Zombie Diarrhea Heart, or, On Surviving February (Working title. C’mon, like you can think of something better.)

Kitsilano, March 2012. Lisa Norton, last uninfected survivor of the Great Vancouver Zombie Plague, stands emaciated yet still alive in her darkened apartment, scanning her boarded-up windows for cracks of light, for signs of weakness. All seems secure. Supplies, however, are running low. And even if this weren’t her last eight dollar mulltigrain cracker from the local Capers Market (a proud subsidiary of Whole Foods®), even if she wasn’t down to licking the inside of the goat cheese package and actually eating those pickled beets at the back of the fridge, what hope would she have of survival? Very little - and perhaps it’s better that way; after all, what kind of existence is this? She’s out of wine, she’s running low on lip balm, and no one’s here to tell her how fabulously silky her hair is these days. Also she’s dying of starvation. The way she looks at it, there are three possible outcomes. One, she stays here and starves to death. Two, she ventures out in search of food, and the creatures tear her to pieces. Three, they come and get her.

Or…are there any other survivors out there?

Once again, she huddles under the blanket that obscures the glow of her computer screen and starts tapping out faint hopes of rescue, or if not that, at least of the comfort that will come from another human voice, across however many miles, saying, I am here. I am alive. They didn’t get me…

Granville Street, Stanley Industrial Alliance Theatre, two weeks earlier…

Our heroine is – okay, I am working on Calendar Girls for The Arts Club Theatre (my first Vancouver stage gig!), which comes with the rare and exciting perks of working in an airless, previously flooded basement of a (beautiful) haunted old theatre, with some of B.C.’s finest and most contagious.

Our cast has, over the past month, been hit by strep throat, bronchitis, PNEUMONIA (kudos to Kerry Sandomirsky for trooping through a two-show day after spending the night in a hospital oxygen tent), various aches pains and viruses, and a stomach flu.

From what I gather, the latter is a particularly fascinating challenge for a performer who has to take her clothes off onstage. Gives new meaning to hoping you don’t have a shitty show. Har har. (Don’t pretend you aren’t impressed with the sophistication and subtlety of my humour.) Alternately, if properly harnessed, loose bowels may give one a power unknown to the common, healthy stage performer, as in, for instance, “If this is a lousy audience, so help me God, I’ll poop on them.” I envy you, Shirley, you silver-haired diarrhoenian goddess. (Who didn’t actually utter the above phrase, but odds-on thought it once or twice at the height of her symptoms.)

An “Inside the Tourist’s Studio” GLIMPSE INTO THE PROCESS: The Skeptical Tourist tells us, “While writing the above paragraph, I briefly struggled to find the right adjective to describe my castmate and her arguably enviable affliction. After a brief visit to the diarrhea (alt. “diarrhoea”) Wikipedia page (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diarrhea) looking for a suitable turn of phrase, I decided that A: there was nothing there worth quoting, and thus was inspired to invent my own word; and B: that the alternate spelling – avec “o” - lent itself far more readily to images of Greek mythology. Hence ‘diarrhoenian’.” Hey, kids, this isn’t all fun and games over here you know. I mean it wasn’t, even before the zombie apocalypse.)

Back to the backstage: you know things are bad when looking on the bright side consists of saying, “Hey guys, at least that lice scare turned out to be nothing.” (True story.)

I have somehow, inexplicably, miraculously, knock-on-wood-ulously, avoided all of this, other from a slight case of (likely non-show related, totally treatable) chlamydia and a (possibly Polar Bear Swim-related) head cold that I started rehearsal with in January, that I SWEAR TO GOD didn’t start it all. We’ve designated the youngest member of the cast (and official union scapegoat) Patient Zero, and we haven’t yet murdered him and buried him in the yard only because he’s pretty okay in the show. We keep him in a cage and let him out for his scenes and then poke at him with sharp objects from time to time. He doesn’t seem to mind.

As for me, so far I’ve gotten through with vitamins, a neti pot (that fascinating, perverse little device whereby you shoot hot saltwater through your nose and watch your snot run out), hard liquor, and a prayer. This week though, I’ve decided to switch things up and go with the experimental cold-prevention method of insomnia and long walks in the pouring rain.

SEE? THIS GUY LOVES HIS NETI POT!

I have family in town, but don’t blame the six-hour walks on them: as a conscientious host, it’s entirely my idea and moral obligation to drag them around town on “scenic” walks even if it’s cold and rainy and the views are obscured by fog. “Okay, look. I know you were supposed to visit me here last July, and that I ended up borrowing money from you to fly to Toronto for some auditions instead, and that you changed those non-refundable tickets to now, only to arrive in the rainiest week of the year…but we are walking on the motherfucking beach! There are mountains over there, I’m telling you! Squint a little and you can sort of make them out. Okay, just close your eyes and I’ll describe them to you. Honest to God last week was SO nice.

