Hey folks--
Sorry I haven't blogged lately. I just can't seem to get motivated. I have some wonderful topics, but every time I sit at the computer the Blog Wall goes up and it feels insurmountable.
I've been crabby lately, wondering if it's just me or if the world is just pissing me off-- chances are it's just me. However, just to be safe, I've been avoiding the Internet and communication with online folks lest they feel my Just and Righteous Wrath over trivial, moronic things.
Some good news: I've been cast as a stand-in for Randy Quaid on Ang Lee's new film, Brokeback Mountain. I have no idea what it's about nor do I care-- it's Ang Lee. Who I will meet. Who will give me direction on where to stand. :)
After that, it's another WestJet commercial pitch, because I am their he-bitch man-whore, not that I'm complaining, and then off to the Maritimes for a week. I haven't been back since 1993, before Marci and I were married. What a lot of catching up we have to do-- with Peter in tow, as well!
Some upcoming topics on the M Files will include:
The World of Magazines
The Best Donuts Ever
The Smell of Books
Depression and the Internet
...and many more chart-topping hits. But until I can actually sit down and WRITE them, I'll leave this here as a bookmark to assure you that I Ain't Dead.
Birthdays are great. A year ago I did a blog entry entitled "ONE OF THE COOL KIDS" about getting an XBox for my birthday.
A year later, I'm still heavily into The Box and I swore that this year, I was going to get XBox LIVE to complete my gaming experience.
Everything worked out wonderfully, too: Tony gave me a gift card for Future Shop, Joel gave me a gift card for EB Games, and then I had birthday money on top of that.
So yesterday afternoon, I went to Future Shop to pick up a game: Splinter Cell: Pandora Tomorrow. And when I got it home, out fell:
That's right. TWELVE FREE MONTHS of Xbox Live. So then Tony drove me to EB Games where I used my gift card and bought the headset, rather than the entire Starter Kit for $89.99 (ten bucks cheaper than FutureShop, kids!)
So I'm up. I'm Live Enabled. My GamerTag is: Wolfblood317. (Diaperman, Diaper Man, AgentM, Agent M, Thunder, and even Bedwetter were all taken. Sheesh.)
And once again, I'm One of the Cool Kids. And I gotta say, we Mac Guys don't often get to be in that circle as far as games are concerned.
Thanks to one and all for making this birthday spine-tinglingly happy.
I suck SO BAD these past three weeks. Getting ready for the convention, trying so hard NOT to get sick, and then getting sick. Plus Mrs. M has been out teaching and painting which means I'm watching Little M, and not getting any blogging done.
I apologize. Here's this week's Quick and Dirty Friday Five:
1. What's the most daring thing you've ever done?
I equate "daring" with "overcoming bowel-moving fear to achieve a goal." So therefore, the most daring thing I've ever done is to dive off a diving board, while flipping backwards from a forward standing position. I was TERRIFIED I'd split my head open but my coach was pushing and pushing me to do it.
2. What one thing would you like to try that your mother/friend/significant other would never approve of?
Skydiving. Every time I bring it up it's all "No no no, never, no," and this helps me to chicken out of doing it.
3. On a scale of 1-10, what's your risk factor? (1=never take risks, 10=it's a lifestyle)
I plant myself at a firm five. I think I take more risks than any one of my friends here in the city; social, economic and yes, sometimes physical. I'm not a risk junkie, but I also fear being too sedentary. If trying something new involves risk, even if it's just eating at a new restaurant, then risk it is. In fact, I really only have like two friends that I would consider people who take more risks than I do, and the greatest of these is Cargo Weasel.
4. What's the best thing that's ever happened to you as a result of being bold/risky?
Realizing that the fear is what holds me back from potentially fantastic results. It was like that with marriage, having a child, and travelling alone. In each case the rewards were SO FANTASTIC that it taught me to not dig my heels in just because something appeared "difficult" from the other side.
5. ... and what's the worst?
When the risk is a promise to an adventure that never happens; the thing I hate worst is being sold on something when the thing that's being sold is crap. Like believing someone I KNOW that something is going to be cool, and realizing afterwards that it was, in no uncertain terms, a lame fuckaround. I really have rage issues with myself when something is put over on me because I'm supposed to be able to see this shit COMING, or so I tell myself.
Well, well, well. Happy 2004.
I could post a review of 2003, like everyone else is doing. But I don't read the papers or watch the news, and any news I DO hear goes out of my short-term memory and straight into oblivion, so any major events that happened in 2003 I don't remember.
And personal stuff that happened to me is, well, PERSONAL stuff that happened TO ME so who the hell else would care?
Nah. 2003 is over, we were all there, don't need me to re-hash it.
2004, though: Now that has potential.
This is the time of year that we're supposed to make our New Year's Resolutions; promises to ourselves that we have no intention of keeping.
Gym memberships sell more in January than at any other time of the year; the whole post-Christmas-goodies guilt setting in, no doubt. And by March at the latest, most of those memberships will be getting dusty from lack of use.
Smokers manage-- I'll have to check with my ex-smoker friends-- to quit for, what, a week or two?
The INTENT seems to be there, all good intentions of course, for self-improvement and general well-being, but ultimately they just sort of lose their lustre and the intentions are quickly forgotten in favour of one's comfortable routine.
One guy I spoke to had decided to give up fast food as his resolution. "Hey," I said, "It's not LENT. And you're not Catholic." And as he's an animator working 18-hour days I bet that won't last, either.
No, the goals I have in mind are career goals:
1) Shop scripts around to real comic companies. I want to have a story PUBLISHED by the end of the year by a major company. Furry stuff shall NOT count, since anyone with one hand and lacking a total lobotomy can get published in Furry circles. (Yes, Mrs. M and I once got published in a furry comic. Don't make me re-live it. Okay, maybe later.)
2) Become a cartoon. I've made inroads into getting AUDITIONS for voice-over gigs in the animation industry-- but it's all well and good to say that; I won't be satisfied until I actually am DOING the VOICING.
3) Improve my craft where possible. That means learning. That means taking courses-- voice, acting, whatever-- anything that would make me more marketable, more professional. Call it Professional Development, Improvement, whatever-- one should never stop doing it. And I've learned that it pays off.
My current short-term plans: New Head Shot and New Voice Demo. Those cost money, so I have to wait til I HAVE money-- but that's what I'll be spending my cash on. Rolling it right back into the business, as it were.
There. Three serious, attainable, professional goals. And if I accomplish them before the end of the year, I'll just make some more.
It's ongoing, Agents. You don't STOP when you achieve a goal. You have a celebration of achievement and then you make the next goal and go for that. I'm hoping 2004 will be the Year of Momentum.
Gathering speed, gathering mass, until I'm the veritable Juggernaut of My Own Life.
Happy New Year, 2004. Now I gots to get ready to kick your ass.
Everyone's got their Christmas traditions. From the traditional turkey to the alternative sushi, staying home or going away for the holidays, there are some things that never change.
Me, I've got three families at the moment. Four, counting me, Mrs. M and little Baby M as a "new" family who have to start our own traditions.
Every Christmas, we juggle/negotiate/contractually obligate ourselves to these three families: My mom, Marci's parents, and my dad.
Christmas with mom is always on the 24th, Christmas Eve. We get together for supper and beverages and camaraderie, and open our gifts to each other at that time.
Mom's a fun traditionalist with some flexibility; although she enjoys a turkey dinner, this year we had a whole passel of finger foods from M&M Meat Shops. Delicious, filling, and EASY TO PREPARE AND CLEAN UP, the hallmark of a very positive Christmas.
Mom and I are on the same page: Christmas is to be ENJOYED. Christmas is to be FUN. If there's stress involved it can just get its ass kicked RIGHT out the door, thank you very much. So when we had her sister, my aunt Darlene in from New Brunswick, in town for Christmas we determined to make everything as easy as possible. And it was! We, my brother, my cousin and her beau, my mom and my Aunt had a wonderful Christmas eve, thank you very much.
And to show the coolness that is my mom, for Christmas we repainted her apartment. I began the concept by Queer Eyeing it and saying I saw it as a Spanish Cantina sort of theme; antiquey and rustic but --y'know, muy caliente at the same time.
So my aunt and I bought the paint and glaze, my aunt had the whole place painted in two days (the women on Mom's side of the family being utterly obsessively crazy when they have a project to do) and I came in one evening to do the faux-finishing. Voila! Color gold and distressed-- beautiful.
Sorry I don't have any "before" pics-- the apartment used to be TAUPE-- but my Aunt started painting before either mom or I expected it. It's now Stuart Gold, and looks fabulous. Pictures to follow.
Christmas Day is traditionally for Marci's family. They're the polite family. The ones who never know quite what to make of her freaky actor husband with his New Brunswick background and alternative lifestyle references. They're a large bunch of Germanic descent, cousins and aunts and uncles everywhere, who get together in large groups necessitating lots of casseroles.
They're mostly Christian and soft-spoken and I tend to doubt they even know any dirty words. Needless to say, I kind of stick out in that crowd. The cartoon at left-- brought to you by the fine minds at Penny Arcade-- is the best description of how I feel when trying to explain my life to Marci's family. And look-- there's even a red-headed chick with glasses admonishing her two-tone-headed husband for his fabrications. Totally illustrative of a Marci family gathering.
Boxing Day is for my Dad. It's far less "traditional family" and more "yuppie brunch." Which is great, because can you imagine three days of turkey? Lord.
