Wednesday, June 7, 2017

How Terrorism Helped My Relationship

It's a ten hour car ride home. It's just the road, my boyfriend and I. Usually this kind of long ride drives me insane and I end up picking a fight with Dusty just to pass the time. But today, I don't have to do that. Luckily for me there was a terrorist attack last night so social media is keeping me occupied with all the night's drama and its ensuing political debate. Being stuck in a car all day is hard but a tragic event and an Internet connection make it a lot more fun.

The attack was in London, a handful are dead and several more are injured. That's awful. But there's more. Trump is mad at the Mayor of London and the world is mad at Trump for being mad at the Mayor. That's interesting. But there's more. Wonder Wonder is number one at the box office. Cool! Oh wait. No one cares because yet again the accomplishments of women are over shadowed by the destructiveness of men. It's just another day on Earth. Scroll on!

We stop for gas and Dusty asks for an update on the attacks and instead of boring him with the facts I give him a politicized briefing: The left wants everyone to remain peaceful but the right wants the left to wake up and get rid of all the Muslims. Dusty either doesn't hear me, or is too exhausted from driving to muster up a response. Usually this kind of silent treatment irritates me but I've got a dozen headlines running through my head and no energy to get sassy. Instead, I go into the station, pee, buy some candy and return to the car. Just six and a half more hours to go. I go back on my phone immediately.

Even though I've only been away from Twitter for five minutes, I refresh my feed and there are a bunch of new updates. The attacks are spawning a glorious tug of war between liberals and republicans and it's all very petty which is why it's so entertaining. Each side *knows* that they are right and the other side is wrong and they all take to the Internet to prove their righteousness in a heated battle of hashtags and insults. There are also some heart felt condolences being sent to the victims and their families, but I ignore these because I'm trying to survive a long car ride and kind sentiments are about as fun as starring out the window.

My leg starts to cramp and the Internet moves away from praying for London and towards vilifying Trump.  It's an online debate, or as I like to think of it, a human civil war between tolerance and xenophobia-or, if you're conservative- realism and political correctness. I've been on my phone for a couple of hours, and most of the tweets about the London attacks aren't even about the attacks anymore. Liberals are attacking Trump, conservatives are attacking liberals and the travel ban is trending again (a fun call back to three months ago.) I look at Dusty behind the wheel and think how great it is that we haven't fought all day. Today, ISIS is the best thing to happen to our relationship.

After three bathroom breaks, two fuel stops, and one mouth-watering meal at Western Sizzlin, we make it home to Nashville. Dusty is spent from driving and my eyes hurt from looking at my phone. We are tired but we are tired together. I feel like our love has grown and to celebrate we order a pizza and watch Family Feud. We made it through a ten hour car ride with out arguing. I was too busy watching the world get a divorce to fight with my boyfriend and I consider that a victory.

Thursday, June 1, 2017

Tortured Actresses Are The Elixir Of My Soul

It's three in the morning and I'm watching Lindsay Lohan on YouTube again. I will regret this tomorrow when my eyes feel like they've been dropped kicked from starring at my iPhone for too long, but right now, watching Lindsay rattle on about her refugee work while simultaneously looking like a puffy-faced crack whore, satiates my soul. This is the third night in a row I've binge watched clips of troubled actresses and I've never felt more connected to the universe. In the way that people watch Oprah for inspiration, I rely on interviews of crazy actresses for a better understanding of myself.

Lindsay is an awful role model and that's why I love her so much. She is the perfect antidote to a world that tries to force feed me yoga retreats and ah ha moments. I'm sick of shiny botoxed actresses selling me their daily skin care routines and inspirational journeys. Show me a liar, an addict, an entitled child star who blew all her money on coke and designer clothes and I'll show you someone who's Ted Talk I would listen to. In a culture that champions personal growth and teaching moments, Lindsay Lohan dares to be an abject, perpetual fuck up. She's not an empowered, strong woman and that's why I like her.

In my life, I've indulged in several self pity and booze fueled benders but I've never had enough courage to really fall apart. It takes a lot of guts to be an addict and I am too much of a control freak to have that much fun. I wish I could let go, abandon my ambition, and for once in my life be brave enough to ruin my life. But I won't do that, I like staying hydrated. I am a coward and it takes a bold woman to be a mess.

