Tightening the screws

I get a call from the manager (Promise Maker) of the scooter store this morning, as soon as they open up. He's sorry that he never called back, he has no excuse. He wanted me to call him back so that we can talk about what we can do to make this right, and come up with the best solution possible.

I tell him that I've waited a long time, and they have to admit that I've been more than cool. He agrees. I tell him that at this point I'm really just interested in getting my money back (hardline position, with the intent to allow for bartering). He says that he'll have to squeeze the money out of the owner, and he's not sure what the outcome will be. I say that I hope the owner will be reasonable, because I'm within my rights to get my money back. I encourage him to talk to the owner, and we'll talk later.

I let that stew.

On my way home from work, I stop in for round two. I go in, very friendly, and meet with the manager. Ask him if he's talked to the owner yet. Yup - he's not too keen on the refund thing, and the manager isn't sure if it's because its coming from him (apparently there's some conflict there at the moment) or what. I ask him if the owner has a solution that he's willing to offer, if the money back is not ideal for him. Well, yes. The manager wanted to suggest this while we were on the phone, but he didn't know if I'd be receptive. Here it comes.

Melissa had suggested that I may be happier if they put me on a bigger, better bike. Straight up trade. I'm interested. To me, it's preferrable to come out of this with a bike. But if I agree to that, they have to guarantee that the bike they build me really is the very next bike on the bench - starting Tuesday morning. Period. Bottom line - work starts yesterday. I want my scooter for this season. I look him square in the eye. That is my deal breaker.

He says, ok, let's go look at what I want for you. He shows me a large frame P series Italian Postal service scooter. Bates has one, and they're solid. It'd be cheese to have the same bike as Bates, but at this point, I don't care. He takes me in the back and shows me the 155 engines stacked on a shelf, still in bags. They'll just need to do some electrical conversion for the bike (piddly, nitpicking work), put in the new engine, and suspension and we're in business. They'll work on the ownership, and I'll sign over my scooter to them when we're closer to completion. This is a good arrangement. My scooter cost $2000 but was clearly worth less. If they rebuild this PX for me, and put in the engine they're talking about, it'll be a great trade. It'll just cost me most of this season. I'll be amazed if they're done work by the end of July.

Which I suppose, is ok, since my tax return won't be here until then, and I need it to pay for my insurance.

I hope I've made the right choice. I told them we'll talk again on Tuesday when they've had a chance to run the story past The Owner and The Scapegoat (mechanic). If they climb on board, we're in business. If they resist. Then it's time to circle the wagons and... well... I don't know what.

Just some chicks, talkin' scooters

Well, I went to the shop, and they're "closed for inventory" and will be open tomorrow. I called the shop, and tried the door, and was about to give up and leave, and I hear my name being called out.

It's the lone female mechanic. She invites me in so we can chat about what's going on.

I sit down, and behind her is my scooter. She admits that it hasn't been touched. I can see that, it's right behind her on the showroom floor, engine intact.

She says things have been crazy, and that the mechanic is determined that my bike is his next project. I say that's all well and good, but that I've heard that repeatedly, and it's kind of lost it's meaning.

We're in sister mode - girl talk. We acknowlege it. I like her because she's honest. She admits that they've fucked up.

I tell her that I'm frustrated because I know that the guys have been spending the month building two scooters from the ground up for their own joyriding pleasure at the rally, and to know that, and see my own scooter still unrepaired after a year isn't exactly what I'd call good service. She seems surprised that I know the score about their dicking around, but says that it pissed her off too.

She tells me some inside stuff about how the owner has created a bottleneck that has tied their hands in ordering parts and doing the needed repairs they've wanted to get to. But, she adds, this is a guy who will throw money at a problem to fix it.

So I ask her, how does she think they'll respond to my demand that I want either my money back, or a credit towards a new scooter - because thanks to Cindi's friends advice, I've checked out the consumer protection laws, and I have a right to my money back considering the scooter is still under warantee. She smiled, and said yes, that was exactly right. And that is was good that I looked into my rights, and that I should definately ask for my money back. Or even a full restoration - ground up. Total rebuild on the bike, and full bodywork and a new paint job. Something. Because they'll want to do something to make things right. They like me there. The owner likes me, he speaks highly of me. (frankly, I think he has a crush on me, but that's a whole other angle)

I asked her straight up if they had a bike on the floor that she'd recommend for a trade - she said I should take the money. This is why I like her.

So that's that. She's going to call the owner and let him know that a storm is brewing, and that I'm unhappy and will be rightfully asking for a refund. Meanwhile, I'm going to work over the manager tomorrow. Then I'll let him call the owner and tell him the same. I expect to have a positive resolution next week sometime.

Like I said, these guys aren't jerks.
They're just bad businessmen.

