CALGARY, ALBERTA
September 6th, 2006
THINGS I'VE SEEN:
The airplane view of the prairies. I don't know what I was expecting. One great boring field of homogenous yellow wheat? Yes, perhaps, since my previous experience of the landscape was car passenging through with my grandparents at age eight, which I definitely remember as a wake-me-when-I'm-there (and when the puking and the earaches stop) type experience. So I promptly and purposely went to sleep shortly after the West Jet safety dance, and woke somewhere over Saskatchewan, my head pressed against the window, and looking down upon the most glorious! surprising! wonderful! view. Those perfect squares of green and brown and beige and gold....I had no idea. All I could think was how it was as if someone - someone really BIG - had gone to Home Depot and then run around slapping down ceramic tile as far as the eye could see. That might sound like I'm reducing it to something puny and nonmajestic, but believe me, I'm thinking of really really nice ceramic tile. I guess I'm just not used to seeing any one thing as far as the eye can see, and that was astounding in and of itself.
My sassy new show haircut. New, improved, sexier than ever Lisa Norton! What's that you say? Impossible? Apparently not.
Mountains. (A day off in Banff and Lake Louise.) Again: Holy Fucking Christ. (I have no words big enough except for curses.)
An airline poster on the way up in a mountainside gondola saying: Now wouldn't this ride be better with seatback TV? Four words: Boy. Cott. West. Jet.
Some oustanding roadside signs. On a hill near where I'm staying (North of Kensington), a Red Cross appeal for donors as rearranged by bored Calgary youth: RAVE LIVES! TITS NEEDED! IS SUMMER. DRESS SOC (Figure it out. I did.)
On a going-out-of-business barbershop: BIG HAIRY DEAL! And, my favourite hot dog stand sign ever anywhere: SAUSAGE PARTY! (Which is also, incidentally, how I'm trying to get Theatre Calgary to advertise Of Mice and Men.)
Oh, and Help Wanted Signs. Everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. They've become pretty pointless; you can pretty much assume that everyone is hiring. The cop cars have NOW HIRING bumper stickers. They're all over the buses. Billboards. Foreheads. If you've got an IQ of 5, one arm, no legs, a drug habit and a bad attitude: there's a job for you in Calgary! Heart of the New West!
And Money! Money everyplace! Falling from the sky! Gushing up out of the ground! Overflowing from construction sites, bursting office towers at the seams. Hundreds of homeless men chasing after it, only to see it hop in a Mercedes and tear away.
On our first rehearsal day, our cast and the entire staff of Theatre Calgary standing in a circle like all the Whos in Whoville. (Welcome, welcome, ba-whoos, ba-whoos, Welcome, welcome, da-whoos, da-whoos). And Dennis Garnhum's heart grew THREE sizes that day....
Shaun Smyth with a moustache. Move over, Magnum. Go fuck yourself, Burt Reynolds.
A T-Shirt bearing the words "Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner". Do you want yours in pink or blue, Christine?
Jesse who runs the Auburn Tavern (the Calgary Theatre Bar I've been hearing about all these years). Nothing quite like a handsome man who leans across the bar, takes your hands in his, looks deep into your eyes and softly asks you what you want. And, if that wasn't good enough, he brings you booze, too! Long Live the Auburn!
The Calgary Zoo. Coool.
Today: two of those cyclists who are terrified to let their feet touch the ground at a red light and wobble around the whole time like a couple of morons. Off-topic, I know, but really, what the hell?
THINGS I'VE HEARD:
Rob Ursel and the Billionaires Club, Wednesday nights at Vern's, an excellent live music bar on 8th Ave. As if John Steinbeck had writtten songs. Tear your heart out. If this guy gets you reminiscing about the wrong person (or even the right one), you're screwed. At the very least, you'll come away with a generically broken heart. (And a tapping foot or two.) And, because he reminds me of Steinbeck, when I stay out till the last note well after closing time, I'm not partying.....I'm doing research.
The sadass off-key prerecorded "bells" that fart out of the Calgary Tower all day long. Oh, Calgary Tower. Must you have nothing going for you at all?
Christina Aguilera's new Album. That's right, you gonna make sumthin' of it?
But not the Sunparlour Players, not since I left home. (Can't find the album in Calgary.) Will someone mail me a copy?
Ashley Wright's farts. Every day.
THINGS I'VE SMELLED:
No Name Brand Fabric Softening Dryer Sheets in Mountain Fresh Scent....only two days after visiting Banff and Lake Louise and being surrounded by real-life mountains! Dude. Your dryer sheets smell nothing like mountains. Back to the drawing board on that one. Can't put nuthin' over on me, No Name.
