red

Michael hated dumplings. Or did he fear them? Yes, it was fear, this feeling; blind, abject terror.

It was skin they made him think of. Human skin. Full of…human meat.

Jowls. Gall bladders.

Or he thought of a picture he’d seen of baby mice, all curled up and blind, translucent skin. Eating a dumpling was like biting into one of those; he kept expecting it to squeak and writhe and wriggle in his mouth.

Who had chosen dumplings? Why hadn’t he been asked?

The crowd outside the bus was oppressive. He couldn’t catch his breath. Next to him was whatsername, the candidate, all smiles. Wait – what was her name? He’d gone blank. How could he have gone blank like this? Shit, what was it?! He’d be expected to say something, raise her hand up high, call out…Karen. Kate? K…Ka…Christine! Phew. That would have been terrible.

He wished Zsuzsanna was here. Today of all days. A doctor’s appointment, of all things. “You’ll be fine”, she’d told him on the phone. “It’s just pasta. It’s like a ravioli. You’ll only have to eat just one.” I know, he’d said, I know. He didn’t have the heart to tell he he was scared of ravioli too. Wontons were the worst, perogies not much better. Oh God – Roncesvalles wasn’t on the itinerary, was it? They could make it borscht, he loved borscht…he’d have it leaked, some story about his grandfather and beets grown in the backyard, in the homeland. Yes. Borscht.

But now it was the dumpling. Any minute now. No way out. No turning back.

“We love you Iggy!'”, someone shouted. Dumpling, he thought. Dumpling dumpling dumpling.

He knew it was irrational. But look, he’d known someone once who was afraid of purses. That’s the thing about phobias: logic has nothing to do with them. At least his wasn’t purses, they were everywhere. That friend had given up his early political aspirations, dropped out of the university, withdrawn to his mother’s basement. There but for the grace of God, thought Michael. On the other hand, look at where he’d landed himself: no one would ever ask his school friend to eat someone’s purse. And no one would be filming it.

Hello, cameras, Hello! Yes, I’m extremely excited to be here! Oh, what a great neighbourhood! CHRISTINE will represent this riding very well!

They were getting closer. Sweat formed all along his hairline. He kept smiling. Don’t drip down, sweat. Stay right where you are.

A path cleared to the door. The sign, Dumpling House Restaurant. In neon underneath: “Got Dumpling?” He gagged involuntarily. Pretend that it’s a cough. Breathe. And whatever you do, do not throw up…

Back on the bus, the tiny bathroom; whoever built these things had not done it with vomiting in mind. He had to do it standing up, jackknifed in two, aiming down into the toilet. And quietly. The press corps erupted in laughter on the other side of the door – some joke, or was it him? Had they heard the retching? Had he looked as green as he felt, weaving up the aisle past them? “Hey, Mike, how were those dumplings? Save some for us?” Thumbs up, grin, can’t speak, mustn't puke on the reporters, just make it to the other side.

This could be bad. The papers, IFFY SICK ABOUT HIS CHANCES. RACIST MIKE GAGS ON FOOD IN CHINATOWN. “RISE UP”, INDEED! IGNATIEFF: HIS LUNCH CAME BACK FOR YOU.

When George H.W. threw up on the Japanese Prime Minister, his approval rating dipped for weeks. He couldn’t take a hit like that, not now. (And would they drag up Kinsella’s idiotic comment about BBQ cat, two years later?) Meanwhile, Jack and Olivia, all over town, eating pigs intestines and snake brains, grinning, jumping up and down. Snake brains would have been fine; he’d done that, plenty, in Afghanistan. Eaten rats in Kosovo, no fucking problem. Undone by a dumpling. God dammit. As Steven simpered in Tim Horton's, well-protected, taking no chances. Five questions a day and celery. But Steve liked hot sauce. Oooh, they cried. Play another Beatles song.

He could still feel the dumpling skin in his mouth, though he’d purged it all. There it was, a disgusting beige blob in the toilet, some creepy, amorphous underwater creature, its fins swirling under the surface. Some floated back up to the top, taunting him. He wanted to cry. He heaved some more, and spit. Dear God, please God, if they heard me, let them say I have the flu. Let them say that I’m a trooper. I ate it, didn’t I? I fed half to Christine – brilliant! – but I ate it. Like a man. Zsuzsanna will be proud.

He wiped his mouth with the tail of his red scarf. He flushed. Sprayed air freshener. Put on a smile. And headed out.

