the skeptical poorest

Still From TORONTO

May 28th, 2007

HELLO?

HEY! Is anybody out there? It is important that The Tourist know this.
I recognize that many of you may be enjoying this blog as a very private, anonymous experience. There could be legions of you out there sitting quietly at your computers giggling with no pants on. (That, incidentally, is a choice those of you who read this at the office might want to rethink.) But it is good to occasionally hear back. There is a comments link at the end of every post. Use it. If you're afraid you won't match my level of brilliance.....well, that's something everyone must face at some point. And isn't it time you embraced your mediocrity?

Sometimes I run into people who tell me they've been reading, which is nice. And once every few days I get hit by a beer bottle hurtling out of a speeding car from which someone is screaming "Pet Sounds rules, you bitch!" There are also those regular death threats, telling me to back off the TTC. But I'm telling you guys: less hitmen, more streetcars. At least on King.

FWALKER MADNESS!!!

So I ain't writ shit in a while, as you may have noticed, pretty reader. I've been going fairly mad doing those two George F. Walker plays in rep at Factory Theatre. We got Better Living up and are about to open Escape From Happiness, and have been using every possible moment to perfect our screaming and running around. I, for one, have been an expert at screaming and running around for years, so I don't know what they're calling me in to all these rehearsals for. Anyway, to give you an example, this week I had eight shows, four rehearsals and a big audition. Also a cold. And insomnia. That, along with getting hit in the head with a bottle every couple of days, can be pretty tiring.

My own fault, though. In very tiny print at the bottom of our contracts is the bit about the Factory owning our souls for all eternity. They also want my firstborn. And my mane of raven-coloured hair. (They fear I may let it down out the window and be rescued by some charming prince who happens to be hanging out in the courtyard. Or a smelly guy from the new shelter next door.)

Those of you who have worked at Factory may be saying, "Window? What window? They sealed those shut years ago." But, disbelieving reader, The Walker Gang is bustin' out. Clare Coulter and I went at the ladies' dressing room window with all kinds of oddly shaped and scary-looking tools (including several knives that they keep handy for actors who want to kill themselves), and then Ken Gass, Artistic Director/Handyman Extraordinaire got through the last bit with a hammer, a screwdriver and a pinch of brute force. Incidentally, on top of our two shows, Ken is directing a production of FWalker's Tough with twenty college students, is moving into a new house and has just finished teaching at U of T for the year. Also his alter ego protects the city from crime at night. Thank you, GassMan!

I busted through another window a week later with a steak knife. The Portuguese Catholic Church was having a noisy parade across the street, which they have proceeded to do just about every day since. I don't know what they're celebrating all the time; maybe it's just really, really fun being Portuguese. Anyway, it gave me the distinct feeling of being in an old prison break movie: I'll dig my way out under cover of all the noise from the marching band...the guards will be distracted.....I'll slip into the crowd and disappear in the busy streets of Paris. I felt like Steve McQueen! Tim Robbins! That guy from Ernest Goes To Jail!

It also got me thinking about my Prison Persona. I think it's important to know where you would fit in in the penal system. Are you a Buttboy, or a Kingpin? Maybe you're the little weasely guy who gets everyone their cigarettes. Or the Wise Black/Old/Crippled dude. The goon who drops the barbells on people's chests during "recreation time". I know who I would be. I'd be the nut digging my way out with a spoon. Every time I made some headway the guards would move me to a different cell. I'd be the laughing stock of all the inmates...until one day, I'd finally do it! I'd be free! And then I'd yell "Yippee!" upon surfacing from my hole and get shot just outside the prison fence. Sad, really.

My castmates are a little worried that they're going to show up in this blague, unflatteringly portrayed and with their identities only slightly disguised. But don't worry, Badbreath, Uglypants, Whoreface and Farty. I would never say anything bad about you guys. (Did I mention I'm doing a show with a bunch of villains from Dick Tracy?)

