In my office, there's some sort of drip, an irregular tapping noise on the ceiling above my head. It's started to drive me absolutely nuts, to the point that I escaped the house at 8:00 this morning for the drip-free OYR office (and nearly gave Johnny a heart attack when he arrived at 8:45 to find me at my desk).
On the bright side, the dripping has pushed me to dig out my headphones and plug back into iTunes. Right now, I'm listening to the Brazilian Girls. WHO APPARENTLY HAVE A NEW ALBUM HOLY CRAP!
I'm now listening to the new Brazilian Girls album. Technology rules.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
"There won't be nudity or anything inappropriate. Calgary's not ready for that."
... sez Tim Tamashiro, creator of the blessedly short-lived Calgary phenomenon, Spurlesque, "the world's only cowgirl burlesque show", that debuted (and seems to have concluded) during the 2006 Calgary Stampede.
"Most people associate burlesque with pasties and fat girls," he said. "In my show, they're all completely top-of-the-ranks beautiful. They're extremely sexy, and really outgoing and gregarious, but they're also very good dancers at the same time, right?"
Good dancers, that's... that's good.
"I don't know about you," he continued, "but I started sniffing around the new burlesque troupes that are happening around, and I'll be perfectly honest with you, it just doesn't do it for me. It seems like there's a bit of kitschiness about it. They're dressed in period costumes, a lot of tattooed girls. It really is a fringe type of thing."
That's where we agree. Burlesque is a fringe type of thing. It's witty, satirical and counter-cultural... none of which characteristics have any place around Quincy's during the Calgary Stampede.
"I've trademarked the name Spurlesque, by the way, which I'm very excited about."
...
Master Sarah Moanies, the former MC of Kabuki Guns Burlesque, was always on message. No matter where she was interviewed, there was always a similar quote: "Burlesque comes from a day when sex and sexuality was still a mystery. A long black skirt with a tall slit up the leg is far more sexy than a mini-skirt."
(In my Avenue piece: "Burlesque hearkens back to a time when sexuality still had a little mystery and plastic did not make perfect. ... A long skirt with a slit up the leg is far sexier than a miniskirt.")
It's a good soundbyte, and that's why it kept getting printed. But more importantly, Moanies provided Calgary with a spokesperson for burlesque that understood its history, its image, and the need for a consistent message.
Contrary to Tamashiro's "pasties and fat girls", I'd argue that most people associate burlesque with the Pussycat Dolls who, unless I've been looking at the wrong photoshoots, don't subscribe to Moanies' long skirt philosophy. As a public face for burlesque in Calgary, Moanies reminded us that burlesque (done right) has more in common with old-style vaude
ville than with the French Maid.
Alas, Master Moanies has left Calgary for warmer shores. We miss you!
The Kabuki Guns are still active. Admittedly, I haven't seen many of their recent shows... but I worry when I see photos of their latest fundraiser, a bikini carwash.
On Saturday, I headed over to the Palomino to see the Garter Girls (formerly the Calgary Burlesque Collective). I first encountered this group when they very generously performed at Swallow-a-Bicycle's Lust After Sunset party/fundraiser at Juilliard. They pretty much rocked, and helped to make the party a rousing success. When I heard they were performing alongside some rockabilly bands, I figured it would be a Saturday evening well-spent.
Don't get me wrong, I had a good time. But I have to admit, I was disappointed with the show.
Nearly every set started, and ended, the same way. The MC, dressed as Mrs. Claus, gave a sassy introduction. The dancer entered, stage right, in an elaborate costume. A Christmas tune was pumped through the speakers, and the elaborate costume was stripped down to panties and tasseled pasties. A quick tassel-twirl, and that's a wrap! Even Axis D'Evil, who gave a rowdy and respectable performance as a filthy, hard-rockin' Santa Claus, twirled tho
se tassels for her grand finale.
You can imagine my delight, then, when Sugar Mae B. did something different.
When she entered stage right, she was already nearly bare, her panties and pasties concealed only by a pair of white-feathered shields that were part angel wings, part snow domes. Her dance was slow and measured, and whenever one of the wings made a broad stroke overhead, the other was there to conceal her, giving us only the briefest hints of skin. It was subtle. Mischievous. Seductive.
At the end, with a smirk, the wings finally parted.
But wasn't about the big finish. We already knew she was naked. It was about the experience.
(At least, it was for me. The douchebag next to me, on the other hand, gruffly called out: "Drop the wings, hon, we can't see anything.")
Now, I'm in no way impartial - Ms. Sugar Mae is a friend of mine. And, granted, her set didn't have much in the way of satire, or commentary, or transgression. But I was thrilled and refreshed to see the formula broken, and to be engaged by her sensuality instead of her sexuality.
Saturday night was a landmark for the Garter Girls; it was the final show for their founder, Betty Galore, before her indefinite hiatus from burlesque. It's hard to say what this will mean for the group. I, for one, hope that their next evolution shows less strip, and more tease.
Calgary's burlesque "community", as it were, is pretty much dominated by the KGB and the Garter Girls, but as I was writing this, I took a casual stroll through Google and discovered Burlesquercise, a burlesque-themed fitness dance class by Diva Di.
At first, I was pretty sure this was another Spurlesque-esque cash-in. The class descriptions are ripe with high heels and Pussycat Dolls, and one of the advanced classes is titled "Chair Tease". But Di's resume looks pretty solid, and the site is also peppered with words like "confidence", "transformation", "empowerment", and welcomes "Women of all ages, levels, shapes and sizes." Who knows?
I guess Diva Di will be starting up her own troupe, The Little Vegas Dance Company, in '09. I look forward to seeing if they'll bring forward anything new.
The world is just begging for parody. Proposition 8. The economic recession. The pro-roguing of Parliament - hell, Canadian politicians are practically writing their own sketches. These things are gifts for anyone working in burlesque.
There's already plenty of nudity going around. It's time to see something inappropriate.
Believe me, Calgary is ready.
I interviewed Tamashiro back in '06, a few months before Spurlesque hit the Quincy's stage, in an article for Avenue called "Sexy Subversion". It was a decent interview, he was a nice guy, but it seemed to me that he didn't quite get burlesque.
"Most people associate burlesque with pasties and fat girls," he said. "In my show, they're all completely top-of-the-ranks beautiful. They're extremely sexy, and really outgoing and gregarious, but they're also very good dancers at the same time, right?"
Good dancers, that's... that's good.
"I don't know about you," he continued, "but I started sniffing around the new burlesque troupes that are happening around, and I'll be perfectly honest with you, it just doesn't do it for me. It seems like there's a bit of kitschiness about it. They're dressed in period costumes, a lot of tattooed girls. It really is a fringe type of thing."
That's where we agree. Burlesque is a fringe type of thing. It's witty, satirical and counter-cultural... none of which characteristics have any place around Quincy's during the Calgary Stampede.
"I've trademarked the name Spurlesque, by the way, which I'm very excited about."
...
Master Sarah Moanies, the former MC of Kabuki Guns Burlesque, was always on message. No matter where she was interviewed, there was always a similar quote: "Burlesque comes from a day when sex and sexuality was still a mystery. A long black skirt with a tall slit up the leg is far more sexy than a mini-skirt."
(In my Avenue piece: "Burlesque hearkens back to a time when sexuality still had a little mystery and plastic did not make perfect. ... A long skirt with a slit up the leg is far sexier than a miniskirt.")
It's a good soundbyte, and that's why it kept getting printed. But more importantly, Moanies provided Calgary with a spokesperson for burlesque that understood its history, its image, and the need for a consistent message.
Contrary to Tamashiro's "pasties and fat girls", I'd argue that most people associate burlesque with the Pussycat Dolls who, unless I've been looking at the wrong photoshoots, don't subscribe to Moanies' long skirt philosophy. As a public face for burlesque in Calgary, Moanies reminded us that burlesque (done right) has more in common with old-style vaude
ville than with the French Maid.Alas, Master Moanies has left Calgary for warmer shores. We miss you!
The Kabuki Guns are still active. Admittedly, I haven't seen many of their recent shows... but I worry when I see photos of their latest fundraiser, a bikini carwash.
On Saturday, I headed over to the Palomino to see the Garter Girls (formerly the Calgary Burlesque Collective). I first encountered this group when they very generously performed at Swallow-a-Bicycle's Lust After Sunset party/fundraiser at Juilliard. They pretty much rocked, and helped to make the party a rousing success. When I heard they were performing alongside some rockabilly bands, I figured it would be a Saturday evening well-spent.
Don't get me wrong, I had a good time. But I have to admit, I was disappointed with the show.
Nearly every set started, and ended, the same way. The MC, dressed as Mrs. Claus, gave a sassy introduction. The dancer entered, stage right, in an elaborate costume. A Christmas tune was pumped through the speakers, and the elaborate costume was stripped down to panties and tasseled pasties. A quick tassel-twirl, and that's a wrap! Even Axis D'Evil, who gave a rowdy and respectable performance as a filthy, hard-rockin' Santa Claus, twirled tho
se tassels for her grand finale.You can imagine my delight, then, when Sugar Mae B. did something different.
When she entered stage right, she was already nearly bare, her panties and pasties concealed only by a pair of white-feathered shields that were part angel wings, part snow domes. Her dance was slow and measured, and whenever one of the wings made a broad stroke overhead, the other was there to conceal her, giving us only the briefest hints of skin. It was subtle. Mischievous. Seductive.
At the end, with a smirk, the wings finally parted.
But wasn't about the big finish. We already knew she was naked. It was about the experience.
(At least, it was for me. The douchebag next to me, on the other hand, gruffly called out: "Drop the wings, hon, we can't see anything.")
Now, I'm in no way impartial - Ms. Sugar Mae is a friend of mine. And, granted, her set didn't have much in the way of satire, or commentary, or transgression. But I was thrilled and refreshed to see the formula broken, and to be engaged by her sensuality instead of her sexuality.
Saturday night was a landmark for the Garter Girls; it was the final show for their founder, Betty Galore, before her indefinite hiatus from burlesque. It's hard to say what this will mean for the group. I, for one, hope that their next evolution shows less strip, and more tease.
Calgary's burlesque "community", as it were, is pretty much dominated by the KGB and the Garter Girls, but as I was writing this, I took a casual stroll through Google and discovered Burlesquercise, a burlesque-themed fitness dance class by Diva Di.
At first, I was pretty sure this was another Spurlesque-esque cash-in. The class descriptions are ripe with high heels and Pussycat Dolls, and one of the advanced classes is titled "Chair Tease". But Di's resume looks pretty solid, and the site is also peppered with words like "confidence", "transformation", "empowerment", and welcomes "Women of all ages, levels, shapes and sizes." Who knows?
I guess Diva Di will be starting up her own troupe, The Little Vegas Dance Company, in '09. I look forward to seeing if they'll bring forward anything new.
The world is just begging for parody. Proposition 8. The economic recession. The pro-roguing of Parliament - hell, Canadian politicians are practically writing their own sketches. These things are gifts for anyone working in burlesque.
There's already plenty of nudity going around. It's time to see something inappropriate.
Believe me, Calgary is ready.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Touch me, baby, bite my tongue
I got my first job when I was fourteen, working for the Kinsmen Club of Calgary at the Calgary Stampede. I worked in a team of four, two guys, two girls. Our job was simple: at pre-arranged times throughout the day, we would carry food and water to the various Kinsmen booths spread throughout the Stampede grounds. The booth-dwellers welcomed us gratefully, especially on the hot days. We would then drag our empty jugs back to the Kinsmen office and sit around, waiting for the next run.
The girls were older, fifteen I think. The other guy was older still, sixteen or seventeen. At fourteen, I was awkward, introverted and lacking that key piece of common sense that helps teenagers make friends.
I brought a book with me, probably something by Anne McCaffrey or David Eddings. And while I can't remember exactly, I'm sure I found some chair in the corner and read my book while the others played poker, or blackjack, or backgammon. I didn't really understand those games, nor did I understand that the games weren't the point.
Being stuck in a room with them for eight hours a day, it was inevitable that I would develop a crush on the girls. But, of course, I had no idea how to approach them, so I sat in my corner, ate my packed lunch, and inserted hasty comments into whatever conversation they were having. My awkwardness must have shone like a beacon, because eventually, when they got bored of card games or flirting, they turned to me.
They asked me if I'd ever kissed a girl, which I hadn't.
"Yeah, of course," I said, blushing.
"With tongue?" one of the girls asked.
I gave her what I hoped was a withering glare, seeped in disdain. With tongue? Is there a kiss without tongue? Give me a break.
I guess the glare worked, because the questioning stopped. They accepted that, okay, the nerd had a little more play than they'd expected. I went back to my book in quiet humiliation, my face burning.
A song came on the radio - "Ghetto Supastar (That Is What You Are)" by Pras, featuring Mya and ODB. One of the girls squealed, turned to the guy.
"Will you sing along with me?" she asked.
He shook his head, no way, turned back to his cards. Sulking, she looked around the room and caught my eye.
"Do you know this song?" she asked. I didn't.
"Yeah, of course," I replied.
"Will you sing along with me?" she asked. "I never have a guy to sing the guy parts with me."
"Uh," I said. "Nah. No, sorry."
"Come on! Why not?"
"I don't sing," I said firmly, and that was that. The guy looked up, nodded at me. Solidarity. Dudes don't sing. The girl shrugged, sighed, went back to watch the cards. And on our crackly radio, the song played.
Run away with me, to another place.
We can rely on each other, uh-huh.
From one corner to another, uh-huh.