They Died With Their Boots On, or, A Lady Takes a Chance: The Legend of Calamity Norton

From VANCOUVER, British Columbia

March 17th, 2011

First things first. Hello, oh loyal friends, and welcome to a whole new era of Tourist-ness. The Vancouver Era. This new and momentous era may only last until September or October, who knows, but I like the word “era”, okay? ERA! Era era era! There, it’s stopped even looking like a word. Now I’ve done it.

In an exciting milestone for you fans of punctuation out there (Josh?), I am pleased to point out that my last blague post featured a single sentence that contained five commas, three semi-colons, one pair of brackets, some choice capitalization, a hyphen and two sets of ellipses. No italics, oddly. But yes, a partridge in a pear tree.

And a warm welcome to some new fans – Ashley O'Connell, as lucky reader one trillion and five (give or take a trillion), you've won a Skeptical Tourist pantsuit! It's too small for you and, well, made of pipe cleaners, which doesn't make for the utmost in pantsuit comfort, but it IS rather dashing...and made in the official Skeptical Tourist Sweatshop, which is staffed entirely by grown men serving time for use of the phrase "lol". If any of them is heard referring to something as "epically random" or "randomly epic", his scant pay is confiscated for that week. They’ve tried to start a union on facebook but keep getting distracted by links to Failblog and “People of Walmart” and Lady Gaga videos. Men these days. (Enjoy your pantsuit, Ashley!)

To Vancouver! Firstly, yes, it’s true: I did, in fact, land the first thing I auditioned for here. Though for all I know it may be the last gig I ever book, that fact sure does sound good, and will contribute nicely, I believe, to The Legend Of Scarborough Lill (my Wild West name; they make you pick one when you move out here).

YUP. THAT’S ME NOW.

The job is a JK Rowling biopic, Magic Beyond Words, for the Lifetime Network. And thus begins my career as sassy friend. When you do a JK Rowling biopic, Access Hollywood shows up on set and gets copious shots of your butt and the back of your head to share with all of TV land. So you may have seen that and been impressed. I sure was.

The other thing that happens is, authorized or not, Rowling herself is so wracked with curiosity about the thing that she has to watch it. So THE JK Rowling herself will see my face.

She may immediately think "What a stupid face", but who cares, too late, she'll have seen it. Or she might think, "What a wonderful face; I think I'll write a book about it". Substitute "ripping" for "wonderful" and "fancy" for "think", of course. (She's from England.)

In fact, for all I know, JK Rowling (or, as we in the know call her, Jojo, or just “bird” or “mate”, is stalking me already, even before this thing airs, based on the knowledge that I've played her sassy friend. She and Beyoncé have rented the house across the street and spend hours in the dark front room, passing back and forth the binoculars and egg salad sandwiches. They're over there right now, hovering over a laptop (the one used to create the final Harry Potter book) reading this out loud, at the same time as you. Don't you feel a little famous, just knowing that?

“PUT ON YOUR CLOAK, B. THEN SHE CAN’T SEE US.”

For those of you (actors) out there feeling that ugly yet inevitable twinge of jealousy and That Bitch-ness, there’s this: My love life is the pits, I’m still eye-deep in debt, and I have a heart murmur.

Is all this true? Maybe! Take it if you need it.

I’ve also turned to prostitution, which may mitigate the envy even further for some of you who frown on that sort of thing, though I consider it a good move, with benefits both social and financial. Proactive is what I call it. Plus prostitution is nicer here because of the warmer climate.

Before the sassy actor cash and the hookering bucks came along to improve my situation, funds got awful low. It’s strange to be in a new town and broke...I kept thinking that I wasn’t just the Tourist but a tourist, and therefore felt like I should be able leap gaily from concert to play to martini sushi opium parlour…and then keep getting slapped in the face by my reality, which said, "Hey kid, you're not a special guest anymore: you live here. Maybe. Sort of. Now go home to your basement apartment and eat some toast.” (With organic peanut butter, mind.)

I’ve been living, since January, at the downstairs apartment at my friend Jenny Young’s brother and sister-in-law’s place. Jon and Kim happen to be founding members of Vancouver’s acclaimed Electric Company Theatre, and have been out of town a lot, allowing me the run of the place…so I’ve had plenty of time to tuck copies of my photo and resume in strategic locations all over the house. I’m particularly proud of the laminated headshot hanging in their shower. I think they’ll like it, too.