“All right. That’s it…

“Kerry spent the night in an oxygen tent, you lazy bitches! Shirley has diarrhea, for God’s sake! DIARRHEA! DiarrhOea, even – with an O! Did you catch that? Just in case you, or anyone reading my blog, missed it…diarrhea!!! Check the Wikipedia page; that is not fun. Now stop shivering, Private. I mean….um, Mom. And if you get stuck in the mud again, I’m leaving you behind.”

A strange side note: When I cancelled that afore-mentioned July visit to head off auditioning, it led, in a round-about way, to my landing the plum supporting role of Edith on Bomb Girls, the WWII show I shot that’s just been okayed for another season. But making that trip was not an easy call for our usually decisive Tourist: it was another long-shot that led me there, I was dead broke and trying to get catering shifts, and had just booked a radio spot for 7-11 which I would have to turn down. Plus, yes, I’d have to make that fun “Um, maybe don’t come visit…P.S. Can I borrow plane fare?” phone call, and take a trip that possibly led to absolute zero.

If that story in itself isn’t wildly fascinating and inspirational enough to make you puke…I recently came across the copy for the 7-11 ad I turned down and realized that the role I’d auditioned for and booked was EDITH THE CHICKEN. I’d out-clucked the competition, booked the gig, turned it down, agonized over it…and eventually traded Edith the chicken for Edith the Bomb Girl. Now is that weird or what? Or do I just look and sound like an obvious Edith? Okay by me.

Also on the recently-survived list: Valentine’s Day. Although I only say “survived” cause that’s how everyone else puts it, when referring to hideous single lepers such as myself. In reality, I don’t mind Valentine’s Day. I really hated it when I was in a relationship, truth be told, and discovered its true nature: Let’s Compare Our Boyfriends Day. “Sooooo…..what did your sweetie get you for Vaaaalentiiiine’s?”, they’d say, just itching to tell me what stupid thing their guy had gotten them, and I’d mutter something about us not really believing in it, or making a big deal about it, that maybe we'd go to dinner or something but how he did nice things for me all the time (which was always at least mostly true with a slim majority of the men that I’ve been with) and they would manage a smile and say, yeah you’re right, it’s a Hallmark holiday anyway… and after the thought bubble appeared over their heads, clearly reading “Boy, is Lisa’s boyfriend ever a jerk, I give it a month”, they’d turn to each other and say, “Well MARK got me a diamond ring!” “Oh yeah? That’s sweet. MIKE got ME a live panda and taught it to dance my favourite ballet. Oh, and it’s wearing a diamond ring. AND he’s taking me to the Dominican. I love unicorns!”

Man, bitches is whack.

And when I have tried to play along it turned out I was doing it wrong, I guess ‘cause when I have exchanged gifts or done stuff with boyfriends for Valentine’s it’s always been of a more, uh, private nature. “Soooo, what did you and your sweetie do for Vaaalen-tiiiine’s?” “Oh. Well, first I got down on my hands and knees, and he –” And then they either didn’t want to hear any more, or seemed a little too interested. Perverts.

SO, now that I’m single, Valentine’s Day just slides off me like water off a duck’s back. For about half the day. And then everyone starts saying “Hey, Duck, how’s that water treating you, huh?” “Sorry about all that water all over you, duck, this must be really hard for you, being a poor lonely single duck and all.” And then I start to wonder…oh my god, maybe I AM upset. I thought I was okay, but maybe this Valentine’s is actually the hardest day OF MY LIFE. Maybe I’m the saddest, wettest duck that ever floated solo on the love canal.

I mean, duck metaphor aside, here’s my February 14th. Just past midnight, a friend in L.A. posts something on facef&*%k along the lines of “All right, who wants to shoot down that flying, arrow-shooting midget bastard, douse him in Jack Daniels, set him on fire and end this once and for all?” And I, swear to God, am so out of touch with Valentine’s Day that I think, wow, Los Angeles. Dave sure has some crazy-ass neighbours. Honestly: has it moved into weird denial territory when you mistake a Cupid reference for a description of an obnoxious midget living next door who likes to have loud archery parties? And can FLY, for some reason? I was, like, DAVE MAN, Peter Dinklage is a dwarf, not a midget. And how can you afford the house next to his?!

Later, I’m listening to CBC Radio 2 and ol’ Tom and Rich are playing lots of love songs and such (and being anti-love songs because you’re single would be like being offended by Christmas and living in Texas; you’d go insane), and you know, dedicating some to all the lovers out there, and that’s all good. But then in deference and sensitivity to their unattached listeners, they keep playing anti love songs and mentioning how much we must hate all this, and letting us know that that’s okay, too.

And just as I’m pondering that, looking deep within my duck soul (I just like the duck thing, all right?), AM I okay?, the weather comes on, and of all the regions of BC, the weather reporter is only interested in talking about frickin’ Victoria. And after a moment I’m just hearing “Lower than usual temperatures in that place where that guy lives, you know, the one you used to like so much?” and “Three centimetres of rainfall all over his gorgeous head but I bet he’s very sweet and cheerful about it and that his hair looks really nice anyway, and his eyes always were extra blue on rainy days” and “Winds up to two hundred kilometres an hour through the LONELY UNINHABITED CAVERN THAT IS YOUR HEART.”

