grander, perceived as infinitely MORE because they are supplied by our own fantasy.
Thus, that tiny little argument becomes this huge big thing. This drawn-out affair. The casual recognition of things in common becomes an online love-affair-- only to be dashed upon actual meeting. The request for aid becomes a cry for help, and the cry for help becomes a need for institutionalization-- d'you see where this is going?
Got into a flame war on this blog, in the comments section recently. (I deleted it-- it was tawdry and doesn't bear repeating.) Despite my "great experience" in Internet matters. It went on for a week, this back-and-forth astound-with-logic, scathing-retort, sarcasm, and eventual plain sniping-- and I gave my HEAD a shake, went out into the REAL world away from the damn computer, and had the problem solved in seven minutes over coffee.
And god, was I embarrassed. Because really, I should know better.
The 'Net is a great place to OPEN dialogue, and chat about inconsequentials. But my advice to all of you, Agents, is that if you need to discuss something with MEANING to it, something serious, go offline and meet in person. It'll give you a break from The Screen and re-affirm your ability to enjoy human contact.
And for those of you who hang around online looking for therapy, I feel for you. Your depression and lifestyle can only get worse unless you break the link, sever the connection, and go outside once in a while.
And by the way? That coffee was GREAT.
ATKINS WATCH |
| Elapsed Time: One Week Today Time Remaining: One More Week Pounds Lost: Eight Goal Remaining (target 200 lbs.): EIGHT LBS. |
The writing process entry from the other day got me thinking about the project I'm currently working on: A murder mystery script I'm creating for Carousel Productions.
The script isn't the focus of this entry, though, Agents: The Murder Mystery itself is.
Whether you're an aficionado of the literary genre, a movie-thriller buff, or a theatre patron, the Murder Mystery is a time-honored genre of whodunnit, composed of a cast of suspicous characters, and a story either beginning with or leading up to a murder.
I've been performing in interactive murder mysteries since 1990. These are the type of shows done in restaurants, hotels, corporate retreats, and -- on occasion -- trains.
These shows are always a total riot. They're really almost a parody of the genre, taking a Clue-like approach to the story with over-the-top, zany characters with unsubtle, obvious defects and glaring, burning motives to do each other in.
Well, with today's TV-fed audiences, you kind of have to belabor the point.
The interactive tagline comes from how this particular show is performed: There is no stage. The audience is part of the cast. The characters intermingle with the patrons to provide an atmosphere of realism (despite their over-the-top antics), but mostly to promote a sense of interplay between performer and attendee.
This has the effect of loosening up the audience enough to get them involved in the characters' lives, backstories, and ultimately, to help them solve the murder based on what they've observed.
Every show of this nature has a "ballot" that one fills out declaring motive, suspect, and how the murder was achieved-- much like the game "Clue"-- and at the end of the evening the murderer/ess is revealed and the Super Sleuth wins a prize.
It's a fun time; there are scripts, but of necessity there is also a lot of improvisation. When an actor is interacting with "real people", there's no telling what situations may arise or how an actor, in character, should deal with them.
On the surface, the show may appear goofy, wacky; but the truth is that it takes real professionals to pull it off. Not all actors can do improvisation; and not all improvisors make good actors. There has to be a blend. The actor has to be off-the-cuff and still be able to stay within the bounds of his or her character; to remember the plot points relative to them and not give them away, all the while remembering that the audience must be entertained.
I've had several good reviews on my performances in these shows over the years; companies I've worked for have been sent letters commending me personally for my character, which I can only assume is a good thing (since some of the characters are downright loathsome); so I must be doing something right.
But it's a genre of theatre too too FEW of my friends have come to see me in. I'd like to take this time to invite those of you who have never come out to one of these things to come to the next public show, and enjoy the madcap wackiness while you attempt to solve the mystery. See how I work, but enjoy the playtime and a good meal at the same time.
