death of a tourist

From TORONTO
July 5th, 2007

A CONFESSION
So I often leave little notes for myself of things I might want to mention to you, dear reader and a half. And all week I've been staring at an envelope next to my computer on which is scrawled, among other things, the words "Speaking of Michael Jackson....". I have NO FUCKING IDEA what this means. Why was I speaking of Michael Jackson? What the hell? I had been sure, I remember, when I wrote it down, that this was going to be the greatest transition ever written in the English language. That it would cement my worldwide reputation as Queen of the Segue. But no. This almost stalled me, sympathetic reader. The very existence of the Tourist was briefly in jeopardy. But you'll surely have noticed that more than a month has passed since last I wrote....and I couldn't leave you hanging, dear ones. At least not without writing:


MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
That's right. MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. This should be easy, as I have no assets, no dependents (OH GAWWWWD I have nothing!!! NOTHING!!!!), not much to leave to anyone should I suddenly kick off. Pile of unpaid bills, anyone? Unfinished vendettas to carry on in my name? Hey, wait a minute.....now there's an idea.....

Anyway, basically I just want it to be officially, indisputably known what to do with my incredibly lovely remains. I had always thought that I would have my will stipulate that after my cremation, my ashes would by mixed into a giant milkshake of which all my friends would be required to partake. Then I thought maybe I'd have my ribs cooked in a big ol' fashioned southern barbecue (remember Ribfest in St. Catharines, anybody?) complete with sauce contests and blues bands and fresh lemonade. What I really wanted to know is whether people would actually do all this stuff. I mean, if it's in my will, they have to, don't they? Carry out my dying wishes and all that? But everybody would know I was just fucking around. Plus what about the vegetarians? And drinking me in a milkshake would give both Dylan Trowbridge and my stepmom a stomach ache, should they outlive me.

But there's this thing. It is the coolest thing. It's called "promession". From the net:

"Promession is a creative and unique approach being developed by Sweden's Susanne Wiigh-Masak, who recently received Gold in this year's prestigious Green Apple awards for Environmental Best Practice. The Award was in recognition of her work in finding an ecological alternative to burial and cremation."

Says the Promessa Foundation:
"An important part of the solution is to remove that which is least important; the water that makes up 70 percent of a normal-sized body. Technically speaking, this is done using an entirely closed individual process in which the corpse is freeze-dried in liquid nitrogen. This makes the body very brittle, and vibration of specific amplitude transforms it into an organic powder that is then introduced into a vacuum chamber where the water is evaporated away.
The now dry powder then passes through a metal separator where any surgical spare parts and mercury are removed. The powder can be disinfected if required. The remains are now ready to be laid in a biodegradable (mulch able) coffin. (ie cardboard - ed.) There is no hurry with the burial itself. The organic powder, which is hygienic and odourless, does not decompose when kept dry. The burial takes place in a shallow grave in living soil that turns the coffin and its contents into compost in about 6-12 months time. In conjunction with the burial and in accordance with the wishes of the deceased or next of kin, a bush or tree can be planted above the coffin. The compost formed can then be taken up by the plant, which can instill greater insight into and respect for the ecological cycle, of which every living thing is a part. The plant stands as a symbol of the person, and we understand where the body went. "

Okay that last part is a bit sucky, but pretty awesome, huh? Of course, failing all that....a nondairy fruit smoothie? Norton fingers? Plant my hair in your garden?

Don't worry, I'm not ill or more suicidal than usual or anything. Talking about death is perfectly natural. I've been doing it for years, well before I was:

HIT BY A CAR
A couple of weeks ago, on a slow news day for the Tourist, I thought, Now how can I make my life more interesting? I know! I'll get run down in the street!

No, seriously, not planned - and don't you go saying otherwise and mess up my lawsuit.

I'm riding my bike along King Street, minding my own business, waaaay over near the curb, humming my happy song, when suddenly! Out of nowhere! Justine S*****k decides to come over and hit me. Why, you may bloody well ask, would Justine S******k want to run me over? What had I done to offend her? Maybe I beat her in a speech arts contest when we were nine? Dissed her haircut? Blew her grampaw? Or had I in fact done NOTHING? Was my life's first encounter with Justine S******k when she, without motive, ran me down on King Street? Do I only know her name is Justine S******k because she pulled over to see whether she had killed anyone or not? Is her name, in fact, not Justine S******k at all, but something I wrote down on a piece of paper along with her number and that of a witness and lost in a drawer or threw in the recycling? Hmmmm?



Anyway, it was nothing major; her VW Rabbit clipped me and I bumped along the side of it for a while, trying to stay upright, and wiped out in the middle of the road when she cleared me. And nobody behind came along and ran me over, which was the big scary possibility. What did come along were two or three other cyclists yelling and screaming and bawling her out on my behalf, while I stood there thinking "Now am I gonna be late for my audition?" So I'm fine. My knee ripped open pretty bad. Mama Lolita said I should have claimed that my torn bloody jeans were really expensive and gotten her to reimburse me......but in my honest little heart I knew that they were from Le Crapeau. And that the crotch had ripped the week before. (Favourite word alert. Wherever you are, whatever you're supposed to be doing right now, say the word "crotch" out loud. No, go ahead. I'll wait. Hilarious, no?)

Of course, if I hadn't been so shaken I surely would have landed that voice job I then rushed off to audition for. No doubt. But you just can't sell Lemon Drop donuts while you're bleeding all over the place - everyone knows that. So curse you, Justine Schmengelpoopy! You and the rabbit you rode in on!

A doctor at a walk-in clinic later that day, looking at my knee for about one second and then at me like I was a hypochondriacal nutcase, said, "Be careful. It's a war out there." Well THAT explains it!

