What weren’t you thinking?

I’m pretty sure most people who know me consider me, on the whole, intelligent. That hasn’t stopped me from doing stupid things. In fact, I’ve spent decades trying to lessen the number of dumb things I do. Many of these things occur simply because I wasn’t thinking. Smart people are supposed to think, right?

It’s another thing when smart people do stupid things in spite of thinking.

Like smoking.

I can understand how tough it must be for those who started smoking in the forties or fifties, how the difficulty of kicking the nasty, old habit means they still smoke.

But with every decade passing since then, it becomes harder and harder to justify taking up tobacco. Anyone who starts smoking in 2009 either haven’t been paying attention or is mind-boggingly stupid. Or is desperate to be accepted by mind-boggingly stupid associates. Helloooo, peer pressure.

Or they just don’t care. Bad breath, smelly clothes, pointless expense, stinking up the air, endangering the health of others, and an exponential increase in the chance for heart disease, lung disease, cancer and premature death. But the attitude with kids seems to be, “Yeah, whatever.” It’s that old “I’m immortal” feeling of youth.

Most of my friends are intelligent people. Noticeably above average, even. So when I see any of them smoke I don’t get it. Is the gentle, relaxing buzz that smoking (reputedly) provides really so great, so necessary that it’s worth ignoring the overwhelming and conclusive evidence that tobacco is a bad thing?

A friend of mine used to scoff at the science. He died with emphysema and is terribly missed.

I admit to doing stupid things, but come on, avoiding some stuff is just obvious. Smoking should be (forgive the expression) dying out far more rapidly than it is. Don’t even get me started on such things as cocaine, street racing or Fox News.

Recently I got a sweet and unexpected bonus. As far as I can tell, nobody in the entire, wonderful cast of my current stage show (My Fair Lady, now playing at Western Canada Theatre, Kamloops BC) has the nicotine habit. You don’t have to be a genius to love that.

That certain quality

Two weeks into rehearsals for Ah, Wilderness! and happy to report the pleasure of working with a competent cast and design team. And since we’re still ten days away from opening, allow me to digress into a brief rant about competence.

I saw a fence made up of boards nicely designed to form the shape of an anchor out of negative space (the design may seem kitschy but the concept is clever). All one has to do is put two boards adjacent in a mirror arrangement:

How sad, then, that whoever put up most of this fence was clueless, or worse, didn’t give a damn:

Seems to me the first step in being competent is awareness—knowing what is needed or intended; and the second is investment—caring that those needs are met. It dismays me how many people never get past those two  rudiments, much less go further and put in the effort to study and learn or work and strive towards some notable level of achievement. Worse, they either defend their mistakes (unconvincingly) or dismiss any criticism, in a kind of reverse snobbery, as unimportant and pompous.

One of my least favourite arguments defending shoddy work is, “No one will notice.” I guess integrity is just too inconvenient.

At least incompetence can occasionally provide amusement. Still, my compliments and gratitude to those with whom I am privileged to work—and indeed to those everywhere—who recognize, care, and aim for excellence.

Hugh MacLeod, http://www.gapingvoid.com

Stop fighting me! (Happy New Year)

 

In the movie Bedazzled (the demented Peter Cook/Dudley Moore original, not the disappointing Brendan Fraser remake) the devil is portrayed as one who spends less time causing wars, plagues, and disasters than simple aggravations. He puts scratches in record albums (remember those?) and causes a pigeon to poop on a clergyman, resulting in a blasphemy. 

This concept seems to me a remarkably true one. Day-to-day annoyances are more than enough with which to do battle. I am often heard to cry, “Stop fighting me!”

A sock that insolently falls behind the dryer. A key that requires interminable fidgeting. A garden hose that refuses to relinquish its kink. A drawer that somehow entangles its contents so that the one item you need brings unwanted friends along. All the trash that when tossed at a wastebasket bounces off the rim and onto the floor.  A zipper or a button or a snap that simply will not close, dammit. Plastic wrap! Stop fighting me!!

The world becomes an obstacle. One’s mood sours, which leads to snapping at others which leads to hurt feelings as well as guilt and shame, and on downward we go until we’re doing the devil’s work for him.

It’s almost a relief to have governments, banks and overpaid executives to blame for things. Most people I know have said that 2008 was a bad year. For me, it wasn’t a catastrophe but it certainly was not much fun.

I’ve noticed something interesting as we approach 2009. Experts predict a difficult year ahead, but the general public seems surprisingly optimistic. I believe this is for two reasons. First, Obama. More than just a man anymore, he is a symbol of hope for many of us. Good luck, Barack. You’ll need it.

