The Bloody Doors Off

Talking about Mid earlier, got me thinking about friendships.

The first best friend I ever had, was Doug. He lived across the street from me. We went to school together, came home and ate lunches together, made up stupid TV shows, played baseball, built forts.

We drifted when it came time for high school. I was off to Cedarbrae and he was headed to Woburn.

They were natural frenemies.

Suddenly the gulf between both sides of the street seemed insurmountable.

Wait. No. That’s not right.

I remember getting drunk at his high school party. Coming home and falling asleep on the toilet.

In a house with one bathroom.

Eventually Larry built a second one.

I don’t think it’s because I locked myself in the bathroom and passed out.

We worked as Housemen (glorified cleaners) at Howard Johnson’s.

I was at his wedding.

The same one I’d had a dream Alison and I argued over her flirting with a friend of mine and we ended up married.

I went to his wedding. With Alison. We had a fight because she flirted with my friend George.

We all know how that ended.

We were friends into our early 20s. I guess we drifted after that.

I did get to invite him and his wife to our engagement party; sadly they couldn’t make it in town for the wedding.

My next best friend was someone I never met.

Melissa. Mid.

Emma.

(For Emma Thompson. We nicknamed each other for our favourite actor during the late nineties/early aughts.)

(I guess it wasn’t such a long story.)

Mid and I met on a Canadian improv group’s message board. (Who never wrote me back, btw. Rude.)

She reached out. Said hello.

I said bonjour.

Mid thought I was French. I dissuaded her of that notion pretty quick.

We began writing each other. I was at work, and would read/write emails in between jobs. Working midnights, I had a lot of free time on my hands.

A couple of times we spoke on the phone. One time at New Year’s.

Never met.

She was the (first) sister I never had.

Mid helped me stay sober. She saw me through relationships and break-ups.

We had a word. No matter where we were in the world, if we ever ran into one another.

To be absolutely sure it was us.

Geek.

I know. I shouldn’t admit that. It was our code word.

But it’s been 30 years.

I wonder if she still has the Holly GoLightly Barbie doll I sent her for Christmas that one year.

During my 20s, she was my best friend.

And I don’t think I ever told her.

Mamaaa,
Just killed a man,
Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger,
Now he’s dead
Mamaaa, life had just begun,
But now I’ve gone and thrown it all away
Mama, oooh,
Didn’t mean to make you cry,
If I’m not back again this time tomorrow,
Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters

queen, bohemian rhapsody

I wanted to like that movie. Malek was an inspired choice.

The story left me cold.

Not like Rocketman. That was a great film.

Why am I talking about biiopic movies?

Like anyone’s gonna adapt my life to the screen, large or small.

But I’d be happy if they took my words.

I’ve been in two small festivals this year, gearing up for a third, and was just accepted for a fourth.

And I’ve just applied for another, uh, internship of sorts, to run through July.

I hope I’m not stretching myself too thin.

‘Cuz I’ve gotta get even more serious about making money.

Ugh. This post sucks. I should just delete it.

But I don’t wanna be censoring myself. This is a dumping ground for my thoughts. This is my blog.

It means I’m writing.

Okay, maybe not plays. (Gods, I miss writing plays of any length.) I don’t know why this barely-noticed streams-of-consciousness-blog became so damned important to me.

Instead of finding inspiration for a 10-30 page story, I’m digging about for … What am I searching for?

There’s a purpose to all of this.

Someone’s (or something’s) pulling my strings. A Geppetto to my Pinocchio.

Dammit. I’ve felt this before. Whenever a short play started brewing, I’d find inspiration in music. I haven’t been No, I have been listening to music. Just very particular tracks. That tell their own story.

Back in the late 1990s I had a pen pal from Australia. We met, or rather, she found me, on a Canadian improv group’s website message board. Melissa (aka Mid (her nickname) aka Emma (my nickname for her; long story)) saw a comment I’d left and wrote to me. Asked if I was a fan of the group, who’d recently played in the Australian Fringe.

We were pen pals for years, until one day, we just drifted.

