Truths and Half Truths

Five Things I Love About Britain

1.   Incredibly polite people.  No really - even more polite than that.  Chip 'n Dale polite.  Hugh Grant, falling-all-over-themselves, apologizing for your mistakes polite.  That level of politesse is utterly intoxicating to me.

2.   Place names.  Enchanting, charming, almost comically toffish British placenames like Witham-on-the-Hill or Clifton-upon-Teme (where we have our cottage this week - go to Google Maps and find it to see just how off the beaten track we are) or Hanley Broad Heath.  Just saying them makes me feel like Emma Thompson is about to appear.  Or better yet, Keira Knightly.

That said, their pronunciation of said place names can be confounding.  Shelsley Beauchamps, for example.  Anyone who knows French can tell you it's Bow-shawm ... right?  Yeah, not so much.  Beecham, thank you, and no, we have no explanation, it just is.  Belvoir Castle?  Again, the French is Bell- vwar.  But locals will send you up the road to Beaver Castle.  Oy.

As for Welsh place names ... don't even bother.  Nothing is pronounced as it should be, or at least as you'd expect it to be.  A sign in Welsh looks like one of those Crypto-quote puzzles in the paper:  LLay Llddyywwnnwllynn Ddllayyeenn.  Dude, you think I'm kidding?  Look at Google Maps again.  And you don't pronounce Ll as L.  It's ... something else.  We were in a town called Llangollen.  Pronounced, of course, Clan - GOTH - lan ... at least, near as I can come to it.  Except you add a little kinda throat-clear thing when you say the "k" sound, like you're hawking up a loogie.  Hilarious.  And charming.

3.   British Television.  There's not much of it - five channels is all we ever seem to get (although with a satellite dish I'm sure they'd get more).  But what there is is such high quality - and even if it's not particularly cerebral it's wrapped up in such a bright sense of humour that you don't feel you've wasted your time.  Their cooking shows in particular are wonderful, but travel shows, nature documentaries, high quality movies, and sports coverage are rivetting.

4.   Cheese.  I love cheese so much I would marry it if it weren't a crime against nature.  So far this trip I've sampled about 14 different cheeses from various shops.  You know the "Sharp" or "Old" or "Extra Old" cheeses you find in North American supermarkets?  The difference between our definition of "sharp" or "mature" and the assault on your taste buds mounted by what the Brits call "mature" is like the difference between regular and HDTV, or 8-track tapes and CDs. 

5.  History.  Damn.  There is soooo much history here, you trip over it at every turn.  Yesterday I was in a tiny town well off the beaten track named Great Witley.  Not much to the town - a few ivy covered houses of red brick lining the road.  Took a turn down a bumpy gravel lane, drove about a mile, and ended up in front of one of the most incredible churches I've ever seen.  The architecture was Italianate Baroque, very ornate with an incredible series of ceiling panels and filigreed screens and fountains and gilded wall accents (almost all the most impressive British churches are Norman or Gothic and - aside from impressive stone carving - are much more austere).  The enameled glass windows I gazed up at were the originals, painted in 1721.  People, that's 50 years before people in Boston started grumbling about the taxes on tea.

That's five off the top of my head and I haven't even talked about the view from the Malvern Hills (that inspired Elgar to compose "Pomp and Circumstance" and Karl Marx to scribble down a few thoughts on economics); the incredible natural beauty of Wales; the delightful regional accents (and their patience with a fast-talking Canadian); the pubs (I have, in the last few hours, driven past The Fox; The Bull; The Horse and Bull; The King's Head; The Dog; and The Cock.  I was sorely tempted to go into The Cock and order some Spotted Dick, but I feared Bucky's head would explode); and a million other things that would cause me to pack up and move to Britain if I suddenly inherited eight billion dollars, which you need to even consider buying a house here.