I got Agent ACK involved, as an actor -- he now is a regular with Carousel, and he and I play off each other all the time. After being sidekicks for each other for so long, it's nice to finally be doing it in a professional venue (and getting paid to do it is just icing on the cake).
These things generally cost around $55 bucks plus GST, and you get to see a show AND have a meal-- it's a great night out!
And no, I don't work on commission. This is just something I'd like to share. And since the new theatre season is starting now, what better time to bring it up?
Come on out and enjoy a murder mystery. They're a hoot.
M
Like SOOOO many people, I have a cell phone. It's so people can get in touch with me when I'm not at home.
Like NOT so many people, I have a Fido phone that's a pay-by-the-minute deal. Meaning, I don't have any kind of plan where I get evenings and weekends free.
And UNlike SOME people, I have a land line as my base phone. My cell phone is NOT my main source of telecommunication.
So, perhaps there's a paradigm shift of which I am unaware-- maybe everyone ELSE'S perception is changing and mine hasn't, I don't know-- but what the hell is the deal with calling my cell phone without trying my home number FIRST?
I work at home. Everyone who has my cell phone number knows this. So isn't it logical, therefore, that they would try my home number first? See if I'm there?
Because, folks, if I'm hangin' around the house, my cell phone is off. And if I don't go out anywhere-- which can sometimes be for three days at a time-- my cell phone stays off then, too.
So I turn it back on when I go out somewhere and it has messages! "Call me." beep. "Mr. McAdam, we need to set up an appointment for..." beep. (CORPORATE clients that call my cell-- always listed as a SECONDARY number-- just really widen my eyes in disbelief.) And of course, they never leave the date and time they called. So how old is this message? Well, presumably it's dated sometime between the last time I turned the phone off and when I turned it on. Whenever THAT might be.
Another thing is the cellphone LONG TALKERS. If you call my cell phone and you get me-- you may not know that I pay by the minute. I accept that. But you've GOT to know that I'm OUT somewhere. I may be driving. I may be WITH someone. A cell phone is NOT an appropriate place for long conversations. A cell phone is to get ahold of someone in an emergency or in a social emergency (Dude, we've got five minutes before the movie starts, where are you?)-- it's not for big ol' chats.
(Oh, and like Agent ACK said on his blog, cell phones are NOT FOR USE AT ALL once the movie has started in an actual movie theatre. Turn it off, or turn it silent-- or be turned into dog food.
Respect the cell phone, people. And hey-- if you read this, respect MY cell phone. Call me at home first. If I don't answer, leave a message THERE. Then, and only then, call my cell phone. If I don't answer THERE, leave a message-- with the date and time. Then you've got all your bases covered, and you're GUARANTEED to get ahold of me!
...and isn't that the purpose of a cell phone in the first place?
I made a promise to myself that, as a writer, I should be writing every day. That's no great revelation-- that's standard operating procedure for every real writer out there. If you're not writing something every day (with an eye towards your REAL goal of getting published sometime) then you're not a writer. In fact, you're probably just some lazy-ass bastard who SAYS you're a writer so that you can avoid having to go out and get a job.
But I digress.
Writing falls into two categories for me: Really Really Easy or Really Really Hard. The reason for this is that usually, before I put my fingers on the keyboard or (god forbid) pen to paper, I already know what I'm going to write.
What I mean is that I've got the whole thing in my head, start to finish, BAM. Except for minor little details which need fleshing out--okay, let's say rather I've got the whole framework in my head.
I've always been a "popper" type of writer. Which means that my whole creative writing essays "pop" into my head fully-formed like Athena out of Zeus. All I have to do then is commit them to paper.
That's the Really Really Easy part.
However, there are times when I know that I HAVE to write something, that I have an assignment, or that a momentary inspiration strikes-- "I must write something along THESE lines" -- and the "popper" just isn't there. In fact, it's on vacation.