The girls were older, fifteen I think. The other guy was older still, sixteen or seventeen. At fourteen, I was awkward, introverted and lacking that key piece of common sense that helps teenagers make friends.
I brought a book with me, probably something by Anne McCaffrey or David Eddings. And while I can't remember exactly, I'm sure I found some chair in the corner and read my book while the others played poker, or blackjack, or backgammon. I didn't really understand those games, nor did I understand that the games weren't the point.
Being stuck in a room with them for eight hours a day, it was inevitable that I would develop a crush on the girls. But, of course, I had no idea how to approach them, so I sat in my corner, ate my packed lunch, and inserted hasty comments into whatever conversation they were having. My awkwardness must have shone like a beacon, because eventually, when they got bored of card games or flirting, they turned to me.
They asked me if I'd ever kissed a girl, which I hadn't.
"Yeah, of course," I said, blushing.
"With tongue?" one of the girls asked.
I gave her what I hoped was a withering glare, seeped in disdain. With tongue? Is there a kiss without tongue? Give me a break.
I guess the glare worked, because the questioning stopped. They accepted that, okay, the nerd had a little more play than they'd expected. I went back to my book in quiet humiliation, my face burning.
A song came on the radio - "Ghetto Supastar (That Is What You Are)" by Pras, featuring Mya and ODB. One of the girls squealed, turned to the guy.
"Will you sing along with me?" she asked.
He shook his head, no way, turned back to his cards. Sulking, she looked around the room and caught my eye.
"Do you know this song?" she asked. I didn't.
"Yeah, of course," I replied.
"Will you sing along with me?" she asked. "I never have a guy to sing the guy parts with me."
"Uh," I said. "Nah. No, sorry."
"Come on! Why not?"
"I don't sing," I said firmly, and that was that. The guy looked up, nodded at me. Solidarity. Dudes don't sing. The girl shrugged, sighed, went back to watch the cards. And on our crackly radio, the song played.
Run away with me, to another place.
We can rely on each other, uh-huh.
From one corner to another, uh-huh.
Hopkins Happenings - December 2008
Hi everyone,
It's newsletter time again! December is a comparably slow month for me, which is kind of great, since January will be freakin' nuts. Here's what I've got coming up:
Body Language, part of Downstage's Motel Series, features two performances: Do Me, by Jennifer Roberts, and Pouring the Liquid Unseen, by Marie-Ève Bonneau. We've just finished the first week of the run, and there are three performances remaining!
Do Me explores the dance of romance, as men and women clash, crash and unite in a series of vignettes. Pouring the Liquid Unseen invites the audience to a private transformative experience, which combines movement, dance and music for an intimate exploration of healing, improvisation and the fluidity of the human experience.
Plus, there are black lights and naughty words! Don't miss it!
Raggedy Ann & Andy
In a magical playroom, Babette the French doll is kidnapped by Leonard-the-Looney-Hearted! Raggedy Ann and Andy climb out the window and embark on a daring rescue mission through the deep, deep woods, where they confront swamp monsters, witches and more. Directed by the superbly talented Kristin Eveleigh and featuring a cast of up-and-coming teenage actors, this holiday production is suitable for ages 3+.
Visit Calgary Young People's Theatre for more information.
Christmas Ham(let)
For a couple of years, a group of French-speakers have been meeting at the Kensington Pub every Monday night to... well, drink beer and speak French. It's a great, friendly environment to brush up on your language skills and meet some cool people. Si vous parlez français, j'espère de vous voir au Kensington Pub lundi soir!
Roommate Search 2009
My fabulous roommate, Danielle, is moving out. Boo! So I need a new tenant. Yay!
Farewell, 2008. You've been a good year...
Mark Hopkins
It's newsletter time again! December is a comparably slow month for me, which is kind of great, since January will be freakin' nuts. Here's what I've got coming up:
- Body Language
- Raggedy Ann & Andy
- Christmas Ham(let)
- Swimming in Shallow Water
- Salon de la conversation
- Roommate Search 2009
December 4-6, 8:00 pm
Motel, EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
$12
Body Language, part of Downstage's Motel Series, features two performances: Do Me, by Jennifer Roberts, and Pouring the Liquid Unseen, by Marie-Ève Bonneau. We've just finished the first week of the run, and there are three performances remaining!
Do Me explores the dance of romance, as men and women clash, crash and unite in a series of vignettes. Pouring the Liquid Unseen invites the audience to a private transformative experience, which combines movement, dance and music for an intimate exploration of healing, improvisation and the fluidity of the human experience.
Plus, there are black lights and naughty words! Don't miss it!
Raggedy Ann & Andy
December 10-12 at 7:30 pm, December 13-14 at 2:30 pm
Vertigo Studio Theatre (base of the Calgary Tower)
$8-$12
In a magical playroom, Babette the French doll is kidnapped by Leonard-the-Looney-Hearted! Raggedy Ann and Andy climb out the window and embark on a daring rescue mission through the deep, deep woods, where they confront swamp monsters, witches and more. Directed by the superbly talented Kristin Eveleigh and featuring a cast of up-and-coming teenage actors, this holiday production is suitable for ages 3+.
Visit Calgary Young People's Theatre for more information.
Christmas Ham(let)
December 1, 8:00 pm
Ramsay Community Hall (1136 8th St SE)
$15
Swallow-a-Bicycle is doing a holiday show! Who would have thought? You are cordially invited to join Claudius and Gertrude for their wedding reception, which swiftly transforms into a 90-minute condensed version of Shakespeare's Hamlet.
Directed by Jonathan Seinen, the show features an all-star cast of Alex Arsenault, Kate Bateman, Ellen Close, Mat Glessing, Len Harvey, Wil Knoll, Simone Saunders and Jordan Schartner! (Wow!) Hamlet is played by Stephen Kent, who understudied for the role this summer at the Stratford Shakespeare Festival.
Should be pretty freakin' cool. Besides, what else are you doing on December 19-20? Shopping? Pssh.
Swimming in Shallow Water
markchopkins.blogspot.com
I've started a blog! In theory, I update it daily, though occasionally I miss a day (or six). I need motivation to keep this sucker going, so if you've got some time to kill, check it out!
Salon de la Conversation
Every Monday, around 8:00 pm
Kensington Pub
207 10A St NW
Kensington Pub
207 10A St NW
For a couple of years, a group of French-speakers have been meeting at the Kensington Pub every Monday night to... well, drink beer and speak French. It's a great, friendly environment to brush up on your language skills and meet some cool people. Si vous parlez français, j'espère de vous voir au Kensington Pub lundi soir!
Roommate Search 2009
I have a kickass condo in a great location (off Memorial Drive, just north of Prince's Island Park), so if you know anyone looking for a place to live, please point them in my direction. I'm looking for someone as of January 1, but Danielle will be out in mid-December, so the move-in date is pretty flexible.
Come live with me!
- - -
A nice, laid-back December! Oh, and of course, there are a couple of We Should Know Each Other parties this month (#20 and #21, I think), and if you'd like to attend, just drop me a line.
I don't have New Year's Eve plans yet. Suggestions?
- - -
A nice, laid-back December! Oh, and of course, there are a couple of We Should Know Each Other parties this month (#20 and #21, I think), and if you'd like to attend, just drop me a line.
I don't have New Year's Eve plans yet. Suggestions?
Next month is the High Performance Rodeo, and my life explodes until February. If you want to hang out, let's do it in December!
Mark Hopkins
Monday, November 24, 2008
Rum, maybe? Brandy?
The mint brownie is gone. I gave it to my downstairs neighbour. I just ate the lemon loaf. A little stale, but not bad.
So: I'm pretty stressed out. And lots of the people I know seem to be stressed out. But we really shouldn't be. I mean, if we miss a deadline, it's not as if anyone will die. They'll just be, y'know. Pissed off that we missed a deadline.
Maybe I should take up meditation. Or start doing yoga again.
See? Now I'm stressed about not doing enough yoga. Damn it all.
Ran into some boys from the Arbour Lake Sghool tonight, and was recommended a drink: a stout beer with a shot of Wild Turkey and a shot of... dammit, I've forgotten the last ingredient. I shall have to try every possible variety of liquor until something tastes good.
So: I'm pretty stressed out. And lots of the people I know seem to be stressed out. But we really shouldn't be. I mean, if we miss a deadline, it's not as if anyone will die. They'll just be, y'know. Pissed off that we missed a deadline.
Maybe I should take up meditation. Or start doing yoga again.
See? Now I'm stressed about not doing enough yoga. Damn it all.
Ran into some boys from the Arbour Lake Sghool tonight, and was recommended a drink: a stout beer with a shot of Wild Turkey and a shot of... dammit, I've forgotten the last ingredient. I shall have to try every possible variety of liquor until something tastes good.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Oh, and...
Fabulous linguistic discoveries of the day:
"Don't they know that smoking's a gamble? They can gamble on any streetcorner!"
- Jason Long, in a discussion of smoking in casinos
"The unceasing onslaught of fresh musical delights can overwhelm even the most devoted music fan."
- on the back of Have You Heard, a Starbucks-exclusive compilation CD
"Don't they know that smoking's a gamble? They can gamble on any streetcorner!"
- Jason Long, in a discussion of smoking in casinos
"The unceasing onslaught of fresh musical delights can overwhelm even the most devoted music fan."
- on the back of Have You Heard, a Starbucks-exclusive compilation CD
Caffeine Nation
I learned a lot about Starbucks tonight.
I learned that their big bucket 'o coffee is not called a "Travel Kit", but rather a "Coffee Traveller".
After confusing the barista at the Memorial Drive Starbucks by asking for a "Travel Kit", I learned that the Memorial Drive Starbucks was out of "Coffee Travellers".
I learned that, near my home, there are (at least) three Starbucks in a ten-block radius: the Memorial Drive, Bridgeland and Centre Street locations.
I learned that these three locations are buddies. Upon discovering they were out of "Coffee Travellers", Memorial Drive called Bridgeland to get the phone number for Centre Street, to ask Centre Street to prepare a "Coffee Traveller" full of "Home Brew" (which is more popular than "Dark Roast") so it would be ready when I arrived.
I learned that cute young baristas will take pity on a hapless non-coffee drinker and tell him that, yes, people do generally appreciate the inclusion of cream and sugar.
I learned that cute young baristas will accept the request for a "small but delicious variety of pastries" as a personal challenge. They will select, among others items, a slice of lemon loaf, a mint brownie and a raspberry-triangle-thing.
I learned that a "Coffee Traveller" and seven pastries cost $28 and change.
I learned that a "Coffee Traveller" contains more than enough coffee for five board members, who, despite the public announcement, were the only people who showed up for CYPT's Annual General Meeting.
I learned that caffeine and sugar greatly enhance the entertainment value of an AGM.
Those are the things I learned about Starbucks tonight. I have a slice of lemon loaf and a mint brownie in my kitchen, if anyone's interested.
I learned that their big bucket 'o coffee is not called a "Travel Kit", but rather a "Coffee Traveller".
After confusing the barista at the Memorial Drive Starbucks by asking for a "Travel Kit", I learned that the Memorial Drive Starbucks was out of "Coffee Travellers".
I learned that, near my home, there are (at least) three Starbucks in a ten-block radius: the Memorial Drive, Bridgeland and Centre Street locations.
I learned that these three locations are buddies. Upon discovering they were out of "Coffee Travellers", Memorial Drive called Bridgeland to get the phone number for Centre Street, to ask Centre Street to prepare a "Coffee Traveller" full of "Home Brew" (which is more popular than "Dark Roast") so it would be ready when I arrived.
I learned that cute young baristas will take pity on a hapless non-coffee drinker and tell him that, yes, people do generally appreciate the inclusion of cream and sugar.
I learned that cute young baristas will accept the request for a "small but delicious variety of pastries" as a personal challenge. They will select, among others items, a slice of lemon loaf, a mint brownie and a raspberry-triangle-thing.
I learned that a "Coffee Traveller" and seven pastries cost $28 and change.
I learned that a "Coffee Traveller" contains more than enough coffee for five board members, who, despite the public announcement, were the only people who showed up for CYPT's Annual General Meeting.
I learned that caffeine and sugar greatly enhance the entertainment value of an AGM.
Those are the things I learned about Starbucks tonight. I have a slice of lemon loaf and a mint brownie in my kitchen, if anyone's interested.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
bold art and hard sex
Somebody wrote that on my fridge with magnetic poetry. Two very admirable goals for life.
I went to see Dance Montage 2008 tonight (and arrived twenty minutes early - YES!), which is an annual showcase of short choreography. It was a mixed bag of performances, though lovely Léda Davies kicked some serious ass as both a dancer (in N'Bara Ta-Gan) and choreographer (for Wanderlust). Yay Léda!
Flipping through the program, I noticed that several dancers were pulling double-duty, performing in different pieces. And then I noticed that some dancers were pulling triple-duty. And then I noticed that a woman named Chelsey Higdon was performing in FIVE out of eleven pieces. Damn, girl, that's a lot of rehearsals.
Unsurprisingly, from where I was sitting, Chelsey was gorgeous. The pieces she performed ranged from belly dance to hip-hop to contemporary to ballet, and she figured prominently in each of them.
After Resistance (a pretty badass piece choreographed by Annalisa Whittle, in which the dancers were wrapped in elastics and manipulated them to great effect), I overheard the young woman next to me say, "Wasn't Chelsey great?"
I leaned over. "Is Chelsey the one who's dancing in, like, five pieces?"
"Yeah," she replied, with just a tiny note of jealousy in her voice. "And she's a first-year."
