Not For The Faint-Hearted!

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Pee now. It's a long one.

What is it with guys who wear sandals all-year round? Don’t your toes get cold? I’m standing in the U.S. customs line at the Halifax airport on my way to Australia, and the dude in front of me has flip flips on. In January. In Halifax. In Canada. And to top it off, his toes are ugly. He had weirdly curved nails that had kinda yellowed. Well, let’s face it, most of us have pretty ugly feet – I had a blackened big toe nail that I damaged while jogging in shoes that were too small for me. But I spared the entire world the sight of it by not wearing sandals or flip-flops. I have a good heart. But not this guy. Noooo, his comfort comes before others’ nausea. This is just one reason why I hate to fly.

I have flown quite a bit in my life, but especially in the past 3 years since I’ve worked on ships. I’m lucky in that I have no fear of it at all, and I don’t suffer much with my ears, unless I’m sick. But in the past, well – let’s say 2 months, I have had so many bad experiences at airports and on planes that I really dread flying the friendly skies. Maybe things would have been better if Air Canada employees were actually versed in civility and common decency. It’s as if there are about 6 brains to go around. What you are about to read is a story so horrifying, so ghastly, and frankly, so long (sorry…) that it may dissuade you from ever stepping foot on a plane ever again. At least an Air Canada plane.

The following cautionary tale contains coarse language. Parental discretion is advised.

I was flying from Montreal to Halifax to spend Christmas with the ‘rents. I had purchased this ticket 3 months in advance (since I was leaving on the 22nd of Decmeber – I wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to cost me the equivalent of a condo in Manila). I spent a lovely night at my ex rickyd and his fiancé Photi’s house, and slept in the living room cuddling with my dog Buster so I wouldn’t have to go traipsing from the guest bedroom in the back of the house with my 429 pounds of luggage at whatever ungodly hour. The next morning, as I tore myself out of bed at 5 am for my 10 am flight, I looked outside the window to see a thick blanket of snow covering the streets. I dutifully checked the Air Canada website which told me my flight was cancelled. Fair enough. White shit happens. The website said to call the airline to find out what to do in such a case. I did so. I waited on the line listening to insipid musak for 2 hours. 2. Hours. T.W.O.H.O.U.R.S! Meanwhile, my dog Buster was doing the feed-me-I-gotta-pee-feed-me-i-gotta-pee dance around my ankles. (I didn’t want to let Buster out, because the other 2 dogs were asleep in rickyd and Photi’s room, If I’d put him outsde, Flora and Guinness would be doing the me-too-feed-me-I-gotta-pee-what’s-going-on-out-there dance, scratching at the door and causing a general disturbance.) So at 7 o’clock, I decided to call a cab, said a tearful goodbye to Buster, and headed to the airport where I would takes my chances. (Goodbyes are always tearful with Buster. He’s a 12-year old wise-as-the-ages devious-as-a-serial-killer Lab, who, despite being in fantastic health, has lived through 2 cancers and countless ear infections. Our Gay Poster Boy vet switched him to a vegetarian diet, and the ears cleared up. Like fathers like son.)

The airport is a fucking zoo. Since I don’t swear too often in print, let me say it again. The airport is a fucking fucking fucking zoo. At least a thousand people are crowded into this confusing and poorly laid-out terminal. There are no AC (let me abbreviate Air Canada from now on so I don’t have to throw up a little in my mouth every time I type it) employees on the floor anywhere, but a lot of high school dropouts in yellow t-shirts are handing out Ziploc baggies in which to put your carry-on liquids. Yeah, like any one is going to get to use them today. (This, Ladies and Gentlemen, is your tax dollars at work.) I ask 3 different people which mile-long line to stand in, and get 3 different answers. So I flip a coin (a 3 headed coin) and decide on the ticket counter. There are probably about 100 people in the queue and 2 people at the desk. Two. People. T.W.O.P.E.O.P.L.E! Luckily, I have the latest issue of Men’s Health and my Ipod so I am prepared. (Note – why does the Spellcheck on my MacBook list Ipod as an incorrectly spelled word? For that matter, why is MacBook?) I inch forward at the speed of rock. There is, however, a really cute redhead in line about 3 people behind me, so I have more entertainment that I had previously thought. (Damn, he has a girlfriend.) I get to the end of my playlist just before I make it to the window. Good timing. The woman, obviously exhausted and frustrated but generally very polite, said she could rebook my flight, but I wouldn’t be able to leave until the 30th of December. 8 days from then. I asked her if AC (gag!) would perhaps schedule some extra flights to accommodate the stranded passengers, and she said it was unlikely. At least she was honest. She said to come back to the ticket counter at 5, and maybe she’d be able to fit me in on a later flight that day.I asked if could a meal voucher (as I got from another airline when my flight from Toronto to Montreal had been delayed 5 days previously) and she said I couldn’t, because if I got one, then everybody would have to get one. Uh… yeah. Isn’t that the point? It should be said that it was 10:30 in the morning, my cancelled flight would have already left, and I did not get a boarding card. I didn’t think there was any point, and was told as much by the counter attendant. This is an important point, and will be brought up later. Do not forget it.

Lucky me, I get to poop around the airport for 6 and a half hours. My sister very graciously offered to come pick me up or at least come to the airport to help kill the time. But I was fine. I had my brand-new sexy aluminum MacBook and a Facbook addiction. I paid 10 dollars to put my luggage into storage, which was well worth it, because I didn’t have to push this giant cart around, and I could go pee if I wanted without having to worry about leaving my bags alone and having some nogoodnik hiding heroin in my shaving kit. I find a table next to a power outlet (which was incredibly lucky!), and hunker down.

5 hours and 15 friend requests later, it’s 3:30. I decide that maybe I should go to back to the ticket counter early in case there have been some new developments. Ya never know. I’ve been standing in line for about 20 minutes when I overhear someone say “…bus…Halifax…” What? Squeeze me? So I jump out of line to find this person, who turns out to be a passenger who’s been waiting since yesterday to get the hell out of Dodge. She tells me that AC (puke!) has hired buses to get us to Halifax, and that I should hurry up and sign up, because they’ll be leaving at 5. That was how I found out. No announcement over the PA, no AC (Wretch!) employees on the floor to answer questions. No, I found out by divine accident. If I had waited until 5 to go to the ticket counter, I’d still be in Montreal. I run downstairs to get my bags out of storage, happy I’d be getting home before the New Year, but upset that I had to take a 17-hour bus trip. If I’d wanted to take a goddamn bus, I would have bought a goddamn bus ticket. It turns out I did.

Newly reluggaged, I venture to find where to register for the bus. I asked 3 different people who gave me 3 different answers, so I flipped my already over-used 3 headed coin, and decided on… that one. It was the wrong one. I was told to go…over there (insert tremendously vague hand gesture here). Well, the route over there was straight through a massive throng of tired, sweaty, stinky and frustrated (but since they were Canadian, polite!) fellow travelers, all of who must have thought I was trying to butt my way to the head of line. After about 20 minutes and countless “Pardon me what that your foot, I’m so sorry”s (remember, I have a cart with 736 ponds of luggage), I make it to the honest-to-God place I was supposed to be. It was 4:30, and my bus was going to leave in half an hour. Or so I thought.

Enter “The Bitch”.

The Bitch (or TB for short) is an AC (barf!) employee faced with the daunting task of rounding up all us wannabe Haligonians (yes, that is the proper collective noun). She was at least 50, but had had so many face-lifts, she had a beard. Her makeup must have been applied by a trowel. She had aubergine dyed hair, long cotton candy pink fingernails, lips and cheeks, and more mascara than RuPaul at Pride. All of these elements actually served to make her look far older than she probably was. Understandably, she must have had a tremendously difficult day. However, it is always easier to say “I’m sorry sir, I don’t have the answer to that right now. I’ll try to find out for you. Thank you for your patience.” as opposed to “If you would stop asking me such stupid questions, I might be able to do my job!”. Oh yeah. When I first saw her, she was yelling, Yelling! at a man who had been stuck at Dorval for 38 hours (as I later found out) who had asked her if there would be food provided on the buses or if the bus would be making stops. He was not yelling at her. He was tremendously polite (Canadian!) and was actually laughing at the situation, because really, what else are you going to do? I asked her if I could sign up for the bus, and she started to yell, Yell! at me about how I should have done this a hour ago, and that she wasn’t there to be my servant, and how everyone has been bitching and complaining all day and she was fed up to here with all this shit. I started to laugh (which probably didn’t help matters) and suggested politely (I swear. I was ultra polite and I used my calm CBC voice) that since all the passengers were calm and trying to make the best of a bad situation, that maybe she could be a little understanding of our predicament and not take out her frustrations on us. Well, you would have thought I had skinned a hamster right then and there. She tore into me like there was no tomorrow. Who the hell did I think I was? Some jerk (yes, she used that word) who wants to get home to Mommy and Daddy. Clearly I had no fucking (yes she used that word, too) idea of what she was trying to do for all of you people! You, sir, don’t have my job!

