the holocaust/music issue

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a day in the life

WELCOME BACK. WE'VE BEEN EXPECTING YOU.

From TORONTO
August 8th, 2009

What happens when I get off one gig and have very little to do until the next? That's right, Faithful Reader: I masturbate. A lot. But also.....random weird thoughts that have been jiggling around in my very large brain get a chance to rise to the surface. I've been home from beautiful Gananoque for a month now, my head empty of the creative struggle, my couch dented with a large ass print, the contents of my liquor cabinet in a constant busy rotation......which means that you now get:

AIMLESS MUSINGS FROM THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF NORTON.

WhOOOOOOOO!!! (I just like to say that. Typing it is pretty good, too.)

I think I often make the mistake, when working out of town, of thinking that as soon as I get back things are going to be some kind of exciting nonstop party all day and night, with no effort on my part. Like I'm going to be lifted up and put on a float the second I arrive and led through screaming throngs of Torontonians on some kind of Back From Gananoque V-Day Parade. To be sure, there's more going on here than there was there......okay, there's a LOT more going on than there was there, and friends to see, and sex to be had.....but I also get to do wonderful things like sort receipts and organize my closet. Maybe I should do mushrooms and then sort receipts and clean my closet. Actually, that sounds terrifying.

Speaking of sorted receipts, I've now paid my 6000 dollar debt in back GST. Just 7000 bucks in back taxes to go + whatever horrors remain on my credit cards! Donations toward my worthy cause may be made to girlyoullbeawomansoon@paypal.com . And oh, I will be free!!!

My television blew up the very day that I arrived back in Toronto. While that's never much of a distraction for me - my timewasters are more often of the intertubing wormhole/show-spider-solitaire-who's-boss variety - I do like watching DVDs. Now that I have an inability to do that (except on my angry old laptop, which makes a constant sound like a family of four all blowdrying their hair, and so is, oh, slightly distracting) there's more time for staring at the wall and into my own head.

You will be interested to know that as I turned the TV on - hoping to settle in with West Side Story and a pizza or two - it made a terrifying, loud, PchOOOOOOoooooo sound (go ahead, try it) that scared the hell out of me. And a bright flash of light left me legally blind for the next ten minutes. It was exciting. Obviously an attempt at contact by the aliens who live in my TV set.

To even out the technology balance, I did get my stupid fridge replaced, so I now have a working freezer for the first time since I moved into this apartment. What's to complain about when I can sit here, chewing happily on ice cubes hour after hour and stuffing ice packs down my pants to make up for two lost years of coldness? I know, it's no West Side Story.

And now, A Glass Half Full Moment: I suppose this crappy, crappy summer means a little less melanoma for everyone. Thanks, Crappy Summer!

I fear I have a homicidal streak. I really enjoy murdering fruit flies. And every winter I derive great pleasure from seeing the mounting tally I keep on a pad on my fridge of all the mice I've electrocuted in my little zappy trap. I bought the trap on a Home Depot trip with my mom; on the way home in the car, I got all excited and said, "I can't wait to get home and start killing mice." She turned to me and said, "That might just be the strangest thing you've ever said."

I suppose the word "homicidal" only applies to killing humans, though, and I've never done that yet. I'm just flyicidal and mousicidal. (And centipedacidal - those things are fucking disgusting.) I envy my boyfriend for his flying bug killer. The spray I have kind of leaves the fruit flies writhing around on the counter, whispering "Kill me." His has "instant knockdown" - you spray them and they drop right out of the sky, which is super fun.

The mouse thing perplexes me, since I once had a pet mouse, and loved him like the son I'll never have. His name was Nick. I bought him at the Humane Society for four dollars, though his cage cost thirty. They make you buy one on the spot, which reassures them that you're not just taking the mouse home to feed to your pet snake, though I'm not sure why they care.

Nick lived in a cage in the kitchen of my bachelor apartment and each night I would hear him try to get his hamster wheel going and then give up. He didn't weigh enough to keep it going all the way around. After months of rooting for him, I finally heard the thing spinning, and snuck in to watch, proud tears in my eyes. He'd been pumping iron or something, I don't know. From then on I had to keep his cage behind the closed bathroom door each night because the annoying wheel sound kept me awake.

