It was a balancing act she had perfected over the past six years. She unlocked the main door, gathered the newspapers from the walk below, swung her body inside and tapped out the code to disarm the security system. All the while her purse remained slung over one shoulder, coffee cup absolutely upright. The reception area was still and quiet. Sunlight streamed through the windows. The plants on the shelf seemed to reach for the light so tantalizingly close. Sharon delayed turning on the overhead fluorescent lights, preferring instead the natural light for the time being. Her time, as she liked to call it. Passing the thermostat she carefully edged the dial to the prescribed 21 degrees and not a degree over. Doctor Peterson saw to that. The man has more money than a bank but God forbid he spring for enough heat in the winter.
It will be eight years next month since she started working at the clinic. And six years of opening. That honour was bestowed after Carol retired and Sharon was elevated from the uncertainty of temp to full time receptionist. Since that time it was only on the rare occasion this fluid dance was interrupted. The lock on the front door would stick the odd time. And there was that time the bakery next door had the propane leak. But other than that her morning ritual played out as it always had.
She was glad to have this job. With her working these past few years and Frank closing in a modest but secure pension they were thinking lately that they had 'made it', so to speak. Despite what seemed like a never ending tide of bad news in the economy they had managed to squeak by without having suffered. Their little world remained calm. She had never really wanted for anything. Frank had seen to that. And Crystal was taken care of as best they could. There were those times though, Christmases mostly, that Frank and Sharon knew that helpless feeling of having failed their daughter when not able to buy her the latest and the greatest of some bit of clothing or toy. Those same things that some children in town would awaken to on Christmas mornings. Even on the day of her daughter's wedding when Crystal, swept up in a wave of emotion, poured her heart out, thanking her mother for always being there for her, for the love, the shelter, the security, the guidance, Sharon harboured the feeling that she had not done enough, not provided enough. At least she and Frank could stay among their own people and not have to move away just to survive. Crystal and Tony and little Emily are not so lucky. Uprooting themselves and their newborn, traveling to the other side of the blessed country.
Settling in behind her desk, behind that sliding pane of glass you always come up against in any clinic, Sharon clicked her computer on and it began its familiar hum. The monitor flickered to life. Less and less of Sharon is visible to arriving patients as the days and weeks go by as more and more pictures of her granddaughter crowd the ledge on either side of the pane. Adjusting the glasses on her nose the script on the screen came in to focus. The ever-present stack of paperwork piled to her left seemed to edge its way into her field of vision. It could wait two minutes. Another part of her morning ritual was to check for emails from Crystal.
A new message! New baby pics from Crystal! Sharon fumbled with the mouse, hurriedly opening the email.
"Little baby.....little angel."
There was Emily trying to make sense of her first encounter with a pumpkin. There were the little mittens she had knitted for her.
"How she's grown," Sharon managed. A flush came over her. The pictures softened as her eyes began to tear up.
Crystal had written just a few lines to accompany the pictures. It was the usual "the baby's fine, I'm fine, Tony's fine, weather's getting cold here" message. It frustrated Sharon that she had raised such a stubborn child. "Why did she have to take after me?", she asked no one. She knew full well that even if her world was falling apart Crystal would never let on to her mother. No hint of homesickness ever crept into her messages. Of course Sharon was just as guilty. After all, isn't always that "Dad's fine, Mom's fine, the dog's fine and that the weather sure is getting cold here too"? Mother and daughter were doing their best to shield each other from the reality of the situation.
Aside from her conversations with the patients her work day was pretty well mapped out. Truth be told those conversations were just as predictable. After six years Sharon still got a kick out of how a typical conversation would start out with agreeing how too hot or too cold it was and in an instant become hushed and switch to scheduling a prostate exam. Of course there were always those souls in town that not only did not care who knew his or her detailed medical history but made it a point to get the word out to everyone about it whether it was here or at the coffee show or at the rink.
The clinic door opened. Fluorescent light flooded the room. The joy of seeing the pictures drained from her being and sank into the cold air that now suddenly swirled at her feet. Without raising her head, moving a few sheets of papers to the desk in front of her, Sharon fixed a smile to her face and rallied her spirit.
"I noticed before leaving last night that the paper towel roll in the washroom is empty."
Cold. Direct.
"I was just on my way in there, Doctor Peterson," Sharon managed as he strode by. She added the obligatory "Good morning". It went unmatched.
"Doing that does not mean the invoices are to be neglected," he added.
"Oh, no, no," she said, the fake enthusiasm in her voice making her cringe. The slamming of the doctor's office door muffled the curse that left her mouth. Sharon turned back to face her desk. Her eyes fell on the pictures on her computer screen, feeling guilt for having uttered such words while her granddaughter looked on.
"Good morning," came a voice from the door.
The wave of negativity Sharon felt herself being swept up in suddenly broke and rolled back as Will breezed in the door and across the reception room.
"Chocky chip?" he offered, pushing a small brown paper bag through the opening in the glass.
Sharon hesitated, smiling.
"Peanut butter then?"
"C'mon, life's too short," he teasingly pressured.
"Any Irish coffee to go with this?" she asked, accepting the gift.
Will laughed that Will laugh. That laugh that came to you as you sat by yourself and coaxed you to join in the fun with the others. "I drank it all on the way in this morning. I have a full schedule of snotty nosed little ones to face today. Anything to take the edge off," he deadpanned.
Will made his way behind the barrier.
"New pics?" he asked, motioning with a chocolate chip cookie toward the computer screen.
Sharon instantly dropped into proud grandmother mode. A Hollywood agent never sang the praises of a client as passionately as Sharon of her granddaughter.
After flipping through the pictures a half dozen times Sharon reigned in her enthusiasm, sensing that she had bombarded Will with too much grandmother.
"My heavens," she said sheepishly. "Look at me, taking up all your time."
Will softly chuckled.
"Nonsense."
"Ah, you just light up when you talk about her."
"She is a blessing," she said. "But this conversation is a little too one-sided."
Sharon looked forward to the few minutes that she and Will spend together each morning. He is new to the profession, splitting his time between two clinics in an effort to latch onto a permanent position. Will and Doctor Peterson are two sides of the same coin. Two very different sides of the same coin. Will has such a way with people. Dr. Peterson, on the other hand, wouldn't know what good bedside manners were if they jumped up and bit him. She often wonders if his personality got more wicked over the years or if he was this way from the start. Will took the time to speak with her, treat her like a human being. There was no talking down to her. If Sharon was good friends with patients seeking an appointment she would do her best to arrange for them to see Dr. Will instead of Peterson.
Regardless of how terrible he could be, the practice was growing, slowly but surely. Doctor Peterson has managed to establish this clinic as THE clinic in the area purely by default, having outlasted his colleagues. With the aging population he had decided to offer a junior partnership to a new graduate. This is where Will enters the picture. A third doctor, another new kid on the block, a young lady named Erica, had also chosen to set up shop in town and is in the hunt for a share of the clinic as fiercely as Will. Two doctors, one spot.
"I've been hearing good things from a lot of the patients these days about you," Sharon said in a half whisper.
"Erica is a sweet girl but she's a bit young."
"Besides," Sharon added, "she doesn't bring me cookies in the morning."
Will laughed and jokingly offered up another cookie to Sharon.
"I need all I can get," he said, reaching for his wallet and pretending to open it.
"What's your price?"
Will's broad smile broke out on his face. Abandoning his breezy manner a moment later Will said, "The pressure is definitely increasing."
"He'll be making his decision to name his partner soon."
The front door of the clinic opened once more. An attractive young lady entered, turning slightly at the waist to thank the man following behind for his polite act of opening the door for her. She made her way to the reception desk, closely followed by the older gentleman.
"New boyfriend, Erica?" Will called out. The older gentleman, removing his hat, shook his head, familiar with Will's sense of humour.
Sharon let out a soft gasp, playfully smacking Will on the forearm. "You are so bad."
"Oh, Mister Hatcher is a married man," she said with faked exasperation. "Don't go starting rumours now," Erica added, playing along with Wills jab. Mr. Hatcher cleared his throat. "I've got enough to deal with with the arthritis and that," he said, "without adding broken bones to it if my wife heard you go on like that."
"You never mind these youngin's, Mr. Hatcher."
"What brings you in today, Erica?" Sharon questioned, turning to face Will's female counterpart. "You're not scheduled for a shift until next week."
"I left my glasses here the other day," Erica answered.
"Forgetful, eh? Tsk, tsk," Will teased.
"Plus I wanted to study articles that Doctor Peterson had submitted to journals earlier in his career," she added more seriously. "He brought them to my attention recently and I find the subjects quite fascinating."
A little tension suddenly elbowed its way into the conversation. Both new doctors knew the significance of the statement. Outwardly friendly, the pair had an undeclared war on their hands. In a bid for professional advancement each one sought to outdo the other in every imaginable category under the sun. Weekends and free time were terms that had been abandoned long ago. An acceptance of Doctor Peterson's disposition was perhaps the most bitter pill to swallow. It was obvious from the start that to do so was the first step toward the goal. Holding their noses both young doctors pressed ahead. To the victor go the spoils. Ingratiating oneself with Doctor Peterson was key.