And that’s when I came out with perhaps the best and snappiest off-the-cuff reply I have ever come up with. I said (calmly still politely, but with undertones of revenge on my breath) “Oh no. That’s where you’re wrong. I will have your job.” She turned around in a huff and left to a smattering of applause (Thank you, thank you. I’m here all week.) We were then told by another AC (spew!) employee, who was apologetically polite, that the buses wouldn’t arriving until 8 pm. 14 hours after my odyssey had begun, and far longer for many. I had 842 pounds of luggage, and I desperately had to pee.

At 7:30, I returned to the rendezvous point, figuring I’d get there a bit early. There were only 5 others waiting. Odd, I thought. As we were chitchatting, I remarked on how calm and un-angry we all were. We just wanted to get home (or wherever) and if we had to take a bus, we had to take a bus. After about 15 minutes, one of the guys gets up to find out what’s going on, since no one else has shown up. He returns minutes later and says he heard a rumour that the buses were picking us up downstairs at arrivals. A rumour. This is how I found out. No P.A. announcement, no employees on the floor. So we rush downstairs. The place is a fucking zoo. There must be 300 people waiting to get on what I still thought was 2 buses. I honestly just about turned around to head back to my sister’s for Christmas. O.K., there are actually 7 buses. But they won’t be arriving until 10 pm. At that point, that cute redhead from the first line asks me if I’ll watch his luggage while he goes to the washroom. Thank God, because I can ask him for the same favour when he gets back (and maybe a couple of other favours…) In the meantime, AC (heave!) employees start chucking those bags of pre-cut apples into the crowd like they were vendors at a baseball game. This is the first sustenance AC (hurl!) has offered us all day! I devoured them. They were warm and brown, but who cares? TB has reappeared, flames shooting from her eyes, and brimstone belching out of her mouth. All buses will be going directly to Halifax, except one, which will be making a stop in Moncton. I decide to take that one, since there’ll be a fair amount of people getting off, and I’ll be able to stretch out for at least part of my journey. So we are being herded onto the buses like cattle, I stand back and wait. I’m one of the last people to get on, and TB asks me for my boarding pass. I told her I never got on, since by the time I got to the airport, my flight had been cancelled. “Well, you can’t get on the bus”

What?

I was told I didn’t need to get my boarding pass well you were told wrong please get out of the line I have other people to deal with no you’re dealing with me right here right now I am getting on this bus whether you like it or not I have not I repeat NOT been waiting at this fucking airport for 15 hours without any offer of food or anything and been treated like shit by people like you who can’t be bothered to be decent or kind or polite to people who have it much worse than you or than me for that matter to be told that because I don’t have a boarding pass when I was told not to get one that I can’t get on a bus which will take 18 hours when I paid for my goddamn ticket for a goddamn plane to see my parents whom I haven’t seen in 8 months to spend Christmas with them for the first time in 8 years. You, Madam, are sorely mistaken.

I got on the bus.

Waiting for me at the airport was my Mom’s dear friend Kay, who drove the hour to the airport to drive me the hour and a half to Lunenburg only to drive back the hour to Halifax. I cried when I saw her.

I had a wonderful Christmas with my folks, and it was hard to leave to join the big Vee. I didn’t end up making a complaint about TB. Yeah, she probably shouldn’t have her job, but she might have been a low-level peon who didn’t regularly deal with customers (with good reason). Or she could just be a raging bitch. I haven’t made inquiries into a refund. To be honest, I can’t be bothered. It would be too much work and pain and tsuris that I don’t need or want. That being said, I would rather jump naked into a pool of razor blades than fly AC (retch!) ever again. I wonder if Qantas flies to Halifax…

Give me the simple life.

It took me just 45 minutes to explore Picton, New Zealand. And that’s because I walked up and down the street twice. It says something about a town when the biggest store is the Discount Liquor Mart. Don’t get me wrong. It’s very nice. I like small towns. I lived in Charlottetown P.E.I for 2 summers in the early 90’s and they were the best summers of my life. (It might try to argue city status – but it’s called Charlottetown, not Charlottecity). My parents live in a charming Nova Scotian fishing village that has reinvented itself as a summer tourist Mecca. It’s even been recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage site. It looks the way New England used to look like, and whenever they have to film a Stephen King œuvre set in Maine, that’s where they do it. I think I might not go crazy if I had to live there (which I do anyway, technically. But I’m away 10 months out of the year). But Picton? Well…it might just be the Kiwi Skagway. (Those of you who work on ships know what I’m talking about. The rest of you, look it up. You’re obviously technically savvy if you managed to find my blog). (Quick aside: Why does my spell-check show blog as a misspelled word?)

That being said, I’ve been enchanted by this part of the world. Tauranga was as beautiful a place as I’ve ever been. There’s a mystical mountain rising up from the edge of the coast, which has spiritual significance to the Maori. The stunning white sand beach and gentle ocean invites frolicking in the waves and lazy afternoons curled up with the latest Jonathan Kellerman (who seems to come out with a new book about once every couple of weeks). There’s a respectable shopping district with New Zealand tchotchkes galore (lamb skin slippers boots, Maori carving necklaces and oodles of frangipani skin products). There’s even a great organic food store, where I bought some mixed nuts and some phosphate-free laundry powder. Christchurch is a charming place, which has been named the best garden city in the world. There are many lovely public parks, good shopping (although I’m puzzled why mouthwash has to cost $10 here. Should not proper dental hygiene be accessible to the disenfranchised as well?), and a great organic food store where I bought some gluten-free sunflower seed bread and some dried fruit. I haven’t managed to make it into Wellington or Auckland yet, but they look fabulous from the ship. And Dunedin may be my favorite of all. It’s NZ’s 5th largest city with a population of about 150 000, and a rich Scottish heritage. It boasts many well-preserved Victorian and Edwardian buildings, many dating back to the Gold Rush in the 1850’s. Shopping is great (though mouthwash is still expensive), with at least 3 big music stores (I bought a metronome there, which oddly enough has gone missing in the last couple of days) and a great organic food store, where I bought some tea tree moisturizer and a bottle of Vitamin C. But Picton? Well… Picton is very nice. It does have the oldest wooden ship in existence, but the museum was closed today. Oh, and a mini-golf course.

I’m not really complaining. I just had such high hopes. And I wanted to find mouthwash that I wouldn’t have to take out a second mortgage to purchase. I haven’t as of yet been able to explore any of the tremendous natural beauty of this country. There has been some fantastic scenic cruising, and there are mountains galore. I may just go on a hike tomorrow. In Dunedin lies the highest peak in this part of the country. Cadbury, fetch my boots!

In Ship News: I just played a Disco night. It sucked. No, let me rephrase that. The audience sucked. The band was great, and I even got to sing ‘Play That Funky Music, White Boy’ (How appropriate, since I am the whitest person ever to walk the face of this planet. Well, no, there’s Maggie Thatcher.) It was going great until the lyric “Gonna take it higher now”, and my poor little voice, parched and already stretched to its’ limits, did not want to take it higher at all. No amount of note modification or Monty Python falsetto was going to fix what was already a disaster in the making. Oh well, live and learn. I’ll transpose it down a key next time. There were maybe 40 people in the bar (which can comfortably hold 250), and they were separated from the bandstand by this enormous chasm of a dance floor. Apparently, not everyone was feeling the groove. Nobody danced. When we did ‘The Hustle’, Rebekah, our eager party planner, leapt to her feet. No one followed. She executed a few hopeful, lonely steps, and slunk back to her seat, defeated and demoralized. Now she knows what it feels like.

It's Up To You...

I know I know I know. It’s been a while. What can I say? My computer broke and I lost momentum. This writing thing is not something I had ever done on a regular basis, and when I got out of the routine, it was hard to get back in.Don’t fret, however, dear readers. I got some pages up my sleeve. I’m currently on the big Vee (that’s slightly dirty, eh?) touring around Australia and New Zealand. In March, we embark on a 60-some odd day trek through most of South-East Asia, and I end up in Vancouver, where I get to go home. (Home? I have no home…) I figure I’ll have a fair amount to talk about.