I also get to take advantage of that modern-day housesitting tradition, wherein you temporarily become the Borg and plunder every bit of your hosts’ technology (ask your Trekkie friend to explain that joke if you don’t get it or are pretending not to). I’ve ripped all of their CDs, which in this house has amounted to a major indie band windfall, as well as taking cellphone pictures of each page of all their books and photocopying their sheets. I spread the pages on my bed and use them as an extra set of bedding and pretend I’m someone else. It’s all so wonderful.

TAKE ME TO YOUR WINTERSLEEP

And yes, just like you, I do feel a little bad whenever I steal music – and, like you, I get over it and do it anyway. Though, I must say, I do pay for my online tunes – I’m only guilty of the friend Borg-ing. But that’s probably bad enough. Perhaps I should have to adopt an indie band as penance.

We could develop a whole system of free music reparation. For instance: Illegally download one song – the band gets to come to your house and make a sandwich. Two songs, you make the sandwiches. Steal a whole album, they get to fuck your kids. or something. These are just guidelines.

But hey, the deal here includes my feeding and changing the litter of the weird resident cat, Meow Meow. I doubt the Borg do that. Or maybe it’s in the deleted scenes. Meow Meow also tricks me by acting affectionate and then leaping on my face with her claws out, which is her cute feline way of protesting my abuse of copyright law.

Come April I’ll get to go and suck all the technology out of another home, as I’m moving into a sublet at 15th and Maple. The poor, unfortunate tenant, a beautiful flaxen-haired young writer, is being forced to go live at her rich lawyer boyfriend’s house on the coast of Spain and go for long walks and observe stunning sunsets while working on her novel. I feel for her, I really do.

If it weren’t for my sympathy for Beautiful Bevin and her difficult situation, I surely would be moving into Green Margaret’s place. It had everything going for it: great west end location, unobstructed view of Stanley Park’s Lost Lagoon, meticulous German tenant who had outfitted the place with a nice green and white carpet covering the hardwood floors, green blankets, green trinkets, green bedspread on the SINGLE green skirt-wearing bed…

Oddly, I didn’t notice all this at first (okay, I definitely noticed the single bed – that, coupled with the fact that Margaret kept insisting on “no overnight guests, ja?”, meant I had to fight the urge to run screaming into the street). As I was leaving (politely, not screaming even a bit), Margaret complimented me on my bright green bag. I thanked her and pointed out that it matched her shirt rather well, to which she replied, with the stoniest of faces, “Ja, I only vear green.” That’s when I noticed. You might want to reconsider hiring me as a detective.

Of course, I can roll my eyes at Green Margaret and her tiny bed and weird apartment all I like, but the truth is, she sent me an email a week after our meeting telling me she’d decided to rent to someone else. She’s probably writing on her blog about how weird I was, with my nonmatching clothes, and calling me Rainbow Lisa.

Today is St Patrick’s Day, so Green Margaret is on my mind. I’ve a feeling I’ll think of her on this day every year, wondering whether this is a divine day for her, a day where she looks around at her green-clad fellow man and feels a kinship, thinks, “Mein Gott, they’ve finally got it”. Or is it a day when she looks around and thinks, “You bunch of phonies. You don’t know green like I know green”?

I wonder if she adds food colouring to everything she eats and drinks, all year round. OH, GREEN MARGARET, GET OUT OF MY HEAD! You emerald temptress, you!

Anyway, my new place, which Bevin thought I was cool enough for (take that, fraulein!), is cute and nice and has a grown-up bed. It’s also conveniently located a stone’s throw from both the West Coast Tropical Bird Studio and The Spy Store, which, combined, may help me develop my weird Bond villain persona. Parrot on the shoulder, or budgies in my pockets? What to do? And can I still be Scarborough Lill?

From there I will enjoy jaunts to Kits Beach on my borrowed bicycle, continue enjoying BC’s beautiful surroundings and fine friendly folk, venture out to Spanish and kayaking classes (and Spanish kayaking classes – “Ay Ay Ay! Me he caído en el océano!”)...

I’ll also attend the occasional audition, thanks to my fancy new agent who is awfully handsome and has astounding teeth. I hang around the office on the flimsiest of pretenses (“Just making sure the building’s still where I thought it was”; ”Do you guys need some gum?”…) in hopes of catching the occasional glimpse of their gleam. Of course, my agent in T.O. does triathlons and has the most amazing arms I've ever seen, and my Toronto voice agent, even despite wearing stupid slippers around the office, looks like a hotter Faye Dunawaye, so this new guy had better step up his regimen if he wants to hold onto me, boy. My new voice agent here is a marathon runner who wears nice boots, so things are looking good.