From the rear of the clinic Doctor Peterson emerged from his office and headed for the reception area. The sound of his hard-soled boots on the tiled floor echoed down the hallway, ricocheting off the cold, sterile walls. If Erica's earlier remark had been a cloud passing in front of the sun the sound of Doctor Peterson's imminent arrival was dusk. Sharon's shoulders slumped slightly. Will wasn't blind. He sensed from the start the cold manner with which Doctor Peterson treated his staff. Raising her head slightly she locked eyes with Will. He winked reassuringly.
"Doctor Dolittle," he whispered.
Sharon stifled her laugh just as Doctor Peterson rounded the corner. His face seemed almost as if cast in concrete, expressionless. He took a bead on Sharon. "The washroom, Mrs. MacLeod," he said firmly.
"Just on my way there, Doctor Peterson," Sharon answered, eyes downcast, moving quickly to the rear of the building.
All eyes in the room fell upon him.
"A chain is only as strong as its weakest link," he admonished, moving his gaze to Will and Erica.
Sharon heard the remark, cocked her head slightly but continued on to her appointed task. Her jaw clenched. Out of the corner of his eye Will sensed Erica was about to speak. An image of Erica and Doctor Peterson conversing over his articles flashed before his eyes.
He reacted.
"Doctor Peterson, perhaps it is time we consider removing those liabilities."
Down the hall Sharon heard the words Will had just spoken. An arrow passed through her heart. She felt only the blow.
Doctor Peterson looked at Will. He paused.
"Yes, William. I think it has come to that," Doctor Peterson said.
"Would you take care of those arrangements," he said coldly, motioning down the hallway.
"I trust you will follow our companies HR guidelines in doing so."
"Yes, sir." Will was dazed.
The pain which had been delayed took hold of Sharon.
"And," Doctor Peterson added, "perhaps you could offer suggestions to fill the imminent void."
"Yes, Doctor Peterson."
Erica then realized her fate had been sealed. Revulsion for the events that had just taken place and those that were about to unfold would come to her later. For now, she cursed whatever sense of morality had made her hesitate ever so slightly.
Will turned and followed after Sharon. The sound of his shoes on the tiled floor echoed down the hallway, ricocheting off the cold, sterile walls.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
The 5 Best Decisions the Beatles Ever Made (and Why)
I'll not include "Forming the Beatles" as a decision because they weren't the Beatles when they formed. My list starts off with...
#1. Taking on the services of Mr. Brian Epstein.
The Beatles were a hard working bunch and obviously, when given the opportunity at EMI to create, they did alright for themselves. So they probably would have 'made it' in some capacity or other without the help of Brian Epstein. Probably. That's debatable. What isn't is the fact that they DID make it with Brian's help. Much has been made of his lack of business savvy and Lennon often made it part of his version of the Story that their association with Brian Epstein effectively neutered the band. But considering most bands with drive, talent, etc don't succeed, they could have made worse decisions regarding their collective future. Conservative, refined Brian Epstein opened up new venues and opportunities for the Beatles that they surely could not have done so themselves.
#2. Replacing Pete Best with Ringo Starr
It could be argued that the two people who had roles to play in the Big Beatles Movie that fared the best in the long run are Pete Best and Ringo Starr. In any interview I've seen of Pete Best he comes across as a nice fellow, seemingly at peace with the himself and the world, which is incredible when you stop and think about it. It can't be easy going through life as a metaphor for coming oh so close to fame and glory. But here he is, smiling and drumming. And according to Ringo Starr himself that pretty much sums up his own desires in life: being happy and making music. Bless his little metronome heart, he's out there still doing it too.
But it wasn't always so. There was a time when these two men's paths crossed behind a drum kit with one being turned away and one being welcomed into the biggest show on earth. I'll defer to George Harrison on this. He said in the Anthology that yes, well, maybe, ok, they could've handled the switch better but, in his mind, Ringo was always to be the drummer for the Beatles. Harrison himself put it in terms of a movie with Ringo not making his big entrance until the appointed time in August of '62. And I think George was right. Ringo fit nicely.
#3. Going to Hamburg
Hamburg is where the Beatles paid their dues. I'm an adherent to the '10% inspiration/90% perspiration' line of thought. Sure those guys were naturally talented but by God they slogged. Their stage hour statistics are out there in many a book and blog for all to see. You want to be Beatle good? Best get busy then.
#4. The Decision to Stop Touring
This is a decision that first and foremost benefited the Beatles. I tend to put more stock in George Harrison's accounts of Beatle lore so I'll quote him again in support of this. Regarding the world tours he said, "We were tired. We needed a rest." Pretty simple really. If the Beatles had continued on with touring they surely would have lost a little luster. Comparing footage of the likes of Jimi Hendrix, the Who, etc. from the late '60's to footage from the Beatles' last tours is revealing. Actually, it's embarrassing. If the Beatles had continued on as they were in that summer of '66 they would have simply lost the stage battles to the above mentioned giants. Two guitars, bass and drums. Pretty simple and devastatingly effective in a small venue (my kingdom for a complete Cavern Club performance!!) but limp and lost in a stadium. With rested heads and more time on their hands the Beatles did what they did best: made more great recordings.
#5. Calling It Quits
THE best decision the Beatles ever made was to break up.
HERETIC!!! BURN HIM!!!
Hear me out. The question was what were best decisions the Beatles ever made. I take that to mean what decisions did the group make that best benefited themselves. So, after nearly a decade together, leaving behind a body of recorded music that will never be bettered and just one of the greatest little stories ever told (with THE best soundtrack), they packed it in. It's a little sad that it went down the way it did but you only get one crack at this life business. I think they had given enough and deserved whatever peace of mind they each found. So for the individual members it was the best call. As for us, they left us enough to go on for our lifetime. The Beatles had a beginning, a middle and an end and the quality never dropped. They exist now as great as they did then and as great as they ever will be.
#1. Taking on the services of Mr. Brian Epstein.
The Beatles were a hard working bunch and obviously, when given the opportunity at EMI to create, they did alright for themselves. So they probably would have 'made it' in some capacity or other without the help of Brian Epstein. Probably. That's debatable. What isn't is the fact that they DID make it with Brian's help. Much has been made of his lack of business savvy and Lennon often made it part of his version of the Story that their association with Brian Epstein effectively neutered the band. But considering most bands with drive, talent, etc don't succeed, they could have made worse decisions regarding their collective future. Conservative, refined Brian Epstein opened up new venues and opportunities for the Beatles that they surely could not have done so themselves.
#2. Replacing Pete Best with Ringo Starr
It could be argued that the two people who had roles to play in the Big Beatles Movie that fared the best in the long run are Pete Best and Ringo Starr. In any interview I've seen of Pete Best he comes across as a nice fellow, seemingly at peace with the himself and the world, which is incredible when you stop and think about it. It can't be easy going through life as a metaphor for coming oh so close to fame and glory. But here he is, smiling and drumming. And according to Ringo Starr himself that pretty much sums up his own desires in life: being happy and making music. Bless his little metronome heart, he's out there still doing it too.
But it wasn't always so. There was a time when these two men's paths crossed behind a drum kit with one being turned away and one being welcomed into the biggest show on earth. I'll defer to George Harrison on this. He said in the Anthology that yes, well, maybe, ok, they could've handled the switch better but, in his mind, Ringo was always to be the drummer for the Beatles. Harrison himself put it in terms of a movie with Ringo not making his big entrance until the appointed time in August of '62. And I think George was right. Ringo fit nicely.
#3. Going to Hamburg
Hamburg is where the Beatles paid their dues. I'm an adherent to the '10% inspiration/90% perspiration' line of thought. Sure those guys were naturally talented but by God they slogged. Their stage hour statistics are out there in many a book and blog for all to see. You want to be Beatle good? Best get busy then.
#4. The Decision to Stop Touring
This is a decision that first and foremost benefited the Beatles. I tend to put more stock in George Harrison's accounts of Beatle lore so I'll quote him again in support of this. Regarding the world tours he said, "We were tired. We needed a rest." Pretty simple really. If the Beatles had continued on with touring they surely would have lost a little luster. Comparing footage of the likes of Jimi Hendrix, the Who, etc. from the late '60's to footage from the Beatles' last tours is revealing. Actually, it's embarrassing. If the Beatles had continued on as they were in that summer of '66 they would have simply lost the stage battles to the above mentioned giants. Two guitars, bass and drums. Pretty simple and devastatingly effective in a small venue (my kingdom for a complete Cavern Club performance!!) but limp and lost in a stadium. With rested heads and more time on their hands the Beatles did what they did best: made more great recordings.
#5. Calling It Quits
THE best decision the Beatles ever made was to break up.
HERETIC!!! BURN HIM!!!
Hear me out. The question was what were best decisions the Beatles ever made. I take that to mean what decisions did the group make that best benefited themselves. So, after nearly a decade together, leaving behind a body of recorded music that will never be bettered and just one of the greatest little stories ever told (with THE best soundtrack), they packed it in. It's a little sad that it went down the way it did but you only get one crack at this life business. I think they had given enough and deserved whatever peace of mind they each found. So for the individual members it was the best call. As for us, they left us enough to go on for our lifetime. The Beatles had a beginning, a middle and an end and the quality never dropped. They exist now as great as they did then and as great as they ever will be.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Call of Love
As anyone who has been in a relationship of any substantial duration must know there are many milestone moments which can be reached and passed, each in turn creating a stronger bond. The obvious examples come to mind: first kiss, first time being intimate, first time meeting family and friends, etc. There is one crucial milestone that stands above the rest though and yet it is one that is seldom discussed in polite circles.
