moonwalker and me

From BLYTH, Ontario
July 25th, 2010

Okay, so yes, I’m away at the Blyth Festival again. Okay, so yes, that means I’m legally contracted to post about cows and pigs and country life; rep theatre and homemade jam; pies* and the lack of eligible cock around. (As opposed to cow and pig.)

*I wasn’t using “pie” as a euphemism for “vagina” there, by the way. I really did mean baked goods. It just happens to work on that level, too. (Bonus joke!)

However.

I don’t know if you guys have heard about this but…Michael Jackson died. A year ago. Oh, wait, what’s that - Michael who? Oh, he was this entertainer, he was really neat, you might be able to find a clip or two on the internet. Of course, he was never truly recognized and never achieved the success he might have, because he was black. If he’d been a white guy, “Michael Jackson” might have been a household name, or at least he might have had a hit or two, rather than dying in obscurity, almost completely unknown but to a group of prisoners in the Philippines that liked his dancing for some reason.

_________________________________________________________

(TAKE TWO…for real this time)

I promised one year ago, just after we all heard, to devote an issue of The Tourist to the gloved one. As I said at the time, I just wasn’t ready.

But now I am. Here goes.

At first we just friends. Or rather, he was a friend of my mother’s. It was her copy of Off The Wall that I would take out, unfold carefully and talk to. “Michael,” I’d say, “my socks never look that white. How do you do it?” I’d wonder at his flexibility, being capable of bending all the way in two like that. I’d listen to his groovy songs and try to dance, which I hadn’t quite figured out yet, but he was teaching me. Sometimes I’d fall down. Oh, we’d LAUGH! What fun!

I remember when we fell in love. It was Christmas, 1983. Michael had been away awhile. I’d moved on to other friends; he’d been working. I wasn’t angry, but we’d drifted. And then somebody, God bless them (Uncle Steve?), gave me Thriller as a gift. I unwrapped it and gasped. There he was, looking at me again. Different nose but those same old beautiful brown Michael eyes. He smiled. I smiled. Something was different. I was older now. Nearly nine. Practically a woman.

There, in front of the Christmas tree in our Scarborough living room, family shouting festively around me, I sat blushing as new Michael and the new me regarded one another. I felt shy. My noisy, laughing family may not have noticed the sparks suddenly flying, but I was embarrassed that they might. And suddenly I just couldn’t stand all these people being everywhere. We needed to be alone. We went up to my room.

I sat on the carpet and Michael sat in front of me. I unfolded him and laughed. “There you are again, showing off your flexibility!”

He just giggled, playing with his baby tiger, Lisa, whom (he told me now) he had named after me. It had been the record company’s idea to have him pose with a cute, cuddly tiger cub in a ploy to show fans his sensitive side, as Michael was (for obvious reasons) always in danger of being pegged as “too macho”. But the cub had grown on him, particularly after he’d taken her on the road to keep him company on his latest tour.

It was there that he’d given her my name and would spend late nights confiding in her all his deepest, most private thoughts, pretending she was me. “But Michael,” I asked, “Why didn’t you just call me?”

“I wanted to,” he said. “But I know you’re busy with school and everything. I remembered you were in Mrs Thielking’s class this year, and we all know how tough that is. I just didn’t want to bother you. Congrats on all your track and field ribbons, by the way,” he said, gesturing to where they were tacked up on the wall. “Oh, Michael, I just think of you and I jump higher, run faster, go that extra kilometre - as we say here in Canada. I’m always picturing you out there on the sidelines, cheering me on.”

“I am. I cheer you on within my heart.”

I took down my high jump ribbon, my first of what would be a short but distinguished career, and I pinned it to his chest. “Ouch,” he said. So then I pinned it to his shirt instead. I held a finger to his beautiful forehead.

“Remember, Michael, wherever you are, no matter how far apart we may be…I’ll be right here.”

(NOT THE MOST FLATTERING PICTURES OF ME)

He took off one of his gloves and gave it to me. At first I wouldn’t take it, knowing how cold his hands always were. But he insisted.

“You’re such a P.Y.T.,” he told me.
“A what? What’s that?”
“Track eight," he said. “You’ll see.”
“Eight! My lucky number!”
“How could I forget?”

There were so many more things I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him all about Kim and Hansa and Mangala and Anita and all my other awesome friends. About last year, when red-haired Brandy had moved into town and bullied me and taken all those friends away and made grade three a living hell. How I’d beat her up and won them back. Wanted to show him pictures I’d drawn, stories I was working on. (Oh MY GOD, he hadn’t met my dog yet, Toby! Dad got him from the pound, surprised me!) I wanted to show him my moves.

But as the needle touched down on the record and he started to sing, I fell silent. Michael sang. And sang and sang. And sometimes Paul McCartney sang. I listened and we looked at one another. And it was good.

I should have known it couldn’t last.

THE POSTER

With Michael gone for months on end, I had only his recordings and occasional TV appearances as reminders. When he debuted the moonwalk on Motown 25, I was watching. Okay, everybody was watching. The next day at recess, as my classmates were trying it out, I just watched and smiled. Michael had tried to teach it to me many times. If he had failed, what chance did these clowns have? When he won those eight - eight! My number, again! - 1984 Grammys, I was at home, wearing the other glove. He had wanted me, not Brooke Shields, on his arm that night, but I had a geography project due the next day. I had all my friends over for the broadcast of the Thriller video. They gasped and danced and screamed; I cried. I missed him so.

Even though I was nine years old by this time, I still had no steady income. My sister Nancy, who was fourteen and rolling in cash, had a poster of Michael that I eyed and coveted for months. (Michael was too shy to send me pictures and I was too shy to ask.) Thanks to the magic of the intertubes, here it is:

Alas, there were no intertubes to be tubed at the time, and all I could do was hang around Nancy’s door and catch the occasional peek. Eventually she took pity on me and told me she would consider selling it. I made an offer of jelly beans and laundry folding. She held firm at twenty dollars. At the time, that was eight weekly allowances for me. (My allowance always being the going rate of a movie; this was in the days of Two-fifty Tuesdays).

