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
death of a tourist
the skeptical poorest
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?
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
she is risen
From TORONTO
April 9th, 2007
FREEZTER WEEKEND
Ahhh......the traditional minus two degrees Easter Sunday. (Said I wouldn't complain about the weather, said I wouldn't complain about the weather....) Please allow me to just say: MOTHERFUCKER! CHRIST! BLOODY BLOODY BLOODY HELL!
Okay. Resolution back on track.
And now, the traditional Easter/Passover random thoughts from some dumb bitch with nothing better to do:
THE GIRL WHO FORGOT STUFF
In my last post I speculated on whether anyone had ever written a novel based on a play or film instead of the other way around. Take note, gentle reader: the insanely talented Sean Dixon (playwright/actor/astronaut) has, in fact, written a novel based on his play The Girls Who Saw Everything. Sean, in fact, told me ALL ABOUT IT a couple of months ago when I ran into him at the Film Buff. I forgot this (though it obviously wormed into my subconscious mind) because I am, in fact, a moron. Please go to this ("Sean Dixon's Authorial Banjoree" at the Gladstone, April 26th). You could win a ukelele. Or this (Coach House Press' Spring Launch May 2nd at Revival). Please buy his book (in hard cover, for lots and lots of money, if you can, so that he will get something out of it). I personally guarantee it will be weird and good. Or Sean will give you your lots and lots of money back. And massage your feet.
CHAMPAGNE COCAINE CHOW MEIN COBAIN:
THE SHAUGHNESSY BISHOP-STALL STORY
Speaking of weird and wonderful writers, Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall (or Young BS to Tourist regulars) is upset that mentions of him have become less mythic and mysterious. He takes issue with the fact that he went from Adventures With Bridesmaids to merely being The Guy My Ceiling Nearly Fell On. I take issue with his WHINING AND COMPLAINING. Not sure whining fits with the sexy rogue image you're goin' for there, BS. Get a motorcycle or something and maybe we'll talk.
Okay, okay......to appease my dissattisfied friend, I challenge you, sexy and talented reader, to reply to this post with a paragraph, or even a sentence, furthering the Young BS Myth. You needn't know him personally. Key words and phrases (inspired by the actual life of Bishop-Stall) may include but are by no means limited to: Hot Lesbian Doctor, Boozecan, Deadline, Bisexual Vampire Party, Writing Class, Poker Binge, Champagne, Cocaine, Chow Mein, Cobain. I know, what a boring guy! Good luck making anything interesting out of that.
LISA NORTONS UNITE!
Recently I was Googling myself - not in public, don't worry, I've learned my lesson since the arrest - and I discovered that there is a wide variety of incredibly interesting people out there named Lisa Norton. I thought I'd compile a list of Top Ten Lisa Nortons and post it on this Blague. The rankings would be a tough call (to name but a few, there's an award-winning novelist, a renowned sculptor, an Ecologist specializing in sustainable land use, and an eleven-year veteran high-school bus driver in Pittsylvania, Virginia who is also a substitute teacher and often fills in on a moment's notice when she drops off the students). My Outsized Ego, however, allowed me to assume, while reading through doctors, lawyers and saints with my name, that I would easily allow myself to top the list. That I would be the Number One Lisa Norton! Norton Supreme! La Norta Grande!
Then, sweet-smelling reader, I encountered the website of "14.6 year-old" Lisa Norton of Bradford, Ontario, a sassy, irreverent kid with huge feet, a wry sense of humour and a passion for writing and drawing.
http://ca.geocities.com/lisa_da_punk_rocker/index.htm
I'm so afraid for this girl. She reminds me in some ways of myself at a younger age - and God knows I could have gone bad, instead of achieving the infinite good that I do now. (No need to thank me, homeless lepers.) She's probably hanging out at the mall with some deadbeat boy or girlfriend, too busy worrying about what bands she should like (and why that burning sensation won't go away) to bother drawing and writing poems anymore. Worse yet, perhaps all the stories and comics seem a childish waste of time when she has so much chemistry homework and has to achieve that 95 average if she wants to get into Queens. Maybe she's got a kid or two by now. Maybe she dropped out of school and became a stripper at the local Bradford peeler bar. Spends her nights trying to get the guys she ignored in high school to slip some bills into her g-string. Giving lapdances to her former teachers. The guy she once had a big crush on is now the sleazy emcee/resident dealer. He expects the occasional handjob in his van if you want him to play the right song when you dance.