I also told her that I was going to store my bike with them over the winter, but the way their business was running I was afraid they'd go under before the spring, and I didn't know what would happen with my scooter if that went down. She just looked surprised and we both started laughing. She found that funny - said she wondered why I hadn't stored with them over the winter! But that it made sense, and she was glad I'd been honest about it - that it was useful information!

The ex arrives on the scene after it's all over. We're both kind of glad it worked out this way, because having a guy around would likely have tipped the scales. Not that she would have been less honest with him around, but there was something about it being just us girls... He and I go for ice cream at the Esso station instead and watch some old Family Guy and Daily Show episodes.

He drops me off at Christy and Paul's place (shout out!!). Christy and I walk to get me a personal pizza from Dominoes, and arrive back at their place to a woeful Paul, standing lost on the front stoop - ohhhh... poor Mr. NoKeys! The three of us pass a very pleasent evening on the deck bitching about my scooter situation, their fringe shows, and Tom Cruise. Good times. Christy gives me a lift home, which I rebuff at first but then later greatfully accept. I'm too relaxed to walk home.

Scooter is ready for sleep. Seeing the ex gets him so worked up, that he crashes pretty hard. You and me both, Bing Bong. You and me both!

Motoretta? Oh dear sweet Motoretta...

Seriously.

I get an email from the manager of Motoretta telling me that since Vespa never officially imported my model of scooter into the USA or Canada, none of their suppliers carry parts for it. So they don't service my ratty old PK125S.

The worst news I could receive, really. I've been counting the days until my warantee with "they who cannot be named" was up so that I could start bringing my scooter to Motoretta for repairs. I am crestfallen. They were my way out.

Now, I have to play a more strategic game with They Who Cannot Be Named. Now I must even out my temper, because I can't just walk away in a huff. I need them.

My thought at this point is, tell them I'd like to trade in my scooter for something a little bigger, body-wise, and a little more reliable. They can finish fixing the PK125S on their own time. Heck, I'll even throw in the chrome fender I bought for it, if they give me a decent deal. That way, they keep or write off the PK and I have something a bit more substantial and more common for parts.

The manager at Motoretta says that if the scooter's still under warantee, and they can't fix it, I've got a pretty good case for a new bike. Cool. If that's normal then that's the card I'm playing.

Tricky. Must be cool.

I've already called in the ex-boyfriend to play the muscle/bad-cop.

Wish us luck!

The fine line between "nice" and "sucker"

I'm walking it right now with my scooter dealership, **** (name deleted cause they vanity google, keep reading, you'll see).

I bought a used Vespa this time last year. Picking it up was delayed a couple of times for mechanical problems, which were never quite fixed. I left my scooter with them repeatedly last season, and they never managed to correct the fact that it drops out of gear in 3rd and 4th. They replaced a cable or two, but they never cracked open the engine.

Now I'm no scooter genius, but I figured out by doing a little research, that the problem is most certainly the flywheel. Not a cable.

Last summer, I left the scooter with them for over a week and dropped by one day to see how things were going. They hadn't even looked at it yet. I'm sure they're busy over there, but at some point, don't you set a few things aside, and solve a problem that you've been futzing with for a couple of months, that left your customer broken down in rush hour traffic after a faulty transmission cable you replaced snapped while that customer was travelling at 40 kph?

I've been really nice. I haven't yelled, I haven't blamed them. I just want them to fix the damn thing. I stopped by in May, asking them when they'd be able to fix it once and for all. They said they'd call when a bench opened up. I'm "next". Getting my scooter fixed is a priority, cause I've been so patient, and they really appreciate it. They want to "make it right".

Really? Weeks go by. No word. Once again, the scooter breaks down in traffic, and I call them for help. The "promise-maker" shows up and pushes my scooter back to the garage. I'm next in line for repair. Really! Swear to god. The minute the guy is done with his current repair, I'm in!

Motherfucking WEEKS go by. I left the scooter with them on May 26th. I got a call last Wednesday that they're about to start work on it. I'm thrilled. I tell them I'll check in when I get back from San Francisco.

Well, I just got off the phone with the "promise-maker". Seems that the mechanic is off today. He was at a race all weekend. I don't fucking care. How's my scooter? Where are we with the repairs? The Promise Maker doesn't know if the guy has even cracked the engine yet. What? Fucking what? Last time we talked, he was starting on the repair the next day.

"Yeah, I don't know."

"Uh-huh. Can you ask him?"

"He's not here today. He took the week off."

Fucking what?

"Is there another mechanic who can work on my scooter?"

"They all took the week off."

Fucking what?

"So you won't have any idea what's going on until next week." I'd hoped to have my scooter back in time for the rally this weekend.

"I can call him at home and find out, I'll call you back by the end of the day." Yeah, I'll hold my breath.

I'm furious.

