The Annekenstein Monster

It’s 4:10 in the pm of the day. Our show opens tonight. I was interviewed, along with Graham, this am on CBC Island Morning. It went pretty well. I didn’t get lost in a thought, which is always a fear of mine when I’m speaking live in front of people, so I’d have to call it a success.

Just now, the butterflies have begun fluttering around in my stomach. I expect they’ll be there until sometime after I perform the one sketch that I’m personally most worried about. Our rehearsals have been going pretty good the last few days, dress rehearsal went really well (which some say is not a good thing, however I don’t believe in that crap). Some of the stuff (especially a couple of the videos) are kick-ass shit-stainingly funny. I’ve never been so confident in the material before a show’s opened, as I am with (most) of this stuff. Same with the rest of the cast. This of course, has us worried that we’re overconfident.

All that’s left is to wait for the crowd and see what they think.

Complete details tomorrow about whether the show’s da bomb or a bomb.

This topic was brought up a while ago at a lunch. People were skeptical as to the validity of my claim. It’s not a wild claim, certainly not an interesting one, nor one worth making up. Yet since the skepticism exists, I do now feel compelled to somehow validate it here by making it public.

Usually, I have a pretty “regular” morning routine. Most days, I could, if need be, reserve the bathroom for the same precise 10 minute period when I’d most need it. Sometimes, however, in the rush of morning activity, I forget to “go to the bathroom”. I leave the house having not watered or weeded. (I’m trying hard not to type “pee” or “poop”).

That’s sometimes. Most times, on these ‘sometimes’ days, I’ll take care of bladder & bowel business at work. Occasionally, though, on these ‘sometimes’ days, I neglect to “expunge my internal records” and my day will carry on as usual. At the end of these occasional sometimes days (does that sound like a tampon line?), I will come home, eat supper, and then, an hour or two later, realise that I have a rather full Recycle Bin and will then go about permanently deleting the contents.

Yes, this topic was brought up at a lunch.

I am not proud.

So, there’s a story in today’s Guardian, in the sports section, that wonders why the so-called Battle of Canada doesn’t draw more rivalry from the players or loyalty/interest from fans.

Hmmm?

Let’s see: The Blue Jays and the Expos are both at the bottom of their respective divisions. The Expos are owned by MLB, that is, by the rest of the teams (that statement so deserves a “Huh?”) ever since they were supposed to be moved and/or dissolved a couple of years ago. When the Expos last had a “legitimate” owner, he purposefully tried to ruin the club, practically begging (by his actions) Expos fans to stay away. Fortunately for him, they listened. The two teams play in separate leagues, and inter-league play is generally seen as No Big Deal by anyone.

Those are just some of the reasons why there’s not so much interest in the Battle of Canada. But I think the main reason why there was such a lack of interest in the Toronto Blue Jays vs. Montreal Expos games this weekend was:

THEY WERE PLAYED IN FRIGGIN’ PUERTO RICO!!

Morons. I so hate baseball.

Well, we’ve spent a furious last couple of weeks getting ready for the premiere of Sketch 22 (starting this Thursday and Friday, and running those days until August 27, at the ARTS Guild, Charlottetown), and are now “very fine tuning” the show. Having spent a number of months with this stuff, we are at the stage now where we question if the stuff we’ve written was ever funny, and must trust in our remembrances of the initial readings of the various skecthes, and at how hard we’ve laughed at the stuff at various stages in the rehearsal process.

Of course, it being all new material, we are nervous as to how it will be received. We’ve performed 3 of the 22 sketches at two different functions, and they were very well enjoyed, so that is encouraging.

Two more rehearsals, and then we see if we’re as funny and smart and clever as we think we are.

I could be discontent and chase the rainbows end
I might win much more but lose all that is mine
I could be a lot but I know I’m not
I’m content just with the riches that you bring
I might shoot to win and commit the sin
Of wanting more than I’ve already got
I could runaway but I’d rather stay
In the warmth of your smile lighting up my day
(the one that makes me say)

‘Cause you’re the best thing that ever happened to me or my world
You’re the best thing that ever happened – so don’t go away

I might be a king and steal my peoples things
But I don’t go for that power crazy way
All that I could rule but I don’t check for fools
All that I need is to be left to live my way
(listen what I say)

‘Cause you’re the best thing that ever happened to me or my world
You’re the best thing that ever happened – so don’t go away

I could chase around for nothing to be found
But why look for something that is never there
I may get it wrong sometimes but I’ll come back in style
For I realise your love means more than anything
(the song you make me sing)

Happy Anniversary to my wife. I love you more today than ever before.

(Happy Canada Day to everyone else. I love you all about the same as before.)

My wife is a sensitive soul. In all the right ways. While I do possess compassion, I keep it tamped down, swallowed deep into the pit of my stomach. It only sporadically shows itself, as a gag-reflex, like coughed up mucus and phlegm that I then spit on the ground when nobody’s looking. My wife has no problem expressing her love of and concern for all things at any time in any circumstance.

Lately, our house has fallen prey to middle-of-the-night power outages. Mysterious events that cause digital clocks to blink 12:00, and us to wake in the morning in a panic, unsure of how late we are for work. After the latest time this happened, my wife called Maritime Electric and explained the shenanigans. The tech replied that there was no clear reason why it was happening, and assumed that the latest outage was the result of a crow getting fried by an electrical wire (how she knew this, I know not. I remain dubious, and puzzled since the outages haven’t returned since the phone-call).