Sometimes I took Nick out of his cage and let him run around on the carpet, making little barriers around him out of towels and things. Invariably he would make a break for the space under the futon and I would just catch him before he could disappear forever, my heart pounding like crazy. Late one night he died in my hand. I put him in a little Chinese lacquered jewelry box that someone had given me for Christmas and went out and buried him in the Don Valley in the middle of the night, digging in the dirt with a spoon, crying the whole time. Rest in peace, Nick. Forgive me for electrocuting your family.

While I was away this summer, a new neighbour with a yappy little dog moved in next door. This is to replace the neighbours directly below me and their yappy dog, who have moved out.

The day I got back to town, still shaken by the PchOOOOOooo sound and the lack of West Side Story, I went to bed and was woken at 1am by the new little rat-dog-thing, which barked until 2:30. Then at 7:30 am the bone-shakingly loud construction on Roncesvalles began; they're tearing up the road, for water main work, or streetcar tracks, or maybe just for fun. That week the landlords started destruction on my building's courtyard, and knocking down the walls of the empty apartment below mine. You would not believe how loud it was. Unless maybe you lived in Baghdad circa 2003. No wonder I enjoy killing flies.....The power! The absolute power!

A couple of times a month, I board a train or a plane and go to Montreal, where I take the metro to Papineau station, walk up the street, enter a brick building, climb two sets of stairs and go into a little room behind some glass and pretend to be a bird for a couple of hours. Then I go back home. I'm trying to decide whether my work doing cartoon voices is more or less strange than my usual work as a stage actor. Making funny voices to entertain children versus putting on funny clothes to entertain adults. Mind you, just about any job is pretty weird when you really break it down, except maybe if you're a farmer or a surgeon or a prostitute. Anyone remember this?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7pijrAOLdg

Another weird gig I have is doing audio recordings used to train TD Bank employees. Once a month or so, our agency sends along some of the best stage actors you'll ever see (a veritable who's that of Canadian Theatre, as my cousin Adrian would say) to pretend to be TD VISA bill collectors or disgruntled bank customers. The whole thing takes about two hours, sometimes only ten minutes or so of that in studio, the rest in the boardroom eating Timbits. For this we are paid more than we would get for an entire week of performing a play.

One day it occurred to me that my help in training debt collectors to be more humane might directly impact me and my friends. And that much of the money I would be paid by TD would go right back to TD. Just as the money I get from the government in the form of residuals for my Tourism Ontario commercial I send back to the government as tax payments. And last time I got a big residual cheque for my IKEA ad? I went right out and bought myself an EKTORP.

Is that bank training gig more or less weird than the hours I spend providing the voices of miscellaneous cheerleaders, teachers and passersby on Degrassi: The Next Generation? More or less weird than my friends who fake various aches, pains and diseases as "standardized patients" for health care training? Or my old theatre school friend who bought his house and feeds his child with money made dressed as a giant tube of toothpaste? Or is it really weird that I have never been able to describe what my mother does in twenty-five words or less? That my stepmother gave many overworked, worried years of her life to the noble cause of possibly helping Royal Bank post a slightly larger profit every quarter?

AAAARGH! I've got to stop thinking about this! My head is going to blow up. I think I've breathed in too much Raid Flying Insect Killer. Raid Satisfaction With the Status Quo Killer. With Instant Levelheaded Commonsense Knockdown. Hey, that's catchy copy; we might just have something here.

I'm off now, to bake a batch of cookies and change in-the-pants icepacks (because I can), and then pack for a couple of days in Niagara-On-The-Lake. There, I will attend a tribute to the late and great Neil Munro, a director who was an excellent guy and probably the biggest risk taker I'll ever know, and whom I feel lucky to have worked with. Weird job or no.

But before I go, what have we learned today, boys and girls? Why, that your hero, the Skeptical Tourist, is a loser just like you. (Though as far as losers go, she's pretty cool.) That your job is weird and pointless. And that, next time, you will throw a parade.

Yours, not even stoned, not really,

The Tourist

the dog ate my blog (the beyoncé issue)

From GANANOQUE, Ontario,
May 29th, 2009

What's this, Dear Reader? No friendly hello? No "How are you, our lovely and adored Tourist"? Just demands for more words per month? Outrage at my missing April post?

Well, fuck you too, Dear Reader!

As for excuses....whoo-ee, do I got 'em! You just watch me, boy! Not only do I have a perfectly good excuse - You've never seen excuses so perfectly good in all your life!

Let me first address a rumour begun by Pete Treadwell, treasurer and former chair of the Official Skeptical Tourist Fanclub, that I haven't written lately because my boyfriend and I got back together.