For the past three years we've gone to see Lord of the Rings as our tradition; now I'm sad because the trilogy is over, and I really enjoyed making that our "Christmas movie." I think next year we'll just have to pick another movie, because going to the cinema at Christmas just feels so much more FUN than merely renting a DVD.
Finally, Marci and I belatedly realized that we have a child now, and therefore we are OUR OWN family and need to start our own traditions. We stole time out of Christmas Day for just us, and I think it's going to continue that way-- we like things quiet, magical. Not for us the hullabaloo. We like to spend time admiring the tree and quietly sitting in each other's company, enjoying a mug of hot chocolate or a juicy mandarin orange.
I like each of these traditions. I enjoy the diversity, and most of all the CELEBRATION of the holiday. Because, after all, it is a celebration. Find the joy in your Christmas and, god forbid, if there isn't any-- MAKE some.
Happy Holidays to everyone.
Pray for me. Send me your good vibes, Agents: I just auditioned for a gig I really, REALLY would like to have.
It was for a horror movie. A SCHLOCKY horror movie, the best kind. It's some kind of slasher flick entitled "Santa's Slay." How cool is that?
I auditioned for the part of a cop. Officer #1. Oh yeah. In the scene I auditioned for, the cop walks in and sees that a Jewish man has been stabbed through the chest and pinned to the wall by his own menorah (that 8-candle candleabra that represents the festival of Hanukkah.)
His line? "Something's just not kosher here."
Come ON. It doesn't GET better than that.
Many actors have gone on to be superfamous after starring in perfectly horrid schlocky horror films. I want to be one of them.
It's campy, it's in poor taste, it's gory, it's horror. It is a VEHICLE, Agents, a poor geek actor's dream. I want to be the cop. I'm hoping he dies HORRIBLY. Covered in gore, stabbed with his own nightstick.
I'm including a picture of the outfit Agent CK was kind enough to lend me for the audition. I'm lookin' coppy-- in fact, I scared the director because he thought I was a REAL cop there to give him a ticket or something. That means major points for me, if I could convince him at first glance.
And lookit how the shirt fits-- I've got Cop Donut Bulge! Admit it, Mister Director, I'm a SHOO-IN!
And to make sure I am, I'd like all you Agents out there to join me in putting the vibe out there to GET me this part. I wannit. I need it. I've GOT to have it! The script treatment even SAYS "Low Budget" on it. And they're shooting in Edmonton. Glamourous EDMONTON. If this doesn't have "career launchpad" on it I don't know what does.
Vibe me, Agents. Vibe Agent M for Officer #1.
Since it's Christmas and good ol' Agent M is out Christmassing instead of blogging, I thought I'd post one of those off-the-wall questionnaires about myself. Many of you veterans of the bloggiverse will be bored by that, but I urge you to read on: There's something for YOU afterwards.
1. If you could have any 3 Super Powers, what would they be?
Teleportation -- I really could be everywhere at once!
Forces control -- The ability to manipulate all forms of energy, from light to sound. Nothing like whipping up a thunderstorm to create drama. or being able to provide your own soundtrack. This would also provide me the ability to fly, since gravity would be my personal bee eye tee cee aitch, and give me telekinesis. You ever try opening your front door with your arms full of groceries, or forget to turn off a light before you get into bed at night? Sure would be handy...
Shapeshifting -- I'd love to see what the world looks like through another pair of eyes. Or spending the day as a cat, innocuously watching the goings-on.
2. What are your 5 all time favorite movies? No particular order.
Jumanji, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Fellowship of the Ring, The Frighteners, and Emperor's New Groove.
3. You're granted 3 wishes, what are they? (And please, no wishing for more wishes)
1) Enough money to establish a permanent power base of wealth, so I would never have to be concerned about money again.
2) To land a role in the coolest sci-fi or fantasy movie of all time.
3) The ability to turn my fantasies into reality. For example, having the super-powers listed above.
4. Who are your 3 current favorite comedians?
Rowan Atkinson, Denis Leary, and Courtemanche, a French Canadian mime/physical humourist.
5. Who are your 5 most hated bands?
Marilyn Manson; too contrived and sooooo PSEUDO-everything; Any and all hip-hop bands, especially those that have songs whining about how their girlfriend caught them with the girl next door; Kid Rock; Puffy, Puff Daddy or P. Diddy, whatever the hell he calls himself now; Eminem
6. Who are your 5 most beloved bands at this moment?
Tragically Hip; the 5.6.7.8's; Pink; Smashmouth; The Ramones
7. What were your 3 favorite board games as a child?
Monopoly; Masterpiece; Billionaire
8. Who are your 3 favorite horror movie characters of all time?
Jonathan Pryce as Mr. Dark in Something Wicked This Way Comes; Julian Sands as the warlock in Warlock; Gary Cole as Sheriff Lucas Buck in the TV Series American Gothic. I know it's a TV series, but it was so good it's worthy of mention.
9. What are 3 of your favorite scents?
Lilac, Tangerine, and freshly baked apple pie.
10. What are your 3 favorite holidays?
Halloween because it really is magical; Christmas because it feels like the world actually STOPS for a day or two; Victoria Day because it's a long weekend that pretty much heralds the beginning of Summer here in Canada.
11. What are 5 qualities you look for in the sex you are attracted to?
Intelligence, and all that that involves. If you're shallow or incapable of following anything more but the simplest conversation, you're not for me.
Charm. You need to be endearing in some way.
Wit. You need to be able to give as good as you get in the Humordome! And also be able to acquit yourself well anecdotally.
Knowledge and Interest in Pop Culture. Half my life is lived in the environs of pop culture-- if we don't have anything in common, it just won't work out between us.
Grooming and Hygiene. I don't judge people by the looks they were born with. However, if you're not willing to clean yourself up and make an effort to be presentable, I find that MORE repulsive than so-called "ugliness."
12. What are your two favorite types of candy?
The Aero Bar (I love the bubbles!)
Bubble Gum. No weird flavour, just bubble gum. Lately I'm liking Trident.
Okay. So now you've read my little questionnaire -- and I'd like to thank Catalytic for the inspiration, both for it and for the one below-- but now it's YOUR turn.
My blog, by and large, is about me because I'm the one writing it. But how, I wonder, do my readers perceive me? That's the curiousity and the risk. But I am a curious person, and I'm not averse to risk, so please have a read at the following set of questions and post your replies in comments.
Hope you're all having a marvelous happy holiday!
THE QUESTIONS:
01. Give me a nickname and explain why you picked it.
02. Am I loveable?
03. How long have you known me?
04. When and where did we first meet?
05. What was your first impression?
06. Do you still think that way about me now?
07. What do you think my weakness is?
08. Did you think I'd ever get married?
09. What makes me happy?
10. What makes me sad?
11. What reminds you of me?
12. What is my best quality?
13. What is my worst quality?
14. How well do you think you know me, and what makes you think so?
15. When's the last time you saw me?
16. Ever wanted to tell me something but couldn't?
17. Do you think that I could kill someone?
18. Who would play me in a movie?
19. If I were to be a color, what one would I be?
20. Describe me in one word.
21. Do you think our friendship is getting stronger/weaker/or staying the same?
22. Do you think that I am stubborn?
23. Are you going to put this on your blog or livejournal and see what I say about you?
"Invest in yourself." It's a big Industry thing. It's a catchphrase. It applies to all walks of professional life.
The Fab Five would espouse this as buying a new suit, getting a new hairdo, redecorating your house.
The speaking-motivationally types would see this as attending a self-improvement seminar (one of theirs, naturally.)
The Hippie Love Gurus think it means taking time out to create a quiet, sacred space and give yourself some self-love time-- the kind that includes chamomile somewhere.
Whatever it means to you, take some time and do it.
As an actor, quite a lot of investing in myself involves either my appearance or my talent. Last year I took some courses in voice-over, and audition techniques, as well as How to Speak American. (No, that's not a joke: Canadians do sound quite a bit different from Americans.)
Therefore, when I had time (and money) to consider another Upgrade (What am I now, Agent M 5.2 or something?) I chose to this time invest in an new look.
My current head shot is 2 years old. That's WAY too old when you're supposed to keep your look CURRENT. So, I reasoned, it was time for a change.
Let me caution the men out there, since I doubt the women would need to be told this. If you are paying fifteen dollars or under for a haircut, then you are not getting your hair cut at a place where you WANT them to create your new look for you. You are playing Russian Roulette with your hair-- DO NOT DO THIS. Find a salon. Thirty dollars is a good price for a new look. (Once it's established, do what I do-- go back to the cheap places and say "See this? Keep it looking like this.")
For those guys out there who are "short-back-and-sides" types, don't talk to me. I can't help you.
So I went to just such a salon as I have described above; one of these places that doesn't just cut hair, they are an actual Day Spa.
Day Spa means: Tanning beds, manicurists, waxers, massage...the Total Groom Package. And I signed up for not quite the works.
I had my eyebrows waxed. For those of you that know me, you can see that the future held Gandalf for me. And cool as Lord of the Rings is right now, that's just not the way I wanted to go. Also, to some extent every man suffers from encroaching Unibrow-- you blond bastards can get away with folks not noticing as much-- and that needs to be taken care of as well.
So they put hot wax on my forehead, and RIPPED the unwanted hairs out. It's actually not that painful-- and the parts that are slightly ouchie are over in a flash. And they sculpted the shape, neatened them up a bit. My only stipulation was that I didn't want to look like either Joan Crawford or Divine.
Then came the hair. I'm regularly cast in thirtysomething "Dad" roles now, which is fine and dandy because I AM a thirtysomething Dad, but we all know that Young and Pretty sells. So I told them I wanted to look twentysomething without looking like some pathetic white guy trying to look "hip."