In the ballet piece, Aejopstux (again, quite good, choreographed by Carla French), there's a moment where Ms. Higdon is spirited away by the two male dancers, Joel Hathaway and Michael Myroniuk. The remaining nine female dancers bunch together in the corner and watch (again, with a hint of longing) as the pair of toned men vie for the attention of the lithe first-year pivoting between them.
Meta-Dance Montage? Hm.
I went to see Dance Montage 2008 tonight (and arrived twenty minutes early - YES!), which is an annual showcase of short choreography. It was a mixed bag of performances, though lovely Léda Davies kicked some serious ass as both a dancer (in N'Bara Ta-Gan) and choreographer (for Wanderlust). Yay Léda!
Flipping through the program, I noticed that several dancers were pulling double-duty, performing in different pieces. And then I noticed that some dancers were pulling triple-duty. And then I noticed that a woman named Chelsey Higdon was performing in FIVE out of eleven pieces. Damn, girl, that's a lot of rehearsals.
Unsurprisingly, from where I was sitting, Chelsey was gorgeous. The pieces she performed ranged from belly dance to hip-hop to contemporary to ballet, and she figured prominently in each of them.
After Resistance (a pretty badass piece choreographed by Annalisa Whittle, in which the dancers were wrapped in elastics and manipulated them to great effect), I overheard the young woman next to me say, "Wasn't Chelsey great?"
I leaned over. "Is Chelsey the one who's dancing in, like, five pieces?"
"Yeah," she replied, with just a tiny note of jealousy in her voice. "And she's a first-year."
In the ballet piece, Aejopstux (again, quite good, choreographed by Carla French), there's a moment where Ms. Higdon is spirited away by the two male dancers, Joel Hathaway and Michael Myroniuk. The remaining nine female dancers bunch together in the corner and watch (again, with a hint of longing) as the pair of toned men vie for the attention of the lithe first-year pivoting between them.
Meta-Dance Montage? Hm.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Mark Tardy Hopkins
Forgiveness is paramount!
---
I'm often late for things. Despite the fact that I usually get away with it, it's a problem.
Last night, I headed up to birds & stone to check out Amber Lights (written/produced by Simone Saunders and directed by Jennifer Roberts!). The show started at 8:00, and I left the house around 7:48 because... why? I think I was playing Spider-Man: Web of Shadows (a game that runs at a crawl on my poor computer) and forgot to eat dinner, so when I noticed the time, I paused to shove something down my throat on the way out the door.
I leapt into my car, slammed it into reverse and backed out of my spot, just like I've done a hundred times before. Only, this time, the parking lot was covered in ice.
Usually, I can swing out of my spot with a comfortable space between my car and its opposite, parked on the other side of the lot. This time, however, my car just kept swinging around, right toward my neighbour's rear bumper. I slammed on the brakes, and we skidded in Hollywood-style slow motion, stopping a hair's breadth before impact.
Adrenaline freshly pumping, I headed for Memorial Drive.
En route, I somehow managed to tear my right thumbnail - nothing too dramatic, just a sliver that I would have later cut off anyway, but enough that it hurt. The sliver refused to relinquish its death-grip on my thumb, and so when I pulled up to birds & stone (at what my dashboard clock told me was 7:58 pm), I spent a couple minutes resolving my thumbnail issue.
Feeling much happier about life in general, with the digital clock screaming 8:00!!! at me, I hurried over to the birds & stone entrance... and it was locked.
I was puzzled. Had I misread the showtime? Was the run over?
I mused that perhaps they had decided to use the 1st St entrance, rather than the 16th Ave, so I moseyed over. That door was unlocked, so I headed down the stairs, where I encountered a locked door right outside of where the box office should be.
I shrugged and knocked. After a moment, a young woman opened the door.
"Um," she said. "We're about to start the show."
"Great!" I replied. "Can I come in?"
She paused. "Do you have a ticket?"
"No."
"Uh," she said, glancing anxiously over her shoulder toward the theatre. "Look, I gotta be on stage. I need to lock this door."
"Oh! Okay..."
"Sorry man!"
Slam.
Belatedly, realising that I had just inadvertently stressed out one of the actors, I thought about wishing her a good show. The newly locked door didn't offer any suggestions on how, so I headed back to my car, bemused at my predictability, and drove home to write a blog post about my proclivity for tardiness. Annnnd then I got distracted and never got around to it.
Tonight, after getting my "bad-ass" haircut at Swizzlesticks, I headed up to 16th Ave for a dinner/CYPT meeting with Mat. We wrapped up around 7:05, which left me with fifty-five minutes to kill before Amber Lights, attempt #2.
Normally, in such a situation, I would either head home or order another beer, then rush for the theatre just in time to snag a seat. But I decided, no. Today I will be early.
Showed up at 7:15. Had a nice chat with Simone and her brother. Returned Downstage's projection stand to storage. Ran into some other friends. Got a seat in the front row.
Compared to my normal routine, it was pretty relaxed.
I doubt this is any kind of turning point, and I fully suspect that I'll continue to squeal out of parking lots, hoping that whoever I'm meeting is later than me. But, wow, wouldn't life be way calmer if I could start being early?
---
I'm often late for things. Despite the fact that I usually get away with it, it's a problem.
Last night, I headed up to birds & stone to check out Amber Lights (written/produced by Simone Saunders and directed by Jennifer Roberts!). The show started at 8:00, and I left the house around 7:48 because... why? I think I was playing Spider-Man: Web of Shadows (a game that runs at a crawl on my poor computer) and forgot to eat dinner, so when I noticed the time, I paused to shove something down my throat on the way out the door.
I leapt into my car, slammed it into reverse and backed out of my spot, just like I've done a hundred times before. Only, this time, the parking lot was covered in ice.
Usually, I can swing out of my spot with a comfortable space between my car and its opposite, parked on the other side of the lot. This time, however, my car just kept swinging around, right toward my neighbour's rear bumper. I slammed on the brakes, and we skidded in Hollywood-style slow motion, stopping a hair's breadth before impact.
Adrenaline freshly pumping, I headed for Memorial Drive.
En route, I somehow managed to tear my right thumbnail - nothing too dramatic, just a sliver that I would have later cut off anyway, but enough that it hurt. The sliver refused to relinquish its death-grip on my thumb, and so when I pulled up to birds & stone (at what my dashboard clock told me was 7:58 pm), I spent a couple minutes resolving my thumbnail issue.
Feeling much happier about life in general, with the digital clock screaming 8:00!!! at me, I hurried over to the birds & stone entrance... and it was locked.
I was puzzled. Had I misread the showtime? Was the run over?
I mused that perhaps they had decided to use the 1st St entrance, rather than the 16th Ave, so I moseyed over. That door was unlocked, so I headed down the stairs, where I encountered a locked door right outside of where the box office should be.
I shrugged and knocked. After a moment, a young woman opened the door.
"Um," she said. "We're about to start the show."
"Great!" I replied. "Can I come in?"
She paused. "Do you have a ticket?"
"No."
"Uh," she said, glancing anxiously over her shoulder toward the theatre. "Look, I gotta be on stage. I need to lock this door."
"Oh! Okay..."
"Sorry man!"
Slam.
Belatedly, realising that I had just inadvertently stressed out one of the actors, I thought about wishing her a good show. The newly locked door didn't offer any suggestions on how, so I headed back to my car, bemused at my predictability, and drove home to write a blog post about my proclivity for tardiness. Annnnd then I got distracted and never got around to it.
Tonight, after getting my "bad-ass" haircut at Swizzlesticks, I headed up to 16th Ave for a dinner/CYPT meeting with Mat. We wrapped up around 7:05, which left me with fifty-five minutes to kill before Amber Lights, attempt #2.
Normally, in such a situation, I would either head home or order another beer, then rush for the theatre just in time to snag a seat. But I decided, no. Today I will be early.
Showed up at 7:15. Had a nice chat with Simone and her brother. Returned Downstage's projection stand to storage. Ran into some other friends. Got a seat in the front row.
Compared to my normal routine, it was pretty relaxed.
I doubt this is any kind of turning point, and I fully suspect that I'll continue to squeal out of parking lots, hoping that whoever I'm meeting is later than me. But, wow, wouldn't life be way calmer if I could start being early?
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Murky
Missed a day! But forgiveness is paramount.
I did not expect to end up at Ming last night, and I did not expect to stay until 1:30 in the morning. Aren't surprises neat? Note to self: the Marco Polo is a damned tasty martini.
I feel swamped these days, in the literal "being sucked below the surface, into an asphyxiating quagmire of muck" sense. All of my jobs, all at once, seem to be screaming at me with urgent deadlines. It's all a bit deafening.
The trailer for Repo! the Genetic Opera brings me joy. I'm afraid to see the movie. What if it's not as good as the trailer? Tragedy!
I did not expect to end up at Ming last night, and I did not expect to stay until 1:30 in the morning. Aren't surprises neat? Note to self: the Marco Polo is a damned tasty martini.
I feel swamped these days, in the literal "being sucked below the surface, into an asphyxiating quagmire of muck" sense. All of my jobs, all at once, seem to be screaming at me with urgent deadlines. It's all a bit deafening.
The trailer for Repo! the Genetic Opera brings me joy. I'm afraid to see the movie. What if it's not as good as the trailer? Tragedy!
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Audacious
A while ago, I wrote an article on sleep.
God, I'm optimistic sometimes. "If my work is keeping me up past midnight, it can wait until tomorrow." Pssh.
I need to stop writing articles with embedded resolutions. I don't make New Year's resolutions; why should I make promises I can't keep to an anonymous audience of magazine readers? It just makes me feel guilty when, once again, I find myself pulling an all-nighter.
Sigh.
Had a lovely evening. Caught up with various dear friends. Spoke French. Am exhausted and slightly drunk.
Should go to bed. Probably won't.
God, I'm optimistic sometimes. "If my work is keeping me up past midnight, it can wait until tomorrow." Pssh.
I need to stop writing articles with embedded resolutions. I don't make New Year's resolutions; why should I make promises I can't keep to an anonymous audience of magazine readers? It just makes me feel guilty when, once again, I find myself pulling an all-nighter.
Sigh.
Had a lovely evening. Caught up with various dear friends. Spoke French. Am exhausted and slightly drunk.
Should go to bed. Probably won't.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Naked Blogging
I used to write for fun.
I started writing when I was about 15, short stories mostly. I joined a superhero fiction community called The Parodyverse (still around, a decade later - crazy!), co-wrote a crazy stream-of-consciousness novel with Colin Horgan, planned for the story that would launch my inevitable authorial stardom.
These days - after years of creative writing classes, journalism, editing, dramaturgy and criticism - it's rare that I find the "fun" in writing. Sure, occasionally I'll get caught up in an exciting turn of phrase, delight at discovering the precise word to best express my message, but mostly... writing is a job. Pitches, deadlines, paycheques. Which, when I think about it, is kinda fucked.
Now, when I try to write creatively, when I even try to come up with an idea... I freeze. I'll use any excuse I can to get away from the keyboard, promising myself that I'll come up with a brilliant idea later.
Hell, it's taken me nearly two months to muster up the courage to write an original blog post.
In a lot of ways, my life is awesome. But I miss writing. I miss the fun, the discovery, the creativity. And I want to get it back.
That's why I started this blog. I want to write, unfiltered, whatever leaps to mind. I want to write often. I want some of the writing to be shitty and embarrassing, because experimentation and failure are the only ways to discover something unexpected and magnificent.
So here's the goal: I want to post on this blog every day. Whether it's rambling autobiography, or fiction, or poetry, or a cool link, or a newsletter. Every day.
(Because, y'know, I'm not busy enough.)
So. Day 1. That's a pretty good start.
Stay tuned for Day 2.
I started writing when I was about 15, short stories mostly. I joined a superhero fiction community called The Parodyverse (still around, a decade later - crazy!), co-wrote a crazy stream-of-consciousness novel with Colin Horgan, planned for the story that would launch my inevitable authorial stardom.
These days - after years of creative writing classes, journalism, editing, dramaturgy and criticism - it's rare that I find the "fun" in writing. Sure, occasionally I'll get caught up in an exciting turn of phrase, delight at discovering the precise word to best express my message, but mostly... writing is a job. Pitches, deadlines, paycheques. Which, when I think about it, is kinda fucked.
Now, when I try to write creatively, when I even try to come up with an idea... I freeze. I'll use any excuse I can to get away from the keyboard, promising myself that I'll come up with a brilliant idea later.
Hell, it's taken me nearly two months to muster up the courage to write an original blog post.
In a lot of ways, my life is awesome. But I miss writing. I miss the fun, the discovery, the creativity. And I want to get it back.
That's why I started this blog. I want to write, unfiltered, whatever leaps to mind. I want to write often. I want some of the writing to be shitty and embarrassing, because experimentation and failure are the only ways to discover something unexpected and magnificent.
So here's the goal: I want to post on this blog every day. Whether it's rambling autobiography, or fiction, or poetry, or a cool link, or a newsletter. Every day.
(Because, y'know, I'm not busy enough.)
So. Day 1. That's a pretty good start.
Stay tuned for Day 2.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Hopkins Happenings - November 2008
Hi everyone,
Time for the monthly update on my various and varied activities! November has already been pretty hectic (hence the delay in receiving this newsletter), and I've got a bunch of stuff coming down the pipeline, including:
The Canadian Festival of Spoken Word has been city-hopping for several years, and the 2008 edition landed in Calgary, bringing teams of slam poets from across the country to compete for the national crown.
