Cool Stories - a Storytelling Blog

2015-07-26T10:17:00.000-04:00

bearing for homebodies

2010-09-02T14:27:00.000-04:00

if the conditions are favourable, we'll welcome our bundle at home. we've acquired a birthing tub which we intended to inflate to combat the heatwave, if only we could have summoned the energy to extract the pump from the package. besides a backyard pool party for two, we would also accomplish a 'dry run' of our water container construction. alas, we'll reserve our practice run for the third trimester.

our midwife clinic hosted a home birth seminar for their expecting clients. more than a dozen couples attended, so the location shifted from the makeshift home office to the park across the street. as the parade of pregnant women and their partners filed across the street, an ice cream truck taunted the susceptible crew with its haunting jingle. i imagined a stampede of waddling women, hankering for a sweet treat, swarming the truck clamouring for triple scoops.

the swollen ladies and their mates assembled on the grass, while two midwives held court. one addressed the group, while the other acted as an easel, holding the large paper with a list of concerns. continuing the kindergarten theme, we introduced ourselves in succession. typically, my wife would cower from public speaking, thrusting me to the spotlight, but now she took ownership of her duty, and proudly addressed the congregation.

one couple attended, infant in tow, to describe their home birth experience. they positioned themselves cross-legged in the centre of the circle, and told their story. at one point, the mother began to breastfeed, creating an impromptu live demonstration of technique. the rapt audience scrutinized the simplicity of the bond, and got a taste of the feeding ritual. later, the mother performed the other common routine of diaper changing, though this took place in a more discreet location. i peered over, to learn more about the task for which i'll be responsible.

---

i felt the first palpable kicks of the pregnancy, although not from the fetus. lying comfortably across the couch on my wife's legs, she suddenly erupted in a series of spastic jerking movements. the involuntary striking continued intermittently, so i relocated to the safe zone at the couch's other corner.

the next evening, at approximately the same hour, her appendages were hijacked again. i took cover behind a wall of pillows. since the phenomenon occurred on cue the following night, we nicknamed the event 'the twitching hour'. upon research, we uncovered the actual term: 'restless leg syndrome'. luckily, the affliction was short-lived, but for three successive nights, my wife was lethal.

separation anxiety pt. 2

2010-09-02T11:32:00.000-04:00

my little one is months away from leaving the womb, and i’m already concerned that i’m comparable with the father from ‘cats in the cradle’. i wish to be present for every perceptible nuance my wife experiences, otherwise i feel like an absent parent. currently, she feels the famous ‘flutters’, the first physical expression from within. the very notion is mind-blowing to me, but to actually distinguish the pint-sized creature swimming in her belly must be magical.

alas, all that energy requires nourishment, so i must earn a living while my wife provides life. thus, i missed a midwife meeting in order to collect a cheque. this time, during my wife’s first interaction with a doppler fetal monitor, i was stuck in the audience of a cheesy musical. since a significant crowd was required, the least professional background players were called upon to fill seats, with the union members interspersed.

as a single example of the inane peanut gallery comments i had to endure almost incessantly, one unrefined theatregoer opined: ‘hey, isn’t that kumar?’. he was referring to an asian actor onstage. first off, ‘harold’ was the asian character. secondly, even considering the stereotype, this actor could not be mistaken for john cho.

the minutes moved like molasses, but practically froze whenever the dogs were involved. the musical premise was centered around a trained canine, so just off camera, a spunky handler barked commands to the generally disinterested animal. hyperaware that the dog earned more than i did, i wished i could offer to replace the pooch. i’d look towards the clacking sound in order to feed my family.

i was irritated by the horrific high-pitched nasal voice the trainer adopted when communicating with the canine, until i discovered he spoke in that tone with humans, as well. i wondered which discovery was true: his ability to talk to dogs, or his inability to speak normally.

desperate for updates from the midwife visit, i frequently checked my smuggled phone. upon a routine inspection, an assistant director caught sight of my infraction, and created a scene when he confiscated my lifeline. embarrassed and dejected, i slouched deep into my seat, while the childish chatter and nasal directions intensified in the absence of distraction.

when our break arrived, i made a beeline for the assistant director, who reprimanded me before returning my phone. i imagined him answering my calls with ‘sorry, he’s unavailable. he’s busy breaking the rules’. i immediately checked my messages, and was elated to find my wife’s post-midwife wrap up. that joy paled in comparison to my reaction to her audio attachment. donning headphones, the overwhelming din suddenly diminished, and was replaced by a pulsing rhythm: my wife’s heartbeat. temporarily soothed by the mesmerizing tempo, my own heart skipped a beat when the pulse faded into a quicker, louder pace. thanks to modern technology and my wife's gumption, this intimate organic sound was digitally delivered through the ether.