I am referring to the first time you fart in the presence of your mate or they in front of you. It is a moment during which one partner exposes him or herself even more than at any time in a relationship. At this moment your true inner thoughts and feelings about your mate are subconsciously revealed. The truth that is written on your heart is laid bare for all to see. It is a gaseous litmus test of love.
For those that would recoil in horror, unwilling or unable to overcome a lifetime of societal influence or simply because the love just isn't there, it is the end. It is the end of the shared car ride that is a relationship. The only thing left to do then is to safely steer the car to a stop on the side of the road and figure out the gas money.
Sadly, for both the farter and fartee, it is echoes of Genesis for now they are to know shame. Cruel but such is nature.
But be you lucky enough to have found your soulmate, the Marge to your Homer, or vice versa, or any combination thereof, the sometimes rocky and broken landscape of dating now gives way to the lush, fertile land of 'goin' steady' where new love may be nurtured and given a chance to grow.
To you the sound made as the by-product gasses of digestion passes through the anal sphincter of your amour is a cry of love like no other. It is an audible statement of their love for you or your love for them. It is one mate saying to the other, without words, that the two of you are bound in love on this car journey and they are there to map read all the way. You may not know where you are headed but, by God, you're headed there together.
A special word must be said of the partner who consciously takes the initiative and is the first to let fly, be it a loud, reverberating blast of passion or a mousey little squeak of affection. That person has cast a blind eye to the potential for flatulence-related embarrassment, as it pales in comparison to the power of love and has chosen their moment to profess to their mate their level of love and comfort. Admirable.
However, as with the act of love making, this is an act that, as beautiful and as meaningful as it is, it is best shared only between two lovers. A lady farted on the bus the other day and it almost made me forget about the fellow next to me that smelled like pee.
I am referring to the first time you fart in the presence of your mate or they in front of you. It is a moment during which one partner exposes him or herself even more than at any time in a relationship. At this moment your true inner thoughts and feelings about your mate are subconsciously revealed. The truth that is written on your heart is laid bare for all to see. It is a gaseous litmus test of love.
For those that would recoil in horror, unwilling or unable to overcome a lifetime of societal influence or simply because the love just isn't there, it is the end. It is the end of the shared car ride that is a relationship. The only thing left to do then is to safely steer the car to a stop on the side of the road and figure out the gas money.
Sadly, for both the farter and fartee, it is echoes of Genesis for now they are to know shame. Cruel but such is nature.
But be you lucky enough to have found your soulmate, the Marge to your Homer, or vice versa, or any combination thereof, the sometimes rocky and broken landscape of dating now gives way to the lush, fertile land of 'goin' steady' where new love may be nurtured and given a chance to grow.
To you the sound made as the by-product gasses of digestion passes through the anal sphincter of your amour is a cry of love like no other. It is an audible statement of their love for you or your love for them. It is one mate saying to the other, without words, that the two of you are bound in love on this car journey and they are there to map read all the way. You may not know where you are headed but, by God, you're headed there together.
A special word must be said of the partner who consciously takes the initiative and is the first to let fly, be it a loud, reverberating blast of passion or a mousey little squeak of affection. That person has cast a blind eye to the potential for flatulence-related embarrassment, as it pales in comparison to the power of love and has chosen their moment to profess to their mate their level of love and comfort. Admirable.
However, as with the act of love making, this is an act that, as beautiful and as meaningful as it is, it is best shared only between two lovers. A lady farted on the bus the other day and it almost made me forget about the fellow next to me that smelled like pee.
Friday, January 23, 2009
My First (and Last) Midnight Mass: No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service
This Christmas past I was invited by a friend to attend my first Christmas Midnight Mass. I'm not a Catholic and not a religious fellow but I was actually curious to see for myself just what kind of show these cats can put on.
The comments that follow are not meant as ant-Catholic or anti-religious. Many others in this world have debated the merits, pro and con, far better than I ever could. Think of this as you would a review of a theatre production albeit one in which all aspects of the evening's proceedings, including the audience, were critiqued and which was observed under the influence of large amounts Christmas cheer.
We arrived at the church that evening and were greeted, or so I thought, in the lobby by the priest and an entourage. "Nice touch," I thought. I was wrong. I was all smiles and the group was all smiles but no handshakes were proffered. We had, in fact, arrived late and stumbled in among the makings of the opening procession. So much for trying to observe without disturbing. My group hurried off to take their seats with me in tow to allow the ceremony to begin, disappointed at not having been offered the chance to throw out the ceremonial first pitch.
I think I had already pieced it together that the Catholic Church wasn't shy about putting on a show. It isn't only religious dogma that emanates from Rome and filters down to the small parishes. The Vatican must also have it's own theatre school. For a small fishing village this church was some swanky. Pity they had to spoil it all with stiff wooden benches. Stadium seating can't be far off.
So the architecture was something. It does grab one's attention. A bit morbid in places though, I have to say. A man pinned to a cross isn't exactly the most welcoming of things. Admittedly symbols are lost on me. And for a church that is so down on homosexuals it does look to have been designed and decorated by Liberace.
As the service was conducted in French (a challenge I relish) and Latin (didn't the Dodo speak Latin?) I did feel a little lost. For the first part of my life I was raised Presbyterian and it's hard not to know the general story of Christianity so I got the basic premise here. But I did feel a little like being at an art museum where everyone else in my group but me was wearing one of the self-guided tour headphones, all nodding knowingly. For a few days afterwards I was trying to remember where I had known this feeling before. The answer: any calculus class I'd ever been in. Not that I expected the church to provide it, but it would have been swell to have a play-by-play and colour analyst walking me through this.
So there were many things that I didn't understand. For instance, as the emcee introduced each act and filled the time in between with jokes, I couldn't help but notice a rather stern looking fellow flanking him. He must have been aware and approved of the man's presence because he carried on without skipping a beat. Perhaps it was an over-eager understudy?
As the service progressed I noted how physically demanding it is to be a Catholic. If you were to take a survey of leg strength of regular churchgoers I think you'd find that Catholics would beat Protestants hands down. It wouldn't be sporting to beat them with their hands up. Anyway, lots of up down, up down and hands flailing about. I figure it must have something to do with keeping everyone alert. Keep the blood flowing. Since I was an impartial observer I only stood for the tunes but even at that I was winded by the end. Luckily a handy footrest was provided. So this bunch is not entirely masochistic.
One criticism that has dogged the Catholic Church over the years is one involving money. Lots of money. I think these guys have paid for God's retirement and have shuttled him off to Florida just to take him out of the mix. The ultimate golden parachute. As far as I know, and I've spent years and years not researching this number, the Catholic Church is worth an estimated 800 bazillion dollars. The Pope has a flying car now. What an age we live in.
And how does a group, religious or otherwise, amass such a fortune? I don't know. All I know is that they didn't wait too long to shake down the crowd. Slick. I've never seen such a well-olied collection machine. The priest spoke a few words and a phalanx of cheap suited mafioso swarmed the crowded, knocking old ladies down, grabbing at their purses. Little children were hung from their ankles and shaken to free the last pennies from their pockets. Two of the brutes came for me. I threw a handful of change at them and ducked under a pew. The basket on the long stick was thrust into the space between again and again but I somehow by the grace of someone was not struck. Sensing easier booty elsewhere the pirates moved on. I emerged a few moments later to see the collectors proceeding up the aisle, led by a small woman carrying a big cross. Once at the front the money was piled high in front of the alter. The priest paused the service. The angry looking gentleman that flanked the priest helped him remove his costume. Crossing himself quickly he flung himself onto the pile, rolling about in it as a pig in slop. Shouts of "Hallelujah" filled the room. Moments later he sheepishly got to his feet, donned his robe and took his place behind the alter unaware of the ten dollar bill that was entangled in his hair.
On a positive note there was one portion of the service that I felt was very worthwhile. At one point the emcee asked everyone to join hands. I thought this was effective in breaking down barriers between each other. Of course the effect was mitigated in our group as we were surrounded by empty pews. Good thought though.
I had it on good authority that there would be several faux Catholics in attendance and my observations would bare that out. From the same source I know that the size of the congregation that night was more than average. At least I had an excuse for my spotty attendance record. I didn't pay much attention to the crowd as a whole during the show but instead only focused on a few particular people that caught my eye. It was only during the end that my attention was diverted from the doin's on the stage. I was a little surprised to see a number of people, women especially, putting on hats, mittens and coats getting ready to leave even before the priest had uttered the last amen. Apparently good manners were not on the evenings agenda.
Christmas has to rank high on the list of Catholic events. Easter is up there too. So for such an event, a birthday nonetheless, you could not have dug up any more somber music. What a bore. In the 1500's a rebellious German, John Lennon, nailed a note to that Pope's door that stated he, Lennon, was fatter than Jesus. His bandmate, Paul McCartney, in defense of Mr. Lennon's comments about the Church, offered this: "You should have gospel singing, that'll pull them in. You should be more lively, instead of singing hackneyed old hymns. Everyone's heard them and they're not getting off on them anymore." I agree. There is a gospel hall in my neighbourhood and judging from the music they send bouncing out the windows and doors every Sunday they seem like they are having quite the experience. And I'll be damned for eternity if it isn't catchy. It was actually the music or the promise of some good music that helped me overcome my initial reluctance to attending this mass. In the end I was disappointed. The hymns were as hackneyed as Mr. McCartney claimed.