I scrimped and saved and forwent movies with my friends for two whole months. One happy allowance day the transaction was made: I eagerly handed over my hard-saved quarters and two dollar bills; the poster was rolled up and delivered into my shakey little hands. By now it was edge-frayed and faded and everyone was saying Michael was gay. But it wasn’t until somewhat later that I realized that the store price of posters was eight dollars and that my sis had pocketed a tidy one hundred percent plus profit for a poster she didn’t want anymore. Clever girl.

When he would visit, it was lovely, just like old times. But those visits were seldom and we couldn’t help but drift apart. He had the Jackson Five Victory Tour, I had Speech Arts and volleyball. And in the spirit of total disclosure, there were other men, I must confess. Nigel Brown and I went so far as to hold hands, about which Michael never knew, but I had strayed all the same.

NAZEER PAREKH AND THE THRILLER JACKET

My friend and schoolmate, Naz, had a similar experience to my poster ordeal when he begged and begged his parents for a Michael-style red pleather Thriller jacket. They said, again and again, “Don’t be ridiculous", but eventually gave in when he met them halfway with his paper route money.

Little did I know how tragic, for me, would be the day when Nazeer finally showed up at school in the jacket. By this time, scorn for Michael had gotten vicious in the Grey Owl Junior Public schoolyard. He was lame, he was a loser, he was SO GAY.

And did I defend Michael as staunchly as I had the myth of Santa Claus only a year or two before, popping Michael Haynes in the nose for saying Santa wasn’t real? No, friends, I am ashamed to say. I took the easy, coward’s route, making a show of laughing with the others before leaving Naz to the wolves. Shaking my head that he didn’t know better, I retreated into the background. I turned my back on Nazeer just as they were tearing the arms and zippers from his coat and pooing on him, and just then noticed a shadowy figure on the other side of the chainlink schoolyard fence. The backlit halo of a jericurl caught my eye. I saw the glow of silver socks, the glint of a so-familiar glove, and as he turned away I caught sight of a single tear rolling down my poor, sweet Michael’s face.

I called out his name once, feebly, but I knew that what he’d witnessed had been unforgivable. A terrible betrayal. I had lost him, maybe forever. I stood there stunned, and could only watch him walk away.

I wrote letter upon letter, for years, pleading for forgiveness. Michael eventually responded with a hit single.

He became more and more reclusive and reports of his strange behaviour worried me. I wished I could be there with him, for him, provide some kind of grounding influence as I did for all my other international celebrity friends. But Michael had good reason to feel angry, and how could I help him when I was part of what had sent him spiralling into darkness?

Somehow, Michael eventually found it in his heart to accept me into his life again. He was in his “Man In The Mirror”/“Heal the World” period and it had affected him deeply. He wanted to let go of old grudges and move on. But he would always keep me at a distance. We were friends but didn’t dance. There was talk, but little laughter. Liz never trusted me and she was a big influence. But after what I’d done I was grateful to be in his life at all and was content to visit Neverland now and then and give Bubbles his baths. Now and then Michael would almost forget himself and it would be like old times…but that was mostly when we’d been drinking, or eating Pixie Stix.

And then there was the time that Michael took all those painkillers and married Lisa Marie Presley by accident, thinking she was me. I was there; he thought I was Diana Ross. I could have stopped it but my pride got in the way. (Plus I was kind of enjoying being Diana Ross for a day. Who wouldn’t? Now if only I could make my hair go like that.) But it hurt, I won’t lie. Especially because he’d taken the last of the painkillers and there were none left for me.

Things between us would never be the same. Visits became fewer and fewer, and more and more sad. I didn’t deal well with his legal troubles, and he didn’t seem to understand how hard theatre school can be.

When news came through that Michael had died I was working on a play in Gananoque, Ontario. All I could do was sit, stunned, in front of the TV like everyone else. And that, after all, was all I deserved.

So where does that leave me, Dear Reader? Alone, getting older, and full of regret. We never had our wedding on the Moon. We never had our honeymoon at Disney World. Sure, I force everyone to listen to, REALLY listen to, Man In The Mirror every New Year’s Eve…but did I ever actually tell him how I felt, how desperately I still loved him after all these years? No, I kept it all inside, kept it inside and let him fall apart and bleach himself and shrink his nose smaller and smaller, until like some pathetic symbol of all his and my romantic possibility, it caved in and disappeared altogether.

It leaves me here, Dear Reader, talking to you. And while you’re very lovely, you’ll never moonwalk through my heart like Michael did. No one ever will.

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Blyth bonus issue! Now with 100% real Blyth!

From BLYTH, ONTARIO
July 16th, 2010

All right, all right, this isn't the Michael Jackson issue I've been working on....but it's close. Because Michael Jackson and The Blyth Festival are practically the same thing. I don't know what that means. But I refuse to delete it.

For all those who want a Blyth bedtime story, this is a little one. It's something I wrote for inclusion in the patrons' newsletter, and if they actually publish it I may be getting strange looks around town and gifts of lasagna for years to come. Here's hopin'!

(Moonwalker edition coming soon, promise.)

Dear friends (and I say friends because I do consider all Blyth patrons as such...except for the ones that don't like me in the shows),

Heather Black, our marketing guru-ette extraordinaire, has asked me to share a few words on the Blyth experience from my point of view as an actor in my third season here. Never one to turn down a chance to write a thousand-word essay on my day off, here I am.