These are the times I have to slog through every single inch of the creative process to arrive at something which, to my mind, just doesn't have the juice my other stuff does.
At the moment, I'm stalled on my webcomic, Diaperman. I know pretty much what I want to have happen in the next episode but it just...won't...come. It's in there, in my head somewhere, sitting on a comfy couch having tea and chatting with the other unused concepts and they've all forgotten what time it is.
Also, I have a murder mystery script to write. It's a concept that I had flash into my brain (and I won't mention it here until it's finished being written) and now it won't give up the REST of the concept to me. I had the basic outline magically appear, but I've had to fight for each character to fully realize themselves, and now the actual ins and outs of the mystery, SCENE by bloody SCENE, elude me.
It's funny; I know from experience that the best way is not to force it, to just let it come in its own time-- but I also know that to avoid "lazy writing" that one should always sit oneself down and just start writing. Even if it sucks, you just might trip over a stream of consciousness that whisks you right down to the Ocean of Ideas.
I promised myself I'd write on this blog every day to pump that mental muscle, to oil the gears of the mind. And at first it was Really Really Easy. Roughly eight entries, one after the other, bam-bam-bam.
Today, however was in that OTHER category. I hit the wall-- and looked at my blank Movable Type screen as an intimidating expanse of nothing, rather than a canvas waiting to be filled.
So, I went away from it and did some other work-- and BAM, the Mind Gnome, Mentok, threw this whole entry at me.
I AM a writer. I've been published, I've been solicited for screenplays and MET those deadlines head-on, I write online and offline comics, fiction on demand and for my own personal pleasure. I'm no Johnny Famous but I'm no Poet in Starbucks either.
And even though I consider it a GIFT to have my little "popper" give me the whole story at once, I understand that on non-"popper" days I have to WORK. I have to work at it even if I don't WANT to. And trust me, I'm writing this to reinforce it (read: convince) myself as much as I am trying to get the point across to other would-be writers out there:
WRITE. Shut the hell up and WRITE. Even if you're procrastinating from your other projects by writing (which is exactly what I'm doing right now), at least you're writing something.
And if you can't write, then at the very least READ. Inspiration comes from like sources, folks-- read everything you can get your hands on.
Might I recommend Stephen King's "On Writing?" He may not go into his PROCESS a whole lot but it's sure a great read about a writer who just started doing it and KEPT doing it.
Also, Danny Fingeroth's "WRITE NOW!" magazine, available in your local comics shop. Writing for comics, animation, and film. Script work-- VERY handy.
I've written about writing about why I can't write today.
Now, I've got to go try and write something.
Cripes.
My wife, Mrs. M, has a strange illness.
I've tried everything. Home remedies. Books. I've taken her to specialists. Taken advice and recommendations from friends. EVERYTHING.
But nothing helps.
I blame her environment growing up. The manner in which she was raised, her diet, her surroundings-- she was a prime candidate. Almost predestined to turn out this way; it's just such a tragedy.
What illness is it? Why, the saddest one of all, Agents-- Mrs. M is suffering from Pop Culture Deficiency Syndrome.
PCDS is rare in today's society of quick-fix culture and instant internet gratification. When cravings are downloadable and everything is available in the world market bazaar, to actually have a deficiency of the popular culture is debilitating-- mostly to the friends and family around the victim.
Like Alzheimer's disease, PCDS can affect the victim without them even being aware they have it. Instead, their loved ones are left to cope with the PCDS sufferer drifting farther, ever farther away from them while they are powerless to prevent it.
I spotted Mrs. M's symptoms early on: She didn't know movie quotes from such timeless classics as Ghostbusters, Beetlejuice or Star Wars. She was taken aback when myself or a group of friends would burst into song, singing along with the lyrics from a store's sound system, and she would have no idea what song we were singing along to (or that we did not, in fact, share a Hive Mind.)