Ashley Wright's farts. Every Goddamn day.
THINGS I'VE TASTED:
The genius of John Steinbeck.
Followed closely by:
The genius of a good perogie platter when you've been drinking for ten hours.
Ashley Wright's farts. Morning, noon and night.
THINGS I'VE LEARNED:
The street system in Calgary. Way too proud of myself on this one.
If you're the only chick in an otherwise all-male cast, you get to be the all-purpose date. Ben would have just felt too gay going to the mountains with another guy. And John Kirkpatrick couldn't very well have hairy male arm candy accompany him to the Betty Awards; he was a presenter after all. Somebody better take me to Vegas next day off - the bar has been raised, boys.
Oh - while at the Bettys, avoid saying things like "Yeah, I'm here with John. He's thinking of moving to Toronto, too, and, you know, getting a real agent." or "OH! I get it! So the Bettys are like the Doras, except they're just for Calgary. How nice that you guys get your own little theatre awards!" and, consequently, "The face! Ow! Not the face!" Just kidding.....I learned those all from a cautionary dream the night before. These gorgeous cheekbones are unharmed, dear reader.
You can hop on the C-Train in the free zone and then continue to ride it all the way home without paying and not get caught. But you will feel guilty for at least a day or two.
If you try to be funny and play tricks on your friends, it may backfire. Like, for instance, if you're at the bar with Sterling and Ben and decide that it will be really hilarious to set the hungry Cougar in the skin-tight denim vest and spray-on jeans with the waist-length hair (name of Chevy, "like the car, vroom vroom") after Ben as a funny joke, so you claim (married) Sterling is your boyfriend and leave Ben to defend himself, and keep dropping hints about how interesting and single Ben is and how he would LOVE to play pool with her, but then it becomes clear that she was interested in Sterling all along, not Ben, and that she now hates you for A) being his girl and B) being a jealous territorial bitch, and then you spend the rest of the evening wondering whether you're going to show up at rehearsal the next day with one of her Lee Press-On Nails (TM) embedded in your eye..... Yeah. Like that. Don't try that kind of thing in Calgary.
Don't smoke too much BC weed. (See above.)
Don't stand next to Ashley Wright right after he's been rehearsing the scene in which he eats three cans of beans.
THINGS I FEAR:
That some of you, glancing throught this email, and not realizing that it's one of my missives from away, may think it is a suicide note. (Things I've Seen, Learned, Tasted....) That being the case, that you may not know that I am safe and sound, and loving you from here. That I will grow old and lonely, never having achieved any great success, and that my body will have been rotting in my apartment for weeks and weeks before somebody realizes that the smell must be coming from that sad old lady's place. Et cetera.
Nothing matters,
Lisa
the norton stampede
pegleg
WINNIPEG, MANITOBA
Sunday, February 26, 2006
My God it's been a while. I apologize to all those who have written and whom I promptly...... ignored. Apparently Winnipeg has everything I need. But I do love you all dearly and will try to get back on top of the whole staying in touch individually thing. In the meantime....take a deep breath and dive in.
Firstly, many of you are surely drawing a relieved-type breath to find that I and my castmates did survive the election results. As a minority government, the Tories weren't sure thay could carry off the mass artist execution without someone calling them on it.
And yes, I have been surviving the cold in fine and uncomplaining style. (Fifty-seven days into 2006 and the Resolution is holding strong.) It helps that it was so unseasonably warm for so long, but when the cold did hit, everyone had been talking it up so much that it didn't seem so bad. Overrated. It did hit eight-thousand degrees below zero for several days (not a complaint, just a statement of fact) but there was a whole contingent of us Toronto people who refused to skulk along in the underground and walked outside instead. I think we mind it less because we're tourists - hell, this is just the kind of thing we're here to experience. Some places you get to ride a camel; here you get to be cold. "Cold tourism" is in keeping with Tourism Manitoba's campaign Winnipeg: There are Worse Places, which contrasts photos of freezing but smiling Winnipeggers with pictures of a Ugandan child soldier, a Vietnamese landmine victim and a suicide bomber in Baghdad. Odd campaign, but hey, whatever works.
There was a funny story on the news one night about a group here trying to get people out to an outdoor fundraiser to raise awareness for Global Warming.....on a day when it was fifty below with the windchill. Poor bastards. "We're not making this up, I swear! Did you feel that? Definite hot flash for a second there."