I've already sent a quote request to Motoretta to see what they'd charge to do the repair, and how long it'd take. I have a feeling less than a month. Up till now, I've only been bringing it back to Scooters on Front because it's still under warantee with them and the "repairs" don't cost me anything. That ride is all but over. At this point I'm pretty much willing to write off the cost of the repair in favour of actually getting to ride my scooter sometime this summer. Cause Lord knows I wouldn't take my scooter back there when I'd have to pay for it based on the service I'm getting now.

Fucktards.

Oh, and could this be the reason why they've been too busy to fix my scooter?

From: http://www.cmgonline.com/MBS_Rally/

TEAM "***" SET TO RAPE, PILLAGE AND PLUNDER IN THE MAD BASTARD




WTF? These guys are going to be hard to beat.
"The Promise Maker" and "The Scapegoat" of *** are definite contenders for the Rally grand prize that will be awarded to the Maddest Bastard – just check out their rides for the Rally!

Vintage Vespa aficionados may recognize the pieces that make up a mid-eighties PX125 T5 and the P125 ETS. Also worth noting is the fact that this photo was taken only a week ago!

Will these things be running in time for the Rally? If so, how long before they catch on fire or simply seize up? Stay tuned.

Hmmmh, maybe we could get some charity betting incorporated into the Rally…

You fucking fuckers. Hope you enjoyed your stupid rally.

"I'm just a simple country doctor..."

Well, it took a few days, but the final show in San Francisco contained some drama. I write this not to criticize, but... well, no but. This is what happened.

Ana and I get back to Shaun and Hans' place early enough so that we can relax and I can grab a shower before the show. There is talk of arriving at the theatre at seven again. I am not into that. There's no real reason to be there that early, as far as I'm concerned. The way I figure, if we're the guests, and we don't have to do any set-up, count any floats, run any scenes, or make any arrangements, then 7:30 is plenty of time to get backstage and get ready. When I worked at Second City, that was your call - 30 minutes to show. That makes sense to me. We compromise and get to the theatre around 7:15-ish.

We get some attitude from a guy that's been hanging around all weekend, I guess a volunteer - you know that joking around "look who showed up" thing. I think it was a joke. It better have been, when you consider what is to follow.

We go backstage and set down our things, Kerry heads to the store to buy drinks. The TFM gang are doing their vocal warm-up and invite us to join them, but we spend the time dealing with tech issues - we're having the TFM's tech, Mark, do our show - and making sure that no toes are stepped on in the process.

Suddenly, 10 to 8, we realize that the audience still hasn't been let in and we're hearing the high pitch whine of a drill, and snapping of wood. Very puzzling. We learn that they are installing/building risers to add more seating. I'm not sure why this is a last minute endeavour, since ticket sales were so hot for that night's show. I'm not telling anyone how to run their festival, but my thinking is that if you know a show is sold out before even factoring in walkup sales, you may want to have someone pop by the theatre a bit early to build seating for them. My only frustration with the festival, the rest was a dream.

It takes a long time to get things sorted out, and we're not exactly in the loop. At about 10 after 8, I ask Mark if he's gotten a call from the stage manager yet - I'm not even sure who's stage managing this evening, actually, much less what the current call is. He laughs, and says no. I laugh back and say, "OK, I'm predicting 10 minutes".

A few minutes later, I pass by our SM backstage, and he tells me ten minutes. I think I scared him when I repeated; Ten? Really? TEN minutes? He says that they're still trying to seat people. I respond that yeah, they've got to get them in.

When the show finally starts, it's after 8:20. We hit the stage and the audience is ready to be entertained. They're in a much better mood than a Toronto audience would have been, I think. Bless their hearts. I greet them with a "Happy Pride!", and say that we appreciate their patience, because we were just trying to get the best looking audience in that we could. (Cheeseball)

We decided to explain our format a teeny bit, because we felt that since the audience doesn't know anything about us, they might not exactly get our 321-longform format. I briefly explain why the lights would be going out for no apparent reason early on, and take the suggestion based on "Something you're proud of" - Hair and Puppets are both given. Just for kicks, we take both.

The show brought together hair dressers, haunted puppets, therapy puppets, and a motivational speaker with homicidal assistants. At one point, Kerry, in trying to explain why he killed, said that he couldn't help it. He sees things he doesn't like, and he just wants to kill them. I take a moment, and ask him if he's related to the Bushes. There is a low "ooooooh", followed promptly by some applause. This was an audience who applauded things in scenes, between scenes, whatever. I keep forgetting how much I like American audiences. Very responsive.

There was a haunted puppet chase - turns out Dave was a haunted marionette, so I had to make him chase Kerry using his "strings" - we all ran around the stage like freaks, to very funny effect.