I’m keeping in shape with semi-regular visits to the downtown Y, which are just as regularly sabotaged by the presence of the original Japa Dog cart within a block, where I can enjoy a tasty 9000 calorie snack before and after each workout. I’ve resigned, however, to eat less Korobuta Terimayo dogs, ever since the Japa Dog staff not only refused my gracious offer of a picture for their “celebrity customers” photo board, but seemed unduly angry when they noticed me pasting my head onto Ice Cube’s body. There may have been a scene.

COME ON NOW, JAPA DOG. WHAT’S THIS GUY GOT THAT I AIN’T GOT?

To your future benefit, I’ll continue to wander and observe…trying to figure out a town that can have given us Botox and a chain of stores called “Mantique”, and at the same time support the world’s highest per capita concentration of white girls with dreads. (Is it wrong to want to kick those girls? I really, really want to kick them. Can I kick them?)

I’d planned to do the Grouse Grind climb weekly on arrival but haven’t gone once yet. My excuses are as follows: It’s too cold. It’s been too rainy. My knee is buggered from running. My bed here is comfortable. And, best of all: Nature Shmature, that’s for tourists. Apparently my one trek up Grouse Mountain last year is more than any of my friends who were born and raised here have done. I will do it soon, I swear.

As for rainy days, yeah, there have been one or two of those.

But you know what, all you dry Toronto gloaters going on about how sad and soggy I must be? I’ve got two words for you: wind chill factor. That’s three words. I’m a rebel. Anyway, we don’t have that here. If it says seven degrees it is seven goddamn degrees. I know all too well the agony of those Ontario weather reports:

“It’s twelve degrees”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“- but feels like minus forty with the windchill.”

“Then why don’t you just say minus forty, motherfuckers?!!”

I’ve embraced BC coffee culture, becoming one of those people laptopping at cafes. I even bought a mug from the lovely Our Town Cafe, to replace the ceramic Starbucks one I bought on tour, which, reflecting my state of mind at the time, cracked right down the middle. I almost got the green Our Town mug, glanced down at my green bag and my green-jacketed book (Alligator, by Lisa Moore), remembered Margaret, went with blue.

But truth is, I’ve eschewed the Cafe People and written much of this post at Budgies Burritos, which makes me feel less like a hipster and more like a romantic, struggling down-and-out writer, working away with a cheap taco hanging half out my mouth and refried beans smeared on my face. Except I only write a BLOG, for FREE, and what’s more hipster than that? Plus everything here is veggie or vegan, and there’s a squeaky-voiced customer at the counter telling the staff about her “kind of an art show”. But next to her there’s a construction worker and an old guy who keeps burping while he eats. Ah, B.C.

I do think there’s something in the idea that everyone should move to a new town once in a while. I’ve never done it before, except for gigs, and hell, it is invigorating. It can be a little lonely, not having your same old gang at hand, but it’s also exciting and challenging. I'm making new friends, it’s giving me a kick in the ass, career-wise, in that nobody knows who the hell I am and I’ve got something to prove all over again, and I’m stretching my brain into new shapes…and apparently becoming ridiculously earnest and prone to spewing smug inspirational bullshit. GOD! What the hell was THAT??? Somebody needs a green cider.

So that’s enough blarney outta me.

EXCEPT…

Consider, friends, what reading this blague has done for you today. And consider every other day you’ve enjoyed the wisdom of the Tourist AT NO COST WHATSOEVER. For some of you this has been going on for years, this free delivery of guffaws, chuckles, smiles, and insight. Think of the value. Yet while I may very well begin charging exorbitant amounts for entry (as well as a complicated sign-in process and a webcam video proving that you are wearing a silly hat and doing the required dance), THIS MONTH I ask that you instead donate that money to the relief effort in Japan. Let’s say five bucks per laugh. So if you laughed five times, a modest twenty-five bucks to the Red Cross or someone. And if you didn’t laugh at all? In that case, you are clearly a black hole of humour, a very scourge on humanity, so a big fat donation is the least you can do to start justifying your presence on Earth. I’ll tell you what, it needn’t even be made in my name.

http://www.cbc.ca/japanrelief/ has a great list of links to reputable charities’ donation pages. Please help. If nothing else, it will get you in my good books. You might even win a pantsuit.