Judy Garland is perhaps my favorite horrifying example of the perils of being a child star. Like beauty, addiction is in the eye of the beholder and in every interview I've ever watched of her, Judy denies being an addict. She always insisted that if she was as messed as everyone claimed she was, she never would have been able to sing at all. Indeed, until her dying day her voice never showed any signs of corruption, but her frail face and emaciated body screamed a different, more twisted story. Her incredible talent never fell victim to her substance abuse- she could always wow an audience- but after only forty seven years, her body expired, exhausted from a life time of pain and the medication that failed to quell it.

If I was a genius I'd totally be an addict, but I can't party all the time and still be productive so unfortunately, I am doomed to a life of inner peace. Although I'm bummed that I can't rage and be successful, I am glad that I understand my talent has limits. I am only as good as the amount of sleep I get and this is a point where Lindsay Lohan and I connect.

Lindsay pranced around Hollywood thinking her talent was immune to life in the fast lane but she miscalculated and her career paid the price for it. Unlike Judy, Lindsay's gifts were not indestructible and as Lindsay's substance abuse continued, her once bright eyed, compelling screen presence morphed into one-dimensional, unremarkable performances. Lindsay Lohan was not talented enough to be an addict and not lucky enough to realize that her that gifts were finite. Lindsay should be an example of why not to romanticize drug addled famous people, but her stubborn pursuit of bliss in the face of her tanking career is the antithesis to self awareness, and so I relish her all the more, for her ignorance, her naivety, and most of all, her arrogance.

Pondering Judy and Lindsay's unfortunate lives is a respite for me; a happy place where I protect myself from positive vibes and strong woman. Judy and Lindsay are examples of weakness, people who were and are incapable of over coming their flaws. There's are not motivational stories, but real stories, human stories that remind me that sometimes whatever doesn't kill you, still kills you. I turn to these woman because they crumbled under pressure, and for that reason, they give me strength.

Sunday, May 21, 2017

The Pitch Of Love: A story about family, betrayal, and indoor soccer

The TV was so loud that I could only see, not hear, the phone call that changed my family forever. My dad stood still in the middle of the kitchen, clasping the phone between his chin and shoulder, but as the news sank in, his head began to move back and forth, twisting in such an over-the-top, directionless chaos, that I didn't even notice the phone drop; I blinked, and the chord was just swinging beside him, like deranged pendulum. My dad collapsed to the ground and I ran into the room, meeting him on the cold, hardwood floor. He broke the news to me fast: Hannah, I'm so sorry. You didn't make the soccer team.

My life would never be the same.

I actually did make the soccer team, just not the starting line up, but to my dad, being benched was an even greater sin than being cut. That a Hogan, a family respected for generations as supreme baseball, hockey and rugby players, would be condemned to the bench, was not only an embarrassment, but an egregious insult; an attack on our entire family too terrifying for my dad to accept. So he didn't, and, instead, declined the offer and immediately began plotting his revenge.

Invigorated by spite, my dad did something that had never been done before in the history of Peterborough sports. He formed another all star soccer team; a second, alternative squad, that was in the same league as, and would compete against, the team who had just rejected us. Like Hitler, my dad attempted a coup on the Under 13 Girls Indoor Soccer League, declaring himself the new coach in town and his daughter its captain. His bold seizure of power was poorly received by the original all star team- they were furious-and what should have been a fun loving season of soccer, a way for kids and parents to get through the long winter months, turned into a hellish nightmare of divided loyalties and tween in-fighting. Parent turned against child, child turned against parent. Friendships burned under a fire of bruised egos and Seventeen Magazines.

My team, unaffectionately referred to as the B Team, was comprised of several out of shape, flat footed, and athletically challenged thirteen year old girls. My dad, however, ignored these glaring deficiencies and began every practise with a melodramatic filibuster about being underdogs. I didn't buy into his propaganda because I had a talent for seeing through hubris, since, as a pre-teen, most of the time, I was creating it. In the beginning, I oppressed my disdain for my dad and the spectacle he called coaching, but as the season progressed, we digressed, losing every game. The harder our team fell, the more determined to win my dad became, and his competitive focus was always directly proportional to my rising levels of irritation. We began to argue. The shame of failure weighed on me. The stigma of being related to the man who instigated this civil war taunted me. I sucked, my team sucked, my dad was delusional, and I was in love with Leonardo DiCaprio. There were too many things going.