She watches Classic Star Trek with me and LAUGHS, Agents. "What is that costume made out of, TIN FOIL?" During Amok Time (Where Spock has his Pon Farr and has to go back to Vulcan, for those of you that are LESS than uber-geeky) she snorted out loud at the name of Spock's would-be wife. "T'pring? HA HA HA!"
Then recently she had an attack so severe I could no longer deny it, Agents. Mrs. M was in the course of a full-blown attack of PCDS. We were listening to a Beatles compilation and I heard her say these words:
"I don't like the Beatles. I don't get what's so big about them."
What's so big about the Beatles, she says. THE BEATLES.
Now you may not like the Beatles, and you don't have to. But to not understand what was so big about them is to deny the entire history of our people, our nation, our way of life and our heritage. It's tantamount to saying the sixties never happened.
Pop culture is in a large part fed by music and popular bands. So to deny knowledge of why the Beatles were popular is to deny knowledge of the Sixties as a whole, and if you have Baby Boomer parents that simply should not be possible.
Thus I can come to no other conclusion than that it must be a disease. While it seems incurable (my repeated attempts to shock Mrs. M out of it with bad science fiction, bubblegum pop, the Violent Femmes and comics like Dark Knight and The Watchmen having all failed), it IS preventable.
While your children are young, see to it that they are given an education in popular culture. Let them know the precursors of their modern-day heroes. Show them old cartoons so they can see where the new ones came from.
Allow them comic books. Feed them music from various stations, alternative to top 40's to Golden Oldies. Have them watch TV with YOU-- not just the other way around.
Schools teach History. Well, there's a whole world of history out there that will never make it into the record books, and it can only be passed down from generation to generation if YOU, Agents, are willing to make the effort.
Don't let pop culture dry up and die. We all need to know about the Hippies, Polyester Pantsuit Cop Shows with Wa-Wa Soundtracks and Bad 80's Gowan Hair. The mullet is a proud travesty of our collective historical soul! Laugh WITH your children at these things, at the days when computers still typed and clicked like tickertape machines and when Cell Phones didn't even exist.
Because if you don't, you only increase the chances of Pop Culture Deficiency Syndrome happening to someone you love. And it's a pain no one should have to go through.
Please, give generously. Comment on this blog. For Mrs M.'s sake, and for people like her around the world. The lines are open. Comment now.
This weekend, Agents, I was on a Field Assignment to the city of Edmonton, some 265 kilometres north of my current position, to attend a family wedding.
I have, over the years, sojourned to the City of Edmonton many times. And each time, I find something fundamentally disturbing about the place that I just can't shake.
Before I go into this, I need to make a disclaimer: Although I live in Calgary, I was not born here; I may be Calgarian but I don't buy into this Calgary/Edmonton rivalry and really couldn't care less about it.
Secondly, if you're from Edmonton or love Edmonton, I don't care. This isn't about you. It's about the city. Cope.
Long ago, the indigenous tribes of what would become Central Alberta gathered for a great battle, which was fought on the site of what would eventually be the capital of that province. Secret deals in the dead of night were followed by betrayal, and blood-slaughter on both sides of the conflict. The white man and the red man fought each other, with the white man emerging victorious through lies and trickery as well as superior firepower.
But the Shamans of the tribes gathered together in their despair for one last curse, that nothing should ever be good again in this cursed place. Years passed, and the curse was forgotten as, on the very site of that last battle, a great city was built..."
--"A Made-Up History of Alberta"
Agent M
...at least, I'm pretty sure that's how it went. It MUST have. Edmonton feels like a city that has been cursed by some ancient someone or other; every time I enter its boundaries I immediately feel like something has just gone wrong.
Firstly, the city has decrepitude everywhere. While I've never seen what you'd call "ramshackle" or "tumble-down" buildings, I did observe that no matter where you went, there would be a cloying sense of tawdriness to everything. As if it had seen better days, but could still put on a good face-- in the same manner as a prostitute who was long since past her prime.