During my break, I went to New York and Toronto – to see family and friends. So I’m sitting in LaGuardia, wondering why the hell there isn’t free Internet ($7.95 for the 45 minutes before my flight? Really?) and kind of pissed that my flight has been cancelled – I’ll be arriving in Toronto about 2 hours later, which shouldn’t be a big deal, but I have a concert to go to. I’m eating a hotdog wrapped in pretzel dough (yes I know, I shouldn’t be eating meat, but there honestly isn’t anything else. Really. Food at LaGuardia is a big bag of suck) and reading the special Rolling Stone with Obama on the cover. I have just sorta kinda maybe almost made the decision to move to New York when my next contract is up in May. It scares the shit out of me. But every time I come to New York, I think to myself: Why the hell aren’t I living here? I love the city – the electricity in the air, the hustle and bustle, the 24-hour access to everything from prescriptions to groceries to photocopies to tourist tchotskis . I love that on any given day, I can go to any number of museums and see famous paintings and sculptures that I saw in textbooks in school. I love that Patti LuPone, Liza Minelli, Stockard Channing (no relation to Carol), Kirsten Scott Thomas, John Lithgow and a naked Daniel Radcliffe (Leave me alone! He’s legal!) all live and work within blocks from each other. I love the way when it’s -15 in Montreal, it can be +10 and sunny. I love that bars close at 4, and you can still take the subway home. I love Hell’s Kitchen. I love Central Park. I love MoMA. I love New York (insert song here!)

It doesn’t hurt that several of my nearest and dearest friends have moved here over the years, and every time I come, I’m welcomed with open arms. I had lunches and dinner with about 10 different people, and I’m sure I managed to piss off a bunch of folks I didn’t get a chance to connect with. (Sorry Scott, if you’re reading this). And whenever I come to NYC, there’s always a big surprise. This time, my old old friend Geoff (who I have known since Grade 1) was in town with his wife. I hadn’t seen him in almost 10 years. It was like I saw him yesterday. It was the same with my friends Robin (known since Grade 3), Naomi (1990), Alex (1994) and my dear Big Apple host, Michael (since 1989). Usually when you run into old friends, the conversation is about 20% catch-up and 80% reminiscence. But I found with all these old chums I hooked up with, it wasn’t like that at all. Sure, there were “Remember when…” moments. But we were all able to have proper adult conversations.

This summer, Michael came to visit me in the Med, and we spent 2 weeks gallivanting around Europe. I was an amazing amount of fun! As a thank you, I got Michael a ticket to see Patti LuPone in Gypsy. He’s seen it already, I’ve seen it already, but I could sit through Gypsy with Sally Struthers and Jamie Farr, I like it that much. Naomi also has procured a ticket. This is really exciting, because not only have I not seen Naomi for over 10 years, Michael has not seen Naomi for almost 16 years! They played husband and wife in a production of Company I directed 17 years ago. (Side note: Company is a faaaabulous Sondheim show about a single man turning 35, and the 5 married couples who are his best friends. It’s a show about the fear of commitment and the fear of intimacy. When we did it, we were about 15 too young. Now, I’m 3 years older than the main character. Oi) . Naomi hadn’t changed at all. She looked fantastic, she was ebullient and effervescent and argumentative and loud and funny and awesome! We had a really good dinner consisting of Korean dumplings and rice, and good stimulating conversation. But Patti could not be keep waiting!

I cannot rave about this show enough. It is definitely directed as a star vehicle for Patti, and she does not disappoint. There isn’t a piece of scenery left unchewed. She belts, she rants, she dances, she seduces, she cries, she laughs, she screams, she has a breakdown. And yet, there is so much subtlety (yes, subtlety… ) to her portrayal. It is performance for the ages, a role she was born to play. There isn’t a false note. Despite all the histrionics she can (and has) (and does) indulge in, this is a performance of absolute truth. There are so many heartbreaking moments, made all the more powerful by the tremendous emotional and technical framework she has built. And if that weren’t enough, Boyd Gaines and Laura Benanti as Herbie and Louise match Patti note for note in beautifully nuanced performances that crackle with energy. The last 20 minutes of the show are absolutely devastating. Naomi, Michael and I were all sobbing at the end of Rose’s Turn, and found ourselves unable to clap. And the strippers at the end almost succeed in stealing the show away (which they often do). There are a few, hmmm…. not quite mistakes… let’s say, miscalculations, in the show. Dainty June delivers a one-note performance, and that note is flat. Her big scene is awful. Truly. And Arthur Laurents, the book-writer and director, has inserted a couple of unnecessary cheesy bits that get a laugh, but they’re cheap laughs (although my idol, Phyllis Diller, once said there’s no such thing as a cheap laugh). But why quibble? It was perhaps the most satisfying night of theatre I have ever experienced.

After the show, I went to have drinks with 3 ship friends – Drummer Dom and his beautiful girlfriend Marisha (to whom I lent my cabin while on the big Zed – please refer to my previous blog “How Shipbound Got His Cabin Back”), and Saxy Tom, who’s studying at Columbia (please refer to my previous blog “If They Ever Put A Bullet Through Your Brain”). Naomi came as well, for which I was really happy. Michael went home. He was tired. Anyway long story short, we got kicked out of one bar, closed the next at 4 in the morning, and I ended up staying at Tom’s (his couch was comfy) because he lives on 110th, and Michael lives on 174th, so Tom’s was just that much closer. He lives right across the street from the “Seinfeld” restaurant, which is pretty cool, even though I’m not that crazy about the show. I know if Tom’s reading this, he’s aghast, since Seinfeld is his favorite show EVER.

The following evening, I also saw my dear friend Zarya, who I have known since we were 6. She sings with a wonderful choir, and I went to their Christmas concert, and I went to dinner with her and her boyfriend, her awesome friend Carol, and another gentleman whose name I’ve forgotten. He was very nice though. We went to a Peruvian restaurant with amazing food and horrid service. I had a wonderful evening with old and new friends

In fact, I had a wonderful weekend. I am tremendously lucky that at this point in my life, I’m able to have enough disposable income to be able to travel and see people in my life that mean so much to me (Next up: In June, visiting my friend Kate and her family in Prince George! I just haven’t told her yet!). Also, being able to afford a coupla tickets to a legendary performance in one of my favorite musicals ain’t so bad either.

So there you go. A new post. A loooong one. Happy now?

Not Since Carrie

Alright, I just heard something that I wanted to, nay - NEEDED! - to share with all (5) of you. I just read that Julie Taymor (who won a Tony for directing the exquisite Broadway production of the Lion King) will be directing and writing the book for a Spider Man musical, whose score will be provided by Bono and the Edge of U2. I just saw the open casting call notice.

My Spidey Sense is tingling...

*******

I smell...

******

a BOMB!!!!!


Anyone else who thinks this is a bad idea, raise your hands.

Lappy gone nappy :(

I may not publish anything more for a while as my laptop has gone to Apple Heaven. I have not as yet tried a witch doctor, but I am hoping for a Lazarus-type recovery.

Quickly, things on the ms Big Zed are good. Europe is still nice. Barcelona is still amazing. Band is still the best in the fleet (Brady, I know you're grinding your teeth right now, but if you just face the facts, you'll be much happier inside). I still don't have a boyfriend, but life goes on. Music is still fun. And above all: I am still super awesome.

:)

See you real soon.

It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp

Some pursuits are nobler than others. I think it is infinitely more important to find a cure for cancer or AIDS than to discover a drug to give you a hard-on. (There are those who obviously don’t agree with me, and maybe in 40 – ok, 20 – years, I won’t agree with me either.) I think the New York Times Crossword is better than Sudoku, which is better than the Junior Jumble, which is better than Tic Tac Toe. I think the Theatre is better than the Cinema, which is better than HBO, which is better than network TV. And everything is better than dinner theatre. Except cruise ships. Or at least that’s what I used to think.

Cruise ship musicians are given a bad rap. We’re thought to be burnt-out bitter old hacks desperate for work. Cruise ships are like the last refuge for the damned. There’s an old story about an entertainer going to meet with the band leader and finding out that no one in the band reads music except for the drummer. “How can this be?” he asks. The leader replies: “ He’s not our regular drummer”. Ba dum bum. (My favorite drummer joke: What did the drummer get on his IQ test? Drool!!!! Ah, I slay me.)