Yours, soggy and true,

The Tourist

go west, young tourist

From TORONTO,

December 29th, 2010

It’s ridiculous that I haven’t written. I’m aware of this.

I’ve been to Iowa. I’ve been to West Virginia. I’ve been to Florida, Illinois, Indiana, and to Texas. North Carolina, too. I’ve been to Belleville. I survived two weeks in London, Ontario, a bout of food poisoning on a two-show day (still puking at seven a.m.; call time at twenty-past – don’t order the pesto shrimp from Boston Pizza…as if you ever would), eight-hour drives in a five-person-jammed pickup truck; lugging a set that weighed at least NINE THOUSAND POUNDS in and out of stage doors and schools, up steps and over snakepits; lived through spats with my tourmates about trivia games, luggage and generally being up at six in the morning…

Nobody loved me. Everybody hated me. I went out back and ate some worms.

My back still hurts. My wrist is sore. And my liver is more than three parts booze. I drank enough one karaoke night in Alexandria, Louisiana that I, turning green and leaving early but disappointed to be going before my Bon Jovi tune had come up, had to be told that I had, in fact, already sung it. That’s where I left my jacket. I left my shoes in a hotel closet in Chicago, my Oil of Olay under a bed somewhere, and my heart in New Orleans. I left one adorable soul singer in Austin, Texas, standing in a bar with his heart on his sleeve, dreaming dreams of exotic Toronto, where all the girls have long black hair and ruby lips. And one sad, small second cousin twice-removed behind in Dallas, wondering why in God I’m not her mother and why she can’t leave Adrian and Jo in Texas once and for all and escape a fate of eating deep-fried butter and voting Bristol Palin 2024.

I left a sock in every town – “REMEMBER MEEEEEE, NORTH LIBERTYYYYY!!! I won’t remember yooooooouuuuu!”, most of the roaches (I hope) back in that dressing room in Texarkana, and indelible impressions on the minds of thousands of awestruck children and their teachers who had the pleasure of not only seeing me perform but hearing my sage words of long-winded wisdom in talk-backs afterwards. Will they ever again wonder How We Learn ALL THOSE LINES? I think not, dear readers, I think not.

I believe this picture just might say it all, tour-wise:

(This is Hallowe’en in Weston, West Virginia, incidentally. I am CLEARLY Amy Winehouse, but the locals, not knowing who that was, deducted I was “someone with a dildo for a head”. Close enough.)

Speaking of dildos…Rob Ford is the new motherfucking goddamn mayor of Toronto. (See the previous two blague posts for a sampling of my feelings about that.) I survive. Winter’s here…and still, I manage to go on. Christmas came and went and didn’t bother me a bit. I bought a tree and lugged it down the street. I baked ten billion cookies.

And yet I didn’t write.

It was all too much, My Puzzled Reader. As large and capable as my brain may be, it managed to get overfull, and not sure what to tell you, I told you nothing. I apologize.

But enough of the past two months. Instead let me tell you about…the Christina Aguilera movie.

Yes, Burlesque! Also starring Cher! And Stanley Tucci! What the fuck?!

I’ve been excited about this film ever since I was at the movies with Sarah Allen and we saw the poster of Christina and Cher’s big tall slutty faces and I peed myself. I didn’t know what it was and didn’t care. Christina was in it! It was called BURLESQUE! I tore off my now wet (first creamed, then pee-filled) jeans and ran a pantless bluestreak through the Scotiabank Theatre, screaming incoherent words of joy. Sarah managed to catch up with me and deal with management.

JUST LOOK AT ALL THOSE LIPS!!!

But it would be months - until tonight, in fact – before I would see it. Burlesque came out while we were on tour, and I did rope my other showgals, Emma and Krista, into seeing it with me. It was all we could handle intellectually at the time, and seemed a perfect way to celebrate our last week on the road. Plus we knew when we got home none of our friends there would want to see it.

Alas that was THE DAY OF THE SHRIMP PIZZA, and I stayed home (or, rather, hotel-bound) to lie in my own vomit – better than someone else’s, I suppose – while the intrepid ladies soldiered on without me.

I came home and fell into a deep deep sleep, the sleep of those just off a kids’ show tour, which means I didn’t even move for eighteen days (a rep from Actors’ Equity came by to hook me up to an I.V. – it’s in the union rules, go check it out) and by the time I emerged, Burlesque had closed.

