New York Journal - Part Seven

Here we are: the last edition of my New York Journal. This means I'll have to actually, like, generate new content for this blog. Horrors!

Ah, but that's not until tomorrow. For now, let's travel back in time, back to...


September 23, 2008

Back in Calgary! In the good ol' Bear and Kilt, about to have a good ol' Grasshopper. Nice to be home, though apparently I absorbed my New York experience quite thoroughly, because I'm experiencing the mildest of culture shock. Calgary, as a city, is short! And fat! And nobody jaywalks!

Anyway, back to the Neo-Futurists and Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind (TMLMtBGB?).

In many ways, it's structured like a sketch show, and several of the "plays" were sketch-like: a frenzied re-enactment of the Large Hadron Collider being fired, or Joey realizing that, by association, he too is a loser. But even in these bits, the humour was a little more subtle and sophisticated than most sketch material I've seen.

There were a few "plays", though, that definitely set the Neo-Futurists apart from typical sketch comedy, and won me over.

For example, "403+", a play that initially excited me because I thought it might be based on the Calgary area code. The performers - not actors, as I was later corrected - sat on the stage with a series of hats, each with a photo of a loved one inside. They explained who was in each photo - a parent, a child, a sibling, a lover - and then revealed text explaining that emergency workers now keep photos of loved ones in their helmets. The play was dedicated to emergency workers who died in 9/11, and to those they left behind.

In another, we pre-purchasers and those who rolled a '6' were called up on stage. We received additional nametags, proclaiming "I am better than everyone else", and we shouted phrases to that effect, because we had paid more to be there than anyone else.

Erica, my stage crush for the evening, came on-stage and started washing her face, explaining that her grandmother takes amazing care of her skin, that she's 80-something and looks 65. She explains that, last week, her grandmother fell while leaving the bathroom, and fractured several vertebrae, and couldn't get up. She fell asleep and woke up and still couldn't move. She lay there for over 24 hours before she was found.

Erica lay on her stomach at the edge of the stage until another performer tagged her out, and took her place. And for the rest of the show, there was always someone lying there, waiting to be tagged out.

Damn.

From what I understand of the Neo-Futurists, they try not to play characters. They try to portray themselves as people, and examine real, day-to-day existence, as much as possible. They believe in random chance and chaos.

I dig it.

Earlier in the week, after seeing L'Image, I came to the obvious but shattering discovery that, in New York City, I'm not Mark Fucking Hopkins. I'm just Canadian Tourist #163. I really wanted to meet the performers. I worked my way up the line. I chatted with the front-of-house staff, the festival director, the gallery curator, and finally the musician herself. But I couldn't score an easy, comfortable access point to the post-show drinks, so I left toward other adventures.

I really wanted post-show drinks with the Neo-Futurists.

I hovered around the theatre, chatted briefly with some performers ("Good show!"), bought some chapbooks. I hovered in the lobby, met alumni from the Neo-Futurist mentorship program, ascertained the drink location, invited myself along.

It was awesome. I spent most of my time with Jacquelyn and Erica, but met most of the group, and they were all incredibly welcoming and friendly and generous, and we had a fabulous alcohol-drenched evening. It was a lovely reminder that, no matter how big the metropolis, no matter where in the world, people are generally awesome. If you put yourself out there, they will reciprocate.

On a less joyful note, when I first arrived at the Bear and Kilt, there was a loud group of white dudes, enthusiastically celebrating some kind of Hooters-sponsored bikini competition. They were yelling crude and mysoginistic phrases toward each other and the TV, and nobody - including me - challenged them, or expressed discomfort or disgust.

Fuckin' people, man.

One thing I dug about New York was that I could discuss politics openly and without hesitation. For one thing, everyone I met was very liberal, terrified of the prospect of McCain/Palin. For another, everyone had an opinion. Here, nobody's even paying attention. Harper, Dion, Layton, you hardly overhear any of those names in everyday conversation. Even the artistic community can't muster anything more convincing than "not Harper", which - don't get me wrong - I heartily endorse. But wouldn't it be nice to vote for a vision that impassions us, rather than against a nightmare?

But on a brighter note: the last time I was here, two guys, young, nerdy, were at a table talking about movies and life. Today, we're all back, in exactly the same seats. They appear to be doing math homework over beers. On the left, an overweight white dude with glasses and a soft whine to his voice. To the right, a small Asian dude who uses words like "essentially" and listens intently. I hope they're a couple, or best friends.

I hope they vote.

Gotta drink up. Off to see GRAND Ideas, with SITI Company from - you guessed it - New York City.