My response to this is not merely that Pete Treadwell is a stupid asshole (and hereby demoted from treasurer to Official Fan Club snack bar operator/janitor), but to point out that my slackerhood has been well cultivated - and documented - for many a year, through times of both deep single-hood and busy getting-laidness....through employment and through months of sleeping in and dragging my ass to the beach with a pitcher of vodka. Through thick and thin, in all kinds of weather, count on me to put things off as long as humanly possible.

I must confess, though, that the campaign to win my boyfriend back did eat into what would have been my research period for the April edition, as it consisted of long hours picketing outside his house and workplace day and night, shrieking the lyrics of I Want You Back by the Jackson Five and Bon Jovi's I'll Be There For You into a megaphone until I lost my voice and switched to hurling rocks through his windows. Naked.

But that campaign ended succesfully, Demanding, Selfish Plebe! A reunion was successfully enacted, with plenty of time left before the April blarging deadline, a heart full of inspiration, and a head stuffed with ideas....none of which would see the light of day.

Because then I was kidnapped by Beyoncé.

Thus I arrive at the real, and brutally traumatic, reason for my not having written in so long.
You may know that being kidnapped by Beyoncé Knowles has been a decade-long dream of mine, but trust me, it's not all it's cracked up to be. She may seem sweet in interviews, but that woman is one fucked up, if smoking-hot, individual. Looking So Crazy in Love, indeed.

It all began one sunny Sunday afternoon. As I walked home from church that day, I whistled a little song to myself, thinking, 'Hey, how come I can whistle all of a sudden?' and 'Wow, that's neat!' and 'I wonder what else can I do! Maybe I'll try a handstand!' Understandably distracted, I failed to notice the ominous-looking black Hummer limousine crawling along behind me, faint strains of "Bootylicious" drifting from behind its tinted windows.

As I experimented with the possibilities of my newfound whistling and acrobatic skills, performing a purse-lipped Star Spangled Banner while doing backflips down Roncesvalles, impressing all the local Polish widows, two masked figures slipped out of the limo and grabbed me, mid-flip. Before I could say J-J-J-Jay Hovah, I was in the back of the limo, a chloroform-soaked rag held over my mouth. My kidnappers removed their balaclavas...and before I could say "Aren't you Kelly Rowlands and Michelle Williams formerly of Destiny's Child fame?", all went black.

When I awoke, groggy and disoriented, I was in some sort of dungeon, chained to a wall and wearing an incredibly stylish fur bikini by House of Dereon. I heard laboured breathing and, as my eyes adjusted to the scarce light, I was able to make out other prisoners chained to the walls around me. "What is this place?" I whispered. "Who are you? How long have you been here?"

Two young black women across from me, more emaciated-looking than all the rest, spoke up first. "We're former members of Destiny's Child. You'll never make it out of here alive doo-wah doo-wah!!!"

A heavyset, grey-haired man with glasses occupied the wall-space next to mine. I blinked.
"Ebert? What are you doing here?"
"I gave a bad review to that stupid Etta James movie! The ungrateful bitch - I liked Dreamgirls!"

And, a little further down....
"Mom? Is that you?"
"Remember when I tried EHarmony? Jay-Z was one of my matches. We went out a few times. It was nice....until she found out!"
"Jeeze, Mom, you dated Jay-Z?"
"He said they were taking a break!"

It had rapidly become clear who was behind my abduction......but why?

Before I could find out more....a huge commotion interrupted. A section of the dungeon ceiling suddenly opened and a staircase lowered down. Through impressive clouds of dry ice I was able to make out one shapely brown leg after another sultrily (yet somehow angrily) stepping down.


And suddenly there she was, right in front of me, decked out in a black bathing suit and that tough eye makeup and weird metal arm that she's been sporting lately.

OOOH, I AM SO FIERCE.

OH YEAH? TAKE THAT!

Behind her, more legs, attached to those rotten backup girls of hers, my kidnappers, Kelly and Michelle. Lousy stinking bitches, I thought. Nice shoes. They glared back at me. "Uhh, uhh, uhh," they sang ominously.

"Beyoncé!" I said, "Why would you kidnap me? I'm your number one fan! Well, okay, so I only actually have one of your albums, and try to hide the fact that I paid itunes good money for the Single Ladies video....but still....everyone knows I love you!"

"Don't you misquote Woody Allen film titles at me, woman!", she said. "And if you love me so much, why are you always spreading rumours that I'm gay?"