I could tell you about the shows, and acting here, but you've seen me do that. And really, what can I say? I put on funny clothes and pretend to be somebody else for a living. Eric Coates and company have assembled one of the finest groups of people in the country at putting on funny clothes and making faces, and I'm pleased and proud to be one of their number.

But what I'd really like to tell you about is the Blyth administrative offices. Nothing fancy, really, just a former bank divided up into a few working areas, mostly open concept except for Sir Coates' CUSHY CORNER OFFICE; a boardroom used alternately for having meetings or for eating sandwiches; the former bank vault used as a photocopy room (so they say, but I keep looking for the piles of money); the box office around the corner...

What makes the office special to me is the feeling I get there. It's such a fun and welcoming place to drop by, and to see people buzzing around, happy about the work that they're doing. Or maybe they're just nice to me because I keep hanging around and they think, "Poor girl. No one else will talk to her". But that's sweet of them, isn't it?

The first day I arrived in town this season to begin rehearsals, I dropped by the office to say hi to Deb Sholdice, General Manager, superhero and all-round cool gal. In pops Sharon Thompson, equally cool and always well-coiffed Head of Box Office, to talk some important business with Deb. Seeing me, she immediately shouts, "What's your shoe size?!" and runs out to her car. Seems the shoe shop in Wingham recently had a big sale at which the two of them went hog wild, buying even shoes that didn't fit anyone they know. Catherine Fitch has also just arrived and next thing we know, the Box Office and General Managers are down on their knees sizing us and shoving shiny new shoes on our feet. This is why I like working at Blyth; it makes me feel like Cinderella.

Of course, it's not all fun and games and shoe sales at the Blyth Festival; sometimes there's serious work to be done. For this, Deb employs a small brass wheel that sits atop her desk. You spin the dial and it points to "Maybe", "Pass the buck", or "Fire someone". Lacking this sophisticated technology, Eric sits in his office buried knee-high in new scripts under consideration, relying on the age-old technique of eenie-meenie-miney-moe. To cast the plays, he considers the pile of photos and resumes sent in by actors across the country and then throws them all up in the air, seeing which ones land on top. Since Canada has such a deep field of talented performers, this method has done well for him so far. Sadly, Gordon Pinsent's CV is too heavy and keeps getting stuck at the bottom.

A visit to the office isn't complete without some kind of comedy routine from Eric and Deb, who keep their doors open, I suspect primarily so that they can shout witty one-liners at each other. There's the occasional guest appearance from Deb's daughter and Box Office rep, Sarrah, who is a bonafide comedian and makes me run from the office in fear of laughing so hard that I'll pee. Then there's Heather Thompson, House Manager, who acted with me years ago in The Thirteenth One, which she takes as license to make fun of me and call me rude nicknames all day long. Hey, the office needs its insult comic, too.

In the middle of the room sits a desk sometimes used by summer interns and such, but more often covered in bakeware and crockpots. There's always some kind of potluck or bakesale or barbecue at the festival, another big reason I can't stay away. The Shaw Festival wants me back, badly, but I keep telling them, "Not until you put some pork on this here fork."* And Martin Scorcese keeps calling, but he hasn't learned to offer me a Bonanza Breakfast.

A new tradition at Blyth, one I find endearing and utterly characteristic of this place, is that, on a show's first tech rehearsal day (a twelve-hour day going from about noon until midnight), the stage managers and cast of the other shows serve a dinner in the lower hall to the cast and crew. This so that everyone can have one less thing to do or think about in the middle of a long, sometimes difficult day.

Of course, by the time I got to our dinner (a little late) for A Killing Snow, the food had run out and I had to go home and cook. (And I made banana bread and a rhubarb crumble for The Bordertown Cafe people.) I'm not angry or anything; somebody around here owes me some lasagna is all I'm saying.

Reluctant as I always am to leave the office (having never had one and suffering from cubicle-envy), I do inevitably have to pass through that back door and into the backstage area to get ready and perform. For the best, most responsive and warmest audiences I've ever experienced anywhere in my fifteen years as an actor.

And in case you were wondering, backstage is not exempt from the Blyth food culture. Every few days, we'll walk into the green room to discover Gil Garratt sitting there with a grin and a box of cream puffs from Culberts in Goderich, at which point we all shout at him (as best we can through pastry-filled mouths) for making our costumes not fit.

I can think of worse problems to have.


See you all out there,


Lisa

* A reference to an annual Blyth Country Supper event, hosted by the local pig farmers' association. It really is called "Pork on Your Fork".

P.S Touristas: http://www.blythfestival.com/ if you want to know what the fuss is about. Some excitin' new-fangled video clips on there and everything!

poverty is hot

From BLYTH, Ontario
September 5th, 2008

Two days left performing brilliantly on the Blyth Festival stage, Soft-Eyed, Shiny-Haired Reader, and my thoughts turn to the future. But first: whither updates on my summer? Why so quiet on all things Blyth, you ask?

Well...what can I say, really? Since one of my two shows closed, the schedule here has committed me to a gruelling six-hour work week (yes, you read that right), and the town itself, nestled as it is in its secret location eighty five kilometres outside the border of hell's half acre, leaves me with little to say. My biggest daily challenges over the last month have been deciding what to bake, stopping myself from leaping off the stage and tickling random audience members, and breaking out in a sweat on my couch watching tiny Chinese girls win gold medals at three a.m.

And what about my Great Big Vow Of Celibacy, you wonder? How is that particular challenge going for me? Well, let's just say that, as it turns out, the best way to meet somebody worth screwing on a regular basis.....is to take a Great Big Vow Of Celibacy. So ja, das vow ist kaput. And you certainly don't want to hear about that. Well okay, many of you do....but to those readers I can recommend several handy websites. No, I'm not on them - don't get your dirty little hopes up, Gutter-Minded Reader. I'm just saying.

