Acting Out

Celebs and Media, Distractions, Improv/Comedy

On Thursday I responded to an ad on craigslist for REAL tradespersons to be in a Govt of Canada/Ontario(?) commercial, no experience required. Off goes my headshot and a white lie of my skills and the headhunter calls me within 30 minutes.

I blush! That fast!

Okay I know what you’re thinking, I barely know which way a hammer goes (the heavy sidey thing hits the flatty sided thingamagigger). But I did do cedar siding for cottages around my home town when I was a teen so it’s not THAT much of a stretch, okay? With all my butch clothes from working at the Black Eagle, I had a ton of clothing options, so I was pretty hopeful to get a callback. (taps fingers)

Auditions were just like I remember them from Queer As Folk: the actors greeting each other and exchanging work info like hobos giving rail riding tips. Plus there were a few REAL tradespeople who I avoided in case I got called out. One guy had drywall dust all over him and I was instantly jealous of his character choice.

I’m called and I saunter past the actors trying out for office parts. All eyes on the REAL guy going in.

I stand and deliver a 30 second monologue of my skills. Done! The guy before me was equally fast so I couldn’t tell my chances.

After, I met up with SharkBoy and went into HomeSense to oo and aa over bear lamps.

Shrug. Wish me luck.

Why I Love SharkBoy Pt 454

Favorite, Personal Bits

Shoppers Drug Mart, Parliament and Carlton, 7:40pm

Sharkboy: (Depositing our purchase down on the checkout counter) “Hello there!”
Clerk: (Dead eyed, zombie-like) “Good evening.”
Sharkboy: “All ready for Halloween?”
Clerk: “…g…”
Longish pause. No more response.
Sharkboy: “I’ll take that grunt as a ‘Yes’.”

In Times of Economic Troubles…

Celebs and Media, Distractions

…Zack And Miri Make A Porno.

You’ve probably heard of this movie by now. It has nothing to do with Aptow but does have the post-teen comedy sensibilities that he’s been known for and it’s from Kevin Smith. The movie has already gained notoriety for it’s original posters being yanked in the US (portrait shots of the two leads subtlety getting head) and replaced with sarcastic text next to stick figures. Thankfully, Canada has a sense of humour and I get to see Seth Rogan’s happy “O face” every morning on a local bus shelter.

At this point I have to admit that I have a big man/bear crush on Seth Rogan and Kevin Smith: admitted geeks and big funny guys with facial hair, so I’m kind of biased. But after seeing the preview I (and I am sure many others) asked myself “What the hell does Miri see in Zack?” She’s a bit too beautiful to be hanging out/hooking up with someone like Seth in my books, but the trailer makes her look slobbish matching Seth’s re-occurring character choices of the slovenly lovable mensch. It’s typical of Kevin Smith’s movies to have one casting moment where you have to suspend some belief (Uh… Allanis Morrisette as God?). But in getting Traci Lords to do a small part might wipe that all out and redeem his past transgressions.

My second admission is that I, like so many of you out there, have always wanted to be revered/paid for as a sex porno god. If my family is reading, go away. I’ve never acted upon this desire, but there it is.

Public Pyjamas

General

1:14am and I’ve switched out the pink “bears in space suits” pyjama bottoms for the plaid “movie set” ones to garnish a little more respectability. I never understood why in movies (tv or otherwise) the lead hunk would wear these kind of flannel pants into bed. Especially when, caught in or after the act, they have to jump out of bed, after having sex. Thankfully I’ve never encountered a sex partner who insisted on layering up just after sex. If I had, I doubt they’d be in my life long enough to ask why they felt the need to cover up.

The pounding music coming from the other side of the door I’m standing in front of at 1:14am isn’t really that loud, it’s just at that borderline level that will keep you awake. That muh muh muh of 110 beats per minute has been leaking down into our bedroom for the last three hours since we got into bed. The apartment I live in is old with quaint hardwood floors of long wooden slats that squeak reassuringly as you walk down the halls. Unfortunately they’re also shit for masking noise, and I think the new roommate of the tennant upstairs doesn’t know this. Yet. He doesn’t know that his off-beat tapping with the music is like a drum just above our heads. He’s not hammering his foot down, like the music, it’s just loud enough to register, but it’s inconsistent. 3 taps here. 4 tap stanza there. It’s like shitting beside a Republican.

About 20 years ago I was standing in front of a door about to ask of the occupant to reduce the noise from their stereo, much like I was going to do just then. Thing was, I was a tennant in this person’s house and I was suitably nervous about deconstructing our tennat/owner relationship. Actually it was the son of the people I was living with while I was going to art college, so I wasn’t worried about an upsetting a neighbour, moreso than the son punching the “art fag” in the face. He was blaring U2’s Joshua Tree at house shuddering levels while the parents were away for the weekend, Bono screaming about independence and liberty and freedom. The son’s contempt for me was pretty obvious when after knocking during the pauses in the songs, he wouldn’t open his door. His motivations for the volume level were never revealed to me and I assumed than he was a pissed off teen. Or he was passed out from huffing glue. I never found out. To this date, any U2 song fills me with dread.