Another scene that had a lot of mileage was a scene earlier in the evening that had Kerry working with his therapist and talking to a therapy puppet. We tagged out and away from the office into other relationships and circumstances in which he used his puppet to avoid conflict, until I came in as a doctor with bad news. I told the puppet, who in turn freaked out. I reasurred the puppet that he was fine, and that he'd live a long and prosperous life helping people, that I needed his help to break the cancer news to Dave. Dave did exactly what I had hoped for - "I want to tell him". I left the test results for him to use, and shook the puppet's hand, and left Dave to do his magic. What followed was possibley the funniest scene I have seen in a long time. Dave's hand telling Dave that he had cancer and was going to die. Dave freaking out and demanding a second opinion. Dave's OTHER hand being used as the second doctor...

"Well, I'm just a simple country doctor, but I can tell by these test results that you've got the cancer". He then proceeded to use colloquialisms to describe what was happening to Dave's body - hilarious. Best scene of our set.

We finished the show to cheers. It felt really good.

TFM went on to have a wonderful set as well, there was no-where we could sit to watch it, so I spent most of their set backstage, just listening.

After the show, Shaun wanted to know if we wanted to go back to Route 101 for drinks, or if we wanted to try the fancy hotel nearby. No question. Fancy Hotel! We walk over to the Majestic and into their bar for drinks. I asked at the front desk, and the hotel was built in 1902. It's gorgeous. I recommend the place highly, and if you ever want to buy me a present, they sell gift certificates.

http://www.thehotelmajestic.com/index.html

Lookie:

And the lobby:



Here is the Avalon Bar:


We are warned when we arrive that the bartender will serve us all a drink, but then he's going to close up. He's been there all day bartending a wedding, so he's beat. We're cool with that, I think a lot of people would rather spend less on drinks at Route 101. I appreciate the opportunity to be classy for a while first. I order a Majestic Lemon Drop and sip it. Beautiful.

Once we get to Route 101, all bets are off. I drop out down a few social levels, and explain how I don't like pussy, I like cock. An old Tourco riff. We have a raucous good time, and the bartender from the Majestic joins us once he's done closing up his bar. He's a great guy, we talk smart stuff, travel and politics. Once last call has been hollered, he mentions that he has plenty to drink at his place. Dave gives me a look, and later tells me that he was tempted to "get" me by saying that he was tired, and ready to pack it in, but that I'd probably be up for it. Instead, we thank him for his offer, and beg off. We're all tired, and we have to travel the next day. I give the bartender a hug, and he makes an effort to give me his contact information so he can show me around next time I'm in town, but he doesn't have a card. I tell him that we can get in touch through Shaun. I appreciate the interest, but I'm not there right now.

We wait for a cab for a long time, and finally get back to Shaun's. Shaun tried to wait up with Kerry, but ended up having to call it a night. Which was a relief to me, because they were taking up half my bed (couch) and I was trying to sleep at a 90 degree angle beside them with Kerry's arm resting on my hip, and my feet extended out on the coffee table. My feet are falling asleep just as Shaun heads to bed - I figure my body can sleep in shifts the same way I slept in shifts on that big king sized bed in Buffalo.

Once I stretch out, I am fully asleep and wake up just long enough to say goodbye to Kerry as he leaves a couple of hours later.

Today's funny headline

From Yahoo: Same-sex marriage bill on its way to adoption, despite Tory rear-guard action

I think "Rear-Guard action" is exactly the kind of "action" that the Tory's are trying to prevent. Same-sex married or otherwise.

I hope to update the ol' bloggeroonie with the rest of my San Fran trip tonight... cross yer fingers!

How much lube do I need?

The day started out with a driving beat. A neighbour apparently likes loud music, with a heavy bass line. Despite that, we lounged around for the better part of the morning. Eventually, between the bass and the constant flipping of the channel surfing boys, I decided I had to get out. I called Ana, and we arranged to meet later, and I headed out to check out the Pride stuff at the Civic Centre.

I enter, and am immediately handed a bag with 5 packets of lube, and one condom. It strikes me as a relatively irresponsible ratio. Actually, the sheer volume of lube is more than a little intimidating, but I stuff it in my purse and hope that the security dudes at the airport tomorrow understand what's going on. Either that, or they'll consider me the world's most helpful cavity search candidate.

I continue on my way, taking a bus up Haight to Golden Gate Park. Along the way, I start to "get" San Francisco. I like it more and more. The park is beautiful. And BIG. I naively think that I can just hop off the bus and cross to the far side of the park on foot, to meet Ana at the windmills. Um. I get just inside the park, and realize how dumb I am. I sit down at an easy to find spot, and wait for Ana to drive by.