But there are some things I am less impressed with, most notably:

The Goddamn Roads.  Okay, picture a parking spot in an average North American shopping mall.  Got it?  Now, there's the average lane on a frigging twisty, turny, "A" road in Britain, and you are fully expected to travel at 60 MPH along this, even when oncoming traffic includes a semi-trailer (lorry) whose mirrors encroach onto your goddamn lane.  I am not even kidding one little bit about this, people.

AND they don't really bother too much with such niceties as "shoulders" on the road - you'll have to make do with a damn hedgerow that is over your car, so unless you're on a hill there is not much of a view.

"B" roads are like "A" roads, except fewer lanes and less attention to upkeep.

Tomorrow I travel across the belly of Britain to Norwich.  More from there, assuming I can get connected.  Wish me luck.  There may be "B" roads involved.

"Welcome to Britain ..."

After yesterday's somewhat inconvenient dicking around with a cancelled flight, we arrived in Halifax in plenty of time for the overseas leg.  These are gruelling flights - in this case, two hours from Halifax to St John's, Newfoundland, fuelling up there before setting off on the five hour leg from Newfoundland to Heathrow.

There was a saving grace, however. I was able to persuade the passenger agent to upgrade us to Executive Class, which really makes a huge difference.  Plenty of room, seats that recline to near horizontal, personal DVD players and your choice of movies, andof course free drinks, which ... come on ... I have real difficulty distinguishing between the terms "free" and "mandatory" when it comes to alcohol.

We arrived at London's Heathrow Airport bright and early this morning.  Well, early.  Not so bright.  As our wide-body jet maneuvered towards its gate, I was astonished at just how busy Heathrow is.  It's as if somebody kicked over an anthill - people and machines and carts and vehicles going this way and that way and crisscrossing paths, each no doubt with a real sense of purpose but all gathering to create a sense of chaos and frenetic activity.

Through it all, the people remain calm and steadfastly polite.  The British people are breathtakingly polite - even more so than Canadians, and I thought we set the damn standard.  But next to these folks, we're boorish louts. 

My wife was walking along and came to one of those mving sidewalks.  Now, you dont really NEED a sign posted to tell you that you stand on the right and walk on the left - much like a passing lane on a highway.  But they have those signs anyway.  And still my wife - no doubt still dozy from the flight, insisted on placidly standing in the walking lane.

Did they bowl her over?  No.  Cuss her out?  Nuh-uh.  Shoot her dirty looks?  Not even.

What they did was patiently wait behind her, then dart around at the first opportunity saying "I'm terribly sorry, excuse me." .  It was like being invaded by a Hugh Grant convention.  I'm not sure I'd have been that polite, to be honest.  In fact, I'm sure I wasn't.

So now we'rein Heathrow, waiting for our flight into Manchester, where Iwill rent a car and test the legendary British patience by repeatedly going over into the lane containing oncoming traffic.  What fun!

More to come.  Assuming Hugh Grant misses my wrong side of the road ass.

Hurry Up and Wait, Then Go Home And Wait Some More

Got up this morning and, as usual went through the frenetic final preparations for a three week tour in another country.  (I always promise that next time it'll be different.  It never is.)

As always, I had people barking at my heels like Border Collies as I slammed my way through last-minute "Oh, shit, I forgot X ..."  jobs.  But I got the last e-mail sent, the last disc burned, the last book off in the mail, and the last map printed off just in time for a wild ride to the airport, to get dumped off curbside because our chauffeur had other business.

Yeah, should have just made that phone call to make sure the planes were on schedule.

Of course they weren't.  Our flight to Halifax was delayed by "one hour."  Since we'd arrived a bit early, that meant settling in with a good book (I'm slugging through a Patrick O'Brian "Master and Commander" volume.  I find the courtly English charming, on the whole, but makes for tough sledding by times.  His books weary me more than most.  Not something they'll ever put on the back cover - "Sure to tire you out!" - but I do find them a worthwhile read, if only for the utterly impenetrable nautical terms.)

Well, when the "hour" was up, there was an announcement that the plane had been cancelled and that if people wanted to rebook their flights, they should come to the Air Canada counter.  I wonder if they ever run across someone who doesn't want to rebook their flights?  "Nah, flight's cancelled - I reckon I'll just go back to work.  The Dominican Republic is overrated anyway.")

