my regina

From REGINA, SASKATCHEWAN

October 2nd, 2007

EYE, TOURIST
Week three in The City That Rhymes With Fun, and I finally have stuff to report. It isn't that Regina gave me nothing to say, dear reader.....it's just that I didn't see much of it at first. Or of anything. This may come as a shock, especially to you, with your secret crush on me, but I NEARLY WENT BLIND OH MY GOD. Or sort of, anyway. (What, dramatic, me?) Here's the rundown, as best I can explain:

September 15th:The Tourist turns a healthy, happy, hot-ass thirty-two years of age. Plenty of fun is had by me, friends, family, and the delighted employees at the liquor store who have the pleasure of serving us and later cry when they remember they are not on commission.

September 16th, 3am: I wake howling in agony, sudden shooting pain all in my right eye. I am a right whiny bitch about it.

All that day: Tears, tears, constant tears. Pain, pain, constant pain. Light of any kind becomes the enemy. Running of last-minute errands before leaving the province while lurching around in sunglasses with a bandage covering one eye, yowling, alternately "Out of my way!", "Don't look at me, I'm hideous!", and "Well don't just stand there, help me up, motherfucker!!!!" I go home and have to pack my bags. Boyfriend comes over and says OH MY GOD YOU LOOK TERRIBLE. I kill him and then myself.

September 17th: 5am trip to St. Joe's emergency. Hell of a way to spend your last morning with your main squeeze before leaving for months. Am told that my expired health card is probably still okay. Doctors look at me, look at each other and shrug, walk away. One holds my eye open with a light shining into it (which, in my state, makes for the closest thing to hell I've ever experienced) and scrapes my eye with a sharp pointy metal thing. Shrugs, walks away. Sit listening to a man down the hall scream his head off in pain. Wonder briefly what would happen if I did that; if instead of flinching politely while they poked around in my eye, I let loose with "AAAAAAAAARGH! I'M DYING!!!! OH GAAAAWWWWD!!!" Ponder whether that would be liberating and fun. (As it no doubt must be for the man down the hall.)

7am: Say goodbye to the squeeze in a waiting room full of hacking, dripping, oozing people. Make out on a gurney next to an old lady with one lung who keeps wheezing, "I have to go to the bathroom." HOT. Wait some more for a referral.

8:30: Can't wait any longer. Walk home (directly into the horrible, burning, full-on sun) and finish cleaning my apartment for my subletter.

12noon: Pearson Airport. Almost get bumped from my flight, thanks to Air Canada's standard policy of booking eight thousand people per flight and then being really, really surprised when they all show up. Decide to play the emergency/sympathy card by lifting up my shades and showing the gatekeeper my puffy, blood-red, hideous eye and telling him I need to get to a hospital in Regina ASAP. He passes out, comes to, and gets me a seat, on the condition that I never subject anyone to such a thing ever again.

2-6pm, Saskatchewan time: Regina General Hospital. Sit, wait, weep, get told jokes, eat a sandwich, fall asleep in a chair. Make out with an old lady on a gurney who keeps saying "I have to pee" (not as into it this time, but whattya gonna do?).....Get diagnosed with a corneal ulcer, caused by all the stress of having to look at things all the time. I knew I should have hired someone to do that for me!

September 18th: Globe Theatre, first read of The Melville Boys, at which I wear huge sunglasses, making all the wonderful staff there think I am some egotistical cunt from Toronto who thinks she is a movie star. I tell them all to kiss my ass and go do some coke in the bathroom. First visit to ophthalmologist Renatta Varma, who explains the ulcer: I scratched my cornea with a damaged contact lens or some such thing....then, as I slept, Evil Goblins crawled into my eye and danced around and had a germ party, causing an infection and eventually cultivating a hard white crust on my eye as a tasty Goblin snack. This happens to people like me from time to time, I am told, who lead a generally unchristian lifestyle (drinking, screwing, doing drugs out of wedlock...). I am given a bible and some eye drops and welcomed to Saskatchewan.