it was simply spiritual. two hearts had created this new, independent rhythm. in that moment, i felt deeply responsible for keeping that heart healthy, and for filling it with love. all around me, in four floors of cramped quarters, four hundred young folks loudly socialized around the lobby. i closed my eyes to focus on the music to a new father’s ears, and allowed the tears to run down my cheeks.

special effects

2010-08-28T13:02:00.000-04:00

what better atmosphere within which to suffer the rising body temperature and exhaustion of a increased metabolic rate, than a record-breaking heat wave! add a lack of air conditioning, and it is perhaps the most uncomfortable environment on earth. our second floor bedroom is a sauna, so the only option is sleeping head to head on the sectional. electric fans distribute hot air across our sprawled carcasses, while heavy curtains block out the encroaching sunbeams.

the combination of awkward slumber and unique inner workings has created some interesting subconscious brain activity for the pregnant one. her vivid dream descriptions are like horror screenplay pitches: aliens distributing business cards, zombies munching carpet, etc. most offbeat was her account of helping hip hop star drake with his athlete's foot.

as for heightened sensitivity, a proper tear jerker triggered a sob fest one night. after two hours of relative quiet during a televised screening of 'castaway', i heard sniffles from next to me during the final scenes. at least it wasn't a hallmark commercial.

walking around town, it seems every other woman has a baby bulge. is it a local boom, or are we more aware? it's as if pillows have been planted in passersby, and we are stars of our own truman show. our instinct is to survey midriffs at first glance, and determine if the stranger is a mother in arms or a doughnut fan.

even the film industry seems aligned with our process. we attended the aptly titled 'babies', which served as a timely reminder of what we're in for. my wife shed nary a tear this time, though the cries from the screen may have promoted lactation.

separation anxiety pt. 1

2010-08-25T19:47:00.000-04:00

shifting uncomfortably in a movie theatre seat, engaged in an exciting flick, it's a struggle to resist exiting when duty calls. when my bladder finally gets the best of me, i inevitably lament the missed cinematic moments while toe-tapping in the restroom.

our munchkin's premiere is months away, but i'm already anticipating the desire to remain present for every breath. twin home studios could eventually allow us to engineer sound and photograph families without stepping foot outside, but until i develop the skills to pay the bills, my income is generated on location. as a result, in the first trimester, my occupation has caused me to miss a milestone: the first ultrasound.

while a technician applied cold gel to my wife's belly, i held a dish of lard dressed with sprinkles for 'little mosque on the prairie'. the episode's event was a birthday celebration, where 'muslim' and 'christian' guests mingled over pretzels and punch. i was curious which religious affiliation i'd fall under. the casting director selected me as a slavic-looking christian, whereas the black background actors represented islam. so i stood onscreen, a fake christian with a fake bowl of ice cream, simulating conversation with a fake muslim. meanwhile, the most genuine interaction was taking place on a monitor, miles away in a hospital. the first images of our offspring appeared, and my wife gained visual confirmation of her hormonal roller coaster.

during a lull in filming, her call came. my eyes welled up as my wife described beholding a fetus with four limbs. the very mention of mini appendages inspired a surge of paternal instinct. surrounded by peers aggressively discussing world cup results, our private dialogue was extreme clarity amidst a blurred reality. returning to set with a secret, i went through the motions while envisioning my child's small arms and legs. the image was based on a simple description, but my pride in parenthood seeped from my pores. lost in thought, i almost swallowed a spoonful of lard.

that afternoon, my wife picked me up, with the sonogram printout lying face-up in the backseat, as if she were practicing a family car trip. i embraced the baby maker, and studied the fuzzy features of our authentic baby.

my lard bowl

my baby

show and tell

2010-08-04T19:46:00.000-04:00

claiming the baby requires it, the pregnant one sends scores of junk food to the womb. since her belly is expanding beyond society’s acceptance of a fit chick, she figures padding the placenta with ice cream and licorice will feed the image of pregnancy. indeed, the smooth moon is proudly displayed, an evolving natural work of art. until now, other than slight nausea and exhaustion, harboring an embryo was simply a concept. a budding buddha belly hits home, as the bulge is made up of more than licorice - there’s a tangible bun in the oven.