So what do I have to share, from this time and place? What pearls of wisdom have my ruminations on the future yielded? Oh boy, you won't believe it! Here it is, my Squirty Little Honeys.....in preparation for my much anticipated return to Toronto and an(other) indefinite period of unemployment, I give you......

THE SKEPTICAL TOURIST'S GUIDE TO POVERTATIOUS LIVING, or.....
FUCK FUCK FUCK HOW DID I DO THIS LAST TIME?

There are always little things to get you through the hard times. Here are a few of my favourites:

Panhandle, late at night, preferably while wearing a balaclava, with the catchy pitch line, "Give me some money or I'll stab you in the face." Okay, so technically that's called "mugging", but must we get hung up on technicalities, people? God! I'm trying to get creative here; roll with it, will you?

Knock over a liquor store. By "knock over", I don't mean rob it. I mean steal a wrecking ball and KNOCK OVER A LIQUOR STORE. It won't do you any good financially, but fuck, dude, it will be awesome.

Go to a grade school during morning recess and play poker for the kids' lunch money. Careful, though, some of the little bastards are sharks. Beware grades three and up. And High Park Junior Public is a bitch. Try to find a school with lots of "special" kids. But not the freaky little smart autistic ones. If they don't have cash, play for gummy worms and sandwiches. In Scarborough, guns. Bonus features: Learn all the latest schoolyard poker slang. And meet hot teachers while being escorted off the premises. Get the digits. Note: Toronto District School Board teacher to unemployed actor = Hot Sugar Daddy. Avoid art and music teachers.....though I hear they may be cutting math and science, too.

Make your own currency using colourful pencil crayons and construction paper. If local merchants refuse to accept it, break things in their store. When cops arrive, offer hand jobs all around. Scot free! Repeat.

Wait for the phone to ring with auditions and job offers. Check for dial tone. Smash phone.

Want to keep busy with a hobby or classes during your unemployment? Interested in learning a new language? Easy. Since you can't afford fancy language classes or CDs...simply find a family that speaks the language you wish to learn and force them to be your new best friends. Invite yourself over for dinner. Make your own key. Sleep with their nieces and nephews.

In my case, I'd like to improve my Spanish, so both the food and the sex should be good. I'll spend Wednesdays with some Guatemalans I've been casing, Fridays with a nice old couple from Madrid, and Sundays - after Spanish-language services at Our Lady of Guadalupe (694 Weston Rd., free blood and body of Christ too....yum) - having dinner at Father Lopez' house.

Put things you can't afford on your one credit card that's isn't yet maxed out. Or, better yet, a borrowed one! Buy some electronics. Spend a day at the spa. Get that diamond-encrusted pimp-cup you've always wanted. And keep a baseball bat by every door of your apartment/cardboard box to deal with creditors. When things get really hot, change your identity and skip town. Hitchhike south and move in with Father Lopez' cousin, Ignacio, in Guadalajara. Get caught stealing avocados and move into a Mexican jail. Learn Spanish there....for free!!!

Entertainment on a non-existent budget? Watch TV through peoples' living room windows! Use your swiped universal remote to change the channel to what you want to watch. Tap on the glass and gesture for them to open the window so you can hear, goddammit.

Speaking of entertainment, the Toronto International Film Festival (or tiffy tiff tiff, as it's known to insiders) is in full swing right now. You know what that means - prime opportunities to take revenge on rich people. Get in line at galas and red carpets and yell, "You suck! Boooo!" at the stars, and try to get their bodyguards to tackle you so you can sue. Bonus points for kicking Angelina Jolie in the shins. Double if she's holding a baby at the time.

Think you can't eat well when you're down and out? Two words: Raccoon bake. Toronto also has no dearth of squirrels, bats and crawling rodents. That neighbour's yappy dog that won't shut up? Chihuahua quesadillas! The cat that keeps spraying your back porch? Tabby on a stick! That's right. This is my territory, bitch.

When feeling particularly bitter, go to Holt Renfrew, gather armfuls of beautiful designer clothes that you can't afford to buy, and ask to try them on. Take them into the dressing room and pee on them. Ha ha! That'll show you, Stella McCartney! Fuck you, Alexander McQueen! That's what you get.....ill-paid store employee! Oh.

Stand in the lobby of a bank and cry. Go ahead, let it all out. You'll feel better. Again, try to break and/or pee on something before leaving. Preferably a manager.

Keep a positive attitude. By murdering at will.

When bill collectors call, talk really, really softly. On being asked to speak up, apologize, saying that there's a problem with your phone and that they'll have to turn the volume up on their end. Once they've done so....scream as loud as you can into the receiver and hang up. Laugh...and laugh....and laugh..... (For some reason, this is even funnier when the caller works for Revenue Canada. I don't know why.)

Move into High Park. keep moving. Don't let the bastards catch you.

And finally, if, even with all of these suggestions for keeping your destitute life kicky and fun, you somehow get tired of being poor:
Take back what you said about Internet porn and pay the bills, yo. It's the responsible thing to do.

Always glad to be of service,

Your hero,

The Skeptical Tourist

ON LOVE or BLAME THE FISH

From BLYTH, ONTARIO
August 5th, 2008

So, it's early August and I've completed my ex-lover tour of Ontario.

It all began at my pals Pete and Lisa's wedding reception, where I happened to be seated so that my heartbreaking former lover was DIRECTLY IN MY LINE OF VIEW to the microphone where everyone was giving their speeches, singing their songs, et cetera. I was moving around so much, trying to look on one side or the other instead of continually accidentally staring at his stupid head, that Bunker, who was my (utterly platonic) date, was trying to figure out what was wrong with me, did I have a yeast infection or something that was preventing me from sitting still. I dealt well though, I thought, until I went out on the sidewalk after dinner and passed out.