And then one more minute of “moron moron/nice guy/moron” running through my head, before I got over it, made some banana bread and went off to my job of being adored and applauded by throngs of appreciative fans.

And diarrhea.

Poor duck.

Yadda yadda, funny stuff, zombie reference to wrap it all up. Also must add more pictures so the sole image in this issue is not of a dude pouring snot through his nose. Screw it. I’m tired. I believe 3:04 am is a late enough bedtime to stop me getting the plague.

Oh no not I, I will Survive,

The Tourist

we are the fun percent

 

From TORONTO,
December 5th, 2011

Dear Talent Agency by which I am represented,

I recently sent a hopeful letter to my agent, who is a relatively recent addition to your company, asking whether there would be an agency Christmas party. The following was her unedited reply:
"No, they don't do those here."

I did not leave my bed in the week that followed.

Let me explain my position. Sitting on a chair in my living room, one leg tucked under me, rather grossly hunched over my keyboard; terrible posture, quite frankly.

No, not that position. This one:

I was self-represented for many years. I was so obviously untalented and unattractive that no one wanted to rep me. Or maybe it was the fact that I had a habit of cutting my own boy-short hair, and  agents were afraid I would be unmarketable, looking as I did like a crazed escapee from the Scarborough School for Worse Boys. Regardless.

When I did eventually grow out the bald spots and get an agent, she was a solo self-employed one, operating out of her high-rise one-bedroom apartment, her work mainly consisting of throwing her clients' résumés from the balcony and hoping they would land on the desk of an interested casting director. When she didn't opt to have a holiday party, there was a small sigh of relief from me and her other six clients, none of whom had relished the idea of singing carols on the couch with her Santa-hat-wearing cats and passing around a dusty bottle of Kahlua.

Meanwhile we heard rumours of the BIG AGENCIES and their BIG PARTIES; their wild-and-crazy goings-on, their open bars, their dressed-to-the-nines-ness and dancing. I dreamed of being invited as someone's guest, but it seemed everyone always brought a boyfriend or girlfriend or wife, and I was left out in the not-only proverbial cold, staring, in my threadbare parka, through a bit of fogged-up window, hoping that one of the guests would throw me a bit of a cheeseball or toss a dazzling smile my way.

Eventually the big agencies stopped allowing their clients to bring dates, a sensible austerity measure in the face of our struggling industry in those, as our friend Joe Cobden once put it, "hilarious economic times". Others joined me with their faces pressed against those windows. More still stayed at home and ate gruel and played at solitaire.

In 2005, I joined a medium-sized agency; only two agents but with plenty of impressive clients, an assistant in the front room, and an office that did not convert into a sleeping area at night. No cats. Hooray, I thought, this is my chance! December 2005, here I come! We may have to buy our own drinks, but just let me at those canapés!!!

Alas, Caldwell Jeffery had held what was to be its last Christmas party in 2004. The year I signed with them I remember them saying that they'd hopefully get around to planning a post-holiday gathering in January, which I believe they actually did. I was in Winnipeg, doing a play and dutifully sending home my commission, which may have paid for the streamers. I've never been sure whether to take that personally.

In 2010, as you know, Dear Agency, Shari Caldwell retired, and the Jeffery in Caldwell Jeffery went to work for you. A BIG FAT AGENCY, one of those whose parties I had shivered outside of, sniffing teary-eyed at their schmoozy good-cheer. Imagine my disappointment when I received Alicia's afore-quoted email.

I know it's not just you, Characters Toronto. I know it's not even our industry. I know that companies everywhere, in all business sectors, have cut back on perks like parties and dinners and gifts. My father, one recent Christmas, received as recognition for another profit-posting year of hard work, a Tim Horton's gift card in a red envelope. But at least he once — for a few decades, in fact — experienced the heyday of Christmas parties past. I was a KID in the eighties; those days passed me by! And now? What of the young actors born in the eighties or nineties, for whom, with less and less living witnesses each year, the legends of coked-up rehearsal halls and sex in the green room are becoming more and more faded and wan, less and less easy to believe? Do we bear no responsibility to them, or to the long-held traditions of our acting, singing, dancing and lampshade-wearing forbears?

What of the entire city, nay country, whose citizens should be able to look to their artists for examples of salacious gossip and hedonistic pleasure: who will the drones have to live vicariously through, if not us?
    
This one small outlet, but once a year: this is all I ask.

For, quite simply put, nothing happens anymore. I've taken to buying vintage gossip on etsy.com. It's just not the same.
 
Now and then we do hear of someone leaving her spouse and kid — but is she running off to live on an orgiastic, drug-filled commune; to smoke crack and sell guns and have rampant anal with underage hookers? Not usually. More likely, she's just amicably wandering off to find a new spouse and have another damn kid. Borrrrrrr-ring.

Gossip now:
 
“Did you hear? So-and-so and whats-her-name split up!”
"You're kidding! Was there someone else?"
“No, it just didn't work out and they're both very sad. I hear they're having trouble deciding who should keep all their stuff....he insists she should take everything, and she wants him to have it."
"Awww."
"In other news…I hear whos-his-face and whos-his-face are renovating their kitchen.”
“NO!”
"It's true!"

