November the 28th

I had no fancy title for today's post, so I figured today's date would have to do. A friend of mine in Philadelphia called me this morning to tell me that she got an agent - so congratulations to you, Kelly. I missed the call when I was in the shower, getting ready for my two auditions this morning. One was for Lotto 649, the other was a callback for the Wendy's commercial from last week.

The Lotto commercial was surprisingly fun: myself and two other 20-somethings played the kids, surprising our father during a board meeting with balloons, cake, and the news that we had just won the lottery. While myself and my 'siblings' waited for our cue, we speculated amongst ourselves about our family history - were we all the same age because we were triplets, or were we adopted? We also noted the cake that had been provided for the audition. It was the most generic cake we had ever seen, suitable for any occasion from "You passed you driver's test!" to "We're sorry your cat died". For some reason we also joked about the contents of the cake, suggesting it contained meat. During one take, my attractive redheaded "sister" happily exclaimed "We got you a meat cake daddy!". I think I was the only one who heard her.

The Wendy's callback was much stranger. The gist of the commercial is that I (the dashingly handsome everyman customer) try to order chicken nuggets, but am told that I can only order a chicken burger by the embittered counter employee. We wrestle over the microphone, until I finally give in. Now the guy I read with last week is a fantastic improviser I know from the Bad Dog Theatre, so naturally we both had fun and the audition went well. He played the part very deadpan, which is funny considering that the final commercial will have his character wearing a giant chicken suit. Today, however, I was paired with two different partners. The first had a kind of stoic intensity suitable for prison movies, and actually managed to scare me. A little. The second guy squeezed my hand when we were wrestling over the imaginary microphone, hard enough that he seemed convinced it would eventually yield a diamond. It's amazing how physically inappropriate some actors will be in audition situations. One improv book that I read actually had an audition section labeled "Don't Hit Your Scene Partners".

Speaking of acting, last week I auditioned for a student film. While I didn't get cast in the lead role I originally read for, I did get offered a small speaking role as a convenience-store clerk. I accepted the part (it would have meant one more ACTRA Apprentice credit) and went to my first production meeting yesterday. However, last night the dirctor called me, and informed me that my part had been written out of the script, thanks for coming out, etc. I'm not so bummed about losing the opportunity to give up a Saturday night and work for free; what gets me is that I'll never know if I made some mistake or said something which caused them to remove my part from the entire screenplay. I know it sounds crazy, but remember what I said about taking things in this business personally?

So now I'm at work, waiting out the first day of my last two weeks. And I'm trying to figure out what colour to paint my bedroom. I'm thinking blue, but then, I usually think blue. Any thoughts?

Marketing Manager No More!

I think there is no lower form of communication in the universe than radio advertising. Without the ability to catch the eye, radio advertisers only recourse is to be as loud and obnoxious as possible. Grumble.

So bad news first: my cushy desk job as Marketing Manager at the Second City finished up this week. It was temporary, and it turns out there just wasn't enough work for me to do anymore. But this is the best possible way to leave a job - It was the position's fault, not mine. As far as they're concerned, I'm still the model employee. Had the job gone on much longer, I surely would have reached new heights of futility, and then it would have been my fault. So now, I'm back where I started. Kind of. I'm a box office jockey once more, which should afford me lots more time for posting on this blog. Unfortunately, now I'm forced to put my money where my mouth is. For the last few weeks, I've been bitching steadily about how much time my desk job ate up, and how I wasn't working hard enough on "my art". Well, looks like I won't have much of a choice now. Actually, that's not true. Laziness is always an option.

On to the good news: I got a phone call this week that put a smile on my face. The unexpected ones are always the best. And I just got off the phone with Halifax, and my plane details are all sewn up. I'll be arriving home on Westjet Dec. the 19th, and staying until Jan. 4th. Which is admittedly, a little longer than I wanted to vacation for, but any other date would have seen a $200 price jump. So I'll have to live with a few more days of Nova Scotian hospitality - donairs and home cooked meals.