This is what my job entails: the main part is to play for the guest entertainers. These are solo acts of all varieties who travel from ship to ship and stay anywhere from one cruise to an entire season (there was a magician aboard my ship who had been here off and on for 3 years!) If they’re new to us, we may get their music a couple of days in advance, or we may not. The morning of the show, we rehearse 90 minutes for a 60 minute show (We try to get a rehearsal in early so we can have more port time. But then again, we’re usually up drinking until 3 in the morning, so not too too early please thank you). If we’re lucky, we get charts that are legible, clean and clear in playable keys without too many technical demands. Sometimes, we get photocopies of photocopies of mimeographs of hieroglyphs with 10 years of un-erased pencil marks, mismatching measures numbers (or none at all), confusing cuts, no tempo marking, no feel marking (is it disco or a cha-cha?) in P flat minor, and an entertainer who has no idea how to rehearse. Once I played for a giant untalented jerk with such illegible charts who kept telling us to “just feel it”. Every time I asked him a question about what he wanted, (because we all had conflicting information and markings), he would throw up his hands in frustration and say “I don’t care! Whatever you want!” He was abusive and insulting because we didn’t have an intimate knowledge of his particular style of music, and he just thought all decent musicians knew how to play this. I ended up yelling at him. If I ever see him again, (which is doubtful, since he didn’t have any gigs lined up) I will yell at him again. I’m almost yelling right now. I hate him. (PF, you SOB, you know who you are). Sometimes, I’ve gotten charts that are so difficult that it would require about a week of intense practice. Occasionally, guitarists, bassists and drummers will get 10-page piano charts, because the arranger was too lazy to write out separate parts. (Pianists can turn pages. The aforementioned musicians have a much harder time of it.) We play for classical pianists and violinists, Elvis imitators, jugglers, banjo players, opera singers, Broadway singers, soul singers and salsa singers. We have to be able to sight-read the music, adapt it to our instruments, play in every conceivable style, and please the sometimes-cranky sometimes-demanding sometimes-incompetent guest entertainer (although most are really nice, are talented and gracious). AND we have to perform it twice that night without making mistakes, lest we catch hell from the act or the cruise director. (I once did a show with a lousy musician who was impossible to follow. He went to the cruise director after rehearsal and bitched about the drummer for 20 minutes [The drummer was fine]. We had to practice an additional hour and a half [after an initial 2 hour rehearsal] because King Shit Of Turd Island couldn’t play a 3/8 bar. Tabarnaq’!) Oh, and since we’re musicians, we should actually try to make music, as opposed to sounding like unprepared robot hacks.

The rest of the time, I play and sing in a cover band. Not a regular cover band, mind you, where we play one style or artist. (A la "Björn Again"). No, we play music from the past 70 years of hits in every conceivable style! In The Mood, Strangers in the Night, Tennessee Waltz, Rock Around the Clock, Dancing In The Street, Sweet Caroline, Mustang Sally, Superstition, YMCA, Don’t Rock The Jukebox, Living La Vida Loca, It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp, Soldier Boy… Ok, those last two are lies. But nevertheless, I think my point has been made. We play in a lounge, or by the pool, or on deck. Sometimes people dance. Most of the time they don't. We also occasionally have to play jazz sets. And we take requests! On top of all that, I am called upon once in a while to play a classical concert. So I gots to keep my chops up too for all the Beethoven, Ravel and Rachmaninoff. Could a hack do all this crap?

Now, my absolutely favoritest part of my job is playing pool music. I loves me my pool music! I can’t get enough of playing pool music! Please, could I play some pool music now? I love playing pool music because there’s nothing 70-year old sun-bathing Patricia-Cornwell-reading Mai-Tai-drinking people want more than to hear an 8-piece rock band play Mony Mony or Turn The Beat Around. They love having their peace and quiet disturbed. They never tell us to turn it the hell down. They never come up to us and tell us to play some Frank Sinatra, or to not play at all. And the acoustics are amazing. It sounds like we’re playing in a pool. I love that. It doesn’t make us sound like a bunch of hacks in the least.

Truth be told, there are indeed hacks on ships. Whereas I have been tremendously fortunate to have worked with mostly wonderful musicians (including my current band. We rock!), I have occasionally encountered true and utter mediocrity. Bad musicians are either little brats fresh out of school and have absolutely no frickin’ clue what they’re doing (they aren’t hacks yet, but they certainly are future hacks), or they’re guys (and they usually are men) who’ve been around for thousands of years and just don’t give a crap anymore. But most are good solid musicians (including young ‘uns and old ‘uns) who can play just about anything you can throw at them

I love my job. I say that without sarcasm or reservation. I really love what I do. I have seen 25% of the world (according to the “Where Have I Been In The World” application on Facebook) and I plan to see a great deal more. I have become a much better and more versatile musician in the past 3 years, and I wouldn’t have thought to acquire these new skills if I hadn’t been forced to. (It’s sink or swim here on the Seven Seas – so to speak. I had never really played jazz or pop before, having come from a classical and musical theatre background). I occasionally get tired of the lack of respect and sometimes utter disdain that comes with the job though. Let me give you an example before I take my leave.

Once, I was playing solo piano at a big event on the ship. One of the bigwig officers who I would generally call my friend came up to me and started banging away on the piano. I stopped playing told him that I didn’t go into his office and start banging away on his computer keyboard when he was working. He then said that what he did was work, and what I did wasn’t really. I was just playing around. He then said he wished he had my job. Playing 3 hours a day and getting paid good money for it. Man, I had it easy…

I. Got. Mad.

I. Got. Really. Mad.

I. Got. Really. Really. Mad.

But. I kept my cool. I told him he couldn’t possibly do my job, but I could certainly do his (it would take me about a year of training I reckon – I told him). I asked him if he had taken officer lessons from the time that he was 6, or if he had practiced being an officer for at least 6 hours a day from the ages of 15 to 23 to keep up with all the other officers, all the while taking a full course load in school, and sacrificing things like baseball and playtime with his friends. He said of course not. Aha, I said. That’s what it took to get me where I am today (wherever the hell that may be). And unless he had, he was ill equipped to make a mockery of my craft and profession. He laughed an awkward laugh, and I laughed an awkward laugh. We parted as friends, but it was never the same. Pity. At least he doesn’t bang away when I play any more. How Wude!!

I probably shouldn’t have pushed it as far as I did, because I am generally quite humble (What!? I hear you all say) about what I do. I don’t think it’s extraordinary. But it took a hell of a lot of work to get to this level. And a lot of maintenance. And a lot of sacrifice. I’m the first to admit I still have a lot to learn, and I’m eager to learn.

But ain’t nobody gonna call me a hack.

Oh no you di’nt.

If They Ever Put A Bullet Through Your Brain, I'll Complain

I have whopping 380 friends on Facebook. I know for you young turks, that’s nothing. What a laugh! I’ve got over a thousand! But for an old poop like me, 380 are a lot to keep up with. Now, let’s start categorizing them, shall we. About 10 are family – (my parents have Facebook pages. That way, they can feel like they know what’s going on in my life, and I never have to actually talk to them! Just kidding, Mom). About 60 are friends I went to school with. Another 50 or so are former high school students of mine. (It’s quite heart-warming yet disconcerting to get a friend request from someone you last saw when they were a gawky teenager, to find 6 to 10 years later that they’ve matured into a responsible intelligent adult. And then there’s the creepiness factor when they end up being pretty cute too. Not that I’ve noticed.) Close to 50 are university friends (or friends from that era. I spent nearly 6 years in college. And no, I still don’t have a degree. Don’t go there), and another 20 are friends of mine from my theatre days in Albuquerque. That’s a total of 190, or half of my friends. (These numbers are all guesstimates. If you’re a Facebook friend of mine, don’t be wasting your time by looking through my friends list and coming up with alternate figures. I won’t be changing my blog.) The other half, another 190, are people I have met in the past 3 years while sailing the Seven Seas. (I had ventured a guess in a previous blog that 1/3 of my Facebook buddies were from ships. But when I got to thinking about it, I realized it was a higher percentage.) Now, how many of them do I actually keep in touch with? Well, that’s another matter.

