Wisdom of our Fathers

Last weekend I helped out with a CD launch (Randy Hutchings--Atlantic Avenue--it's very good) and, of course, there was beer involved.

And once you break the seal, as we all know, you pay the price.

So, I was in the can settling up a debt when this dude strolled in, saddled up beside me at the trough, and decided to strike up a conversation.

I was wearing a nice, summertime straw fedora.
I needed to say that for the story to make sense.

A- "Nice hat!"
B- "Thanks! I'm pretty keen on it myself."
A- "It's very nice."
B- "Yup. It covers up my pattern baldness, which is swell."
A- "My father used to say, 'If you've got a good hat, you'll get great head'."

He smiled broadly. We were making a lot of eye contact for the urinal.
. . . .

I hadn't heard that expression before, but I was pretty sure that it should have sounded more like, "If you've got a good hat, you'll get A great head".

I was a bit at a loss for words; urinal discussions can be like that.

B- "Well, my father used to say, 'The hat makes the man'."

Up I zipped, splashed some water on my hands, and strolled out.
I couldn't tell if I was being propositioned or not. I'm used to the crowd in Toronto at Buddies being a lot more direct--like, explicitly direct--to see if they could make me sweat. One friend used to tell me that every straight guy was 10% gay, and he was going to find my 10%--which, after a few shots of Jagermeister, might make it up to 15%.

Regardless of what may have been implied, it's not a great 'saying' anyway. A good haircut does more than a good hat.

The Aging Boomers

Yesterday I was visiting one of my favourite live music venues in Calgary, Broken City.
The sun was out--it's golden rays warming all the lovely Steam Whistle Pilsner drinkers on their rooftop patio--and life, at that moment, seemed perfect.

Then I went back to my truck, which was parked in the alleyway, only to discover a rough looking guy pissing behind my wheels.

B- "Hey!"
A- "Sorry, buddy! But at my age, when you got to go, you got to go!"
B- "How old are you?"
A- "Forty seven."
B- "Well, to be honest, I hope when I hit your age I'm not so incontinent that I start taking slashes, in broad daylight, behind bright green trucks, in busy alleyways. You couldn't have picked a more conspicuous place to piss, pal."
A- "Yeah, well. . . you got any samples?"

I need to emphasize that while this exchange is taking place, he's still pissing.

B- "I think that you've had plenty of hydration."
A- "Bye!"
B- "Yeah."

What possessed him to try and solicit free beer from me while while standing behind my truck with his penis in his hands I'll never know.

I tried to back out extra slow so that I didn't splash any of the effluence on my lovely unnamed truck.

The Wonders of Pert Plus continue. . .

With the 21st Century phenomena of a cell phone in every hand, I've realised that social habits on the mean streets of Calgary have changed.
It used to be that if you were talking to someone, a third party wouldn't interrupt the conversation until: 1) the first conversation was finished; or 2) the third party was invited to join in on the fun.

Yesterday I was on the phone while parked in my '68 Chevy Pickup Truck (it's a very bright, Steam Whistle green) with someone who I'm not wholly familiar, nor they me, and one of Cowtown's colourful Bottle Depot crackheads approached my open window for a chat.

Now, I have a Palm Treo, which is the size of a sandwich, and is impossible to miss when it's pressed against my ear. Let alone the fact that my hand is up around my head, which can only mean two things, really: 1) I'm on the phone; or 2) I've been hit in the ear with a spitball.

But the fact that I was otherwise engaged didn't stop this admirer from interrupting my call:

A- "That's an awesome fucking truck."
B- "Yes--"(to the phone)"pardon me--yes, it sure is."
A- "What's in her?"
B- "A 350.
A- "That's an awesome fucking paint job. I'm a painter, so I know. And it's fucking awesome."
B- "I know."
A- "You know how to keep this looking like new?"
B- "Barely. How?"
A- "Pert Plus. You know Pert Plus? That shit will make your truck shine like the sun! It'll make it look so fucking hot! That green will pop!!"
B- "That's a great tip--thanks."
A- "Pert Plus. Not Sunlight or Dial or some shit. It's fucking awesome!!"

And with that, he raced off to join his buddies, who were Bogarting a joint on him.

I had to explain to the gal on the other end of the phone that my life is divided into three equal parts: selling beer; sleeping; and talking to everyone and their Uncle Kevin about my truck.