I'll give these Catholics one thing. They weren't pushy. No Moonies or Scientology weirdness here. There was no pressure to sign up. No incentives other than a vague notion of eternal life.
In summary, I came away a little disappointed with the production as a whole. There were some bright spots in the proceedings. I thought the little meet and greet during was positive. The emcee was all smiles throughout. And they did get us in and out in just under an hour. Good message but they lost me in the presentation. Two stars of Bethlehem out of five.
The comments that follow are not meant as ant-Catholic or anti-religious. Many others in this world have debated the merits, pro and con, far better than I ever could. Think of this as you would a review of a theatre production albeit one in which all aspects of the evening's proceedings, including the audience, were critiqued and which was observed under the influence of large amounts Christmas cheer.
We arrived at the church that evening and were greeted, or so I thought, in the lobby by the priest and an entourage. "Nice touch," I thought. I was wrong. I was all smiles and the group was all smiles but no handshakes were proffered. We had, in fact, arrived late and stumbled in among the makings of the opening procession. So much for trying to observe without disturbing. My group hurried off to take their seats with me in tow to allow the ceremony to begin, disappointed at not having been offered the chance to throw out the ceremonial first pitch.
I think I had already pieced it together that the Catholic Church wasn't shy about putting on a show. It isn't only religious dogma that emanates from Rome and filters down to the small parishes. The Vatican must also have it's own theatre school. For a small fishing village this church was some swanky. Pity they had to spoil it all with stiff wooden benches. Stadium seating can't be far off.
So the architecture was something. It does grab one's attention. A bit morbid in places though, I have to say. A man pinned to a cross isn't exactly the most welcoming of things. Admittedly symbols are lost on me. And for a church that is so down on homosexuals it does look to have been designed and decorated by Liberace.
As the service was conducted in French (a challenge I relish) and Latin (didn't the Dodo speak Latin?) I did feel a little lost. For the first part of my life I was raised Presbyterian and it's hard not to know the general story of Christianity so I got the basic premise here. But I did feel a little like being at an art museum where everyone else in my group but me was wearing one of the self-guided tour headphones, all nodding knowingly. For a few days afterwards I was trying to remember where I had known this feeling before. The answer: any calculus class I'd ever been in. Not that I expected the church to provide it, but it would have been swell to have a play-by-play and colour analyst walking me through this.
So there were many things that I didn't understand. For instance, as the emcee introduced each act and filled the time in between with jokes, I couldn't help but notice a rather stern looking fellow flanking him. He must have been aware and approved of the man's presence because he carried on without skipping a beat. Perhaps it was an over-eager understudy?
As the service progressed I noted how physically demanding it is to be a Catholic. If you were to take a survey of leg strength of regular churchgoers I think you'd find that Catholics would beat Protestants hands down. It wouldn't be sporting to beat them with their hands up. Anyway, lots of up down, up down and hands flailing about. I figure it must have something to do with keeping everyone alert. Keep the blood flowing. Since I was an impartial observer I only stood for the tunes but even at that I was winded by the end. Luckily a handy footrest was provided. So this bunch is not entirely masochistic.
One criticism that has dogged the Catholic Church over the years is one involving money. Lots of money. I think these guys have paid for God's retirement and have shuttled him off to Florida just to take him out of the mix. The ultimate golden parachute. As far as I know, and I've spent years and years not researching this number, the Catholic Church is worth an estimated 800 bazillion dollars. The Pope has a flying car now. What an age we live in.
And how does a group, religious or otherwise, amass such a fortune? I don't know. All I know is that they didn't wait too long to shake down the crowd. Slick. I've never seen such a well-olied collection machine. The priest spoke a few words and a phalanx of cheap suited mafioso swarmed the crowded, knocking old ladies down, grabbing at their purses. Little children were hung from their ankles and shaken to free the last pennies from their pockets. Two of the brutes came for me. I threw a handful of change at them and ducked under a pew. The basket on the long stick was thrust into the space between again and again but I somehow by the grace of someone was not struck. Sensing easier booty elsewhere the pirates moved on. I emerged a few moments later to see the collectors proceeding up the aisle, led by a small woman carrying a big cross. Once at the front the money was piled high in front of the alter. The priest paused the service. The angry looking gentleman that flanked the priest helped him remove his costume. Crossing himself quickly he flung himself onto the pile, rolling about in it as a pig in slop. Shouts of "Hallelujah" filled the room. Moments later he sheepishly got to his feet, donned his robe and took his place behind the alter unaware of the ten dollar bill that was entangled in his hair.
On a positive note there was one portion of the service that I felt was very worthwhile. At one point the emcee asked everyone to join hands. I thought this was effective in breaking down barriers between each other. Of course the effect was mitigated in our group as we were surrounded by empty pews. Good thought though.
I had it on good authority that there would be several faux Catholics in attendance and my observations would bare that out. From the same source I know that the size of the congregation that night was more than average. At least I had an excuse for my spotty attendance record. I didn't pay much attention to the crowd as a whole during the show but instead only focused on a few particular people that caught my eye. It was only during the end that my attention was diverted from the doin's on the stage. I was a little surprised to see a number of people, women especially, putting on hats, mittens and coats getting ready to leave even before the priest had uttered the last amen. Apparently good manners were not on the evenings agenda.
Christmas has to rank high on the list of Catholic events. Easter is up there too. So for such an event, a birthday nonetheless, you could not have dug up any more somber music. What a bore. In the 1500's a rebellious German, John Lennon, nailed a note to that Pope's door that stated he, Lennon, was fatter than Jesus. His bandmate, Paul McCartney, in defense of Mr. Lennon's comments about the Church, offered this: "You should have gospel singing, that'll pull them in. You should be more lively, instead of singing hackneyed old hymns. Everyone's heard them and they're not getting off on them anymore." I agree. There is a gospel hall in my neighbourhood and judging from the music they send bouncing out the windows and doors every Sunday they seem like they are having quite the experience. And I'll be damned for eternity if it isn't catchy. It was actually the music or the promise of some good music that helped me overcome my initial reluctance to attending this mass. In the end I was disappointed. The hymns were as hackneyed as Mr. McCartney claimed.
I'll give these Catholics one thing. They weren't pushy. No Moonies or Scientology weirdness here. There was no pressure to sign up. No incentives other than a vague notion of eternal life.
In summary, I came away a little disappointed with the production as a whole. There were some bright spots in the proceedings. I thought the little meet and greet during was positive. The emcee was all smiles throughout. And they did get us in and out in just under an hour. Good message but they lost me in the presentation. Two stars of Bethlehem out of five.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Hollywood North(east) - Diary of an Extra
"They're gonna put me in the movies.
They're gonna make a big star out of me"
I'm tired. I'm wet. I'm underpaid. And I'm quite content, thank you very much. Bright lights, small city. I don't know if you could call it a dream come true but it was pretty darn good. What follows is what I remember of my time as an extra on a long, often times rainy but generally enjoyable evening/morning spent on the set of 'Jesse Stone: No Remorse' currently filming in Halifax starring Mr. Tom Selleck.
The evening was divided between being 'on set', as we say in the biz, and relaxing in what I'd like to call the green room but is referred to rather disparagingly as the 'holding pen'. Oink. Or baah or moo, depending on the role and if you're union or not. The union extras say 'baah'. And they get paid twice what I got paid to say that. C'est la vie. Climb the ladder, as they say.
The evening started out in the holding...green room. Oh, who am I kidding? It might usually have been a conference room in a swanky downtown hotel most of the time but that night I swear I smelled hay. And the conversations of the other extras came together in a mishmash of sound that could have been mistaken for that of a barnyard. And the coffee tasted like horse sh......... ah, but all part of the experience, no?
This was my first go round at trying my hand at being an extra. I've never acted in a movie before. I've acted out. I've acted up. I've acted my age (or was told to). I've acted as if I didn't care. I've played coy, played up to someone, played dead, played games (head and board) and even played the fool but never acted in a movie. So I was a little anxious going in to this adventure. Scanning the busy room as I entered I guessed that I was in the minority in so much as I was one of the few for whom this was the first time. My first bit of acting for the evening was to do what most people do when placed in a foreign situation. I pretended to know what I was doing and headed for a corner to hide. Luckily I was intercepted by a very nice assistant movie person just a few steps inside the room. I was greeted with a sincere "hello" and a rather off-putting "Are you a gay man?". Having never been asked that question I stammered out a quick "no", followed by a garbled sentence about my girlfriend, managing to put the emphasis on the word 'girl'. Her follow up question, "Passerby then?", set me straight (no pun intended). For the purposes of that night and this article, yes, yes I was a gay man. For that was my role. I was to be one of a dozen or so handsome, sharply dressed young men enjoying each other's company on a patio of a fictitious bar in Boston (all the while ignoring the freezing drizzle that fell outside).
Once my temporary sexual orientation was settled we started work on establishing my physical orientation. I was kindly asked to fill out a few forms and directed towards a table upon which were scattered a number of pens. I took a seat among my brothers (or sisters, whichever way you choose to view it) and set about completing the paperwork. The question about postal codes threw me as I had recently moved. It came to me after a few moments of calmly poking around under the piles of unsorted papers that is my brain. The rest of the information easily fell into place. I returned the completed forms and took up a new position along a wall; a vantage point from which to scan the entire room. This was a new species to me. Movie extra. They must be studied and their speech and mannerisms assimilated. Firstly, however, my airline passenger training kicked into gear and I immediately located the nearest exit as well as an alternate route just in case things went south in a hurry. Don't think I'm nuts either. That room was crowded with people, chairs and tables choking me off from escape should the need have arisen. The air was thick with hairspray and powder. One spark and we all could have gone up in such a spectacular fashion that the director would have kicked himself for weeks after for not having gotten it down on film. Having secured my position next to a coat rack and behind a group of overly excited middle aged women, I settled in for what I expected to be a long twelve hours.