Yes, I literally fainted. For the record, I have low blood pressure and often do get dizzy. (Ask my college movement teacher, who attributed my dizzy spells to "Unresolved Emotional Issues", the crazy bitch.) For the record, I was dehydrated from the long drive from Blyth without drinking any water, and for the record it was thirty-some degrees and the air quality in Toronto was new and strange to a temporary country girl such as myself. Also for the record, I did smoke some of a joint, but believe it or not, Scandalized Reader, that's nothing entirely new. And for the record, this was before the dancing and the carrying on, and I'd only had two glasses of wine; this on a night when I'd planned to get so thoroughly in the bag that they'd have to dig me out from under coffee grounds and banana peels. Open bar. Goddammit. For the record, I ate the fish.

So I get dizzy, faint and hit the sidewalk, and Bunker and the Bundy-DeBeers, who are there, take fantastic care of me when I come to, and within minutes I feel fine but decide I should go home. Bunker drives me and helps me open all the windows in my apartment, which my subletter, who cleared out for the weekend, had earlier described to me as being "A really pleasant temperature; It reminds me of when I lived in Cambodia". Read: pretty much like hell.

Later, bored and feeling fine and watching Futurama, missing all the fun of the reception (the open bar! the Macarena!), I realize that there may be suspicions that I left early:
A) To avoid putting my envelope in the honeymoon donation box......or B) Because of The Boy.
So...Pete and Lisa: Your gift is in the mail! I swear! And Ass Head: I didn't leave early to avoid you! I would have danced you under the table! Well....not that way. I mean unless you really wanted to.... I mean....Up Yours, you no-good son of a whore!

Unresolved Emotional Issues indeed.

Stop number two consisted of actually AUDITIONING FOR a hot former lover, which is like one of those things actors have recurring nightmares about. And which turned out to be absolutely totally normal and fine, I mean as much as any audition can be normal and fine.....but do you think I slept at all the night before, sure that I would wake up fat or with a giant zit or something?

The whole ex-lover tour, though, centred on one trip to Stratford, where if you spit you'll hit someone who's fooled around with me. Really, I'm like some Stratford Festival wormhole - get in me, you'll be working there within a year. (Note to self: stop referring to vagina as "wormhole")...... But I digress.

Anyway, what with the wedding, and the audition and Stratford, I'm on this string of visitations with ex-lovers, some intentional, some surprising, and at the end of that week, what with the lack of sleep, and the booze and the pills and the fish, and oh, maybe it had something to do with the ex-lover sightings...... at the end of it all, I have a BIG REVELATION ABOUT LOVE. Do not, I repeat, do NOT cue strings; this ain't that type a' revelation.

I get to thinking about a recent encounter with a man I really like, who told me on discovering a film we'd both always wanted to see and missed, "I really want to watch that movie with you." Well, by God if that wasn't the most romantic thing I'd ever heard in my whole life. As if he'd written me a sonnet, sung me a song, dedicated the next inning to me on the Jumbotron....

"I really want to watch that movie with you." Sigh.

And WHY, why did this simple little phrase move me so? Wouldn't it be more exciting if he had said, Oh I don't know, I want to make love to you all night on the back of a dolphin swimming across the Pacific? No, actually, that would have just been weird. If he had said I want to take you on the top of a mountain and make you call out my name in ecstasy from the mountain tops? I would have told him, Sorry I have a matinee tomorrow. If he'd said, I want to spoon pudding all over your ass and slowly eat it off, flavour of your choice? Well....okay. Maybe. But, dear reader, appeals involving pudding and my butt are a dime a dozen (or at least they WERE, before I moved to Blyth).....while appeals to my mind are all too rare. I know, I know, my intellect is too vast and intimidating for most people. Then again, so is my ass, and men seem to get over that. Here was someone holding off the pudding and wanting to get to know me first. Or maybe he really did just want to watch the movie and nothing more. But I don't see how that's possible. I mean, really.

I don't blame men for the fact that EVERY ONE OF MY RELATIONSHIPS has been sex first, ask questions later. (Or sometimes just one question: "What are you still doing here?") I often orchestrated it that way. Partly I was just randy and impatient. Maybe, too, I didn't want to waste my time with someone who didn't know his way around, if you know what I mean. Trouble is, if he knew his way too well, I would manage to convince myself that he was Hugh Grant, Denzel Washington and Einstein all rolled into one. Except better. When he was actually more like Hitler, or Pauley Shore. So I ended up in some "relationships" that probably should have ended at how-do-you-do. And then, still reeling from the last ill-advised thing, I always intended that the next one wouldn't go anywhere and then whoops - there I was again. Going out with Hitler.

Would you believe that the Tourist, of all people, or at least her fully non-fictional alter-ego, Miss Norton, has spent a fair bit of time being walked all over by men? It's true. But I had a crick in my back, and they've got such pleasing, tiny feet, what can I say. Oh wait, that's geishas. Fuck men! Bring me twenty geishas!

Of course, I was cursed with ten years bad relationship karma because I was lousy, really lousy, to a good man when I was young. Occasionally I'll run into him on a streetcar or something and he's always so nice to me that I want to shake him, which doesn't help. And a couple of good, honest - if slightly homosexual - men along the way have provided parole breaks in my sentence here and there, giving me reprieves between the jerks....which means I'm still doing my time. Thanks a LOT, you no good, nice-guy motherfuckers.

I started to realize the other night, as I strolled the streets of Stratford trying to clear my head at three a.m. (eventually becoming so lost that I didn't make my way back to friend Kelli's house until five), that I've fallen into valuing myself based on my sexuality above all else. That I've used my wiles - and my pudding-bearing posterior - to get men interested, to keep them coming back. That I've underestimated my likeliness to attract love interests with my charm, my humour, and my big fat mutant brain.