I was doing an improv show last night, and got in a joke I was pretty proud of. Allow me to share it with you. Now the point of improv, contrary to popular belief, is not to make jokes at any cost. The most satisfying improvisation occurs when people commit to scenes, taking the time to explore relationships and heighten situations. It's easy to go out on stage and make a cheap dick joke: try stretching that dick joke into a 4-minute scene. Ideally, the "funny" in a scene should be the by-product of a well-conducted story. So anyways, back to my story. Last night we were doing a "conducted play", which is just like a regular play except the director is calling out directions and story lines to you as you make it all up. Our play centered around a car dealership where the head salesman had been cheating on his pregnant wife. I was playing the mechanic, in a scene with said pregnant wife. At one point it had been determined that she was having a robot baby (which happens surprisingly often in improv). She had come to my garage to express her concerns over the baby's health:

HER: (sitting) I'm worried about my baby, Randy.

ME: Well, let's take a look under the hood.

I immediately lowered myself onto my back and slid under her chair, like a mechanic would with a car. I couldn't see her face, but apparently my scene partner was laughing pretty hard. As was the crowd. Yaay me!

So that's me for this week. This post goes out a Mr. Scott Stephenson, who complained last night that I haven't posted enough this week. Suck it up, crybaby. Till next time, this is Ian MacIntyre wishing you love, peace, and souuuuulllllll!

*Sigh...*

Literally as I was posting that last tirade, my agent called me. I have a Wendy's commercial audition tomorrow. Stupid irony...

Always Coca-Cola

So I went to see a movie last night, and before it starts we get the now-requisite 20 minutes of commercials (remember the days when you just got an ad for snacks in the lobby? Seems almost quaint by comparison). Now, I usually make every effort to ignore commercials when I'm watching TV. I've become so skilled at avoiding them that I can channel surf through an entire commercial break, until my keenly honed sixth sense tells me to return to my channel just in time to rejoin my show. Years of practice, my friends. However, when a commercial is playing in front of you in a darkened theatre on a 40-foot screen, it kind of demands your attention.

The one commercial that really caught my eye you're no doubt familiar with: a crowd of fresh-faced 20-somethings race through an indeterminate European city, arriving in the town square. They immediately don brown jackets, and sketch an enourmous chalk outline of a cola bottle on the pavement. Finally, an aerial view ties it all together: they all stand inside the bottle outline and then stream into a similarly-drawn glass outline, creating the illusion from the air of Coca-Cola being poured into a cup. Looks kind of impressive, actually.

Except the commericial is filmed in a jerky, faux-documetary style that leaves me entirely cold. It's all made to look like some spontaneously grand youthful experience: A veritable youthquake (some marekting term I heard) of people impulsively declaring their love for Coca-Cola in an elaborate peice of performance art. It would be pretty nifty, except for the fact that it's a fucking commercial. We're talking about one of the largest multi-billion dollar branded corporations in the entire world trying to pretend like they're the damn Burning Man Festival. I know it's just a commercial, and I know that Coke doesn't actually think kids are going to run around Europe creating these elaborate displays, but the whole thing just makes my sack itch (hey Mom, remember the show we saw with that 'sack' line?). If Coke wants to sell me pop, then go nuts: I already drink it. But if you're gonna have people sell your wares at least have the stones to make it look like a commercial; dont try and hide behind some hip, 'street cred' notion of fake-authenticity and think I won't notice.

Oh, and for the record, the movie I went to see was "Walk the Line". A little uneven overall, but I liked it. I think you'll like it too, Dad.

Bad Habits Suck

When I was home in Nova Scotia two weeks ago, I had my first day in months without coffee. I'd slept in at my parents, and only ventured out late in the afternoon. Eventually I met up with friends at the mall, only to experience a general feeling of fogginess and a headache like my brain being sucked through a straw. I complained to my friend, who shot back an immediate diagnosis: "You're going through caffine withdrawl".

I was shocked. Was I actually addicted to coffee? It would make sense, I used to boast about how much coffee I drank in university. And since working at Starbucks I've found Tim Hortons offerings to be watered down and insufficient. Now, the idea of being addicted to anything doesn't sit well with me, but since coffee is a self-inflicted drug I was doubly annoyed. I've been trying to cut back recently, but even as I type now I can't stop thinking about venturing out for my second cup of the day. Possibly to the Second Cup. It's right around the corner...

Speaking of bad habits, there's someone I keep thinking about, and I really shouldn't be. Anyone got any suggestons for that?

It's already fallen apart

Well crap. Three days I've had this blog, and I already missed a day. I guess it was inevitable. Not that I had any specific notions about posting every single day, but this still sets a bad precedent. Ah well, I guess you were right, Riles. This is harder than it looks.