However, this week it was playing at my neighbourhood rep cinema, The Revue. Of course it was, having just been nominated for a Best Musical/Comedy Golden Globe, and the Revue being a bastion of all things noble and artistic.

Now I had to go, and right away. I mean, what if ends up on the American Film Institute’s best movies of the decade list? I couldn’t even wait for the couple of friends/family members who may have actually gone with me. I was walking home from the gym and there it was!

And it was glorious…or maybe I was just flushed with endorphins from my workout.

I admit to being consistently distracted by Xtina’s new, enormous breasts. They actually looked normal enough, in a way, when she was all dolled up in push-up bustiers, but in the scenes where she was dressed casually, they were jarring. Especially when she’s supposed to be braless in PJs and has these sturdy rock-like things sticking straight out of her chest. At those moments her boobs had the look of an inappropriate accessory, like when you see someone wearing tons of eyeliner at the gym. And they didn’t even bounce when she jumped up and down. It was strange. I had to go straight home and watch some movies with properly bouncing breasts in them, just to make up for it.

But aside from that…it is “the greatest movie ever made”…says Sharin-Maizie Elliwand-Johannson of Arborg, Manitoba. Dolly32122 exclaims, “I was dancing all the way through the film in my seat paha”, while phatgurl509 calls it “so fun LOL” and male lead Cam Gigandet “off the hook for hotnesssss!!!!!!!!”

Christina’s acting is far less wooden than her immovable jugs. In fact – I’ll say it - I found her charming, though perhaps in a “Wow, she’s not half so horrible as I thought she would be” way. Her love interest had easily watchable pectorals and abs, heavily featured, Cher made you care just a little from time to time, and the dancing was sufficiently dancy.

And I was moved – yea, moved! - because that’s just the state of mind I’m in these days. I’m headed to Vancouver, you see, to try my luck in the little big city, and thus the story of a young starry-eyed girl headed to L.A. to strike it big was right up my proverbial alley. I’m going around with big new half-baked plans these days, involving being discovered in a soda shop, and I’m prone to saying things like “Wait’ll they get a load a’ me!” and “Look out world!” and “We’ll put the show on right here in the barn!”.

And it’s not just me. Today a friend – Jamie Wilson, whom I haven’t seen in years and who hasn’t heard my current schemes – happened to send me this clip on face&%*k, with the caption “This reminded me of you.”

See? That’s just the type of positive enthusiasm I’m putting out in the world right now, and Jamie must have sensed it from afar. Or maybe it was just Liza’s nose that he was thinking of. I’m hoping not her slightly wonky eye. Or her alcoholic mother shouting in the background. But hey, I’ll take it!

So yes, I’m off to be a huge voice star, start climbing mountains, achieve a black belt in Karate…and then the Coen Brothers will discover me. All this as I break into the elusive Vancouver Theatre Scene. OoooOOOOooooh.

OR…(in that Skeptical Spin you all so sickeningly crave) I come back in three months not triumphant but defeated; broken-backed and sobbing, “B.C. sucks! Nobody liked me! And I just missed                (insert your name here, Toronto resident) too much! I couldn’t bear it!”

For now, however, you will find me packing suitcases and singing this song:

(If, in a week or so, you should hear a story of a Vancouver-bound flight brought down for security reasons after a suspicious woman of ambiguous ethnicity wouldn’t stop belting a show tune at the top of her lungs, this will have been the one.)

I recently played this recording for a particularly handsome young man who happened to be sitting in my kitchen at the time, and was deeply disappointed that he didn’t seem to ‘get it’ like I did. I now realize that if a guy I was sharing pillow-space with did freak out over a Dionne Warwick recording of a show tune from a Natalie Wood movie, I might start to wonder. Or maybe I’d just take him to Burlesque and help him pick out panties. And then we’d do each other’s nails. To pass the time, you know, until the Coen Brothers happened by.

I’m stakin’ my claim. Remember my name…

The Tourist

Democracy in Action (Is this thing on?)

From THE MEGACITY,
December 5th, 2010

Readers....make your way through the thread below for a look at my scintillating correspondence with Councillor Karen Stintz (Rob Ford's new TTC chair). This makes me laugh. And then it makes me barf.



(The initial correspondence is my modified version of a letter found here: http://www.emailthem.ca/transitcity/ .)