When my son was quite young, he noticed a crow that always seemed to be perched on the highest limb of the tallest tree around our home. While I assumed that it was different crows, he was quite emphatic that it was, in fact, one crow. He named the crow Doogle.

Lately, my wife has taken to tossing, onto the lawn, old bread and such, with the accompanying yell “Here Doogle!”. I assume the neighbourhood thinks her crazy, probably thinking she’s tossing food to some imaginary lost son. I merely swallow, silently, and recognize that Doogle (or the Doogles, as I still believe) has found a second friend.

So, when she heard that the outages might be caused by crisping crows, my wife, momentarily, became a bit despondent and sullen at the thought of this poor crow losing its life in such a shocking way. “I hope it wasn’t Doogle”, she said, quite seriously, to nobody in particular.

I, I’m ashamed to say, laughed at her. Fortunately for me, she also shows compassion to me.

I think, perhaps, the greatest gig that a tv commercial copy writer could get would be to hook up with the production company that does the Five Alive ads.

They’re the ads that look like they’re on mushrooms. 3 or 4 mini-whacked-out clips, totally disassociated from each other and from reality, in 30 seconds.

For instance, here might be a typical 30 second tv ad for Five Alive (these don’t exist, but if the prod. comp. wants them, hire me and you got ’em):

scene one (8 seconds): an animated beetle wearing an ascot, suspenders and a monocle, in a psychedelic garden, gets its groove on, on a petal of a flower. A Five Alive can falls down from the sky (a la the big foot at the beginning of the Monty Python tv series shows) and squashes the beetle. Beetle tickles the can which laughs and runs away. Music: frenetic German dance beat.
cut to:
scene two (12 seconds): in a room which somehow looks like the entire world, two pretty women, each with twelve arms, and an armadillo on each of their heads, take turns spitting words at each other. The words float out of the mouth of each woman, but float up into the sky, where a huge orange juicer awaits. The words gets juiced and the juice pours into a can of Five Alive. Music: Tuvian throat singing.
cut to:
scene three (10 seconds): in claymation, a box of pens turns into an airplane turns into a medic alert bracelet turns into a belly dancer turns into a lava lamp turns into a midget with a can of Five Alive as one of her legs. Music: the Russian national anthem, played backwards.

Seriously, those are some whigged out commercials.

I think, perhaps, the greatest gig that a tv commercial copy writer could get would be to hook up with the production company that does the Five Alive ads.

They’re the ads that look like they’re on mushrooms. 3 or 4 mini-whacked-out clips, totally disassociated from each other and from reality, in 30 seconds.

For instance, here might be a typical 30 second tv ad for Five Alive (these don’t exist, but if the prod. comp. wants them, hire me and you got ’em):

scene one (8 seconds): an animated beetle wearing an ascot, suspenders and a monocle, in a psychedelic garden, gets its groove on, on a petal of a flower. A Five Alive can falls down from the sky (a la the big foot at the beginning of the Monty Python tv series shows) and squashes the beetle. Beetle tickles the can which laughs and runs away. Music: frenetic German dance beat.

cut to:

scene two (12 seconds): in a room which somehow looks like the entire world, two pretty women, each with twelve arms, and an armadillo on each of their heads, take turns spitting words at each other. The words float out of the mouth of each woman, but float up into the sky, where a huge orange juicer awaits. The words gets juiced and the juice pours into a can of Five Alive. Music: Tuvian throat singing.

cut to:

scene three (10 seconds): in claymation, a box of pens turns into an airplane turns into a medic alert bracelet turns into a belly dancer turns into a lava lamp turns into a midget with a can of Five Alive as one of her legs. Music: the Russian national anthem, played backwards.

Seriously, those are some whigged out commercials.

The local Dairy Queen at lunch hour is a sesspool of skanky, awful junior high school types. Jam-packed with pimply, terribly dressed juveniles and their attendant hyperactive ignorance.

Today it was unuusally empty. Maybe a quarter of the usual raging hormones. Perhaps this being the end of school, schedules are off. Anyway, today I ordered my food, and while I was waiting, some kid sitting nearby, surrounded by his goofy group, says “Do you watch Oz?”

At first I thought I had overheard him talking to a friend, and I thought, “My god, you’re too young to be watching Oz”.

Then again “Do you watch Oz?” More pointed. He was talking to me.

“What?” I asked, naturally suspicious.

“Do you watch Oz?”, then a dirty, yellow-teethed smile.

“I used to.” I brace myself for the ridicule.

“Ewww. Oz is gay!” Laughter.

“You think so?” is all I could come up with. Conversation over.

I’m so disappointed in myself.

I, of course, should have invited him to join me in the Dairy Queen bathroom.

The local Dairy Queen at lunch hour is a sesspool of skanky, awful junior high school types. Jam-packed with pimply, terribly dressed juveniles and their attendant hyperactive ignorance.

Today it was unuusally empty. Maybe a quarter of the usual raging hormones. Perhaps this being the end of school, schedules are off. Anyway, today I ordered my food, and while I was waiting, some kid sitting nearby, surrounded by his goofy group, says “Do you watch Oz?”

At first I thought I had overheard him talking to a friend, and I thought, “My god, you’re too young to be watching Oz”.

Then again “Do you watch Oz?” More pointed. He was talking to me.

“What?” I asked, naturally suspicious.

“Do you watch Oz?”, then a dirty, yellow-teethed smile.

“I used to.” I brace myself for the ridicule.

“Ewww. Oz is gay!” Laughter.

“You think so?” is all I could come up with. Conversation over.

I’m so disappointed in myself.

I, of course, should have invited him to join me in the Dairy Queen bathroom.