So today I got an e-mail from a friend, reminding me of a conversation we had only a few weeks ago.

"I'm surprised I have to say. I faintly remember a conversation in which we berated the conusuming irrationality of blogs and technology in general."

In my defense, my complaint about blogs was how people post personal details on them, and then act surprised when this blows up in their faces. But there's the rub - how do you make your blog interesting unless you include personal, slacious, and dare I say - sexy details? (note to my mom: I'm not going to reveal sexy details). Well sorry to disappoint, but since this blog will likely only ever be read by friends and family, my revelations on here will likely remain fairly generic. Though who knows? Like the famous stand up comedian who draws upon personal experiences for their material, perhaps if I draw a real audience, my policy may change (if you're wondering what constitutes a real audience, I basically mean strangers. In other words, if you are reading this, you probably don't count). What a thought - the less personal my audience is, the more personal I get.

So I borrowed a spiffy book from a co-worker ("Guru: My Days with Del Close" by Jeff Griggs). For those not in the know, Del Close was a Second City legend: an improviser, director, teacher, genius, junkie, and pagan. One of my favourite quotes about improv thus far:

"To a child, apathy is a greater abuse than anything that can be done physically. It's the same with your scene work. Lack of emotion is lethal. Love, anger, hatred, lust - all go a long way to show urgency, desire, and caring in every scene." Del Close

So as I'm reading I noticed that my boss has highlighted sections of his copy. I love seeing the random passages that other people highlighted, and guessing at their significance. Inventing my own reasons why someone else found something important enough to be worth remembering. It's almost as interesting as the book itself.

I can't imagine why anyone buys new books.

All about Ian

So something isn't right here. This is my blog, why aren't I talking about myself yet? So this is me, in my "happy, smiley, suitable-for-commercials" headshot. I've been auditioning off and on lately; this week was 2 student film auditions (which went terribly), and 1 KFC Commercial audition (which was... odd). The student films went poorly, namely on account of my total lack of preparation. I'm still amazed that I could recieve the audition sides days in advance, yet still find myself with absolutely no time to prepare. Which sucks, because I felt like I was right for one of the parts (that of a sardonic early 20's loafer). The other part (a late 20's yuppie who discovers his murdered wife) was a bit of a stretch. Especially considering that I left work, biked in the rain for 20 minutes, only to discover that I had to do that particular scene. With no preparation. Needless to say, lots of empty shouting was the best I could muster.

On the other hand, I've been nice and busy recently with my sketch-comedy trio, Approximately 3 Peters. This is the part where I would ordinarily link you to our website, but we're not that organized. Yet. However we did have a couple of decent shows at Corktown Comedy and at the Rivoli's SketchComedy Lounge. After that we had some great shows at the Bad Dog Theatre's Sketch Night and Theatresports night. I'm really enjoying that theatre (Bad Dog); great social-club feeling. That, and I'm starting to get my improv legs back a bit, which feels nice.

Still, it's hard to be in a city (and especially an industry) that constantly makes you doubt absolutely everything about yourself. It's like the one profession where you shouldn't take anything personally invariably leads to taking things the most personally. It doesn't help that Toronto is a town that encourages everyone to get wrapped up in themselves. Everyone is too busy for everyone else, and then they all complain that there is nobody around.

I just ate a really great Italian sausage with pickles, bacon bits, and corn relish. Really puts thing in perspective.

I too have a lame-ass blog

Wow. My very first blog. I imagine one day in the future my children and their children's children will be issued these at birth (along with a pair of moon boots and some SPF 400 sun-block). Think about it - every single person on the planet will have an ongoing record of all their thoughts, ideas and petty grievances from birth to death (for the purpose of this scenario, "every single person" means "every single person born in an industrialized, first world nation").

So what is the best part about the blog? Is it how it allows the average man or woman to have their voice potentially reach millions of people, all over the world? Is it the way that cutting-edge political blogs have reshaped the way we look at the traditional media, cutting out the middle man and disseminating inforamtion as soon as it happens, raw and unedited? Not even close - it's the revisionist history that appeals to me. Like this one time, a friend of mine had said some... questionable things about her mother online. Long story short - turns out old people know how to use computers as well. Who knew? So what did my friend do when faced with this awkward situation? What any self respecting historian would do - she erased the post. Let's see you prove my incriminating words now.

So that's why I love the blog. It's everyone's own personal selective history.

And for the record, my Mom is fan-tastic.