Dear Toronto Councillors and MPPs:

As a citizen of Toronto and regular TTC user, I am upset and outraged that Rob Ford wants throw away all the hard work, time and money that has gone into Transit City,in favour of a "plan" to shove all public transit underground at great expense to, and unneccessary delay for, Toronto taxpayers.

Rob Ford claims that his having been elected is evidence that the people of Toronto have given him a mandate to do just this. However, many people voted for Ford based on his "stop the gravy train" rhetoric (or rather, incessant hammering). This action, in its throwing away of millions of dollars already spent and/or promised for Transit City, would go against the very principle of stopping wasteful spending that those voters so responded to.

Residents of Toronto desperately need accessible transit to get around our city. Facts prove that Light Rail vehicles - not subways - are the best technology to reduce greenhouse gas emissions. Streetcars and LRVs have the lowest energy consumption per passenger mile of any mode of transportation. Replacing carbon-emitting buses with LRVs will also reduce emissions, leading to cleaner air to breathe and reduced healthcare costs.

Facts also show that subways cost far more and take much longer to build, thereby depriving Torontonians in priority neighbourhoods of faster access to better public transit and rapidly depleting our city budget. And a new line in time for the 2015 Pan Am games, starting from scratch NOW? How in God's name could any reasonable person think this possible?LRV expansion under the extensively researched Transit City plan will boost Toronto's economic productivity by easing congestion, which will prevent people and goods from being stuck in traffic. Building subways will mean this reduction in congestion will be severely limited in scope, compared with the Light Rail expansion planned under Transit City.

At the end of the day, cancelling Transit City is an attack on priority neighbourhoods, the environment and the public purse. I strongly urge you, as city councillors representing our best interests, to bring this matter up for a vote in city council on Dec 16th.I also urge MPPs who represent Toronto to be advocates for accessible public transit and keep the Transit City plan on track.

Mayor Ford declared that the war on cars is over, yet ironically the cancellation of Transit City will wage war on public transit users, particularly those who do not live near a subway or who cannot afford a car. Many taxpayers need the TTC; where's the respect for those taxpayers, Mister Ford?

If the new mayor tries to force this through without support of council, it is a slap in the face to Torontonians and an abuse of office. In that case, I urge councillors to walk out. Let's see how voters like Ford and his ever-present brother running things on their own, as the dictatorship they so desire.

Sincerely,
Lisa Norton
M6R2K5


Date: Sun, 5 Dec 2010 00:32:29 -0500
From: councillor_stintz@toronto.ca
To: n*******@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: RESPECT FOR TAXPAYERS? Don't let Rob Ford trash Transit City. (Transit City)

Thank you very much for taking the time to send me a note about your concerns.

As you may know, Transit City was not fully funded by the Province of Ontario or the Federal Government. The transit plan that has been funded is the Metrolinx Plan and that plan includes transit investment on Sheppard, Eglinton, the Scarborough RT and Finch. Stopping Transit City does not jeopardize the Metrolinx Plan.

During the last municipal campaign, the voters of Toronto, through their support for Mayor Ford, indicated a preference for below-surface transit. Over the next few months, the TTC, Metrolinx and the Province will revisit the current Metrolinx Plan with a goal to increase the amount of below-surface transit.

We all have a shared goal of a regional transportation plan that meets the needs of the riders of today and in the future. I am confident that the TTC, Metrolinx and the Province will work together to adjust the plan in a fiscally responsible manner that will receive the endorsement of the residents of Toronto.

Yours truly,

Karen Stintz


From: n*******@hotmail.com
To: councillor_stintz@toronto.ca
CC: councillor_perks@toronto.ca
Subject: RE: RESPECT FOR TAXPAYERS? Don't let Rob Ford trash Transit City.
Date: Sun, 5 Dec 2010 13:04:37 -0500

Councillor Stintz,

I'm afraid that your claim that by voting for Ford, Toronto gave him a mandate to do whatever he wants with transit, just doesn't wash. You and I both know that's not how the political process works, nor should it work that way. Toronto didn't just vote for Ford, they also elected a body of councillors, and expect them all to have a say (our say) in huge decisions like this. Furthermore, people who voted for Ford did so for a variety of reasons (chief among them being that many people believed, with his "gravy train" mantra, that he would be fiscally conservative and not go throwing their money away) and don't neccessarily support every facet of his platform or every idea that comes into his head. The man is a mayor after all, and not a king.

I, for one, live in pre-megacity Toronto, which overwhelming did NOT support Ford, and I count on my elected councillor to have a say. I believe he should have had a say before a call was made to the TTC telling them to stop work that was underway.