We talked style. We looked through magazines, my stylist and I. Checked out some celebrities' 'dos. I picked one, I forget whose it was, and then we talked color highlights. We fused caramel with copper to create an electricity that wasn't too brassy.
I bought product. Head and Shoulders may do the trick, but it really isn't good for hair in the long run. So I bought a shampoo and a conditioner. And, most importantly, I asked my stylist how I, the Guy at Home, could do my OWN hair at home and have it look salon-good. She introduced me to styling CLAY-- like pomade only solid. You warm it up in your hands and apply it to DRY hair. (Wet hair only dilutes your product, kids.)
I thanked her for a lovely day and paid for my hair, waxing and three products.
The bill came to just under TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS.
I was in shock. I expected more like eighty. But no, the highlights ALONE were seventy dollars. The wax, about seventeen. The cut was thirty. And the products were fifteen apiece while the clay was thirty dollars.
Shit, I said to myself.
I was still dazed when I came home and confessed to my wife how much I had spent ON MY HAIR. I mean, I could have bought a new leather jacket for two hundred dollars, right? God, what was I thinking?
I slept on it. And the next morning I put it into perspective. First of all, as a self-employed type, I get to write everything off. Actors get to write off cosmetic changes for roles or professional goals like a new head shot (which I can also write off.)
Secondly, I hadn't SPENT two hundred dollars. I had INVESTED it. I was creating a new look which, hopefully, will open me up to a more marketable age range other than "Chevy Chase" or "Dan Aykroyd." BOTH of whom are way chubbier than I like to be associated with, thanks.
It's not something I will make a habit of. Like I said above, I can now get my usual trimming done at a less ostentatious grooming establishment, one with "CUTS" in the name.
But after the shock wore off, I have to tell you something: It felt pretty damn good to have put that money into ME. Into self-improvement, even if all it gave me was a new look and two separate and distinct eyebrows.
Actually, that's not true: The new look is not all it gave me. It also granted me a new PERSPECTIVE on myself. I can be a person who is more than that guy who was always doing the same thing with his look. I can be adventurous. I can be, dare I say it, ALLURING. I dressed up for Mrs M. the day after the cut and she had to agree that this husband guy who'd been hanging around was suddenly pretty damn HOT in his size 36 jeans and tight black sweater.
I never thought of myself as a vain person, but hearing THAT from someone who's grown accustomed to my face was just electrifying. I was old and busted-- and now, the New Hotness.
Two hundred dollars is still a lot of money to me. But after the shock wore off, I've come to believe that it was indeed Worth It.
Go crazy once in a while and it might pay off-- especially if you Invest In Yourself.
Can I state the blatantly obvious?
Caffeine is a drug. It's the most socially acceptable drug EVER, but it's still a drug. Great. Now I can't stop saying drug.
Like any drug, caffeine gets you high. It produces a feeling of energetic revitalization, a buzz, a high-- and generally brings you crashing down horrendously later.
It's addictive. It's in almost every beverage you can buy at the store. Even those so-called "smart" drinks you can get that are all-organic have alternatives to caffeine in them, because people still want the buzz but just want to feel better about it.
Caffeine is SOUGHT AFTER, Agents. Never doubt it.
When you're high on caffeine, you're on a trip. You're tripping. You're rollin' with the homies. You can turn the world on with your smile, 'cuz caffeine takes a nothing day and suddenly makes it all seem worthwhile.
Oh yeah. Drug city. Hey man, here's a can of soda-- want a hit? First one's free.
In Grade 9, in "Family Life," which is the class in which they teach you all of those taboo subjects like sex, drug abuse and your future chequing account, we had a course on drug abuse.
Getting addicted to a substance is a war of attrition. First time you use it, you're GOLDEN. So you use it again, to recapture that feeling. The more you use it, the more of it you NEED to use to get that feeling-- and the harder you come down every time.
Our teacher illustrated it as a peak and a valley; the first time, the peak is really high and the valley is barely a dip. Then the peak gets lower and the valley gets deeper. Until, finally, you're using just to get to the baseline of "normal" and the peak is totally gone. It's almost like you've developed an immunity to the drug, but you still need it just to function.
Hey, Jason? I'm talking to YOU here. You're Not A Well Man.
But then, in very general terms none of us are. I'm not advocating total abstinence here, because I am in NO way, shape or form a Caffeine Saint. But I do have an insight into this whole deal.
When I decided I needed to lose some weight (and generally improve my lifestyle) I cut down on the caffeine. For me, my fix came in the form of Pepsi and/or Slurpees, in case you're curious.
Then I did the Atkins diet-- and it was ZERO on the caffeine meter, and also nil on the sugar meter, too. I had two weeks of total, clean, water-only NULL caffeine lifestyle.
Yes, I did feel better; yes, my energy levels were more consistent and no, I didn't have a "crash" in the afternoon like so many nine-to-fivers. None of this, however, is my point.
I experienced a "break" in my routine, and through diet acheived a kind of "reboot" to my system.
The next time I had caffeine after my whole Atkins purge thing, it KICKED MY ASS. UP one side and DOWN the other. What a rollercoaster! Whoo HOO! Look at me way up high I'm FLY-ING!
Visitors to my brain, conducted via a cup of coffee at a blogmeet, can tell you that I was Out the hell There. And hey, it was great-- a group of fun people means a heckuva fun time!
However, there's a dark side, of course. As with any trip, you can have a bad one. Instead of being all "up" and happy, you can go horribly, horribly wrong-- and that same energy that used to feed your creativity then suddenly feeds other things.
Fear. Paranoia. Jittery, jumping at every noise freakishness. The kind where ONE THING can set me off to the point where I can't sleep because I'm so WIRED, so freaked out, that my mind keeps going over and over the fear again until I finally run out of juice.
And for once I could actually NOTICE it. Probably because I did take a break from the Caffeine Scene. I know that, on the surface at least, we're all "aware" of the dangers of caffeine; but I don't think we really pay attention. I mean, hey, it's an "everybody-does-it" thing, so we don't really think of what is actually, physically, CHEMICALLY happening to us, do we?
This is my cautionary tale of self-observation. One bad trip on caffeine and it made me aware that all those fun things that I take for granted when suckin' Starbucks with friends are really doing a number on me.
All I'm saying? Step back and look at just HOW much caffeine you have and how often. The numbers might surprise you.
Sweet Demon Caffeine is copyright Bruce Walters and Gareth Wood, 'cuz it was a song title they wrote while high on caffeine late one night at the Circle K. As Theodore Logan and Bill S Preston Esq. once said, "Strange Things Are Afoot At The Circle K."
So the last time I wrote I was babysitting; Solitary Dad Duty for three days.
It worked out well; Little Agent P has his own way of doing things, thankyouverymuch, and wants to be left alone to do them-- provided a parent is still in the room to observe him. But the parent must be FACING him, y'understand, so that he knows he's the center; but not touching him or trying to interact with him because he's doing just fine on his own, thank you.
In other words, I have an XBox Kid. Meaning that if I'm alone with him I'd best rent an XBox game because at least then I'm facing him, not turning away to look at a computer screen.
My next computer, I've decided, WILL be a laptop. Kid-friendly, go-anywhere, daddy-can-get-some-WORK-done laptop.
Then I get back to the computer. And everything promptly goes STRAIGHT to Hell.
My server switched providers, thus screwing up my DNS for three days. No blog entries there. Then my email goes wonky, meaning SOME people can get through but only, apparently, if they're not CLIENTS with important TIME-SENSITIVE email.
Then hits The Busy: Murder mystery performances every evening and on the weekends. Both weekend shows are out of town. Crazy!
It's the season, don'cha know. Christmas. Everything in general gears up to a frenzied pitch, and that's especially true of the Arts and Entertainment industry. More advertising, more commercials, more more more.
In a frenzy of consumer culture, the Powers That Be fling out their tendrils to snare artists and entertainers to keep their Christmas machine going full steam ahead.
Whew. It's a little disconcerting.
But as of today, I have my email back, I've reduced the spam, I've got my schedule back under control, and I can WRITE. Thank you, God-- thank you. My organizing things in my head skill is still on the fritz -- thanks to holiday overload-- and oh look, I JUST NOW got a phone call booking me for ANOTHER murder mystery-- and there's an email reminding me about ANOTHER one-- Yee.
This is all positive, though. Make money for the holidays, and do exciting things; to me, that's a GOOD stress. Yes, it makes for a slight surreality, but hey-- I chose to be in the arts. If I wanted normal I'd have been an accountant. THEN my life would only get surreal around Income Tax time.
But at the risk of sounding too George Bailey, It's a Wonderful Life.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
I apologize for not updating lately; at first, there was a three-day hiatus while I moved servers. Then there was some kind of path glitch which meant not only could I not update, the rest of you couldn't comment.
Yesterday and today are entirely different; I'm in the middle of a combat zone. The playing field: My home. The enemy: Time. The goal: Taking care of Baby M ALONE.
Mrs. M has been given a field assignment to paint windows for Christmas, which takes her all over the city. Yesterday she was gone for about TEN HOURS.
Yesterday I had Agent Mom over to help-- and when I say help, I mean SHE took care of the baby entirely on her own, and I was just there for company. (But I'm not allowed to just go down and work on the computer here; a), I'd feel guilty, and b), Woman started CLEANING MY HOUSE as well as taking care of baby, and she had my brother's DOGS with her and was going to try walking them WHILE taking the baby out in his stroller and generally being Superwoman.