"Oh, Beyoncé, is that what this is about? That was mere wishful thinking! I just think you are so beautiful and talented and hot! You can't blame a girl for dreaming just a little!"

"Well, that's flattering," she told me, flipping her hair back and popping her booty once or twice, "And for what it's worth, I think you're lovely, too. You have pretty eyes and an undefinably exotic look and your ass looked amazing in that dress you were wearing last Saturday night.....I mean, If I were a boy....but I say this all as a perfectly straight successful pop star who is ever so - I repeat, ever so - in love with her weird-looking husband. Come on - do I seem like a lesbian to you?"

"Well...uh...Honestly...?"

"I am not a freaking lesbian!"

"But Beyoncé, why are you so afr-"

"Don't call me Beyoncé! I am....Sasha Fierce!"

With that, she pressed a button on her metal armshield, releasing a laser that blasted a hole in the wall behind my head.
"Aaaaaaah!" I said.
"Doo-bee doo-bee ooh-ooh-ooh!" sang Kelly and Michelle.
"Ow," said the wall.

"And now, to prove once and for all that I'm not gay...I am going to whip your scantily clad body with this riding crop until you scream, while Kelly and Michelle take pictures that I will post on the internet! Will THAT make you stop saying I like girls?"
"Actually", I said, "That doesn't really make a lot of sen-"
"-Shut up!" cried Beyoncé, "Or I'll kiss you all over!"

What happened next you can only imagine. Or peruse the pictures online. They're quite flattering, actually. But I don't want to talk about it.

After it was over, she left in an flustered, sweaty huff, breathing heavily as she ascended the hydraulic staircase, and already perusing the pictures on Kelly's Canon Powershot (official camera of Sasha Fierce's secret torture dungeon).

And she was gone for days.

Days of no light, no food save for a few scraps of Pepsi Products (official food and drink provider for Sasha Fierce's secret torture dungeon) thrown down from above....days of dark uncertainty, drifting in and out of consciousness.....listening to the feeble whiny singing of the former Destiny's Child singers, our only entertainment Roger Ebert's shot-by-shot descriptions of his favourite movies. My mom and I caught up: I told her the circumstances of my capture (including my newfound tumbling and whistling skills - she was very proud); she revealed to me the full depth of her feelings for Jay-Z.

And Beyoncé herself only returned periodically to threaten me, massage my shoulders or play This Little Piggy with my toes. It was terrifying.

Until.....

I was awoken in the dead of night (or dead of day - it was all a painful blur, as I said) by the ceiling opening ever so slowly, so quietly. No backup singers this time, and no smoke machine. Just a tall and sad-eyed man in an impeccable suit, stepping as gingerly as he possibly could. Jay-Z.

I sat up. He saw me and put a finger to his lips. A set of keys was in his other, shaking hand.

One by one, he gently roused the singers, Ebert and my mother, and explained. His wife was upstairs sleeping in her sealed L'Oreal Skin Science anti-aging chamber (official anti-aging chamber of Sasha Fierce's....oh, you get the point). We didn't have much time. He was helping us escape, he said. He'd discovered his marriage was a sham, and he'd had enough.

"She doesn't love me," he whispered, fumbling with his keys in the dimly lit chamber. "She's completely obsessed with some white chick from Toronto. Lisa Norton this, Lisa Norton that! How could I have been so blind!"

Thinking fast, I used my super acting powers (SAP TM) to temporarily adjust my facial features before he could recognize me as said white chick and fly into a jealous rage. Looking like Yao Ming and speaking in the voice of Regis Philbin, I said: "What are you going to do now, Jay-Z?"

"Well, I won't help her with this world domination thing anymore, that's for sure! After I release you prisoners, I'm dismantling her atomic bomb. And deprogramming her backup slaves. Then I'm outta here! I'll sell Roc-A-Fella Records, Roca Wear and the New Jersey Nets and move to Etobicoke to open up that little gelato shop I've always dreamed of." He turned to my mother. "What do you say, Lolita? Come with me? Give it another try?"
"Oh, Jay," said mom. "I knew you'd come around!"
"Call me Shawn," he said. "Shawn Corey Carter."

And, beaming with new hope, my mother on his arm, he started to free us, when....
JUST THEN - there she was!

With one blast from her metal arm, Jay-Z was down. So far, only I was unshackled. The stairs ascended and slammed shut. Beyoncé turned on me, aiming the arm, her fiercest Sasha Fierce eyes fixed on me in anger. There would be no This Little Piggy this time, Dear Reader, no sir.