considering we could hardly conceal the baby bump and our ensuing excitement, we planned for the big reveal. first, we printed an arrow pointing south on a t-shirt, inscribing ‘baby’ above. both sets of folks and local siblings were to pop in for a dinner party, and at an opportune moment, the wife would remove her apron, unveiling the pronouncement. the plan unfolded beautifully, followed by embraces and celebratory toasting (although the queen of the fête clinked a glass of water). we felt relieved to finally reveal our secret, and took pride in our clever tactic. it was short lived, as the joke was on us: after feigning surprise, my sisters admitted they already knew the news, because i had inadvertently spilled the beans. apparently, my sisters were savvy enough to click on the ‘bio’ tab above, wherein i divulged that we were expecting.

my association with childbirth involves beeping monitors and fluorescent lighting, so i welcomed the world of midwifery. the walk to the clinic set things off on the right foot. situated in a converted victorian across from the park, the spring breeze and creaky wooden floors put me in the right frame of mind. in the doorway, we struggled to sidestep a woman in her third trimester, serving as a thrilling portent. sunlight poured into the waiting room, where we sat surrounded by literature. glancing at the titles, the impending stages announced themselves in my head: ‘breastfeeding your baby’, ‘toilet training your toddler’, ‘never sleeping again: welcome to your new life’.

our assigned midwife is a soft-spoken woman with an untamable curly mane. her initial questionnaire of our medical history and my wife’s current health seemed sincere, offering insight into this sweet stranger who will someday guide our child to its first breath. now that we’re on the train, we’re lucky to have such a competent, compatible conductor.

out of range

2010-07-02T11:15:00.000-04:00

my introduction to stand-in work was an extreme trial by fire. typically, my job requirement is to remain stationary while the whirlwind of workers set the scene. not so, for my inaugural assignment. the streets of a brazilian slum were gloriously reproduced in the center of the studio, artificially lit as a morning haze. the actor i was to shadow crouched around a street corner in character, throwing hand signals to his swat teammates. what followed was an elaborate choreographed sequence where the beefy black-clad men approached the designated door in trained precision.

huddled in a makeshift cove off camera, my shadow team watched the action unfold, scrutinizing each maneuver we were to duplicate. after a couple of test runs, the performers disappeared to be touched up, and we were summoned to take their place. a props master delicately placed rubber weapons in our hands and warned us to keep the barrels down (in order to not spook the crew, since the guns were unable to even load a round). with the camera, lights, and every crew member focused on our every movement, my heart raced with mounting pressure. this multi-million dollar major motion picture required uppermost competency as each second on set was costly. one slip-up, causing a reset, meant extra time on the clock. all this swirling in my head, and then --

‘action!’

peeking around the corner, i pointed and approximated some signals with determination. then i stealthily approached the door, attempting to hit each mark and pose with confidence. the role-playing was exciting, like a big budget childlike adventure. in reality, my movements were likely ridiculous-looking: awkward stumbling while incorrectly cradling a weapon.

lucky for me, the rest of the shoot was equally athletic and action packed. the highlight was riding shotgun in a humvee as it screeched to a halt at the foot of a university building, hopping out, and charging up the staircase, rubber weapon in hand. these brief surreal experiences outweighed the hours of waiting around. in my peripheral vision, i spied the actor lounging in his director’s chair, calmly surveying while inhaling his cigarette. during this particularly exciting scene, a crowd of passersby gathered to gawk. before the second rehearsal, the actor flicked the filter dramatically and sauntered into the humvee, as if i would steal his thunder (or audience). i relinquished the glory, and disappeared back into obscurity.

the blockbuster in the making took its toll one warm evening. while the actor chain smoked comfortably in his trailer, chaos ensued while setting up a complicated shot involving a helicopter. beginning at the height of a tall crane, the camera was to slowly descend through the (computer generated) rotor blades. i was to slowly walk towards the chopper, and, with precision timing, climb aboard just as the camera reaches the nadir of the arc. in addition, army vehicles had to swoop into position for troops to disembark, while scores of additional overheated troops marched in formation. as usual, the pressure of perfection weighed down on me, as i considered the cost of the location rental, the vehicles and helicopter and crane rental, everyone’s overtime rates flourishing by the minute, the executive producers with their folded arms and scowls, and most importantly, the rapidly setting sun. if everything remarkably transpired like clockwork, my simple path to the prize was excruciatingly necessary.

in order to hear my cue above the din of humvee engines and helicopter rotors, a megaphone would not suffice, so i was outfitted with a wireless earpiece. as i walked toward my starting mark, the camera operator’s voice spoke instructions: ‘i will tell you when to go’. halfway to my mark, the engines roared to life and the rotors began their deafening whir. at a distance beyond visual communication, i could only rely on the disembodied voice in my ear. and that’s when the shit hit the fan.

ten paces from the chalk mark representing my starting position, an unfamiliar female voice suddenly announced ‘out of range’. panicked, i turned on my heels, and started wildly waving to get the attention of anyone, but my attempts were futile - the distance was too far.