Second, because ‘08 was unpleasant or worse, there is a compelling need for it to be over. It may be wishful thinking that the change of a digit will also mean the change of our fortunes, especially since New Year’s is such an arbitrary date anyway. Still, people see the change of the calendar as a new beginning that could finally bring blessed relief.

Despite the odds, I truly wish us all well. 

Present Imperfect

 

Time was, if you heard some news or a suggestion you liked, you might respond, “Good.” What with language being a casualty of inflation, what once was a thoroughly appropriate word was often supplanted by “Great!” Lately I’ve been hearing a ridiculous overuse of “Perfect.”

Really? Perfect? I doubt it. Unable to be improved upon? Unlikely.

I lament how the meanings of words become diluted. One such victim is “awesome.” The next time you hear someone use the word, consider if what they are referring to actually might fill anyone with awe.

I cringe at word misuse. “Unique” does not simply mean unusual, but rather “one of a kind.” One, only one! Something cannot be “very unique.” It might be mighty rare, or quite uncommon, or even “nearly unique,” but once it is unique, that’s it. Otherwise, it’s like saying that the light switch was turned “very off.” Or that something is “very perfect.” Can’t be.

Absurd abbreviations, in a deluded attempt to be hip, are another matter. Is anyone actually so hopeless as to follow an advertiser’s campaign and say “SoCo” instead of “Southern Comfort?” A local TV channel, in their onscreen graphic promoting upcoming programming, has inexplicably replaced the word “Tonight” with “Ton.” How does that help? And recently I heard that, in place of the aforementioned “perfect,” someone actually uttered, “Perf!”

Weakening words and their meanings results in our being less able to say precisely what we intend. Because both god and the devil are in the details, I decry the pervasive, lazy sloppiness that cuts our vocabulary off at the knees. Like littering, the discarding of clarity demonstrates humanity’s appalling apathy.

Alas, I realize it will only get worse. There’s no stopping the dumbing down of language. Hey, everyone’s doing it. Because after all, no one’s perf.

Latitude stats

 

 

Toronto beach

When I announced I was headed north for my birthday vacation, most of the responses I got were variations of “You’re already north!” My friends and relatives do not as a rule tend to be idiots, so it was with some confidence that I assumed these comments were meant as jokes. 

Still, it seems a good idea to give a more precise view of my relative north-ness. I drove 225 km (140 miles) north-northeast from Toronto to our motel. The province of Ontario extends beyond that (to the northwest) another 1,500 km (930 miles). Canada itself stretches more than 2,800 km (1,740 miles) past Ontario’s northern boundary.

At latitude 43º 39′ 0″ N, Toronto is farther south than every other Canadian province and territory outside of Ontario, and only a few other Ontario cities are farther south than Toronto.

Toronto is farther south than Minneapolis, Seattle, and Portland, Oregon. In fact, Toronto is farther south than all of Alaska, Washington state, Montana, and North Dakota; south of almost all of Minnesota and Maine; and south of half of Oregon, Idaho, South Dakota, Wisconsin, Vermont and New Hampshire.

Toronto is farther south than the United Kingdom, Iceland, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Finland, Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein, Germany, Poland, Switzerland, Austria, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Belarus, Moldova and Ukraine; as well as most of France (including Paris), Romania, and Russia.

Despite our near-tropic location, a brief flurry of snow yesterday—can you say early?—gave us a taunting of things to come. Yikes.

Hungerdunger, Hungerdunger…

 

Opening today, Flash of Genius is a based-on-a-true-story movie about the inventor of the intermittent windshield wiper, played by Greg Kinnear. Also starring Lauren Graham, Alan Alda and Dermot Mulroney, the film includes a rather inconsequential 8-second scene in which I appear as an unnamed doctor who prescribes an ointment for Ms. Graham’s hands. For the record, she was very nice and friendly to me. A pleasure, as Katharine and I were ardent Gilmore Girls watchers.

I’ve been reading some of the Flash of Genius reviews at RottenTomatoes.com, and they are mixed. Either it’s boring, pointless, and hackneyed, or poignant, inspirational and estimable. The Toronto Star, Roger Ebert and Rolling Stone liked it; The Globe and Mail, Variety and the bozo at the Orlando Sentinel (who used to annoy me with his overbearing self-importance when I lived in his territory) did not; and others like The New York Times fall in-between.

Having attended a screening shortly before the film played at TIFF, we had already made up our own minds. Sure, I’d like it to be a hit, if only for the potential residuals. But my eight seconds aren’t enough, I would hope, to cloud my judgement. In short: I liked it; didn’t love it.