It seemed hopeless. Until my mom cried out, "Your new acrobatic skills, Lisa! Use them!"
"And my whistling?" I paused to say.
"Yes, my second-born! Whistle! Whistle like you've never whistled before!"

Beyoncé, who had been conveniently tying her shoelace during this exchange, stood up just in time for my first flying triple sow-cow roundhouse kick to her chiselled abs. I simultaneously unleashed a lengthy and highpitched series of whistles the, er.....length and high-pitchiness of which you've never heard before.
"Ow," said the wall.
"You stay out of this."

Beyoncé stumbled backward, sharply manicured hands over her ears.

I did a couple back handsprings, just for fun, and punched her head repeatedly.

"Why, Lisa?" She wheezed, barely hanging on to consciousness. "Why do you want to leave me? Haven't I treated you well? I mean, as far as dungeon-confined prisoners go? You know I like you more than all the others."

"If you like it," I said, "Then you shoulda put a ring on it." And I kicked her in the face.

She was out.

I grabbed the metal arm thing and tried to decipher the complicated controls. WIND MACHINE....SMOKE...ALL THE SINGLE LADIES....TO THE LEFT TO THE LEFT. EXIT. I took a chance and tried that one.

The hydraulic stairs swung down.

I had Jay's - er, Shawn Corey's - keys and started to unshackle the other prisoners.

"I'm making a break for it! Who's with me?"
"No!! We'll never make it past Michelle and Kelly! Doo-Wah, doo-wah!"
"What about you, Siskel?"

"It's Ebert!
"Whatever! Are you in?"
"Two thumbs down!"
"Mom?"
"I can't leave Jay-Z!"
"Fine, then! I'll go it alone!"

And I made my escape......up the stairs, past rooms and rooms of wind and smoke machines.....through the maze of interconnected walk-in closets, pausing only to admire my reflection (forcible confinement does wonders for the complexion) and to grab a few choice items on the way, including a huge and ugly Gucci handbag which shortly came in handy when I used its enormous metal buckle to protect myself from Michelle and Kelly's bullets. When they ran out of ammo I grabbed for a fortuitously close-at-hand pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos and beat them off, leaving them a crumpled pile of glittery limbs and fake hair.

"All the ladies who truly feel me...throw your hands up at me," they wheezed, but their hearts just were not in it. Plus they had some broken ribs.

I also broke Michelle Williams' neck, and for that I'm sorry, though not really, really sorry, as she did follow up her brilliant years as a member of the most successful girl group of all time with a couple of sucky gospel albums. So perhaps it served her right. And I completely destroyed one of Kelly Rowland's long and perfect legs. So there goes her career.

I stumbled out the door, limping, barely able to eke out the whistle that would summon my getaway cab. I climbed in the back.... and as it drove away, the entire place went up in flames. No. I don't know why.

But I was free! At long last! And how long had it been? I had no idea.....but my first thought was of you, Puny Little Reader, and of how worried you must be, sitting in your darkened hovel staring at that empty screen of yours, waiting for the sweet relief of my monthly words of comfort and advice. Waiting God knows how long for news of me. My goodness, I thought....the poor, poor things.

So as soon as I was able to type of it without collapsing in uncontrollable sobs, I sat down to relay this whole sad story to you. And here we are.

It's all true. Ask the Polish widows.

Now a month has passed and here I sit, in my quaint and lovely summer home in the picturesque town of Gananoque, Ontario, scant blocks from the St. Lawrence river. I'm recovering nicely from my traumatic time in that awful dungeon, keeping myself busy rehearsing a sweet little play about single welfare mothers in Winnipeg and immersing myself in small-town life.

One of my housemates is downstairs overseeing an oven full of baking cookies; another is rubbing my feet, while the third paints my portrait. From here I will write many blog posts, all about flowers and butterflies and the heavenly scent of freshly baked goods. I'll treat you to Hymns to Dirt Roads, share an Ode to a Cumulous Cloud, and post slide shows of my barbeque and everything that has the honour of being grilled upon it. I'll let you know just what I'm up to, Dear Reader.

I'll make you wish you never asked.

P.S. If you see my mom and Jay-Z, let me know.

the skeptical stage

From TORONTO,
March 16th, 2009

One year ago, Deeply Blessed Reader, I treated you to a little (invaluable, indespensably brilliant) missive containing The Skeptical Tourist's Advice to Young Actors. (See "The Practical Artist", March 2008 in The Skeptical Archives, at right.)