I was lucky enough to MC two events in the festival - Opening Night on November 5 and Poetry Hotshots this afternoon at Cafe Beano. Both were fantastic events, and tonight four teams will go head-to-head for the grand prize, with special readings by D. Kimm, RC Weslowski and Regie Cabico. Should be a fun time!
Salon de la Conversation
For a couple of years, a group of French-speakers have been meeting at the Kensington Pub every Monday night to... well, drink beer and speak French. It's a great, friendly environment to brush up on your language skills and meet some cool people. Si vous parlez français, j'espère de vous voir au Kensington Pub lundi soir!
Doing Leonard Cohen
Body Language
Body Language, part of Downstage's Motel Series, features two performances: Do Me, by Jennifer Roberts, and Pouring the Liquid Unseen, by Marie-Ève Bonneau.
Do Me explores the dance of romance, as men and women clash, crash and unite in a series of vignettes. Pouring the Liquid Unseen invites the audience to a private transformative experience, which combines movement, dance, visual art and music for an intimate exploration of healing, improvisation and the fluidity of the human experience.
Two original works by extremely talented local artists. Check it out!
Sylvia Plath Must Not Die - Unplugged
Ooh, let's use the description I wrote for last year's Rodeo Guide!
"Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton, two of the 20th century's most prolific and complex literary figures, are inexorably linked, as much by their mutual zeal for life as by their infamous deaths. The award-winning One Yellow Rabbit Performing Ensemble invites audiences to revisit its voyeuristic journey to another era, where cocktails are swilled and conflicted souls are expressed in a cathartic torrent of ink and emotion. "
Legion of Freaks
The event will be in support of our next production, Freak Show, taking place January 8-10 at the 2009 High Performance Rodeo.
For more details, call Charles Netto at 403.397.8559.
- - -
I think that's about it for November. There are a couple We Should Know Each Other parties on the horizon (#18 and #19, to be exact!), and if you'd like to attend, just drop me a line.
Oh, and - Hooray for Obama, boo on Harper!
Have a fantastic November, and I hope to see you around town!
Mark Hopkins
Time for the monthly update on my various and varied activities! November has already been pretty hectic (hence the delay in receiving this newsletter), and I've got a bunch of stuff coming down the pipeline, including:
- 2008 National SLAM & Canadian Festival of Spoken Word
- Salon de la conversation
- Doing Leonard Cohen
- Body Language
- Sylvia Plath Must Not Die - Unplugged
- Legion of Freaks
November 5-8
various locations
National Slam Finals: November 8, 8:00 pm
Central Library, 616 Macleod Trail SE
$10
So, um, this festival ends tonight. Sorry for the late notice!various locations
National Slam Finals: November 8, 8:00 pm
Central Library, 616 Macleod Trail SE
$10
The Canadian Festival of Spoken Word has been city-hopping for several years, and the 2008 edition landed in Calgary, bringing teams of slam poets from across the country to compete for the national crown.
I was lucky enough to MC two events in the festival - Opening Night on November 5 and Poetry Hotshots this afternoon at Cafe Beano. Both were fantastic events, and tonight four teams will go head-to-head for the grand prize, with special readings by D. Kimm, RC Weslowski and Regie Cabico. Should be a fun time!
Salon de la Conversation
Every Monday, around 8:00 pm
Kensington Pub
207 10A St NW
Kensington Pub
207 10A St NW
For a couple of years, a group of French-speakers have been meeting at the Kensington Pub every Monday night to... well, drink beer and speak French. It's a great, friendly environment to brush up on your language skills and meet some cool people. Si vous parlez français, j'espère de vous voir au Kensington Pub lundi soir!
Doing Leonard Cohen
November 25-29, 8:00 pm
Big Secret Theatre, EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
$20-$31
My fabulous employer, One Yellow Rabbit, re-mounts one of its most popular performances. Doing Leonard Cohen is an homage to the amazing poetry and prose of Leonard Cohen, including excerpts from Death of a Lady's Man, The Spice Box of Earth and Beautiful Losers. It's performed by the One Yellow Rabbit Ensemble, and after glimpsing their rehearsals, I'm pretty psyched to see the show. Big Secret Theatre, EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
$20-$31
Body Language
November 27-December 6
Thursday-Saturday at 8:00 pm
Motel, EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
$12
Thursday-Saturday at 8:00 pm
Motel, EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
$12
Body Language, part of Downstage's Motel Series, features two performances: Do Me, by Jennifer Roberts, and Pouring the Liquid Unseen, by Marie-Ève Bonneau.
Do Me explores the dance of romance, as men and women clash, crash and unite in a series of vignettes. Pouring the Liquid Unseen invites the audience to a private transformative experience, which combines movement, dance, visual art and music for an intimate exploration of healing, improvisation and the fluidity of the human experience.
Two original works by extremely talented local artists. Check it out!
Sylvia Plath Must Not Die - Unplugged
Saturday, November 29, 2:00 pm
Big Secret Theatre, EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
$14 in advance, PWYC at the door
The Rabbits are heading off to Toronto to perform both Doing Leonard Cohen and Sylvia Plath Must Not Die, and this is Calgary's chance to see a bare-bones performance of the poetic performance that debuted at the 2008 High Performance Rodeo.Big Secret Theatre, EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
$14 in advance, PWYC at the door
Ooh, let's use the description I wrote for last year's Rodeo Guide!
"Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton, two of the 20th century's most prolific and complex literary figures, are inexorably linked, as much by their mutual zeal for life as by their infamous deaths. The award-winning One Yellow Rabbit Performing Ensemble invites audiences to revisit its voyeuristic journey to another era, where cocktails are swilled and conflicted souls are expressed in a cathartic torrent of ink and emotion. "
Legion of Freaks
Saturday, November 29, 8:00 pm
Royal Canadian Legion, Branch #1
116 7th Ave SE
Time for another Swallow-a-Bicycle party! Many of the details for this shindig still need to be pinned down, but for anyone who attended Lust After Sunset (or saw the pictures!), you know this party will be off the hook. We're going to have wandering freaks and weirdoes, live music and special performances. Watch for more details!Royal Canadian Legion, Branch #1
116 7th Ave SE
The event will be in support of our next production, Freak Show, taking place January 8-10 at the 2009 High Performance Rodeo.
For more details, call Charles Netto at 403.397.8559.
- - -
I think that's about it for November. There are a couple We Should Know Each Other parties on the horizon (#18 and #19, to be exact!), and if you'd like to attend, just drop me a line.
Oh, and - Hooray for Obama, boo on Harper!
Have a fantastic November, and I hope to see you around town!
Mark Hopkins
Monday, November 3, 2008
Overheard at Priape, near the dildos
A man behind the counter, on the phone:
"No, Mom, a cock-ring! It goes around your cock."
Kinnie Starr on cell phones
I also chatted with Kinnie Starr for FFWD, and this is how our conversation ended:
--
Dude, this phone is making my head turn numb. I gotta get off of it. I can feel the electrical current, like, eating my brain.
- Kinnie Starr, phone interview, October 2008
--
Dude, this phone is making my head turn numb. I gotta get off of it. I can feel the electrical current, like, eating my brain.
- Kinnie Starr, phone interview, October 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Patrick Lane on politics
I interviewed Patrick Lane for FFWD a few weeks ago, just before he came to town for WordFest. He was reading at an event on October 15, the day after the federal election. During the interview, I asked him what he thought of Stephen Harper's disparaging comments about the arts. His answer didn't make it into print, but I think it's worth sharing.
--
It's not really new, Harper attacking the arts. He really would love to see CBC disappear altogether, he'd love to see the Canada Council diminished.
I think politicians are afraid of art and artists. They unnerve them because they're unmanageable. They're a disorderly bunch who'll come out with anything, and this scares them. A guy like Harper, who's got such a need for order in the world... none of his candidates can even talk, right? Only Harper can talk. This is a control freak of mammoth proportions, and control freaks can't stand disorder. Artists offer them that, and it scares them.
Not just him - the NDP has never been a friend of the arts. I think of the NDP in British Columbia, who had an opportunity to really help out the arts, and they were actually afraid of it. They chose not to foster a healthy cultural community. They thought they were fostering a cultural community, but they wanted to exclude the arts.
--
It's not really new, Harper attacking the arts. He really would love to see CBC disappear altogether, he'd love to see the Canada Council diminished.
I think politicians are afraid of art and artists. They unnerve them because they're unmanageable. They're a disorderly bunch who'll come out with anything, and this scares them. A guy like Harper, who's got such a need for order in the world... none of his candidates can even talk, right? Only Harper can talk. This is a control freak of mammoth proportions, and control freaks can't stand disorder. Artists offer them that, and it scares them.
Not just him - the NDP has never been a friend of the arts. I think of the NDP in British Columbia, who had an opportunity to really help out the arts, and they were actually afraid of it. They chose not to foster a healthy cultural community. They thought they were fostering a cultural community, but they wanted to exclude the arts.
I've heard it before. I mean, I've been around for 70 years, I'm looking back to Mackenzie King. Louis St. Laurent was like this, Diefenbaker was like this, Trudeau was better, but everyone in Alberta doesn't have the greatest respect for old Pierre, not after the National Energy Policy back in the late 60s, early 70s. Mulroney didn't do anything for the arts. They make promises, Dion's made a few promises about the Canada Council, but words don't always get translated into actions after an election. "These are hard economic times, we can't just throw money here."
The arts is huge! 10% of the Canadian economy is based on the arts. It’s a multi-billion dollar industry. You’re a part of it, I’m a part of it, and for him to wander around, muttering about artists, it’s kind of embarassing. It really is.
I’m not frustrated by this, because I’ve seen it before, I’m just saddened that we have to keep on going through it. Other countries don’t do this.
- Patrick Lane, phone interview, October 2008
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Hopkins Happenings - October 2008
Hi everyone,
Since I'm always involved in a wide variety of events, I figured I would start a monthly newsletter to keep you updated on my activities!
October is a busy month for me, and here's the run-down:
Les Contes qui déménagent
Sorry for the super late notice, but this is my French-language theatre début, and I'd love to share it with you! Les Contes qui déménagent is the first show in a French-language theatre season curated by M. Inouk Touzin, and presented by le Regroupement Artistique Francophone de l'Alberta (RAFA). The show features three short plays, written by Inouk Touzin, Gisèle Villeneuve... and me!
Each of the plays has to do with moving (déménagement), and they're performed by Stéphanie Biky, Marcia Mailloux, Stéphane Prévost and Julien Thibeault. The show is in French, but if your language skills are shaky, there will be an English-language summary sheet provided.
R.I.P. - A protest against cuts to arts funding
In the days leading up to the Canadian Federal Election, artists and arts supporters need to make their voices heard in the national debate. The current national leadership has made their disdain for artists clear, both in their speech and actions. In light of the recent multi-million dollar cuts to arts funding, and the gloomy future in store for artists if Harper's government wins a majority, R.I.P. is both a protest against recent events, and an attempt to raise awareness about the vital role that the arts play in Canada's culture and identity.
The steps of city hall will become a graveyard, dotted with gravestones that read "R.I.P. - Musicians", "R.I.P. - Actors", etc. Protestors, dressed in black, will lie amidst these gravestones to mourn the impending demise of arts in Canada, if Harper's government is left unchecked. If you'd like to join the protest, show up at City Hall between 9-5 on Monday, dressed in black! I'll be there from about 9-10 am, and 3-5 pm.
For more information, or to get involved, contact Léda Davies (protest coordinator) at 403.680.2621 or leda_davies@hotmail.com
The Wrecking Ball - Calgary
In anticipation of the upcoming election and in response to Prime Minister Harper's recent comments about cuts to arts funding, Calgary's theatre community is coming together for a one-night only cabaret of politically-charged theatre that will be part of a nationwide happening. The Wrecking Ball is an evening of short theatrical works written, directed and performed by members of the professional theatre community.
On Monday, The Wrecking Ball events will take place in Victoria, Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, Winnipeg, Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal and Halifax.
The Calgary event will feature new plays by local writers Ken Cameron, Neil Fleming and Ellen Close, alongside a new piece by two-time Governor General's Award-winning playwright Judith Thompson. The evening will also feature readings of letters and other texts that illuminate the importance of arts and culture in the ongoing election campaign.
An amazing Who's Who of Calgary artists is involved in The Wrecking Ball, including directors Stephen Hair, Stacie Harrison, Kevin McKendrick and Vicki Stroich, and actors that include Trevor Leigh, Doug McKeag, Valerie Planche, Valerie Ann Pearson, Ryan Luhning, Jamie Konchak, Tyrell Crews, Rylan Wilkie, Chantal Perron, Alexander Arsenault, Julie Mortensen, Kathryn Waters, Brieanna Blizzard, Jane MacFarlane and more.
Proceeds from the event will benefit the Department of Culture. For more information, please contact Simon Mallett or Stacie Harrison of Downstage at 403.294.7459 or info@downstage.ca.
The Opera Suicide & Scenes from a Revolution
The latest Swallow-a-Bicycle production features two original scripts: The Opera Suicide, by Dust Particle Productions, and Scenes from a Revolution, by Charles Netto.
The Opera Suicide: Peek, the last of the lighthouse keepers, has three loves: Gin, Tyle and Reeve. He is everything to them: refuge, knowledge, hope. But when Peek is confronted by his mechanical replacement, he must decide between his three dark women and the tower's light that he hopes desperately to save. In this original operetta, Dust Particle Productions explores Peek's fatal dilemma through humour and tragedy, music and myth. The Opera Suicide is an epic journey that defies convention and reminds us that, in the end, we must each light our own way.