Oh--and sometimes I'm saving the universe from blond alien bombshells who are trying to take over the world by sleeping with college boys. (Look for Decoys 2:Rebirth--Coming soon!)

Parade of the Exiled Bachelourhood Brick-a-Brack!

So far the most tangible advantage of my newfound bachelourhood is that I may now repatriate some of my favourite pieces of crap!

How this stuff didn't assure my eternal bachelourhood in the first place speaks more to my dear departed E's own poor taste than mine.


Joan Collins

A stuffed crocodile? Why not? At least he died with a smile on his face. . .





Crosschecking Christ

For a guy who grew up in the desert, he sure looks pretty comfortable on skates.
Perhaps the Christians and the Jews could settle their differences once and for all with a game of shinny?

The New Holy Trinity

Santa has a lot to be thankful for--that little fella in the manger is his gravy train. If it wasn't for the Lil' JC, St. Nick would have his sleigh yolked to Irish immigrants.

Oh snap!



My most prized piece of art, "Have a Nice Day". I don't know what possessed someone to capture this particular conflict in oil and canvas, but it got me through some tough days in University. No matter how shit things seemed, I was never having a day as bad as the badger.
















. . . I've always really loved the badger's expression: equal parts of surprise and pissed off.

Never judge a book by its cover.

Yesterday, while attempting to exit one of Downtown Cowtown's most difficult street level parking lots a guy startled me by coming up to my window and poking his head in while I was tuning the old iPod to some Journey.

A- "This got a HEMI in it? Har har har!"
B- (startled to the point of prairie dogging in my shorts) "No. It's too old--it's a '68."
A- "Cool. You look like a guy who does acid."
B- "Nope, sorry."
A- (looks at me like I'm a dirty liar, then raises his eyebrows as if to say, 'What about now?')
B- "I drink beer."

He skulked away like I had stung him deep.
I've learned recently that one person can think they know someone, but they really don't.

Rectum? I nearly killed'em!

Yesterday I was walking past a falafel place in Calgary's downtown when I overheard a conversation going on between a vagabond on the sidewalk, and a dude (girlfriend in tow) who was sitting on the patio eating.

V- ". . . I've got a rectum a mile long. . ."
D- (distinct look of dismay)

I have no idea what that has to do with anything.
I would've given him some pocket change to not repeat that statement while I was eating.

He blowed up real good.

So my wife left me, and the biggest change I've noticed so far (aside from the lack of her, her belongings, and general happiness in my house) is how it's affected my relationship with telemarketers.

And let me tell you, the telemarketers and I had it good before my wife pulled the kill switch on all that.

Let me take you back to monday, and the sad duty of what I referred to as "the division of spoils". Little E, having already returned to Toronto, left me in charge of her belongings, and subsequently the two Newfoundlanders who came to move all her stuff out. I'm a natural leader, so I was happy about this.

But, and no candy-coating here, it's pretty fucking sad seeing stuff you're used to having around the house for the last 6 years stroll out the door NEVER TO BE SEEN OR HEARD FROM AGAIN! (it's also pretty fucking exciting--well, not super exciting--to be able to release all of my old ugly junk from exile). Anyway--

Just after the parade of belongings had embarked for Toronto, some poor bastard G called from "Children Blown Up By Landmines Unexpectedly Foundation" or some like-minded agency. I wasn't in much of a chatty mood.

G- "Thousands of children every year are maimed by landmines--your donation of $200 would go towards purchasing a wheelchair for one of these unfortunate kids."
B- "Sorry, I'm not flush enough right now to help out."
G- "Well, imagine this: these poor children were running and playing in the street one day when suddenly a landmine took away their freedom to be a child. Your donation of $100 could go towards giving them back their freedmon."
B- "Yeah, look, I'd love to help out, but it's like I said, G, I'm just not flush enough right now to do it."
G- "You know, most of these children have been orphaned by warfare in their--"
B- "G? G? G! I have told you twice now that I'm not flush enough to help out, okay? And I don't appreciate you pulling this sentimental manipulative 'legless orphan on a dirt floor' shit on me to try and wring out some money!"
G- "It's a serious issue--"
B- "I know landmines are bad--they've always been bad, that's nothing new--but my wife just left me! Who's going to help me out? Huh? You?"

I threw the trump card out on the table.
I couldn't believe I had just yelled such a statement, at a stranger, into the phone.
I couldn't believe that 'hanging up' didn't occur to me first.