I received an email today from a former shipmate Tom (with whom I keep in touch) which got me thinking. (I found out today as well that Tom actually reads this blog, so I decided to give him a shout out. “Hi Tom”. If anyone else reading this wants to get mentioned, just tell me. I have absolutely no integrity. I am a cheap floozy.) He wondered why he wasn’t in contact with more former shipmates. That made me wonder why I wasn’t in contact with more former shipmates. When you board a ship, you instantly make about 200 friends. If you go to the OB your first night, everyone buys you drinks and wants to know about the most intimate details of your life. You work and live with the same people everyday for 3-6 months, and you get to know them really well. You pass people in the halls, whose name you might not know, but you always muster a hearty hello. After all, you’re all in the same boat. Literally. (I swore to God I would never ever never ever use that particular expression. Well…there it is.) Maybe for the first time in your life, you’re meeting people from all over the world: Indonesia, the Philippines, Serbia, Romania, Poland, Russia, Hungary, England, Australia etc... Lots and lots of nations!

But. One can’t afford to get too close. Why? Well, ship friendships are generally instantly made, tremendously intense, and very short-lived. They have to be, by necessity. Your contract is 4 months, so is your roommate’s. But. He’s already halfway through when you arrive. You might meet someone that you have lunch and dinner with every day. You go out in port together. You explore strange new lands and fascinating new cultures, and probably get into a little bit of trouble (I have so many stories about my 37th birthday in Puerto Rico. I unfortunately can only remember half of them. But there’s video!). But. You leave a month after she gets here, and never see her again. Sometimes, you meet someone who normally, you wouldn’t search out as a friend; maybe you have too little in common, or they have a completely different personality, or they are much younger or older. But. Because you live in an atmosphere of constant and sometimes overwhelming camaraderie, everyone becomes your instant best friend. And then they leave to go back to Indonesia or Serbia or Australia, and you have to move on to your next instant best friend. Of course, you might meet up with them again on another contract. Things just usually pick up from whence they left off. And then they go again. Repeat times hundreds and hundreds. It’s actually quite hard on the soul sometimes.

I have met some wonderful, wonderful people on ships. And it would be great to be able to keep in touch with all of them. However it’s simply not practical. I think this contract will be hardest, because I actually have met many kindred spirits. (Joy [Oy] is leaving in about 2 weeks, and I will miss her tremendously – the J-club will be Joy-less!) Some of us are already planning to meet up in the winter, and I will go and visit Jenny (if she lets me in) when I’m in Toronto, and Tom in New York (Tom – the brilliant little shit that he is [and a fine sax player to boot] – is doing a Master’s/PHD at Columbia in some environmental engineering thing - sustainable resources blah blah blah… I hope he has a comfortable couch.) I email probably about 20 ship friends on a semi-regular basis. Which is a lot of people to keep up with. I’m not even sure how I came to choose those particular people. For the most part, I am content to spy on the rest through their Facebook updates, and occasionally look at their newly posted pictures. Visual confirmation that their life’s adventures continue on without me, and mine without them. But. What an adventure it’s turning out to be.

Where you Going? Barcelona...

Oh...
Don't get up.

Apparently, Barcelona is one of the gayest cities in Europe. I’ll have to take Europe’s word for it though; frankly, I haven’t seen any evidence of it. (Granted, I haven’t really been looking too hard.) This may be because, unlike cities like New York, San Francisco, Toronto and Montreal, there is no real gay area with a concentration of gay bars, gay cafes, gay hotels, gay saunas and gay gays. Things are spread out all over the place. I generally much prefer this to the “Gay Village” kind of idea. (I hate ghettos of any type. Although I realise a need to be with ‘your own people’, there is a real danger that when your job, house and friends are all concentrated within the same 6-block radius, you lose touch with reality. How do I know? I live ON A SHIP. Welcome to my surreal life.) However, In Barcelona, it might help. Because it’s damn near impossible to tell who the hell is gay. When you’re fishing for bass, it’s a little disappointing when you catch a perch. And why is Shipbound’s gay-dar all out of whack, you may ask?

It might be the understatement of the century to say that fashion in Europe is different than in North America. Men who dress in a way that I would immediately identify as gay in the States or Canada merely look ‘European’: Capri pants (which is the most horrific trend EVER), tight t-shirts with random glued-on sequins and English nonsense words in bizarre fonts, (“Happy Cherry Lacrosse”), funny coloured Converse-like canvas runners with ‘Urban’ patterns, and big ugly giant sunglasses with “BeDazzled” hinges. Also, every dummy in every window of every Mens Store features Europe’s latest trend – the Sleeveless Shirt. Sleeveless shirts are popular with everyone, from the hip young dude to the fat old Grandpa. (I don’t mind this trend so much, now that I have newly developed biceps.) These aren’t tank tops or wife beaters, but plaid button shirts with the sleeves artfully ripped off. Kinda like the look Bill Bixby used to sport when he changed back from being Lou Ferrigno (am I dating myself?) Oh, and let’s not forget the super-plucked eyebrows – even the staunchest of men look like Edith Piaf. Par example, there were these two young drunkdrunkdrunk Venetian ‘bois’ who caroused with us one night in our favourite after-hours joint, who immediately identified us as Americans (despite the fact that the band is comprised of 3 Canadians, a Czech, a Hungarian, an Aussie, a Brazilian and one lone American – who’s from Oregon so he’s almost Canadian) and asked us we knew Quentin Tarantino. I know, I know - What!? They were the gayest things I have ever seen. But they kept talking about girls and sex and sex with girls and Pulp Fiction and straight stuff like that, so who knows…? Oh, they had mullets. Unfortunately, the mullet and variations thereof are back in style here. I pray every day to Vidal Sassoon that that particular coif never crosses the pond. And just to make things difficult for us single guys, the gay men tend to look straight. Especially in Barcelona. Or at least I assume (…makes an ass…) the straight-looking ones are gay, cause SOMEONE has to be.

Despite my lack of hunky Spanish boyfriends, I love Barcelona. Once a month, we have 3 days in the city, and it provides a great opportunity to get off the ship in the evening and enjoy the local nightlife. And, man, is there nightlife in Barcelona. Last month, a group of about 40 of us went down to this beach where there are a bunch of clubs. Things were kinda dead because it was only 1 in the morning, and everyone knows that Barcelona only comes alive after 3. The club we went into was enormous and gorgeous. Very nouveau-minimalist, with subtle pastel coloured neon lights under the bars and these pseudo-mid-century modern divans along the walls. Classy and clean. However, the beer was about 8 euros a bottle (13 dollars, for the uninitiated). I was unwilling to pay such a steep price, because, as it has been previously established in these very pages, I am one of the cheapest people in the world. Fortunately, another of Barcelona’s many charms is those guys who walk down the streets with backpacks and sell illegal street beer for 1 Euro a can. Mmmmm, street beer… So Drummer Dom, Sax Chris, Bass Jérôme, Bongo Adam, Aussie Chef Troy, a couple of others and I each buy a few brewskis (or since we’re in Barcelona, “brewthkith”) and stand on the corner and watch the girls go by (And boys…). It was a fun night with some great guys. But I was feeling a little antsy, and needed to go a-wandering. So I bid good-bye to my friends and at 2 in the morning, went off on my own.