And if I, a relatively well-raised, clever woman of thirty-two, have been treating myself as a sex object all these years - what does that mean for girls much younger than myself, girls raised in the light of billboards, girls coming of age sexually in a time when they get - and publicly reveal - their first thong at the age of nine? I'll tell you what it means, folks - we will never be at a loss for a neverending flow of prostitutes! And that's necessary to the North American economy. Also manufacturers of tube tops and eyeliner will continue to do well.

But I say NO! No, things must not continue this way!

Listen to me, Miley Ray!
Listen up, Shakira! (What's that you say?...Shakira's not a virgin? What - she's thirty-one? Research Department!!! I can't work like this.)
Listen to me, Virgins of the world!
Listen to me, Sluts!
Listen to me, Nice Girl Who's Confused About Love!
Women of Greece!

Start with dating first, Shania! Get to know him, Hillary MacDuff!

Join with me and let us take a VOW OF CELIBACY (until we change our minds or someone really hot convinces us otherwise. I know I know, I'm just getting the hang of this vow thing, give me a break).

Our only exceptions to this Vow will be as follows:
- One night stands with twenty-one year olds in Paris. No, Paris, Ontario doesn't count. Nor does Paris Hilton.
- "I was really, really wasted"
- "He's my dad. What can ya' do?"

Other from that, we shall live by the 3 Ates:
Wait, and Date, and Masturbate.

I will encounter criticism, I am sure, for taking this vow while living in Blyth, Ontario, after having famously and repeatedly complained about the town's lack of eligible cock. It will be easy for me, you will say, where there is a lack of temptation. The local tourist board, after all, has long advertised with brochures titled "Huron County: A Great Place to take your Vow of Chastity", and there's a monastery being built right next to the arena.

However, the opposite is true; I could not have chosen a more difficult time to take this vow. On arriving back in Blyth the other day, clutching my new-forged committment to celibacy, I immediately encountered a handsome, charming friend of a friend who danced the hours away with me at that night's opening party AND started dropping hints that he was neither gay nor had a girlfriend.

"No! Noooooo! Don't do it," cried the celibacy angel on my left shoulder, pulling up my bra strap while she was at it. "Besides, you haven't had a waxing recently! Do you have any idea how hairy you are down there?!"

"Yes! Yes! Oh God Yes," moaned the devil on my right. "You know you want it, you dirty little whore!" She pulled my strap back down, adding, "And hair is in right now."

Holding my dress and panties firmly on, I said goodnight and went home, but have since realized the extent of my quandary. I've returned to a place where I am now infamous for being the single horny girl who wants to get some. Where I can't compliment a young man on his show without it being assumed by the rumour mill (that's you, Eric) that I plan to compliment him with my vagina. Now they're knocking down my trailer door all night. (That's not a dirty euphemism by the way; I really do live in a trailer here. Ask anyone. Follow the crowd.) My last blague post, my earnest appeal for partners, was now paying off. Word has spread and single men and lipstick lesbians are flocking in from all over the world! Planes, trains and automobiles are in transit as we speak! Just as I have taken a firm and decisive (honest I swear) vow to forgo sex!

I'm aware that I asked for this. I'm aware that I begged. Petitions were signed, emails forwarded, travel agents got excitedly involved. But now that my very prayers have come true, all I can say is....

STOP THE TRAINS! I WANT TO GO TO THE MOVIES!
(And there's no cinema in Blyth.)

SAME BLYTH TIME, SAME BLYTH CHANNEL or, What Does it Take to Get Laid in This Town?

Sent: 16th July, 2008 11:48AM
To: Eric Coates, Artistic Director,
Blyth Festival,
Blyth, Ontario
From: Lisa Norton, Chair, S.W.O.B.

Dear Mr Coates,

I write you today on behalf of the Single Women of the Blyth Festival Company (S.W.O.B), in order to point out what we consider to be an unfair and blatant breach of contract.

We were promised action, Mister Coates. Nookie. A li'l sump'n sump'n, know 'm sayin? In one notable case, Sir, a single female member of the acting company was lured to work for you this season by promises that you would "find her a husband".

Where is this husband, Mister Coates? Where is the nookie, for that matter? The anonymous cornfield love? The spicy country sausage? It is noted that you have chosen to employ precisely ZERO single men at this season's Blyth Festival, while employing several (okay, two to four) unattached straight women. Is this your idea of a cruel joke, Sir? It is one thing to have this unfair ratio in effect; it is surely another, and far more malicious thing, to have actually promised otherwise - to have lured trusting, healthy young women to an out of the way town in order to leave them frustrated and lonely as you cackle away with delight in your corner office and go home each night to spoon your attractive wife.

Do not think we haven't tried to find the bright side of this, Mister Coates, the celibate cloud's silver lining, if you will. We have been handed lemons, and gamely tried for Lesbian Lemonade*, to no avail. One of us, at least, looked inward to one of her own number, making what may be considered some quality Lesbionic (part gay, part.....bionic) moves on a cute girl from wardrobe. On returning to work the day after these preliminary moves, what was our hardluck gal surprised to find out? You know the almost unbelievable - yet all too terribly true - answer, Mister Coates: she was informed that said cute wardrobe girl had resigned her position and suddenly left town.

Not only are we not provided men, but sapphic love is denied us in your horrible isolated world as well? As soon as we show some interest in a perhaps legitimate romantic possibility, long shot as it may be, that possibility is whisked out of town under cover of darkness?! How dare you, Mister Coates. How can you sleep at night? Oh, yes, we've been over that - you sleep very comfortably at night, arms around your attractive wife, coming back to work each day refreshed and happy, as all the while certain members of your company become more and more agitated and slowly go insane.

