rumours of my death are slightly exaggerated

From LONDON, ONTARIO
October 25th, 2010

I write this from a schoolyard full of screeching, flailing, wiggly children. Nearby, some kids hide from some other kids under a truck. Across the way, a few stray boys play a game of “Would You Rather?”, which seems to be comprised entirely of questions involving a gross girl named Jessica. “Would you rather never sleep again…or sleep with JESSICA?” “Would you rather have no face…or use your face to kiss JESSICA?” Tough decisions.

There is a reason for my presence here, and it goes beyond the usual stalking and staring. That’s reserved for high schools, incidentally, and I only ogle seniors. I’m performing a play for the lucky children of Southwestern Ontario, and later, through scattered areas of the United States. (Of America, not Mexico, alas.) It’s been twelve years since I did this kind of thing, and I was lured back by my dear friend and fellow actor Jamie Robinson, whom I now shake my fist at every day. This is hard work. Did you hear that? HARD WORK. EARLY MORNINGS. CARRYING STUFF. And this is me, Lisa Norton, the Skeptical Tourist, the long-acknowledged laziest woman in show business, we’re talking about.

I was also seduced by the fact that it’s with Roseneath Theatre, a company I’ve long admired – and the show is pretty great, as are my colleagues (thank the lord above). There’s the added ego boost of the kids regularly guessing my age at around twenty-five, shaving off a nifty ten years and thus encouraging my wearing of ridiculous clothing far too young for me. I’m the proud new owner of a weird little pair of Nike sneaks that not only glow hot pink and even hotter purple, but have this crazy insert that communicates with my tunepod and my computer about my exercise habits. When I complete a particularly challenging run, Lance Armstrong’s voice coos sweet congratulations in my ear. When I cack out and quit, my ipod gives me an electric shock and calls me a fat whore. Neat, I know!

This gig also got me with that irresistable Norton kryptonite, the promise of travel – thus far, to exotic locales like Ingersoll, Ontario! Mississauga! Richmond Hill! Luxurious nights at the Hojo in London!
Ahead lie Texas and Florida and the midwest, where I plan to pick daily fights over abortion, health care and dirty Canadian Socialism. I’ll also claim that our version of So You Think You Can Dance is superior to theirs, which always gets those Yankee conservatives right where it hurts.

Anyway, who can complain? ME, that’s who, and well, and daily. I have to watch the sun come up on the way to work, and it’s all annoyingly beautiful and stuff, like “Oooh, look at me, I’m the sun.” . Some schools we play don’t even stock Monarch brand foaming hand soap in the bathrooms, which is like, totally my favourite. And I’m not even sure that life’s worth living ever since the Body Shop stopped making honey shampoo and conditioner. If I were Oprah Winfrey, I bet I could just call up the Body Shop and tell them to start making my shampoo again and they would do it, just like that. So my main problem in life is actually that I’m not Oprah Winfrey. But I will be. Someday.

I did have a moment of true and awful outrage yesterday evening when I left my house to head for London. As I exited my building, two men were walking away having just attached a huge “Rob Ford For Mayor” sign to our gate. This is a building full of artists, progressives and cyclists, and for those of you from elsewhere, Rob Ford is the big angry reactionary dude with zero arts policy who thinks only gay needle users contract HIV and who wants to scrap all bike lanes because roads are for cars and cyclists are a pain in the ass and just asking to get run over. He has no cohesive plan for our city whatsoever and no platform but to shout the words “gravy train” over and over again while steam shoots out of his ears.

From the sidewalk you could look to the right of the Ford sign and see about fifty bikes parked in our courtyard. In fact, I saw people doing just that, all seemingly as perplexed as I by the sign’s presence. I huffed and puffed and asked the guys who it was that had requested the sign. “Paul,” apparently, who is apparently the owner’s son, and for whom it wasn’t enough to put a sign on his own damn house but had to put one on daddy’s rental property as well.

As I said, I huffed around for a bit while waiting for the streetcar and wishing I weren’t headed straight to London so I could fashion some kind of enormous disclaimer, stating “This sign does not necessarily reflect the opinions of the people who live here”…or order competing Smitherman and Pantalone signs to place next to the offending one…or, at the very least, stand there spitting all night long. Maybe set the building on fire.

In the end, I predicted the sign wouldn’t last ‘til morning, and made my sneaky contribution by (shock of shocks!) undoing one of the four twist ties holding it to the fence, in aid of whoever had the balls – and time – to do the rest. I felt so baaaad. But still so angry. In the sexiest of ways. I’m just so hot when I’m political, am I right? Don’t fight it.

I should mention that the last half of this blague has been broadcast from Toronto, to which I returned this afternoon to discover that the sign was gone (a result of protest to the landlords, or of sneakiness like mine?) – as were the questionably kosher Ford signs on the construction fences in the middle of my street and on the old folks’ home. Yaaay, Roncey!

So now, tonight, we Torontonians wait with bated breath to find out whether our fair city will be soon mayored by the loudmouthed phenomenon of assholishness that is Rob Ford. I’ll admit to having had a certain bias against the man before ever even having heard him speak, his big angry red face being enough to put me off instinctively. But then he opened his big angry red mouth and spewed out his big angry red thoughts, and it got no better. For us or him. Here are some of my favourite Ford clips, which will be either hilarious or terrifying in the morning, depending which way this thing goes.

Note how happy he looks when he discovers he may have been called a fat fuck and has something to freak out about.

I actually teach children about this kind of behaviour in our show every day. I’m hoping if Ford loses he’ll join our tour and take over one of my roles, that of the school bully. He would be amazing.
The most disturbing thing about this last clip, perhaps, is all the youtube comments commending this performance for demonstrating that at least he’s real and stands up for what he believes in. I’m terrified. But if he’s fleeced enough people to win this thing, I give the guy six months tops before he blows a gasket screaming at someone in a meeting and drops of a massive heart attack.
Orrrrr…

Now that’s more like it. What Toronto needs is Princess Leia. And Oprah Winfrey. Pantalone (whom I didn’t dare vote for, sadly) for mayor and honey shampoo in every pot! Foam hand soap in all the schools! And no one has to get up before noon! Vodka in the water fountains! And winter is abolished! Down with menstrual cramps! All ex-boyfriends will be nice! Puppies everywhere! And cute friendly monkeys following behind to eat the puppy poo! Save the whales and sharks and fuck seals anyway, who the hell do they think they are?

Oh God Oh God. Just got a call from my stage manager informing me that A: My call time is ten minutes earlier tomorrow morning, and B: That Ford is leading the count at fifty percent.
WHAT KIND OF NIGHTMARE AM I LIVING?????!!!!!

I’m off now, to turn on the TV and watch the results roll in and drink and swear and smoke things.
And burn the building down.

Help me Oprah-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.