The playoffs arrived and since the universe enjoyed tormenting me, we were up against the A Team. We came out hard, but at the end of the first half, our team was down by five. According to my dad, we still had a shot, but I disagreed. Just as I had predicted, we were losing, and I wanted the game, the season, and this humiliating chapter of my life to be over. The second half began, but I was going through the motions, so I asked my dad to take me off the field- to bench me- but he refused. Hustle up, Hogan! Push, it Hogan! I don't know what bothered me more, the fact that I wasn't allowed to rest, or that my dad called me by my last name like I was his slave, or worse, his bro.

Annoyed, I did what I always do when things aren't going my way, I played dirty. I tripped, shoved, pushed, and sadistically chopped at the A Teams legs like I was a sous chef on Adderall. I cut a girl off from behind, and was given a yellow card, but despite my reckless behavior, my dad still wouldn't take me out of the game. This enraged me, so I faked a heat stroke, and the game stopped for five minutes. I pretended I couldn't breath, but my dad called my bluff, and hollered at me to keep playing. I should have channeled my anger into the soccer game, but I didn't, and instead, I snapped. In the middle of a play, I stopped running, quit chasing the ball, quite literally, I just gave up. I completely disengaged from the game, ignoring and avoiding the action, and soon my teammates instructed each other to not pass me, their captain, the ball.

When clock ran out, and we officially lost the game, I was satisfied in the way that only an unruly pre-teen can be satisfied, with a mixture of glowing contempt and stubborn resolve. In the car ride home, my dad declared that he would never coach a girls team again, he said that was too hard, that you can't push girls the same way you can push boys. I took things a step further, and banned him from ever attending any of my future soccer games. I exiled him from my athletic life forever and he never participated in the Peterborough Girls Indoor Soccer League again. I'm not sure if it's connected to me being a female, but I agree with my dad, I don't like to be pushed. After all, I am a Hogan- even if I lose, I find a way to win.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Nashville, Now.

I called myself crazy the other day, and my boyfriend tried to convince me I'm not by telling me a story about himself. He told me that when he was a teenager, he always called himself weird. Then his brother-in-law said, Why are you calling yourself weird? You're not weird. Stop saying that. So, my boyfriend stopped calling himself weird and eventually, he stopped feeling weird. In that vein, if I stop calling myself crazy, I won't be crazy anymore. It's an interesting anecdote, full of flaws, but interesting.

I can be myself with my boyfriend but I can't walk all over him, which is a true oxymoron. I always thought that The Taming Of The Shrew was a sexist story; that a woman must yield to a man in order to experience true peace. I suppose that, by modern axioms, submitting to the will of a man is the antithesis of feminism, but I know female activists, full of independence, free from the claws of men, and so many of them are hopped up on antidepressants and drunk most of the time. Sometimes I worry that feminism is the gateway drug to mental illness. I know a lot of house wives are closet alcoholics too, so maybe, life is maddening no matter what brand you follow.

I don't have the answers, so I try to listen to my heart, but it's deaf and dumb, and not very helpful. My boyfriend tells me, I love you, don't worry, everything is going to be great, but I'm so afraid I'm gonna die or he is going to die, or worse, neither one of us is going to be famous. If I'm not successful it's because I wasn't good enough, but if we stay together, and he doesn't make it big, it will be because I weighed him down. These are the thoughts that I think. I don't say them out loud, because that would make me a negative person and no one wants to date a pessimist, except for maybe an optimist, because opposites attract.

I'm viscerally aware that I could be making a terrible decision, throwing away my plans by moving to the south for a guy, yet the longer I'm with him the more I adore him. My heart has trapped me, or my co-dependance, which is the same thing. I spent ten years doing comedy in Canada, working to accomplish enough to move to America, and then I throw it all away so I can watch Family Feud in the arms of man that I met at an open mic. It's foolish, I know. But the idea of being a thirty something actress starting all over in LA, networking, beaching, traffic, woman in comedy, trying so damn hard to be famous, sounds way more depressing. I just wanna live, or so I keep telling myself.

They say you fall in love with what you need, so I needed a recovering alcoholic, Christian from a trailer park. Every room he walks into he shakes peoples hands. It takes him so long to walk through a comedy club, where as I can work an entire weekend with out saying hello to one waitress. If his gas tank fills up before he gets to the amount he paid for, he goes back into the station and gets his money back. When that happens to me, I always just drive off, but he will go in and get that extra ninety cents, every time. It's my money, he says. And I think, you're right. It is you're money.