Since then, my people have been regaled, all but constantly, with demands for more. "What else?", you cry! How this, and Why that, and More More More!

When I run into recent theatre school graduates, or hold one of my impromptu five-hour talks in one of the schools, I am bombarded by young people who weep, fall to their knees, and tell me how much my advice has helped in their careers. Or something like that.

So now, Dear Readers, I lift you gently from the dirty ground and direct your humble eyes to my latest words of wisdom for those Treaders of the Boards out there. BEHOLD, my Little Reader:

THE SKEPTICAL TOURIST'S ADVICE TO YOUNG ACTORS......VOLUME II! The Super Awesome 2009 Holiday Spectacular (err....Spring Equinox? St. Patrick's Day?), Back By Popular Demand, New Improved Lost Weight Haven't You, Love the Hair, My God You're Sexy Edition! (Et cetera.)


And so I begin. Last time around, as you well remember, I gave a general(ly incredible) overview of the entire Business of Acting; today I will concentrate primarily on the stage itself(Which is usually very dirty, by the way, so always wear rubber gloves as part of any costume.)

First, some notes on connecting with your audience:

Since humour is the surest way to people's hearts (well, that and gifted oral), and since the whole point of this performing thing is to be the one they love the most....make 'em laugh!
Looking to spice up that little Holocaust comedy you're starring in? A well-placed fart joke goes a long way. But six fart jokes go even further.

Other popular methods include simulated humping (real humping reserved for dramatic moments/edgy Canadian plays only), open zippers on or around the crotch area, tripping, falling, double takes, spit takes, double spit takes, triple sow cow one eyebrow inverse reactive spit takes, and poo.

It's important to make eye contact with the audience as much as possible. This way, you can directly monitor that all-important connection, remaining in constant touch with how much the viewers are enjoying themselves. And it gives you something to do when you get bored. Calibrate your fart jokes according to both enjoyment levels, theirs and yours.

More essentially, this is your chance to scope out attractive audience members and decide which fans you'd like delivered to your dressing room for the traditional post-show psychedelic orgy.

In the case that there is an awards jury member, critic, or adjudicator of any kind at your performance that night, be extra diligent in maintaining eye contact and directing all your attention his/her way. It helps that you will have been alerted to the presence of such people by your faithful ushers, who will assist by keeping a flashlight beam continually trained on their faces throughout the show, making their reactions easier to spot. Again, adjust your performance as necessary. Lift your skirt in the critic's direction. Flash a little leg. Or a hundred dollar bill. Work his name into the show. In the case of The Toronto Star's Richard Ouzounian, make the play a musical that night. Jazz hands, people. And beam the entire curtain call at him. As he's running down the aisle towards the exit.

Find a way to make your character distinct. This needn't be anything huge or outrageous; something subtle like a hunchback or a twitch can be an equally effective choice. Be aware, though, that everything must increase exponentially in relation to the size of the theatre. In a larger space, try combining two or three memorable traits, such as the limp-funny accent-constant scratching combo. New York actors have been experimenting of late with exciting new combos, such as the funny accent-eye patch-projectile vomiting blend, with some success. Make this your own. Note, however, that 89% of successful combinations do begin with a funny accent. Hopefully your acting school will have given you the fundamentals you need to do dozens of dialects very badly. (Good renditions are rarely funny.)

Speaking of schools.....I must here take a moment to address a disturbing trend in actor training, something that's been upsetting me since first I heard about it. A lot is made, in theatre schools these days, of an experimental concept called "generosity". You must give to the other actors onstage, say your professors; you must make yourself "available" and "share" and be "unselfish".

Well, listen up, Young Actors! You needn't listen to this lousy bunch of Communists! This is America! (What's that, Editor?) This is Canada! And my forbears didn't fight for my rights, didn't forge the Declaration of Inde- What's that? - Charter of Rights and Freedoms or the Emancipation Procla-Constitution just so I could be told by some precious pansy (peculiar purple pie) Professor wearing a beret and an I Vote Arts and Culture pin, that I have give up those hard-earned rights and SHARE.

I refuse to be ashamed of myself! Don't you back down either, Actor-Reader! Take pride in who you are, white, black or...those other things! Take centre stage, God Dammit! And only move when you want to! Say what you want to say! And never, ever, look another actor in the eye! (Unless she has, say, green eyes and pretty lips and you plan to do her later.)