I jumped up, grabbed my laptop case, lifted it up, and discovered that I had forgotten to zip it when I sat down (my laptop case).  The contents scattered all over the airport floor, and by the time I got my crap together, I was last in a very long line.

I've stretched this story out far more than it deserves - the short version is, they rebooked us on a later flight which allows us to still make our connections and we came home for the afternoon.  But now all the last minute stuff is done.  I was supposed to be in the air by now.  I'm casting about for things to do.

And so I came here.

But later on, we'll jump a flight for Halifax (God willing), then hook up with a flight to London ... and onward from there to Manchester and this tour begins.

C'mon.  Let's go, dammit.  I hate false starts.

Life on the Road

A tour in Ontario or B.C. or Alberta or England or Oregon or wherever isn't the same as a tour in Manitoba.  This is where I grew up; my family is here (for the most part); my high school friends are here.  It's home.

I arrived on Tuesday a touch early - in time to rent my car and go pick up my sister-in-law for lunch.  Susie is a sweetie - I've always adored her, and she's been filling a huge role for the rest of the family, being the only family member left to deal with the various issues faced by their aging parents.  Both her sisters realize they've gotten off easy, not being around to have to cope with changes in nursing home settings, medical issues, all the stuff that we in the "sandwich generation" have to cope with as our aging parents and growing children squeeze us from either direction.

That night I went for supper with two friends from high school.  Gord, Bonny, and I served on the Student Council together (they were, respectively, President and Vice-President; I was "Ombudsman").  Over the past 10 years or so since high school (OK, 20)  (OK, fuck you, 30), we've all three remained close friends and every time I end up in this part of the country we go for a meal together and catch up. 

Gord and I have been friends since elementary school; the three of us first got together on the very first day of high school.  Gord was the coolest guy in school, Bonny was the gorgeous girl that every guy wanted to go out with, and I was ... their friend.  And it's still pretty much like that.  Gord is now a partner in one of the most prestigious law firms in the country; Bonny is a high-powered banking executive, and I am ... their friend.

It's fine.  I love them, and when we sit around and talk during dinner, we have an easy, comfortable shorthand that I don't have with anybody else on the planet.  There is no artifice, no jealousy, no resentment, no posturing.  It's just us.

Today I visited with Greta - another close friend - and made supper for my sister and her husband.  Tomorrow I'll pick up my friend Tricia in the morning and we'll go up to visit my Mom, Dad, and sister Andrea in Gimli.  I've known Tricia since we were about 10 years old - she was one of Andrea's best friends.  She still makes me laugh.  Should be a good day.

Please Raise Your Seat Into The Upright Position ...

... and so it begins.

I love flying, actually - I find it completely and utterly relaxing.  I think it's because the moment my seat buckle is fastened (do we really need someone to tell us how to do that?), I know that no matter what is happening in my life, how crazy things are, how much turmoil is rocketing around ... there is piss all I can do about it for the next x hours. 

So sit back, relax, close your eyes, and give over complete control of your very life to a complete stranger.  It's very ... liberating.  For me.  Your mileage may vary.

I wasn't always this way.  There was a time when I was a white knuckle flyer, which made my father, the Air Force Jet Pilot, a bit nonplussed.  In fact, I think he was downright embarrassed for me.

So, he gave me books about flying.  About aeronautics.  How planes get up in the air and how they stay there.  How it all works.  He de-mystified it all, explained every tiny noise and every lurch and shudder in the airplane's journey.  And that, coupled with growing older and wiser and realizing that if my plane really did take it into the ground and create a giant meatloaf, the universe would not implode - that life would go on, just without me, and that maybe that wasn't so unnatural ... well, once I was able to look at it that way, I got a lot more fatalistic.

It's not like I don't care.  It's that I know I can't control it, so my energies are better spent on what I can control, such as how to talk my way into Business Class (70% of the time, I can - people have no idea how easy it is.  And I'm not about to share the secrets).