Gossip after an office holiday party:

“Did you hear? So-and-so left whats-her-name!”
“Well, after all those people eating her out on the bar at the agency party, I gotta say I'm not all that surprised."
”Oh yeah! I think I was there for that!”
”There for that?? You were handing out the limes and salt!”
”Oh YEAH. Well, what happens under the mistletoe—”
”—Stays under the mistletoe.”
“…Speaking of which - have you seen my watch?”

(Dear Agency, I can't believe I just made the ol' watch-in-vagina joke. Do you see what you've driven me to?! Things are more dire than even I had realized. Save me from myself.)

Listen, I hate to sound paranoid, but should I be taking this personally? Do you fear that I’ll dance on the tables and make a fool of myself? In that case, it might be a good time for this confession, Dear Agency:

At age 36, I have yet to actually dance on a table. I did once, very recently (EXHIBIT A), wear my first lampshade, but that was not in a burst of drunken, party-down idiocy: it was merely punishment at the hands of my asshole friends for having lost too many hands in a row of "Stoned Bastard". We weren't even stoned at the time. In fact, it was the most boring experience of my life. I hate you, Andy and Jeff.

 

                    EXHIBIT A. MAN, THIS EXHIBIT SUCKS.

In any case, the lampshade thing is not likely to happen. Most bars don't have proper lamps with shades on them, for one thing. And no one's gonna dance around with a halogen bulb on his head.

As for table dancing, my opportunities are thinning out. How much do I actually leave the house, to begin with, let alone to land in an environment with A: enticingly high tables, and B: People who will encourage such behaviour? If not at an office Christmas party, when and where will my chance present itself?

Please, I'm begging you, provide the opportunity now, lest I, desperate and determined at age fifty, clamber onto the table of a local, half-empty drinking establishment, only to be quietly helped down by an embarrassed young barkeep who then discreetly confiscates my glass of cheap cabernet. Please let this happen where at least one person will whoop and where at least Shauna Black will join me.

Have your lawyers warned you of liability issues related to office Christmas parties? Are you concerned about possible drinking and driving? Where, I ask, are we all driving to? And in what? We're actors: three of us have cars, and only one of those three can afford gas. And in a week or two that will no longer be the case, so you needn't concern yourselves about that. (Besides, there are even actors who don't drink who can function as designated drivers. I know they exist: when I joined the union I had to promise to drink enough to make up for anyone who quit. I'm currently up to five.) So at worst we may spill into the streets and be loud and obnoxious in cabs and on streetcars. But it has been well documented that actors are on average 80% better looking and 22% more charming than your typical drunk, and in 96% more dialects. Our Irish accents alone will delight and entertain our fellow TTC travelers from The Beaches all the way to Parkdale. And back, should we get lost or fall asleep.

You have rosters packed chock-a-block with attractive, charismatic single (or, you know, not strictly monogamous) people. Together we have the potential to make one helluva party and some very sweet love; why would you want to keep us apart? Are you afraid of the nuclear-grade celebratory power that would potentially be unleashed? Or. Dare I ask...?

...Does the Harper government have something to do with all this? Does our fearless federal leader suspect that a tightly-packed communion of so many arty pinkos with nothing to lose could create something akin to a merry yuletide terrorist cell? Or, that in our inevitable pairings-off, one fateful couple with one fateful hole in one fateful condom may just create the next great magnetic leader of the left? RISE UP, Dear Toronto branch of the Characters Talent Agency, RISE UP! Don't pander to the PMO; don't fear them! We're the cool kids! Or we could be! Stand with us! We are the fun percent!

Have you learned nothing from the worldwide Occupy movement? One of these days, Dear Agency, if one is not provided, we may just storm the office and make our own party. Sit on the floor and drink egg nog and play spin the demo.

Oh, and we'll need the photocopy code so we can replicate this bum-Xeroxing thing we've all heard about from old reruns of Rhoda and Newhart. Party animals, we are. Come on, you were all there in the eighties. You had all your hair and your desks were full of blow and you partied your shoulder pads right off. Show us the way.

 

SAY, ISN’T THIS AGENCY PRESIDENT LARRY GOLDHAR AT THE 1992 PARTY? MUSTA BEEN COLD. MAN, YOU GUYS WERE INTREPID.

But assuming you get on board (and I do have faith), you had better plan this soon. We'll need a little notice, to get out of our shifts...catering other people's office Christmas parties.

 

Yours, just sitting here alone in my stilettos,
waiting,

 

 

Lisa Norton

Skepterminator 2: Judgment Day

From TORONTO

October 1st, 2011

Yes, yes, dear reader, it’s been three months. DO NOT START WITH ME. I will slap you silly and send you to bed with no supper. Oh, you like that, do you? Tramp.

Now shut up and listen. (I’ve missed you, too.)