Not surprisingly, neither of us knew what to say, so there was a laboured silence on the phone.

G- "I'm just speaking from the heart, sir--"
B- "Well, I have no heart anymore."

And THEN, only THEN did I hang up.

What kind of a line is that? "I have no heart"--what the hell is this? "The Wizard of Oz" by Tennessee Williams?

After I got over the shock and surprise of my own behaviour I realised that "My wife dumped me", as a phrase, has a lot of potential. Unpleasant company? Aggressive salesman? Drop the bomb!

'68 Chevy in Cherry Condition

Driving home on the highway yesterday a middle-aged "lady" yelled at me from the centre lane. I nearly steered into a road sign--she startled me so!

Between the highway lines, holding a fair gallop of 100km/h, the following exchanged ensued:

A- "How old is that truck?"
B- "It's a '68!"
A- (huge laughter)"I lost,"(laughing out of control)"I lost my virginity in a '68!!"

They sped off down the highway.

To myself:
B- "That's some decent mojo for my wheels, that is."

Any takers? No reason the '68 can't still work it's magic.

Coug a loo ra loo ra!

Yesterday afternoon I had the real pleasure of spending it on a golf course pouring draught beer out of the back of my truck with a good friend and lots of sunshine.

Later that evening I was asked by a blitzed-out cougar in a cowboy hat if I wouldn't mind sharing a drink and doing a duet with her of the Eagle's classic "Hotel California" with the live band (who bill themselves as a "Jameoke" band--you sing, they play).

Lo, how quickly things can change!

Putting the 'Sub' in 'urban' culture.

The other day I boarded my neighbourhood bus in Marda Loop to begin the trek downtown for a beer-related event. Good times! The sun was setting in Big Sky Country, and the evening was turning out to be a postcard perfect summer night.

I had one of my tie-your-own bowties on (one that matched the bright red sport coat I was wearing, ofcourse) and I was ready to party. The guy in the business suit across from me did not look like he was ready to party, but as I soon found out, he was "with it". Was he ever.

An absolutely stunning gal boards the bus, and all the men are stunning into silence. The kind of silence where people are even afraid to breath. She was decked out to the nines (not unlike my own dashing self) and knew it.

Once she had found her seat at the back of the bus, the Suit (A) gave me an approving smile. I took the liberty to challenge his smile with a remark:

B- "You know, thank God for summer. The Lord blesses us for four months a year where gals wear fewer layers."
A- "Word up on that one, brother! Word up!!"

Word up? Word up, brother?
You've got to be kidding me. A dude in a suit does not get to repeat something he saw on a beer commercial.

Osama ruined my tee shirt!

During Hot Docs this year--Hot Docs, incidentally, is my favourite time of year--I was catching a between-doc pita along Bloor when I saw a fat nerd take the ball passed to him by a cute girl and pop it.

The Poindexter was wearing a tee shirt depicting Yoko's John Lennon, who in turn is wearing a tee shirt that says "NEW YORK". It's a "classic" image.

The cute girl, whether she was just trying to pass time in the line or actually start a conversation I don't know, commented:

C- "That's a really cool tee shirt!"

The awkward nerd's response?

N- "Yeah. . . I bought it before 9/11--like a day before. So, yeah."
C- ". . .oh. Cool."
N- (struggling to follow up)"I only wear tee shirts, pretty much. I've got Cannibal Corpse, Pantera, bands like that."
C- ". . .oh. . ."
N- "They're all pretty cool."

The flickering ember of his virginity burst back into a roaring fire. I wish I could have been his Cirano di Bergerac and led him away from discussing his tee shirt only clause. How would I have improved upon the situation?

B (as di Bergerac)- "These guys are never going to serve us! We need to do something or we're all going to die from hunger! Let's Roll!"

It wouldn't have improved his chances of getting laid, but come on! Pantera concert tees? It would have at least amused me.

Carry On, Diana Ross!

Doing beer tastings at liquor stores is just one of my many responsibilities. I really enjoy the activity because you meet a wide variety of folks (some encounters which I have recorded here in this very blog--the most notable entry involved a Shi Tzu dog which catapulted my Google visits into the teens!). Two weekends ago I had a classic encounter.