I was feeling sorry for myself the other day, thinking that my unresolved childhood trauma is the reason I feel unstable. I said to my boyfriend, The accident ruined me. It made me angry. I'm always going to be terrible to deal with because of what happened. And then he said, But didn't you yell at your mom before she got in the car? The accident didn't make you like this, you've always had a temper.  And that should have been the worst thing anyone has ever said to me but because he said it, it was only kind. I'm not a bitch because I'm broken, I'm broken because I'm a bitch. It's an interesting anecdote, full of unfathomable, un-integratable realities, but interesting.

Thursday, May 4, 2017

It's Not An Apology He Wants

My ex said our relationship was toxic.

He took me out for coffee, two years after we broke up, to tell me that. Well, I paid for my own coffee, but it's the thought that counts. I was surprised he reached out to me, because other than when I emailed him to tell him that he might have HPV, we hadn't spoken since we broke up.

We met up, and it was awkward, but I'm a good conversationalist, so it was fine. There was some small talk, but we mostly reminisced on our tumultuous relationship. Always an opportunist, I apologized to him to for being a difficult girlfriend. I was reading a lot of self help books, so I was confident I had the right vernacular to trick him into thinking I'd changed. He assured me not to worry about it, that it was all in the past. He was always a really nice guy, so, not my type.

One time, when we were dating, I told him I was going home for the weekend, but I didn't go home, I locked myself in my apartment and smoked pot for three days. It was a self induced, really weird, super dark, weed coma- I do that sometimes- and since, like I said, it was weird, I didn't invite him. Instead, I lied to him. Thinking I was gone, and wanting to do something sweet for me, he showed up to my apartment. He was dropping off some candies for when I got back into the city, but smelling the weed through the door, he knew I was home and I was officially caught red-handed, or pipe-handed. I let him in, and even though I was high, he was the one who looked messed up. 

We continued to date.

Eventually, we did break up and he politely asked me to not do any stand up jokes about him. I did any way. He immediately deleted me from Facebook and we didn't talk for a long time. Then, one day, as exes tend to do, he suggested we catch up, and I obliged, because I needed some new stand up material.

I found out that he always suspected that I cheated on him, which is not true, I never cheated on him. I thought, wow, this guy thinks I'm a monster, so I put on my best, fake Hannah, and sincerely apologized to him. I'm so sorry. I was terrible to you. You didn't deserve it. Bla bla bla. After two hours, thank God, it was over. We parted ways and he added me back on Facebook. 

I thought it was over. Closure. I was wrong. Two weeks later, he asked me out for coffee again and we had the exact same conversation. Again. I thought we covered everything at the first reunion, but he wasn't done yet. I was running out of things to say to him, so I just kept apologizing. I didn't know what else he wanted from me.

The conversation started to lull, and then out of no where, he said, You were always mean to your dad. You should be nicer to your dad. This gave me pause. I definitely should be nicer to my dad, but I didn't know that he knew that. It hurt. I still think about it. I can't believe I dated someone so heartless.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Nashville, Now.

I only went to the Earth Day Protest because I was starving. I would normally never go to such a spectacle because I am no fool, not any more, any way. I've learned this year that if Christianity is indoctrination, so is Liberalism. This is what I have learned living in the south. I started listening to conservative talk radio ironically, but I was still listening.

It being a Saturday, and as I found out, the farmers market, the city was busy. Couples, families, children, and the majority of them, I observe, white people, frolick the quaint streets like a human dog park. I decide to go to the same breakfast place I went to the day before and, because I am a creature of routine, I order the same meal again too. I bet people think it's sad, me eating by myself, but they don't know that I'm a comedian and eating alone is part of the job. You have to be funny, but it's more important to be able to stay sane; to be able to face yourself in a hotel room for a weekend, that is the real craft.

In the restaurant, I notice a sign: This is a sanctuary restaurant, there is a seat for everyone at this table. I look around the room and, again, it is a sea of affluent looking white people. My first instinct is to mock the sign. Maybe it's because I'm a comedian or maybe it's because I'm too impressionable. For a second, I think, what do these people know-but what am I thinking, what is that thought? I remind myself that I am an immigrant, and sanctuary spaces are for people like me, anxiety ridden misanthropes, brunettes.