My point is. I originally had the idea of writing a play based on those conversations. I knew how it started (“Hello?”), and how it ended (“Geek.”). And because I didn’t back them up off of the office server (yes, I used my office email account in the beginning), they were wiped clean when I got laid off.

Maybe there’s a story in this blog. Something waiting to be written.

That alone is reason to keep plowing forward.

First rule. Don’t censor.

Second rule. Remember, this is for me. I may have a (albeit tiny) audience, but this is for me.

Third rule. Don’t turn away in fear of tarnishing your reputation. Everyone has dents in their armour.

Three geese in a flock.
One flew east, one flew west,
One flew over the cuckoo’s nest.
O-U-T spells OUT,
Goose swoops down and plucks you out.

Children’s Nursery Rhyme

I remember seeing a high school production of One Flew Over The Cookoo’s Nest when I was 11 or 12. I remember it vividly not just because of the gripping storytelling, but also the acting. My brother Wayne played Billy Bobbitt. And though it was never shown on stage, I was traumatized to think Wayne had killed himself towards the end of the play.

I knew after that, I was gonna go into drama in high school.

Sure, I’d played ‘chorus’ in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown in grade 7 or 8 (and look at my head, would I have NOT made an excellent Charlie Brown?) but it didn’t light the spark.

Wayne’s performance did.

(I don’t think I’ve ever told him.)

The first year I was a gopher (‘go for this’ ‘go for that’) and happy to run to convenience stores and J.A.’s (best burgers from the high school days). I got my break doing a walk-on part (of an art dealer who falls through the trap door in the floor) because the actor had to bow out because of… mono? Doesn’t matter. It was my chance to shine.

And get conked on the head by said trap door as they close it up to make sure no one would fall though.

The entire play took place in the ‘dark’. The lights were up but we had to act as if there was a blackout.

I don’t remember the name of the play.

Mild concussion aside, I was on my way.

You know who, in my family, I expected to be involved in the arts after high school?

Wayne.

He was bloody brilliant. He could play Billy Bobbitt, Woody Allen, any role the director wrote specifically for him for each year’s Sears Drama Festival.

That man could’ve had a career.

He chose a career, and a family. And now he’s comfortably retired, living in Alberta with his high school sweetheart.

That’s a very long-winded way of talking about myself, today.

So, St. John’s Shorts? Runs from September 7^th to 26^th. I thought it was the 17^th to the 26^th. Big. Difference.

Got in touch with the actors. It was already a big commitment, travelling to the east coast to perform a 15 minute play a couple of times. Throw in covid protocols and things get a bit tougher.

Go from thinking it was 9 days to 20?

Neither hesitated. Both said yes.

So I sent in our confirmation.

Okay, I think I’m sidetracking again.

See, here’s the thing.

I’d always seen my writing as a passion project, something I did in my spare time.

Tonight, as I thought about all the hurdles we’d have to jump through, the effort its going to take.

I realized.

This is a second career.

I just don’t get paid for it.

Yet.

intractable

[ in-trak-tuh-buhl ]See synonyms for: intractable / intractability / intractableness / intractably on Thesaurus.com

adjective

not easily controlled or directed; not docile or manageable; stubborn; obstinate: an intractable disposition.(of things) hard to shape or work with: an intractable metal.hard to treat, relieve, or cure: the intractable pain in his leg.

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Apparently it’s not enough that I bare my goddamn soul in these posts; now my brain wants to include fucking word prompts.

I suppose it fits though.

This blog was, when it was created, cheekily subtitled Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. I think, given events since 2013 and especially of late, intractable is a good descriptor.

Five days later and they’re still shooting fireworks.

That’s what I prefer to believe.

I’d like not to think of the alternative.

The only gun I’ve ever fired, let along held, was an air rifle at the Canadian National Exhibition.

You know the game. The goal is to shoot out a star from 10 feet.

You’ve got a better chance of busting a balloon with the dull darts they keep.

I worked the Ex when I was 16. Three weeks on the Midway.

First in those water pistol games where you spray water in the clown’s mouth to move your … some object to the top.

Did you know that, as the game operator, you can adjust the water pressure?