Yuppie coffee shops next to Adult Source Video and King's Liquor, just two doors down from the Mac's store where the kids hang out.
(It is interesting to note that, while there are Second Cups almost every block, not once did I see a Starbuck's anywhere in Edmonton. And when a franchise the size of that particular Coffee Giant is notable by its absence, it really should give one pause, don't you think?)
People of various descriptions in various neighbourhoods, all uniformly downtrodden with a hint of decay about them. Dirty people. Loose, shuffling people. Not just in some "Oh, we don't go there, that's a BAD neighbourhood" places, but EVERYWHERE I went.
Maybe someone hired actors to give me a surreal sensory experience; maybe it's some anti-Calgarian plan the Edmonton Tourist Bureau has put into action; I don't know.
Even the Tim Horton's-- TIM HORTON'S, Agents, the lifeblood of CANADA here-- donuts appeared and tasted like they were shat from a soulless technocracy and placed in ordered rows for our consumption-- not that we would consume them by choice, but because it was perfunctory tradition that we should, so who the hell cared what they looked or tasted like?
I cannot believe that this is the same city that was home to the Edmonton Oilers during the Gretzky Era, when he was (arguably) the Greatest Canadian Hero; that this bleached, crumbling craptasmic vista of a city is the headquarters of BioWare, the (again arguably) most popular current PC and console game making company in the world; that this faded-glory interruption on an otherwise tranquil prairie gave birth to the West Edmonton Mall, the largest mall in the WORLD and, in the consumer-driven 1980's, the shining pinnacle of Canadian Tourist meccas.
HOW can the city I see every time I venture there be that same city? I see nothing to recommend Edmonton; it seems dour, internally taciturn, turning its face away from the sun as if it didn't want light shed on its troubles.
And yet, somehow, it survives. It remains Alberta's capital, though I think that title should have been wrested from it long ago. It has suffered tornados and other natural disasters, yet it recovered and still stands.
But when I visit there, I wonder if it really did. It seems like a ghost town to me, or a place that pays a terrible price for its existence and if you stay too long you will discover its horrible secret-- and then be unable to leave. You will darken to the sun-stained color of the Edmontonians in the summer, blanch to an almost blue-white in the bitter cold of its winters, and nevermore will you dream of the sunlit lands, to paraphrase C.S. Lewis.
Edmonton is a sad town to me. A sad town that no longer has the energy to lament itself-- it just plods through time, waiting for an inevitable end, and this somehow ironically gives it the strength to keep surviving, year after year. Should someone shoot it and put it out of its misery? It seems too cruel, an unnecessary euthanasia for a city whose only issue seems to be that it just never quite realized its potential.
Except, obviously it did. Its sports record and industry, being the provincial seat-- it has a lot to recommend it. So why does it still FEEL so out of phase? So subtly wrong?
Anyone know?
It's not quite like The Music Man, nor is it exactly Phantom of the Opera, although it does bear startling similarities to the Buffy episode entitled Once More With Feeling.
I'm talking about how music, in much more than the philosophical sense, really does seem to move the world to its beat-- whatever that beat happens to be at the moment.
Yesterday I felt pretty down. I needed something to perk me up-- and so I put on my headphones and ran my .mp3 list.
The effect was, as always, invigorating, soothing, energizing, relaxing-- in short, distracting. Music just takes me away. And I'm pretty sure it has the same effect on other people, which is why we have the term "music is the universal language."
Look at people's livejournals. They have a hard-coded option for what they're listening to at the moment, right under their "mood" indicator. Because the music does define the mood, or at least parallels it.
We use music to create a mood, or to unravel a mood we're in. It moves us. It gives us pause. It inspires, or simply removes us from the mundane. When I'm angry, I want angry music to empathize with. Or to clean the kitchen with. Late at night I want something dark and mysterious. Bubble-gum pop is great on sunny days. Et Cetera.