We drive along, and Ana points out the bison in the park - don't call them buffalo! - and we travel along the coast. Ana is a great guide. Her dad used to work for the parks service, so she knows some neat places to go. She shows me where the old Victorian Bath house used to be, you can still see the foundations carved into the rocks. The surf is choppy and rocks jut out of the water just beyond the breaker wall. It must have been such a civilized place for a bath, overlooking rough nature. I could see the appeal.

Then:



And now:



It's freezing, so we move on.

We drive through the Presidio, and make our way to the Golden Gate bridge. Just underneath it, there is a civil war era fort, Fort Point. We walk around it for a while and head up to the turrets. Very cold, very windy, but a remarkable view. We're directly under the bridge, you can see all the way across, where the opposite shore is slightly obscured by fog and mist. To the right is Alcatraz, to the left... ocean. Amazing and beautiful. We head to the gift shop where in keeping with our morbid touring history (Ana and I toured Anne Frank house together in Amsterdam, getting nice and sad in prep for our shows that night) Ana finds photos of dead civil war era kids in coffins in a book in the shop. We laugh up a storm, and are judged by a family. We try to explain, but there's really no point.

Fort Point, under the bridge:



It's freezing, so we move on.

We drive through more of the Presidio, and see the old officers homes. We decide to grab some dinner, and head to Chevys - a mexican place. Great food, great margarita, and apparently, it's my birthday. I get a song and a little sundae. Ana says usually they give you a big sombrero - but they're out. Dammit. My birthday is ruined.

All in all, a great day of sightseeing, with a very fun friend.

Day two, and we are tourists.

Our day started with us heading out to find something to eat in the Mission. Shaun directed us to head down Mission towards 16th or so. My guidebook says that at night, you can anticipate some scattered gang activity in the area. Scattered gang activity? I don't think I've ever heard shootings and muggings described with the same descriptive term as rain-showers, but hey, I don't write guidebooks for a living.

The road splits, and we abanon our directions. At every corner, we gauge whether "anything is up that way". Eventually, at one corner, I just turn around and point at a patio. "There's a restaurant". Its a cute place, and the first thing that strikes me is that there is a pile of chocolate staring you down - all kinds of home made chocolate treats. And the baked goods smell heavenly. Behind all that is a buffet of salads, a buffet of hot dishes, and a buffet of olives. Gourmet food by the pound. Sign me up. We lunch over the guidebook while listening to every seventies tune you associate with being gay. Pride flags flap proudly. SuperGay.

Despite the restaurant's host/manager's verdict that there is nothing to see at Fishermen's Wharf, we decide to go there anyway. I want to see the Bay, and the bridge, and to get a glimpse of Alcatraz.

We wander the streets for a while, looking for a cab. We know the trip will be pricey, but we have no idea how to get there via transit. Until I spot a streetcar with "Fishermen's Wharf" as it's destination. Ok. A buck and a quarter later, we're riding on a wooden streetcar.

Fishermen's Wharf is a touristy area, but the view is unbeatable. We wander around, and I curse my full belly as I smell the delicious food in the zillions of restaurants along the way. How can I pass up the opportunity to eat chowder out of a sourdough bread bowl? Argh! We look around in Ghirardalli's, and it's not much different than the one at Disneyworld. I guess I expected a factory tour or something - there may have been one, but at this point we're all getting tired.

We toyed with the idea of riding the cable car back to Shaun's place, until we saw the lineup looping around the park. People are nuts. It just goes to show you, that people will line up for an "authentic" experience.

We shower, nap, and scarf down leftover sandwiches and salad from yesterday, and book it to the theatre. They guys want to be there for seven, I just play along.

The audience is bigger than the 30 we had the night before, so any fear of small houses has been quashed. Between the mention in the Guardian, and True Fiction's fanbase, we're covered. Dave sets up the show, we take the theme of "Dating" as our suggestion, and go to work.

The show is full of lonely people looking for dates online and at video dating services, and a restaurant for single diners. One storyline had a couple breaking up, and trying to decide what to do with their love slave (Kerry, chained to the wall). It's tough to sell a love slave, and he is finally set free to seek out other freed love slaves in the Love Slave Underground Railroad. Really fun show, things tied together in a very cool, and organic way.

Afterwards, a bunch of us headed over to a divey bar nearby where we got to know the True Fiction gang a little better over some drinks. Great people, fantastic improvisors, and just plain fun to hang out with.

At midnight, I think it's already past 2AM, and am ready to pack it in. I am branded a pussy. It's hard to take. I'm not usually the pussy, but dammit, I'm tired.

Such a pussy.

Oh my god, why?

I just spent a good half an hour writing a post about our first show, and when I went to spell check it, it disappeared.

Why god? Why?

Dammit.

How not to behave when sitting next to me on a flight

First, a positive example.

On my flight from Buffalo to my connection in Atlanta, there were a few soldiers. The sight of them in their desert fatigues was pretty sobering. One soldier actually had his parents with him at the gate. I haven't seen families at the gate to say goodbye to their loved ones since security clamped down after 9/11. I suppose they make exceptions for young men heading off to war.