Scenes from a Revolution: In a wartorn dystopian future, five characters spiral through each other's lives. A soldier, a prisoner, a general, a rebel, a doctor and a CEO come together on the chessboard of global conflict, where kings are sacrificed as easily as pawns.
Written and Directed by Charles Netto; Featuring Tom Cainer, Devon Dubnyk and Jacqueline Russell.
For more information, contact Charles Netto at 403.397.8559 or swallowabicycle@gmail.com.
2009 High Performance Rodeo Launch
The event will be attended by His Excellency Jean-Daniel Lafond, Patron of the 2009 Festival, and hosted by Rodeo Curator Michael Green. Afterwards, we'll all head down to the Centini Restaurant & Lounge (160 8th Ave SE) for refreshments and snacks.
Call OYR at 403.264.3224 or visit www.oyr.org for more information.
Blanche: The bittersweet life of a wild prairie dame
Blanche is a song cycle that lives in the dream state between music and theatre. In her writing debut, Onalea Gilbertson explores the life and stories of her 93-year-old grandmother, Blanche. This original sonic landscape, underscored with Blanche's recorded voice, spans generations to create a poetic family portrait.
In the 1930s, Blanche and her friends embarked on a fantastic photographic journey with an old Brownie Camera. The resulting images, along with other photographs from her long and dramatic life, are carefully woven into the live performance, bringing Blanche's history to life.
This is the Calgary debut of Blanche, and also a release for Onalea's new CD! It features Onalea Gilbertson (vocals/piano/guitar), Jonathan Lewis (violin/clarinet/soundscape) and Morag Northey (cello/backup vocals), directed by Rachel Avery and with lighting design by Terry Gunvordahl.
For tickets and info, call 403.441.6033. Also visit www.onalea.com
Canadian Federal Election
It's the Federal Election! Vote! I'd really prefer if you didn't vote Conservative, but just vote, dammit!
The election takes place Tuesday, October 14. For more information about how to vote, visit www.elections.ca. Just type in your postal code, and a wealth of information will be at your fingertips!
If you can't vote on the 14th, advance polls are open today (October 4) and Monday (October 6). You can also vote by special ballet until Tuesday, October 7. Again, all the information you should need is at www.elections.ca. But if you're stumped, call me! And hey, I'm always up for a good political discussion.
Some good resources for artists and arts-supporters, leading up to the election, include the Calgary Professional Arts Alliance and the Department of Culture. Also, Vote For Environment is an interesting read.
Poetry Bash (WordFest 2008)
By some strange confluence of events, I will be hosting this year's Poetry Bash at WordFest! Promises to be a pretty rockin' evening of poetry, with readings by Coral Bracho, Genni Gunn, Louise Halfe, Patrick Lane, JonArno Lawson and Randall Maggs.
There are a whole stack of other WordFest events to check out, including some featuring my dear friends Claudia Dey, Shane Koyczan, William Neil Scott, Jaspreet Singh, Samantha Warwick, and Sheri-D Wilson.
For more information, visit www.wordfest.com.
Grave Gala 2008
The price tag's a little steep, but Grave Gala is supposed to be one of the year's most rockin' parties. Hell, I'm excited!
For more information, visit www.calgaryopera.com or call 403.262.7286.
- - -
Phew. Like I said, busy month. Hope to see you at one or several of the above events (especially the election! vote, dammit!). I'll toss out another newsletter in a month, to let you know what's up for November.
And, of course, I also have my regular We Should Know Each Other parties, and Le Salon de la conversation is still rolling, with French conversation over beer or whatever at the Kensington Pub (almost) every Monday, 8:00 pm. If you want more information about either, drop me a line!
Hope you're having a fabulous month so far!
Mark Hopkins
403.710.0093
Since I'm always involved in a wide variety of events, I figured I would start a monthly newsletter to keep you updated on my activities!
October is a busy month for me, and here's the run-down:
- Les Contes qui déménagent
- R.I.P. - A protest against cuts to arts funding
- The Wrecking Ball
- The Opera Suicide & Scenes from a Revolution
- 2009 High Performance Rodeo Launch
- Blanche: The bittersweet life of a wild prairie dame
- Canadian Federal Election
- Poetry Bash (WordFest 2008)
- Grave Gala
Les Contes qui déménagent
Saturday, October 4, 8:00 pm
L'Alliance Française de Calgary
1221 2nd St SW
$15 / $12 for members of l'Alliance Française, l'ACFA, le RAFA, La Cité des Rocheuses
L'Alliance Française de Calgary
1221 2nd St SW
$15 / $12 for members of l'Alliance Française, l'ACFA, le RAFA, La Cité des Rocheuses
Sorry for the super late notice, but this is my French-language theatre début, and I'd love to share it with you! Les Contes qui déménagent is the first show in a French-language theatre season curated by M. Inouk Touzin, and presented by le Regroupement Artistique Francophone de l'Alberta (RAFA). The show features three short plays, written by Inouk Touzin, Gisèle Villeneuve... and me!
Each of the plays has to do with moving (déménagement), and they're performed by Stéphanie Biky, Marcia Mailloux, Stéphane Prévost and Julien Thibeault. The show is in French, but if your language skills are shaky, there will be an English-language summary sheet provided.
R.I.P. - A protest against cuts to arts funding
Monday, October 6, 9:00 am - 5:00 pm
steps of Calgary City Hall
316 7th Ave SE
steps of Calgary City Hall
316 7th Ave SE
In the days leading up to the Canadian Federal Election, artists and arts supporters need to make their voices heard in the national debate. The current national leadership has made their disdain for artists clear, both in their speech and actions. In light of the recent multi-million dollar cuts to arts funding, and the gloomy future in store for artists if Harper's government wins a majority, R.I.P. is both a protest against recent events, and an attempt to raise awareness about the vital role that the arts play in Canada's culture and identity.
The steps of city hall will become a graveyard, dotted with gravestones that read "R.I.P. - Musicians", "R.I.P. - Actors", etc. Protestors, dressed in black, will lie amidst these gravestones to mourn the impending demise of arts in Canada, if Harper's government is left unchecked. If you'd like to join the protest, show up at City Hall between 9-5 on Monday, dressed in black! I'll be there from about 9-10 am, and 3-5 pm.
For more information, or to get involved, contact Léda Davies (protest coordinator) at 403.680.2621 or leda_davies@hotmail.com
The Wrecking Ball - Calgary
Monday, October 6, 8:00 pm
Jack Singer Concert Hall Lobby
EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
205 8th Ave SE
pay-what-you-can at the door
EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
205 8th Ave SE
pay-what-you-can at the door
In anticipation of the upcoming election and in response to Prime Minister Harper's recent comments about cuts to arts funding, Calgary's theatre community is coming together for a one-night only cabaret of politically-charged theatre that will be part of a nationwide happening. The Wrecking Ball is an evening of short theatrical works written, directed and performed by members of the professional theatre community.
On Monday, The Wrecking Ball events will take place in Victoria, Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, Winnipeg, Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal and Halifax.
The Calgary event will feature new plays by local writers Ken Cameron, Neil Fleming and Ellen Close, alongside a new piece by two-time Governor General's Award-winning playwright Judith Thompson. The evening will also feature readings of letters and other texts that illuminate the importance of arts and culture in the ongoing election campaign.
An amazing Who's Who of Calgary artists is involved in The Wrecking Ball, including directors Stephen Hair, Stacie Harrison, Kevin McKendrick and Vicki Stroich, and actors that include Trevor Leigh, Doug McKeag, Valerie Planche, Valerie Ann Pearson, Ryan Luhning, Jamie Konchak, Tyrell Crews, Rylan Wilkie, Chantal Perron, Alexander Arsenault, Julie Mortensen, Kathryn Waters, Brieanna Blizzard, Jane MacFarlane and more.
Proceeds from the event will benefit the Department of Culture. For more information, please contact Simon Mallett or Stacie Harrison of Downstage at 403.294.7459 or info@downstage.ca.
The Opera Suicide & Scenes from a Revolution
October 7-11, 2008
Performances nightly at 8:00 pm
Saturday matinee, October 11, 2:00 pm
Dancer's Studio West
2007 10th Ave SW
$20 adults, $15 students/seniors
pay-what-you-can preview: October 7
Performances nightly at 8:00 pm
Saturday matinee, October 11, 2:00 pm
Dancer's Studio West
2007 10th Ave SW
$20 adults, $15 students/seniors
pay-what-you-can preview: October 7
The latest Swallow-a-Bicycle production features two original scripts: The Opera Suicide, by Dust Particle Productions, and Scenes from a Revolution, by Charles Netto.
The Opera Suicide: Peek, the last of the lighthouse keepers, has three loves: Gin, Tyle and Reeve. He is everything to them: refuge, knowledge, hope. But when Peek is confronted by his mechanical replacement, he must decide between his three dark women and the tower's light that he hopes desperately to save. In this original operetta, Dust Particle Productions explores Peek's fatal dilemma through humour and tragedy, music and myth. The Opera Suicide is an epic journey that defies convention and reminds us that, in the end, we must each light our own way.
Script by Ben Charland; Directed by Julia Rigaux; Featuring Sadie Evans, Carol Farrelly, Mandy McKee and Andrew Oberhofer; Music by Allison Lynch and Richard Jackson; Set & Costume Design by Ami Farrow; Composed by Andrea Wettstein; Sound Design by Peter Moller.
Scenes from a Revolution: In a wartorn dystopian future, five characters spiral through each other's lives. A soldier, a prisoner, a general, a rebel, a doctor and a CEO come together on the chessboard of global conflict, where kings are sacrificed as easily as pawns.
Written and Directed by Charles Netto; Featuring Tom Cainer, Devon Dubnyk and Jacqueline Russell.
For more information, contact Charles Netto at 403.397.8559 or swallowabicycle@gmail.com.
2009 High Performance Rodeo Launch
Wednesday, October 8, 12:00 noon
Big Secret Theatre
EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
I spend five glorious hours a day at One Yellow Rabbit, and right now, we're all up to our necks in planning for this Wednesday's launch of the 23rd Annual High Performance Rodeo. This year's festival has an absolutely kick-ass line-up, but I can't tell you anything about it until Wednesday, so come to the launch!Big Secret Theatre
EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
The event will be attended by His Excellency Jean-Daniel Lafond, Patron of the 2009 Festival, and hosted by Rodeo Curator Michael Green. Afterwards, we'll all head down to the Centini Restaurant & Lounge (160 8th Ave SE) for refreshments and snacks.
Call OYR at 403.264.3224 or visit www.oyr.org for more information.
Blanche: The bittersweet life of a wild prairie dame
Saturday, October 11, 8:00 pm
Sunday, October 12, 2:00 pm
Engineered Air Theatre
EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
$20 adults, $15 students/seniors
Wheelchair accessible
I'm thrilled to be the publicist for this original creation by Onalea Gilbertson. I've already written a pretty comprehensive press release, so I'll just copy/paste that!Sunday, October 12, 2:00 pm
Engineered Air Theatre
EPCOR CENTRE for the Performing Arts
$20 adults, $15 students/seniors
Wheelchair accessible
Blanche is a song cycle that lives in the dream state between music and theatre. In her writing debut, Onalea Gilbertson explores the life and stories of her 93-year-old grandmother, Blanche. This original sonic landscape, underscored with Blanche's recorded voice, spans generations to create a poetic family portrait.
In the 1930s, Blanche and her friends embarked on a fantastic photographic journey with an old Brownie Camera. The resulting images, along with other photographs from her long and dramatic life, are carefully woven into the live performance, bringing Blanche's history to life.
This is the Calgary debut of Blanche, and also a release for Onalea's new CD! It features Onalea Gilbertson (vocals/piano/guitar), Jonathan Lewis (violin/clarinet/soundscape) and Morag Northey (cello/backup vocals), directed by Rachel Avery and with lighting design by Terry Gunvordahl.
For tickets and info, call 403.441.6033. Also visit www.onalea.com
Canadian Federal Election
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
It's the Federal Election! Vote! I'd really prefer if you didn't vote Conservative, but just vote, dammit!
The election takes place Tuesday, October 14. For more information about how to vote, visit www.elections.ca. Just type in your postal code, and a wealth of information will be at your fingertips!
If you can't vote on the 14th, advance polls are open today (October 4) and Monday (October 6). You can also vote by special ballet until Tuesday, October 7. Again, all the information you should need is at www.elections.ca. But if you're stumped, call me! And hey, I'm always up for a good political discussion.
Some good resources for artists and arts-supporters, leading up to the election, include the Calgary Professional Arts Alliance and the Department of Culture. Also, Vote For Environment is an interesting read.
Poetry Bash (WordFest 2008)
Friday, October 17, 9:30 pm
Vertigo Studio Theatre
161 - 115 9th Ave SE
$18, $9 students/seniors
Vertigo Studio Theatre
161 - 115 9th Ave SE
$18, $9 students/seniors
By some strange confluence of events, I will be hosting this year's Poetry Bash at WordFest! Promises to be a pretty rockin' evening of poetry, with readings by Coral Bracho, Genni Gunn, Louise Halfe, Patrick Lane, JonArno Lawson and Randall Maggs.
There are a whole stack of other WordFest events to check out, including some featuring my dear friends Claudia Dey, Shane Koyczan, William Neil Scott, Jaspreet Singh, Samantha Warwick, and Sheri-D Wilson.
For more information, visit www.wordfest.com.