Now that it looks like Toronto's transit plan is inevitably changing one way or another, I do hope that you're right: I would love if Ford could find some way to get subways built quickly and safely and without huge extra expense to our city and billions lost in dishonoured contracts. But, to quote a popular phrase of late, that sounds like fairy dust to me. His logic and economics just don't add up, and I fear that we, the people of Toronto, will end up with NO viable replacement for Transit City, which was worked on so long and so hard by so many people only to be thrown away in one day...or at least end up with no replacement built for a decade or two in the future. What a waste.

Lisa Norton,
Ward 14


From: Councillor Stintz (councillor_stintz@toronto.ca)
Sent: December 5, 2010 1:05:51 PM
To: Lisa Norton (n*******@hotmail.com)

Thank you very much for taking the time to send me a note about your concerns.

As you may know, Transit City was not fully funded by the Province of Ontario or the Federal Government. The transit plan that has been funded is the Metrolinx Plan and that plan includes transit investment on Sheppard, Eglinton, the Scarborough RT and Finch. Stopping Transit City does not jeopardize the Metrolinx Plan.

During the last municipal campaign, the voters of Toronto, through their support for Mayor Ford, indicated a preference for below-surface transit. Over the next few months, the TTC, Metrolinx and the Province will revisit the current Metrolinx Plan with a goal to increase the amount of below-surface transit.

We all have a shared goal of a regional transportation plan that meets the needs of the riders of today and in the future. I am confident that the TTC, Metrolinx and the Province will work together to adjust the plan in a fiscally responsible manner that will receive the endorsement of the residents of Toronto.

Yours truly,

Karen Stintz


From: Lisa Norton (n******@hotmail.com)
Sent: December 5, 2010 1:38:53 PM
To: councillor_stintz@toronto.ca

FYI: I was just sent the same stock answer that I recieved to my previous letter. My letter (this time) was in reply to what you've written below. Is anyone actually reading these things?

Lisa Norton


From: Councillor Stintz (councillor_stintz@toronto.ca)
Sent: December 5, 2010 1:39:51 PM
To: Lisa Norton (n*******@hotmail.com)

Thank you very much for taking the time to send me a note about your concerns.

As you may know, Transit City was not fully funded by the Province of Ontario or the Federal Government. The transit plan that has been funded is the Metrolinx Plan and that plan includes transit investment on Sheppard, Eglinton, the Scarborough RT and Finch. Stopping Transit City does not jeopardize the Metrolinx Plan.

During the last municipal campaign, the voters of Toronto, through their support for Mayor Ford, indicated a preference for below-surface transit. Over the next few months, the TTC, Metrolinx and the Province will revisit the current Metrolinx Plan with a goal to increase the amount of below-surface transit.

We all have a shared goal of a regional transportation plan that meets the needs of the riders of today and in the future. I am confident that the TTC, Metrolinx and the Province will work together to adjust the plan in a fiscally responsible manner that will receive the endorsement of the residents of Toronto.

Yours truly,

Karen Stintz


From: Lisa Norton (n*******@hotmail.com)
Sent: December 5, 2010 2:41:37 PM
To: councillor_stintz@toronto.ca

You are a smelly smelly poo head. (Testing, testing...Is this on?)


From: Councillor Stintz (councillor_stintz@toronto.ca)
Sent: December 5, 2010 2:45:40 PM
To: Lisa Norton (n******@hotmail.com)

Thank you very much for taking the time to send me a note about your concerns.

As you may know, Transit City was not fully funded by the Province of Ontario or the Federal Government. The transit plan that has been funded is the Metrolinx Plan and that plan includes transit investment on Sheppard, Eglinton, the Scarborough RT and Finch. Stopping Transit City does not jeopardize the Metrolinx Plan.

During the last municipal campaign, the voters of Toronto, through their support for Mayor Ford, indicated a preference for below-surface transit. Over the next few months, the TTC, Metrolinx and the Province will revisit the current Metrolinx Plan with a goal to increase the amount of below-surface transit.

We all have a shared goal of a regional transportation plan that meets the needs of the riders of today and in the future. I am confident that the TTC, Metrolinx and the Province will work together to adjust the plan in a fiscally responsible manner that will receive the endorsement of the residents of Toronto.

Yours truly,

Karen Stintz

rumours of my death are slightly exaggerated

From LONDON, ONTARIO
October 25th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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