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!