So this morning at 5 AM I woke up, got dressed, left the house at 5:15, arrived at the airport at oh, about 5:19, and checked through.  I flew through Montreal to get here to Winnipeg, and for the next week I'll be visiting family and doing some shows on the weekend.

I won't have as much time to blog or keep up with blogs, but I won't disappear entirely.  I'll keep in touch ...

A Rare Thing ...

For once, unbelievable as it may seem, it is not all about me.

I know - in a world where everything is always about me, this turn of events is shocking.  And trust me, in the days ahead, things will return to being all about me.

But - for once - I'll let it slide.  I'm big that way.  And letting it alide is something I can do to allow me to think that it's at least partly about me.

Nah.  It ain't about me.  But damn, who thought that would be a good thing?

Amnesia

When my wife is away on a business trip, Roxy and Oliver evidently develop amnesia.  They appear to be unable to remember that:

a.) they do not like one another;
2.) they are not allowed up on the bed; and
c.) she is not around to save they ass.

Still .. reasonably cute.  Almost stopped me from booting them out.  Almost.

Four Things

Some people don't like memes.  If you are among them, you will not like this.  So you have a mouse, a trigger finger, a cursor, and an X at the top of your screen.  See ya.

Four Things Meme:

Four Jobs I have Had
1.  Professional Smasher
2.  Touring Performer
3.  Radio Host
4.  Gas Jockey

Four Movies I could watch over and over:
1.  Groundhog Day
2.  Sleepless in Seattle, and shut up
3.  Fargo
4.  Love, Actually, and see (2.) above

Four Places I have Lived
1.  Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island
2.  Winnipeg, Manitoba
3.  Gimli, Manitoba
4.  Saskatoon, Saskatchewan

Four TV Shows I Like To Watch
1.  The Amazing Race (except the recent "Family Edition".  Idiots.  Don't fuck with a good show!)
2.  The Office (both Brit and US versions)
3.  Family Guy
4.  The Daily Show

Four Places I Have Been on Vacation:
1.   Paris, France
2.  London, England
3.  Clearwater, Florida (sigh)
4.  Grand Manaan Island, New Brunswick (best whale watching EVER)

Four Websites I Go To Daily: (I mean, right AFTER I visit yours, of course)
1.  Klog
2. HDL 
3.  Vitamin Sea
4.  Humblebub

My Four Favourite Foods:

1.  My lasagna
2.  My stuffed peppers
3.  My multi-grain bread
4.  My Caesar Salad

(Yeah, I'm a better chef than you.  Deal with it.)

Four Places I Would Rather Be Right Now:
1.  Somewhere very warm
2.  In a limo
3.  On a golf course
4.  Paris

(Possibly) Coming Soon to a Theatre Near You

Next week I hit the road for the spring touring season.  I'm pretty antsy to get going on it, to tell you the truth.   I've been off the road  - and off stage - way too long.

I won't be touring much in North America this year.  Or really, ever again, I don't think.  A few special shows here and there, perhaps, but it's tailing off.  Part of that is my choice and part of it ... well, isn't.

I love performing, I really do.  I live for the moments I'm out there on stage - it feels completely right to me in ways I can't really explain.  But solo touring is a gruelling, lonely life.  Where it once had the appeal of being new and different and exciting, now it just feels like I'm dragging my ass around the country, following the money.  And that's not something I want to do.

I've been pillar to post in Canada.  Coast to coast to coast.  I've done my two main shows ("The Truth About Daughters" and "The Truth About Love and/or Marriage") in giant theatres and in tiny halls, to audiences of over 800 and under 10.  There have been far too many shows to accurately count, but certainly over a thousand in nine years.  (Just saying that makes me go "Yikes.")

Oddly enough, the shows still feel fresh when I do them - especially  surprising for "The Truth About Daughters", which I've been doing the longest.  I'd have thought I'd be bored silly with it by now, but it still feels really alive and vibrant and I still think I perform it pretty damn well.