The room was buzzing with activity. Or maybe it was the fluorescent lights. I'm still not sure. But there was certainly a doin's a-transpirin'. Was this what it looks like backstage at a beauty pageant? A community theatre on opening night? I've never seen so much preening and primping. There was also generous amounts of poofing, polishing and posing. Two hair stylists off to one side were doing blockbuster business. Have you ever seen Edward Scissor hands? That is the image that stands out in my mind except that each of them had more colour in their cheeks. I was filled with terror. They attacked each victim with more gusto than the previous, chopping great clumps of hair from each head. So much so that I thought they would soon be blocked from view by a huge mound of discarded hair with only the jets of blood squirting high into the air and the cries of the poor soul in the chair to reveal the hidden horror.
Or maybe they snipped a few centimeters here and there. Hard to say. Memory is a tricky thing. One thing is sure: I panicked. See, I'm a rather hirsute fella on the top end of my being. (It's none of your business what the foliage might be from the neck down.) And I carry a little bit of Elvis with me on either side of my face. I've become rather attached to both groups of fur, physically as well as emotionally. More importantly so has my girlfriend. Do you know how long I've been searching for a girl that will embrace this look as much as I have? Point being, I'd really rather not give it up. I thought I was going to escape a shearing until I was beckoned to take a seat. I trembled as I sank into the chair, resigning myself to Samson's fate. But even that I could not see through to the stories rightful ending as their was only one pillar in the room and it looked pretty stout. I hadn't really had a decent supper so I figured I'd have to exact my revenge another way. Perhaps I'd chew loudly during lunch break? Maybe substitute decaf in all the coffee urns? Yes, that'd show them.
As it turned out my fears were unfounded. The nice hair cutting lady simply wanted to straighten my flowing locks with some odd sort of heating implement and enough spray to hold the leaves on a tree through to February. Sidenote: Ladies, for those of you who torture yourself to look good at the salon with wild chemicals and odd bits of styling thingys, thank you. As it is, according to the lady, my hair has great body. I don't know if it was me just getting into my role but I was then quite proud of myself and even began pitching styling ideas. Had I stayed much longer she and I would be commiserating about how men can be such insensitive jerks.
It was a quick five minutes or so in her capable hands. My hair now lay flat, swooping down and to the right......as opposed to its normal way of laying flat, swooping down and to the left. Subtle. Very subtle. With my hair now completed I thought the next step would be makeup. Contrary to popular belief no one yells "Makeup!", prompting a little man to run from the wings to smack you in the face with a large powder puff. I admit I was somewhat disappointed but there was no time for that. Wardrobe was next.
What with this being Nova Scotia and the film industry in its infancy compared to Hollywood, the wardrobe department consisted of whatever was in my closet that I brought to the set. Newbie that I am I chose the apparently worst possible colour for my jacket. Black. My big acting break might have seen me rendered a lifeless dark blob but a snappy blue shirt and a colourful tie saw to it that my fabulousness would shine through. Crisis averted.
Then it was time. The call came to report to set. This was it.
Overture, curtains, lights
This is it, we'll hit the heights
And oh what heights we'll hit
On with the show this is it!
Ok. So no one rapped on my trailer, shouting "You're needed on set, Mr. Johnson". And, ok, so there was no trailer. There was only someone shouting. But I admit it. I was spellbound. If I was a 19 year old beautiful high school cheerleader from the midwest with dreams of the big time, I'd already have hocked my stereo for bus money and be on my way to Hollywood.
I now know what they mean when they talk about the bright lights of Hollywood. Someone call the airport and see if they're missing any lights. I was blinded. Literally. I missed the first step off the curb and nearly fell on a soundman. I do all my own stunts. I collected myself, trying not to look like such a star-struck rube, and took my assigned place in the scene, sharing a table on the patio with my 'boyfriend'. The night was chilly and a light drizzle was falling. Luckily I'd dressed in layers. A stage hand placed an amber coloured bubbly beverage in front of me. It was half empty (or half full, take your pick). "Bad weather be damned," I thought. "this movie business is pretty sweet." No doubt seeing the dribble of saliva on my chin the stage hand reminded me that the beer was only a prop to be sipped during takes. I was the lucky one. Some of us had to make due with water martinis and grape juice wine. After making last minute arrangements with our little corner of the set she felt it necessary to remind me once again that the beer was a prop.
My neck was on a swivel taking in all the action around me. Across the street I saw a tall gentleman standing stock still. Could that be Tom Selleck? It sure did look like him. But this fellow didn't move a muscle. ....could that be a Tom Selleck mannequin? "Why would they need a Tom Selleck mannequin?" I asked myself. Then I clued in. A stand in.
Being an extra is not exactly work that ranks up there with rocket surgery. Basically the first half of my evening on set was spent repeating the same scene over and over. I bid good evening to my companion and strolled off into in the dark, past the other 'Bostonians' out enjoying the cool autumn air, no doubt on my way to hail one of the many Boston cabs that circled the block. Rinse and repeat.
We were treated well. After repeating the above mentioned scene from a few angles a lunch break was announced. We were then shuttled off to a local church hall to be fed. During breaks away from the set I had been reading the novel "All Quiet On the Western Front" (not to ruin the ending but we won) and in a weird way the movie experience helped me become more involved in the story. Lining up for food, ordered from here to there (albeit politely), exposed to the elements. Aspects of military life, no? I suppose my chow hall experience differs from most accounts of army food that I've heard in that it was actually pretty darn good. They even catered to the needs of the vegetarians amongst us. I did pass on the dessert though. I wasn't sure just what it was that I was looking at. Perhaps a few pieces from the prop department had lost their way amongst all the hubbub. I didn't want to be the guy to eat Tom Selleck's stunt mustache.
From the dining hall we were shuttled back to the holding pen. At various times groups of us were called to the set for various scenes. Shouts of "Where are my sidewalk people?!" and "Street bums to hair please!" could be heard. Me, I grabbed a cup of coffee and my book and settled into a corner. Even though this was an all-night shoot there, inexplicably, next to the real coffee, sat an urn of decaf. Decaf? Huh? More accurately, there sat a mostly untouched urn of decaf. Perhaps some amongst us that night had a cup of decaf because it was at this time, well after midnight, that the holding pen took on the look of a Red Cross station during a hurricane. Bodies were stretched out here and there, grabbing whatever sleep they could. Discarded articles of soggy clothing lay scattered throughout the room. I've already mentioned the coffee urns. Then again I suppose there haven't been many hurricanes during which the victims earned $10 an hour.
A short time later my group was called back to the set to film a slightly different part of the movie at the same location. Different seat at the bar, same boyfriend. Same beer actually. Rain water had accumulated in my friend's 'martini', doubling the volume. Before the cameras rolled we exchanged tips extras used to make it look as if we're having a conversation in the background but really only mumbling gibberish. I chose to go the g-rated route with "vegetables, vegetables, vegetables" while my partner spiced things up a bit with "bulls**t, bulls**t, bulls**t". Am I giving away too many movie secrets?
And suddenly there he was, standing next to me.
The guy from the snack counter. He had a coffee and a sandwich for the director. But behind him was Magnum, P.I. in the flesh. The man is a mutant. He stands 10 feet tall if he's a foot. Shoulders as broad as a Great Lakes steamer. Mustache like a giant caterpillar, the great beast clinging to his upper lip. I trembled in the shadow of this giant and bit my tongue, resisting the urge to ask how Higgins is getting along these days.
Mr. Selleck and the director were conversing about the next scene. High paid actor that he is, his part in the scene consisted of him standing there. But, oh, how he stood there. When the camera wasn't rolling he still stood there, an assistant holding an umbrella over his head. A big umbrella. Someone call Cirque du Soleil. I found their missing tent. I could only surmise that the reason he didn't move around much in the scenes was that he shook the ground so much when he walked.
The night rolled on. We managed to complete a few scenes, Tom and I, before the rains came. Members of the cast and crew, myself included, took shelter beneath that famous mustache, warmed by Tom's nose breath. But even this great man was powerless in the face of Mother Nature. The game was called in the bottom of the 7th due to inclement weather. Mr. Selleck was escorted back to his no-doubt luxuriously appointed suite. The crew began breaking down equipment. The extras were herded back to the holding pen, each of us unable to shake the feeling that we'd left a job undone.
And so the long night that had begun with such excitement ended with a whimper. It came from my own mouth. Stepping out into the street from the hotel it began to rain heavier. Good luck finding a cab at this hour of the morning. Pulling the collar of my jacket up I started the long trek home. "Did Tom start out like this?" I asked myself. A car passing by splashed puddle water on me. Climb the ladder, as they say.
David Johnson © 2008
They're gonna make a big star out of me"
I'm tired. I'm wet. I'm underpaid. And I'm quite content, thank you very much. Bright lights, small city. I don't know if you could call it a dream come true but it was pretty darn good. What follows is what I remember of my time as an extra on a long, often times rainy but generally enjoyable evening/morning spent on the set of 'Jesse Stone: No Remorse' currently filming in Halifax starring Mr. Tom Selleck.