If you want someone to win, crank it up.

I was on that game for a week.

The final two weeks were a car game. It had a rubber doohickey and would bounce back and forth between twelve slots you put your loonie in (for non-Canadians, a loonie is $1) and if it landed within your pick, you won a prize. If it landed dead centre, you won a giant prize.

Within the week, I’d mastered the amount of force you needed to throw to make it land where you want.

The game isn’t there any longer.

Not that we’ve had an Exhibition to go to last year. Or this August.

I’m really fucking tired of this.

The only times I leave the apartment building are to walk the dog and go to the pharmacy.

Remember those weekly trips to the comic book store? Intentionally going the longer route of streetcar to bus to streetcar because it was above ground and likely to be less trafficked.

Or the movies?

God, I miss movies.

I wrote about that before.

Concerts. The last one Marlo and I saw was either Postmodern Jukebox or Phish. Both were excellent.

There is something to look forward to.

I got into St. John’s Shorts, and they are currently planning to go live in September.

The GoFundMe is half-way to our initial goal. Even my father is kicking in.

Yeah, it surprised me. He’s on a fixed retirement income. But he still wanted to help.

It means a lot.

I meant to wash the sheets today. I’ll have to do that tomorrow.

I’m rambling now.

Goodnight.

Yesterday’s post wasn’t planned.

None of them are.

I write how I feel in the moment.

Sometimes it takes me places I don’t wanna go.

Shows me things I kept buried.

And sometimes, like now.

It slams on the brakes.

I haven’t been myself the past few days.

Don’t know if it’s the increase in medication.

It just. Feels like a mask slipping off.

My face.

Which is ridiculous.

Because I’m not hiding anything.

Work this week, while not exactly the Nile River, still flowed downstream to my inbox.

Nothing’s happened to me. The family is fine.

Marlo is participating in Corona Cold Reads tonight. They’re reading part two of Angels in America. She’s loving the new normal. Many doors have opened for her.

The boy had violin practice earlier today.

There’s a second load of laundry in the dryer.

The rain’s stopped,, the clouds parting and the setting sun is shining through.

We ordered Greek food tonight.

I should be fine.

Should be.

Should.

Fine.

Why am I not fine?

I’m on increased anti-depressants.

I wrote that already.

I forgot I’d typed it.

It’s right there.

Black on white.

No, my memory’s fine.

It’s good.

I’m not forgetful.

If anything, I’ve been reliving vivid memories of late.

Okay, there have been a few strange dreams.

Nothing I’d like to journal here.

I will say.

It involved Christmas with my family; cousins, aunts, uncles, the lot.

Last December we had to Zoom our Christmas party.

I miss my family.

Even my father, with whom I share a very complicated relationship.

(No, I’m not going there tonight.)

(Yes, I remember the time I was two minutes behind his schedule and he drove off to get breakfast with my brother, leaving me behind.)

(Yes, if I brought it up now, he’d most likely apologize. And I’m not looking for an apology.)

(I’m looking for his approval.)

Fuck you, I’m not getting into this.

God, I miss writing stories.

All this self-reflection may be good for unburdening the soul, but I love writing stories. Especially ones that make people laugh.

I miss hearing crowds laugh.

Zoom has been a boon for getting my short plays out into the world, but I need an audience.

The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd.

I miss going to baseball games with my brother, Kevin.

I miss going to baseball games with my brother, Wayne, but he’s living in Alberta now.

So the commute would suck.

I’ve been to baseball games with my dad.

He always likes to leave early.

To escape traffic.

He always leaves early.

(He always leaves.)

I said, I’m not getting into this tonight.

(Besides, doofus. Mom left him, because he cheated.)

Between that, and the alcohol.

I once went to visit him at his apartment in Guildwood Park. Let myself in, I remember.

Found him passed out on the floor.

I freaked.

I was … 10? Definitely not more than 12. This was before high school.

I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t call 911.

I called his girlfriend.

She suggested I make him coffee. (To sober up, I know now.)

I had no clue how to do it.

I boiled the water.

I poured it.

It was still water.