I trembled in awe and shame at her consummate Holding Down The Fort for me (AND my brother) at the same time. How could I not attempt to rise to the occasion?
So I went and got coffee at Tim Horton's. WITH two hyperactive dogs in the car. Picture me balancing two coffees on the front seat in one of those cardboard trays while convincing the dogs NOT to jump over onto the front seat and eat the doughnuts, in a 1987 Dodge Aries K car with my knees up by my ears while driving, and you can get a whiff of the tension THERE.
Then we cleaned. I did the shower in the bathroom while mom vacuumed. I unloaded the dishwasher and she drymopped the floor. During all this, baby M is just having a grand old time noshing a cookie and turning it over and over in his hand, creating Kaleidoscop Cookie Art and experimenting to making toof prints with his four new teef.
He didn't sleep at ALL yesterday. We tried. But nossir! He would not go down. When that happens, it's best to have two people in the house. You can spell each other off. (Of course, in the case of Agent Mom, you're only there to talk to her while she does all the baby stuff. And lectures you about what YOU should be doing with the baby when she's not there.)
But today, Agents, I'm On My Own. Single Dad. I've done it before, for short periods-- but yesterday was TEN HOURS. Mrs. M assures me that today will only be four-- tops-- but I'm battening down the hatches.
If you don't hear from me again for a while, you know why.
This really says it all.
In case you're wondering, refer to my MACINTOSH IS GAY entry.
I think I need to grow a thicker skin.
Every so often, I'll say something on The M Files that offends SOMEone. And normally, I don't mind that-- the idea of taking an extreme, hard-nosed position (even if you're not 100% hardcore about the subject matter yourself) is to promote discussion; and I think I've succeeded in doing that.
But now and then, someone will email me saying they're hurt by what I say. And this consternates me, because I go out of my way on The M Files to make it general, and never to target an individual or use the blog as an "attack forum."
Yes, a couple of times I've received inflammatory comments that I have responded to with equal-to-or-greater-than heat, but my policy on those now is to cut them off before they escalate, or rather degenerate, into tawdry oh-yeah-no-YOU-are's.
But yesterday's blog set off a friend of mine; he was hurt by what I said and made it out that I was attacking his boyfriend.
I explained to him that, although I was responding to a public post on his blog, that I was not, in fact, referring to his boyfriend but to certain behaviours in general.
...I'm sure you can see how one's paramour cannot divorce the behaviour from the individual. I can't say I blame him for drawing that conclusion, defensive as he was about it.
And then I got the guilts. How could I have been so mean? Why did I have to go off and blow my top like that? Oh, woe, that I should have thought harder before I wrote...
...and then a couple of hours later, I pulled the What The Fuck handbrake as hard as I could.
Yeah, what I wrote hurt a guy's feelings. And maybe I could have avoided that had I written my blog entry differently, better, more specific or less. Somehow.
But that's all the responsibility I'm prepared to take.
I realized that, within a certain margin, I can't take responsibility for how my writing affects others. Note that I did not say won't. I said can't.
If I attack someone specific, yeah, that is TOTALLY my responsibility. But can I be responsible for how everyone interprets what I say?
Before the Liberals out there tell me I'm responsible for everyone's feelings because hey, I wrote something ABOUT feelings-- let me tell you NO.
It's a fair assessment that someone could be hurt if I'm writing about something their boyfriend wrote. It's really hard to un-blur that line-- so I apologized to them. NOT for what I said, but that they felt the way they did about it. And that's it, finito. I am willing to go that far, but no more.
And at first I was really upset that I hurt people, hurt ANYONE, with my words. Hey, sure, be ANGRY, be RILED UP by what I said, but don't be HURT.
Until I realized that, no matter HOW CLEVER I am with what I write, no matter HOW MUCH TIME I spend writing it, I cannot control how it will affect people.
Repeat after me, Inner Self: I Cannot Control How My Writing Affects People.
You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to post a link to the blog entry that sparked this. Screw anonymity. After all, I'm writing about how the entry made me feel, right?
The entry is entitled "Thief" and you can read it for yourself. Here.
Some may call me crazy for how I reacted to this piece, but therein lies my point: You never know how ANYONE is going to react to something. This is a public blog, as is the "Thief" entry. Public forum, public opinion-- and hey, this one set me off.
The WRITER didn't set me off. The things he's writing about did. For me, there's a very real difference.
A few entries back I wrote about people cleaning their goddamn houses. And it caused this big mishmash. And you know what? I found out later that an idiot friend of mine actually TOLD the owner of a messy house to read my blog because it was about his house specifically. Which prompted rage.
Am I responsible for that? Hell no. But, the guy DID have a messy house-- and I had been there recently, so yes, the blog could very well have been about him.
Only it wasn't. HE made it about him-- probably with a little help from my idiot friend's injudicious and incorrect comment that it in fact WAS about him-- and boom. Can open, worms everywhere.
I see that there's a line between what I CAN accept responsibility for, and what I CAN'T. And the line I'm going to have to take is that if I don't have INTENT behind my words that is harmful, then I'm sorry, but I can't be responsible for your feelings as you read this. I can feel sorry that you felt that way about what you read, but that's as far as it goes.
Do I need a thicker skin? Or do I just need to remember to focus on what I'm trying to say? I believe it's probably a little bit of both.
Recently, Agent Brucie wrote an essay entitled "Why I Don't Game Anymore" on his website. I found it to be both revealing and depressing. On the one hand, I share many of his experiences (though not all) and on the other hand, he sounds very bitter and I am anything but-- so how did our experiences differ?
"Gaming" is a generic term for Role Play Gaming, or RPG'ing. For many of us, it started with the classic Dungeons and Dragons game, and among my peers it seems that around junior high is when we all got into it.
Gaming is making believe with your friends, just like you did when you were a kid-- only with slightly more adult themes and where there are rules written down in books to prevent the "I shot you! No you didn't! Yes I did!" arguments of childhood. Except they don't always, but some things never change.
Gaming is also an escape-- to the worlds of fantasy where one can pound out their frustrations on orcs, trolls, supervillains, monsters of every description, or that evil pharmacist down the street. It's a way to relax, to indulge, to express oneself and even to discover new things about oneself.
I started gaming in junior high; I discovered this "Dungeons and Dragons" thing and invited myself along to a lunch-hour game. By the end of it, I was making up a character. And I gamed most lunch hours with that group; we would request a classroom from one of our teachers and game quietly in there.
We never gamed over weekends; it was just something we did at school. Any gaming I did extra-curricularly was sporadic. It wasn't until high school, where I started a different group, that I began to really pursue it. These were dedicated gamers; no mere junior-high experimenters, these guys had SEEN and DONE and knew what they wanted.
That summer, the summer between Grade 10 and Grade 11, I would bike from my place in Edgemont down to my buddy's house in Brentwood, about a 7k ride, to game ALL DAY, EVERY DAY. We all made our way there, and gamed like mushrooms in his cool dark basement for a whole summer. And we did everything together; we went en masse to our first sci-fi convention, where I met yet OTHER gamers...and so on.
Next year, Grade 11, was when I started to drift away-- and by that, I mean emotionally, as a person. I began seeking to use gaming as an escape from depression; teen angst plus hormonal imbalance making my life an otherwise unliveable hell.
I skipped a lot of school to game. Or rather, gaming was what I did when I skipped school; the only way, it seemed, that I could bear what currently passed for my life.
Do I regret skipping all that school? Yes. Over time, I began to feel sick every time I blew off a day; like a junkie who over-uses his drug of choice, the "highs" got fewer and farther between until I was gaming just to feel "normal." And always in the back of my mind was "where is your life going? What are you going to do?"
Eventually, I shook it off. Was gaming the problem? No. As I said, it was what I did to escape; the factors that led to me NEEDING to escape were the problem.
In fact, if not for gaming, I might not be here to write this. I'm serious; that was a hard time for me and the "escape" of roleplaying made it bearable.
And, as inevitably happens when one survives one's teen years, I grew up. And you know what? I still game. Oh sure, I can't do marathon week-long sessions of all-night junk food frenzy roleplaying, but I've had a once-a-week game with Mrs. M (Yes, my WIFE games. I realize that married gamers are in the minority, but here we are.) and our friend Rob since 1995.
We game responsibly. We game socially. And we are interested about our games, and we talk "in character" about things we'd like to do in game-- but it never stops us from experiencing life.
I took a basic ballet course because of gaming. I had a character who was a dancer and thought it would be neat to learn. Gaming also gave me the confidence (and practice!) to pursue acting as a career.
Yes, it has a dark, addictive side. When one finds oneself spending more time pretending than living, it's time for a reality check. And when one is seeking to escape rather than face one's problems and make a serious change in one's life, perhaps it's time for someone else to stage an intervention.
I don't regret being a gamer. I don't regret spending time pretending; it didn't impact me socially-- I'm still one of the most social people I know. I have several circles of friends, a wife and son, I travel, I continue to pursue education in several interests-- and yet I still game.
So, I have to say that gaming isn't a problem. The problem lies in what one chooses to do with it.
Either I have a short attention span or my ability to juge my situation is lacking. I was about to walk out of the house yesterday, wearing my old brown jeans and a baggy t-shirt.
Mrs. M stopped me. "Are you going out in that?" she asked. Not a judgement, just a reminder. And I stopped cold.
Did I not JUST post an entry about changing my image? Did I not just rave about how inspired I was, to have a goal for improving my self-image, to put some effort into how I looked? To raise the bar, kick things up a notch, BAM?