But I have performed both shows a lot, and if I want to mount another major tour in Canada, I will have to write a whole new show : "The Truth About ...?"    ...what?

And that's the thing.  I don't feel like I have anything more to say.  At least, not something I'd be interested in hearing, and believe me, I have to listen to me every goddamn night and if I lose interest, it ain't gonna be pretty for anybody.

And even if I did find something to say, and pulled together a whole new show ... I'd have to head out on the road alone again.

People always seem impressed when I tell them I'm a touring performer.  They seem to envy my life.  And I guess I understand that - maybe it looks cool and free and romantic from the outside.  But like anything else, when you're on the inside, the view is different. 

Want a snapshot?  (And please, if you're living in one of the towns I have visited or will be visiting, I assure you that your town wasn't like this at all.  This was the guys down the road.   You know that town you make all the jokes about?  Yeah, them.  Your version of Shelbyville versus Springfield.  Hooooot hooooot.)   

When you first start touring solo, every place is new and fascinating in its own way, and you meet cool and interesting people.  The second time around, those places you thought were cool?  Well, some of them are.  But some of them are just holes in the wall, flyspecks on the map, and the excruciating 6 hour drive to get there leaves you drained. 

So you get into town, check in, and collapse in your hideous rural hotel room.  Ron James perfectly described a typical rural motel as "a great place to stay - if you're on the lam from the law!".  You throw yourself onto the hide-the-stains-patterned bedspread, grab the remote control (careful - the battery compartment is scotch taped) and watch whatever you can find on basic cable (assuming the GoldStar TV gets even that) until it's time to go in and do the sound check.  You find the theatre, and nobody is there because it's 4:00 and they're all volunteers and they just got off work, so you wait in your car till they show up. 

Which they finally do, and maybe they understand how to set and focus lights and program their snazzy new lighting board that they got when the community arts program got a big government grant ... but then again, maybe the guy who did understand that lighting board moved away or is on holidays or in jail or sick, so you have to go up into the booth, puzzle out how the board works, and give some eighteen year old kid from the high school AV club a crash course in theatre lighting.  And the whole time you're explaining it to him, he's looking at you with that charming, vacant gaze you only get in teenaged boys or cocker spaniels.

And now it's 6:30, and the doors open at 7:30 for an 8:00 start.  So you go to the Green Room, which can be anything from a lovely lounge with plump sofas to the school's Art Supplies Room/Teacher's Lounge, and you find there a tray of finger sandwiches that thank GOD your manager makes sure is in the rider on your contract, and you split the sandwiches between you and the 18 year old kid and wonder who the hell actually BUYS white bread any more, and will it stick to the roof of my mouth all frigging night, do you think? 

(Oh, and really, egg salad sandwiches?  Please.  Just toss them in the garbage and eliminate the middle man.  Nobody has ever eaten an egg salad sandwich, number one, and b) I'm on the road - if your frigging egg salad sandwich has gone over, I'm the one up there trying to get through Act Two without sharting.)

But then it's show time.  And for the next two hours, it's all OK. 

Afterwards, people are really nice and very complimentary and they shake your hand and maybe they buy a book if they thought to bring cash.  And then the audience goes home and the organizers come over and are really nice, too, and they slip you THE ENVELOPE and maybe help you gather your stuff together and load it in the car. 

Which you do, and head back to the hotel to watch The Weather Network or oh my GOD how many fucking movies did Steven Goddamn Segal make, anyway?  But you watch, munching away on some crackers and cheese, and thinking to yourself "Yeah, this is romantic as hell.  Envy me, all you people working nine to five."

And the next morning, you wake up, get in the car, and pull back onto the highway.

I'm not complaining - hey, I picked the life, and in fact actively worked to make it happen.  I'm just giving you a glimpse of the reality of solo touring in Canada and some insight into why it might not seem as appealing now as it once did.

So, while I may continue touring in Canada, it won't be solo stuff.  I'm working with some musicians and dancers to pull together a couple of really fun shows, and we'll see what happens there.