Here’s what happened to me: I was eaten by wild bears. Chewed up and everything. I was so tasty that they didn’t swallow for a while, just sucked on bits of me like lozenges. Eventually sensing my will to live and feeling that deep, inexorable guilt that only bears can know, they spit me out, whence all the pieces of me came together and became whole again. I can do that now. It’s fun. I’m shiny. Also I run really fast. Like this:

Yep, I’m that guy now. It’s awesome. The hours are long and I have to kill a lot of people but the pension plan is unbelievable.

All right, what’s more strange: that “Gutti”, wherever he is, God bless his heart, put hours of time and trouble into making that video…or that I just spent forty minutes watching fan-made Terminator 2 clips on youtube looking for the perfect one to share with you?

Here’s my favourite, a medical doctor’s in-depth analysis of T-1000’s running gait and why he couldn’t catch Arnie and the Connors (failing where apparently African marathon champion Belayneh Densamo would have, in his prime, succeeded, though odds are three to one Belayneh might deal less resiliently with the being blown in the face with a shotgun):

Also odd is the Terminator 2 “Barbie Girl” mashup, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna attach that one. You can look that up on your own time, reader. What do you think I am, a link machine? NO! I am liquid metal! I have better things to do!

Okay.

All this is moot, as those of you who know me well and deeply are fully aware that “eaten by bears” is a metaphor for “in trouble with Revenue Canada”. “I am liquid metal” is clearly code for “I didn’t write because I’ve spent the last two months staring at a calculator in a pile of receipts and tears”. “I can survive crashing my stolen Mack truck which then blows up and sets on fire with me in it and can walk through walls and make my hands into unbreakable swords that can cut through elevator doors or, if need be, your face” translates to “I don’t make plans because I should be finishing my back taxes so I stay home but end up playing computer mahjong and watching clips of movies from my teenage years set to bad nineties techno songs”. “I kill a lot of people” means “I kill a lot of people”. Watch out, Canada Revenue Agency. I know where you live.

Meanwhile, in a darkened subterranean bunker deep below the heart of Sudbury Ontario, a computer beeps and flashes. Agent 38643, albino hunchback tax collector, jerks awake from his nap and squints at the screen. “Boss,” he says, “She’s writing about us again.”

“Slap another arbitrary twelve thousand dollars of penalties on her bill,” comes a sinister voice from the darkness.

“But that doesn’t seem to be working. It’s up to forty-eight thousand now, and she hasn’t flinched. Wait, wait…’shotgun’…’sword hands’…’know where you…’ — there are new threats here, boss. She’s escalating! SHE’S ESCALATING! I’m calling the RCMP!”

“Get a hold of yourself, 38643. That’s exactly what she wants. We will not play into her liquid metal hands.”

A rat runs by. 38643 recoils in fear. In the darkened corner, where Number One’s chair sits in shadow: a squeak; the sound of crunching; a small carcass hits a concrete wall and slides down to its rest.

“She claims she doesn’t have the money, boss.”

“Doesn’t have the money? Doesn’t have it?! You’ve seen her bank records: she paid debit for a chocolate bar only last week! Must be nice! And received a whopping eleven dollar cheque for tips on her last catering job! And now — NOW she’s back in TORONTO, ooh la la, centre of the UNIVERSE, working in CANADIAN TELEVISION! The self-superior little tart, she thinks she’s soooOOOOOooo great, making her millions and ordering her servants to bring her lattes and designer lollipops, smearing foie gras and caviar all over her body just for kicks! I’ll KILL HER!!! I’LL FUCKING KILL HER! I WILL GET HER, 38463, IF IT’S THE LAST THING I EVER DOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!”

“Hold me.”

So yeah, every last penny I make off this fancy TV show, and then some, will go to the government. I, in return, will feel the glowing satisfaction of paying a disproportionate share toward keeping those social programs I so believe in going. Or — better yet — maybe I’ll finance a wing on one of Canada’s shiny new fighter jets, or a few steel bars in one of our super new prisons. (No biggie, oil sands magnates with fancy tax lawyers; I got this one.) It would all smart a little less if they’d at least name something after me. Or commission a sculpture, both commemorating my contribution and serving as a warning to any other tax defaulters. On Parliament Hill, rendered in bronze: me, on my knees, weeping, a Revcan envelope in one hand, giving Stephen Harper a handjob.

Another question: Is it more disturbing to think of Stephen Harper’s having a penis…or not having one? Either way, I need to go wash my hands after typing that. And have my memory erased. Wipe out your hard drive and we’ll never speak of this again.

FYI, interested readers: the Wikipedia “handjob” page has been updated since last I googled it (as ever, to double check whether “handjob” is all one word or not). New mutual masturbation paintings from the 19th century! You are welcome. Out of curiosity and a fear that I’m becoming repetitive, I also just looked up “skeptical tourist handjob” to see how many mentions I’ve made over the years, and four or five popped up. (Followed swiftly by a page titled “A couple’s Bangkok experience” — no pun, I imagine, intended — and links to gayporn.com and interracialhandjobspages.com. That’s right, PAGES, in the plural. Their leading news story, according to the page(s) summary, seems to be “White Female Tourist Touching Big Cocks Of African Men”. I’m not making this up. Go ahead, look it up, I’ll wait. Okay, I won’t wait that long: bookmark it for later, pervert.