I never once felt uncomfortable or endangered. Barcelona feels extremely safe and people are very friendly. (Just HOW friendly is a tale for another time. Heh heh heh). It took me about a half an hour to walk to La Rambla, which is a wide pedestrian boulevard, similar to the Champs Elysées. (There is indeed an Arc De Triomphe in Barcelona, but not at the end of La Rambla). It was full of life and partying; locals and idiot tourists like me, artists doing crappy pastels sketches, fake statues that come to life for a couple of Euros, guys selling illegal street beer, and very aggressive hookers. (I actually had to shake a couple of the lovely ladies off my arms.) Over-priced bars and over-priced tapas joints line the street. There is also an impressive amount of cheap drunk food available, which is always my benchmark for a good city (Montreal has the best cheap drunk food in the world. How many smoked meats at the Main have I had? Or 99 cent pizza? Or a falafel at Fattouch (or was it Fattouche?) Or poutine? Is it any wonder I used to be 270 pounds?) I had a really good sandwich that I bought from a woman on the street who had questionable hygiene. But for only 2 Euros, I was willing to risk salmonella. The baguette was fresh and crunchy, the chorizo was spicy and savoury and the cheese was tangy and creamy. And all ingredients were plentiful. It may have been the second best sandwich I have ever eaten (The best sandwich I ever had was, believe it or not, on British Airways, flying from Rome to Montreal in April. It was amazing, with a fancy multi-grain bread, amazing cheese and some incredible pickle. Air Canada – take note!) And there were plenty of gay-looking young men, walking in big groups, with arms thrown lustily around each other’s shoulders. But this is Spain, and that type of behaviour is common amongst male friends. Ah, Spain…There seemed to be very little gayness at all on La Rambla (I lie. There is what I assume to be a gay sauna at the very end of the concourse. From it’s second story window, it proclaims to have a Turkish Sauna and Deep Massage. It also has a rainbow flag, flying proudly in the wind). I wasn’t looking for gayness, but it is nice to know once in a while that there are others like you. When I see a gay couple, be it male or female, walking down the street hand in hand, I think - Bitch has a boyfriend and I don’t? No no no, but seriously; I feel a little bit of solidarity. I feel that we have a common struggle, even though it doesn’t often feel like a struggle anymore. In Spain, as in Canada, gay marriage is legal. I have the exact same rights as every other Canadian, and it’s amazing. My ex rickyd and his fiancé Photi have “posted the banns” on Facebook! Sometimes on ships, I feel like I have to be a ‘spokesman’ for homosexuals everywhere, because not every culture is as liberal and as progressive’s as Canada’s (Hear that, U.S.A.!). But I felt at home in Barcelona. Because despite the fact that there isn’t necessarily a lot of overt homosexuality, I have no doubt I could have walked down La Rambla hand in hand with a guy, and nobody would have batted an eye. (It must be said, however, that I am not one for PDAs, so the point is basically moot). Hell, the next day, I saw a guy walking down La Rambla wearing nothing but a fanny pack and a big grin! Cops didn’t even look up.

I hadn’t intended to talk about all this. I wanted to talk about the great time I had the next afternoon when Erin (Jerin) and I walked around from Gaudi to Gaudi to Gaudi. No worries, I’ve got plenty of time and bandwidth. Barcelona is a beautiful clean city, with a fascinating history, a rich architectural heritage, an extensive if slightly confusing Metro, and a vibrant soul. No doubt many more words will be written for these pages about the city which feels like my home away from home.

A Good Story

Ok, CNN replayed the Ingrid Betancourt interview last night with Uncle Larry, and it wasn't as bad as I remembered. The quote which I attributed to him is, in fact, incorrect, as it not quite what he said. And in context, it wasn't as glib a statement as I had previously thought. However, the blog stands, because as my dear Mama always says; why let the truth get in the way of a good story? (Is that the proper use of the semi colon? I should know...)

Paging George Stroumboulopoulos...

TV sucks. Well, TV on ships sucks. Well, TV sucks on this ship. At the best of times, you can get TNT, TSN, TCM, CNN, and a bunch of closed circuit channels with bad quality video taped reruns of Murder She Wrote and Trading Spaces. (Let’s not forget the ship’s shopping channel “Buy diamonds and tanzanite but only from this cruise line’s approved store!” They’re always trying to sell you things.) Certain satellite signals don’t reach us here in Europe, so the only channels we get are TSN and CNN. Most sports bore me to tears, so news wins! I have to say that I find CNN quite interesting here because we get the non-North-American version with fascinating shows like Eye On Africa or Talk Asia. It’s good to know what is going on in the ROTW (rest of the world), and refreshing to get news with a perhaps-only-slightly-less American perspective. (Once a half hour, I can see a weather update for Yangon, Kuala Lumpur or Islamabad.) Plus, all the broadcasters speak English with a really classy accent. It’s like everyone is Christiane Amanpour. And we still get Wolf Blitzer and that hunky Anderson Cooper (Is he single? He comes from money, you know). The downside is that we still get Larry King.

I know, I know. Don’t be too hard on Ol’ Lar. I mean, Kathy Griffin likes him, so he can’t be that bad. (I always wondered if I was cool enough to be one of “her gays”. Yawn). And he’s fine when he interviews someone like Britney Spears’ bodyguard, or the finalists from American Idol, or a bunch of people who believe in UFOs. But he was granted an exclusive interview with Ingrid Betancourt. She’s a remarkable woman who was a Columbian presidential contender when six and a half years ago, she was kidnapped and has been held captive since. The Columbian government had secret agents infiltrate the guerrilla camps, and was able to set her and 14 other people free. There are still hundreds being held captive. The video of her and her fellow captives in the helicopter when they realize they’ve been set free is one of the most emotional and real things I have ever seen. She was reunited in France with her children and her husband. She is incredibly brave, well spoken, composed, and despite having spent close to 7 years where death was a daily possibility, she seems tremendously sane. I’m pretty much in tears just writing this.

Larry King? Did alarm bells not sound in anyone’s head? Didn’t someone realize that he was the most utterly inappropriate person to do this interview? Was Mary Hart unavailable? What about Elizabeth Hasselbeck? So I take a deep breath and ready myself. How bad could it be? After a remarkably glib introduction, the first question Larry asks is “How are you doing?” Fair enough. She answers that she is just trying to hang on, that it’s been very difficult readjusting and that she’s exhausted. And she seems exhausted. Physically, mentally and morally. She is doing this interview out of duty because she believes that she should do everything in her power to get the others freed. She truly is a remarkable person. So what does Larry reply? Larry replies, NO JOKE, Larry replies:

“Well, you look terrific!”


?


??


Did he…really say…that?


Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he did indeed. Because as Billy Crystal told us oh so many years ago on SNL “It’s better to rook good than to feel good. And Dahling. Yooou roooook Mahvelous!” OMFG! Where’s Dr. Kevorkian when you need him?


Too much? Did I cross the line? Whatever. If I’m ever kidnapped and held captive for 6 years and miraculously rescued, I’m getting George Stroumboulopoulos to interview me. And chances are, wherever I’m being held, the TV will be better than here.

Lava-leer. Volcano voyerism.

My current contract is a long one; seven months. The standard length for musicians is 3 to 4 months, but because we’re spending 6 months in the Mediterranean, the powers that be wanted to avoid flying people back and forth from North America. This suits me just fine. I have the best band on the seven seas and everybody gets along. (I’m not kidding. This is one shit hot group of musicians.) I’ve met some wonderful people (J-club – you know who you all are!), and, did I mention? – I’M IN THE FREAKIN’ MED! Today, I went to the Trevi fountain and the Parthenon. I’ve already seen the Coliseum, and I wasn’t worried about not seeing the Sistine Chapel because I’ll be here about 8 more times. Come November, Rome will bore me. In the past 2 months, I’ve seen (and touched!) the Acropolis in Athens, ridden up the side of a cliff on a donkey in Santorini, been to St. Peter’s on Sunday, strolled along the deserted streets of Venice at 2 in the morning, bought a $350 leather jacket in Kusadasi, bought a $60 dollar suit at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, (I also did something I swore I would never do again. I smoked. Granted, it was a delightful cherry flavoured tobacco in a hookah. I felt sick afterwards, went back to the ship early and felt guilty for 3 days – I don’t consider this a slip in my smoking cessation. At least that’s what I tell myself so I can sleep at night), eaten the best. gelato. ever. in Nafplion, eaten the best. cannoli. ever. in Palermo, eaten the best. couscous. ever. in Casablanca, seen Stromboli erupt 5 times at night, and spent 3 days and 2 nights in my beloved Barcelona wandering around alone, drinking cheap beer on the beach, and taking in some Gaudi. I’m not trying to rub it in anyone’s face. But damn I’ve had fun. And I’ve still got 5 months left.