I don't tour in the U.S..  I wish I could, but I can't.  Not allowed.  Evidently, I am considered a threat to the stability of the American economy, because I'm taking the job of an American who could ... what, be touring with shows that I've written?  Yeah, it's bogus. 

What they have is a complex series of performer's visa regulations designed by lawyers and meant to give employment to lawyers.  So, unless I'm willing to pay a lawyer to prepare my application ($1500 minimum), then pay the fee ($1000 or more) to get the application fast tracked (!) to 90 days ... then performing in the US just can't happen.  Shame.  I'd like to do shows there, and I know my shows would play.  But ... not gonna happen.

But what is happening, and happening more and more, is touring in England.  I'm heading over there in mid-February for another month-long tour, my third.  It's fun (because I travel with someone), it's different, interesting, much more low-tech (almost unplugged, really), and the audiences there seem to really get a kick out of the shows.  I could tour in the U.K. forever and not get tired of it.  I just love the place.

So, here is a schedule of my upcoming shows for the next few weeks, with contact numbers where I have them:

Feb 10:  Holland, Manitoba (Daughters)
Feb 11:  Carberry, Manitoba  (Love and/or Marriage)  ((204) 834 - 6617)   
Feb 12 (matinee):  Souris, Manitoba  (Love and/or Marriage)

Note the February 12th show.  It will mark the 14th consecutive time I have failed to be home for my wife's birthday.  Seriously.  14 times in a ROW.  Gotta be a record.  A very EXPENSIVE record.  The performance that day:  The Truth About Love and/or Marriage.  I love irony.

Then we're off to Britain.  All shows are "The Truth About Daughters".

Feb 23rd:  Pershore #8 Arts Centre, Pershore, Worcs.  (01386 561906)
Feb 24th: Hanley Broad Heath VH, Tenbury Wells, Worcs (01886 853692)
Feb 25th:   Martley VH, Worcs, (01886 88839)
Feb 26th:  Shelsley Beauchamp VH, Worcs, (01886 812608)

Mar 1:       Ashby & Thurton VH, Norwich, Norfolk, (01508 480695)
Mar. 2:      Welborne VH, Dereham, Norfolk, (01362 850268)
Mar 3:       Watlington VH, King's Lynn, Norfolk (01553 810584)
Mar 4:       Priest Weston VH, Shropshire, Wales, (01938 561425)
Mar. 5:      Stoke Prior VH, Leominster, Herfordshire ( 01568 760380)

(Here, we get a couple of days off.  We're flying over to Belfast for a visit with our friends, Joy and Glenn Miller.  Flights in the UK are incredibly cheap - "I-don't-know-how-they-can-do-it" cheap.)

Mar 8:        Langley VH, Langley on Tyne, Northumberland (0870 751112)
Mar 9:        Henshaw CEC School, Henshaw,  Northumberland (01434 344582)
Mar. 10:    Goring Heath, Oxon. (joyce.scarth (AT) southoxon.gov.uk)
Mar 11:      Chesterton Primary School, Chesterton, Oxon., ( 01869 241019)
Mar 12:       Penrith Playhouse, Staffield, Penrith, Cumbria  (01768 898187) 

Then home for a bit, before:

Mar 24th:    St. Thomas, Ontario  (The Truth About Daughters)
Mar 25th:    Athens, Ontario   (The Truth About Love and/or Marriage)

If you're around, come and see a show.  And come say "Hi" afterwards.  You'll probably be keeping me away from Steven Segal.  Don't worry about that.  In fact, thank you.

Two Things

Thing 1:  Blizzard conditions today.  Total white out, strong winds, not fit for man nor beast.  I love it.  I've already had Roxy out for a long walk and shovelled my deck, which is just going to fill up with snow again.

Thing 2:  Quit smoking nine days ago.  Don't think much about it any more.  But today, knowing I couldn't get to the store, I suddenly really wanted a cigarette.  Whatever.  It'll pass.