Pay no heed to the barefoot tree-hugging hippies who are trying to strip you of your rights as a Performer! Leave them, I say, in your theatrical dust! (Which is made of ground-up pixies, by the way, and available for sale at Theatrebooks on St. Thomas Street, just $18.99 a gram.)

Someone else who will try to tell you what to do is that asshole, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Some actors take his advice to the players as the word of God himself. But sawing the air with your hands and strutting and bellowing are staples of any strong performance. (In concert with twitches and flatulence.) And if you can't tear a passion to tatters, what can you do with it?

Hold fast, Young Thespian. Take my advice, keep getting better - though, sadly, never quite as good as me - and I will see you out there. I look forward to sharing the stage with you. Except not. You know what I mean.

Go, make you ready,

The Tourist


See The Tourist put all these principles - and more! - into action, in And Up They Flew, on now until April 4th at Toronto's Berkeley Street Theatre. www.theatrecolumbus.ca or 416 368 3110 for tickets.

lisa vs norton

From TORONTO,
February 11th, 2009

Lisa Michele Norton was born in the Toronto suburb of Scarborough in 1975, into a family who loved her and whose names (Lolita, Mike and Nancy) began with letters that made up her initials. They later said this was coincidence. It made her feel, however, like the centre of their universe. This could be what you call "formative". Her initials are also in alphabetical order, a fact which always made her secretly believe she would one day marry a man named O'Patrick, thus becoming L.M.N.O.P.

Lisa's alter ego, Norton (one name, like Rihanna or Snoopy or Cher), was born a few years later, but is also somehow infinitely older. Norton raised herself.

The Skeptical Tourist came from Outer Space. To be reared on Earth by wild dogs.

Lisa remembers, at about age five or so, a legendary pie. The day her mother made the legendary pie, lemon meringue, her favourite. She remembers peering up at the kitchen counter, at all the mysterious implements, the strange actions. Rolling pin and alchemical charts; the dust of flour floating through a beam of light that shot through the kitchen window, a perfect afternoon light, a perfect summer afternoon. The comfort of being just knee-high to everything; of being surrounded, protected. The magic of pie, of lemon meringue, and of love.

Her mother claims Lisa's memory is faulty; continues to insist that this was not the ONLY pie she ever made. Lisa only pretends to believe her.

Norton's earliest memory is of arriving at Grey Owl Junior Public on the very first day of school, triumphant atop her dad's big black ten-speed. Pulling up, right to the door, the Queen of Sheba in the child seat, up so high above all the other kids who waited, leaning against the brick wall of the kindergarten, to be let in; being lifted down from up on high (in slow motion, it seemed) and lowered into the throng of staring children, who all gasped out in unison, "Wooooooow".

Lisa was named after a kid in her sister's class at school. I wonder where that kid is now.

Lisa is a girl.
Norton is a motorcycle.
The Tourist is a piece of macaroni.

Lisa's sister regularly forced her (crying, terrified) to put on cabarets for the family. So Norton became a performer. But Lisa is the better actor.

NORTON TAKES OVER.

Norton once worked at the LCBO and loved load day. Down in the store basement, running around, grabbing boxes from an ever-full conveyer belt, she got to feel her muscles growing stronger while people shouted things like "Move that skid!" and "Coming through!" and "Count of three!" Picking up two cases of wine, one on top of the other, to keep up with the boys.....the camaraderie of ice packs....the satisfaction of a sore back. The ladies all holding their own, "I'm stronger than I look, assholes", singing along to the Mighty Q, laughing, lifting, laughing....

(Lisa liked the way the boxes looked piled high and lined up row on row like a city of cardboard skyscrapers; she loved their numbers facing all the same way, their edges lined up nicely; balance, symmetry. She enjoyed the even numbers of six-packs, of two-fours, of cases of twelve; the ring of "Seven Hundred and Fifty Millilitres". She didn't care for ounces. Where did ounces fit in anyway?)

Lisa likes filing.

Lisa is a Virgo. Norton is a Scorpio. The Tourist thinks it's all a load of crap.

Norton makes an appearance wherever cameras can be found.

(TRYING TO CRACK UP CASEY WONG)

So does the Tourist.

Occasionally, even Lisa's caught on film.

Lisa was de-virginized in high school. Norton was born experienced. The Tourist thinks that virgins past sixteen are a myth, like satyrs or the Sphinx.....at least in Scarborough.