OR, most frightening of all, perhaps I am destined to never find Lisa Norton 14.6, as she is an alternate version of me in a parrallel universe and never the twain shall meet. If I find her....my head will blow up. Sigh.
BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT
Dreamgirls is such a piece of crap! Oh My God! That is all.
But you're still hot, Beyonce. Don't worry baby, I don't blame you. Anytime you and Jennifer Hudson invite me back to that hot tub, I'm there. Send the good jet. This time the caviar's on me.
blague city
From TORONTO,
March 25th, 2007
NAKED NEIGHBOUR ETIQUETTE
So let's say you and your friend Sarah have been drinking on a patio all afternoon (Ten degrees! Woo hoo! Let's take our pants off! Nutty Canadians). And let's say now it's evening and you're both sitting on your couch eating ice cream. (No, this is not going into exciting lesbianic territory; we didn't start play fighting and get sticky ice cream - oh no - all over! Maybe next week....) But let's say you look up and notice that your very hot neighbour, whose kitchen faces your living room, is walking around cooking wearing just a towel. Clearly he's making a post-sex snack for his wife who's all worn out and breathless in the next room. And he's just out of the shower, so he's kind of wet and glistening-like...and....ahem.
My question, dear reader, is not whether to stare at your wet, half naked neighbour or not; obviously you stare, I did say hot neighbour, we're not talking Mister Roper here. But let's say this certain neighbour looks up to see two chicks eating ice cream and watching him. What's the etiquette there? Do you wave? Do you, I don't know, take your top off, just to make him feel more comfortable? (Would your friend Sarah mind?) What you probably don't do is go with my spur of the moment reaction, which was to just sit there all slack-jawed and stalker-y, unable to avert my eyes, pralines and cream all drooling down my chin.
Funny that our initial assumption was that a hot male neighbour would enjoy being watched by randy strangers across the way. When he was probably just thinking, "Oh great. Now I have to cook in the dark."
My eventual solution was to go out today and pick up a set of international code flags ($16.95 at Zellers). I'm teaching myself the universal signals for "Drop the towel"...."Hey, you've been working your pecs"....and "Is your wife into this?" Even if I don't use those on the neighbour they're bound to come in handy sometime. There's also the curtain option. Which would not only give the neighbours their privacy, but spare them having to know how many games of Spider Solitaire I play each day, and how regularly I pick my nose.
STREETCAR BEACH
I like finding little mini-vacations for myself. It helps when you can't afford a real one. This one's as mini as you can get. It's in fact on the King streetcar. Under that short little train overpass between Dufferin and Strachan. After the systematic mowing down of four hundred and twenty-three cyclists, the city finally installed proper lights in the tunnel....and I don't know if there was a beauty sale at the city store or something.....but the lights they put up, instead of being your run-of-the-mill glaring fluorescent uglies, cast a truly lovely amber glow. There's this magical suspended moment when the streetcar slows for safety and the warm light comes in the windows and suddenly all the pale March faces are lit up and sunny and warm....I look up and around at my fellow passengers every time to take in how pretty they all are, how slow and relaxed the world is for just that moment......and then the streetcar leaves the tunnel and everyone starts strangling one another again and my vacation is over. It lasts all of thirty seconds. But it's probably why I usually head home along King instead of Queen. It's a little thing. But it's a motherfuckin' nice thing. Biatch. To quote post-jail Martha.