"...I WANT to clean up my house, re-arrange things, and "straighten up" -- pardon the pun-- my wardrobe. I want to get rid of all my schleppy jeans and baggy sweaters and create a frickin' LOOK. Take some friggin' PRIDE in myself."
Was I kidding myself? Or did I just stop paying attention?
In my mind, I was only going across town to drop off a cheque in someone's mailbox. I wasn't even going to be out of the CAR that long. So in my mind, not worth dressing up.
But that's the whole point; leaving the house? WORTH dressing up. (Except this morning when I had to return two DVD's to the video store before they opened. I'm not even really awake at that time; I'm not going to dress up for THAT. So yeah, there's a little bit of leeway here.)
So I hauled my butt back upstairs, threw off those old jeans and comfy t-shirt, and put together an outfit I could wear outside and be ready for any occasion. I chose basic black. I made sure my hair was coiffed with product. I even used a little fragrance ('Spray, Delay, then Walk Away') and -- yes -- I went back for a second juge.
Feeling confident now, I went downstairs. Yes! The look on Mrs. M's face told me all I needed to know. I can create a "Wow" when I want to.
(I got a WOW from Mrs. ACK later on, although she was overwhelmed by the extensive use of BLACK. Well, that's what happens when you don't have a wardrobe YET. I'm working on it. "One does want a hint of color." -- Albert, The Birdcage.)
Point is, I looked good and I felt good and I had made the effort to follow my own damn advice-- even if I needed to be reminded to do it. But that reminder served, in turn, to remind me why I wanted to make the effort in the first place: It just FEELS good. Taking the mundane and making it just a little better. Making just that much more effort. It's like working out; while you probably won't DIE if you don't, you feel so much better about yourself when you do.
And although there could be some argument as to just how much fashion and a decent hairdo can affect your health, I'll say this: It sure as hell improves my mood. And that, as Martha herself might say, is a Good Thing.
I just have to remind myself that when I have these ideas, I really should follow through with them. Practice what I preach. Because practice, kids, really does make perfect.
Had my inaugural blogmeet of cowtownbloggers last night. As expected, it was pretty much just me, Mikeintosh, and Rook. Good thing I followed my own advice and made sure there would be at least one other person there that I knew.
God bless Mike of Sublimate (God, ANOTHER ONE) for showing up. He was quiet and reserved but stuck it out with my endless manic yattering in the face of tag-team caffeinated encouragement on Mikeintosh and Joel's part.
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| Joel (Rook) and Mike (Mikeintosh). |
In this case, blogging. These are all people with something to say, even if only to tell us about their day. Does it follow that they would divest themselves of the virtual trappings of cyberspace and come to meet the other faces behind these words on a screen? Apparently not.
Understand that this is not an accusation of any kind; merely a disappointment for someone who, like me, is intrigued at getting to know the people behind the words.
The evening was very fun, however; I had prepared myself for just doing coffee with Mikeintosh, which would have been fine-- and then Rook showed up. And I need to tell you all right now, the man can keep a conversation going. He is the one you want to invite to your parties. The guy you find in the kitchen discussing anything from Sartre to SpongeBob. He is a Social Coordinator's DREAM.
Oh, yes-- I am the social coordinator for cowtownbloggers. What does that mean? It means I set a time and date and say "Hey, show up." Not too too much effort on my part-- but someone has to do it, and given my fascination with people who share my interests, I'm more than happy to fill the role.
I wasn't too sure what Mike made of all the insanity. Rook, Mikeintosh and I all had the benefit of knowing each other previously; I hope that Mike didn't find it too cliquish. He stayed, though, and occasionally interspersed his quiet, personal thoughts-- and didn't leave until the rest of us did, which to me conveys at the very least a lack of discomfort.
There was one harrowing moment where Rook choked on some tea-- and then blacked out. It was one of those moments-- the freaky kind-- where for a half-second I thought he was joking only to realize to my horror that he was not.
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| Michael (Agent M) and Mike (Mike). |
Now that most of my peers are in their thirties, the tiny little flashes of the Grim Reaper that appear, burning into the retinas of your mind with images of your red-faced friend slumped forward, chin on his chest, beard matted with drool-- these are moments where you get a glimpse into the chinks in your so-called immortality armour.
Profound insights of this nature can be yours, all by attending an innocuous little blogmeet.
Therefore, I would definitely mark this down as a success-- if only because three out of the four people seemed to DEFINITELY enjoy themselves, with the other person being at least in the "I didn't hate it" category. And hey-- a near-death experience with no lasting consequences other than the momentary loosening of my bladder makes for a well-rounded night out.
And yes, I will do this again. I think once a month is a good amount-- and if more people aren't interested, I at least can have fun with the folks I know, right?
I got the biggest happy warm feeling today.
No, I didn't wet my pants in public.
It was this innocuous thing: Mikeintosh drew The Spanker from my online comic, Diaperman. He and I had created the character a long time ago; and after our big fight of a few years ago he stopped drawing the comic.
Since then I've had other artists drawing it, but it hasn't been the same; when you create something with another person, there's always something of them that is part of its foundation.
Recently, I asked Mike for help with the newest script I'm writing for Diaperman. I had all the facts for the script, but none of the funny; it used to be that the jokes would come from Mike and I spitballing ideas back and forth-- I would tell the story that I had in mind and he would "riff" it, making jokes about it-- and I'd work those into the story. This would also set ME off, until we'd have whole joke storylines that I'd then have to pare down for the funny stuff but still keep a meat-and-potatoes plotline going.
Today, out of the blue, he drew The Spanker, the villain of the story, which we always identified as his "persona" while Diaperman was mine. In essence, it was cartoon Mike and cartoon Michael acting out wacky hijinks starring thinly-veiled sendups of our friends and other people we knew.
That all ended when Mike and I stopped speaking. I still did the comic, but it didn't have that two-wacky-friends-putting-one-over-on-the-world feel.
Then, today, he drew his character again. Out of the blue. And it made me feel...really, really good. He called it "revisiting an old friend." And that is very much how I felt upon seeing the drawing. It reminded me of how it used to be; the good parts of the fun and the sassiness of it all. And that made me feel inexplicably happy, gratified and sucky all at the same time.
It was almost like a return to innocence. And hey, Diaperman's all about innocence-- and The Spanker's constant frustration with such a naïve worldview. It was sharing the joke again-- a joke that we've been tentatively speaking bits of, little by little.
Today felt like a door opened. And I know that some of you out there, maybe even Mike himself, will say "For the love of GOD, man, it was just a DRAWING," but it meant a lot to me to see it. And I just wanted to share.
I'll post the drawing or a link to it when it's done. Just made me happy, is all. Zip-a-dee-friggin' DOO DAH.
In 1985, on the Friday of Thanksgiving Weekend, I left my high school, caught the bus downtown and boarded a Greyhound Bus to Red Deer, Alberta.
I was sixteen, and so TOTALLY adult because I had arranged a trip out of town all on my own, found my own transportation and arranged my own accomodation with a group of friends.
I was the CUTTING EDGE of independent. AW yeah.
I was even armed with snacks and cans of Root Beer from my cafeteria job at the school. Perks, kids.
Eighteen years ago today. WOW.
The event was NONCon-- the Albera Regional Science Fiction Convention. That magic time of yesteryear when going to a sci-fi con was a Big Deal. Where everyone wandered the halls in costume, where every other room was a fan club's room decorated in "theme", prompting one to visit after con programming shut down for the day; where evening socials and dances and contests made the entire hotel ring merry for three incredible days of fantasy and science fiction devotionals.
And also, where nine people can share one hotel room.
We were all around sixteen, and we were all poor. It's a kind of fun all its own.
And it was in that room of nine people including myself that I met Tony Whalen, aka Agent CK-- ACK for short.
I remember how we met; I heard the strains of Dire Straits' Money for Nothing blaring down the hall as, in through the open door to our room, walked some heavy-metal banger in aviator sunglasses, sprayed-on jeans, hair out to there (in Lionel Richie curls) and black Teen Turf t-shirt, carrying a suitcase, a ghetto blaster (remember when BIGGER was BETTER, kids?) and a wax skull on a black staff.
He was introduced as Steve's Friend Tony, the kind of introduction you get when you're at a party with too many people. All you need to remember is whose friend a guy is, and then you can ask your friend to remind you of his name later.
Within five minutes he had found out that five of us were ElfQuest fans and proudly proclaimed that the skull on his black staff was, in fact, an elf skull. Five of us growled, wolflike, at him-- which shut him up and made me laugh. I didn't think he was a dick-- just dumb. :) And besides, we outnumbered him.
The first night of the con was just rockin'. People to see and things to do. I remember hanging out in the ElfQuest suite which was put on by friends from Yorkton, Saskatchewan. And dancing. And greeting people. And milling about in the lobby. And drinking COPIOUS amounts of Root Beer.
By the end of the evening, Steve's Friend Tony was asking us about ElfQuest and if he could be an elf, too.
Ah, the bliss of sharing the game with the other kids.
Tony became "Quicksilver," (I was "Tempest" and Steve was "Whitefall" and so on) and we had a hell of a time, howling at the moon like wolves and swimming naked in the "clothing-optional" after-hours swimming pool.
It's funny how some friendships just RING immediately with the tolling bell of destiny. I was supposed to leave on Sunday, but by Sunday afternoon Steve's Friend Tony, now just Tony or Quicksilver, was telling me I had to stay over one more night. And I had only budgeted until Sunday; so he and Steve chipped in to "keep me" until Monday, when the three of us went back on the Greyhound together.