So the sightings have started. In case you haven't seen it yet, there is a GIANT PICTURE OF MY ASS on the outside of the Royal Alex Theatre in Toronto, which, of course, people keep calling to tell me about while laughing their heads off. Really, go look at it, I don't mind. After all, it's not every day there's a GIANT PICTURE OF MY ASS on display in public. My friend Tim Mooney called me while standing in front of it and stopping passersby to say "Hey you! See that ass? I'm talking to the girl whose ass that is!" My Mom left me a message telling me about it as if I had been drunk and wouldn't remember these photos having been taken ("You're wearing a bikini, it's blue and white, there's some furniture, Kevin is there...."). She and my Uncle, who were passing by on their way to see Lord of the Rings, took pictures of themselves with my ass, which is weird enough, but also didn't mind telling me that while they were doing this, a bunch of drunk guys walked past, put their hands on the picture and did "something obscene". Dear Mom: Thing I Do Not Need To Know, Number 278. At least I don't know what the "something" was. Maybe they barfed. Anyway, if my butt can help lure even one theatre-goer away from Lord of the Rings and over to The Innocent Eye Test, I'm happy. I'll show you One Ring to Rule Them All!
I have been feeling much more secure about being the bikini-clad hot hottie in a show, actually, ever since a postshow talkback the other day when a high school kid asked, in these very words, "What's it like to kiss Lisa Norton?". I said I found it awkward but nice. No, really, I wasn't there....the two guys who do smooch me in the show were perfect gentlemen and gave me a big thumbs down. The kid asking was apparently an incredibly good-looking young man with a sexy British accent. Maybe he'll grow up to be a handsome young millionaire who will come find me and whisk me around the world. WHISK me?! What the hell am I talking about?
A thing about Winnipeg no one ever tells you: there's an abbatoir, or a meat rendering plant, or some such sweet-smelling thing, near the theatre. So on rushing out to meet one's adoring (possibly sexy, possibly rich and British) fans, the first impulse may be to puke on them. If the wind is blowing the right way.
Was crazy for the Olympics......right from the Opening Ceremony, which I always love for its trippy-ass shit (and Italy seems to do trippy-ass shit better than anyone; it's like a whole country of Cirque du Soleil rejects)....and for its proliferation of silly hats. I think the parade of Athletes is a bunch of designers' revenge on all the jocks who beat them up in high school. "OH YEAH???!!! Two words: EAR FLAPS!!! TAKE THAT, BIATCH!" It is also, quite possibly, the best thing about the Olympics: getting to watch people stronger, faster, and more admired than ourselves forced to walk around in ridiculous clothing. In fact, whenever I want to feel like a champion, I put on a stupid hat and parade around my living room. The world is watching.
As for my actual Athletic aspirations, Thank God for the Skeleton guy. (Duff Gibson, THIRTY NINE.) I was beginning to think that, at age thirty, my hopes of a medal had slipped away. I had always thought that Curling would wait for me. I'd start at, like, fifty, and bring my Gold back to the old folks' home.....but now, what, twenty-five year olds are winning Curling Gold? Outrageous. Curlers aren't supposed to have moms to call when they win; they're supposed to call their great-grandkids. With a tin can and a string.
The closing ceremonies I slept through a lot of........they're rebroadcasting in the background as I type this....but luckily I didn't miss the Canadian guy holding a fish in the air in order to convince the world to "come play with us".......and Andrea Bocelli singing while all those Italian girls wandered around dressed as brides.....I thought that was weird until I found out that each medallist in the games got to take one of them home. Cindy Klassen got five.
Okay - SORRY - what the fuck is Ricky Martin doing "singing" at the Olympics? Wasn't he dead?
One more week in Winnipeg, a place I find both lovely and a little sad. There seems a great divide between the chosen few who can afford the cars and bistros and clutch of trendy shops, and the legions of down-and-outers wandering the city. Toronto is the same way, I know, I'm sure I've just got my eyes wider open when I'm away from home. The difference here may be that the panhandlers are more persistent and seem more desperate; they'll swoop out and talk to you and follow you until you give them money. Not like Toronto homeless people who sit around in doorways with clever signs - all being recent Sheridan College Graphic Design grads. I talked for a while with Bobby, a homeless busker who plays really great harmonica (since his guitar was stolen) and sings in the underground at Portage and Main. He stands with his empty guitar case, which wasn't stolen, because "no one's gonna throw coins in a harmonica case". He told me about the Main Street Mission and how he would rather sleep on the street. To save money, they won't let the guys use hot water, he says, and the stench of the place is overwhelming. He mentioned how many dudes there are drinking whatever cheap thing they can get their hands on, mostly mouthwash. I pointed out that at least the overpowering stale urine smell was offset by all the minty fresh breath.