September 19th to now: I develop a close, intricate, and pleasingly kinky relationship with Doctor Varma, whom I see once every two or three days, and who is now the person in town I know best. The two-hour wait times at her office fill me with a tantalizing anticipation. Our visits leave me shaky and excited. She gives me eye drops; I try to get her to wear a sexy nurse costume. She says things like "Well, you're lucky it wasn't a little lower or you could have gone blind"; I say, "Yeah, bitch? You're lucky my fist isn't up your nose!" We make out. On a gurney next to an old lady yelling "I'm peeing!"

ACTUAL PICTURE. OF SOMETHING.

FYI: On the third floor of Regina's Pasqua hospital, where Doctor Varma practises on Mondays and where I therefore spend half of every day off, there is a department called the "Hair Care Centre". So this is where they do all those scientific studies on Pantene Pro-V, I thought. I peeked in the door and saw several statuesque beauties flipping their hair around while people in lab coats shouted, "Four in five doctors say you look FANTASTIC!" Weird. But we all have a right to universal hair care.

DYE, TOURIST!

Speaking of hair care...jeez. If my eye wasn't enough trouble....
A little before I left town I got bored and wanted to do something with my hair. I was going to take it to Canada's Wonderland and let it ride some roller coasters, but nooooo. I decided to dye it instead. I had an audition to play the grown version of some stupid kid in a movie of the week, and the kid has light brown hair. I thought "A-ha! This is what I'll do! I'll lighten my hair so at least they won't have that particular excuse to not hire me." (Turned out my ass was too fat. I'm having it removed next Tuesday.)

Anyway, the drugstore bottled brown looked pretty good, but a few weeks later, in Regina, my dark roots were starting to show and I thought my natural colour would go better with my costumes. So - and here is where I went wrong - I bought some dark Nice N' Easy in SOFT NATURAL BLACK to get my hair back to what it had been. Now I don't know what part of "soft", or "natural" the nice people at Clairol do not understand, but I'm thinking they're missing the whole concept. My hair came out Ugly Goth Chick Black instead, which is the new name I propose they put on the box. That way, If ladies are strolling the aisles at their local drugstore thinking, "You know, I just look too good. If only there was something I could do about that...." - there it will be! Ugly Goth Chick Black to the rescue! Never be hit on again, except by pimply boys in the park and people online who can't actually see you! Live your life alone! In the dark. Drunk and full of Mars Bars.

THE NEW ME

Seriously, it looked pretty bad. And it turns out there is nothing nice nor easy about getting black hair dye out of your head. You can't just colour over black dye with another shade - it won't take. I went online and typed in a few key words and found about a million horror stories of women who had done the same stupid thing, and their methods, both successful and not, of trying to tone down the goth. Hot oil. Dish detergent. Laundry detergent. Head and Shoulders. Prell Shampoo, which I think you can only get in the States, and which, from the sound of it, could strip a car. Dude, I tried anything I could get my hands on. Actually washed my hair in Tide. Let a dog poo on my head. (That wasn't on the list, I'd just always wanted to try it.) Invited a voodoo priestess over for tea. She liked the look....but did teach me some handy curses to use on people I don't care for. Finally thought, oh YEAH....the salon.

Luckily, Scarth street, on which the Globe Theatre is situated, is lined with about twelve salons per block. Downtown, my castmates and I have noticed, has a suspicious proliferation of hair salons and travel agencies. Because everyone in Regina just wants to look good and then get the hell out.

I settled on Snax. "The World's Coolest Hair Salon", says the sign - they can't even bother changing the fluorescent lighting inside, they're THAT cool. Angie, who is cute as pie (gives Doctor Varma a run for her money, though she doesn't have that same bitchy, spicy edge) has returned my hair to its -ohthankgod - normal-looking state. So I won't need the hospital's Hair Care Centre after all. Although it looked like fun. Don't know if I'm tall enough.

DRY TOURIST
A trick I learned last year in Calgary:
Any of you Ontarians who visit the prairies and find your skin gasping for moisture.....just go to the steam room at the YMCA for a half hour once in a while. Close your eyes and it's like Toronto in July. Especially if you make loud honking noises and shout in a variety of languages. Which people at the gym will love you for. Dye your hair black too, and you are guaranteed a wide berth.