DENSE-CITY
I am getting rather fed up with the official Toronto policy of knocking down anything old (buildings, people) to vomit up ugly new condos. I mean, I think urban density is great, better than sprawl, but why does it all have to look like it's made of cardboard? I cry a little when I think that this city would look a lot like Montreal if they had left more of it the fuck alone. I was walking along Charles Street, West of Bay the other day, and noted again the small row of beautiful red-brick Victorians boarded up and slated for demolition. There are signs out front announcing re-zoning to allow for two new buildings 23 and 15 stories high. Next door is one of those boring, old-folks-in-Miami lookin' condos, and I'm sure these will be more of the same. Aross the street they're knocking down the Lycee Francais.
Walking a little further brought me to the ROM, where that huge glass and steel THING is being whacked onto the side of the building. The THING being the Michael Lee Chin Crystal (designed by Daniel Libiskind, named for a banker). See it and track its progress at http://www.rom.on.ca/renaissance/architecture.php . 
I find it kind of hideous. But at least it's interesting. And it may turn out all right. Better than that nasty thing they stuck on top of The Ontario College of Art and Design.
(See the monstrosity at right.)
The new Art Gallery of Ontario addition might be kinda cool, but it's gehry, and not, you know, GERHY, and a bit pedestrian. (http://www.ago.net/transformation/new_building-images.cfm) He apparently abandoned a more ambitious and spectacular plan when local citizens complained about its height. AAAAARGH! World famous avant garde architect returns home to be met with "Uhhh....can you make it a little smaller?" No wonder the new plan is slightly lame; he probably got pissed off and gave us some ol' crap design he's had sitting in his basement for thirty years. The addition, still under construction, is already being called the AGO Sneezeguard.
I quite like the new Opera Centre.....except the decor is a bit IKEA, something Tracy Dawson and I noted at the open house before shamedly reading some display about the imported limestone floors and the expensive German wood. Are you sure you don't mean Swedish? Isn't that staircase the Kvurtslig from page 46 of the spring catologue? Does the bar serve meatballs?
YOUNGER LIVING
So I'm playing a teenager again starting next week. Which is getting a bit weird. Starting to feel like Gary Coleman or Emmanuel Lewis. That's right, I feel small and black. This time I'm teening it up in Better Living and Escape From Happiness, two George F. Walker plays at Factory. The very eerie thing about this casting though, is not my extraordinary oldness, thank you very much. (Hey, I still do get carded buying booze and hit on by adolescent boys.) No, what has me freaked out is all the parallel lines to my younger life. It's one of the East End Plays, and my character has a cop for a father and a hoodlum boyfriend named Junior. In case you're not up on your Tourist lore (and I'll forgive you this time), I grew up in Scarborough (east end as it gets), my dad was on the force (even worked fraud, same as the dad in the show), and my first big high school boyfriend was Junior Bailey, a small-time hood in training.
That Junior actually showed up backstage at the Royal Alex one day when I was doing The Innocent Eye Test. I hadn't seen him in fifteen years and he was there, he said, because he'd seen me in a bikini in the newspaper (an ad for the show, not a Sunshine girl spread, sadly). He came by himself, sat in the first row and now was being all pick-uppy and weird. I don't think he blinked the whole time we talked at stage door. And not in that gorgeous Joseph Fiennes "my eyes are so beautiful it would be a shame to deny you them for a moment" way......or I suppose that's the effect he was going for. Instead it read like he was overmedicated. Or just the kind of guy who comes to see his ex up-close in a bikini and keeps telling her how great she looks and talking about himself in slightly suspect ways. He told me he'd gotten his Masters....and later slipped up and mentioned that he'd been to Community College, not University. Not sure when Humber started handing out Masters degrees. But I am glad he's turned from drug dealing to a career in law enforcement. My Dad's about to make the opposite switch, to supplement his pension on retirement. Good for him!
I had another teenager audition this week, and the director had clearly looked over my resume pretty thoroughly, which is usually a good thing. In this case, the more we discussed my past work, the more I felt the role slipping away from me, as each bit of experience added to my perceived age. I could almost hear him calculating years in his head..... I started hunching over more and more, little lines suddenly appeared around my eyes and mouth, my knees started creaking, clumps of hair fell from my head.... I finally did the scenes with a cane and a tremor....and then I woke up and realized it was ALL A DREAM! And that I'm not an actor at all, but a very successful Pakistani engineer, living in Boston with my wife and three children and playing tennis every Thursday! Phew. What a relief. Now who the hell are you and why am I writing this?