While things are rough here and there, I've never felt unsafe. The worst I've seen was some truly disturbing violent graffiti in the bathroom of the Royal Albert Hotel Bar. The stuff in the Garrick Hotel was mild by comparison:
"Carla Whiteway is a fuckin whore. She is dead. TELL HER SO."
"Carla has alot of frends! Watch yer back! Why dont you wash yourself you dirty black slut!"
And then a shot from Garrick's most sensitive (or merely curious) soul: "What makes you think she's black?"
The Garrick is one place that features an "eye opener special": Two buck shots and beers between nine and eleven am. And where, as it turns out, Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton met for the first time, which is why it's designated a historical building and can't be torn down.
Some thus-far Winnipeg highlights:
The High and Lonesome Club, more commonly known as Times Changed, (thanks for the tip, Cam MacDuffee), the BRILLIANT Main Street honkytonk where we saw a FAN-TASTIC band called the D-Rangers (self-descibed "Bluegrass Madmen"), who, if I remember correctly, also come highly loved and recommended by Toronto's own Corin Raymond. You'll be happy to know, Corin, that we are likely going back this week to see your pal Romi Mayes, who is described in a review quoted on her poster as perpetrating "the sort of sound you'd want to hear pouring out of roadhouses as you drive up expecting to get drunk and maybe fall in love."
Also: Big Dave McLean, awesome local bluesman, whom a bunch of us caught at the Windsor Hotel singin' sad and funny songs and telling dirty jokes till closing time.
Festival Du Voyageur in St. Boniface (the French bit across the frozen river), where we oohed and ahhed at snow sculptures, ate Bison jerky and maple syrup frozen on snow, learned how to skin a beaver, went on a horse-pulled sleighride and heard people speak this funny thing they claim is Canada's other official language! Yeah right....I grew up in Scarborough - I know that Hindi is Canada's second language, you can't fool me. Silly Frenchish people. Tanja Jacobs' husband Jim and awesome child, Nina, were visiting, so my right side is still a bit sore from having had a nine year-old hanging off of it all day.....not to mention having had Gord Rand's wife Jeannie Calleja attached to my leg. But she only weighs fifty pounds, so that's okay. A great family-ish day out.
Back to Toronto on the 5th of March. See you there if that's where you are.
To snow, pink cheeks and minty alcoholics,
Lisa
peg o' my heart
WINNIPEG, MANITOBA
January 23rd, 2006
My fellow Canadians: HI.
Well....Winnipeg's fine, the sun shines all the time, and the feelin' is laid back....
Oh, wait, those are just the lyrics from a Neil Diamond song. Good thing I stopped myself before the line about the palm trees, or I'd be sitting here in a puddle of tears in a minute.
So. Yeah. Winnipeg. It's actually not FOUR THOUSAND DEGREES below zero, as many BIG FAT LIARS THAT I CALL FRIENDS would have had me believe. So as far as my number one New Year's Resolution goes ("stop complaining about the weather"; closely followed by "Eat more vegetables" and "Stop killing people").....I'm kicking ass! I have now gotten 22 days into 2006 without once whining about how cold I am.
My magical Supercoat is a big help. My da and stepma got me this thing for Christmas; it's, like, a Swiss Army coat. Zipoff fur, secret pockets, knives, a corkscrew...you pull a thing and a parachute pops out; it mixes its own martinis, you name it. (GO GO GADGET BOOZE!) I don't even walk to work - a big plastic ball inflates around me when I walk outside and I roll everywhere. It's, in fact, not a coat - it's actually an intelligent life form. I'm a bit freaked out by the fact that it's been sneaking into my room and crawling into bed with me at night. I mean, that would be fine, but it whispers such strange things ("Jump off the balcony. Make a bomb. No, wait, make a bomb and then jump off the balcony........Fuck your mother.")
Winnipeg is very beautiful. No one ever told me that. The downtown still has all these gorgeous buildings from the early twentieth century. "Chicagoan Architecture", I'm told.....and chic it is. The banks look like banks, you know? You look at the Bank of Montreal here and say, now THAT's a bank. You wouldn't dare belittle a place like that by calling it BMO. Kevin Bundy, who is in the show I'm working on here, stood outside Harry's Bar the other day thinking "This place should be in a movie." And then he went to see Capote and there it was. It makes me ache to know that I live in a town that had all this, and then we went and tore it all down. Just thinking, in contrast, of the hunks of glass growing all over the Lakeshore - and EVERYWHERE - in Toronto, makes me want to tear them apart with my bare hands. Or something slightly more effective. Although I've got pretty effective bare hands; just ask any guy I've dated. (Comedy High Hat, please.)