I hereby present some sad facts, you evil, evil man. They are not pretty, and we are not proud, but perhaps this will adequately illustrate the pain and suffering you have caused:

Exhibit A: A young woman stands on the steps of the Blyth Festival office, hovering dangerously close to returning the attentions of the drunken stranger across the street outside the Boot, that unyielding - and, it must be said, only - town watering-hole. He regales her with shouted pickup lines ranging from the typical ("Hey gorgeous, where youse goin'?) to the bizarre ("I'm the best Celt you'll ever cuddle!"). As she considers this last, thinking, Hell, it's something! And chances are he has a penis...., the drunkard's cell phone rings. He answers and commences a brief conversation, his side of which is: "Yup, still at the bar......Be home soon......Okay, love you too, babe." As our girl walks away, he yells, "Nice ass!", and she fights the impulse to run back and say, "Yeah? You really think so?"

A look at Exhibit B finds another of our young put-upon ladies alone in her kitchen late at night after an evening of drowning her sorrows at the Boot, and returning home inevitably alone. As she prepares a midnight snack, she finds herself standing over a pan of sizzling bacon and thinking how each piece looks like a lover curling around the others. Every rearrangement of the bacon in the pan, each touch of the spatula, reveals to her a new tableau of orgyaic delight, each more excruciating than the last. She knows it is ridiculous to dream of orgies when even one single man is not to be found, but she finds herself unable to look away from the hot, writhing little pork bodies as they cook away and entwine in increasingly obscene ways. She returns to work the next day, horribly burned from grease splatters, but, trooper that she is, does not complain.

Exhibit C: The Single Blyth woman who spends an inordinate proportion of her weekly pay at the local farmers' market so that she may catch a glimpse of the gorgeous Amish man who smiles and sells her meat. This same girl, I am sad to say, recently developed a fear of the radio. Every song, it seemed, was either the horny rejoice of someone who was getting some, or a lonely-hearted lament designed to remind her of her unsatisfied state. She became convinced that the radio was addressing her directly. A feeling that many desolate people share from time to time, this was easily sympathized with yet dismissed by other members of the S.W.O.B....until it was discovered that she had a point - yes, each song actually was about her. And the rest of us, too. Certain members of the committee suspect you, Eric Coates, of manipulating the airwaves, our ipods, and the recording industry at large.

This could go on and on, Mister Coates, but hopefully by now you will have seen the error of your ways.

Be warned that some members of the S.W.O.B. are of the disturbing opinion that the husband offered was you; that you have hatched a plan to prey upon these desperate young ladies and become the sole male member of the Blyth Theatre Festival/Cult, surrounded by pregnant theatre professionals, who will populate Huron County with an army of Coates's(s...s), whom we will raise as scenic painters, dramaturges, and most importantly, as wealthy patrons of the arts/militiamen.

But let us hope that is not true, and assume for now that you did not set out with malice in your heart. The 2004 Blyth season saw the beginning of many couples, several of which have blossomed into love and even marriage. The entire team of female stage managers that year found love with able-bodied, eligible crewmen. Perhaps this is what prompted you to boast of your skills as a matchmaker, to say that you have "a way with these things". To promise us lovers and husbands. Well, four years have passed since that magical year of romance, and we of the S.W.O.B are here to tell you that you may no longer rest on the very cold laurels of 2004. We want men, Mister Coates, and we want them now.

Also I would like the pretty girl from wardrobe back.

Sincerely,

Lisa Norton,
Chair,
Single Women of Blyth
__________________________________________________________
* Also a good band name

The Joy Of: a nortinblyth story

BLYTH, ONTARIO
July 28th, 2005

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
"Show you my what?"

Eliza and Jacob were sitting in an empty horse stall in the barn, hiding out from the heat and from little brothers, as they had often done this summer. It was a long break between school years, especially for Eliza, who wasn't yet quite used to life in the country, and she had gotten to treating the farm next door as if it were her own.

"You know, your thingy," she said, gesturing toward the crotch of Jacob's wornout overalls.

"Why would I want to do that?"

Eliza shrugged. "I dunno. Sump'n to do?"

"Psh," Jacob said. "You're weird. Besides, what would you want to see that dirty old thing for? I sure don't wanna see your peehole."

"But it's not just for peeing, Jacob, I told you."

"Oh, come on, Eliza! Are you on about that Sets thing again?" He got up to leave the barn, brushing hay off of his legs and behind. "I told you, I don't believe you."

Eliza caught up to him, grabbing him by the arm. "But I didn't just make it up, Jake......I heard all about it when I lived in the city. I even saw this book once. I wasn't supposed to, but I looked all through it, it explained the whole thing, it even had these pictures. I think it was called The Love of Sets or something like that."

"I dunno, Eliza," whined Jacob, "You can't believe everything you read. I mean, how do you know it wasn't one of those, you know, joke books? Like my grammaw has this book about gnomes and it has, like, all about their personalities and what they eat and stuff, and I asked her and she said it's not for real. It's just a joke."

"SETS IS NOT LIKE GNOMES!" shouted Eliza, turning even redder in the face than her usual sunburn. "AND I'M SICK OF NOBODY BELIEVING ME!"

Eliza realized too late that this last bit had been overheard by Jacob's cousin Munroe, who was just now entering the barn. She usually took care to say precisely nothing within the older boy's earshot, especially nothing that ran the risk of being mocked. Munroe had made every effort to make Eliza feel as unwelcome as possible ever since her family had moved to Blyth, and never missed an opportunity to make fun of "city girl".

"What's her problem?" This, of course, aimed at his cousin; Munroe never looked Eliza in the eye.

"Sets," muttered Jacob, dropping back down on the hay and playing with his sneaker. Eliza glared at her friend, but he just picked away at the rubber of his shoe.

Munroe had burst out laughing. "Is she on about that again?! Don't you know she's just messing with you, Jakie? Sets is one of those rumours city folk tell us so we'll go repeating it and look stupid. Don't listen to a word she tells you."