This particular soldier was trying to keep things light, cracking lines here and there to make his parents smile. Finally, he trapped himself in something that looked like a joke at first.

"I can't even take care of myself. How am I supposed to take care of someone else?" They started to chuckle dutifully, but then went suddenly silent. The father and son embraced in a bone crushing hug, which showed no signs of stopping. I smiled at the mother as she waved me past them in the lineup to the plane. I wish I could delay the son's departure by more than just one person's space in line.

A woman in front of me asked another soldier if he was going to Iraq. He answered in the affirmative, and she thanked him for being brave and asked if she could pray for him. So they prayed in front of me, and the father and son embraced behind me, and I stood in the middle and tried not to cry.

On the plane I sat next to another soldier. He listened to his ipod the whole flight, Dave Matthew's band. He looked so young. We didn't talk.

Now. How not to behave.

Four hours and 17 minutes. That's how long the flight from Atlanta to San Francisco is scheduled to last. Doesn't sound very long, but I knew before we even took off that I would feel every second of that time.

For a brief, shining moment, I thought I had the pair of seats to myself. Tragically, it was not to be. My seatmate headed towards me, knapsack in tow, with it's two neoprene bottles of whatever he was drinking, neck pillow, extra flannel shirts, plastic grocery bag, and headphones in tow. He was easily over 50, but obviously didn't know it. He sat down and started looking around. You know that kind of looking around in your seat where you turn around and invade the space of the person you're sitting next to? Yeah, a lot of that.

"This is a big plane".

Yeah, so?

"You from Atlanta?"

"No. Canada." My policy on planes is to curtly but politely answer whatever questions, and ask none of my own, thus sending an unmistakable "I don't want to talk" signal. Not to this guy.

"I'm from San Francisco". No shit. "Where in Canada are you from?"

"Toronto".

"Oh. Is that across from Detroit?"

"No, more like across from Buffalo."

"I thought it was across from Detroit."

"No. Windsor is across from Detroit. It depends on which lake you're talking about."

"I've always wanted to go. Is it cold?" Please shut up. Please please please shut the fuck up?

"Only in the wintertime. The rest of the time it's beautiful."

"Is it colder than Montreal?"

"Um, no. Montreal colder." Take that Frenchies.

I put on my shuffle, and refocused on my book. Little did I know, the questions were the least of my problems.

This guy was a big sitter. For a moment he tried to raise the armrest between us - a big no-no in my books. That's my last line of defence when sitting with strangers. It keeps our thighs from touching. I don't want to touch someone I don't know. Fortunately he couldn't raise it immediately, and settled for just using the whole thing. Something I expect from men. But this guy turned out to be am armrest taking, leg spreading, seat back lowering, sprawling, foot space invading big fucking sitter.

Which is bad enough, until he pulls out an apple and bites into it like he's trying to punish it, spraying me in the process. He continues to eat this apple like it owes him money, chomping noisily, chewing sloppily, mouth open. I wearily check his progress occasionally, and am relieved when he finally throws away the core.

Until he pulls out a second apple.

Yes. Two apples for the plane. Just one apple would not satisfy this man. He must have two apples, and those apples must be eaten back to back. I notice he has a large salad in his bag as well and realize my trouble is just starting.

He pulls out his CD player and inserts a Best of Van Morrison CD, and proceeds to enjoy the shit out of his music. And for some reason, we all must know how much he enjoys it.

It starts off mildly annoying. His head starts to bob with increasing violence and he builds into a frenzy, punctuating a particularly good drum riff with his own large air drumming movements. Occasionally he will clap, grunt, and sing along. Worst of all, he seat dances. As this happens, I develop a serious grudge against Van Morrison. He's dead now, right?

Eventually, he decides to really make himself comfortable. He fumbles around with his sandals and finally kicks them off. I have a thing about feet. I hate them. Especially men's feet, mostly because they don't indulge in pedicures. Pedicures for men should be mandatory.

The foot goes up on the arm rest of the seat in front of us, and I am subjected to it's white crusty dry skin and gross toenails. I want to punch this man.

When he finally decides that its time to get some sleep, he puts one of his flannel shirts over his head and starts to snore. I am very tempted to start singing and seat dancing along with Jay Z on my shuffle. Instead I watch Hitch and try to appreciate the break.

He ate the salad with the same anger as his apples, and made the flight attendant give him a whole can of diet coke, no ice! UNOPENED!! Don't open it! Don't open it! Weirdo.

My joy at touching down in San Francisco was a complex and multi-leveled joy.

Until the pull-arm on my suitcase broke getting onto the SkyTrain. Fuckity fuck.

Holy shit, San Francisco is far away...