Tony would decided to "keep me" many times over our friendship; but it would take to long to tell. Suffice it to say that when one friend has a car and another friend doesn't, the friend WITH the car decides who gets a ride home and who stays over.
"I'm keeping you." How many times did I hear THAT?
Tony and I got into everything together. I was usually the one that went "Look, neat thing neat thing neat thing!" And generally I stayed with it longer than he did; although he was the one that introduced me to Star Trek fandom and, curiously, it was his enrollment into Broadcasting at Mount Royal College that gave me MY start in voice-over work.
(Most of what I've learned in professional voicing, kids, Tony and I did for FUN while he was at college.)
We did everything together for a while; always doin' stuff because he had the apartment and I just invited the gang over all the time. :) Sorry, bro. :) Then, as is inevitable, we went our separate ways with separate lives; always in touch, just not always frequently. It's a part of growing up; doing your own thing.
We got married about five years apart from each other, and were in each other's wedding party. He wore tights for mine and I dyed my hair blond for his. We knew each other's parents well enough to imitate them to each other. We fought-- sometimes over ridiculous things like how to hold a video camera properly (the guy at the video store TOLD ME it goes this way!) and, even when we weren't speaking to each other, somehow always managed to make up.
People thought we were brothers. It was a nose and eyebrows thing. And when we both married redheads, people thought ... well, I don't know what they thought except that it was weird. :)
We finish each other's sentences. We both have the same aptitude for video games and we remember the same music-- although our tastes vary a bit. And we each have a pipeline into the other's brain. I can hum one tiny bit of a tune and then the entire song leaps into Tony's head and won't go away. Same with annoying commercials.
Too, we always joked about how we'd be these old men, Statler and Waldorf-esque, living next door to each other and yelling at the damn kids to get off the lawn. And today, we live seven doors down from each other and can beam laser light from our laser pointers into each other's living rooms.
And today, it will have been eighteen years since the merry madness began. I bought Tony a ring to commemorate the event; it was from Toys "R" Us, and cost me a quarter from a vending machine. It says it all: I love you, in a cheesy, schmaltzy, cartoony way. But it's still a ring, still a symbol. And a great source of giggling.
So here's to you, Tony, my OTHER wife. And I'm thinking we still need to have t-shirts made:
"Yes, I'm married. No, not to HIM." With an arrow pointing at the other guy.
Happy Anniversary, buddy.
I wrote a murder mystery entitled "My Big Fat GEEK Wedding. We performed it last night. It entails a cast of geeky characters in attendance at a wedding reception, all of whom have a particular bent away from the mainstream.
The cast includes Aloe Vera, the hippie bride; Trent Razor, the Goth groom; C.B. Guy, the Comic Book geek and uncle of the bride; Farley Forsythe, a Star Wars geek; Billy Shattered, a Star Trek geek, and Muffy Winters, a total Buffy the Vampire Slayer geek.
The evening unfolds that Trent Razor, the sarcastic bastard, tries to separate Aloe Vera from her friends and family-- caustically insulting them as well as his new bride in the process-- and ends up dead.
Hilarity ensues.
This murder mystery is an example of a philosophy I came to just lately in my life: Make It Pay.
In 1995 I dropped out of the 9-to-5 world to work at home. I started with a small web business, also some acting, and added other bits of skilled labour as time went on.
For the longest time I was just doing what I did, trying to make ends meet but mostly surviving on Mrs. M's 9-to-5 income. Then Mrs. M, too, left the rat race to pursue her career as a full-time illustrator. And we had to figure out in a serious way how to keep our income-- well, incoming, as it were.
And so I began to form the basis of my philosophy. I realized that, to keep the ball rolling, I had to do more than I was doing-- but what? I cast about for things I could do, short of getting a paper route or working part-time at the 7-11.
For fun I made a website with a bunch of cartoons on it. And I updated it, just for my own interest's sake. And then Mrs. M started to get art commissions based on that site. And then I put up those commissions as prints, and they started to sell-- I added credit-card functionality to the site and they started to REALLY sell.
Hey, I thought, I just might be on to something here. I realized that I had done something I really enjoyed doing, just for its own sake-- and I'd found a way to make it pay.
I continued the experiment: Agent Mikeintosh and I did a funny little comic together. Just a little one-page ha-ha deal. And I pitched it to a magazine in the States-- and it sold. In fact, it sold six issues of little two to four page comics in cold, hard, American cash.
This idea is catching on, said I to myself. And that's when it gelled for me: Do what you love to do anyway, then find a way to make it pay.
So I began to do just that. The GEEK Wedding script is an example; easy enough for me to write a parody of sci-fi geekiness which has been my passion for lo these many years: all the characters are splinters of my own interests.
But factored into that was that Agent CK, I knew, had tons of Star Trek gadgets and thingies from his sad, sad life as a Trekkie. And I, O Best Beloved, had an actual Jedi costume that I had had made when we were all still anticipating the opening of The Phantom Menace.
And it occurred to me that ACK and I and shelled out some few dineros for these toys-- so why shouldn't they, somehow, make money for us? Lo and behold, a Star Trek and a Star Wars character get written into a script-- for which I get royalties every time it's performed. And for which I also get paid to perform IN it.
Makin' it pay.
I've been a Jedi before, too. Pitched myself as a wandering talent for a Bridge Brand FOOD expo-- yeah, they had divided the room into "Themes" and I was in the "futuristic" section-- who better than a Jedi? I made it pay.
And I'll keep making that costume pay until I can't anymore.
Then I'll get a new fun costume made, just for fun, and find a way to make THAT pay.
I also love comics. And I've been writing web-based ones for a while; and my partners and I have agreed to see if we can make THOSE pay.
All the while, doing stuff we'd like to do ANYway.
Look around you, Agents. If you ever get tired of what you do, ask yourself what you'd rather be doing, if you could do anything you wanted.
Then ask yourself how you, too, can Make It Pay.
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.
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| 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.
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.
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.
...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.
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
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 mother has a habit of involving herself in the Health Fad of the Week.
She'll hear a snippet on the news about antioxidants or Omega-3 fatty acids and suddenly she's calling and telling me to eat only fish and red peppers. Wait! Did I just SNEEZE? Obviously I need echinacea and royal queen bee jelly because sneezing CLEARLY denotes the Mongolian Upper Thyroid Flu.
No, I'm not exaggerating. I love you, Mom, but we've talked about this.
So a couple of months ago she got turned onto the Atkins Diet. She called me up and said, "Do this diet with me!"
Agents, I don't believe in diets. I don't believe in the health fads of whatever deprivation you're supposed to suffer THIS week in favor of losing weight. I believe in moderation, in watching what you eat, and regular exercise. I figured if I just kept it as real as possible, I could avoid the craziness most of North America seems to go through every year in the quest to lose a couple of pounds.
I also believe in education. To that end, (and since my mother had ALREADY bought me the "New Diet Revolution" book (available at your local Safeway and any bookstore)), I resolved to try this diet for its two-week induction period while reading about it.
Hey, it was only two weeks and it would stop my mom calling me every other day wondering if I was dead of Anthrax or... or... a virus I caught from my computer. So:
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| The week before I started Atkins. |
What Atkins boils down to is this: Carbs are bad.
What are carbs? Anything that breaks down into simple sugars in the body. Bread made with white flour or whole wheat flour, potatoes, rice, cereals, milk, pasta, and of course anything containing sugar.
Why are they bad?
Because (and I'm way simplifying here) carb sugars inhibit the conversion of fat to energy. Our bodies store fat as a reserve energy layer. The more sugar we eat, the less that fat layer gets converted. The less it gets converted, the more piles on and the fatter we get.
The 80's craze was to avoid fat at all costs. To avoid calories. This, according to Atkins, is actually an egregious error. We NEED fat. It IS our fuel source. All these "diet" drinks and what-have-yous contain less fat, sure-- but if you look at the nutrional breakdown, the carbs are right up there-- whether it's sweetened with aspartame or not, kids!-- and THOSE are what make it hard to lose weight.
So for two weeks I was limited to 20 grams of carbs a day. A DAY. And when you consider that one tiny chicken wing of KFC chicken is 11 grams of carbs, you may begin to see what I'm talking about.
I ate scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. (Meat, any kind of meat, is heartily endorsed by Atkins. Be prepared to be a carnivore when you get hungry.) I had tuna for lunch, with lettuce and cheddar cheese. For supper I had steak and grilled peppers, steamed broccoli-- heck, anything green.
It was difficult at first to let go of things like cereal (which I'd had every morning practically since BIRTH, Agents!) and convenience foods. In fact, I began to notice that almost anything convenient is almost all carbs. I had to give up fruit for a bit-- while good for you, it contains tons of simple sugars which are a no-no during the two weeks of Induction I was doing.
The purpose of such a restricted carb regimen during these first two weeks (no, the rest of the diet isn't like that) is to convert your body from a sugar-burner (which most North Americans are) to a fat-burner-- the way nature intended. By denying yourself sugar, your body goes looking for that reserve of fat energy and starts burning FAT instead-- a state called "Ketosis."
You're supposed to buy these little strips at your local pharmacy called "Ketostix." Every couple of days you pee on them and they turn a colour that tells you how much fat you're burning. It takes about two weeks to get into SERIOUS fat burn.
And folks, if you cheat during the induction, you have to start all over again. I know because my mom, dear health fanatic that she is, didn't last TWO DAYS. (I made it through the whole two weeks without cheating, thankyouverymuch.)