‘out of range’ taunted me again, like the equally frustrating robotic ‘the door is ajar’ warning. an image of the producers feeding me through the rotor blades came to mind.

‘out of range’. like chinese water torture. helpless, i watched the humvees speed off, while the groups of troops hit their stride. like a bad dream, i saw the camera descend towards the helicopter, to inevitably view the empty spot where i should be.

‘out of range.’ the engines were killed. the rotors stopped spinning. i began the walk of shame towards the principal’s office. through the sudden silence, ‘out of range’. finally, once in range:

‘...hell is going on? i kept giving you the cue...’

the lashing continued until i could hear it in stereo, in person. my explanation was sufficient, but the stress had seeped in. once the kinks were ironed out, the actor was summoned from bliss for his thirty seconds of suave screen time.

licking my emotional wounds on the sidelines, i watched movie magic from behind the scenes. this is why there are stand-ins, i thought. to absorb the space junk, so stars can burn bright.

fetus

2010-07-02T11:09:00.000-04:00

our black-eyed pea has graduated into a kidney bean. every millisecond is a milestone during rapid development.

although my wife’s aura may be slightly perceptible, our secret life creates no other physical clues. thus, the pregnant one poses for photographs cradling her belly, suggesting the glory within. whether in the grocery aisle or roaming the mall, the mere image of palms on the womb offers a visual reminder for the photo journal. weeks prior to the ballooning protrusion, the pride in parenthood is already ingrained.

with a lack of significant symptoms of pregnancy, we’ve fabricated a condition from which to suffer: preggerRAGE. for example, when a soap opera cuts to commercial, leaving my wife clinging to the cliffhanger, she becomes instantly livid, threatening to toss the remote unless time itself can flash forward. i pretend to exist on egg shells, caressing the unpredictable powder keg incarnate. without this role-playing, the pregnant process would be practically undetectable. sometimes, i even experience sympathetic preggerRAGE, just to remain in concert.

while my wife carefully selects nutrients to ingest, i ponder the liquor options, since i’m saddled with the task of drinking for two. our lacking libation collection suddenly looks impressive, albeit dusty from neglect. now that alcohol is strictly my domain, i practically feel compelled to consume it. still, after nursing a single bottle of beer, i determined social drinking is best with other drinkers.

embryo

2010-07-02T11:02:00.000-04:00

on the road to parenthood, we designed a mix for the journey. a soundtrack of inspiring tunes from artists with children. i decided to initially absorb myself in the music while immersed in bathwater. what began as relaxing intimate listening devolved into a joyous sob-fest. sweet piano melodies mixed with blissful lyrics reverberated in the tiled room, and the sentiment was overwhelming. 'beautiful boy' transported me nine months into the future, where i envisioned myself beholding my son in slumber.

in anticipation of a lengthy process, my wife had purchased a package of fifty home pregnancy tests. after our initial positive result, the remaining batch became instantly obsolete. still, before official confirmation from our doctor, we decided to check again. this time, next to the indisputable dark mark, was the phrase ‘yes, really!’

meanwhile, the inner sanctum of the baby factory is furiously drawing from its resources, causing the host to experience abnormalities. fatigue, along with a minor bout of morning sickness, were predictable results. on the other hand, dandruff mysteriously appeared, along with inexplicable elbow rashes. what atrocities a mother must endure while surrendering her physiology to her dependent’s development! with progesterone surging, my wife’s indigestion would challenge a beer-swilling trucker with heartburn. like a roman candle burning at both ends, the pregnant one lies curled on the couch, emitting burps and farts concurrently. truly humourous and endearing, dispensing with decorum, she’ll usually follow up with the admission ‘i’m not well’. from my perspective, the exact opposite is true.