A word about the volcano Stromboli. (Stromboli is much like Old Faithful. It’s almost always erupting.) My mom wanted me to describe it, but I don’t know if I can. It was one of the most spectacular things I have ever seen, but I don’t think I have sufficient words. But I’ll try, dear readers, I’ll try. That evening, I had given a mini-recital with 2 guitarists (playing 20 minutes of classical music every 12 days at least makes me feel that all the years and years of piano lessons aren’t going to waste. Again – whatever lets me sleep at night…). Near the end of the recital, people started leaving in droves. (It was like speed dating where a bell rings and every one gets up and switches places, except that I didn’t get one single phone number.) I didn’t think I had played THAT badly, and was feeling slightly miffed when an audience member told me not to take it personally, but how did I suppose I could compete with a volcano? Hell, if I’d known, I’d’ve walked out too! So I rushed up to the top deck. It wasn’t what I’d expected. It was quite dark, and there was a big black mountain in the middle of the sea. Not so amazing. I was talking with Jesse, thinking this better get good soon, when we saw a little red glow emanate from the top of the mountain. Cool. Not COOOOOOOOOOL!, but cool nonetheless. (It was more cool went my uncle Mike, who is a forester, brought us back rocks from Mt. St. Helen’s a thousand or so years ago). More conversation, more glowing, more apathy. I was about to go away and get a drink when BOOM! Lava shot straight up in the air. 400 people on deck went instantly silent for about 10 seconds, and then we applauded. (Why did we do that? Was the volcano’s self-esteem really that low that it needed bucking up?). Erin (Jerin) had a group of kids up on deck. Now, we all know there’s nothing quite as jaded and world-weary as a group of twelve-year olds, but they were chattering away excitedly and incredulously. After about 5 minutes, it erupted again. And again. And again. And then a double eruption. Now, it wasn’t really like the dinosaur section in Fantasia with those crazy syncopated explosions. (But I admit, I did hum the opening bars of The Rite Of Spring). For crying out loud, there’s a fishing village on the island (the lava runs down only on one side of the mountain). But there’s something primal and mysterious about seeing molten lava.It really does shoot straight up in the air! It really does spit and spurt! The weird thing was, it made no noise. Or at least we couldn’t hear it (but we weren’t really that far away.) No boom, no bam no kapow! In some ways, the silence made it even more violent. I stood there for an hour enraptured, not saying much at all. What is there to say? The ship finally pulled away from the volcano, and we could see the glowing red crater in the distance. An unsettling reminder of the power Nature holds over us.

My mother was thrilled when I went to Iceland 2 years ago. “It’s the land of fire and ice”, she kept saying. I managed to see neither, as it was summer and fairly mild in Reykjavík, and there are no volcanoes in the middle of the city. Besides, the ice part didn’t interest her so much (We’re from Montreal. We know from ice), but I think seeing a volcano erupt is probably on my Mom’s bucket list. I, on the other hand, had never really thought about it. But despite all the amazing things I've done so far, Stromboli has been the highlight. I'll never forget it.

In Ship News: It’s Canada Day, and there’s a party in the OB, with Poutine and music from the 49th parallel and Red balloons (which cost me 15 Euro (!)yesterday in Sicily.) Happy Canada Day!

How Shipbound Got His Cabin Back

I’m a nice guy. No, really, I’m not just saying that, I’m a very nice guy. I’m also fairly good-looking, extremely talented, and I have a disarming charm. (I don’t believe in false modesty.) I have an enormous number of faults too, but I won’t bother mentioning them here. Why ruin your imaginary portrait of me? But back to me being nice. I’m so nice, that I let my drummer Dom (who I love to death) use my cabin while his girlfriend Marisha (who I also love to death) was here for a week visiting. I stayed in his cabin with his roommate, Chris (who I love to death too), who didn’t mind living with his “boss” for a while. I know they would have done the same for me, and they’re 2 people I love very much (to death in fact), so it really wasn’t a big deal. So long as the sheets get changed. Aren’t I nice? So why don’t I have a boyfriend? Fuck, it sucks to be me.

All profane Avenue Q quotes aside, it got me thinking; what do people do who can’t get a cabin to themselves? I know a musician who is dating a dancer who, despite having been together for 2 years, still can’t get a cabin together. She rooms with another dancer, he rooms with another musician. He was lucky for a little while in one contract, when I managed to get him a cabin alone for a couple of months (Don’t ask how I did it. It involved a bit of subterfuge and a bottle of Jack. Granted, it was the ship’s smallest cabin. You had to open the door to change your shoes). There’s a couple on my current ship who are married – MARRIED - and can’t get a cabin to themselves. She was also lucky for a while because she didn’t have a roommate, but that changed this week. Another crewmember came to me last cruise, suggesting an illicit liaison. The first question out of her mouth was ”You have your own room, right? I was surprised that, despite having done 2 contracts together, she had no idea that I played for the Rainbow League. And I ain’t no switch hitter. Apparently, she had a history of barking up the completely wrong trees. We had a laugh about it. A week or so later.

One’s cabin can demonstrate how high up one is in the pecking order. I have been to the Hotel Manager’s cabin several times, (it’s not what you think…) and I am always surprised at how big it is. It’s bigger than my last apartment. In New York, it would rent for about $5000 a month. Easy. AND it has a balcony. AND a bathtub. (Ohhhhhhh a bathtub.) I am apparently high-ish up on the ladder, because I have a room with a double bed and a porthole. (Although I have no discernible power, and no one listens to what I say. Oh well…) A lot of people who don’t share a cabin still have twin bunk beds – which can make relationships challenging, but is useful at least as extra storage. Some of the crew down on B deck share a bathroom between cabins. Cabin location is key, too. On my first ship, my cabin was on the top deck, and I had a couch, a fridge, a DVD player and a picture window. I foolishly assumed (…makes an ass…) that all future accommodations would have similar amenities. Imagine my surprise (Zounds!) on my next contract where I had none of these things. (But I DID have a porthole! You should be happy with what you have! There are starving children in Africa without a porthole!) There are some crewmembers who have cabins in passenger areas or close to passenger areas. Now, fraternization with passengers is verboten, and I’m not saying this ever happens, because it doesn’t. Ever. I swear to God. But it would be fairly easy to sneak a passenger in and out to dance the horizontal tango without so much as a furtive glance. But this is all conjecture.

I have never had sex with a passenger (and if my parents are reading this, I’ve never had sex). But on my last contract, I had a close call. At least the other guy thought so. The ship was in port, and I was eating nachos in the Lido, which is possibly the un-sexiest food ever. There was this gentleman standing around, staring out the window, getting a glass of water, just loitering. He was probably close to 60, but he was in very good shape - very well built, and probably very nice. But he was wearing these little white shorts. With no underwear. I was NOT looking, but when someone is bouncing around in there, one can’t help but notice and think: EEEWWW!! Anyhow, I finished my nachos (remember; unsexy food) and made my way to the elevators back to my room. Who should appear 20 seconds later, but Bouncing Boy. (It should also be mentioned that he had shaved his head bald, and he had the bushiest eyebrows I have ever seen.) He gets on the elevator, we make small talk – nice weather, great cruise, music director hmmm – and he asks “You have your own cabin, right?”. Either I am tremendously naïve or just don’t pick up on clues, but at this point, I still have no idea he’s trying to make me another notch on his Depends. I responded “Yes, and I have a porthole” Make your own joke. Everyone else has. That’s when I start to clue in. Also, he hasn’t pressed his own elevator button, and is headed down to A deck, a crew area. Now, the gangway is on A deck, but midship, whereas I live in the front. So as we step off the elevator, and he looks sheepish and hopeful, the little 15 watt bulb in my head finally lights up, and I have a “eureka” moment. Not a happy one. So, I try to diffuse the situation and guide this gentleman to the gangway. I meant to say “You must be trying to get off the ship”. But instead I say, and get ready for this, “You’re looking to get off, right?”. Well, if I hadn’t been sure he wasn’t wearing underwear before, I certainly knew it now. I mumbled something about having to play for tea time (which was true), ran back to my room and left the guy with the eyebrows to his own devices. He had apparently made goo goo eyes (and other things!) at several other male crewmembers, and one evening over a couple of beers, we all had a good laugh. Poor guy. I wonder if he ever got laid.

By the time this contract ends in November, I will have lived in my current cabin for a total of 16 out of the past 24 months. I have added a few homey touches, such as a bamboo floor mat from Croatia, blue suction cup fish from Italy, a Canada umbrella hat used as a light fixture and dirty clothes on the floor. I’m sitting on my bed typing this right now, in fact. I miss my dogs, and being able to cook. But as much as anything else is, my cabin is my home. But only for now. (That makes 2 Avenue Q quotes!)

How Shipbound Bought his Leather Jacket

Six years ago, I became a vegetarian; primarily at first because my ex RD had decided to, and it made things easier. However, I became convinced that not only was it a healthier lifestyle, but I believed the way in which livestock in North America is raised and slaughtered to be inhumane. RD was actually a vegan for many years and remains a vegetarian (though he used to consume tuna like there was no tomorrow!), but I; I have fallen from grace. On ships, it is practically impossible to remain a vegetarian and consume enough non-animal protein to stay healthy. So I have taken to eating small portions of fish or chicken and once a week, I may indulge and have a steak. I was a lousy vegetarian anyway because I LOOOOOVE meat. My favourite dishes are all meat-eriffic: Butter Chicken, Goat Roti, Gnocchi with Bragiole and/or meatballs, BBQ Ribs, Curried Lamb. Mmmmmm, bacon. Ok enough. It’s 2:30 in the morning, and I don’t have room service for the next 2 days. Despite my reclaimed carnivorousness, I hadn’t recently entertained the idea of purchasing a leather jacket. If meat is murder, then leather and fur must be, well… really bad.

