Shyzerblog

In the last few days of the run Sarah and I managed to hit a couple of places in NYC that I’d never been to: the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building.

We made it to the latter shortly after sunset, in between our last show and the festival’s closing party. The view was stunning but sad. From that high up it really strikes you that Manhattan is an island, and not a very big one at that. The Brooklyn bridge stretches out on the left and the Statue of Liberty is a pinprick that seems only a stone’s throw away on the right. All around you’re surrounded by buildings; to the north are a few distinct ones, and you can see a hint of Time’s Square, but aside from that it’s just a mass of short blocky buildings piled around narrow streets at right angles, stacked up on top of each other with the same orange light peeking out of millions of square windows; like a dimly phosphorescent cubic coral reef.

Urban alienation and melancholy aside, I really just wanted to share these panoramas. The first one is from Sunset Park in Brooklyn, near where we were staying (see if you can spot the Statue of Liberty!). The second is of the Manhattan skyline, taken from Liberty Island.

I’m going to post a more comprehensive summary of the whole FRIGID festival experience in the next week or so. So far, suffice to say that our houses improved, but not by much, we had a lot of fun at the late night events, met some really cool people, and nabbed an Audience Choice Award.

But I’m still glad to be home.

We arrived in New York just in time for the 4th biggest snow storm they’ve ever had, which made everything more difficult, and, for a couple of days afterward, made everything more wet.

This has not stopped us from getting out to see the sights.

But so far my favourite piece of art has been this impromptu work, seen on the High Line.

Our audiences for the show have been pitifully small so far (the weather is one factor in this, no doubt), but growing, and hopefully that will continue. Sarah and I got home tonight to find this review, which was a pleasant surprise, and even moreso when I realized that it was written by a reviewer who sat in the quietest (and second smallest) audience I have ever had. Playing to an unresponsive house can really make you question what you’ve got - weren’t there jokes in here? I’m sure I wrote some jokes. I mean, people have laughed at it before, but maybe they were just thinking of funny things that happened to them earlier? - so it’s nice to have reassurance that even in a dead house you might still be getting through.

The bus ride to New York went by much more quickly than I thought it would. While the bus had wifi, its electrical outlets weren’t working, which meant I couldn’t get all the work done that I needed to, but at least that forced me to try to sleep.

It’s raining in New York, and we spent much of the day running around trying to find last minute props and other things we didn’t want to carry with us. We managed to get it all done and slide into the theatre just in time for our tech run, which went amazingly well. For every problem we had there seemed to be a counteracting pleasant surprise.

After we finished our tech we had to run over to another theatre - still dragging all our luggage with us in the rain - for the out-of-towner’s showcase. When we arrived the show had already started - and the door to the theatre had been locked. After a few frantic calls to every phone number we had connected to the festival we got hold of someone who gave us the door code and we stumbled into the packed room just in time for me to be introduced as the final act.

Sarah and I then headed to our room in Brooklyn where finally, more than 14 hours after arriving in the city, we were able to put down our bags and settle in. As a nice finishing touch on the day we finally managed to get our hands on a copy of the Village Voice, which we’d been told had run one of Tanja’s pictures of the show.

Sleep now. Opening tomorrow night at 9:30. No idea what to expect.

Did a photo shoot with Tanja last week to get some new images for Fishbowl’s marketing materials, including the new website. The photos are fantastic, but behind the cut are a few images that you won’t be seeing on a poster any time soon.

(more…)

Stream of Consciousness Concerning the Awkward Situation of Being Trapped in Conversation With the Romantic Partner of the Object of One’s Affections at a Social Gathering

I’m working on a sequel to this one…

I felt the need to comment on this piece in the Globe and Mail in which Sky Gilbert announces that, since the game isn’t going his way, he’s going to take his gay ball and go home. “I am no longer gay,” he writes, “I quit”.

As Gilbert isn’t terribly explicit about what he means by “defecting and/or just resigning from the club”, it’s probably safe to assume this is just a punchy bit of rhetoric to make for a dramatic headline. After all, you don’t get invited onto CBC radio for writing an op-ed about how you’re vaguely annoyed with the direction the queer community is moving in but hey, what can you do?