Two admittedly gay men in ridiculously small shorts approached my booth and I plied them with some of our fine golden brew. They were in a fabulously rowdy mood, and things rapidly descended into the realm of a "Carry On ______!" movie.

Commenting on our lovely green packaging and sexy bottles:

A- "If we choose beer by the appearance of the packaging it MUST mean we're GAY!"
I told the boys I had different criteria for establishing sexuality.

They howled with glee and mentioned something about sucking cock.
I told them they were getting warmer.

The Saturday afternoon gin shoppers were getting nervous.

He was really vamping it up.

The train really came off the tracks when I invited them to try my fellow salesman Neil's beer.

A- "If there's a Bob here then this beer will have some head!!"
Huge squeal!

Neil. Bob. Head.
But it's actually a very good pun as well; beer, of course, is best enjoyed with a bit of head.

They were the highlight of my day.
They were not Neil's highlight--he's true blue Calgarian.

Decoys 2: A Real Mouthful

All in a days work on the set of "Decoys 2:Rebirth", you might say. This particular evening, movie magic took a back seat to movie petroleum jelly, as I was attacked by a beautific blond Decoy in the horrifying climax to Scene 111: Nick's Blue Balls. The latex tentacles wrapped around my arms were slimed up and tied to my wrists; off-camera an SFX guys looking much like Charlton Heston in Ben Hur, clasped to the tentacle 'reigns' while I writhed in fear. The menacing tentacle trident was animatronic, and would pinch at will. That greased-up beauty forwent passing "GO" and landed right into my mouth. I'm shy, and struggled with admitting here that the KY Jelly didn't taste so bad. (Other actors asked to execute the same intimate action needed honey applied to the tip; I'm only a gentleman from the skin out, and required no such inducement). After this, a greased-up FX performer (one of the SFX designers, Sylvania Yau) got into her latex alien suit and straddled me as I lay prone in the snow. Lying in the cold, wet "snow" (at this point, we had shifted to an indoor set) under an alien matron, covered in KY Jelly, I felt about as close to being "reborn" as I'll likely ever get. Dig the Hawaiian shirt I got to wear! And yes, that is lipstick smeared around my lips. The lipstick isn't mine. And I didn't get it off the tentacle. It belonged to the talented Lindsay Maxwell, an alien temptress I managed to outmaneuver in order to save my own skin.

What happens at West Ed stays at West Ed.

Those visiting the West Edmonton Mall--The Greatest Indoor Show on Earth (not counting my performance in the sack, which isn't necessarily limited to the in of doors)--can consult the Sea Lion enclosure's "Wall of Fame" to see none other than trusty B cozied up next to Jazz, the Sea Lion Adultress!

I am in exceptional company! My mash photo is right next to Ben Mulroney's (although he looks altogether too uncomfortable with a sea lion that close to his hair) and underneath some guy who looks a lot like Bronson Pinchot (his claim to "fame" I suppose).

Whether I deserve such a lofty accolade is neither here nor there.

What could be next? The "Wall of Fame" at Dangerous Dan's Diner, your favourite alien courtesan attempting to finish one of James' Coronary Burgers? Let's hope.
Maybe James will let me wear his fruity hat?

. . . if I promise not to smudge his Mayim Bialik autograph.

Have you seen this cruel, evil bastard?

Returning to my job as a beer salesman might sound like a harsh dose of reality after battling buxom blond aliens, but it's less arduous than you might think.

Fact of the matter is--I love my life.

Sitting at the rail of my new favourite SWP account, I inadvertently bellied up beside a total class act. Barely able to stand, the first alarm bells should have sounded when he took one look at my tweed snap-brim hat (which I love to bits) and said:

A- "Are you an Irish Catholic green beer drinking bastard?"
B- "I'm at least two out of the four things you listed."
A- blink.

Then he proceeded to explain to me the following formula. I'm going to have trouble writing it down accurately, because it made absolutely no sense.

A- "Did you watch the Oscars?"
B- "Yes."
A- "What a crock of shit, eh?"
B- "Ye--"
A- "They give out 24 Oscars, right?"
B- "No idea."
A- "They give out 24 Oscars. . ."
B- "Sure, if you say so."
A- "They do. Twenty four. And they give out 24 Grammy Awards."
B- "Okay."
A- "Now add those two together. Do it."
B- "It's, geez, 48."
A- "And multiply it by 2, for two awards shows."
B- "Easy, slow down. Uh, 96."
A- "What happens to the other 4?"
B- blinks. "What 'other four' are we talking about?"
A- "That other four. . .what happens to them? Who gets them?"
B- ". . . uh. . . who?"
A- "I don't know--but I'd like to. I'd like to get my hands on them--those four--and I'd like to win 4 Nobel Prizes as well."