Seems to me some of the reviewers, however, missed a key point or two. Some complain that Kinnear’s character is flawed and not always likeable. But that is just what keeps him from being two dimensional. And he pays for it, lending a rare ambiguity to the conclusion.

Others scoff at the windshield wiper as being too insignificant either as a subject for a film or as something to spend one’s life fighting over. But such little things can be all that we common people have to point to as ours. Besides, such a unique topic separates Flash of Genius from so many other underdog stories. It isn’t about defeating the Roman Empire or winning the big game (in whatever sport you prefer). It is more personal. Moreover, the almost ludicrous subject allows us to appreciate how even the mundane can represent integrity.

I kind of like these review quotes:

“Flash of Genius is a conventional crowdpleaser but not, I’m pleased to report, a shameless one.” —Eugene Novikov, Cinematical

“There’s definitely hope for an industry that can still make a movie as good as Flash of Genius about a subject as difficult as intellectual property rights.” —William Arnold, Seattle Post-Intelligencer

“With minimal saccharine emotions and a reliance on low-key realism, Flash of Genius is a formulaic underdog tale carried out with decided intelligence.” —Dustin Putman, TheMovieBoy.com

So yes, it’s yet another little guy fighting impossible odds and yes, the movie contains some of the clichés we’ve all come to expect from such David vs. Goliath stories. But it does so more quietly than most, leaving room for contemplation. Beautifully filmed, well acted, and without the easy, hard-to-believe absolute victory of many such movies. Which would you sacrifice: personal relationships and happiness or self-esteem and truth? We the audience must decide whether the character’s resolve is honourable or merely obsessive. Or, perhaps, both.

Some Days the Bear Eats You

EDIT: dozens of Adventurers Club photos now up on a new Flickr site: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kazookris/

Tonight marks the end of Pleasure Island. The night club complex that opened in 1989 at Walt Disney World was why I moved from California to Florida, having been offered a one-year contract to perform at the Adventurers Club. I stayed seventeen years. I could write a book about the place, my time there, my dear friends, my thoughts and feelings, and my warm memories and bitter resentments. It would all spill over from the Adventurers Club to the other night clubs (especially the Comedy Warehouse) to Pleasure Island to Downtown Disney to Walt Disney World to Orlando to Florida to The Disney Company and to the United States of America.

But that’s for another time, or for my biographer to figure out.

Much attention is being paid to the end of the club. Some people, pictures and pieces of trivia that reflect the club’s beginning and longevity deserve mention and attention.

The original cast, every one of which contributed something that turned the club from a concept into a creative entertainment:

Terry Mike Acord, Phil Card, Donna Charles, Andy Clark, Phran Gauci, Tim Goodwin, Phil Johnson, Mike Leopard, Kerry Long, Frank O’Brian, Paula Pell, Mary Schickling, Kristian Truelsen.

None of these actors worked full-time from beginning to end. I left 2-1/2 years ago, having been an Adventurer from 1989 to 2006. Tim Goodwin left Disney for a year in the nineties but returned and has otherwise survived the entire run. Andy Clark was still subbing in as Graves the butler up to the end. The amazing Sheila (Smith) Ward, who opened Pleasure Island as an entertainer at XZFR’s Rock ‘n’ Rollerdrome (later the Rock ‘n’ Roll Beach Club) and who joined the Adventurers Club within its first year, can probably claim the most overall hours logged in as an Adventurer.

The maid’s original name was Doreen (“specializing in light dusting and high heels”). Other names used since then include: Millie, Flo, Trixie, Annelle, Fanny, Ginger Vitus, Dusty Cabinets, Marion, Sunny Knight, Inga, Gabby, Dottie Lama, Yvette Lemieux, Mona, Prudence, La Rue de Lamour, Tish Myash, Sugar Snap, Beulah Belle, Talullah Buttertart, Molly McLean, and Kiki.

Tim Goodwin invented the word “Kungaloosh.” Talk about leaving a legacy.

Three original cast members (two of whom were Mike Acord and I) invented the Club salute.

Phil Card invented the New Member Ceremony.

Before Samantha Sterling, there was a different character—a nightclub singer/adventurer named Mandora. (My memory is unclear as to when the switch occurred.) And before Mandora there were only two women characters, Pamelia and Doreen (the maid). But back at the beginning there was an ape-like, silent character called Marcel who would water the plants, deliver mail, and provide a step ladder for the maid so she could climb up to sit next to the Colonel where she would sing Smile, Darn Ya, Smile to him.