Grave Gala 2008
Saturday, October 25, 8:30 pm
Hotel Arts
119 12th Ave SW
$90
By some other strange confluence of events, I will be one of the wandering performers at Grave Gala 2008, the annual fundraiser for Calgary Opera. This year's theme is "What Would You Sell Your Soul For?", and I shall be dressed in an outlandish costume, tempting guests with all kinds of sinful delights.Hotel Arts
119 12th Ave SW
$90
The price tag's a little steep, but Grave Gala is supposed to be one of the year's most rockin' parties. Hell, I'm excited!
For more information, visit www.calgaryopera.com or call 403.262.7286.
- - -
Phew. Like I said, busy month. Hope to see you at one or several of the above events (especially the election! vote, dammit!). I'll toss out another newsletter in a month, to let you know what's up for November.
And, of course, I also have my regular We Should Know Each Other parties, and Le Salon de la conversation is still rolling, with French conversation over beer or whatever at the Kensington Pub (almost) every Monday, 8:00 pm. If you want more information about either, drop me a line!
Hope you're having a fabulous month so far!
Mark Hopkins
403.710.0093
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
New York Journal - Part Seven
Ahh! I have too many jobs!
September 22, 2008
I am occasionally stupid.
It's just about 5:30 am, and I'm chilling at the JFK International Airport after having spent the night - or at least a few precious hours of nighttime - in the nearby Days Inn. For $128.
"But Mark," you cry, "weren't you supposed to leave yesterday? From the Newark airport?
Why, yes. That was the plan.
Woke up promptly at 10:00 yesterday, and got myself showered, packed and generally organized while the rest of the house slowly woke up. Tried calling Linda, re: picking up the Bronx guitar, but there was no answer. Called Nadia to warn her the guitar thing might not work out.
When everyone else was up and alert, the whole gang of us - ooh, let's see if I can do names: Luke, Kate, Tom, Tracey, Andres - headed over to the Life Café for brunch. There was a nice circularity to that: the first and last place I visited on my NYC debut.
Just as we're finishing, Linda calls. It's about 1:30. We arrange to mee at, like, 149 St or some shit.
Quick trip back to Luke's for my suitcase. Whirlwind goodbyes. I briefly consider an online check-in, but figuring out the printer seems like more trouble than it's worth. Stop by the Pourhouse to drop off Kim Marie's gift (a blank notebook, for her memoir). Long-ass subway ride to the Bronx. Long-ass subway ride to Penn Station. Long-ass NJ Transit ride to Newark Int'l. I roll in around 4:30; flight schedule to leave at 5:25. I scramble, sheepishly, to the Air Canada counter.
"You're late," she tells me. "The flight is closed. I can't check you in."
It takes a few minutes for the message to sink in. Yes, the plane is still here. No, you can't make a run for it. Yes, the flight is closed. No, I can't check you in. No, neither can anyone else.
Well. Shitballs.
A woman rolls up next to me, same situation. She tries the freak-out approach. I try the nice-guy approach. We are equally unsuccessful.
No direct flights until same time tomorrow. No connecting flights that will work. Oh, but there's a 7:55 leaving from JFK tomorrow morning!
... whoopee! ...
Before I leave my new aircare friend, I clarify: "If I'd been here, like, ten minutes earlier, I could've checked in?" Yes. "If I'd done a mobile, paperless check-in on my Blackberry, from the train, instead of reading FFWD articles online, I could've moseyed right on to that awaiting flight?" Yes. That would have been a very smart move.
Call Mom. Call work. Call Luke - "Hey buddy, feel like sharing your pull-out couch for one more night?"
Ooh. Yeah. About that...
Turns out, after I left, Luke had a conversation with his condo-owning, London-dwelling brother. Who didn't know Luke was hosting couch-surfers in his pad. Who is not particuarly taken with the idea.
Okay! Onward!
Long-ass NJ Transit ride back to Penn Station. Long-ass subway ride to JFK. I sit next to a couple of gentlemen, who carefully adjust their (respectively) bleached-blonde, long-banged and brown faux-hawked hair an discuss Fashion Week at length. As I continue to eavesdrop, I learn that one or possibly both work in theatre, and are networking to get a shot on Broadway, or TV, or whichever comes first. The blonde, clearly the alpha, "needs all the fans he can get", so he doesn't talk about politics or religion on his video-blog, which, btw, he feels has been lackluster for the past couple months, but he feels obligatedd to keep updating.
They take, then proceed to admire and evaluate, several subway self-portraits. They've clearly done this before. I don't have their mad photo-posing skillz.
Short-ass AirTrain ride. I loudly announce that I'm in search of a cheap hotel room, end up at the Days Inn, and I spend the evening channel-surfing, mostly between Men in Black II and, um, Men in Black. I order a too-large mushroom and jalapeno pizza and two Coronas. I regret the peppers, but not the beer.
I sleep for a couple hours, dream that people are using my bathroom. Wake up at 4:00. Catch the 4:30 airport shuttle.
Which brings us up to date. Except, of course, those two days I've skipped over.
I'm gonna get me a fuckin' muffin.
---
I just had an egg & cheese croissant, some mango juice, and a fuckin' muffin.
So, flashing back, I ended my MOMA experience with a trip to the bookstore (where I nearly bought The 1,000 Journals Project, then... didn't) and ventured to their neighbouring exhibit, part of the special pre-constructed architecture collection. They actually went ahead and built... five? ... structures in the soon-to-be developed lot next to the gallery. I really enjoyed that aspect of it, taking a time- and site-specific opportunity to flesh out a project. The buildings themselves, though, were to my eyes unremarkable. The experience of walking through them was eerily like condo-shopping. People were continually opening drawers, or pointing into a room and whispering to their companion. "Look, hon. Wouldn't our sofa look amazing in that bare, mass-manufactured room?"
The whole experience was uncomfortably reminiscent of driving through a Calgary suburb, with cookie-cutter houses off the assembly line. Shudder.
I had dinner with Eliyanna, who I met at the wedding, at a fun little diner/café called PUSH. It was our server's first day, and she was resultingly scattered, but still cute. Eliyanna is awesome. We talked about sex conferences, and our wildly different appreciations of Spring Awakening, and politics, and her wife's Disney World fixation. She overpaid for her meal (for which I, the cash-deprived tourist, was most grateful) and hailed me a taxi going in the right direction. I learned how to distinguish occupied, vacant and off-duty taxis! It's not rocket science, but I hadn't clued in without guidance.
Off to PS 122! I'd been thrilled to discover, while walking home one night, that this world-famous performing arts venue was, like, next fuckin' door to Luke's. It's a public school-cum-performance space, with a really kick-ass vibe. I ventured through the somewhat labyrinthine hallways and emerged into the first performance site, a small black-box theatre. The seats were curtained off, and the audience - mostly standing, though there were two benches - surrounded a square, demarcated with a series of wooden structures. Wooden picture frames, stretched with white projector screens, were scattered around the edges, and a web of canvas rope hung from the ceiling.
So, yeah. My kind of set-up.
A woman split from the crowd and began a wide-eyed exploration of the square. A projection covered the floor, and we were introduced to The Passion of Joan of Arc.
I first saw the film at the final Mutton Busting Festival, when the Summerlad played a live soundtrack. I found it very off-putting then, and no less so now. There are nigh-constant close-ups on Joan, looking desperate, grief-stricken, pained, tortured, hopeless, confused, etc. Cut to a crowd of judgemental, angry men. Cut back to Joan. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseum.
Granted, the film has a cool-and-weird history. The first version was lost to a fire, then the second version, spliced together from outtakes, was also lost to a fire. Years later, a third version is found in the closet of a mental hospital.
Like - shit, yo.
That, in large part, was the subject being tackled in The Passion Project. The square was surrounded on all sides by some pretty impressive projectors. The perormer spins and scurries about the space, thrusting frames in the air to pluck a face from nothingness - a judge, an accusor, Joan. She hangs a fram,e then holds up another, hangs it, takes them both down, holds up another, hangs it. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseum.
Okay. There were solid elements. Often, a static, hanging frame would depict an observing judge or a member of the crowd, which by association positions us as members of the mob. At the end, she hangs all the frames, roping them together into a flaming pyre as Joan burns. The fragments of film, drawn from all three versions, nicely represent the film's own fiery demise(s). And it was created and directed by a dude who works with the Wooster Group. Let's face it, that's neat.
But it was boring. The dazzle of technology and the performer's technical aptitude wears off, and you've got a mournful woman desperately thrusting screens in the air to campture images of another mournful woman. Over and over again.
Such a cool concept. Such a great execution. Why couldn't it be more interesting?? Alas.
Then, down some stairs into a larger studio and Southern Promises.
I was surprised, given the venue's reputation, to discover a comparatively traditional theatre piece. Proscenium, script-based, the whole deal.
[SPOILER ALERT]
The story beings with the death of a slave-owner, who frees his slaves in his will. His wife reverses the will, then rapes the main male slave. Her brother-in-law comes to help her free the slaves, then professes love for her and they get married. He rapes the wife of the previously-raped slave. Shit goes south, white lady gives birth to black baby. Black lady is sold, black baby is murdered, white lady is murdered, black man escapes thanks to a large box and the U.S. Postal Service.
It was actually quite good. Shocking stuff - some very harshly racist portrayals, including liberal use of the word 'nigger', and profoundly disturbing scenes of violence, sexual and otherwise. My thoughts kept going backstage: actors who treat each other so horribly on stage, night after night, must have incredible bonds of trust and respect.
I'm not sure why this show was chosen for a space known for multidisciplinary innovation - unless I'm putting my own biased lens on PS 122 - but it was challenging, and politically important, and totally worth seeing.
Then! A few blocks southwest, for a performance of Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, by the New York Neo-Futurists, as recommended by Ms. Amanda Middleton.
All I knew about the show, going in, was that it was touted as '30 shows in 60 minutes', performed by the NYC branch of a Chicago-founded group. Sketch?
I arrived relatively early (y'know, early by my standards). Having pre-bought a ticket, I was put into a special short line and given a toy. I got all four balls into their respective holes, which bonded me with the other four pre-purchasers: an elderly couple from hawaii, and a young couple. He works on Wall Street, which was apparently been crazy lately! Go figure.
Enter the Kraine Theater, under the KGB Bar and above a comedy club. A cozy little theatre. The rest of the audience files in slowly; the price is $10 plus the roll of a dice. As we enter, an earphone-clad woman shouts "What's your name?", then ignores your answer and scribbles something on a nametag. My name was "Mashed Up". We're given menus: 30 items, each with a different title. At the end of each "play", they say "curtain", at which point we shout out numbers. The performers snatch the first number they hear from an overhanging clothesline, and perform that scene.
It was a nightmare evening for them. First, the sound didn't work, forcing them to run sound from an on-stage portable stereo. Then a pipe starts leaking - a pretty hardcore leak - on the audience, leaving them to monitor the water level of hastily-placed buckets on top of everything else they're already doing.
Despite the various and extensive setbacks, the show was one of the highlights of my trip.
September 22, 2008
I am occasionally stupid.
It's just about 5:30 am, and I'm chilling at the JFK International Airport after having spent the night - or at least a few precious hours of nighttime - in the nearby Days Inn. For $128.
"But Mark," you cry, "weren't you supposed to leave yesterday? From the Newark airport?
Why, yes. That was the plan.
Woke up promptly at 10:00 yesterday, and got myself showered, packed and generally organized while the rest of the house slowly woke up. Tried calling Linda, re: picking up the Bronx guitar, but there was no answer. Called Nadia to warn her the guitar thing might not work out.
When everyone else was up and alert, the whole gang of us - ooh, let's see if I can do names: Luke, Kate, Tom, Tracey, Andres - headed over to the Life Café for brunch. There was a nice circularity to that: the first and last place I visited on my NYC debut.
Just as we're finishing, Linda calls. It's about 1:30. We arrange to mee at, like, 149 St or some shit.
Quick trip back to Luke's for my suitcase. Whirlwind goodbyes. I briefly consider an online check-in, but figuring out the printer seems like more trouble than it's worth. Stop by the Pourhouse to drop off Kim Marie's gift (a blank notebook, for her memoir). Long-ass subway ride to the Bronx. Long-ass subway ride to Penn Station. Long-ass NJ Transit ride to Newark Int'l. I roll in around 4:30; flight schedule to leave at 5:25. I scramble, sheepishly, to the Air Canada counter.
"You're late," she tells me. "The flight is closed. I can't check you in."
It takes a few minutes for the message to sink in. Yes, the plane is still here. No, you can't make a run for it. Yes, the flight is closed. No, I can't check you in. No, neither can anyone else.
Well. Shitballs.
A woman rolls up next to me, same situation. She tries the freak-out approach. I try the nice-guy approach. We are equally unsuccessful.
No direct flights until same time tomorrow. No connecting flights that will work. Oh, but there's a 7:55 leaving from JFK tomorrow morning!
... whoopee! ...
Before I leave my new aircare friend, I clarify: "If I'd been here, like, ten minutes earlier, I could've checked in?" Yes. "If I'd done a mobile, paperless check-in on my Blackberry, from the train, instead of reading FFWD articles online, I could've moseyed right on to that awaiting flight?" Yes. That would have been a very smart move.
Call Mom. Call work. Call Luke - "Hey buddy, feel like sharing your pull-out couch for one more night?"
Ooh. Yeah. About that...
Turns out, after I left, Luke had a conversation with his condo-owning, London-dwelling brother. Who didn't know Luke was hosting couch-surfers in his pad. Who is not particuarly taken with the idea.
Okay! Onward!