The evening was divided between being 'on set', as we say in the biz, and relaxing in what I'd like to call the green room but is referred to rather disparagingly as the 'holding pen'. Oink. Or baah or moo, depending on the role and if you're union or not. The union extras say 'baah'. And they get paid twice what I got paid to say that. C'est la vie. Climb the ladder, as they say.
The evening started out in the holding...green room. Oh, who am I kidding? It might usually have been a conference room in a swanky downtown hotel most of the time but that night I swear I smelled hay. And the conversations of the other extras came together in a mishmash of sound that could have been mistaken for that of a barnyard. And the coffee tasted like horse sh......... ah, but all part of the experience, no?
This was my first go round at trying my hand at being an extra. I've never acted in a movie before. I've acted out. I've acted up. I've acted my age (or was told to). I've acted as if I didn't care. I've played coy, played up to someone, played dead, played games (head and board) and even played the fool but never acted in a movie. So I was a little anxious going in to this adventure. Scanning the busy room as I entered I guessed that I was in the minority in so much as I was one of the few for whom this was the first time. My first bit of acting for the evening was to do what most people do when placed in a foreign situation. I pretended to know what I was doing and headed for a corner to hide. Luckily I was intercepted by a very nice assistant movie person just a few steps inside the room. I was greeted with a sincere "hello" and a rather off-putting "Are you a gay man?". Having never been asked that question I stammered out a quick "no", followed by a garbled sentence about my girlfriend, managing to put the emphasis on the word 'girl'. Her follow up question, "Passerby then?", set me straight (no pun intended). For the purposes of that night and this article, yes, yes I was a gay man. For that was my role. I was to be one of a dozen or so handsome, sharply dressed young men enjoying each other's company on a patio of a fictitious bar in Boston (all the while ignoring the freezing drizzle that fell outside).
Once my temporary sexual orientation was settled we started work on establishing my physical orientation. I was kindly asked to fill out a few forms and directed towards a table upon which were scattered a number of pens. I took a seat among my brothers (or sisters, whichever way you choose to view it) and set about completing the paperwork. The question about postal codes threw me as I had recently moved. It came to me after a few moments of calmly poking around under the piles of unsorted papers that is my brain. The rest of the information easily fell into place. I returned the completed forms and took up a new position along a wall; a vantage point from which to scan the entire room. This was a new species to me. Movie extra. They must be studied and their speech and mannerisms assimilated. Firstly, however, my airline passenger training kicked into gear and I immediately located the nearest exit as well as an alternate route just in case things went south in a hurry. Don't think I'm nuts either. That room was crowded with people, chairs and tables choking me off from escape should the need have arisen. The air was thick with hairspray and powder. One spark and we all could have gone up in such a spectacular fashion that the director would have kicked himself for weeks after for not having gotten it down on film. Having secured my position next to a coat rack and behind a group of overly excited middle aged women, I settled in for what I expected to be a long twelve hours.
The room was buzzing with activity. Or maybe it was the fluorescent lights. I'm still not sure. But there was certainly a doin's a-transpirin'. Was this what it looks like backstage at a beauty pageant? A community theatre on opening night? I've never seen so much preening and primping. There was also generous amounts of poofing, polishing and posing. Two hair stylists off to one side were doing blockbuster business. Have you ever seen Edward Scissor hands? That is the image that stands out in my mind except that each of them had more colour in their cheeks. I was filled with terror. They attacked each victim with more gusto than the previous, chopping great clumps of hair from each head. So much so that I thought they would soon be blocked from view by a huge mound of discarded hair with only the jets of blood squirting high into the air and the cries of the poor soul in the chair to reveal the hidden horror.
Or maybe they snipped a few centimeters here and there. Hard to say. Memory is a tricky thing. One thing is sure: I panicked. See, I'm a rather hirsute fella on the top end of my being. (It's none of your business what the foliage might be from the neck down.) And I carry a little bit of Elvis with me on either side of my face. I've become rather attached to both groups of fur, physically as well as emotionally. More importantly so has my girlfriend. Do you know how long I've been searching for a girl that will embrace this look as much as I have? Point being, I'd really rather not give it up. I thought I was going to escape a shearing until I was beckoned to take a seat. I trembled as I sank into the chair, resigning myself to Samson's fate. But even that I could not see through to the stories rightful ending as their was only one pillar in the room and it looked pretty stout. I hadn't really had a decent supper so I figured I'd have to exact my revenge another way. Perhaps I'd chew loudly during lunch break? Maybe substitute decaf in all the coffee urns? Yes, that'd show them.
As it turned out my fears were unfounded. The nice hair cutting lady simply wanted to straighten my flowing locks with some odd sort of heating implement and enough spray to hold the leaves on a tree through to February. Sidenote: Ladies, for those of you who torture yourself to look good at the salon with wild chemicals and odd bits of styling thingys, thank you. As it is, according to the lady, my hair has great body. I don't know if it was me just getting into my role but I was then quite proud of myself and even began pitching styling ideas. Had I stayed much longer she and I would be commiserating about how men can be such insensitive jerks.
It was a quick five minutes or so in her capable hands. My hair now lay flat, swooping down and to the right......as opposed to its normal way of laying flat, swooping down and to the left. Subtle. Very subtle. With my hair now completed I thought the next step would be makeup. Contrary to popular belief no one yells "Makeup!", prompting a little man to run from the wings to smack you in the face with a large powder puff. I admit I was somewhat disappointed but there was no time for that. Wardrobe was next.
What with this being Nova Scotia and the film industry in its infancy compared to Hollywood, the wardrobe department consisted of whatever was in my closet that I brought to the set. Newbie that I am I chose the apparently worst possible colour for my jacket. Black. My big acting break might have seen me rendered a lifeless dark blob but a snappy blue shirt and a colourful tie saw to it that my fabulousness would shine through. Crisis averted.
Then it was time. The call came to report to set. This was it.
Overture, curtains, lights
This is it, we'll hit the heights
And oh what heights we'll hit
On with the show this is it!
Ok. So no one rapped on my trailer, shouting "You're needed on set, Mr. Johnson". And, ok, so there was no trailer. There was only someone shouting. But I admit it. I was spellbound. If I was a 19 year old beautiful high school cheerleader from the midwest with dreams of the big time, I'd already have hocked my stereo for bus money and be on my way to Hollywood.
I now know what they mean when they talk about the bright lights of Hollywood. Someone call the airport and see if they're missing any lights. I was blinded. Literally. I missed the first step off the curb and nearly fell on a soundman. I do all my own stunts. I collected myself, trying not to look like such a star-struck rube, and took my assigned place in the scene, sharing a table on the patio with my 'boyfriend'. The night was chilly and a light drizzle was falling. Luckily I'd dressed in layers. A stage hand placed an amber coloured bubbly beverage in front of me. It was half empty (or half full, take your pick). "Bad weather be damned," I thought. "this movie business is pretty sweet." No doubt seeing the dribble of saliva on my chin the stage hand reminded me that the beer was only a prop to be sipped during takes. I was the lucky one. Some of us had to make due with water martinis and grape juice wine. After making last minute arrangements with our little corner of the set she felt it necessary to remind me once again that the beer was a prop.
My neck was on a swivel taking in all the action around me. Across the street I saw a tall gentleman standing stock still. Could that be Tom Selleck? It sure did look like him. But this fellow didn't move a muscle. ....could that be a Tom Selleck mannequin? "Why would they need a Tom Selleck mannequin?" I asked myself. Then I clued in. A stand in.
Being an extra is not exactly work that ranks up there with rocket surgery. Basically the first half of my evening on set was spent repeating the same scene over and over. I bid good evening to my companion and strolled off into in the dark, past the other 'Bostonians' out enjoying the cool autumn air, no doubt on my way to hail one of the many Boston cabs that circled the block. Rinse and repeat.
We were treated well. After repeating the above mentioned scene from a few angles a lunch break was announced. We were then shuttled off to a local church hall to be fed. During breaks away from the set I had been reading the novel "All Quiet On the Western Front" (not to ruin the ending but we won) and in a weird way the movie experience helped me become more involved in the story. Lining up for food, ordered from here to there (albeit politely), exposed to the elements. Aspects of military life, no? I suppose my chow hall experience differs from most accounts of army food that I've heard in that it was actually pretty darn good. They even catered to the needs of the vegetarians amongst us. I did pass on the dessert though. I wasn't sure just what it was that I was looking at. Perhaps a few pieces from the prop department had lost their way amongst all the hubbub. I didn't want to be the guy to eat Tom Selleck's stunt mustache.
From the dining hall we were shuttled back to the holding pen. At various times groups of us were called to the set for various scenes. Shouts of "Where are my sidewalk people?!" and "Street bums to hair please!" could be heard. Me, I grabbed a cup of coffee and my book and settled into a corner. Even though this was an all-night shoot there, inexplicably, next to the real coffee, sat an urn of decaf. Decaf? Huh? More accurately, there sat a mostly untouched urn of decaf. Perhaps some amongst us that night had a cup of decaf because it was at this time, well after midnight, that the holding pen took on the look of a Red Cross station during a hurricane. Bodies were stretched out here and there, grabbing whatever sleep they could. Discarded articles of soggy clothing lay scattered throughout the room. I've already mentioned the coffee urns. Then again I suppose there haven't been many hurricanes during which the victims earned $10 an hour.