I just moved from a temporary billet - on Athol Street, the name of which makes me giggle as it always puts me in mind of someone with a lisp saying "asshole"- with a really nice guy who does the morning show on the talk radio station, into a place of my own. My new pad, in a colourful neighbourhood conveniently around the corner from the Arts Board and The Schizophrenia Society of Saskatchewan, boasts a humidifier, so between that and constantly slathering myself with olive oil, I'm coping.

And the show goes well. I'm having fun, which is easy since I don't carry too much responsibility in this play. My role is mainly to prance around being flirty and generally threatening to take off my clothes and bang everyone. Looking forward to the post-show talkbacks to see what the fine people of Regina think of that. I await the acquisition of a few more bibles. At least I'm not actually in my undies this time around. By now I've achieved such a level of implied sluttiness that I don't need to strip down anymore. Fully clothed Norton is like naked anybody else. Hey, that's why they pay me the medium bucks.

Promising more actual Regina news next time, and, one of these days, the long-awaited Random Crap Issue (I know, I know, what's everything else been?).....

Your girl in Snatch City,

The Tourist

Your comments below. Please. It's lonely out here.

this stop, romance. next stop, regina

From TORONTO,
August 14th, 2007

THE LEAN MEAN BLOGGING MACHINE

So I have a perfectly adequate excuse for having not blagued in so long. My entire family was eaten by wolves a couple of weeks ago, so I've been in mourning. But now I'm okay, so here we go!

Seriously.....I ran into master playwright Michael Healey recently, and he was on me about how seldom I post and wondering what was taking me so long this time. First of all, I was very flattered that he gave a damn, because not only is Michael one of my writing idols, but he also has very soft-looking hair.

And then it got me thinking: why haven't I written in a month and a half? Is my life really so boring that I can find absolutely nothing to say? I mean, I've written to you, Poor Put-Upon Reader, about my bowel movements and toenail clippings, so that would have to be pretty dull indeed. And then it hit me: I've been seeing somebody. Like, you know, for real. For the first time in a long time (not counting my well-documented and long-standing affairs with Beyonce, Jude and Justin). And I have made a concerted effort to not be one of those I-can't-call-my-friends-I-need-to-sit-here-staring-at-the-side-of-this-guy's-head kind of people. I hate those people and I wish they were dead. But was my new relationship affecting my correspondence with you, Stunningly Beautiful Reader? Perhaps I'm not lonely enough to write, I thought. I need to be lean and hungry and mean. I should be in the woods somewhere running through snow and punching sides of beef. Then not only would I be inspired to write, but I'd beat Dolph Lundgren in that big fight I've got coming up.

Eventually, I came to this. Life has been not entirely newsworthy this last little while. Auditions continue and go well and lead to nothing. I did shoot a commercial for IKEA, but I'm sleeping in it. I haven't been run down by any more cars. My new kitchen looks good; come over and see. My rowing classes were fun, we were the best crew ever, boring, boring, boring. My hair looks great, I've got a gorgeous tan, my brain continues to grow at an alarming rate. But you know all that. A month 'til I leave for Saskatchewan....and God knows there have been no travels to relate. Except for this one; this trip into RELATIONSHIPLAND. Why, I thought (tentatively at first) not write about that? I mean, it's been so long since I've been in a proper relationship (you know, one person at a time, calling each other, remembering one another's names and the whole bit) that it's as exotic and novel a place as I've visited in a long time. Maybe it's the weirdest place I'll ever go. Except for Winnipeg.

So yes, The Tourist is breaking her long silence on ALL THINGS PERSONAL. Because:
A) It's more interesting than me telling you what cereal I ate this morning (organic berry granola, if you must know - pretty exciting as far as cereal goes) and
B) We've all been to Relationshipland, but it's always a little different.....and usually scaaaary. Or is that just me?


I'M JUST A GIRL!

Funny about dating somebody. I keep wondering whether I'm doing it right. Should I be like, flipping my hair and giggling more? Wait, fuck, I am giggling more! But that's okay, right? I mean, I'm giggling in a smart, self-sufficient way, aren't I? AREN'T I?!

We're so hyper-aware, us kids of the modern age, of not losing our identities when we're with someone. For every day I spend with the new squeeze, I need three at home to touch my stuff and look at myself in the mirror. Sit on every piece of furniture. Run my hands along my DVD's. Play with myself, just to show that I still can. And I can. Oh, how I can.