Long-ass NJ Transit ride back to Penn Station. Long-ass subway ride to JFK. I sit next to a couple of gentlemen, who carefully adjust their (respectively) bleached-blonde, long-banged and brown faux-hawked hair an discuss Fashion Week at length. As I continue to eavesdrop, I learn that one or possibly both work in theatre, and are networking to get a shot on Broadway, or TV, or whichever comes first. The blonde, clearly the alpha, "needs all the fans he can get", so he doesn't talk about politics or religion on his video-blog, which, btw, he feels has been lackluster for the past couple months, but he feels obligatedd to keep updating.
They take, then proceed to admire and evaluate, several subway self-portraits. They've clearly done this before. I don't have their mad photo-posing skillz.
Short-ass AirTrain ride. I loudly announce that I'm in search of a cheap hotel room, end up at the Days Inn, and I spend the evening channel-surfing, mostly between Men in Black II and, um, Men in Black. I order a too-large mushroom and jalapeno pizza and two Coronas. I regret the peppers, but not the beer.
I sleep for a couple hours, dream that people are using my bathroom. Wake up at 4:00. Catch the 4:30 airport shuttle.
Which brings us up to date. Except, of course, those two days I've skipped over.
I'm gonna get me a fuckin' muffin.
---
I just had an egg & cheese croissant, some mango juice, and a fuckin' muffin.
So, flashing back, I ended my MOMA experience with a trip to the bookstore (where I nearly bought The 1,000 Journals Project, then... didn't) and ventured to their neighbouring exhibit, part of the special pre-constructed architecture collection. They actually went ahead and built... five? ... structures in the soon-to-be developed lot next to the gallery. I really enjoyed that aspect of it, taking a time- and site-specific opportunity to flesh out a project. The buildings themselves, though, were to my eyes unremarkable. The experience of walking through them was eerily like condo-shopping. People were continually opening drawers, or pointing into a room and whispering to their companion. "Look, hon. Wouldn't our sofa look amazing in that bare, mass-manufactured room?"
The whole experience was uncomfortably reminiscent of driving through a Calgary suburb, with cookie-cutter houses off the assembly line. Shudder.
I had dinner with Eliyanna, who I met at the wedding, at a fun little diner/café called PUSH. It was our server's first day, and she was resultingly scattered, but still cute. Eliyanna is awesome. We talked about sex conferences, and our wildly different appreciations of Spring Awakening, and politics, and her wife's Disney World fixation. She overpaid for her meal (for which I, the cash-deprived tourist, was most grateful) and hailed me a taxi going in the right direction. I learned how to distinguish occupied, vacant and off-duty taxis! It's not rocket science, but I hadn't clued in without guidance.
Off to PS 122! I'd been thrilled to discover, while walking home one night, that this world-famous performing arts venue was, like, next fuckin' door to Luke's. It's a public school-cum-performance space, with a really kick-ass vibe. I ventured through the somewhat labyrinthine hallways and emerged into the first performance site, a small black-box theatre. The seats were curtained off, and the audience - mostly standing, though there were two benches - surrounded a square, demarcated with a series of wooden structures. Wooden picture frames, stretched with white projector screens, were scattered around the edges, and a web of canvas rope hung from the ceiling.
So, yeah. My kind of set-up.
A woman split from the crowd and began a wide-eyed exploration of the square. A projection covered the floor, and we were introduced to The Passion of Joan of Arc.
I first saw the film at the final Mutton Busting Festival, when the Summerlad played a live soundtrack. I found it very off-putting then, and no less so now. There are nigh-constant close-ups on Joan, looking desperate, grief-stricken, pained, tortured, hopeless, confused, etc. Cut to a crowd of judgemental, angry men. Cut back to Joan. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseum.
Granted, the film has a cool-and-weird history. The first version was lost to a fire, then the second version, spliced together from outtakes, was also lost to a fire. Years later, a third version is found in the closet of a mental hospital.
Like - shit, yo.
That, in large part, was the subject being tackled in The Passion Project. The square was surrounded on all sides by some pretty impressive projectors. The perormer spins and scurries about the space, thrusting frames in the air to pluck a face from nothingness - a judge, an accusor, Joan. She hangs a fram,e then holds up another, hangs it, takes them both down, holds up another, hangs it. Rinse and repeat, ad nauseum.
Okay. There were solid elements. Often, a static, hanging frame would depict an observing judge or a member of the crowd, which by association positions us as members of the mob. At the end, she hangs all the frames, roping them together into a flaming pyre as Joan burns. The fragments of film, drawn from all three versions, nicely represent the film's own fiery demise(s). And it was created and directed by a dude who works with the Wooster Group. Let's face it, that's neat.
But it was boring. The dazzle of technology and the performer's technical aptitude wears off, and you've got a mournful woman desperately thrusting screens in the air to campture images of another mournful woman. Over and over again.
Such a cool concept. Such a great execution. Why couldn't it be more interesting?? Alas.
Then, down some stairs into a larger studio and Southern Promises.
I was surprised, given the venue's reputation, to discover a comparatively traditional theatre piece. Proscenium, script-based, the whole deal.
[SPOILER ALERT]
The story beings with the death of a slave-owner, who frees his slaves in his will. His wife reverses the will, then rapes the main male slave. Her brother-in-law comes to help her free the slaves, then professes love for her and they get married. He rapes the wife of the previously-raped slave. Shit goes south, white lady gives birth to black baby. Black lady is sold, black baby is murdered, white lady is murdered, black man escapes thanks to a large box and the U.S. Postal Service.
It was actually quite good. Shocking stuff - some very harshly racist portrayals, including liberal use of the word 'nigger', and profoundly disturbing scenes of violence, sexual and otherwise. My thoughts kept going backstage: actors who treat each other so horribly on stage, night after night, must have incredible bonds of trust and respect.
I'm not sure why this show was chosen for a space known for multidisciplinary innovation - unless I'm putting my own biased lens on PS 122 - but it was challenging, and politically important, and totally worth seeing.
Then! A few blocks southwest, for a performance of Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, by the New York Neo-Futurists, as recommended by Ms. Amanda Middleton.
All I knew about the show, going in, was that it was touted as '30 shows in 60 minutes', performed by the NYC branch of a Chicago-founded group. Sketch?
I arrived relatively early (y'know, early by my standards). Having pre-bought a ticket, I was put into a special short line and given a toy. I got all four balls into their respective holes, which bonded me with the other four pre-purchasers: an elderly couple from hawaii, and a young couple. He works on Wall Street, which was apparently been crazy lately! Go figure.
Enter the Kraine Theater, under the KGB Bar and above a comedy club. A cozy little theatre. The rest of the audience files in slowly; the price is $10 plus the roll of a dice. As we enter, an earphone-clad woman shouts "What's your name?", then ignores your answer and scribbles something on a nametag. My name was "Mashed Up". We're given menus: 30 items, each with a different title. At the end of each "play", they say "curtain", at which point we shout out numbers. The performers snatch the first number they hear from an overhanging clothesline, and perform that scene.
It was a nightmare evening for them. First, the sound didn't work, forcing them to run sound from an on-stage portable stereo. Then a pipe starts leaking - a pretty hardcore leak - on the audience, leaving them to monitor the water level of hastily-placed buckets on top of everything else they're already doing.
Despite the various and extensive setbacks, the show was one of the highlights of my trip.
Monday, September 29, 2008
New York Journal - Part Six
Blogging is an excellent avoidance technique.
September 20, 2008
Phew. Problem with journaling is that life keeps on happening, with no time to write it all down! Which, y'know, is ultimately good, but it leaves me a lot to catch up on.
So. Um. After L'Image, I wandered over to Boog City, a literary festival/book fair. I missed the event, arriving just as the crowd was dispersing. Two people were waiting for the rest outside; turns out the woman had read! I apologized for missing her performance. She said it was okay. On an unrelated note, she has a sailor suit.
I tagged along for the post-reading diner visit, which was attended by one Jessica Smith, a Facebook friend I'd never met in person. She is cute and quirky. I bought her book or, more specifically, her omelette.
They were definitely writers, maladjusted in particularly writerly ways. I can't identify right now exactly which ways those are - maybe it's been too long, or maybe their eccentricities are too vague to define. You can tell writers from actors from dancers, though. There's just... something.
I walked Jessica to the subway, waved to her from the opposite platform, picked up some beer, and went to bed.
... oh, and bought some frozen yogurt.
---
Aaaaand now I'm in Le Gamin Café, no real idea of where exactly, near the HERE Arts Center. It is enormously difficult to pee in the street here! People everywhere!
Had dinner with Janette at The Park, this wicked place in the West Village with an indoor garden and a killer atmosphere. We're not sure of the nationality of our server, Simona.
My server here is Russian! But I don't know her name. She seems scared of my chirpiness.
So! Uh. Yesterday! Went to MOMA in the afternoon, which was cool but reminded me that I'm bad at museums. I spent the first little while in my usual internal rant - Why bring all these works of art under a single roof, removing them from all context, dulling their unique allure through endless hallways of repeating canvases? I made what I thought was a very apt comparison between MOMA and IKEA (endless hallways? get it? c'mon.), then amused myself by taking pictures of tourists taking pictures of Andy Warhol paintings.
While I can't say that my cynicism completely left me, I have to admit that I became quite absorbed in some of the galleries. My art history needs some serious brushing up, but it was pretty fucking cool to stand in a room with original Picassos.
I was more in my element in the special collection - more context! It was an investigation into pre-constructed architecture, and the alleged revolution that pre-construction had in architectural practice. I was less than impressed. While, again, my knowledge of the subjet is severely lacking, the emphasis on cost-efficiency and productivity seemed more capitalistic than artistic, and the resulting structures were... well, kind of spartan and ugly. Plus, the architecture that has really impressed me (see: Water Centre) is entirely reliant on and respondant to its environment, so I had to question the quality of factory pre-fabricated structures. That being said, it provoked some very interesting questions, and I hoep to investigate the subject further.
I wish all my gallery experiences could be ala Chris Cran in the Lab, with personal anecdotes and wine. Not a reasonable expectation, perhaps, but one to strive for.
Also, experimental artists are assholes. Soup cans? Groceries? Narrow painted strips of red? Ballsy motherfuckers.
Also, if it says right on the blurb that the soup can paintings were originally displayed atop shelves, why not mount some fucking shelves?
I don't know if the music playing is Spanish, Italian or "other". Definitely not French.
September 20, 2008
Phew. Problem with journaling is that life keeps on happening, with no time to write it all down! Which, y'know, is ultimately good, but it leaves me a lot to catch up on.
So. Um. After L'Image, I wandered over to Boog City, a literary festival/book fair. I missed the event, arriving just as the crowd was dispersing. Two people were waiting for the rest outside; turns out the woman had read! I apologized for missing her performance. She said it was okay. On an unrelated note, she has a sailor suit.
I tagged along for the post-reading diner visit, which was attended by one Jessica Smith, a Facebook friend I'd never met in person. She is cute and quirky. I bought her book or, more specifically, her omelette.
They were definitely writers, maladjusted in particularly writerly ways. I can't identify right now exactly which ways those are - maybe it's been too long, or maybe their eccentricities are too vague to define. You can tell writers from actors from dancers, though. There's just... something.
I walked Jessica to the subway, waved to her from the opposite platform, picked up some beer, and went to bed.
... oh, and bought some frozen yogurt.
---
Aaaaand now I'm in Le Gamin Café, no real idea of where exactly, near the HERE Arts Center. It is enormously difficult to pee in the street here! People everywhere!
Had dinner with Janette at The Park, this wicked place in the West Village with an indoor garden and a killer atmosphere. We're not sure of the nationality of our server, Simona.
My server here is Russian! But I don't know her name. She seems scared of my chirpiness.
So! Uh. Yesterday! Went to MOMA in the afternoon, which was cool but reminded me that I'm bad at museums. I spent the first little while in my usual internal rant - Why bring all these works of art under a single roof, removing them from all context, dulling their unique allure through endless hallways of repeating canvases? I made what I thought was a very apt comparison between MOMA and IKEA (endless hallways? get it? c'mon.), then amused myself by taking pictures of tourists taking pictures of Andy Warhol paintings.
While I can't say that my cynicism completely left me, I have to admit that I became quite absorbed in some of the galleries. My art history needs some serious brushing up, but it was pretty fucking cool to stand in a room with original Picassos.
I was more in my element in the special collection - more context! It was an investigation into pre-constructed architecture, and the alleged revolution that pre-construction had in architectural practice. I was less than impressed. While, again, my knowledge of the subjet is severely lacking, the emphasis on cost-efficiency and productivity seemed more capitalistic than artistic, and the resulting structures were... well, kind of spartan and ugly. Plus, the architecture that has really impressed me (see: Water Centre) is entirely reliant on and respondant to its environment, so I had to question the quality of factory pre-fabricated structures. That being said, it provoked some very interesting questions, and I hoep to investigate the subject further.
I wish all my gallery experiences could be ala Chris Cran in the Lab, with personal anecdotes and wine. Not a reasonable expectation, perhaps, but one to strive for.
Also, experimental artists are assholes. Soup cans? Groceries? Narrow painted strips of red? Ballsy motherfuckers.
Also, if it says right on the blurb that the soup can paintings were originally displayed atop shelves, why not mount some fucking shelves?
I don't know if the music playing is Spanish, Italian or "other". Definitely not French.
New York Journal - Part Five
I cut my finger on a brand-new knife yesterday. It hurts to type.
Ouchie.
September 19, 2008
I'm now in a cute little Italian place near Luke's apartment. Interesting how I feel the need to situate each journal entry. Maybe that's why I never journal at home. "I'm in the bedroom. I'm in the living room. I'm in the office." Of course, with these entries, I'm always drinking, itself a kind of monotony.