How to spell correctly:

• There is no apostrophe in “Adventurers Club.”

• Colonel Critchlow Suchbench’s name is misspelled on the brass plaque in the Main Salon listing members. Yes, Imagineers don’t always think things through and The Disney Company makes mistakes. Like closing certain entertainment venues oh don’t get me started.

• Hathaway Browne’s last name is spelled with an e. The writers originally named him Hamilton Beach, but I guess trademark lawyers nixed that. He was renamed after a girl’s school near Cleveland, Ohio.

Before rock music (live or DJ’d) took over, there was once a walk-around combo dubbed the Pleasure Island Philharmonic that would stroll the island. In those days the street felt more like traditional Disney: small town Americana, family-friendly, Dixieland music. Art Levitt injected adrenalin into the place and it came to life. But I always missed the PI Philharmonic, who became regular visitors to our club.

There was once no stage in the Main Salon. Phil Card and I suggested it, and in the Fall of 1992 a very nice Ganesha statue was moved to the Zebra Mezzanine near the service bar to make way for the ceremonial stage to the left of the Colonel.

The Library originally had long tables running between the bar and the stage, with stools on either side of each table. Getting to and from seats was difficult, and one’s neck became tired from having to keep one’s head turned to see the stage. Other club improvements: adding the revolving door to help keep out amplified sounds from outdoors (actors used to have to shout to be heard in the Main Salon) and making the club non-smoking (thank you thank you thank you)!

The two library shows that ran for as long as the club was open were the Balderdash Cup and the Radio Broadcast (Tales of the Adventurers Club). The original version of the latter was a somewhat different script and all done by Pamelia and Otis with no audience volunteers. In fact, Otis had to read the role of Hathaway Browne, who neglected to show up for the broadcast!

Library shows that came and went:

• Pamelia’s Welcome Party – Three songs by Pamelia, Hathaway and Graves.

• The Brew Fest – The less said the better.

• The Gypsy Show – Madame Zarkov sings and Fletcher gets into a mess.

• Fletcher’s New Discovery – Fletcher opens an ancient spirit box and Emil gets possessed by a demon. (And yes, I played Emil for years.)

• Fingers Takes Requests – Fingers would try to play tunes suggested by the crowd. After nightly renditions of Gilligan’s Island and other anachronisms (don’t get me started), the end of the night farewell party was created and was christened the Hoopla (HOOPLA).

Library shows that existed but were never performed publicly:

• The Fingers Zambeezi Show – Pamelia, Otis and Hathaway wrestle with a spirit released from the same box recycled years later for Fletcher’s New Discovery. The spirit finds a home in the club organ.

• Hathaway Browne’s Hour of Love (in Twenty Minutes) – a radio program offering advice to the lovelorn from the master. Why did this show not happen? Don’t get me started.

Celebrities that have visited the club include some I got to meet: MacLean Stevenson, John Davidson, Meat Loaf, Lyle Alzedo, Leslie Nielson, George Lucas, Robin Williams, Bobcat Goldthwait, John Lithgow, Woody Harrelson, Barry Gordon, David Odgen Stiers, John Scully, Raul Julia, Bozo the Clown, Robert Klein, Pauly Shore, Gilbert Gottfried, Gary Sinise, and Neil Patrick Harris; those I only saw: Norman Fell, Curtis Armstrong, Molly Ringwald, Stephen Sondheim, Howie Mandell, Nichelle Nichols, and David Copperfield; and others I missed (but they were there): Bob Hope, Jim Henson, Alan Alda, Liza Minelli, Gary Coleman, Larry “Bud” Melman, Mark Wilson, Johnny Unitas, George Blanda, Y.A. Tittle, Susan St. James, Gloria Estefan, Andrew Lloyd Weber, John Stamos, and Bob Saget. And more.

There are photos and videos aplenty to be found on the internet, and since I do not mean to slight anyone whose picture or name is not included in this post I encourage you to go look! It will be easiest to find the amazing talents that have been brilliantly entertaining guests since I left, which is why I have focused on the early days.

I wish I could name all those who have been part of the cast over the years. (I wish I’d kept track!)

I wish those who only knew the club over the last few years could have seen the original cast, as well as the talents of Darin DePaul, Jennifer Goodwin, Art Dohany, Doug Mackey, Ken Thiboult, Sue Peahl, Cullen Douglas, Bob Dutton, Jim Howard, and more. (Forgive me for not listing everyone, please!) Former Adventurers have gone on to many achievements. Paula Pell became a writer on Saturday Night Live. Mike Speller had the lead for three seasons on the Nickelodeon sitcom, Welcome Freshmen. Darin DePaul and Kurt Von Schmittou have appeared on Broadway. Leslie Carrara is a Muppeteer. Anne Hering is Director of Training with Orlando Shakespeare Theater. Philip Nolen is, perhaps, the most highly respected wooberhead in North America.