Last week, the ms Big Zed was in Kusadasi, Turkey and I went out shopping with Jenny and Jesse (The 4th member of the ‘J’ club, Joy, didn’t wanna come, so we temporarily removed the ‘J’ from her name and called her “Oy” for a week. Our friend Erin who accompanied us on our evening in Venice was granted Oy’s ‘J’, and thus dubbed “Jerin”. This all must seem quite silly, but it’s great fun). The order of the day was to find Jesse a suit and suit accessories. When the ship was here last month, I bought 4 shirts, 2 ties and a sweater for about 50 bucks, and I had seen a little mall with 5 suit stores. So since I can obviously sniff a bargain out anywhere, I was appointed to lead our intrepid little triumvirate. Well, Kusadasi is a little confusing, and since it has already been determined in these very pages that my super power is the ability to get lost, it took us about an hour and a half to find that damn mall. (We did come across a “Pizza Pizza”, a Canadian chain, which proclaimed on its sign, in English, to be ‘proudly Turkish’.) However, we were having a wonderful time, and there was gelato to be had, so it all worked out. We eventually found the mall, and went to a wonderful store where a wonderful saleswoman served us some wonderful apple tea. Jesse bought a great suit and some shirts and ties. I bought a gorgeous tie (for 7 Euros) and Jenny bought a little sun dress at another store. When we get back to Kusadasi next month, I intend to go to the same store and buy another suit. They were that nice.

So we were walking back to the ship, a little tired and a little hungry. Leather goods are ubiquitous here. The quality is sometimes questionable, and the designs are frequently dated to say the least; there were at least 4 or 5 shops that had jackets that Cher would have rejected during her “Half-Breed” days. Sales people are pushy here too, and repeated calls of 'My friend come spend your money here I’ll give you a good deal’ don’t really inspire me to part with my hard earned dinero (I am one of the cheapest people you’ll ever meet. Hell, I cut my own hair for 10 years just to save a few bucks!) But we passed a more reputable shop, and I saw this great black biker jacket. ("Thank you! I saw it in a window, and I couldn't resist it!"). So on a whim, and NOT AT ALL intending to buy anything, we went in. Well, they didn’t have that jacket in my size. (Turkey tip number 2: Try EVERYTHING on. Sizes on labels mean nothing. I have Medium shirts that I swim in and Large shirts I can’t button up over my pecs [or rather – pec-lets. They’re getting there…] For Turkey tip # 1, please refer to a previous blog entry). (Another amusing side note: When I was in Istanbul looking at shirts, the vendor told me it was possible to ‘taste’ them. It took me about a minute to figure out he meant ‘try’. But I digress.) . The salesman offered the 3 of us apple tea, which we have learned to accept graciously at this point. (Though by this point, I had had so much apple tea, that my teeth were floating). He brought out about 15 jackets that, as I said, I had NO intention to buy. Some were too small, some were too big, some were too too... y’know. But most importantly, they were all leather. I’m a nominal vegetarian, or at least I try to be. I have canvas running shoes. PETA sends me address labels every so often, though I’ve never joined. I shouldn’t be buying leather. Jenny, however, has fallen in love with this long tan jacket with a fox collar that she looks adorable in. It is, unfortunately, one size too small. No Sale. Jesse is trying on stuff, but he’s just bought a suit and shoes, so he’s spent enough money for one day. No Sale. We were just about to leave – we’d finished the tea – when the salesman brings out this dark reddish-brown jacket. I love the colour, I love the cut, but, and I repeat, I HAD NO INTENTION OF BUYING ANYTHING. But what the hell, I try it on.

The ‘J’ club gasps.

I. Look. Amazing. This jacket was made for me. There were cows born merely for the purpose of dying to give up their hide so I could look this good in this jacket. I get a pit in the bottom of my stomach. I can’t buy this. I’m going to throw up. I look at the price tag. 800 Turkish Liras (which is really 800 million Turkish Liras, but they drop the million part to make purchases seem less jaw-dropping). 400 Euros. About 660 American dollars. Oh thank God, it’s too freakin’ expensive, let’s get the hell out of here. No, this is Turkey, they expect you to bargain. I’m sorry I love it but it’s too much thank you for the tea no no we’ll give you a special price my friend 500 dollars. Jenny, getting into the spirit of things, yells out “300 dollars!” And the price war had begun.

When all is said and done, the absolute lowest they could go, the “you’re-killing-me-and- taking-food-away-from-my-family’s-table” price was $350. I thought I was going to throw up. (Jesse, ever the gentleman, said that if I bought it and threw up, he’d buy it from me). We pooled our money, which was 200 US dollars, 60 Euros, and 60 million Turkish Lira. They offered us more apple tea (Oh God no. Thank you, but oh God no), put my purchase in a big thick dark brown plastic bag that matched my jacket, and told us to come back any time.

I didn’t throw up. Jenny suggested that I sleep in the jacket the first night, as an inauguration. I tried, but after about 20 minutes, it got just too damn hot. I did a little catwalk around the OB in it though (Officer’s Bar for the uninitiated). I wore it out for our late Venice stroll a couple of nights later – there was a slight nip in the air – and it felt and smelled and looked great. I wore it with a cute t-shirt I bought in Barcelona (3 Euros) and my new Levis 501s (10 Euros – the same ones I mentioned in my last post). It now hangs in my closet, the single most expensive thing I have ever bought for myself. (The cars don’t count, they weren’t just for me. And the suit that I got at Bloomie’s when RD and I were in NYC 11 years ago was $250, but it was half price). I’m still stunned I was so impulsive. And I still feel a little guilty a full week later.

But Damn! I look good.

Greece 2 Is The Word!

Hey, it’s even funnier the second time!

So I finally got to the Acropolis last week with Jenny and Bruce. All that lovely debris. (Quoting “Ah Paris” always makes me think of my friend Michael, because when we met for the first time at an audition 19 years ago[!!!!] he sang that song. And I know he’ll be reading this so “Hi Michael!”) It was amazing, surreal, and awe-inspiring, even though it’s almost completely covered in scaffolding. It’s odd to think that after its days as a temple to the goddess Athena, it was used as a cathedral and later as a mosque. I guess multi-taking isn’t a 21st century invention.

When my ex RD and I were in New Mexico and walking around the ruins at Chaco Canyon, he said he felt an almost palpable human presence – like we were intruding in someone’s home and any minute, they could walk through the door. That’s what the Acropolis felt like to me. It was very eerie. Even walking up the ancient hillside road, treading along the same path as Athenians had trod thousands of years before me, I almost felt guilty. There were signs everywhere that asked the tourists not to touch the marble. However, I found my right hand inexplicably and without conscious thought leaving the pocket of my Levis 501s (which I bought at a flea market in Civitavecchia for 10 Euros) and reaching out to stroke the ancient walls. I didn’t tell the friends I was with I did this. (Although I guess they’ll know now, if they read this. Besides, we all know those signs don’t apply to me.). And there it was. The connection with Greece that I had been searching for ever since I came. It was almost as if Athena herself had willed my outstretched hand to that wall, knowing the energy and the power I would sense. It was tremendous. However, with about 2000 other interlopers parading around as if it was their God-given right to touch the marble, I soon became angry. Who did these people think they were? This is my sacred place! This is my Goddess-temple/cathedral/mosque/tourist attraction! Begone ye wicked overweight American tourists complaining of your weak dollar and over priced bottled water, else the wrath of Zeus fall on your baseball-capped heads!

I’ve calmed down since. I feel bad that I touched the marble. It was selfish of me, and my acidic oily fingertips have probably now caused that wall to disintegrate. But it allowed me a connection, a window in the soul of an ancient land and people that I have for so long yearned to see and discover.

This marvelous day ended on a very amusing note. We saw the Changing Of The Guard in Syntagma Square in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Although I know it is to be a solemn event, I couldn’t help but giggle uncontrollably. It was unmistakably like John Cleese and his Ministry of Funny Walks. It was time to go back to the ship.