Nonetheless, the headline irks me, not because sensational rhetoric generally obscures otherwise worthy arguments (of which Gilbert has some), not because it ambiguates sexuality, identity, behaviour, and community, and not because it provides fuel for conversion therapy wingnuts. It irks me because it’s just such an asinine thing to say.

It seems the last straw for Gilbert was a TV gay couple who were portrayed as - shock, horror! - “a pair of nice, overweight, unattractive middle-class men”. It’s not clear what Gilbert, a university research chair who is neither svelte nor stunning nor, by any accounts, a raging asshole, would prefer. Should all TV gays be mincing Jack Macfarlands? Blue-balled Wayland Smithers‘? Campy Kurt Hummels? The latter is probably my favourite character on television right now - an unflinching sissy with great courage of conviction. But as far as I’m concerned, there’s room for other types of gays, in tvland and the real world (which also has room for more spontaneous production numbers, if anyone is listening).

It pains me to say it, but everyone, even the gays, have the right to be boring. Not that I encourage it. But I also don’t see deviance as the sole privilege or responsibility of queers. If gays want to settle down, move to the suburbs and live humdrum domestic lives, that’s fine by me. Well actually, it kind of makes me sad. But no more than when straight people do it. And if straight people want to bend gender and eschew societal expectations, welcome to the party.

Gilbert’s “personal solution” to changing gay demographics is to break away from the label entirely and call himself ESP (pronounced “espie”), short for Effeminate Sexual Person. Acronyms are already something the queer world needs like a hole in the head, and Gilbert’s is also two-thirds redundant: who isn’t sexual, or a person?

It all feels like the word games of political correctness that Gilbert faults in the first place (also to blame: Twitter). But it’s just being antagonistic to wield one’s identity as something that is entirely political and not personal. You can’t change your spots - or decide that you’re going to call your spots Orbicular Super-dermal Markings (OSM, pronounced “awesomes”) just because you don’t like what the other leopards are doing.

This weekend I asked my mother for some of her Christmas cookie recipes (for something I’ll talk more about later) and as she was copying them on to index cards for me I poked fun at the sometimes esoteric cooking directions she has given me in the past (along the lines of “It’s done just before it turns brown. Sooner than that and it’s underdone, and if it browns, it’s ruined.”) She countered by pulling up this chili recipe I sent to my brother at University when I was about 15 or 16. I don’t actually remember writing this, but I recognize the recipe, I used to make it exactly like this all the time.

“Mark’s Chili Recipe

Finely chop one onion and fry it in oil until it’s almost burnt. Then add a package of ground beef and try not to burn that either. Add a can of kidney beans and stir. At this point you would normally put in a diced green pepper, but mom doesn’t like them. Celina doesn’t like kidney beans either, but without the beans it’s just fried meat in tomato juice. Pour in a can of plum tomatoes and simmer. Put in a pinch of salt and pepper, and some chili powder. Add some more chili powder, because you probably didn’t put enough in the first time. Then try to scoop some of it out. Sprinkle some baking soda over everything to counter the acidity of the tomatoes. (Brown sugar has the same effect, but it doesn’t do that cool foamy thing.) Allow it all to simmer for 20 minutes, during which time mom will come and pour some of the oil and fat out.

Chili may be stored on the stove with the lid half on for several days.”

I like to think my cooking skills have improved slightly since then.

I’m not going to lie: the sole purpose of this post is to show off the Hallowe’en costume that I’m more than a little proud of.

Hallowe’en is a big deal for me, and it’s all about the costume. The best costumes are ones that are scary or funny, that are intricate or make it difficult to walk and/or see (everything you were taught about Hallowe’en safety as a child was wrong) and, above all, are unflattering to the wearer. Sexy costumes? Please. You’ve got 51 other weekends of the year to slut it up before you go out. You only get one annual chance to accessorize your outfit with a festering wound, so take advantage.

This year I decided what I was going to be for Hallowe’en on November 1st of last year. But then halfway through October I changed my mind - I’d just had a marvelous new idea. It would be scary! It would be a play on words! It would involve drag! It would require my absolute favourite Hallowe’en thing: gory homemade FX makeup!