Last night was cool! Check out L'Image at FIAF, which is huge. Chatted with the gallery curator afterward; apparently the cultural program alone has 50 employees. Fuck!
The theatre - which I guess is usually a catering hall - was laid end-to-end with sod. I wound up sitting cross-legged in the grass, presumably because I'm a hearty youth whose body is built to withstand such trials.
They're playing Frank Sinatra. Awesome.
A fly has tumbled to my table. It seems disabled. It buzzes, and shifts awkwardly, then lies still. A tragic figure, and I'm not sure that I can make its trials any less ... y'know ... trying.
So, L'Image. It was an impressive production, wherein a dancer, an actor and a media artist collaborated to dramatize a short story by Beckett. I quite liked the story: a disturbing and vivid portraid of a suburban (?) scene, a man, a woman, a field, a dog.
The problem: the elements didn't cohese. First, a projection of the translated text (in English) scrolled Star Wars-style up the wall. Partway through, a woman standing arm's-length from me, covered in tape and wires, started conducting an invisible symphony with subtle movements.
(Later, in the lobby, I asked about an incongruous sound mid-show. "I relaxed my hand," she admitted sheepishly.)
Then, the projection cuts and she folds into a fetal position for the rest of the show.
The actor picks it up. She speaks the text in its entirety, this time in French, complemented with sporadic and understated movements. She, too, collapses to the floor.
The dancer, this whole time, has been splayed on the grass as though he'd fallen from a far distance. He comes to life, leaping and spasming in startling, electric movements. His hands come to life and explore his body, eliciting a yelp when they reach his penis. He becomes a dog, traps his own pant leg in his jaws and leaps about.
Then he finishes, and bows, and the show is over.
All told, a thousand times more compelling than Spring Awakening. But for chrissakes, why not mix the movement-based music with the frenzied dance? The dance with the actor's dramatization? here is a performance that deserves a closing ensemble song-and-dance number. Instead, we get three translations/interpretations of an identical text, treading a predictable path.
Ouchie.
September 19, 2008
I'm now in a cute little Italian place near Luke's apartment. Interesting how I feel the need to situate each journal entry. Maybe that's why I never journal at home. "I'm in the bedroom. I'm in the living room. I'm in the office." Of course, with these entries, I'm always drinking, itself a kind of monotony.
Last night was cool! Check out L'Image at FIAF, which is huge. Chatted with the gallery curator afterward; apparently the cultural program alone has 50 employees. Fuck!
The theatre - which I guess is usually a catering hall - was laid end-to-end with sod. I wound up sitting cross-legged in the grass, presumably because I'm a hearty youth whose body is built to withstand such trials.
They're playing Frank Sinatra. Awesome.
A fly has tumbled to my table. It seems disabled. It buzzes, and shifts awkwardly, then lies still. A tragic figure, and I'm not sure that I can make its trials any less ... y'know ... trying.
So, L'Image. It was an impressive production, wherein a dancer, an actor and a media artist collaborated to dramatize a short story by Beckett. I quite liked the story: a disturbing and vivid portraid of a suburban (?) scene, a man, a woman, a field, a dog.
The problem: the elements didn't cohese. First, a projection of the translated text (in English) scrolled Star Wars-style up the wall. Partway through, a woman standing arm's-length from me, covered in tape and wires, started conducting an invisible symphony with subtle movements.
(Later, in the lobby, I asked about an incongruous sound mid-show. "I relaxed my hand," she admitted sheepishly.)
Then, the projection cuts and she folds into a fetal position for the rest of the show.
The actor picks it up. She speaks the text in its entirety, this time in French, complemented with sporadic and understated movements. She, too, collapses to the floor.
The dancer, this whole time, has been splayed on the grass as though he'd fallen from a far distance. He comes to life, leaping and spasming in startling, electric movements. His hands come to life and explore his body, eliciting a yelp when they reach his penis. He becomes a dog, traps his own pant leg in his jaws and leaps about.
Then he finishes, and bows, and the show is over.
All told, a thousand times more compelling than Spring Awakening. But for chrissakes, why not mix the movement-based music with the frenzied dance? The dance with the actor's dramatization? here is a performance that deserves a closing ensemble song-and-dance number. Instead, we get three translations/interpretations of an identical text, treading a predictable path.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
New York Journal - Part Four
Urgh. There have been better mornings.
Let's cheer up through another fabulous, adventure-filled blog post!
September 18, 2008
I feel great!
My schedule is getting crammed, and it's killing me! Slutty Puppets or experimental Beckett? Wooster Group rehearsal or ANGER/NATION? Bowery Poetry Club or Boog City Book Fair? Madness!
Saw my first Broadway show last night: Spring Awakening. It starred the older brother from Weeds. It sucked.
I like musicals; they're cheesy and excessive and fun. But the songs had no heart, and the narrative was uncomfortably moralistic, and there wasn't an ending, just an ensemble song-and-dance number that didn't resolve anything. Boo.
It's kind of nice to see crap on Broadway, though. A reaffirmation that I need innovation and experiment. Screw the mainstream!
Except for Rent. And possibly Avenue Q.
The bartender's finger is bleeding. Go team sanitation.
I'm attracted to dark pubs. Perhaps I should adjust my preference?
After that veggie burger I just ate, the answer is an unqualified yes. Need to start eating better, Hopkins, you motherfucker.
---
May be time to go off booze for a while.
Just checked out the Luxe Gallery, which had a comforting familiarity. Very New Gallery... no, more Stride. Anyway, a very artist-run vibe. Had some neat photography and video going on, especially this antique music video machine thing playing a ridiculous film shot in a wrestling ring.
I wish I were having more, y'know, life revelations or whatever. Well, I've had one. No more publicity. Keep working with Ghost River, keep publicizing my own shows, but that's it. I don't enjoy it. I get stressed. Time to stop.
I like the freedom here. I have my own schedule, and no expectations. Not realistic in "real life", tho. I put down roots, and I need income. Need to balance the day job with life.
Maybe Swallow-a-Bicycle can start paying. That'd rule.
Tonight: The Image by Samuel Beckett, in (presumably) its original French. Cool? Fingers crossed.
Then, maybe a movie.
Let's cheer up through another fabulous, adventure-filled blog post!
September 18, 2008
I feel great!
My schedule is getting crammed, and it's killing me! Slutty Puppets or experimental Beckett? Wooster Group rehearsal or ANGER/NATION? Bowery Poetry Club or Boog City Book Fair? Madness!
Saw my first Broadway show last night: Spring Awakening. It starred the older brother from Weeds. It sucked.
I like musicals; they're cheesy and excessive and fun. But the songs had no heart, and the narrative was uncomfortably moralistic, and there wasn't an ending, just an ensemble song-and-dance number that didn't resolve anything. Boo.
It's kind of nice to see crap on Broadway, though. A reaffirmation that I need innovation and experiment. Screw the mainstream!
Except for Rent. And possibly Avenue Q.
The bartender's finger is bleeding. Go team sanitation.
I'm attracted to dark pubs. Perhaps I should adjust my preference?
After that veggie burger I just ate, the answer is an unqualified yes. Need to start eating better, Hopkins, you motherfucker.
---
May be time to go off booze for a while.
Just checked out the Luxe Gallery, which had a comforting familiarity. Very New Gallery... no, more Stride. Anyway, a very artist-run vibe. Had some neat photography and video going on, especially this antique music video machine thing playing a ridiculous film shot in a wrestling ring.
I wish I were having more, y'know, life revelations or whatever. Well, I've had one. No more publicity. Keep working with Ghost River, keep publicizing my own shows, but that's it. I don't enjoy it. I get stressed. Time to stop.
I like the freedom here. I have my own schedule, and no expectations. Not realistic in "real life", tho. I put down roots, and I need income. Need to balance the day job with life.
Maybe Swallow-a-Bicycle can start paying. That'd rule.
Tonight: The Image by Samuel Beckett, in (presumably) its original French. Cool? Fingers crossed.
Then, maybe a movie.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
New York Journal - Part Three
Okay, seriously. Last one for tonight.
September 17, 2008
Oh god. My head. Oh god.
I was drinking for nearly 12 hours straight yesterday. Been a while since I've done that.
The wedding was lovely! To be continued.
I'm in a vegetarian restaurant, I forget the name, sitting next to an uber-depressing old couple. They're, I dunno, 65 or 70 years old. He doesn't say much. She says plenty. She asked him three times, in slightly different words, if he wanted to share a salad, then expounded on the details of the salad. When he stepped away to take a phone call (she gave him permission to take it outside, then prompted him to leave the table when it rang), she asked the server if there had been renovations to the restaurant since her last visit, three years ago. They had changed the lamps, and painted. She relayed this information to her husband upon his return. They ate in silence, interrupted only by her occasional question, "Do you like it?"
It just seems like they've been together so long, there's nothing left to talk about, which blows my mind. Politics! The impending stock market crash! Gossip! Arts! Bowel movements! There's an infinity of topics to discuss. Silly people. I hope I don't end up like that.
---
I'm now sitting in a park in the East Village. Some lady with a microphone is behind me, ranting about Satan and baptism. Some dude came up to me, said, "I'm sure this nice young man is on the internet. Are you on the internet, young man?" Then, "Are you religious?" Then he handed me a small flyer, with a list of anti-religion websites and books. Hilarious. Love it.
Lady with two dogs is on the bench near me. She's talking to "David", who she thought was trying to avoid her. Whether he was or not, they're chatting now. In New York accents. He called her a putz. Awesome.
Another dog-walker stopped to talk to her a few minutes ago. He introduced his dog. "He ain't had a woman in five years!"
Now she's alone on the bench, giggling to herself.
Got a fuckin' mosquito bite on my fuckin' elbow.
So yeah, the wedding was lovely. The ceremony was in the Secret Garden, a beautiful spot in the north-east corner of Central Park. It was short, and heart-felt. Jania was gorgeous and, yes, glowing. Chris was a handsome devil. A beautiful couple.
I met some cool people, who walked and subway'd with me to the Zipper Factory, a tavern/theatre, for the reception. I hit it off with Nicholas, Eliyanna, Helen and Janette, so hopefully our paths cross again! Also had a really nice chat with Kevin, the AD (?) of Rapid Fire.
Had some really intense conversations throughout the evening. Theatre, politics, sex trade, HIV, MS, brain tumours. Heavy stuff.
Split a cab with Eliyanna, then popped in to the Village Pourhouse for a nightcap. Started a really organic conversation with the bartender, Kim Marie, and all of a sudden we're in a bar down the street, and she's buying me tequila shots and telling me her life story. Very cool woman. She's an actor, taking a Master's in criminal psychology, raising her twin nephews. Fuck. So impressive.
Spent most of the day hungover in bed. Puked last night. Feeling a little better now. Hope it lasts.
September 17, 2008
Oh god. My head. Oh god.
I was drinking for nearly 12 hours straight yesterday. Been a while since I've done that.
The wedding was lovely! To be continued.
I'm in a vegetarian restaurant, I forget the name, sitting next to an uber-depressing old couple. They're, I dunno, 65 or 70 years old. He doesn't say much. She says plenty. She asked him three times, in slightly different words, if he wanted to share a salad, then expounded on the details of the salad. When he stepped away to take a phone call (she gave him permission to take it outside, then prompted him to leave the table when it rang), she asked the server if there had been renovations to the restaurant since her last visit, three years ago. They had changed the lamps, and painted. She relayed this information to her husband upon his return. They ate in silence, interrupted only by her occasional question, "Do you like it?"
It just seems like they've been together so long, there's nothing left to talk about, which blows my mind. Politics! The impending stock market crash! Gossip! Arts! Bowel movements! There's an infinity of topics to discuss. Silly people. I hope I don't end up like that.
---
I'm now sitting in a park in the East Village. Some lady with a microphone is behind me, ranting about Satan and baptism. Some dude came up to me, said, "I'm sure this nice young man is on the internet. Are you on the internet, young man?" Then, "Are you religious?" Then he handed me a small flyer, with a list of anti-religion websites and books. Hilarious. Love it.
Lady with two dogs is on the bench near me. She's talking to "David", who she thought was trying to avoid her. Whether he was or not, they're chatting now. In New York accents. He called her a putz. Awesome.
Another dog-walker stopped to talk to her a few minutes ago. He introduced his dog. "He ain't had a woman in five years!"
Now she's alone on the bench, giggling to herself.
Got a fuckin' mosquito bite on my fuckin' elbow.
So yeah, the wedding was lovely. The ceremony was in the Secret Garden, a beautiful spot in the north-east corner of Central Park. It was short, and heart-felt. Jania was gorgeous and, yes, glowing. Chris was a handsome devil. A beautiful couple.
I met some cool people, who walked and subway'd with me to the Zipper Factory, a tavern/theatre, for the reception. I hit it off with Nicholas, Eliyanna, Helen and Janette, so hopefully our paths cross again! Also had a really nice chat with Kevin, the AD (?) of Rapid Fire.
Had some really intense conversations throughout the evening. Theatre, politics, sex trade, HIV, MS, brain tumours. Heavy stuff.
Split a cab with Eliyanna, then popped in to the Village Pourhouse for a nightcap. Started a really organic conversation with the bartender, Kim Marie, and all of a sudden we're in a bar down the street, and she's buying me tequila shots and telling me her life story. Very cool woman. She's an actor, taking a Master's in criminal psychology, raising her twin nephews. Fuck. So impressive.
Spent most of the day hungover in bed. Puked last night. Feeling a little better now. Hope it lasts.
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