PLAYBOOK
Do you suppose anyone has ever adapted a play into a novel? I ask this because the usual course is to take books and adapt them for the stage or the screen, but I started thinking the other day, what if you tried it the other way around? And not like those " based on the movie" novelettes aimed at twelve year olds. (Back to the Future: the Book! Marty McFly woke up. He knew it was going to be a BAD DAY.) I'm thinking this could give a play another kind of life beyond its three-week run, and one for people who read novels but not plays. (Who reads plays except for actors? Oh yeah. Playwrights.)
It would be an interesting exercise, if nothing else, taking a stage work and then being able to dive into the secret thoughts of the characters, elaborate on or invent back stories, add new scenes, more locations.....With a page-to-stage adaptation, a lot of it is cutting things out, distilling, editing....but with stage-to-page, you could expand, explore, extrapolate....do other things that start with ex......and then get punched in the nose by the playwright for getting it all wrong. And have him or her deny you the rights to do anything with it. But it's worth a thought. I shall begin with Puppetry of the Penis: A Novel. It will surely be my master work.
BLAH!
My favourite suggestion addressing the problem of the word "Blog", which really does sound like a creature of the deep, comes from Maureen Del Degan of Parkdale, who points out that the word "blague", French for joke, is a tres chic alternative (Why, yes! It makes me think of croissants! Berets! Sexy little men smoking Gauloises!) and is rather appropriate. Yeah! As if this is all some big joke! As if it doesn't cost me to share all this with you! As if I don't die a little every time I tear out a small piece of my heart and smear it flat on the page for you, MAUREEN! Thanks a lot! Just kidding, I love it, your prize is in the mail. (It's a small piece of my heart, torn out and smeared across a page. Serve with toast. Mmmm - like foie gras, but human!)
An honourable mention goes to Dylan Trowbridge, who is not quite bright enough to have understood the question, but did suggest I call my blog "Leese on Life". Can't believe a retard thought of that before I did. Hell! And I may use that for something in the future. But for now....
I remain,
The Tourist.
the tourist is in.
From TORONTO,
MARCH 9th, 2007
THE BITTER WAY
Just got through a very angry few days where any Toronto Transit vehicle I tried to take (streetcar, subway, horsedrawn carriage) would break down, or short turn, or be overrun by deadly fireants. I started to get a serious case of TTC rage. I was on the subway a couple of days ago and when the conductor was announcing the train going out of service at Warden, I swear I could hear whispering in the background, "No, make it before Vic Park.....She's trying to get to Vic Park." And then just a lot of giggling. I know what you're thinking: come on, Norton, get over yourself, everyone was delayed this week, it's not about you. And I would fully agree with you, were it not for the fact that the TTC has also hired a couple of guys to follow me around with baseball bats and beat me on the shins. Wearing TTC uniforms and everything. No shame. It seems a little strange considering the funding shortage and all......but now you know where the latest fare hike went. Anti-Norton goons. Yes, it IS all about me. Next on Turner Classic Movies: Lisa Takes a Streetcar. Hell, if they could make twelve Ernest movies.... Ernest takes a Dump was really the last one worth watching though.
It's not just the transit, however. This whole city is out to get me. All week, there were these Oompah Loompahs up on the CN Tower throwing hunks of ice down at me. Oompah Loompahs built the CN Tower back in the 70s, you know. When the city had money for that sort of thing. Look it up. Anyway, it got so I couldn't go downtown. Which is why I'm in my apartment, writing to you for eighteen hours.