LOOK WHAT I FOUND!

So The Squeeze and I are in the Let's Introduce Each Other To People period. That fun and nerve-wracking testing-ground time, when you see what everyone else thinks. Does this guy fit in? ("They love him! I knew I was right about this one!") Or do they think he's a big loser? ("I knew it! Nobody cool would ever want to go out with me!") Anyway, I'm winning 13-9. Not that anyone's counting. His friends really like me. And not just because I gave them all head. I've been basing my whole first impression on wardrobe: you wanna be just on that line where everyone is impressed by the hot new girl, but not amazed at what a big ol' tramp she is. Show a little skin, but not more than, say, two thirds of your ass. Like a job interview.

Learn from me, though, Impressionable Reader, as I negotiate these unsure waters. For instance: perhaps your best impression is not put forth when you're acting like an idiot, having just smoked a lot of weed at the Daft Punk concert. You will have a shitload of fun with your new guy and his bunch of friends, but the next morning you may wake up with the distinct feeling that people all over the city are at that very moment saying "What was with her? She was fuckin' nuts." If you're someone like me, who never shuts up to begin with and went on a veritable talking rampage the night before, your fears may be more than just unfounded paranoia. I am fuckin' nuts. And they may as well know that right now.


ROAD TRIP!

We had a huge coming out party the other day when we went up to Stratford, where the squeeze and I hit a party that his pal was throwing. We spent the previous two days lying around on a beach in Grand Bend. The plan had been to camp a couple of nights, but as the squeeze was coming down with a bad chest cold and is leaving for a big trip to Africa in a few days, we ditched the camping after just one night in favour of a roadside motel (The Whispering Pines, very David Lynch) so that he wouldn't get damp tent-induced pneumonia and die. Having so recently lost my entire family to wolves, that would really suck for me. But I felt like, by abandoning the camping, I was betraying my father. I had asked him if I could borrow a camp stove and next thing you know he had outfitted me with everything from mosquito coils to lawn chairs to firestarters. Hardly any of which we used.

Hitting the road from T.O. to Grand Bend, we had our almost first fight. As navigator, I had asked him to print me (my printer's busted) a good ol' fashioned Google map. I mean that's not too old school, right? Just a bit of paper that you can highlight and doodle on and make decisions based on. But what was I tossed as I got in the car? The dreaded BlackBerry. Now the BlackBerry is a fun toy, with lots of useful things on it. (Though personally I'd rather have a real blackberry. Which I could eat.) And no doubt its Google Maps function is a wonderful thing to use if you're into that kind of thing.

Now the way it works is this: the screen shows you one step at a time, one little corner of map at a time and you get no overview, no street names except the ones you're driving on, so you have no general sense of where you are, where you've been, how close to your destination etc. You miss a turn or stray from the route and you're screwed. Or you have to punch in a new search. It's an entirely uncreative experience, especially for someone like me (who admittedly must sound increasingly like a stubborn middle-aged man who hates being told what to do or asking for directions). I have always prided myself on my navigational abilities, and I felt like I was being phased out. By evil robots.

So I generally resented having this newfangled technology foisted (foisted?!) upon me, with no backup paper thingy whatsoever. In fact, I resented and resisted it so much that I refused to look at it and immediately caused us to miss the exit for the 427. I was, however, later vindicated (I think), when the BlackBerry took us straight to a road closure and I negotiated our way around it through sheer instinct and physical sense of direction, all while the BlackBerry cried and emitted smoke. Humans 1! Robots....1. Dammit. And the BlackBerry didn't act like a know-it-all bitch. On the other hand, if he'd been travelling with just it and not me, he mightn't have had quite so much fun in that roadside motel. Though there is the vibrate function.


I CONFESS:

A couple of days later (post Grand Bend, a paradise of bars and bikini shops) we've arrived at Michelle's place in Stratford and I'm taking a nap, while the man is upstairs chatting. He leaves me the BlackBerry with its alarm on to wake me up. When it does, I think I'll make my peace with it and make a call home to check my messages. I haven't got the hang of its scroll, however, and I accidentally click on the phone book instead of the phone. I'm trying to get out of the damn phone book, and, well........one thing leads to another and I end up erasing one of his contacts.