This calculation, although meaningless to me, obviously meant something to him. He certainly wanted those Nobel prizes; he went on about them for a few minutes. . .until he sidetracked himself, and dropped this bomb:
A- "The Easter Bunny, he's coming around soon--that bastard!"
B- "What beef could you possibly have with the Easter Bunny? He's pleasant, well-dressed--"
A- "He never has any pants on when I see him!"
B- "Maybe because he's always crapping out chocolate eggs for children?"
A- "Yeah, hey, he gives children candy, right? Chocolates and eggs and gum, right? But what does he give the elderly?"
B- " . . .nothing, really. My mom--"
A- "--He fucking. . ."(index finger up to signify an important point)". . .eats them. Eats them whole!! Dirty fucking--"
B- "He doesn't eat the elderly! He's friendly and jolly!"
A- "That's Santa, and he fucking well does! If I were you, I'd stay the fuck away from him this year. You're getting a little old for the Easter Bunny. He's gonna put some sauce on you, and eat you up whole. . .dirty fucking Easter Bunny that he is!"

It was around this time that my friend's agitation had attracted the notice of management. Moments later, pockets out-turned, A was gone. I leaned to the bartender and said, "Dude was blitzed! Did you hear what he had to say about the Easter Bunny? Eats the elderly?". The bartender nodded; A had already told her that tidbit of information.

I wonder if it was fear of the Easter Bunny's appetite for elderly that gave Peter Pan his unhealthy obsession with youth? I already know that Michael Jackson's security entourage caught the Easter Bunny with ol' MJ's head in his mouth, all chewed to shit.

"Little Rabbit Foo Foo running through the forest! Picking up the elderly and bopping them on the head!"

Maid in Man-underwear.

Hotel living can be trying when done in long stretches; and over the last three months, I've done my share of it.
It's not that I'm crazy about making my own bed--it's not that at all! I just always feel like I'm being watched and graded. What kind of underwear does he have in his suitcase? What kind of books does he read? Is he this big a slob at home?
I have to tidy up my room and fold my towels before I leave just so the maid doesn't think I'm a piglet.

My mother used to make the bed before we left hotel rooms for the day--little did she know, that's the worst thing you can do to a maid.

Unless your twin brother C is visiting you, and when he leaves the room to let you take a nap, flips the "Please Make Up" sign on the door.

The scene:
Me, lying on top of the duvet in my underpants, mouth hanging open, dead asleep 32 minutes after playing host to my family in an Edmonton room.

I was startled awake by the feeling that someone was in my room, watching me sleep.
I was right. Some poor middle-aged maid was gaping at me, eyes like saucers--neither of us had expected to find the other, and certainly not in this condition.
She fled.
Then later slid a note under my door asking if I would kindly leave a note outside my door telling her when it was okay to come back. I didn't realise how uncomfortable the situation was until I left later that day to shoot some scenes for Decoys:Rebirth, and noticed that the tag on the door had invited the poor maid to her fate.

M- "Yeah. The guy in room 1208 is a total pervert. He was even waiting on the bed for me! In his underpants!! Pretending to sleep!!!"

Talk to the door.

There are a lot of firsts in life. First steps. First words. First kiss. First time having a woman rip a door off its hinges and throw it at you. First recital. First Communion. First airplane flight.

Perhaps I should back up a bit.

Last night, while you all slept (surely--it was around 4am) an alien babe ripped a door off its hinges and threw it at myself and a couple of my movie buddies.
To give this brand of entertaining stunt to the folks at home takes no less than three different types of doors: the real McCoy; a wooden door; and a foam door. Even upon closer inspection they all look pretty similar; so much so, that the actress who did the throwing didn't realise the door had been changed until she tried to use it.

Today I get a slimy tentacle in the face.

Weeeeeeee!

Ride Mindbender or die tryin'.

Maybe those familiar with the spotted past of one of West Edmonton Mall's brightest stars won't find the title to this post funny. But riding the Mindbender knowing that it's got a taste for blood makes the experience all the more enjoyable.

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.

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,
B