All three are perpetually two years behind on their taxes and many more behind on filing GST. They blame each other. Lisa starts to hyperventilate and cry when opening those off-brown envelopes from Revenue Canada. But Norton wins over the tax collectors. The GST agent assigned to her file recently wished her good luck on her upcoming show. They wished one another fond Happy New Years, and the agent is pleasantly surprised when Norton calls. She sniffs the cheques that Norton sends for traces of her scent.

Lisa fears she will never find true love. Norton and the Tourist both say "Fuck it".

In grade three, Norton forced her friends to perform in elaborate stagings of fairy tales strongly influenced by "Disney Classics", in front of the whole class. She was playwright, tyrannical director and star....though she did once cast herself in the more minor role of Sleepy dwarf, as, A) It was full of comic opportunity, and, B) She bristled at her grade three colleagues' assumption that she would play Snow White merely because she had black hair, pale skin and ruby lips. (Okay, so she didn't have ruby lips; I made up that last part. - The Tourist)

Lisa is easily humiliated. On the rare occasion she's involved in any kind of verbal altercation, she turns bright red and goes over every word that was said for hours.

Norton is dying to be on the Late Late Show With Craig Ferguson. If Lisa shows up we're in trouble. The Tourist would rock....or get the show a lot of angry letters.

Norton once gave a rollicking, rude, politically outspoken interview to Eye Magazine, completely on the record, but the writer, whom I daresay had a minor crush and didn't want her to get in trouble, instead wrote a lovely story about Lisa, and how doggone nice she was, and gee how much she loved being an actress.

Lisa says Hee Hee Hee.
Norton says HA HA.
(The Tourist says a doo doo doo, a da da da, this is what I say to you.)

Lisa has a recurring dream that she can breathe underwater. It's always so realistic that she is regularly devastated ten minutes after waking when it dawns on her that it isn't true. Sometimes even in the light of day she believes she's not like other people, and that if she just stuck her face in the water while having a bath and took a deep breath, she'd be fine. She keeps on meaning to try it.

Norton loves any kind of powder candy. Pixie Stix, Rockets, Lik'm'Aid.... Lisa makes soup and bakes cookies. The Tourist will eat anything, but do you think she ever lifts a finger to help?

When Lisa was seven, she made fast friends with a girl her grandmother babysat. They were in love with Eric Estrada and Larry Wilcox of the TV series Chips, and one day, while Grandma was upstairs and they were downstairs watching the show, they decided to write them a letter telling them so.

DEAR ERIC AND THE BLOND GUY. WE LOVE YOU. WE LOVE CHIPS. WILL YOU MARRY US?

They drew pictures of the men with their best crayons, folded the letter and addressed the outside with "CHIPS GUYS, HOLLYWOOD, U.S.A." Then, because they thought this was how it worked, they placed it in Lisa's grandparents' mailbox where the mailman would come and take it away. Instead, of course, her grandmother found it in the mail and read it, returning it directly to the girls. Grandma likely never gave it another thought; for Lisa, it was the most humiliating, mortifying moment of her young life. The girls fought over whose stupid idea it had been to put the letter in the house's mailbox.....and from then on could barely look each other in the eye without acute embarrassment, let alone be friends. Good thing Norton can laugh about it now.

Lisa is afraid of lots of things. For instance: spinning classes. She has yet to take one. The whole thing's terrifying: the hellish stench emerging from the glass cage where it takes place; the techno music; the fierce, tiny woman on the bike at the front of the class screaming "GO GO GO GO GO!!!!!" Norton could probably teach it. (The Tourist thinks it's just a load of crap.)

Lisa likes to be alone. Norton likes that, too. The Tourist just wants them to get it on already. Can't they see that they're in love?

Sometimes people invite Norton to the party and Lisa shows up. She does her best Norton imitation but the jokes are just not flowing. She wishes she could come back in the door and be herself.

The Skeptical Tourist hates Facebook. Lisa admits that maybe it helped her feel a bit less lonely the last week or two. (Lisa is going through a breakup, and it's hard. Norton hates herself for telling you that. The Tourist wonders whether it will land her any dates.)

Lisa fears she'll never write anything of note.

Norton brags that she will be the perpetrator of the Great Canadian Novel someday.

The Skeptical Tourist thinks this blog is the greatest accomplishment known to upright man and why bother trying to top that?

She may have a point.