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18 October 2005 - 10:42
 There - that's that out of the way... Actually it's going to be a great show. No black hair dye this year - I am on the hunt for the perfect pompadour wig. I saw this magnificent rubber specimen in Zellers a few weeks back but, of course, being the procrastinating bum that I am, I didn't make the purchase. Hell no. Of course it'll be there in a couple of weeks. So two weeks later and practically all of the Zellers in the greater Montreal region later (I'm not kidding. Chateauguay, Montreal, Laval, Terrebonne) and I'm still without. So it leaves me now in panic buy mode. Which of course I did. Hell. The picture looked good. "Genuine Elvis Presley Wig" it said on the package. There's something about that claim that made me shudder a little. "Be the King" Um. OK.. you'll do. $14 later and I'm heading back home to be the king. What I did fish out of the bag resembled more roadkill. After a good half an hour of adjusting and tilting and brushing and sculpting, and I STILL don't know how the hell it's supposed to fit. Correction. I don't even know what end is back and what end is front. I need one of those rubber wigs. Last night's rehearsal was a dance rehearsal. I am so super self conscious about dancing. So incredibly out of touch with my body and limbs and their mutual co-ordination. Thus, when I dance - I tend to look like I have a very thick and painful pole stuck up my ass. I lurch. I can't shimmy. (why would I want to?) During the rehearsal, I don't think there is ANY amount of encouraging words that can be said to shift this mindset. Which is problematic. I mean - I am a confident fellow. Confident in my ability as an actor, as a singer and as a general performer. But dancing?? uh-uh. Thus. Any choreographer who has the unenviable task of creating a moving masterpiece which includes me has her/his work cut out for her/him. Thus. During my numbers I shall be rooted to the spot, with the ocassional (choreographed) lurch. It might just work. I do play the undead. I was waiting last night at the Parc Metro station fo rthe number 80 bus with ex roommate Barry. I decided to have a quick look at the bus timetable that was mounted on a lamppost. My eyes were suddenly distracted by a series of small stickers on the plastic covering. In green lettering they read, biligually: "Get British troops out of Ireland" (I forget the correct French translation) So I turned to Barry and asked him to have a look... ...at which point he exclaims "What the fuck!?"... and continues to do a little one man skit about a group of Irish nationalists sitting in some speakeasy bar in Belfast considering their next pressure tactic. It went someting like this (imagine, if you will also, some very bad Irish accents): Seamus: Fergus, we have to get our word out to the world. Hey - it was funny last night, OK? Finally. Is there something I don't know about Montr�al squirrels? Every morning and evening I walk though Square Dorchester, which is a small park in the center of the city. Every morning and evening there are tourists chasing these squirrels with their digital cameras and phones, desperate to get a close-up of these squirrels. This is not an exaggeration. Last night - I walk home, and as I walk though said park - there are THREE sets of tourists chasing squirrels. What is that all about? There is a squirrel who comes to my balcony. He sits and stares at the cat. And the cat sits and stares at him. And then the squirrel taunts him. Shows him how beautiful freedom is. And this just blows Wallace's mind. I think he thinks he's a squirrel. Stupid ginger cat. Anyway. If you live within 4 hours of Montr�al come and see the show. If only to point and laugh at me in fishnets.
   My life is rated NC-17. What is your life rated? |