And I notice that when I have my music playing when I'm outside, the world seems to move in syncopation to *my* beat. Traffic lights blink on and off to the rhythm of my discman's output. People walk to the beat. Random events suddenly take on a pattern.
There's a correlation to music and the rhythm of the world, even if we don't feel it consciously. We are drawn to it, to paraphrase Sarah McLachlan. I love to see little kids crossing the street suddenly FLING their arms up in glee at the exact same moment the music in my car reaches a crescendo.
I love to see someone's turn signal click-flash click-flash to the staccato drumbeat of the song I hear.
When I see these things, I feel at peace. I feel like there IS a rhythm that we are all part of, whether or not we're aware. And my sudden awareness of it-- on however small a scale-- reassures me that I am a part of something larger. And that everyone I'm watching is, too.
And suddenly, I feel better. I may still not be "happy" if I was in a bad mood to start with, but I definitely feel better. Even if it's a bad day, I realize other people out there are having them too, and that makes me smile if only in solidarity for my brother SOB's out there who are pissed off, annoyed and/or suffering.
And if it's a good day? YOWza. To quote Great Big Sea, "When I'm up, I can't get down." Everyone seems to share my joy. Even the sun peeks through the clouds right on-cue for its big solo. Huzzah!
Next time you listen to music, watch your surroundings. See how they seem to conform to the pattern. See how everything, suddenly, just seems to WORK. Even your computer crashes may fit right in with some unseen Musical Score.
To me, that's just the magic of everyday life. Music fits with the rhythm of living. Well, of COURSE it does.
Mood: Existential
Listening to: Joey (Concrete Blonde)
I'd say "don't get me started," but it's just TOO DAMN LATE for that. I'm started, Agents. I'm started and I'm GONE.
I'm an actor. And a web designer. And a voice-over artist. In short, I'm self-employed. I handle all my own business(es), all the day-to-day things like bookkeeping, appointments, and invoicing.
And when I invoice, I put plainly on that invoice: "Payment due within 30 days of receipt of invoice."
Thirty. Days.
Everyone and GOD has to pay their bills within thirty days.
But yesterday I noticed that two of the commercials I've done--which are airing right now-- I haven't been paid for yet and it's been over that magic thirty.
So I call my agent and I ask her, "what's the deal?" And she has answered this before. "It's the industry standard for non-union jobs to pay anywhere from 30, 45, up to 90 days."
NINETY DAYS, Agents. NINETY days for a NATIONAL company to pay me my pittance of a non-union salary?
Oh HELL no.
So when my agent (small a) used this phrase again with me yesterday-- "It's the Industry Standard--" I just lost my MIND.
"No." I said. Plainly, but forcefully. "This is UN. ACK. SEPT. ABLE."
I don't know how the "Industry" managed to put this over on everyone, this ninety-day wonder they've got going-- but I'm in the midst of looking up the laws and as far as I can see, hey, guess what? EVERYONE in this NATION has to pay within 30 days unless otherwise stated in the contract.
And contracts, Agents, are what agents (small a) negotiate. So, based on this, I'm instructing my agent that it now goes into ALL my future contracts that *I* get paid within 30 days. They can't convince me that they won't be able to pay their debts within that time; how else would they run a business?
Agents, NEVER let someone tell you "that's just the way it is." Nothing gets me more riled up than being told I have to suck it up because everyone ELSE has to. I'm NOT everyone else. I have rights and I will stand up for them, even if no one else will.
Last year, I personally negotiated wage hikes for an acting troupe I was with, because they hadn't raised their actor's wages for TEN YEARS. Cuz, y'know, we were all being paid INDUSTRY STANDARD. Well, then, let me tell you the Industry is WRONG.
And y'know what? They hiked the wages. And yeah, I suffered the stress and negativity that arguing over money always brings, but it ended up being worth it. Don't ever let anyone say otherwise.