I knock on the door. Pause. Again. I hear a chair being pushed back and the door flies open. Not having seen the new roommate, I was expecting a young, lanky university student but was faced with a man in his mid-twenties, dressed like he was the frontman for Hedley: tight low slung jeans that made his upper thighs look uncomfortably sausage-stuffed while the calves looked twiggy (how is this sexy on a guy?), distressed crazy graphic tee, hair like he ripped Ms Liza’s wig off in a back alley fight.

“Hi -”

“The music, right?”

My palms go out and up, shoulders into my ears. A “you got me!” stance. Why the hell did I do that? Am I that much of a pussy that I can’t say “No shit, you insensitive buffoon!”

“It’s off now!” And with that, he’s justified and apologized for the last three hours. The door starts to close.

“It’s also the foot tapping…” I offer.

“Foot tapping?”

“Tapping. Yeah.”

“Well the music is off.”

“Okay. Good night.”

I lay awake for a few hours after that, trying to come down from my jacked up state of confrontation. The music is definitely off, the foot is still, but the floor continues to creak with his every move. 2 out of 3 distractions is good enough to get at least 4 hours of sleep.

One Thousand Yard Stare In a 50ft Locker Room

You Stupid Dick

I’m changing from towel to street clothes and the guy behind and four lockers to my right is taking his own sweet time doing the same. That’s ok, some people dress slow and like to take their time but the thing is, he’s positioned himself in a T-intersection to oversee the entire locker room. A clear view from where he’s dressing to the main isle and when he goes up on his toes, he’s got a clear view into the cubby holes, created by the lockers.

Slowly he dresses. Watching everyone, except for me, for some insulting reason (not that he was good looking). I guess I’m too damn pretty or too easy to ogle. He slowly puts on his underwear, back to his locker (while 99% of us face our lockers when we dress), going up on his toes every few moments to see what’s what. Hey there! Hi there! Ho there!

Since he’s virtually ignoring me, I stop tying my shoes to actually look at his face and his eyes. There’s nothing I can read there. It’s as almost as if he’s doing this on automatic and has probably been doing it for years and doesn’t realize he’s being that “creepy guy” in the room. He certainly isn’t focusing on any one particular person, his gaze darts from person to person. He’s “just looking” in the purest sense of the word, but his default is set to repeat the scan, looping looping looping. He’s freaking me out a bit and I feel a pang of sorrow for his need to unabashedly, wildly look around the room like an expectant prom queen looking for her king to come back with the spiked punch.

I start to whistle “Some Day My Prince Will Come” from Snow White to charge the moment with some bitter malice on my part. He doesn’t notice.

Weekend Roundup

Distractions, Hobbies, Toronto

Dan rocks outOn Saturday, SharkBoy and I had a dinner for my brother, The Professor, who was returning to England on Sunday. We made veggie chili with chocolate, in consideration of Emma, who I just learned last week has become meatless. Dumping a fist full of semi-sweet chips into chili may sound odd, but it brought out a “depth” to the taste as well as a dirty, naughty feeling. SharkBoy made a blazingly tasty salad and a somewhat mushy cheesecake pie, which we all decided was delish, but needed a few more hours in the fridge.

After dinner, we all retired to the media room for a rousing game of Guitar Hero, which the Professor sucked at (love him dearly, but you’d think of all those years at discos would give him more rhythm), and then on to Mario Cart, which he did exceedingly better at. See you again soon, Professor!

Political BraiiiinsSunday was the Zombie Walk 2008. After some scouring of dollar stores for props and cheap makeup, we came up with (cue theremin) Zombie Mechanics!! oooo! We didn’t want to rip up our original Halloween costumes so we chose this last minute switch. I think we did quite well, considering it was 90% improv on the day of makeup application. The Mailman joined us and found the day …interesting. When we got there there was the added surprise of a Cardboard Battle – two teams made of elaborate costumes made of only cardboard and duct tape battled each other for …supremacy? Bragging rights? Either way, some of them were pretty cool. One of the best costumes was a Tonka truck yellow, digger handed teddy bear, who fought like a trooper. With that going on, it was easy to see that the event had grown exponentially since last year. I think the Toronto Zombie Walk people need to consider they have a monster on their hands. A cheap $5 megaphone doesn’t convey much information to 1500 people. I bet there will be more organization next year because the cops were getting a pit pissed at the size of the crowd spilling out onto Queen Street.

Gallery of some zombies here… my camera’s batteries died half way through the day.