God I love the internet. It’s made us all so much smarter. Anyway, I’ve decided to let my reference stand, and not only because I couldn’t bear to change it to a Stephen Harper blowjob. (Blechhh. Bleh. Ack. I apologize.) Decades from now, in Skeptical Tourist 101 classes throughout the world, students and their profs will discuss the recurring motif of the handjob in Lisa Norton’s work and the realm of academia will be richer for it. Handjob handjob handjob. There, now when you look up my name in any search engine that will be the first thing that comes up.

This week, when you type my name in, you get this:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/06/27/lisa-norton-gabriel-neilsen-swim-away_n_885297.html

And this handy mugshot:

All these years I’ve been so proud of The International League of Lisa Nortons, basking in the Lisas’ various successes as scientists and painters, novelists and teachers, conveniently ignoring the dark side of the league: the ones that get drunk and cause accidents and then try to swim away from the scene of the crime. Mind you, I do wish I shared this member’s eye colour, if not her relationship with alcohol.

It’s quite a sad story, so I don’t want to laugh at “Norton killed Neilsen in his Nissan on Nelson Road”…but, dammit, there I go again. Also not helping me keep a straight face here is the fact that a castmate on Bomb Girls sent me this last night:

Antonio’s a big star in Italy, you see, and one of his fans made this montage when she heard about his latest project. She painstakingly found info on the show and photos of the cast, and lo and behold, when you Google my name in Italy, you get Lisa Norton, Swimmer Under The Influence. The fan will probably fix this video and A: this blague post will make no sense anymore, and B: I won’t have a go-to clip when I feel like falling down laughing. It’s good just as long as it lasts. Grazie, Mariagrazia!

Well friends, there’s a lot more procrastinating to be done, and I can’t do it all here with you. There are papers to be shuffled around, laundry to be glanced at once or twice, eyebrows to be plucked into oblivion…and at least six or eight more Terminator clips. This one alone needs to be watched for about three hours:

So that’s that. More soon. Trust me, I have so much nonsense built up inside my head it’s starting to come out as snot and earwax. And on that elevated note,

Forever up yours,

The Tourist

quiet riot (cum on feel the…poise?)

 

From VANCOUVER,

June 19th, 2011

 

I’m the first to admit…things got a little out of control.

The game had just ended and we were angry and shocked and upset. The atmosphere in Sarah Cobb’s West End apartment was tense and just ready to blow.

We heard a crash from the kitchen. Ashley, washing wine glasses in a frenzy of rage, had broken one.

Stacie threw a napkin on the floor.

Nick uttered the word “fuck” several times in rapid succession.

Jacquie was so mad she wasn’t even there.

The other women suddenly banded together and, in a case of classic mob mentality, began looting the apartment, raiding a box of clothes that Sarah was getting rid of with a savage ferocity.

Shaughnessy, who had flown all the way from Toronto for this, was turning a dangerous shade of red. “Man, if I had a hockey stick I would bust some shit right now. Luckily, I just have this pencil.”

Toby grabbed the pencil from Shaughnessy’s hand. “Hey man - did you have this pencil here the whole game?! This is a Sanford Number One, asshole! Don’t you realize that this pencil is painted the exact same shade as Bruin yellow? And that the Sanford Pencil Company was founded in Massachusetts?! How DARE you bring that pencil into this city, let alone this house?” He threw the offending utensil on the floor and grabbed Shaughnessy by the collar of his threadbare Canucks t-shirt, shaking him back and forth. The other men backed away to the hors d’oeuvre table, trying to avoid this sudden outburst by munching on some delicious charcuterie.

A roar came from the Designated Looting Area in the other room as the ladies discovered a one-shouldered summer dress and proceeded to tear it to pieces.

Shaughnessy scrambled to defend himself. “Sanford’s now a subsidiary of Newell Rubbermaid and based in Oak Brook, Illinois!” Toby’s right fist was cocked and ready to throw a punch but now he hesitated. “This pencil was manufactured in their Mississauga, Ontario factory by proud Canadians!” The grip of Toby’s left hand on Shaughnessy’s collar loosened slightly. “This shade of yellow also matches that of the old Vancouver “flying skate” logo, used from ‘78-‘97, as evidenced by the faded but still sufficiently clear t-shirt I am wearing go Canucks!”

Toby let him go. They hugged. The women shredded a pair of navy blue capris.

“That’s it,” said Mike, who had sat silent all this time, his post-game pout looking more and more menacing with every passing minute, his rage increasing as he checked Facebook on his iPhone and read the taunts of his asshole Ontario friends saying horrible things like “Nah nah na-na nahhh” and “Maybe next time”. He now made a sudden and threatening move up out of the leather armchair. “I’m gonna go downtown and throw an egg at the bank of Montreal.”

“Hey now, whoa, let’s not get carried away,” said the others. John handed him a slice of prosciutto and one of those squishy stress balls. “Here. This should help.”