Apparently you need to put the instant coffee in the mug first.

He still drinks instant coffee.

To this day.

I love my coffee. But when he offers, I always decline.

Can’t stand the stuff.

Not sure if it’s the taste.

Or the memory.

Two days.

Two days in a row.

I’ve woken up.

At 5 am.

Makes no sense.

Hell I woke up before five this morning. But managed to get a little extra sleep.

And I take half a sleeping pill at night to knock me out.

I’ve always been an insomniac.

A decade working the midnight shift at an investment banking firm will do that for you.

Even earned the nickname “Doctor Midnight” at the office, I was so productive.

I’m working for some of those same people now, on contract.

They now call me “Doctor Dusk” because I won’t work past sunset.

If I can help it.

Those kind of hours can fuck with you.

I missed family get togethers because I had to sleep late into the day on Sunday to go into the office that night.

Dating was a sunovabitch. “Sorry I have to go, now. Work.” I wonder if they thought I was lying.

It didn’t destroy the one long-term relationship I had (with Suzi), but it didn’t help matters.

Hell, there was a moment we nearly got back together a few years after. But I, idiot that I was, chose to go into work instead of spending the night with her.

Before I was diagnosed as depressed, there were nights where everything felt black.

Despite the stars in the sky, the moon illuminating the landscape.

Everything was pitch black to me.

Getting off the midnight shift was the best thing I did, back then.

I think that was around 2005.

‘Cuz 2007 was the year shit hit the fan.

I was bullied in high school.

For two years.

His name was Peter.

I dunno what I ever did to elicit his wrath.

And I don’t remember much of how he bullied me. Just that he did.

Started in grade nine.

In grade ten, walking the halls between classes.

I was headed in one direction, Peter coming opposite.

He smashed the books out of my hands and onto the linoleum floor.

I’d had enough.

“ENOUGH!” I remember screaming that at him.

Before launching myself into a fight I had no chance of winning.

And I was on the ground faster than you can say Rumpelstiltskin.

But I didn’t give up.

Even after teachers pulled us apart.

I continued on to my Science class, like nothing had happened.

“Is Paul Koster in class?” crackled the public address system. “Please send him to the office.”

I got suspended for fighting. Three days.

Peter got worse, I think.

He never bothered me again.

Why do I bring this up?

I’m worried my boy is being bullied at school. He says no, but he’s adamant that he wants to change schools.

With a month left until he heads to high school.

No principal/trustee would sign off on switching, even two months ago when he first brought it up.

Even if he’s not being bullied, he is most definitely a teenager with raging hormones and no one to hit.

I remember how that felt.

I’d do anything to ease him through the coming years.

I feel helpless.

Welcome to parenthood.

I’m somewhat impulsive.

I jump at opportunities when presented.

And work out the logistics after.

And I’m a sucker for the long-shot.

(Ask Mollie. She’s sat beside me for hours upon hours playing Blackjack.)

They were only accepting 15 applications this year.

Less than a third of those spots were outside of the Indigenous/Equity-seeking categories. They take precedence.

Like I said, a long-shot.

But man, I love to gamble.

So, back on March 15th, I applied to the St. John’s Shorts Festival this September in Eastern Canada.

I knew the show I’d take.

Snow Angels.

It’s a no-brainer. It runs just shy of 15 minutes (you can have a maximum of 30 minutes), and it’s a two-hander. Part of their Covid Protocols state that the company can be no larger than 10, including the writer, director, etc. Same actors, Sofia and Lucy. As I said, no-brainer.

Oh, did I mention this is a LIVE festival, and NOT virtual?

And did I mention how much of a long-shot this was?

Obviously, you can guess the outcome.

We got in.

I told Marlo. Her first response:

“I guess we’re going to Newfoundland.”

(Reason no. 427 why I love her.)

So yeah. The ladies are already talking about a road trip.

And I need to set up a GoFundMe to cover their travel and accommodations.

This has been quite the year. Kentwood Players produced State of Independence out of Los Angeles, Last Call will run as part of the Rogue Theater Festival in the U.S., and now. I’m going to Newfoundland.