I feel like a pioneer striking out westward to seek my fortune. It was a multi-legged trip with varying degrees of maudlin and annoying.

The trip to Buffalo with the ex-boyfriend and friend went well. We had an uneventful and hilarious drive, culminating in my arrival at a shifty Ramada Inn, famously adjecent to the Cracker Barrel (cue heavenly lights and angelic tones).

Surprisingly, the room was a "business class" room. That meant it contained a wingback chair, fridge and coffee maker, hunting prints and stuffed deer heads. Only part of that is true. But it did hold a king sized bed, which frankly, was overkill. I spent half the night waking up to sleep in shifts in different areas of the bed. If I'm paying for it, I'm using the whole damn thing.

We crossed the parking lot to the Cracker Barrel with breathless anticipation. We arrived half an hour before closing, and just after a bus of, apparently, very hungry tourists. Our excitement about eating our favourite dishes quickly dissolved into peals of laughter as virtually every item we named was met with "we're out of that, sorry". Serves us right for arriving so late. Another waitress joked about us just getting bread and water. Our waitress was relieved that we had such great senses of humour about the whole thing, and we were the recipients of free desserts. Of course, we could barely touch them, we were so stuffed with biscuits and whatever else was available.

The boys left me to my gigantic bed, and I dutifully tried to use all of it.

I will post more about my travel from Buffalo to San Fran, tomorrow. Suffice to say, it was adventurous.

Tonight was our first show. More on that later, as well. Very tired now. I'm such a pussy, but Shaun just made us stir fry, and we're about to watch a fight.

On TV.

No actual drama, yet.

Give it time.

Invading in waves

Dave, I am hoping, has managed to evade the taxi and limo driver's strike at Pearson Airport, and should now be in California. He's spending a couple of days with his brother before making his way to San Francisco, and Shaun and Hans' place.

Kerry flies out of Pearson on Thursday morning.

I fly out of Buffalo on Thursday, as well.

This is how Slap Happy rolls. I can't recall a time when we have all travelled together. We figure if one of the plane goes down, it won't wipe out all of us. There is the added benefit of not getting on each other's nerves. Not that it's generally a problem, but everyone travels differently.

I kind of like that I'm flying out of Buffalo. I get a night all to myself in a hotel, and then there's the added allure of a meal at the Cracker Barrel. I swear, that's the main reason my ex has agreed to drive me to Buffalo for this trip. The allure of Country Fried Steak is powerful and mysterious and not to be trifled with. I don't ask questions. I just made sure to book a room at a Ramada across the street from the Cracker Barrel, and stood back.



I could learn something from that fried meat.

On a totally separate note, while doing last minute laundry, I watched AFI's 100 top movie quotes. I find all the AFI's 100 top anything a little self indulgent, but enjoyably so. Who doesn't like seeing the best lines of the cinema all clumped into a couple of hours?

Well, up until the end, anyway. After giving "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn" top honours (men especially seem to relish this line), they cut back to a handsome Pierce Brosnan in his 007 best tux, and he looks right in the camera, and without an ounce of irony, delivers; "But we do give a damn, don't we? Because we love the movies".

Are you fucking kidding, me? Seriously? In a tribute to the greatest lines ever written, after celebrating the most memorable bit of dialogue of cinematic history, that is your outro? What kind of a hack game show/awards show/Bruce Villanch writer comes up with that?

You'd think after sitting through all those effectively placed words, something would have rubbed off.

I'm a smug idiot

It has been brought to my attention that my smartypants, popculture reference to "Dataman" as an example of bad programming is a better example of my swiss cheese memory.

Dataman, in fact, was an educational toy my parents bought in an overzealous effort to engender a fondness (or at the very least, a capability) for math.

This is Dataman.


What I was, in fact, attempting to reference, was Automan.



Duh.

Ominous words

We're in contact with the musical director for True Fiction Magazine, asking if he'd mind sitting in with us as well. The delicate issue of money comes up.

Now, anywhere we've ever gone, the tech and musical director always gets paid. As it should be. Frankly, in most respects they're more valueable than we improvisors are. Case in point, on any given night, you could find a dozen improvisors ready to leap into a show at the drop of a hat, and the concept of being paid for it (for many) is foreign.

But find someone to run the lighting board and score the scenes? Not so easy. It takes multiple emails and phone calls, and the few experts that exist generally book quickly. Supply and demand.

Back to San Francisco. The deal with this festival, unlike any other we've been to, is that there is a promise of payment. The performers actually get a cut of the door. I don't know how they're doing it, but it's brilliant, frankly. It's a lot easier to enjoy a festival knowing that at least your beer money's likely to be covered. These things are expensive to attend.
So we're happy that there is money to be had, and we work on the assumption that the festival producers are producing the shit out of the shows, and that crowds will be reflective of that.