indeed, she’s become something of a superhuman. while certain physical aspects seem to be failing, others are intensifying. for instance, though her sense of smell was already sharp, this ability has heightened. i suppose this instinct is to sniff out threats from afar, though an acute awareness of our neighbours’ barbecue flavours shouldn’t cause alarm for our baby’s wellbeing. unfortunately, where the unmistakable odour of cat urine would typically drive my wife insane when she’d stumble upon a sprayed area, now she can’t escape its scent emanating from the litter one floor above. worst superpower ever.

lucky for her, however, she is exempt from cleaning the litter. similarly, just when virtually our entire house requires a new coat of paint, pregnancy is the perfect excuse for not picking up a brush. our cleaning supplies generally contain chemicals, as well, so the scrubbing and polishing has been the husband’s obligation for the most part. i wonder if the dangers of toxoplasmosis and solvents are exaggerated by pregnant women who simply need more naptime.

picture imperfect

2010-05-25T15:50:00.000-04:00

in theory, participating in a photo shoot would be a welcome retreat from motion pictures. no multiple set-ups, no recurring actions, no mimed activity, no sweat. however, by the final shutter click, i couldn't feel more physically and mentally unstimulated. it turns out that a single photograph requires extreme patience and precise detail over a six-hour process, relegating actors to glorified props. perhaps it's not different from filmmaking, after all.

the concept involved enthusiastic soccer fans waiting in line for tickets. each of the thirty two countries of this year's world cup was represented by a fan, whom was decked out in respective merch. asian actors were selected to portray supporters of asian countries, as african-canadians were dressed in african nation colours. since israel did not qualify, i was curious which country i'd be chosen to endorse. in the doorway of the makeshift wardrobe room, the mistress checked her clipboard listing the predetermined casting, and handed me an italian t-shirt and flag. fitting.

next stop, hair and makeup next door. my peers were resurfacing with painted faces and, in some cases, body paint. if i had known i might appear shirtless for a widely distributed image, i would have been sure to add manscaping to my morning's beautification process. i hoped the makeup artist would assume the italian's chest would not present body paint properly. fortunately, just my hair received the cosmetic treatment, as red, white, and green streaks were applied.

once fully primed, the colourful cast were assembled across the mark before the white backdrop. while the photographer fussed over positions, an archetypal crew member (read: surly) flicked switches and adjusted tripods. in the shadows off to the corner, the faceless clients chuckled and noshed. when the scene was sufficiently set, the flashbulbs began. after five minutes, my vision was stained a negative image of the umbrellas.

since the photographer couldn't learn thirty two names, he referred to each of us by the country we supported. this provided priceless commands throughout the process.

'japan, please stand closer to germany and italy.'

'slovakia, can you separate yourself a bit?'

'don't look so angry, korea'

'drop your head, france'

'a little less, greece'

'we need more people to stand behind USA'

by the final frame, i took stock of my aches: a crick in the neck, a stitch in the back, and ankles that were ready to quit. a snapshot should capture a moment suspended, but the actors stood frozen in contorted poses for minutes on end.

at conclusion, those with body paint presided over the washroom sinks, leaving those of us with encrusted scalps to encourage second looks on homebound streetcars.

blastocyst

2010-05-23T17:19:00.000-04:00

whilst i was quietly engaged in the teeth brushing ritual, the words seemed to float into my consciousness: ‘we’re pregnant’. the phrase was familiar, from film scenes to friends’ declarations, but this pronouncement belonged to us.

i turned to my wife, toothbrush lodged in cheek, and peered at the pink plastic stick. faintly, but definitely visible, a simple line indicated a miracle. allowing the deluge of emotion to fill me, i calmly rinsed my mouth before properly embracing my co-creator. the pursuit was complete, the odds were in our favour, and in an instant, life was completely different.

a simple piece of information had transformed virtually every aspect of reality. suddenly, my wife was a delicate vessel, the environment was an influential atmosphere, and i was responsible for maintaining both. i became aware of the room temperature, the lack of fresh air, the harsh lighting - would these be sufficient conditions for a susceptible babymaker?

the morning routine was immediately affected. as i poured coffee for three, i stopped short from adding irish cream to my wife’s mug. the fridge contents appeared like a multi-tiered police lineup — suspicious-looking condiments next to soft cheeses, capable of undesirable prenatal effects. luckily, barrel-cured kosher pickles remain innocent.

by nightfall, the weight of our blessing had sunk in. beyond the theory of parenthood and the ramifications of a brand new lifestyle, i became hyperaware of the entity within my wife’s belly. a minuscule but intense energy that was steadily growing — a manifestation of two life partners, in the form of a third life.

in our first activity as conscious parents, we surfed through cyberspace to learn more about the process within. encountering a computer-generated depiction of our creation, my heart doubled in size. now we had a visual representation to love, and a moniker: our little blastocyst (seems like just last week we had a zygote -- they grow up so quickly!). inspired, we perused lists of names while i rubbed the roof of our offspring’s first home, and the new mother offered her baby a pickle.

our little one's first photo

capiche?