Of course, our gang is staying somewhere neither old nor beautiful. We are at Holiday Towers, which, as one cast member noted, look about as inviting as the ones from Lord of the Rings. When I say we're all staying there, I mean all of us except for Master Playwright Michael Healey, who pulled the old "I'm allergic to smoke" scam and got put up somewhere else. Yeah - allergic to smoke! Like that exists.
We have noticed that they have all of the MTC visiting artists stacked up on room fifteen of every floor (215, 315, 415 etc.). Winnipeg officials can thereby wipe out a large portion of the local Arts Community at the push of a button, sending a missile sailing down through our section of the building but leaving our crack-addicted, house-arrested neighbours unscathed. Which is exactly what they are under strict orders to do the very minute Stephen Harper is elected. Similar strikes are planned for cheap hotels and theatre bars across the country. Tom McCamus, curiously, is in Suite 213, and thereby safely outside the COLUMN OF DEATH. But he played Wayne Gretzky's dad in a movie after all, and the government can't afford to have the wrath of Wayne on them. That's how you wake up with a severed horse's head. Rest assured that Michael Healey, safely ensconced in his fancyass smoke and bomb-free hotel, will be okay. Until they gun him down in the coffee shop. So there's the Arts Policy you were waiting for from the Conservatives. (Phase One. Basket weavers....you're next.)
We actually ain't got it bad. I quite like my room. And it's got everything I need. I found myself running around my kitchen the other day freaking out because I didn't have, like, ohmigod, a thing to close a chip bag with, when I was suddenly struck by one of those moments when you're forced to see your gross North American Consumerism in a magnifying mirror. Imagine displaced Indonesian villagers whining about their new home not having any twist ties. Well, they won't now - because I just sent a huge shipment of twist ties to the Red Cross! May those lovely little brown people never know my pain.
Winnipeg keeps you regular. No one told me that one, either. I've been pooing, like, three times a day. And I'm talking big, healthy dumps here. Okay....someone's going to make a joke about my having been full of shit living in Toronto all these years, and how I'm just now cleaning out my system. So there. I beat you to it. Just like Eminem in Eight Mile, Yo.
Nothing is open here on Sunday, which is our day off. I mean, no coffee shops, no stores, nuthin'. I guess if much of the world thinks of Sunday as a day of rest and time with family, I am squarely in the other group that thinks of it as that pain-in-the-ass day that the bank is closed. Fuck you, God! I need stuff at Shoppers! I've been trying to buy tampons for three days, for the love of Christ!
The fun Sunday event today, though, was going to see Hughie, a Eugene O'Neill play that Jeff Meadows and Ric Reid (Shaw folk, as is Kelly Daniels, who directed) are playing as part of O'Neill Fest. Every year, MTC spearheads a Master Playwright Festival, and everybody joins in for two weeks of plays, lectures, films. It's a fantastic idea. Other recent ones have been Tremblay-fest, Ibsen-fest, Norm Foster-fest (just kidding). And you can see the whole shamozzle for sixty bucks. O'Neill is particularly fitting: It's Winnipeg! It's January! If you don't want to kill yourself already, come see Long Day's Journey Into Night! Of which there is, by the way, a very fine production at the MTC Warehouse with Dixie Seatle and Graham Abbey and Shaw pals big fat pregnant Fiona Byrne and Mike Shara. It's pretty great. I love O'Neill, so Suicide Fest was made for me.
I'm also really enjoying working on my show (The Innocent Eye Test). The script is a blast - every cheap gag Michael Healey has ever wanted to write. He couldn't very well have the old dudes in The Drawer Boy farting and tripping over things, so it's all in here. It's great to work with Chris Newton again, the actors are all topnotch, the amazing Laurie Champagne is Stage Managing. I feel a bit like the kid who ends up in the Advanced Class when the teacher meant to write down "Special Ed". What am I doing with the frickin' A Team? And, no, that doesn't mean that Mister T is in the show. We've been socializing a lot, too, which may kill me eventually. Last night we had a dinner party in Tanja Jacobs house and I got so high that I came home, washed my face three times, brushed my teeth twice and shaved all nine of my legs. And then I just walked around my kitchen in circles. Wondering where the twist ties went.
I wish you love from this place.
And, oh the snow is beautiful at night......
Lisa
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.