A short time later my group was called back to the set to film a slightly different part of the movie at the same location. Different seat at the bar, same boyfriend. Same beer actually. Rain water had accumulated in my friend's 'martini', doubling the volume. Before the cameras rolled we exchanged tips extras used to make it look as if we're having a conversation in the background but really only mumbling gibberish. I chose to go the g-rated route with "vegetables, vegetables, vegetables" while my partner spiced things up a bit with "bulls**t, bulls**t, bulls**t". Am I giving away too many movie secrets?
And suddenly there he was, standing next to me.
The guy from the snack counter. He had a coffee and a sandwich for the director. But behind him was Magnum, P.I. in the flesh. The man is a mutant. He stands 10 feet tall if he's a foot. Shoulders as broad as a Great Lakes steamer. Mustache like a giant caterpillar, the great beast clinging to his upper lip. I trembled in the shadow of this giant and bit my tongue, resisting the urge to ask how Higgins is getting along these days.
Mr. Selleck and the director were conversing about the next scene. High paid actor that he is, his part in the scene consisted of him standing there. But, oh, how he stood there. When the camera wasn't rolling he still stood there, an assistant holding an umbrella over his head. A big umbrella. Someone call Cirque du Soleil. I found their missing tent. I could only surmise that the reason he didn't move around much in the scenes was that he shook the ground so much when he walked.
The night rolled on. We managed to complete a few scenes, Tom and I, before the rains came. Members of the cast and crew, myself included, took shelter beneath that famous mustache, warmed by Tom's nose breath. But even this great man was powerless in the face of Mother Nature. The game was called in the bottom of the 7th due to inclement weather. Mr. Selleck was escorted back to his no-doubt luxuriously appointed suite. The crew began breaking down equipment. The extras were herded back to the holding pen, each of us unable to shake the feeling that we'd left a job undone.
And so the long night that had begun with such excitement ended with a whimper. It came from my own mouth. Stepping out into the street from the hotel it began to rain heavier. Good luck finding a cab at this hour of the morning. Pulling the collar of my jacket up I started the long trek home. "Did Tom start out like this?" I asked myself. A car passing by splashed puddle water on me. Climb the ladder, as they say.
David Johnson © 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
Cape Breton
The following is an opinion piece. It is not my entry for the latest Tourism Nova Scotia contest. For those of you prone to phone up call-in radio shows and ask “Wat’s da govment gonna do bout dat?!”, save me the trouble and move along. There is a cracked sidewalk that is need of your attention.
Once I became aware of the outside world, or once I was no longer afraid to travel alone through it, Cape Breton Island to me became like a drunken brother who was always in trouble with the law. He is an embarrassment and most times you are ashamed to be seen with him but at the end of the day you have to love him because he is your brother.
Cape Bretoners are outsiders by reasons of geography, economy and politics. Popular sentiment (not me, blame them) has it that only Newfoundlanders occupy a lower rung on the Canadian social ladder. However there is a silver lining. Being the outsider affords someone the opportunity of an incredible vantage point from which to observe the supposed in-crowd. (At least the opportunity is there on offer. Not everyone will take advantage of it.) Canadians observe our neighbours to the south (with little chance of garnering any attention in return). Maritimers in turn observe much of the rest of the country (they’ve got their eyes on you, Alberta, Ontario) without attracting much attention aside from being thought of as fisherman and welfare recipients. Cape Bretoners can sit back (after we’ve collected enough stamps) and take it all in. And that leaves Newfoundland as the last point on the scale, geographically and socially. Those cats have no position to fall back on. But I think this is why Newfoundland has produced such a number of great political junkies and satirists. They can see the whole game board.
So there are things about Cape Breton and its inhabitants that I do admire. The quiet observers. In school I was always off to the side of the classroom. I was never the most popular kid or the class clown. Neither was I the most unpopular kid. Sweet, comfortable anonymity. No, it didn’t take me too long to figure out the best way to approach this silly school business was to do what I had to do, keep my mouth shut, ears and eyes open and keep out of the line of fire. I enjoy reading the history of WWI and the history of Canadians in that war. With stories like the ones recorded during that time it is inevitable that I imagine myself fighting in the mud in France and that I would take the same approach there too in order to survive. I wouldn’t be the gung-ho, natural born leader type who really is just the first guy to get his guts shot to pieces. Neither would I be the jerk that ‘accidentally’ gets shot in the back when no one was looking. No, I would do what I had to do, keep my mouth shut, ears and eyes open and keep out of the line of fire. (Side note: along with ‘No fear, no envy, no meanness’, this is the best I have yet come up with for a guide to this world.)
But I digress (another supposed Cape Breton trait. Look around the word people. Everyone is long winded and boring.). Long story short it is the outsider that is in the better position to size up the other guy. As in ‘I know what you think you look like but here’s what’s really happening.’ The Emperor’s New Clothes-type stuff. So that is a handy trait which Cape Bretoners are more likely to possess. They don’t hold a monopoly on it though.
Powers of observation lead to conclusions and assumptions. And since the subject has their back turned, metaphorically speaking, the daggers start dropping out of sleeves. Wit and sarcasm will creep in. Blessed are those that wield the power of wit and sarcasm expertly. Remember your war training! Quick and deadly. And the lower down the chain of command the lower the respect for authority and the more direct the language and message. There is an old British comedy skit that illustrates my point. In the skit there are three men standing shoulder to shoulder; one is tall and exceptionally well dressed, the man in the middle represents just that, the middle class, the last man is the shortest and is dressed in soiled work clothes. The tall man looks down at the middle man and says,”I have a feeling of superiority over him”. The middle man looks up at the tall man and says, “I have a feeling of inferiority towards him”, and turning towards the small man, “but a feeling of superiority over him”. The smaller mans looks up at the other two men and says,”I get a pain in the back of my neck.”
I don’t mean to imply that all CEO’s and bankers are smug, no-nothings just as I don’t mean to imply that all blue collar people (the supposed model Cape Bretoners) possess biting wit. No, I’ve crossed paths with too many people that call Cape Breton home that I wouldn’t trust to sit right way round on a toilet. ….actually come to think about it most CEO’s are probably pricks. Brown shirts. You don’t get that high without having stepped on a few necks.
My longwinded point is that due to geographic and social (political, economic) circumstances children in Cape Breton are given an opportunity to develop observational and piss-taking skills. Please encourage all children to do so. What a gift! But remember, no meaness. If you’re going to insult at least be clever and select a deserving target. It can’t be called “picking on” if they are bigger than you. Stupid maybe but not mean. So if you have this gift don’t be smug. Yield this power wisely.
I also like the nice beaches there. I am programmed for life now so that I can now swim just about anywhere in the world at just about any time of the year and can’t help but make that stupid joke, “It’s nice once you get in”. I’m hokey. Country seasoned.
Points deduction for those of you that have ever used the phrase “God’s Country” with a straight face when describing your particular happy spot on the island. Granted my travel in this world has been limited but I have heard that phrase used in every province, county, city, town, camping site, (state, county, etc, etc) that I have ever been in and it’s been said with more conviction. But wait. That’s a good thing. Although you may think that Americans overuse the phrase Albertans are no slouches. And yay, the Lord did create Alberta and He pronounced it good. And lo, He did sit a spell. And the Lord did take a shine to the place.
There are areas of Cape Breton that rival any in the country for beauty. No doubt. After all Alexander Graham Bell was no dummy. He heard good things about the place and looked us up. Someone had to tap his wife on the elbow. (I know this because I read it on a placemat in a restaurant.) Tourism should be the bread and butter. Industrial Cape Breton, so called, although rich in history, is not one of these beautiful places. It is just plain ugly. It’s utilitarian. …but that would imply some level of function. There is a certain look that occurs in most of Canada during the early spring. Snow melts to reveal dead grass, old chip bags and thawing dog crap. Industrial Cape Breton somehow manages to maintain that look 365 days a year.
And give up this arrogant notion that Cape Breton is an oasis from fear and crime and hate and violence and prejudice. We, you, us, yous are not the people chosen to be the sole dispensers of kindness, generosity and hospitality on this planet. There are plenty of fine examples of each of the two extremes on Cape Breton Island just as anywhere else in the world.
And one other thing. Cape Bretoners are infinitely divisible. Or can you only fold them eight times? I get those mixed up. Anyway despite what the propaganda (just riling the older crowd now…I’ve lost my focus and I’m already as bored of this article as you.) might say, the “we” in “we are a people…” exists only when it can most benefit the speaker. Sure we stand shoulder to shoulder in good times and aren’t we all filled with pride when celebrating the Island’s (white) history and culture. But it doesn’t take much for us to turn on each other. During funding crunches towns battle towns, school boards battle school boards. High school students guarantee both a good game and a good post game fight. Neighbours eye other neighbours suspiciously, each convinced of the other’s insanity and weird house smell. Workers in offices and shops take up sides and feast on the individual. Basically just as vicious and cutthroat and selfish and HUMAN as all those other people “from away”. But God help anyone from the outside that dares have a go at the Island, even if it is on target. Then the ranks close. Sociologists, help me out. What is this behaviour called? Gang mentality? Anyway pride goeth before a fall. And at your age that’s a guaranteed broken hip.