If you're not sure of your rights in any situation, Agents, look them up. Look up the law. Ask around to see what other people in your situation are getting. Compare. Ask. Research. Get informed. And then, use your knowledge to get what is fair and just.
This isn't a rant about me getting what I want. This is a rant about me getting screwed and being told I have to accept it because everyone else does.
Not bloody likely.
I will report on the outcome of this tete-a-tete I'm about to have with my agent (small a) in the comments section. I've already put a call into her today to resolve this.
I recently chanced upon a fantastic comic book. I can't afford to read comics as proliferantly as I used to, so my reading is very restricted lately. Yet, over the weekend Mrs. Agent M and I sauntered into the comic store "just to look" and came away with a few issues whose art spellbound us into buying.
It wasn't just the art, in my case. It was the story.
The comic is called "Namor" and is based on the Marvel character of the same name. Set in the 1920's, a young Atlantean Prince named Namor comes to the surface world and meets a girl. He's mysterious about his origins, and she is unafraid of his enigmatic demeanour. They have an instant connection; the kind you only find in fairy tales.
Too, they're young; when they first meet, they're only ten years old and every bit of their meeting is carefree abandon and innocence; six years later they still have their innocence but now at the gateway to adulthood are more curious about each other, and more aware of the taboos of society-- which injects an element of the Forbidden into their meeting.
This is what fascinates me and, I think, every other fan of fairy-tale mythology out there. The themes are constant throughout humanity: Youth at the Brink of Adulthood, that magical time of discovery that is still coupled with innocence.
It's riveting. Mesmerizing. It draws the eye-- we see young people on the cover of a book, we're curious to know more-- we read a bit and see that the story is about first times and self-discovery, we buy it-- we take it home and enter the characters' world and see bits of our idealized selves and perhaps fond memories of similar times that we have had.
The story speaks to us, even if we are not charming Atlantean princes or winsome girls on beaches. We remember the years of discovery. We remember first times. Bitter or sweet, the Mythology of Youth beckons us all to remember-- and when we are young, it entices us to imagine the potential of what could be.
The art is amazing in this comic; it captures the pensiveness, awkwardness and puckish spirit of Namor and Sandy. It makes us interested in them. We want to know, as adults, what path they will choose for themselves and as youth, we want to see how this is going to turn out, because ANYTHING can happen.
These are some of my favorite stories. To those of you that think comic books cannot be "true" art due to their nature, I challenge you to read of characters like Robin, Impulse, Superboy; Wonder Girl and Arrowette. Within each of these four-color hero characters lies the seed of the Mythology of Youth, enduring and real and part of every culture on Earth.
This story was a real find, because it isn't just a story. It's magic. And it touches all of us.
Namor, a miniseries by Marvel Comics. Issues 1, 2 and 3 still available at your local comics store.
I WAS going to title this piece "Adventures in Sociology: FANS." It was going to be an attempt to study the group behaviour (which is what Sociology is) of sci-fi fans in order to determine whether certain types of mannerisms really were endemic to this particular subculture, or whether I was missing some key elements in my observations.
Then I thought, screw it. All I REALLY want to do is talk about what pisses me off.
WHY are so many fan-types (and for those of you that AREN'T, I'll just explain that "fans" are those Comic Book Guys, Star Trekkies, Star Warsians, and other denizens of geekdom for whom their particular interests have a paramount influence on their lives.) so goddamn UNTIDY?
PIGS isn't too harsh a term to use. It just seems like there's a switch in their brains that never got thrown, a connection that was never made...or maybe by some odd PSYCHOSOMATIC GENETICS they just evolved into total, utter slobs.
Because I myself am a fangeek, I've had many opportunities to visit the dwelling places of fellow geeks for social occasions (Yes! Yes! We DO have them!) and the vast majority of the time, these abodes have been anywhere from cluttered to downright FILTHY.