“Thanks, guys,” said Mike, sitting back down. “Wow, I was really out of control for a second there. Thanks for talking me down.”

                       BEFORE THINGS TURNED UGLY

But the calm would not last long. After smoking an unhappy cigarette, and an even angrier joint on the pretty balcony overlooking the ocean, we were all raring to go. We girls had each scored a garbage bag full of clothing, but now Sarah was telling us we couldn’t have her dishcloths and fridge magnets. The men had eaten all the brie and oven roasted tomatoes. Clearly, we needed an outlet.

Out we poured from the apartment building, spilling drunkenly, rowdily onto the mean streets of English Bay, wielding bottles of Heineken and pinot grigio at threatening angles. I looked around for someone to pick a fight with and settled on a Chihuahua being walked in the park across the street. “What are YOU barking at, motherfucker? I will fuck you up!” The dog and the old man walking it hurried away. “That’s RIGHT, you BETTER run!”

We stumbled across the street and onto the beach, all ten or so of us, and sat down on some comfortable-looking logs in an intimidating manner, where we would continue to wreak our havoc on the City of Vancouver for the rest of the night. We savagely kicked the sand, utterly destroyed some innocent twigs and then, in a burst of violence unprecedented thus far, gathered rocks and started throwing them viciously at the ocean. “Take THAT, Pacific!”

The savage beast inside each one of us had taken over and there was no turning back, not that night. We were monsters.

I was so ashamed of myself the next day. I headed back to Sarah’s apartment to apologize. To her credit, she let me in and accepted my offer to help clean up. The place was in a sorry state, still the wreck we had left it. Crumbs everywhere. Empties on the counter. For the love of God, a kalamata olive on the floor. It was hard to look at, especially knowing that I was partly to blame.

Then, as I was sweeping up, the others started to arrive, with brooms and offers of help. We swept and scrubbed and spent several hours reassembling a large jigsaw puzzle that had been savagely knocked to the floor. Soon, a spirit of love and cooperation spread throughout the rooms, a spirit stronger and more true than any of the ugliness of the night before. This was The Real Us. The Real Vancouver.

I picked up a Sharpie from the coffee table. (Also manufactured by Newell Rubbermaid, if you were wondering.) Standing on the couch, I wrote upon the wall in three foot high letters: I ♥ VANCOUVER.

And you know what, Dear Reader? It wasn’t long before everyone else joined me. We passed the Sharpie from hand to hand to hand, each person writing a heartfelt message about his or her true feelings of pride and love for this city, of contrition for rash actions the night before, of hope for the future and togetherness in this beautiful moment.

The living room walls were now covered. We stood back, arms linked, tears in our eyes. Sarah walked into the room and, while she’d been in the kitchen and had missed out on the actual ritual, you could tell from her face that she was as moved by the result as the rest of us were.

She just stood there staring, absolutely speechless.

__________________________________________________________

* Now: this is not for the faint of heart, and some of it is difficult to watch…but here, if you must, is video evidence of our riot on Sunset Beach. Note particularly Jaimie and Jenny’s flagrant insolence toward the photographer and Josh’s terrifying ferocity.

(Not suitable for children.)

blue

He didn’t usually drink. It wasn’t a good idea, with all the pills. And tonight he’d had a lot.

“You wan’ the lasso, Mary? I’ll sthrow a moon aroun’ it! Hooowwwweeeeeeee!”

He was slurring his words, he knew. But maybe he liked slurring his words. Maybe he meant to do it. It was FUN. It was liberating. HA! LIBER-ating? Is this how the Liberals felt all the time? Was Jean Chretien off somewhere, wheeling around, doing whatever the hell he felt like doing? Probably. That made him depressed again. He took another swig of the schnapps and dropped back on the wet grass. He howled at the moon.

It had been a wild night, starting at two-thirty am, his security detail first chasing him out of the hotel in the pouring rain as he ran across the parking lot to Jason Kenney’s rented SUV, bottles from the mini-bar spilling out of his suit jacket pockets. He’d gotten in the car, starting it with the keys he’d swiped when Kenney had passed out drunk on his bed.

Steve had looked down at his snoring immigration minister, lying there all smug and pink, triumphant with his overwhelming victory in Calgary Southeast that night, hogging the entire hotel bedspread. Yeah, I won my riding too, big frickin’ whoop, that’s not the point.

“Forget you, Kenney”, muttered Steve. “You aren’t even listening to me. I tried to tell yooou, I tried to tell you how I feel. And look at you. Screwww you.” A lump came to his throat. He didn’t like it. Jason was sleeping on his back with his mouth agape, and for a moment Steve thought of sticking something in it. “Let you choke, you jerk, ‘d serve you right.” And then he saw the keys.

Screeching out of the hotel parking lot, round corners, howling down the quiet wet suburban streets of Calgary Southwest, the two bodyguards on his tail in one of the Cadillacs. When he’d skidded up onto a curb and then fallen out of the car, subsequently running from lawn to lawn, pulling up campaign signs, they’d tried to talk sense to him. But he wouldn’t have it. For one thing, he wouldn’t stop singing.