I did some research on how to achieve a realistic looking burn, and a few days before Hallowe’en I ran a little test. The process involved applying molten gelatine directly to the face, a technique which, if not monitored carefully, can lead to actual skin-peeling burns. And then how would you tell them apart?

Getting a good texture out of the gelatine was easier than I thought, and a little grease paint on top gave me a gory burn that would last all night and even looked convincing up close.

So I bought a dress, took a lighter to a 50 cent Honest Ed’s bra (those things do not burn easy) and partially melted a “Used Car Salesgirl” wig (those things do burn easy) and I had my costume: I was a bona fide Hot Tranny Mess, the tragic victim of a spontaneous implant explosion (every costume needs a back story).

Here’s a clearer picture of the final makeup:

For anyone interested, I took most of my inspiration from this link, only I did without the nail silks business (it looks like it adds a nice touch, but I couldn’t find the materials). I made my own gelatine based off of this recipe, only I didn’t use sorbitol (couldn’t find it), and I pretty much eyeballed the ingredients. Two packets of Knox baking gelatine (1.8 g each) went into about a quarter cup of glycerine with about a tablespoon of water. It’s forgiving stuff; if you’re not getting a good consistency you can add to it at any stage, even melting down stuff that has already set.

I took a much simpler approach to the makeup than in the tutorial, still with great results. I just used drugstore Hallowe’en greasepaint (I’ve been using the same kit for four years now) and applied it with my fingers, dabbing gently, and using a Q-tip for tight spaces. I applied red unevenly all over for the burn, then added some yellow into the crevices to make it look infected. A little black on some of the ridges and around the periphery of the burn added that charred look.

1. Not being able to bury the dead underground. Makes for some weird cemeteries.

2. Voodoo. Used to sell everything from cheap souvenirs to… well, mostly just cheap souvenirs.

3. Lots of equal-opportunity employers!

4. Frozen alcoholoic beverages 5. in cups bigger than my head 6. that can freely be carried out into the street, served by 7. bars that never close.

8. Fantastic live and local music acts, many of which feature heavily on the washboard.

9. Gator heads, $6.99 each. Actually I found this more creepy than great.

10. A relaxed attitude towards spelling. Also acceptable: N’awlins, N’awl’ns, Nahlins. You could learn something from this, Tronno!

11. The food. This is the tasting platter at a little place called Coop’s: fried chicken, jambalaya, red beans and rice, and uh… something else I can’t remember. Came with gumbo, too. Also, can we talk about muffalatas? I’d never heard of them before. A muffalata is a sandwich that is characterized by the olive salad that goes into it. Really only appealing if you love olives, which I do. At first bite you feel like you will never be able to eat enough. By the time you finish you wonder how you were ever tricked into putting it into your body. In this respect it is the southern equivalent of poutine.

I arrived in Bath around noon, checked into my hostel, grabbed a map from the lobby and headed out to wander through the sights of Bath. It became immediately obvious that there was more to see in Bath than an overnight stay could handle, so upon returning to the hostel I booked an extra night.

My first stop was the Baths, the entrance to which is in the right of this photo (that’s Bath Abbey in the centre). Bath is a city built in layers, with one era of decadence moving in on top of the next, most of them unaware of the others, and the Baths are setup as a monument and museum to all of them. This is my panoramic shot of the King’s Bath, where the water bubbles up at 46 degrees.

I did the sensible thing and went to bed early that night, eventually popping in earplugs to escape the incessant squawking of Bath’s seagull population. In the morning I headed down to the square to catch one of the town’s free walking tours, which was lead by a man who reminded me of Mr. Gussoni, my 5th and 6th grade teacher.

The tour was fantastic, and covered all the major sights in bath - the circus, the royal crescent, the various spas - as well as some of the minor ones - including plaques marking former residences of General Wolfe, and of Horace Walpole, who said “Life is a tragedy for those who feel, but a comedy to those who think,” and is credited with inventing the word ’serendipity’.

Here’s my pano of the circus:

When we arrived back in the square a little over two hours later I popped into the Abbey to take the tower tour, which I still think of as one of the highlights of my trip. The tour took us up and across the Abbey roof, into the clock room and the bell ringing room, then up to the bell tower with a very detailed and fascinating description of English bell ringing and the history of the Bath bells themselves. Yeah, ok, it’s terribly nerdy. But it’s not often you get to be in the room when bells that big are ringing (and once they get going, you don’t really want to be.)