It's a number I'm thinking he won't need again. And if he does I'm sure he can get it. But still, I'm panicked. What if he notices? You're dating somebody new, you don't just go into their phone book and start erasing people! What if he thinks I'm jealous of this person? That I've gone nuts and want to sabotage him? That I subconsciously resent his BlackBerry so much that now I'm just fucking with it for fun? Actually there may be some truth to that one. I guess I'll find out soon enough what he thinks: he's finding out about it right now, along with you, Sweet Reader.


DAVINCI, CARLIN AND ME

I'd forgotten what hell it is sleeping with someone who is sick. Not only because he keeps you up with all his damn coughing and tossing and turning, the bastard, but on account of you being so worried about him. And no one wants to be the idiot who can't stop saying "Awww" every time somebody coughs. I ended up totally paralyzed, not wanting to move and keep the sick guy awake when he needed a good night's sleep.

And then of course, just at that moment, one is bound to start giggling to one's self over all the funny things one is going to say about this in one's blog....and that wakes him up. And then one thinks, Maybe I should just get up and let him sleep while I go scribble this stuff down somewhere....and getting up wakes him up. And then you go through your entire backpack looking for pants because it's cold in this house....and he wakes up. And you think, What am I doing, I'm just really high after that party, none of this will be funny in the morning, so you get back in bed - and wake him up. And as he falls back asleep you're thinking, What if George Carlin hadn't written things down when he was high? Or Leonardo DaVinci? Or Leonardo DiCaprio for that matter? Then where would we be? Some of us actually are struck with genius when we're high! My friend Josh and I are two of them!

.....So you get up again (trying not to wake him up) and next thing you know you're snooping through Michelle's desk at four in the morning looking for something to write on, hoping she doesn't choose this exact moment to come home from the still-going party. You rip some pages out of a notebook, find a pen and a copy of "Will and Me: How Shakespeare Changed my Life" to rest the pages on, and now you're hunched over on the stairs under the light, freezing from the air conditioning that's blasting down at you, scribbling away, when the squeeze wanders out of the bedroom and catches you like Cindy Loo Who confronting the Grinch. You clutch your papers to your chest, mutter something about having remembered something important that you needed to write down, and you pat his head, you give him a drink and you send him to bed....

Mere minutes later, of course, your hostess does come home and there you still are, writing down all your high bullshit (which makes up the bulk of this post, mind you)....and you realize what you are. A thought junky. A joke addict. A LEAN MEAN WRITING MACHINE! I haven't lost it, Faithful Reader! Love is not muddying my gifts! I don't need to run in the snow! (Fun as that would be!) I just need what I've always needed: time and drugs and my own twisted little mind! And I don't even need the drugs - I'm addicted to myself! Hooray, Happy Reader, Hooray!


So now I'm off to meet the squeeze for The Bourne Ultimatum. We rented Identity and Supremacy last week and meant to hit the third that night for a true Bourne-a-Thon but didn't make it. (How nice, to be dating a man who will indulge my action movie-watching, instead of just wanting to rent A Room With a View or Legally Blonde all the time like most guys.) I'm also about to find out what he thinks of my having just written an entire Tourist issue about him, the intimacies of our relationship and all my doubts and fears about the whole affair. Wish me luck!

Hey, if he don't like it, he can lump it. My loyalty lies with you, Dear Reader. We've known each other longer.

Yours and mean and lean,

The Tourist

death of a tourist

From TORONTO
July 5th, 2007

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Speaking of Michael Jackson,


The Tourist

the skeptical poorest

Still From TORONTO

May 28th, 2007

HELLO?

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

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

FWALKER MADNESS!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh yeah. Plug. Come see these:

GIMME SOME SUGAH

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

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

KILL ME.

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

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

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

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

WHAT'S A PICHANGA?

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

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

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

Big Nerd Moment over. Phew.

HERE'S AN IDEA

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

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

SPEAKING OF FUNNY

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

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

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

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

An appropriate portion of my love,

Norton

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

She's the winner by a mile. Reading on, though, I discovered that young Lisa's site hasn't been updated in years, that she should be 18.6 or thereabouts my now, and that her listed email address is now invalid. Where are you, other LMN?! You are awesome!

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.