Friday, February 24, 2006

Hollywood measuring stick.

Shooting for "Decoys:Rebirth" has been going very, very well.
A couple of days ago we did a party scene at the U of Alberta campus bar featuring the musical stylings of local ska band (Mad Bomber Society) and a packed dance floor with only the best beauties Edmonton has to offer. But I felt, after submitting my character 'Nick' to rigorous dramaturgical analysis, I needed something more. Something to give "Nick" a 'third dimension'.

I asked the director for a cougar.

. . . and no, I don't mean the kind of cougar that steals babies out of splashing pools in the backyards of Southern California.
A real, "experienced" lady.

A call was put in to the casting director, and a cougar was produced.
When I met her, I tried to be diplomatic:

B- "Hi! I play 'Nick'; they've told me that you're my date for this scene. Nice to--"
C- "--I'm your 'cougar'. Nice to meet you, too!"

I can honestly say, there is no business like show business.

As I approach my late twenties, I've realised that there really is no male equivalent to the graceful transition from 'college hottie' to 'cougar'; there is just "horny young guy" and "dirty old man". I've begun my steady march downhill. Oh snap indeed.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Exterminate with extreme cleavage.

Friends and lovers,

It is a deep pleasure to tell you all that I am currently shooting the sequel to that blockbuster sci-fi horror classic "Decoys".

Not this kind of decoy:

This kind of Decoy:

Appearing in "Decoys 2:Rebirth" realises a lifelong dream of mine to perform in a genre of film that has occupied more shelf space in my voluminous film collection than any other.
A synopsis for the original chiller thriller read:

". . . college boys find themselves in a scary position when they make the discovery that some of the most lovely coeds on campus are actually aliens in disguise who are using sexuality as a means to conquer Earth"

Decoys 2, though not yet encapsulated so succinctly, might read:

". . . college boys once again find themselves in a scary position when they re-discover that some of the second most lovely coeds on campus are actually aliens in disguise who are using sexuality as a means to conquer Earth. . . only this time, fo' sho'!"

It's a much lighter take on Extra Terrestrial domination than Steven Spielberg's laugh-dry snorefest "War of the Worlds", and there is (I promise) considerably more frontal nudity. There has even been threats of my own nakedness--look for my bare barrel chest and soft milky shoulders to be tastefully lit for the sake of advancing my subplot.

As scripted, two aliens attempt to seduce me "using sexuality"--but suffering for one's art has become a hallmark of mine since receiving simulated fellatio from a man in a hot tub during the "Undressed" years. The indomitable Joel Greenberg, an acting professor, director, and friend whom I greatly respect used to tell us to "earn it" when referring to actions on the stage; after reviewing the script, I am proud to say that Screenwriter Miguel Tejada-Flores has given me the tools with which I may earn the T&A placed before me.

I promise you, in all the solemnity blogging will allow, that when I say, "She wants to jump your bones, bro--what're you waiting for?" I say it for you. . . the people who got me where I am today.

Please direct all well-wishes to my agent.

Much love,

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

"Do you heart Alberta beef, punk?"

My brother-in-law J was in town visiting and I decided there was no better way to get him into an 'Alberta state of mind' than to take him shooting.

Now try to keep your socks on, my old Ontario friends! Don't go thinking that I'm going to take the scotch off my deer hoof gun rack, take the rack off the wall, and mount it in the back window of my pick up; I'm not there. . . yet. I just wanted to show him something distinctly Western that didn't involve 'Brokeback Mountin' or throwing all my recyclables in the garbage. And since he's over 19 the thrill of a lower age of majority in the province (18 years) was lost on him--so shooting it was.

We chose the 'Dirty Harry' gun, a .44 Magnum; and an S&W .40 Cal. Very fun little pea shooters.

While waiting to get our guns, but after we had signed a waiver stating that, in the event we face the guns anywhere but down the shooting range, we release "The Shooting Edge" from any legal liability if they take us out. Dudes wear sidearms and extra clips while walking around the store. They're ready for shit to go down. Two clips worth of shit to go down. Anyway, while we're waiting this freaky looking Albino (they're all freaky looking, I suppose) starts telling some cock and bull story to the store owner:

A- ". . . I'm gonna use this to settle a score."
O- " . . . ?"
A- "I live down in Alabama, and there's this great son-of-a-bitchin' alligator which ate my dog. I'm gonna use this here gun to kill 'em."

Yes. And how does one respond to a statement like that? A statement like that from an Albino?

O- "What kind of dog did you have?"
A- "Had a Rottweiler. Damn 'gator. But I'll get 'em."
O- "How big is the alligator?"
A- "Fifteen feet--thereabouts. I don't know what that is in metric."

How thoughtful.

He packed up his gun box--the Albino has to wait a day or two to collect his handgun--and his laser sight, and left. I don't think anyone knew what to say. I'm not even sure anyone wanted to say anything, just in case the Albino was listening and came back and shot us.