And I haven’t even mentioned the musicians (Steve and Jim and Al) and technicians (Mike and Jim) bar and wait staff, door hosts, managers, show directors, supporters, regulars, fans and crazies. And Comedy Warehousians, and DJs, and dancers, and bands. And custodians and security and everyone else whose lives have been affected for better or worse by the Disney After Dark experiment that lasted for nineteen years. I regret I cannot be with my Pleasure Island pals on this, the final night.

I toast you all.

Empty blog, not quite so empty life

Yes, it has been too long between posts. I could have reported on:

 

• seeing a play about where Godot was while others were waiting for him.

• being given free tickets to Twelve Angry Men with Richard Thomas (he was okay, others in the cast were better).

• dropping by an open house at a place that teaches court reporting and closed captioning (because really, I should have a skill, some skill, any skill).

• dealing with the leaky toner cartridges in our colour laser printer.

• attending Doors Open Toronto and touring a cool little printing house and a big factory reclaimed as offices and studios.

• going to readings at the Toronto library (one of which included an author playing french horn while a Queen Elizabeth II impersonator entered).

• working a part time job coaching customer service by phone.

• winning free tickets to a Luminato event (to which I couldn’t find anyone to go with), a concert of songs by famous Canadians but sung by others (and which I left at intermission due to an early morning the next day).

• fretting over too few auditions and the frustrations of the auditions I do get.

• attending the mostly disappointing Toronto ACTRA Performers’ summer conference.

• visiting our neighbourhood community playhouse for the first time, to see a friend in a newish play (he was better than the play, which was no Twelve Angry Men).

• working on projects for Katharine.

• not sleeping enough thanks to teeth grinding and other ailments.

• movies I’ve enjoyed, including Indiana Jones and The History Boys.

 

…and so on. 

Sardonic City

If I could afford it, I would subscribe to at least two Canadian magazines (The Walrus and MacLean’s) and two Canadian newspapers (The Globe & Mail and The Toronto Star; The National Post is traditionally more conservative than I—and we didn’t leave the USA to go conservative—and the Toronto Sun is a tabloid and all that infers).

But I can’t afford it, so I only get the Star. The Globe & Mail is a better paper (and I randomly read parts of it online) but I feel the need to connect first and foremost with my city. 

I am beginning to identify staff writers to read or to avoid. Easily my favourite is architecture and urban affairs columnist Christopher Hume. So when I learned he would be a guest speaker at a neighbourhood event a mere 3 or 4 blocks from our house, I made a point of attending. I was not disappointed.

Curmudgeonly, opinionated, blunt, wry, erudite and entertaining, Mr. Hume does not much seem to care whom he is likely to offend, and that is just fine with me. (And indeed, he has detractors, including some I otherwise respect.) He began by stating, “I have no faith in planners, the city planning department, no faith in our politicians, in city government.” And then he took off the gloves. It was marvelous.

Three days later Katharine and I joined Mr. Hume on a “Jane’s Walk” for which he gave an historical overview of bank towers in downtown Toronto. What little I could hear through the wind, rain, traffic and assorted city noises was insightful and engaging. 

I admit that I am more interested in architecture than knowledgeable about it, but Chris Hume makes me wish I could be his apprentice.

Two rugs pulled out from under

 

Professional honesty has been in short supply lately.

 

I had an audition for a series of three commercials. A good response at the audition and a callback. Even better, my agent said I was “on hold;” that the callback was just a formality; that I was practically booked subject to approval by the client; that only something like four people were on hold. Four people for three roles? Good odds.

 

Lies. There were dozens of people called back. I had to read a different role than the one that had gone so well before. I was directed to not do the things that got a good reaction at the original audition. The callback reduced my participation from that of skilled comic actor to that of a face, a look. Lots of others looked the part better than I; without my performance I didn’t stand a chance.

 

I also had an interview for a non-show biz job. As jobs go this was better than most: good pay, good working conditions, and related to my profession to a degree. The interview and practice session went well and Friday I was offered a contract, with details to come this week. Nice.

 

Wrong. The client’s needs changed and today I was suddenly in the “wait to hire” pile. 

 

Damn and pfui on both gigs. The standard rejection is tough enough without a big let down after a false build up. Onward and oof.