One really neat thing is getting to work with all these lovely ladies. Clare, Irene Poole, Sarah Manninen, Christine Brubaker. We are breaking the one-chick-per-show rule big time. And they are awesome chicks. One of them may just be the prettiest girl ever to have been rushed off in an ambulance after having stuck a candy up her nose. Not recently. But she wasn't three years old, either.

I can't tell you how often I'm the only woman, or one of two, in a play. I hardly ever get to work with other women, particularly ones my own age. It's a wonder more actresses don't live up to our false "catty" reputation, considering we hardly ever get to work together, instead fighting for those two parts every season..... Anyway, bravo, Fwalker, for writing lots of cool chick roles. I know what the six people reading this are going to tell me. And NO, I don' t want to write a goddamn play. I'll stick to what I'm good at, dammit, and we all know what that is: complaining! I have a real future as a malcontent, so don't go trying to mess that up for me.

Oh yeah. Plug. Come see these:

GIMME SOME SUGAH

Have you noticed? The Tourist ain't been a tourist in too damn long. I gotta blow this town. (And not in the dirty way you're thinking. Pantless perverts.)

The thing is the cash. The cash is the thing. I've gotta figure out a way to stabilize my money situation somehow. I go to such extremes. The other day I'm in my local cheese boutique (The Thin Blue Line on Roncesvalles, which is fantastic, really) buying nine dollar gourmet spreads and other nonsense, standing in line behind one broad all decked out in Lululemon and another who's holding a Shih Tzu with a bow stapled to its head and I suddenly think......My God. I'm one of them. (The women, not a Shih Tzu.) And in another month I'll be having the bread or milk conversation with myself. You know, when you can only afford one or the other?

KILL ME.

For a time in college I was living off of mac and cheese without the milk. I thought this was pretty gross/somehow ingenious until Lindsay Ann Black told me she survived school on instant just-add-water pancakes. Without any syrup. Damn! I can't believe I never thought of that one! I was eating, what? Petroleum? But she was pretty much eating sponges! One of those would fill you up for days! Brilliant!

I'm thinking of opening a chain of restaurants on campuses across the country: The Sponge and Petroleum Diner. Come to The S & P! You'll eat what we give you...and you'll like it. Okay, you won't like it, but it will be relatively filling. And you might just get fingered in the washroom. This is university, after all.

I owe all my money to the frigging government these days. Sometimes I have these dreams at night where Revenue Canada burns down. Or someone hacks into their computer and erases all their records of who owes what. Not that I'm encouraging anyone to do such things. I'm just relating a dream, and who can explain the mysterious subconscious, after all.

I need me a sugardaddy/mama. I'm enlisting your help, well-connected reader. Please encourage all the incredibly good-looking, smart, funny, cool rich people you know to apply. Oh, and they must be single. The last thing I need is another guy like Brad hangin' around, harassing me. Yeah, you heard me, Mr. Pitt! Stop CALLING me! Fatlip needs help with the kids!

WHAT'S A PICHANGA?

One way to ease the fiscal situation might be to brush up my singing skills and start auditioning for musicals. (Because I'd land them all instantly, right?) Anyway, it couldn't hurt to diversify. I've always thought it would be a blast to perform in a big musical. This is the secret wish of every actor. Like a bunch of breeders standing on the sidelines at the Pride Parade, sighing with envy as the floats go by. Of course all the musical performers I know want to do "straight" plays and be taken seriously. Bunch of whiners. You people get to wear sequined pants! At work! How could you give that up!

I don't actually enjoy watching many musicals. Though I am looking forward to Dirty Dancing. I've decided it will be worth the price of admission just to hear a certain friend of mine say the word "pichanga".