“I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY—”

“Shuddup!” yelled a man behind a screen door.

Dogs were barking behind every fence.

The guards had watched, helpless, unsure what to do, as he’d surrounded himself with the signs, knocking each into the wet ground with the post of the next and barricading himself, eventually, inside a circle of them on someone’s front lawn. He held onto one of the signs for balance and stared at it. The big C for conservative, glowing in the dark. His name, coming in and out of focus, the blurry blue and white. “Go Leafs!” he shouted. “Losers! Just like meeeee!”

The bigger of the guards reached for his tazer. “That’s it, he said,”I’m takin’ him down.” The other stopped him: “No, Jim, wait. Is that strictly necessary?” “ ‘Strictly necessary’? Oh man! When AM I gonna get to use this thing? First no eleven year old kids, now this? Besides, this is getting embarrassing – the press could show up any minute. We gotta get him outta here.”

“Just let me talk to him.”

“HE’S A REEEEEAL NOWHERE MAN, SITTING IN HIS NOWHERE LAND, MAKING ALL HIS NOWHERE PLANS FOR NOBODEEeeeee…”

Another neighbour: “Keep it down, we’re trying to sleep!”

“I WILL NOT,” he shouted, reeling back, face pointed at the drizzling dark sky. “You can’t tell me what to do NO MORE! No more Mister Cares-what-you-say! I’m on the right track baby, I was born thi-is wa-a-ay!” He lost his balance and fell back on the lawn. His head knocked against one of the sign posts. “Aww, jeez,” he said. “Now my azz is wet.” He started to giggle. Then cry. He curled up in a ball, shaking with sobs, shivering, tears and snot running sideways down his face and pooling in his ear.

He was so alone. So lonely. No one understood. “Laureeeeeeeeen!,” he shouted. Then, “Stellaaaaaaa!”

The squeak of a window. “I’m calling the police!” One of the security guys – was it Barry or Jim, Steven suddenly realized he’d never known which one was which - on his hands and knees, reaching through the signposts. A hand on his shoulder, gentle. “Mister Harper. Sir. It’s time to go.”

“Iz Steeeve! Why duzzin anybody call me Steeeve? It’s been so lonnng!”

“Okay, Steve. Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

“I wanna play the Playstation witchu guys!”

“Okay, Steve, we’ll do that. We’ll have some beers.”

“How come you never invited me?! I’s in the next room! ALL ALOOONE!”

“We didn’t think you’d want to, Steve. We…uhh…figured you were busy.”

“I wanna play Digimon! Like you guys!”

“Okay, Steve. Hey, you know what we’ve got now? Wii bowling. You’d like that one.”

“Tha’ sounds fun. Can I wear your hat?”

“Of course you can, Steve. Here you go.”

“Hey! Whuzz yer name anyway? Which one are you? You wan’ some Bailey’s?” He cracked another mini bottle.

“My name is Bar—”

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Hold on, Steve. Hold on. Just breathe. Focus on something.”

They started to pull out the signs, the burly men, as the flashing cop car lights approached. They helped him up from where he sat trembling, snot-nosed, staring at his hand. They walked him towards their car, his arms around their enormous shoulders. “I’m focuzzing, Jim, look I’m focuzzing.” “That’s real good, Steve.”

“Ah poop. I zink I lozzzt my glasses.

“We’ll find them, sir.”

They slid on the wet grass and wiped out in a heap.

The Global and CTV vans screeched up at the same time as the cruiser. Reporters leapt out of the doors, cameras and microphones in hands. “Mister Harper, is that you?” “Call me Steve,” he bellowed. “Is is true that you’ve been drinking?” “FUCK YEAH,” yelled Steve, into their shocked faces, giving one cameraman the finger.

Ha HAW! – he could swear now. “Fuck fuck fuck! Titty shit McFucker!” Oh sweet Jesus, that felt good. It had been years. He’d submitted himself to that rigorous Reform Party leadership program in 92, been hooked up to electrodes and shocked whenever he thought an impure thought or uttered a bad word.

Now, Steven realized, he really could do anything he wanted, just like Jean Chretien. What was there to stop him? He could wear a t-shirt! Go a day – two, even - without shaving. Have sex with men if he felt like it. Would he feel like it? He had no idea! It had been years since he’d even allowed himself to wonder such a thing. He could get an abortion! Okay, technically he couldn’t, but well, whatever the male equivalent was; he’d do that!

He grabbed a cute CTV blond and kissed her on the mouth. “Hey baby! You wan’ some tequila? I got these li’l bottles. See?” She stared in shock.

Jim-or-was-it-Barry pried him away, tried to block the reporters’ view, hustling him into the back seat, and firmly closed the door, while Barry-or-was-it-Jim talked to the Calgary cops.

He could still see the press in the windows, eager faces, microphones. He could hear fragments of their muffled, frantic questions, shouted through the glass. “—disturbing the peace”…“—you and Mrs Harper?”… “What now, Sir? What’s your next move?”

Steven popped out of the sunroof as the car sped away. “I’m going to Disney Land!” he called out behind him. “And I just farted!!!”