I was asking our 'Ranger' how business was, and he said that when Paul Martin threatened to outlaw handguns during the election, they nearly sold out of handguns. The 'Ranger' said, jokingly, "Everyone in Calgary must have a gun now. Man, we were busy!". Thanks, Paul. You've started an arms race in suburban Calgary. All I've got is a baseball bat under my bed; how am I supposed to protect myself from my neighbours? And what about the sewer gators?!?
Gonna have to get me a gun.

Red means 'stop'. . . or 'blood'.

My lovely wife E loves to ski.
It's her most favourite winter sport ever.

I do not come from an athletic family.
Not even mildly athletic.
My most favourite winter sport is bowling. I can bowl like the devil.
5 or 10 pin, it don't matter to the Jesus.

Living within spitting distance of the mountains now means that every morning when I wake up, my lovely wife reminds me that we should go skiing. Because we're "soooo close". When I lived close to 'Jilly's Gentlemen's Club' in Toronto, the same logic did not follow.

I relented last weekend, and while waiting for my ski lesson to begin, my lovely wife came to visit me--I was sunning myself on a bench, soaking up the 'good life'. I stood, like all gentlemen should, to greet her. She was still coasting along on her skis, and moving fast enough that, if left to gravity, she would have slid right past me. To make sure that no such affront was made, so stuck her ski pole out in front of her, like a lance, and stopped herself in a timely manner by jamming the ski pole into my crotch.
Not my thigh.
Not my stomach.
My balls.

Suspiciously, this act followed close on the heels to a discussion we had after watching a reality programme featuring families with little Holy Terrors, wherein she said, "We are--I AM NOT--having children."
Well, darling, not if you keep that up.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Don't give me the Conch!

It is baffling to me how I became the #1 Yahoo Search result for:
what can I do when i don't feel appreciated by my girlfriend?

The fact that I successfully navigated my girlfriend from sinful living into a marriage proves nothing.

My advice?
1) Dutch Ovens. Do them often, with no apologies.
2) Get "caught" giving yourself some "appreciation" (read: jerking off).
3) Cry for no reason and, when asked, tell her "It's nothing. Nevermind."
4) Kill her pet--grief can bring people together.
5) Leave an MSN conversation window open on her computer wherein a user named "Kitty_80" constantly says, "LOL! You are so FUNNY!!"; "That's a great picture of you! ;)"; and "I can't believe that you gorilla slammed that midget at the bar the other night!!"
6) Pretend to be talking on your cell phone, and when she enters the room start laughing until tears come to your eyes, spot her, and tell the person on the other end, 'Gotta go'. Then hang up.
7) Buy a Pilates DVD and start doing it at her place religiously.
8) Bake yourself cookies and don't share.
9) Give her the finger while she sleeps, just to blow off some steam.
10) Send yourself a mock-up 'Boyfriend of the Year!' certificate and open it in front of her. Then say, in your most withering tone, 'This certainly couldn't be from you. . . does your mother have my/our address?'

This may give the under-appreciated males woefully searching Yahoo a much needed shot in the arm.

. . . Mail Order brides from 2nd and 3rd World countries may also be the answer.

With the popularity of Brokeback Mountain girls need to remember that in the 21st Century guys have choices. So always remember that YOU'RE A WONDERFUL INDIVIDUAL. . .no matter what a stinky girl thinks of you!

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Can't Fight Fate

Where do you not sing along with Taylor Dayne's "With Every Beat of My Heart" while wearing a beret and buying NY Cheesecake with a pink tube of 'writing icing' and bananas?

In line behind two dudes buying steak in a downtown Calgary Safeway next to Stephen Harper's riding.

Stopping mid-conversation to turn around and look at me, the only answer I had for them was:

B- "This was an awesome single."

I don't know why I was wearing the beret, but it didn't help diffuse the situation.
It "Ain't No Good".
It was no "shelter" for me.

New EP in '06, biz-atches. Dayne touch this!

Friday, February 03, 2006

A face only a mother could love.

I make faces at babies. Can't help it. I'm a baby face maker.
Always have been.
Always will.

Once I encouraged a kid on the 504 King Streetcar to mimic my monkey face (bending my ears out with my fingers, crossing my eyes, and sticking my tongue out in a crescent shape) and the poor little bastard got in big trouble for sticking his tongue out at me.
And he wouldn't stop.
He kept sticking his tongue out and trying to bend his tongue into a crescent with his fingers and his mother kept smacking his hands away from his mouth and telling him to "Stopit!". No sooner did she let go of his grubby, slobbery hands and they were up mushing his stuck-out tongue in half.
The kid had moxie, I'll give him that.

The other day I was with my lovely wife E, and an opportunity to pull a face at this infant in a stroller came up, so I took it.
I shouldn't have.

There I am, mugging away like a Christmas Panto champ, and I hear:

M- (whisper whisper)
F- "Excuse me? Hello? Hello? Hi."

I look up, eyes still crossed, to face two very uneasy parents. The father looked like he was ready to throw down.

B- "Sorry. I''m a baby face maker. Ha ha ha!"

No response.

B- "Sorry."

But what really hurt wasn't being looked at like I was some kind of lurking pervert--the kid didn't even smile once.
Tough crowd.