So, when we read the musical director's response that he usually gets paid $75-$150/show (gulp - American!? Way to go, guy!) but that he had played for the Bay Area Theatresports Show at the festival the previous week and the performers out-numbered the audience, and that he would refuse any money out of our pockets, but we could figure things out once we knew what the take was...

Well.

Nice guy, first of all. I'll shake his hand and buy him a drink.

And I've been at a couple of festivals where the audience was outnumbered. And it stinks. You go all that way, at a huge expense, excited to play in front of fresh crowds, and when it doesn't happen, you don't know how to feel. Demoralized? Insulted? Mad? Nah, not mad. I don't even care about who is to "blame".
At this point, it's not even about the money. I just want a room that doesn't have an echo.

I know Shaun's working hard for us - we're in The San Francisco Guardian this week (http://www.sfbg.com/39/37/x_8days.html), with a photo (although it bills Sandy "Sandy Jo Bevins"), so hopefully that'll have an effect.



I have faith.

Places you never really thought about going

For me, it's San Francisco. I mean, it's nice. Golden Gate Bridge, thriving arts community, ummmm... Fog? Sure, sounds like a really great place, in theory. It's just not a place I ever actively anticipated visiting. No offence, City by the Bay (that's what they call you, right?). It really didn't register. Like Leuven, Belgium.

But, like Leuven, we were invited to San Francisco to perform at an Improv Festival, and suddenly interest is piqued, guide books are purchased. Ok, I never bought a guide for Leuven, íf one exists, I'd be surprised. Leuven is more likely to be a footnote to a chapter about Belgium in a guidebook about Europe. And it would read "birthplace of Stella Artois". And that's good enough for me. Hooray for beer.

Through the grace of some beautiful people, and a lift to Buffalo from the best ex-boyfriend ever, I find myself becoming increasingly excited about the prospect of getting away from Toronto for a few days and the opportunity to shake loose some ghosts and get a bit of a battery recharge.

There's something terrifying and delicious about playing in a new town. There's a certain thrill about playing to a crowd who's only opinion of you is "Who the hell are they? Well let's see if they're funny". I love the challenge of slowly luring them in, it's a mass seduction. Sure it's nerve wracking. Heck, what if that's a night where we aren't clicking? What if we're jetlagged? It could go dreadfully awry. But the opportunity to rise to the occasion, the chance to work your ass off to bring them around? I wouldn't give it up for the world. And so we go.

There is also the social element to the festival. Just the straight up, checking out a new city, hanging with some talented people, staying out a little too late, and drinking a little too much, and if you're lucky, a little harmless flirting. Good times, right?

Yes, I've got it. Festival Fever. And the only cure is a Trolley Tour and a visit to the Ghirardelli Chocolate ... place... Crap, I've got to read my guide book a little more carefully.

Television is eating itself. I suppose it was inevetable. At some point, all ideas go bad. Somewhere along the line, there is always someone who finds a way to fuck up a good thing. On the upside, that's what brought us the Nobel Peace Prize awards, so I guess there's always a silver lining.

Sadly, I am the worst kind of hypocrite. The remorseless hypocritical kind. And so while television eats itself, I hand it a spoon.

I'm an actor. I'd put actor in quotation marks, but I have to maintain a certain degree of self esteem. But suffice to say, it's a tough living. So much so that I make my actual living in a bank. It's hard to get work as an actor, and it's getting harder. And I'm contributing to my own need to suckle at the teat of big banking by being one of those idiots who watches reality television. Not a lot.

Ok, a lot. But to be fair, it accounts for an increasing amount of programming. I like to see people apply themselves and their smarts in positive ways. Not so much a Fear Factor fan, more of an Amazing Race fan.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry to all the writers and actors I know, whose opportunity to work has plummeted. I'm assuming the pendulum will swing back in our direction everyone! No need to get into the lifeboats just yet!

Now, don't get me wrong. Reality programming isn't "good" (knew I'd get some quotation marks in there). Not in the least. But frankly, it was time to give the inmates a chance to run the prison for a while. Because really, isn't it better to have something be bad without spending months, and piles of money to produce it? Because there was, and is, some really bad programming out there. Does anyone remember DataMan? Hello? Things were BAD.

I also don't think the only pre-requisite for getting on the air should be either a really badly decorated room, a penchant for eating things better left to landfill, or just a blatant desire to be on television. And as an actor, to place the reality stars in the same column as actors is a little insulting. I don't want to be a Hilton. I want to work in the field in which I am trained.

It's frustrating. I don't think being on TV makes a person any better than anyone else, but for some of us, it's WORK. You don't see people try and do this in any other field. No one's walking into a hospital and saying "I'd like to be a doctor, why not let me take a crack at some of these patients? I've seen ER, I think I could do that".

Actually, that might be a good show.