Yes, it was hard at first, dealing with the cravings-- until I realized they were all mental. By which I mean, they were a force of habit, not of physical withdrawal. I wanted a Slurpee but I drank water instead. I wanted donuts. I wanted something BAD for me that would give me PLEASURE. But the only reason I wanted them is because I knew I couldn't just go out and have them. And so I was able to pop open a can of tuna and drown my sorrows in fish, by which time any craving would have passed.
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| The second week of Atkins. Those pants? PVC. Size 36. (I WAS a size 40.) |
At the end of one week, I weighed myself and I had lost ten pounds.
The second week was all gung-ho for me; I complained loudly when nummy treats were passed around but only in the spirit of doing combat with fat on my body. "I can't eat you today, donut, but by god my righteous anger at this self-denial is only elevating my ketosis level!"
People looked at me funny for some reason.
Finally, the second week was over. I weighed in again: I had lost another eight pounds. EIGHTEEN POUNDS, Agents, in two weeks.
I was not "obese" by any stretch of the imagination-- but I did have fat that I wasn't using. And it shrank off me, leaving me feeling better and more fit and with more energy than I was used to. In short, the diet worked.
I had said to myself, "only two weeks," and so I was prepared to go back to my old habits-- I could taste the Slurpee now!-- only to find that I didn't feel the need to. Two weeks had taught me a lot about what goes into our bodies here in this culture, and it gave me pause. Did I really WANT the sugar, or was it just a habit? I chose water instead.
Now, some months later, I have kept the weight off, I still work out, AND I have the occasional Slurpee (it is summer, after all. It's tradition.) But I KNOW what I'm eating. I watch it. I'm careful.
And hey-- if I find I'm going soft again, it'll only take two weeks to get me back on track.
...an actor's life for me.
I'd just like to take a moment to give thanks that I have the opportunity to act. To be an actor. I don't know if I have that ineffable "it" that makes one truly great-- in my opinion, there are many stars in Hollywood that don't, but they're famous so what do I know-- but it doesn't matter to me as long as I get to keep doing this thing I love so much.
I wanted to be an actor ever since I was eleven. An agent gave me his card when my brother and I were flying on a plane from Toronto. We were making small talk to pass the time, seated next to each other as we were, and he asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I heard myself say "an actor." I didn't think about the response, it just happened. Later I wondered why I didn't use the then-common response of "a policeman" or "a fireman," but went straight to the Performing Arts. This response surprised the man and he gave me his card, telling me to look him up when I got to Toronto in about seven years.
No, Agents, I never did keep that card nor did I move to Toronto when I was eightteen. But I had the acting bug, and so act I did.
My first acting job was an accident. I had taken Improv courses at the Loose Moose Theatre and heard about the next play they were putting on, "Mutiny On The Bounty." (Yes, Mutiny as an improv play. Go fig.) and I thought, "Hey, I could learn a lot from these guys if I worked with lights or sound or something while they worked."
I went to the first rehearsal, ready to volunteer to be a gofer when the director said, "Anyone here want to act?" My hand shot up, and that was that.
I was terrible, by the way. I played Midshipman Heyward, I had the notable lines of "SODOMY?" and "Why do they call them sperm whales, sir?" and I couldn't keep from smiling when I said them. I was sixteen and I WAS ON STAGE! And I couldn't quite believe it.
Since then I've settled down a bit, and discovered the joys of Film and Television over the joys of the Stage. There seem to be more egos on the stage, the community seems to be smaller, and the work seems to be more...odd. Maybe I'm just too meat-and-potatoes to pretend I'm a dog in a Franz Kafka adaptation, but there you are.
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| Respect mah authoritah. |
The smell of makeup and hairspray; the constant click and chatter from the headsets that all the Officials wear-- from Wardrobe to Director, they're all in contact via walkie-talkie; greeting people you've worked with before. We're all equals, in a sense, in that we are all working toward one production. And there's the unspoken rule that if you're an ass, you won't get hired back. So there's a politeness and a willingness (if a little forced at times) to get along.
The best thing about acting is that you're something different every time. I've been an RCMP officer, a baggage handler, a pipeline inspector, a dad, Humphrey Bogart... it's a thrill. I get to play dress-up, and everyone plays right along WITH me, until it's time to call it a wrap and go home. And the parting isn't hard, because you know that somewhere down the line, you'll be working with these folks again.
You get to meet people. I was John Cleese's stand-in on "Rat Race," which was filmed for the most part right here in Calgary and area. Whoopi Goldberg, Rowan Atkinson, Jon Lovitz, Seth Green... got to say "hi" and shake hands with these people and most importantly, to watch them work. Fascinating stuff. (And y'know what? They're just people. They make all these movies, but they're just people.)
|
| Hey, looks like you got a pipeline obstruction. |
Yes, there is a lot of "hurry up and wait." There's a lot of sitting on the set bored out of your mind while they set up the next shot-- so bring a book. But here's the thing-- you're SITTING ON THE SET. You're on the very spot that will be shown on film. Regardless of whether YOU will be seen onscreen or not, you ARE THERE. That's a tremendous thrill for me. Not to mention, as I said before, watching people work. Watching everyone, not just the stars. Actually seeing how a movie gets made. How the effects work. How they cheat the camera to produce just the right angle. How they can turn a July back alley into a December one overnight.
Acting is magic. The world that accompanies it is a fantasy-- and sometimes I wake up inside this dream and worry about paying bills and where my next paycheque is coming from-- but never, never would it occur to me to quit. Because nothing beats the thrill.
As I write this I have two commercials airing nationally on television-- one for WestJet, and one for Shaw Cable, with another one on the way; and all I can think about is when I'm going to get my next fix, and what am I going to be doing next time?
It's all about the anticipation.
Wanna be an actor? Sure, go for it. It may work out for you, it may not. Get yourself an agent, LISTEN to your agent, and always always ALWAYS be professional. Get in to your audition, get OUT of your audition, smile and say thank you. Take classes, no matter how good you think you are. Expand, and be flexible. NEVER complain to anyone except your agent-- they will handle complaints for you. Do your best at all times, and try to leave the impression that you are easy to work with. The rest is how you look, and a little bit of talent.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go call my agent.
I just got back from a 9-day summer vacation. From August 5th to the 14th, I was away from computers, technology, hell, CIVILIZATION.
What a great feeling that is. Spend all your days around computers, and you really get to appreciate being "unplugged" for a while.
We went to a cabin out on a lake in Manitoba. Dorothy Lake, if you're interested. But the point is that it was a cabin outside of the city, with amenities like electricity and indoor plumbing for comfort, but no computers or television.
In a word? NICE.
Remember when, as a child, those of us in Generation X used to spend days outside in the summer and time seemed to last forever? Each day was more golden than the next and summer seemed stretch onward toward infinity?
This was like that. Our days consisted of reading, going to the beach, swimming, eating, eating JUNK, and playing all those fun little games you play when there's no TV at night. Scrabble, Guesstures, Trivial Pursuit. It was just a TOTAL decompression relax.
And yeah, I began to feel "the pinch" after about five days of not checking my email or reading my friends' blogs-- but I forced myself not to think about it, like an addict looking for his next fix needs to put his mind somewhere else.
In those sunshiney days of swimming and eating until we couldn't move, I drifted into an almost trancelike observational phase where everything around me suddenly took on new meaning as, rather than take it for granted, I began to focus on it.
Things I noticed:
- My wife is beautiful. She radiates life, prosperity, and unassuming charm flashes from her lips with every smile. Watching her go about mundane tasks like holding our baby or simply dipping her toes in the water at the edge of the dock suddenly became windows peering into the angelic nature of her soul. I was and am humbled by this person I share my life with. She is an angel, with just enough impish deviltry in her to keep her fascinating.
- My family is important to me. I would watch my father barbecueing or swimming with my young cousin and think, "that's my Dad. That's my father out there. Geez, we're a lot alike." and then realizing how much I enjoy being with him. It wasn't always that way growing up-- which makes it so much more meaningful now.
- I still have untapped potential. Having the space to relax and think gave me the chance to prioritize the existing patterns in my life and to make room for some new ones. I want to write more. I want to create more. And, by god, I actually do have talent in a few creative arenas. I should exercise it more, and work at it until it becomes a GREAT talent.
That was what came to me during the introspective analysis phase of the vacation. The rest was just simple, hedonistic enjoyment of pleasure for pleasure's sake.
There was a doe (a deer, a female deer) that came to the front yard of the cabin and almost let me touch her. I stared into her eyes for a good long while before she moved on. She wasn't in a zoo, she wasn't in a "habitat." She was in HER habitat, and was investigating US. And for that reason, she was more "real" to me.
A Great Bald Eagle perched in the tree just off our balcony one day. Those birds are huge. And yes, they ARE majestic. They are the lions of the sky-- regal and fierce-looking and just fascinating when one gets the opportunity to see them up close.
In a more pop-culture vein, if you read my Slurpee entry you'll note that Winnipeg, Canada is the Slurpee Capital of the World. Well, the 7-11 that was right by my Dad's house in Winnipeg (the Killarney Street location if you ever visit) had the highest sales of Slurpees in all of Winnipeg. And since Winnipeg has the highest sales of Slurpees in the world, I can say that I have stood in the 7-11 that sells the most Slurpees on the planet. Truly a humbling pop culture experience. I even got a bumper sticker to commemorate the event (see below).
In closing, I'd like to point out that the Summer Vacation is a ritual everyone should indulge in if at all possible. Unplug. Remove yourself from your circumstances. Remove yourself from the distractions of "productivity." It'll be frustrating for some, but well worth it.