MY BIG FAT COMMERCIAL SHOOT
Did this ad a few weeks back for Ontario Tourism....you know, one of those look how cool we are having fun and flirting in a bar things....they cast me, a blonde, an Indian chick, a Chinese girl, and one of those nice young Negroes. I think I, with my patented ethnic ambiguity, was supposed to represent the Italian. The two guys were a white dude and my new pal Carlos Gonzalez, who says he's Argentinian. I'm convinced he's really Bob Johnson from North Bay. Hey! Come to Ontario! You will have a big group of multi-ethnic friends! You will be just like the United Nations, except drunk and horny! And you know those Asian chicks, man......
The other girls were all very beautiful - and very skinny. At the wardrobe call the day before (bring your own clothes in so we can pick them over and scowl at them) we were all there at the same time for the wardrobe person to check out and dress up. Everything the skinny girls put on looked fantastic, of course, while the wardrobe staff just kept staring at my thighs like "What are we gonna do about those?" Now I know I'm not fat, but it took me about six minutes to develop My First Body Issues (another new "My First" product from Fisher Price). Imagine what it must be like being an actor in L.A. Terrifying. By the time she gave my hair a sour look, I was convinced that it was overweight: "That's it isn't it? I've got FAT HAIR, don't I? I knew I'd never make it in this town!!!"
At the shoot, in the wardrobe trailer, I'm wearing my weird vintage dress that the wardrobe chick liked so much, and I sit down in the makeup chair. The makeup artist, lets call her Christina (because that was her name), is dialling her cellphone while looking me up and down. She just has time to say "OHMIGOD what have they got you wearing I hate it!" when her call picks up. "Hi Mom, can you watch the kids tomorrow" etc, while I'm sitting there shrinking into the chair. She hangs up and tells me again how hideous the dress they gave me is.
"Um. It's mine actually."
"OH! I didn't mean I hate it..... It's just.....so....colourful."
"That's okay, I don't really even know why they picked it, I shouldn't have brought it in the first place, it's really not something I usually wear...."
"No it's goood, it's just, um, it makes it hard to pick out what colours to use on your eyes, (under her breath) you fat whore."
"Uh....Did you just call me a fat whore?"
"No."
"I thought I heard you say -"
"NoOOoo. Why would I say something like that (sotto voce)...stupid cow."
"There! You just did it again! You called me a cow!"
"RING RING! Would you excuse me, I gotta take this."
"That wasn't even your phone, it was just you saying ring ring."
"HELLO?"
So yeah.
A few days later, talking to Marc Bendavid, I make some dumb disparaging joke about airhead models (not meaning my skinny commercial girls, they were fun and awesome - and put out! Those Asian chicks - whoooee! Don't get me started!)......and Marc tells me that the one time he worked with a model, she was wonderful and smart, and gives her whole salary away to AIDS victims in Africa, and has fourteen pregnant teenage runaways living in her bachelor apartment. And you know. Campaigns for Amnesty International or some shit. So what, I can't even make fun of MODELS anymore? Who's left?! What's next, feeling sorry for Jude Law? Actually, poor Jude.....I haven't returned his calls in weeks. He must be pretty upset.
To keep warm on the commercial shoot, some of which was shot outdoors in ten or twenty or eight hundred and nine below, I was wearing my Magical Supercoat, which some of you may remember as the star of my Winnipeg trip. (Makes a mean omelette, deploys Airbags when needed, takes its Martinis shaken not stirred....) A couple of months ago, I am sad to report, Supercoat had an accident involving a heater on a CBC shoot. It was busy writing a novel and failed to notice that its back was melting, but luckily for me, who was in it, the damage was stopped before it actually set on fire. It's still wearable, just injured. It's taking it quite well. A producer on set promised they would replace it for me, but now when I call them they just say "Lisa who? Como? No speaka Inglese!" Just as well. Could my next coat play the maracas?
J.C. VS J.T.