2010-05-20T18:13:00.001-04:00

a romantic promenade through old victorian neighbourhoods offers more benefits than just a serotonin release. visually, the pedestrian is treated to attractive architecture, glorious old trees, and personalized landscaped lawns. every few steps, a fresh scent wafts across the sidewalk, random floral fragrances flirt with passers-by.

of all the various sounds mingling in the air - piano from a loft studio, an alley cat scuffle, sirens from afar - one of the most comforting is the cross-porch chatter. most often in a foreign language, elder immigrants recline outside their front door, and converse with their immediate neighbours, who share the same patch of concrete, often divided only by a thin metal railing. i imagine conversation flows from updates from the old country to the trials and successes of life in the metropolis. the twilight porch engagement is as much the daily ritual as morning coffee and afternoon tea. similar to the function of a family dinner, the porch chat allows for the day's decompression and social connection.

as new residents in an established community, we have little in common with the folks on our block. as a young couple, we are more transient and active. still, the sweet woman next door who shares a wall in our semi-detached homes has reached across the fence, literally. her garden has been saturated with vegetables, so we've inherited the tomato overflow. as well, her impossibly precious kitten frequently scurries into our yard to satiate his curiosity, so we often drop the wanderer into her garden, only to watch him clamber back.

it is the language barrier that genuinely divides us, though. the elderly lady, to whom we affectionately refer as 'mamma mia', speaks strictly italian. still, that doesn't hinder her from engaging in lengthy one-sided discussions any time we appear near her garden. it's rather comical, if not unfortunate, that mamma mia lacks for socializing to the extreme, so she'd rather divulge her daily ruminations to strangers that appear dumbfounded. we nod at appropriate intervals, attempting to determine when her inflection requires acknowledgement.

i'd consider learning italian language basics in order to communicate, but in the meantime, i'll just keep returning 'mini mia' to her mamma's outstretched arms, accepting her vegetables, and intermittently nodding i imitated understanding.

mamma mia sweeping our porch

2010-05-19T22:31:00.001-04:00

blastocyst
embryo
fetus

show and tell
separation anxiety pt. 1

   special effects

bearing for homebodies
   separation anxiety pt. 2

2010-05-13T02:12:00.001-04:00

i'm no ho

doppelganger duties

king for a day

disbelief suspension

keep your chin up

too old for disney

dead ringer

falling horizontally

a prop, propped up

picture imperfect
out of range

2010-05-13T02:10:00.000-04:00

unkosher snack attack

   honestly, can't mufflers be mandatory?

   capiche?

2010-05-13T02:04:00.000-04:00

stepping stones are cracked

welcome to wits' end

hospital impatience

speak of the devil

staying afloat

unleash the hellish
inaugural gig

peace of fertile mind

dealings of wheeling

domestic plight

2010-05-13T01:25:00.000-04:00

grunt work
stories of slave labour

hollywood north
filmmaking from the fringes

hogtown
megacity minutiae

gestation
expecting life

everything else
the uncategorizables

2010-05-13T01:16:00.000-04:00

2010-05-13T01:12:00.000-04:00

coming soon...

2010-05-13T00:36:00.000-04:00

if you look to the left, a collision

el restaurante crapulosa

taking jobs from robots
medieval torture

aw, shucks

stepping stones are cracked

2010-05-12T23:18:00.001-04:00

unfortunately, i can’t be a recluse until i do the shmooze. my solitude has to be earned.

if it was a perfect world, the hustle and hobnobbing would be left to those who enjoyed it, whereas the rest of us, the anti-social homebodies, could simply wait for the proverbial call. but in light of the challenge every potential employee faces on a daily basis, i swallow my pride and venture into the uncomfortable.

an old acquaintance from college is offering an essential service: advice on landing the elusive reputable talent agent. his fee is $35, but the real difficulty lies in the actual interaction; years ago, conversation was stilted at best. his personality epitomized the stereotype of hollywood shallowness, and his talent was divinely questionable. to this day, i have never witnessed a more self-indulgent melodramatic performance than the monologue he presented for my feedback back in the day. a minute in, with him huddled in the far corner of the room panting with a crazed expression, i thought i had entered the twilight zone.

still, at this point, i’m just looking for strategies to re-approach the industry, and who better to offer some perspective than this soap opera ghost from the past. well, perhaps there are many others who could be equally helpful without the underlying pseudo haughty vibe, or even the price tag, but this was an opportunity that presented itself.

although i wasn’t expecting to meet over a four-course meal in a swank hotel restaurant, i was tickled to discover that my information session would take place at a wendy’s. i was told to dress to impress, which seemed rather contradictory against the orange vinyl booth backdrop.