Yes, as you can see, I'm updating and upgrading the look of the 'Files.
Naturally, of course, I just HAD to start this process JUST before going away on vacation.
I'll be in Manitoba, at Star Lake, at a rented cabin with Mrs. M, Agent P (little m), and Dad and Mrs. M senior. We will be back on the 14th to resume our progressive blogging change.
Huzzah!
M.
We had a gift horse, Agents. No WAY we were gonna look it in the mouth.
So, giddy with happiness, we began to shop for cars. This was fairly easy-- we live just down the street from a major Auto Mall, so there's no shortage of test-driveability going on.
Agent ACK, who was on vacation, volunteered to come with us and lend us his expertise (as he had JUST leased a new Toyota RAV 4.) Mrs. ACK joined us as well, so we were well armed with facts and figures as we prepared to do our Due Diligence Shop-Around Comparison.
First stop: Honda. We had heard that the "big 5" dealers in terms of quality and safety were no longer the likes of Ford, Dodge, Oldsmobile and the like. No, the Japanese models were de rigueur in terms of mechanical lastability, which was our major buying concern. (After driving a 1991 Dodge Spirit, one gets a little paranoid about one's automobile's staying power, Agents.)
Immediately I didn't like Honda for two reasons: Smokey. Bob.
That's right, Smokey Bob is one of those dyed-in-the-wool Alberta Car Salesmen who'll put his arm around you, fix you with a yellowed, rheumy eye and grin with nicotine-brown teeth and tell you how you and "the little lady" ought to see yourselves in this nice car, all things being equal and you and he see eye-to-eye because you're menfolk, don'cha know.
Holding my breath to avoid his aroma and listening to the voice of forty years' smoking rasp on in my ear, I had a mad urge to scream: "I wet my pants and wear dresses and can't go out without my mommy's permission because I'm a bad boy!"
Yeah, it's a non-sequitur. But it's also the verbal equivalent of gnawing off my own arm to get away from the trap that was Smokey Bob. I'm not like you, Smokey. I don't want to BE like you. Don't hold the door open for me. Don't put your arm around my shoulder. And don't assume I'm going to like your off-color jokes just because I have a penis, you ancient throwback to the fifties-redneck-days bastard.
So anyway. Drove the Civic and the Accord. Two down.
Next was Toyota. Talked with Ryan, the same salesman who handled Mr. and Mrs. ACK's recent transaction. They had nothing but praise for him-- and he was quite cool. He was our age or younger, friendly but not too friendly, and most of all, casual. No pressure whatsoever. So we muchly enjoyed test-driving the Corolla and the Camry, by gum, and even got my MOM in to test-drive an Echo. She's gonna come back in the fall to pick it up, she says. Ryan had a good day that day.
Then came Nissan. I had had a Micra waaaay back in 1990, and it was a good little car. So we drove the Sentra, and that was nice. However, we had to have them PAGE a salesman for fifteen minutes just to get any service whatsoever-- had we not been driven to the dealership (the one dealership we don't have down the street!) by Agent ACK, I'd have walked out on such sloppy service. OH yeah. Watch me vote with my FEET on how sucky the suckitude of Stadium Nissan in Calgary is. Screw, as they say, you guys.
So now it was decision time!
Right away my Dad, the financier, put the kibosh on the higher-end sedans like the Camry and the Accord. A little outta his price range. That was fine-- although he hadn't really given us a price range in the first place (why do people never set any boundaries until you bump up against them? It's the same in contract work for clients, too-- but that's a whole Rant unto itself.), we had enjoyed all our test-drives.
We nixed the Nissan partly because of the TERRIBLE service, and partly because the dealership wasn't handy to our neighborhood. There's nothing more excruciatingly boring than taking your car into your dealership for servicing and having nothing to do because you've got no car for 2-4 hours.
So okay: After a week of test-driving and comparing brochures, it was down to two cars: The Toyota Corolla and the Honda Civic. So Marci and I sat down one evening with a highlighter pen and went through, point by point, the option packages on these two vehicles. Turns out the Corolla offered more, and was WAY cheaper to boot. Plus we liked Ryan so much more than Smokey Bob. Plus the ACKs had bought a Toyota (and Agent ACK has owned Toyotas since he was 17) So there we had it: The Toyota Corolla would be our Car Of Choice.
And then we had to haggle. I DESPISE haggling. I was born and raised in North America, and I just want to go in and have the price be the price and then just be done with it.
But no. My father is a financial wizard; this man can make money sit up and beg, roll over, and do tricks before tucking itself into a progressive RRSP. And he wanted me to haggle.
Trouble was, Toyota has something called "Access Pricing." Long and short of it is, they don't haggle. The price is the price. Well, Dad M had a few things to say about that-- "price fixing is illegal," being one of them. And so for a week I went back and forth on the phone with Ryan saying the deal would fall through if they wouldn't knock off some magical number that my Dad had fixed in his head. $271.00, or the cost of a Dash Kit upgrade.
Ryan said Toyota wouldn't. I said Dad wouldn't pony up if this couldn't be met. Ryan told me that was too bad. My Dad told me to go to another dealership. Since I had no car to drive, I wasn't too keen on going all over town just to go through the same spiel at each place.
At this point, I was at the breaking point. All I wanted was the car that was OFFERED to me, goddammit, why was this turning into such a pain in the ass?
Doing a Cost Benefit Analysis, (something my Dad taught me to do by the way), I realized that the pain of dealing with this situation was worth more than the car was. I told my dad, with some regret, that if he would walk away from a deal over too much stress then I, too, should walk away from this deal with him over my stress about it.
His response: "Okay, good luck."
Well, that was a wrist-slitter. Now I had no car, no deal, and no happiness. I wanted to blow my own head off.
I slept on it, and in the morning realized that the whole thing was foolishness. I was NOT going to lose out on this deal just because of McAdam obstinacy-- mine, or my father's. I phoned him and told him I wanted to go ahead with this deal and that they were willing to come down in price over at Toyota.
Tickety-boo, the deal was back on. I resolved that I would pay the $271.00 MYSELF if they wouldn't deal. Just to get this matter closed and in the bag.
Now all we had to do was just go in and buy it. Simple, right? An afternoon's lark and voila.
But no. OH no. That would be too SIMPLE.
It started innocently enough: Mrs. M and I went in to fill out forms and sign some papers with Trent, the guy in Accounting at Charlesglen Toyota. Mrs. M and I gave our information, and since Dad M was our primary financier, all we needed was for Toyota to send him some papers to sign. These were triplicate forms, so they couldn't be faxed-- he had to sign the papers themselves.
- Snag 1: My Dad lived in Winnipeg at the time. The papers would need to be sent to him there.
- Snag 2: My Dad would be at a conference in Halifax on the week in question.
Well, that was no problem-- the papers would be sent to his hotel in Halifax. We phoned his secretary in Winnipeg and got all the information. Huzzah! The papers would be sent and signed and returned, and we would have our car sometime around Wednesday of the following week.
Meantime, we changed our insurance over to the new car-- we managed to get the new car's serial number from Ryan-- and waited with bated breath for the papers to return.
Wednesday rolled around. No news. I phoned Trent and asked how the paper sending had gone. Turns out he hadn't sent them. "Pardon?" I asked. Apparently there was some sort of mix-up and he hadn't sent the papers to Halifax-- even after all the trouble we went to to get the address and impress upon him that time was a factor.
At this point, you understand, our suburban family of 3 had NO car whatsoever. My mother, bless her, gave us the use of her 1987 Dodge Aries K car, baby blue in color; it was nicknamed "Buck," as that is what it did after every single bump in the road. This car also ONLY had AM radio, meaning Buck was permanently stuck in the 50's, 60's and 70's musically. Buck also had bench seats, which meant that whoever was driving set the tone for how far the seat went back-- and the seat was broken, which meant it really only fit my mother and therefore when I drove it my knees were somewhere up by my ears.
Factor all this in and understand that every day's delay in getting my new car was slowly eroding my soul into a mass of bruised knees, wrist-slitting 70's ballads and the everpresent smell of Febreeze.
Now back to my story:
A week had gone by and I was beginning to become antsy. Deals like this could fall through at any point until the car was in one's hot little hands, and I began to fear it would do just that.
My Dad emailed me on Thursday to tell me he'd received the papers and that they were unacceptable. I phoned him to ask why, and it turns out that Trent, the accounting guy, had added several upgrade packages onto the price that I had SPECIFICALLY TURNED DOWN. Dad was furious; he was going to turn the deal down.
After all this, the idea that Dad might pull the plug because of an IDIOT working at a car dealership made me crazed. INSANE, I tell you.
I phoned Trent immediately: "What's going on, Trent? You assured me these would be sent out two weeks ago and they weren't. Now they've been sent out and they're incorrect," I said, keeping a tight rein on my voice and my temper.
Excuses and obfuscation followed, culminating with Trent claiming that he thought I had to come in and sign MORE papers.
"How can that be, Trent?" I asked, evenly if tightly. "I was IN YOUR OFFICE signing papers. Don't you think if there were more to sign you could have told me that at the time?"
"I don't think I like your tone, Mike."
I told him I'd speak to his manager about it and I got on the phone so fast I thought my numerical keypad would catch fire. I got a machine on the other end. I spoke in VERY clear, businesslike tones about how my deal for a $22,000 automobile was about to fall through due to one employee's neolithic incompetence (A phrase which here means, a level of unsatisfactory conduct only explained by having the brain of a Cro-Magnon man from the Neolithic Period.