Anyway, it was about time I got hit in at least some minor way. It's the unofficial Toronto cyclist's initiation. I was starting to feel a bit soft, frankly, having been out there on and off for twelve years without an accident. Pete Treadwell gets hit about every other day, it seems. But I'm beginning to think that might be personal. Someone who doesn't like him working with the NDP. Or who once saw him in a crappy play. Then there's the possibility that Pete's just not very good at riding a bike.

LATER THAT DAY
I celebrated my survival by riding into High Park and sitting on one of my favourite benches by Grenadier Pond for a picnic and a read. I have two favourite benches, both with dedication plaques: one for Henrietta Smit, whose name I adore, and one for Theodore and Irene Borkowski, "who loved this park so." Sometimes I wonder whether Henrietta and Theodore and Irene would approve of a reprobate like me lying around on their benches for hours on end, eating raisins (Not raisins! Shameless slut!) and slathering my scantily-clad body with sunscreen. But I don't think they would mind. After all, I, like they, love the park so.

In no time, on this particular outing, I was completely surrounded by geese, who in turn completely surrounded me with poo. Which is the goose way of expressing love. I betrayed theirs by secretly noticing how plump and juicy they looked and speculating on their flavour.

Nearby was this idyllic scene: a blue Vespa parked next to two trees between which hung a hammock with someone sleeping in the breeze. Now that's the life. Someone who has the lazy thing even more figured out than I do. Though I do spend maybe half my life at Sunnyside beach with a thermos of vodka now that summer's here again. Beat that, hammock-man!

My other celebratory gesture was breakfast at Easy (Queen and Roncey, one of my old favourites). With lots of bacon. Because I'm a survivor dammit.






NO SHOW
So I am perfectly free to lie around on benches, clipping my toenails and scratching myself, because Better Living and Escape From Happiness have closed. We had a great long run, at least of Better Living. Escape was a limited run, courtesy of the Luminato Festival (this big multi-gajillion dollar cultural festival that sprung from nowhere fully formed like Athena from Zeus' head. ("Good one, Leese." Thanks.) Brandon McGibbon, who was in the shows (I got paid to make out with him) would sigh "Ah, Luminato....when everything will change and women in gowns and tiaras will be in the front row throwing diamonds at me".

In reality, Luminato was the same old same old as far as we at Factory were concerned (though we were given exciting lanyards to wear that said "company member", and got us into, let me see, oh yes - sweet fuck all.) Our houses, sadly, might have actually been a bit smaller than usual because of all the competition for arts patrons in the city. I mean why come to us when you've got the Shpeeeeeegeltent? ("Naughty showgirls! Bawdy Beefcakes! Daring Divas!" Don't ask.) And the ugly museum to run around in. (Okay, I did run around in the ugly museum; it's not too bad from the inside - crooked and weird and trippy -and it's a PARADISE for school kids to hide from their teachers. There are these deep window wells that can hide dozens of small bodies, in every room, on every floor. Hilarious. )

Anyway, both shows are done now, and part of me is overjoyed to be a bum again. (I excel at it, see above.) I rented - and consumed - season one of HBO's Rome, which is so smart yet sooo dirty. I felt a bit like I was watching Dynasty dressed up as something historical and artistic and kept looking around to see if anyone was going to catch me. I finished painting my kitchen. Started my rowing classes. Volleyball begins this Sunday. And even before closing I was celebrating my impending freedom with a couple of nights of debauched silliness. Sarah Allen and I actually got caught drinking in a private karaoke room and had our booze confiscated. She played it so cool I really thought for a moment that she was gonna slip the guy a rolled up twenty. I won't go into the sordid details of the rest of that evening except to say that we were eating bacon and eggs with Jameson's on my patio at seven a.m. Now there's a meal for survivors.

Celebration aside, my very first day off I was hit hard with a case of PSD. That's Post-Show Depression for you non-theatre types....or those of you not familiar with the acronym that I just made up. PSD is commonly known and experienced by theatre artists after closing a show; it's a combination, I suppose, of loneliness over not seeing the people you've grown close to over several months of intense work, a loss of sense of purpose when you suddenly find yourself with nowhere to go at a set time every day, and then, in some cases, the worry over when the next damn job is and how you're gonna pay your damn bills until you go away to Saskatchewan in September. (Prostitution? AGAIN? Bo-ring!) It's similar to what people in all walks of life facing unemployment experience, I suppose, but we're special, okay?!!! Jeez. Plus we tend to go through it more regularly than the average Joe....and so it gets a special name. Which is not to be confused with PYT (Pretty Young Thing). Speaking of Michael Jackson......

WELL NOT REALLY (apropos of nothing)
Remember the Madonna tune La Isla Bonita? A truly terrible song, but I know at least a few of you know all the words. Listening to it even now it sounds like she sings "Last night I dreamt of some bagels". And later, "I fell in love with some bagels." Apparently it's San Pedro. I also thought that in Where the Streets have No Name, Bono was saying "I see the toaster disappear without a trace." (Dust cloud.) Why did everything I misheard as a kid have to do with bread? Maybe if my parents had fed me.....

FEED ME
...your comments. Yes, do keep it up. Much appreciated. Though if I went by posted comments alone only ten of you read last time. Luckily, I have other ways of knowing you're out there. (Your private emails...my secret cameras....)

Suggestions, perhaps, on what the hell "speaking of Michael Jackson" could have been leading to? On interesting things to do with one's remains? On WHAT TO DO WITH MY LIFE????!!! OH GAAAAWWWWWD!



Speaking of Michael Jackson,


The Tourist