By now you've heard they found what could be a box full of Jesus. You know, film crew in Jerusalem discovers that standing in the way of a new housing complex was a tomb from which have been removed boxes that contain what may be, from the markings on the front, the remains of Jesus and his family. Including his son. Whaaaaa-? DNA testing to follow to see if ol' JC is related to Joseph (hm) , and whether he had a kid (well well well) and to generally drive the Christians insane. Of course they won't acknowledge that it's him. But it's still driving them insane. Who knew that James Cameron could upset even more people than he did with that Celine Dion song in Titanic ? Of course no one will ever give credence to something that a film crew claims to have discovered. Look at the Disney Pixar people, who unearthed that lost civilization of ACTUAL TALKING CARS! Will that make it into the history books? Noooooo. But anyway, what has DNA testing ever really proved? Except that you're not my real mother, Lolita! I'm onto you!
I am convinced that Jesus has timed this comeback as a plot to dethrone Justin Timberlake. 2006 was the year of Dick in a Box? Well how about Christ In A Box, bitch? Booya! You think you're bad, JT? Wait 'til Superbowl '08, when JC rips Janet's panties right off! And not a twat protector in sight! Look who's bringin' sexy back now!
What did they call that thing? A nipple shield? That may have seemed strange to you, but if you know the history of assassination attempts on the Jackson family, it makes perfect sense. True. Tito barely survived the Victory Tour. For some reason the shooters always aim right for the nipple. Eeerie. By the way, if you live in too deep of a cave to have seen Dick In A Box, thereby missing out on the joy of one of my jokes, please watch it now. http://youtube.com/watch?v=1dmVU08zVpA . I do love my Timberlake. Shh. Don't tell Jude.
SING, FOREST, SING!
Another thing you oughtta YouTube is Forest Whitaker's performance on "The Maurizio Costanzo Show". http://youtube.com/watch?v=dxoc5QgEBKI It's a brief clip of him singing. Apparently he did a lot of singing on his SNL appearance, but I haven't found a clip of that yet. The man went to college on a football scholarship and then transferred to USC to train as an operatic tenor before switching his focus to acting. Also he used to be a woman. Is there anything you can't do, Forest? As a Canadian (i.e. godless hippie potsmoking heathen) I could have done without him thanking God in his Oscar acceptance speech.....but the football training explains that.
Finally went to see The Last King of Scotland with my Pops at the Fox the other day. As the movie ends, the postscript is telling us what became of everyone involved. The screen has just said that 300,000 Ugandans died under Idi Amin's rule, and my dad chooses that exact moment to say (rather loudly, I think), "He did a good job." I slowly turn my head to face him. "Who?" "Forest Whitaker," he says. OHthankgod.
Actually he said Forrest Tucker at first. But that's an old white guy from F-Troop and Gunsmoke. His Wikipedia entry also shows a great poster for a b-movie called Cosmic Monsters. ("Man and alien unite to combat the most insidious peril the universe has ever known!!!!" WOW!) I'd like to have seen him play Amin. Actually, sorry, he did, I've just discovered - in a made-for-TV thing in 1997. Less extraordinary for the fact that he was white than that he'd been dead for eleven years at the time. Seriously, even fairly recently, there have been examples of weird blackface (and "redface", and "yellowface") acting.......witness ANTHONY HOPKINS as Othello. Not joking. We watched it in high school. I threw up.
MYSTERY NUN (vote now)
I saw a nun (in full habit) at the library taking out all kinds of gory and sensational-looking crime novels. The librarian had put the latest arrivals aside for her. One of them was called "Always Time to Die". Is this weird, or is it just me?
GO AWAY
Time to go and listen to my ceiling drip. (See, Terrence, my life isn't always that exciting. Especially when I'm in hiding from.....the evil ones.) Little weird things keep going wrong and breaking down in my wonderful apartment. A big hunk of my kitchen ceiling caved in right where Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall had been sitting the previous evening when I had him and Blair Williams over for dinner. If it had happened then, it surely would have KILLED HIM. Unless, of course, he was wearing his nipple shield. Re my apartment...I've got a plan. I'm gonna call up my landlord and say "David! You are gonna fix my fireplace and repair my ceiling and get me a stove that works once and for all, or I am gonna tell everyone where we buried those bodies last summer!" I mean. Um. Forget I said that. I guess I could just delete that last bit.....but you know I don't work that way.
I've never killed anyone, honest,
Lisa