‘i just want to ask: is this you dressing to impress?’

surveying my outfit into which i put some thought, i proudly proclaimed ‘yes, these are my semi-casual duds.’

‘okay, you should know that agents won’t really take you seriously if you wear sneakers. you should be wearing shoes like these’ - as he indicates his loafers - ‘and you should be dressing in a blazer, like this one i’m wearing’. i was waiting for him to produce an ascot for me to try on. in the decade since we last spoke, his pretension is securely intact.

from the get-go, i felt the need to appear as sophisticated as possible, which led me to order a salad with my burger, instead of fries. he went ahead and ordered fries. apparently, i don’t need to eat to impress, i thought, while bitterly munching on salad, watching him enjoy his greasy fries.

when we were done eating, it was time to show the expert my resume. again, wiping salt and ketchup off of my hands before handling my envelope felt like professionalism was left in the parking lot. i fidgeted under the table as he perused my credits, as if it was an important job interview. finally, we arrived at the activity i arranged the meeting for in the first place: writing the cover letter.

meticulously, my mentor constructed the sentences. it felt like i was watching a child writing an essay for homework. i struggled not to interject, allowing him to have the satisfaction of doing me a service.

once he completed his masterpiece, he turned to me. ‘i’d like to ask, did you find this helpful?’

i thought of my clothing critique, greasy resume, and half-baked cover letter template.

‘yes, thanks.’ then, i needed to know: ‘what feedback have others given?’

‘actually, you’re the first person that i’ve met with’.

i cut him a cheque, and had a silent chuckle on the streetcar ride home, replaying the most outlandish monologue interpretation in history in my mind.

i'm no ho

2010-05-12T23:10:00.001-04:00

arriving on location as a photo double, i am often unaware what person i will become. the agency that sends me attempts to match my height and shape to the actor i’m replacing, but sometimes that’s the extent of the similarities. this day, my first stop was at the wardrobe truck to pick up my costume.

‘you’re the ‘ho’ double?’ the mistress asked, rather surprised.

turns out i’ve been brought in to trick the viewers into thinking i’m a middle-aged asian. luckily i was heading to the hair and make-up trailer next, because i wasn’t quite convincing the wardrobe gal. as soon as i stepped into the mobile make-up/hair salon, the lady holding the hair curler turned to me and sized me up.

‘you’re the ‘ho’ double?’

shrugging, i sat in the empty chair, with a sinking feeling of not measuring up. once transferred to the proper seat, my asian transformation began. darkening my hair wasn’t a big deal, and the haircut was free, though uncomplimentary. getting a pale shade of make-up applied seemed appropriate as well. the final edit, however, was laughable: my fingers needed a shave. that’s right, the hairs next to my knuckles were not very asian, and were swiftly removed.

appearing more believable from the back, i warily wandered onto set. i located the setting for the scene, a van parked in a lot surrounded by lights, and approached with feigned confidence.

‘you’re the – ?'

‘yes, the ‘ho’ double. i know, i’m not exactly asian.’

not even part asian, actually. i was placed at the console of a surveillance operation in the van. as crew members arrived, i swear they each uttered that refrain of disbelief. there wasn’t a single middle-aged asian available at the agency? the director was considering placing a more authentic-looking random passerby in my stead. indeed, there were asian men in the area, but how many would be willing to participate?

one grip committed a faux pas by commenting ‘this guy doesn’t look oriental’ in earshot of the two asian crew members.

finally, realizing finding a replacement was futile, the crew lined up the first shot, which required me to point out something of interest on the surveillance feed. luckily the make-up department had the foresight to shave my finger hair! my slick digits were featured in the frame!

unkosher snack attack

2010-05-12T23:08:00.000-04:00

the scene seemed harmless: a hot dog kiosk situated at the entrance of the home hardware. who would have guessed i’d be offered bigotry with my condiments?

in order to lessen the load of coinage in my wallet pouch, i doled out what i thought was 2 dollars and 75 cents. it turns out, i was a penny short. an honest mistake, one that didn’t warrant a racist comparison.