Lastly, why this fascination with death and injury and infirmity and illness and age? “Did you hear so and so’s mom passed?” “Oh, they’re after takin’ the other leg now. Diabetes, you know.” “The doctor got me on the medication for my bladder”. “No, can’t around like I used to though. Getting’ old.” Wakes are a spectator sport. And of course the less of an acquaintance you are the more inclined they are to tell you their complete medical history and that of their wife. Or “the wife”, missus, ball and chain, etc. To you dumb hicks that do this to your wives I reserve the greatest amount of bile. Invariably the pigs that use these phrases are just that: pigs. Fat, disgusting, Viagra-chewing lumps. When you proposed to her did you remember to tell her that twenty or thirty years down the road that you would cease to even refer to her by her own name in conversations with your buddies? And that blonde that walked on by, for sure she wants to sit right on your lap. No. She doesn’t. You’re vile. And why do you wait in the car when she goes in to shop at the mall? If it was a friend you would go in. Why did you even marry this person? How can you call yourself a man? Do me a favour and save Mother Nature the trouble please. Or at the very least be a gentleman.
You must know I’m not naïve enough to believe that any of my vision for the world, be it this list of do’s and do not do’s or some of my later, darker work, shall come to pass. No, it will go unheeded with everyone else’s visions. Just another scrap of paper pinned to the great community centre bulletin board that is the internets. So be it. I’m ducking back out of the line of fire now.
Once I became aware of the outside world, or once I was no longer afraid to travel alone through it, Cape Breton Island to me became like a drunken brother who was always in trouble with the law. He is an embarrassment and most times you are ashamed to be seen with him but at the end of the day you have to love him because he is your brother.
Cape Bretoners are outsiders by reasons of geography, economy and politics. Popular sentiment (not me, blame them) has it that only Newfoundlanders occupy a lower rung on the Canadian social ladder. However there is a silver lining. Being the outsider affords someone the opportunity of an incredible vantage point from which to observe the supposed in-crowd. (At least the opportunity is there on offer. Not everyone will take advantage of it.) Canadians observe our neighbours to the south (with little chance of garnering any attention in return). Maritimers in turn observe much of the rest of the country (they’ve got their eyes on you, Alberta, Ontario) without attracting much attention aside from being thought of as fisherman and welfare recipients. Cape Bretoners can sit back (after we’ve collected enough stamps) and take it all in. And that leaves Newfoundland as the last point on the scale, geographically and socially. Those cats have no position to fall back on. But I think this is why Newfoundland has produced such a number of great political junkies and satirists. They can see the whole game board.
So there are things about Cape Breton and its inhabitants that I do admire. The quiet observers. In school I was always off to the side of the classroom. I was never the most popular kid or the class clown. Neither was I the most unpopular kid. Sweet, comfortable anonymity. No, it didn’t take me too long to figure out the best way to approach this silly school business was to do what I had to do, keep my mouth shut, ears and eyes open and keep out of the line of fire. I enjoy reading the history of WWI and the history of Canadians in that war. With stories like the ones recorded during that time it is inevitable that I imagine myself fighting in the mud in France and that I would take the same approach there too in order to survive. I wouldn’t be the gung-ho, natural born leader type who really is just the first guy to get his guts shot to pieces. Neither would I be the jerk that ‘accidentally’ gets shot in the back when no one was looking. No, I would do what I had to do, keep my mouth shut, ears and eyes open and keep out of the line of fire. (Side note: along with ‘No fear, no envy, no meanness’, this is the best I have yet come up with for a guide to this world.)
But I digress (another supposed Cape Breton trait. Look around the word people. Everyone is long winded and boring.). Long story short it is the outsider that is in the better position to size up the other guy. As in ‘I know what you think you look like but here’s what’s really happening.’ The Emperor’s New Clothes-type stuff. So that is a handy trait which Cape Bretoners are more likely to possess. They don’t hold a monopoly on it though.
Powers of observation lead to conclusions and assumptions. And since the subject has their back turned, metaphorically speaking, the daggers start dropping out of sleeves. Wit and sarcasm will creep in. Blessed are those that wield the power of wit and sarcasm expertly. Remember your war training! Quick and deadly. And the lower down the chain of command the lower the respect for authority and the more direct the language and message. There is an old British comedy skit that illustrates my point. In the skit there are three men standing shoulder to shoulder; one is tall and exceptionally well dressed, the man in the middle represents just that, the middle class, the last man is the shortest and is dressed in soiled work clothes. The tall man looks down at the middle man and says,”I have a feeling of superiority over him”. The middle man looks up at the tall man and says, “I have a feeling of inferiority towards him”, and turning towards the small man, “but a feeling of superiority over him”. The smaller mans looks up at the other two men and says,”I get a pain in the back of my neck.”
I don’t mean to imply that all CEO’s and bankers are smug, no-nothings just as I don’t mean to imply that all blue collar people (the supposed model Cape Bretoners) possess biting wit. No, I’ve crossed paths with too many people that call Cape Breton home that I wouldn’t trust to sit right way round on a toilet. ….actually come to think about it most CEO’s are probably pricks. Brown shirts. You don’t get that high without having stepped on a few necks.
My longwinded point is that due to geographic and social (political, economic) circumstances children in Cape Breton are given an opportunity to develop observational and piss-taking skills. Please encourage all children to do so. What a gift! But remember, no meaness. If you’re going to insult at least be clever and select a deserving target. It can’t be called “picking on” if they are bigger than you. Stupid maybe but not mean. So if you have this gift don’t be smug. Yield this power wisely.
I also like the nice beaches there. I am programmed for life now so that I can now swim just about anywhere in the world at just about any time of the year and can’t help but make that stupid joke, “It’s nice once you get in”. I’m hokey. Country seasoned.
Points deduction for those of you that have ever used the phrase “God’s Country” with a straight face when describing your particular happy spot on the island. Granted my travel in this world has been limited but I have heard that phrase used in every province, county, city, town, camping site, (state, county, etc, etc) that I have ever been in and it’s been said with more conviction. But wait. That’s a good thing. Although you may think that Americans overuse the phrase Albertans are no slouches. And yay, the Lord did create Alberta and He pronounced it good. And lo, He did sit a spell. And the Lord did take a shine to the place.
There are areas of Cape Breton that rival any in the country for beauty. No doubt. After all Alexander Graham Bell was no dummy. He heard good things about the place and looked us up. Someone had to tap his wife on the elbow. (I know this because I read it on a placemat in a restaurant.) Tourism should be the bread and butter. Industrial Cape Breton, so called, although rich in history, is not one of these beautiful places. It is just plain ugly. It’s utilitarian. …but that would imply some level of function. There is a certain look that occurs in most of Canada during the early spring. Snow melts to reveal dead grass, old chip bags and thawing dog crap. Industrial Cape Breton somehow manages to maintain that look 365 days a year.
And give up this arrogant notion that Cape Breton is an oasis from fear and crime and hate and violence and prejudice. We, you, us, yous are not the people chosen to be the sole dispensers of kindness, generosity and hospitality on this planet. There are plenty of fine examples of each of the two extremes on Cape Breton Island just as anywhere else in the world.
And one other thing. Cape Bretoners are infinitely divisible. Or can you only fold them eight times? I get those mixed up. Anyway despite what the propaganda (just riling the older crowd now…I’ve lost my focus and I’m already as bored of this article as you.) might say, the “we” in “we are a people…” exists only when it can most benefit the speaker. Sure we stand shoulder to shoulder in good times and aren’t we all filled with pride when celebrating the Island’s (white) history and culture. But it doesn’t take much for us to turn on each other. During funding crunches towns battle towns, school boards battle school boards. High school students guarantee both a good game and a good post game fight. Neighbours eye other neighbours suspiciously, each convinced of the other’s insanity and weird house smell. Workers in offices and shops take up sides and feast on the individual. Basically just as vicious and cutthroat and selfish and HUMAN as all those other people “from away”. But God help anyone from the outside that dares have a go at the Island, even if it is on target. Then the ranks close. Sociologists, help me out. What is this behaviour called? Gang mentality? Anyway pride goeth before a fall. And at your age that’s a guaranteed broken hip.
Lastly, why this fascination with death and injury and infirmity and illness and age? “Did you hear so and so’s mom passed?” “Oh, they’re after takin’ the other leg now. Diabetes, you know.” “The doctor got me on the medication for my bladder”. “No, can’t around like I used to though. Getting’ old.” Wakes are a spectator sport. And of course the less of an acquaintance you are the more inclined they are to tell you their complete medical history and that of their wife. Or “the wife”, missus, ball and chain, etc. To you dumb hicks that do this to your wives I reserve the greatest amount of bile. Invariably the pigs that use these phrases are just that: pigs. Fat, disgusting, Viagra-chewing lumps. When you proposed to her did you remember to tell her that twenty or thirty years down the road that you would cease to even refer to her by her own name in conversations with your buddies? And that blonde that walked on by, for sure she wants to sit right on your lap. No. She doesn’t. You’re vile. And why do you wait in the car when she goes in to shop at the mall? If it was a friend you would go in. Why did you even marry this person? How can you call yourself a man? Do me a favour and save Mother Nature the trouble please. Or at the very least be a gentleman.
You must know I’m not naïve enough to believe that any of my vision for the world, be it this list of do’s and do not do’s or some of my later, darker work, shall come to pass. No, it will go unheeded with everyone else’s visions. Just another scrap of paper pinned to the great community centre bulletin board that is the internets. So be it. I’m ducking back out of the line of fire now.
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