Speaking of Dirty Dancing, I watched the movie again last week. It airs on the Chick Channel - which they still insist on calling The W Network - about five times a day. So no matter what a woman's cycle, it will be there to weep over when she's PMSing. Okay, am I the only one who cries at Jerry Orbach EVERY FRICKIN' TIME? I'm sorry, but the dad gets a bad rap in that flick. I mean how is he supposed to know that Johnny Castle didn't knock up Penny? And at the end? When Johnny says "Nobody puts Baby in a corner"? Maybe Baby likes being in the corner! In fact, the previous scene, which we don't see, is the dad saying "Where would you like to sit, Baby?" And she says "In the corner, please." Check the extras on the DVD. It's one of the deleted scenes, though it beats me why. Personally I love scenes where people decide on seating arrangements. Riveting and tense.

Big Nerd Moment over. Phew.

HERE'S AN IDEA

Personally, I wouldn't touch this one with a ten foot pole, but........ Strip Club Makeover. A reality show for the, you know, Tearing People's Homes and Businesses Apart Channel. Like Restaurant Makeover, except with naked chicks. You fix up the decor, improve the menu, have a guest artist work with the strippers on their dancing and - my favourite part - get a really bitchy Big Gay Designer to critique their costumes. So much comedy/ugliness potential it boggles the mind. Though actually watching it might make me want to puke. Just send royalty cheques to P.O. Box Norton You Are Brilliant, SmartTown, Ontario, M6R2K5. And consider this a copywright, you sons of bitches. Oh, and I just got my own inadvertent stripping pun about the ten foot pole. Feel free to appreciate that, too.

So yeah, this is how I'm spending my precious night off before opening week. Staying up 'til three a.m. writing to you bozos. Though I did accomplish other things today, including romping around Roncey with Tracy Dawson, who will be shortly moving to Los Angeles FOREVER (that may be my next trip once your sugardaddy recommendations come through). And I hung out on my newly created back patio, which is really just a glorified fire escape, but as the Actress told the Bishop, every inch counts. I got some exciting IKEA things recently (magic folding table, magic folding stools) and made the spot really nice and cleaned it all up....and what's out there when I walk out the next morning? Why, two big piles of cat turd, of course. And don't try and tell me those bastard cats don't know exactly what they're doing. Actually it could have been raccoon; my back door is a favourite spot for raccoons to make love. Especially now that I've made it all romantic for them. By the way, they like a nice light chardonnay. Squirrels are more into Pinot Noir. And handcuffs. Okay, picture a squirrel in handcuffs and tell me that's not funny. If you're not laughing I'll give you your money back.

SPEAKING OF FUNNY

Ross Manson taught me this thing. You go to Google, and into the search field you type your name, followed by the word "needs". You then check out the first ten coherent (or almost) phrases that pop up. It's uncanny.

Here's me.....
1. Lisa needs braces.
2. You need a flat, fishes need the sea, Lisa needs a tree.
3. Lisa needs a bigger grin and lots more warmth from an overly conscientious Julia Roberts.
4. LISA needs to more clearly communicate to clients how they can benefit from being members of LISA.
5. Lisa needs to handle lower conditions.
6. Lisa needs help with her vertical blinds.
7. LISA NEEDS TO GET A LIFE
8. Lisa needs a nap.
9. Lisa needs a new schtick.
10. Lisa needs to think.

I like number four. I also like that, no matter how politically and artistically active Ross Manson (theator creator/activist/swinger of the Wrecking Ball - www.thewreckingball.ca ) may be, he still wastes his time farting around with Google games. Wait a minute. Maybe I don't like that. I mean ALL I do is shit like that. Without getting anything productive done.

I'm going to bed now. I may go get rubbed by a strange man in the morning (Otani Shiatsu Clinic, 24 Roncesvalles, 416-533-9964, OHMYGOD). I had my first Shiatsu experience a couple of weeks ago, and felt amazing afterwards. Taller, looser, smarter. Don't laugh; I think my vision was actually sharper. And I could leap medium-sized buildings in a single bound. I'm working on the tall ones.

An appropriate portion of my love,

Norton