God, why would you invite someone over to your HOUSE when your kitchen counter space is so clogged with dishes you can't even see the counter? I mean, do these people not HAVE a gross-out factor?
I'm not what I would call "über-neat." Sure, I don't do the dishes every night. Sometimes I wait til the next day.
And although I have a six-month old baby, I don't actually pick up his toys every time he's finished with them. Sometimes, I actually let them sit right where they are. Horrors.
But when I go over to someone's place, and they have clothes strewn all over the living room floor and what I CAN see of the floor looks like someone emptied a bag of Doritos over it and crushed them all to dust, then I have issues.
Listen up, pigs. Have some goddamn PRIDE. I don't care if you can hand-stitch an entire shirt of chain mail or make your own authentic seventeenth-century pannier dresses or whatever the hell else. You wanna impress me? Pick up a VACUUM CLEANER.
WHY is it that sci-fi people have to live in such squalor? Do you people not NOTICE your houses are, not to put too fine a point on it, a DISGRACE? Were you not taught by your parents to clean your room? Was it not part of your household chores while growing up to help wash dishes and put them away?
What the hell is this problem? WHY is it a problem?
Don't get me wrong. My house gets "rubby" too. And no, I don't exactly dust all the cabinets every week, either. But let me just share a few tips with those of you out there that seem to be missing the point:
1) If you've got pets with fur, vacuum once a week MINIMUM. I don't care if your legs are broken-- switch on that machine and CRAWL along with it. And if that pet is a cat or other litter-leaving animal, clean that litterbox EVERY DAY, or every TWO DAYS maximum. If you have more than one cat/hamster/whatever, EVERY DAY. This isn't negotiable.
2) If you've got roommates, tell them to clean up after themselves. When four or five people start living in the same house, the entropy escalates. EVERYONE has to do their little parts.
3) THE KITCHEN MUST BE CLEANED after every frickin' meal. If the dishwasher's full, turn it on. If the dishes are clean, EMPTY it and put them away. If you can't do that (and let's face it, I'm lazy there too) then at LEAST rinse your dishes and scrape them clean so that when you leave them in the sink they won't grow FUR.
4) OPEN YOUR WINDOWS on occasion. Fresh air WILL NOT KILL YOU. And using "home air fresheners" to freshen the air is just utter balls. You'll only be masking the scent of dirty socks with another scent over top. "Mmm! Dirty socks and LILACS."
5) RESPECT YOUR FRIENDS. Just because they're your friends doesn't mean you shouldn't try to clean up a little when they're coming over. They may like you, but they might not like the STY you live in when they have to sit on your couch and watch clouds of dust fly up when they sit. Oh-- and tell the lazy bastards to bus their OWN tables. Why should you have to clean up THEIR slurpee cups and choco-bar wrappers when they're gone? They've got legs. They can damn well walk them to the garbage and put their OWN trash in.
6) TAKE OUT YOUR GARBAGE REGULARLY. Especially if you live in an apartment. Garbage isn't an art form you collect. As soon as one bag is ready for the chute, take it out. If you live in a house, and the garbage is particularly odoriferous (like old fish or something) take it outside the house, even if it isn't garbage day.
I can't believe I even have to write a rant about this. Every instance in my life that has sparked today's diatribe was perpetrated by ADULTS. You're not KIDS anymore, you unbelievable filthmongers. GROW the hell UP. CLEAN YOUR HOUSE. I don't care about the latest toy, fantastic novel, wondrous costume, or neat character concept for gaming you've come up with if I have to sit there listening to flies buzz around the room.
And you may think it's neat to have six different animals but I don't if there are actually FLEAS crawling on me from their fur while I sit surrounded by no less than two dozen plushies from the overflow from your bedroom (in which you no longer sleep because your "collection" takes up too much space).
God SAKES. Break out the vacuum cleaner, dishwashing soap and a little Windex. Do us ALL a favour. And then someone tell me why alleged grown-ups need a rant like this in the FIRST place.