‘only four pennies here. you trying to rip me off?’

a good-natured ribbing, i determined. comfortable, i playfully retorted:

‘i figured this hot dog was worth about $2.74, not a penny more’

inexplicably, without missing a beat or carefully considering his company, the tide turned.

‘fucking jews.’

i was shocked. was it my slavic features, or my inadvertent shyster manoeuver? luckily, he explained:

‘the other day, i need to pay this guy, but i can’t pay all at once. i want to pay over time, but he doesn’t let me, wants all the money right away. what’s with these people?’

still stunned, I shook my head, appearing in agreement but silently protesting.

‘where are you from?’ he inquired, in a tone that suggested that my answer would satisfy him as long as it didn’t indicate an ashkenaz origin. as if I could mention any country without prominent jewish ancestry, and suddenly we’d be allies in prejudice.

‘canada’, i finally uttered. i turned on my heels, unable to defend or admonish. i bit into the bitter tasting processed meat, and wondered if there was something wrong with me.

welcome to wits' end

2010-05-12T20:22:00.001-04:00

our emotional state is mirrored by the state of our construction zone: cluttered, unsettled, uncomfortable. dusty paw prints appear on pillows and oven surfaces, betraying our cat’s exploration. pot lights are randomly flickering, drops of paint dot the laminate flooring, appliances are failing.

the living room has been affectionately dubbed ‘the hotel’, the couch bed surrounded by piles of clothing and papers illuminated by the tv’s glow. a discarded piece of drywall acts as a window shade. the bathroom remains inaccessible due to a leaning king size mattress and unpainted baseboards inhabiting the hallway. our kitchen countertop is a lush unfinished plywood, and our office ceiling is nonexistent.

the washing machine cycle sounds reminiscent of a helicopter landing in our apartment, which thankfully drowns out the drills and hammers of the deck construction next door, the hum of the hot water tank, and the drone of doof doof tunes from tenants enjoying our stress-free home above.

more than ever before, this week we’ve learned the meaning of sacrifice, patience, and the struggle to cling to the end of a rope.

the glass can’t appear half-full when it’s clearly almost empty, but we can still think positively: at least we’ve got some liquid. it’s this resolve that provides the stamina to push on, to refill our vessel with a sweeter wine than before.

all you need is love.

doppelganger duties

2010-05-12T20:20:00.000-04:00

although we are mired in complications from shoddy renovations, and our home life is dominated by disarray, thankfully there are still activities that occupy our time.

photo doubling requires detailed movie magic. although it is my vague shape appearing in the distant background, within the shadows of a balcony, careful preparation to match my look to the absent actor is achieved. my skin tone becomes paler with make-up, my hair becomes darker and straighter with coloured mousse and a flat iron. for some reason, although i have identical boots and jeans and a sweater to wear, the cuff colour of my shirt sleeves is incorrect. this is where the magic manifests: i was given white sleeves to protrude from under my sweater! the audience will never know it was different material! in reality, the audience will never know i wasn't the actual actor!

last night, at the 13th hour, there was a knock at the trailer door. (yes, i've been designated a trailer, although it's the size of a small cubicle, and i share it with another double. but it's got a small tv and a toilet, so it feels like a glamourous prison cell, if not a potentially stinky sentence). our liaison gestured what i mistook as the "you're out of here" thumb hitch, so i began changing out of my outfit, and mussing my flat 'do back to my typical wavy mess.

i walked around to the back of the large studio to sign out, surprising the confused production assistant at the sign-out table. to confirm my freedom, he contacted the liaison over the walkie. it turns out, that thumb gesture was meant to indicate "come to set". i guess the arc of his arm wasn't precise enough, as i thought his thumbnail pointed to the bus stop, not the studio.

suddenly panicked, i ran back to the trailer compartment, brushing my hair with my fingers through the dark parking lot. at the cubicle, i disrobed, threw on my costume, and scurried onto set, still adjusting my awkward detached sleeves under my sweater. by a stroke of luck, nobody noticed as i arrived just in time to accompany the other doubles to our marks. i then discovered that only my feet would be seen in the next shot. five minutes later, it was announced that i wasn't needed at all.

i made sure to ignore the hand signs indicating "that's a wrap", and relied on hearing the actual phrase before removing my sleeves...