The views from the very top of the bell tower were stunning. The ancient baths:

The modern baths:

And the town (my hostel was just to the left of that church on the right):

I wasn’t going to go to the spa, it seemed overpriced. £22 to wade around in some warm water? No thanks. But along the course of the walking tour the seed had been planted in my mind: for centuries, nay, millenia, people have come to Bath for the waters. Who was I to travel all the way to Aquae Sulis and not take a dip? So I popped back to my hostel for my bathing suit and headed to the brand new Thermae Spa.

Good god, was it worth it. As well as the two heated pools (the rooftop one pictured above and another one on the lower level) the price of admission grants access to a steam room containing four different scented saunas: mint, mint & eucalyptus, lavender, and frankincense. The lavender one was disgusting, but I couldn’ve stayed in the mint & eucalyptus one all day, and I’m generally not a sauna fan.

Bath is not a terrific nightlife city. Its tourist population generally goes the spa, shops, and then goes to sleep. So there wasn’t much to do past 11, when all the bars closed, so I went to bed and rode to Marlborough the next day.

I’d planned a brief stopover at Avebury along the way. Avebury is a large, ancient stone circle, akin to Stonehenge, only not as famous, and thus more accessible - I’d read that Stonehenge is becoming a bit of a gyp lately because you have to pay admission to see the stones, and even then you’re no longer allowed to get anywhere near them. At Avebury you can wander freely through the stones. Plus, it was on the way. So Avebury it was.

Unfortunately, by the time I reached Avebury it was raining, and had been for several hours, so I was cranky. I didn’t even walk the full way around the circle. ‘Cause ya know what? It’s just a bunch of dumb rocks. Whoop-de-fucking-do.

I got a flat tire just outside of Marlborough, and decided that rather than try to fix it in the rain I would just find a room for the night and find a bike shop that could fix it for me in the morning. (Ok, so maybe I did try to fix it, and failed, first).

I set out in the morning for Reading, where I spent the night with a friend’s cousins, who showed me around town and took me to a fantastic pie shop called Sweeney & Todd’s, which was in fact next door to a barber shop.

The next day I rolled into London - finally, the last stop on my trip! The first thing I did when I got to the hostel was laundry. By the time it was finished Leah had arrived - the first familiar face I’d seen since my mother dropped me off at the airport two weeks prior.

We wasted no time in diving into all the culture London had to offer: we immediately went out to see the new Harry Potter movie.

The following morning we went on a walking tour lead by a hyperactive American girl I wanted to strangle for most of our time together. But the tour did a good job of covering a lot of the major points on the London to-do list: Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square, Horseguard’s Palace, the changing of the guard, Buckingham Palace, and so forth. I’m going to spare you (read: me) from the uncomfortable experience of posting the horrendously awkward picture of Leah and I posing with a palace guard.

We hit the Natural History Museum, the British Museum, a tiny portion of the enormous Victoria and Albert Museum, and in between managed to subside on the hostel breakfast and an all-you-can-eat vegetarian buffet. In no time the two days were over and Leah was off to Paris. I spent another night at the hostel and then headed north to spend the rest of my visit with friends-of-a-friend, (who’d made probably the best roast chicken I’ve ever had).

The rest of the week is a blur of sightseeing and museums: The National Gallery, The National Portrait Gallery (twice), The Monument, Portobello Road, the Duke of Uke, Tower Bridge, Tate Modern (hated it!), St. Paul’s, Westminster Abbey (both seen for free by sneaking in during services), the Thames at night, La Cage Aux Folles, Les Miserables (hated it!), eating pop rocks  with Aimee, watching a man put himself through a tennis racket, a squash racket, and a toilet seat at Covent Garden, Harrod’s, St. James’s Park; all capped off quite nicely with a shameless farewell make out at Piccadilly station.

When I was told I might be bumped from my flight home I found myself hoping that I would be - not only because the airline would have had to pay me $900 in compensation, but also because I would have loved another night in London. In the end though, it’s always good to come home.