"Oh yeah, mister smart guy?" fumed Eliza, who had turned an even deeper shade of red since Munroe had interrupted them, "If you're so smart, then where do babies come from? I suppose you have the STORK in Blyth?"

Munroe laughed again, a hard little bullet of a laugh. He nudged his cousin's head with a booted toe. "Tell your girlfriend that she's dumber than I thought."

"Okay, well where do babies come from, Mister Munroe? Huh? Huh? You're so smart?"

"From the baby farm, you moron."

Eliza was incredulous. She looked down to Jacob where he sat on the ground and had now succeeded in tearing a hole in the side of his shoe. He said nothing.

"The BABY FARM, Munroe? Your mother is the baby farm! Didn't you notice how big she got just before your sister was born?"

Munroe turned to face Eliza for the first time since his initial harsh appraisal seven months before. The colour of his angry face now rivalled the redheaded girl's, late-August sunburn and all. "Don't you call my mother fat, you bitch," he spat out from between two tight, angry slashes of lip. And then he turned and was gone, kicking a lounging kitten out of his path as he went.

Eliza sank down on the hay beside her friend, shaken by the encounter with Munroe. "Jake," she said, "Why didn't you back me up?"

"I dunno, Lize......What was I s'posed to say? I mean, I don't believe in Sets either," he murmured. ".....And you really shouldn'a called his mom fat. She's just big boned my mom says."

"But I didn't......." She trailed off, sighing. "Why won't anybody believe me?"

"I'm sorry, Lize, it just seems so......weird. I mean, a guy putting his -" He started to giggle even attempting to think about it.

In spite of herself, Eliza started to laugh a little, too. "I know, I know, it's really gross. But it is for real." And here a thought struck her. "And I can prove it to you. I can prove to you that it's possible."

"How?" ventured Jacob, looking up from his tattered shoe, curious.
"Like I said, you show me yours...."

Jacob thought for as long as it took. "Okay," he said finally. "But don't touch nothin'."

__________________________________________________

Hey folks. It's been a long dry summer. Hope all is well where you are.
Kill me now.

Leese

Welcome to Blyth! (Big Actor Edition)

BLYTH, ONTARIO
June 13th, 2005

Welcome to Blyth! As a member of the Blyth Festival's 2005 Acting Company, you are a welcome and cherished member of our fine community. Being a BIG ACTOR from TORONTO, however, there are a few things you may need to know in order to successfully fit in.

#1: PEOPLE ARE NICE.
As a new arrival in town, you can expect to be called on by a member of the Blyth Welcoming Commitee. The head of said comittee is a dedicated teenaged member of our community named Cole, who will visit you personally if possible. There are a lot of people to see, however, so he may not arrive until about one-thirty a.m. Never fear; you will not miss this visit, as he will be sure to pound on your door very loudly. Cole will be holding the ceremonial Plastic Beer Cup of Welcome, and, in a traditional gesture of goodwill, he will invite you to partake with him. As he will be sure to inform you, "You'd be CRAZY not to." After all, he and the rest of the committee have gone to all the trouble of planning a lively all-night party right next door (with a rousing game of horseshoes until five o'clock in the morning). Don't be alarmed, incidentally, by the fact that Cole is wearing dark aviator glasses in the middle of the night - he is extremely sensitive to light and needs to be sure to get a good look at you, as well as look very, very cool.

#2: ANIMALS ARE FRIENDLY
As a BIG ACTOR from TORONTO, you mayn't be used to the proliferation and variety of livestock in the Huron County area. Riding your car (or "bike", as the case may be) through the town and outlying countryside, you are bound to be chased by various animals. Again, DO NOT BE ALARMED. In the case of dogs running after you, they are just being friendly. (That is, with the possible exception of the Black Lab that recently attacked Adrian Churchill's dog, but never fear: Coloured animals are not allowed within the county and rest assured that this rogue "Black Lab" will be dealt with promptly.) Ceecee the monkey, in the barn just over the hill, will not chase you, but you can give her a banana, and darnit if she ain't the cutest little thing.

Cows, as you may know, will give chase, especially if you look at them funny. They will run in your direction, but are soon bound to encounter the edge of their farm's property, at which point they will collectively cry "Ohmigod a fence look out for the fence!" and skid to a stop.

Horses, on the other hand, will never give chase. They won't even look at you. Or, rather, they will glance and then quickly look away. They do not want to to know they noticed you; please have the good grace not to point it out. You may, as you pass, hear the horses muttering such things as "Fucking two-legger. Who does (s)he think (s)he is? Riding around on WHEELS. Psh." LET THIS SLIDE. Remember, you are the outsider here in God's country.

And speaking of God's Country.....

#3: JESUS IS LORD
You will notice many brightly coloured signs in Huron County reminding you of such things as the fact that "Ye Must Be Born Again" and "Abortion Stops a Beating Heart". Please take a moment to read and appreciate these signs. They - especially the latter - are a service provided expressly for you, BIG ACTOR from TORONTO. They are obviously not intended for the good people of Blyth, who regularly attend the local Reform Church and are faithfully practising Christians. You may question the Christian purity of the local people when you see them, for instance, at the beach, swimming nude and yelling to their little ones on shore, "Get in the water! It's fuckin' beautiful!" or allowing their seven year-old sons to play with working lighters.....but these are good people. Just witness all those pairs of teenagers going off into the woods to be one with nature and commune with God. And while some of our folk may use "spicy" language by Toronto standards, know this: They will never, ever take Our Lord's name in vain. Please do not be the well meaning visitor who offends our good people with such comments as "Jesus CHRIST this pie is good!" or "Fuck ALMIGHTY, didja see that sunset?" We will not be amused.

Again, welcome to Blyth. We hope this little pamphlet has been of some help.

Have a great fucking summer. Praise the Lord.