I leave the breakfast place, and I see that the farmers market is closing down, but I'm ok with this because I don't need anything. Maybe I should buy someone a gift? It will make me feel good to remind myself that I am, or can be, a nice person. But I don't buy anyone a gift. I just keep walking and working out a joke in my head about getting older.

I saunter toward the capitol building. The building is large and impressive and demands to be approached. I read that the city is built on an Indian burial ground and that the capitol building has burned down twice. I bet that most locals probably don't even know about the capitols sorry past, only the tourists who look into it. I wonder if places, like people, can have bad luck, and I decide yes, and add that, it's probably the places that engender people with bad luck in the first place. I take out my joke book and write this down. I'm feeling profound.

It's a beautiful day, a little windy, and I think, this place is just like Canada. Whenever Americans complain about Canada's weather, that's what I always say, I say Canada isn't so cold, it's just windy. But Canada is cold. It's cold and windy. Wind is cold. I like to defend Canada. Canada is easy to defend.

I can see with my own eyes that this is a good city, a safe city, and that it is doing cool things, like exercise and pet salons. I'm sure they have those in the south too, pet salons, but the name strikes me as ridiculous. I'm comparing the north and the south, liberals and conservatives, because even though I am a liberal, or was a liberal, I live in the south, and perform in the south, and walking through this progressive town is giving me culture shock.

I listen to the Earth Day speakers. The crowd is cheering and protesting, but everyone seems to be in total support of the cause. Who are they complaining to? They are talking to themselves. I do that sometimes. I talk to myself. I just need to say the things out loud, confirm my story, it usually happens when I'm at my healthiest or very angry.

I see a table with a man selling Socialism pamphlets. It says, Build the Left, Fight the Right, which sounds aggressive, and decidedly American, so I respect it. I ask the man how much the pamphlet costs, he says one dollar and smiles at me, and I think, this place reminds me of home. It's so nice here, but then I correct myself, but this isn't the real world, and then another thought, wow. it's weird that I think like that now.

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Growing Pains: The Story of a Young Female Comedian

The comedy community means two things to me, comedy and boys. Over the years, I have entangled myself in both pursuits, with varying amounts of success on each account. I have suffered great pains and great joys as a comedian, or as the rest of the world calls me, a female comedian, but I am still alive tell the tale, and I regard my mistakes as battle scars and my victories as flukes.

A cool skater girl in college always told me how funny and talented I was, so, naturally, we became best friends. I liked hanging out with her because when we'd go out together she would pull me out of my shell, talk to anyone, and through proximity to her, people, or as I call them, idiots, thought I was fun too. I was interested in comedy, and she wanted to have a good time, so I asked her if she wanted to start a sketch troupe with me.  She said yes, and my first sketch comedy troupe was born; conceived in the womb of my insecurity and born into the world I was desperate to please.

I looked up sketch comedy troupes in the city and I stumbled upon a popular sketch comedy show that happened every weekend. I went by myself, watched their show, and it was packed and awesome and I was impressed. I sat quietly by myself in the corner, watching the show in awe and hoping the guy comedians would talk to me, but they didn't, and I didn't talk to them either. I don't think of myself this way anymore, but at the time, I was shy.

This is where my college best friend flirts her way into the story. Determined to befriend the guys in the sketch troupe, the next weekend, I took her to the sketch show with me, and my entire experience changed. She and I drank lots of beer, and after the show, without hesitation, she ran up to all the performers and introduced herself to them. She talked to all the cool people, like she was allowed to, and I followed her lead. We closed down the bar with the cool guy comedians, and it was the most exciting time I'd ever had in Toronto.

After that night, we were hooked. I dragged her to every show, and she enjoyed it, because it involved lots of beer, boys and often times, late night karaoke. We went to almost every show for 6 months, but slowly, our relationship with the guys in the sketch troupe began to change. At first, we were the cute, new girls, but soon, too soon, we became the drunk, annoying girls. Some of the guys, to be clear, were nice to us, but most of them were aloof and ignored us. I totally noticed the dynamic change, but we kept going to their shows, telling ourselves that, eventually, they will like us.

One night, or a couple, I slept with one of the guys in the sketch troupe. That marked the end of any hope I had of the guys in the sketch troupe respecting me as a person, let alone a comedian. It didn't matter that I was passionate about comedy, I slept with one of the guys, so I was a slut. I was officially, and this is hard for me to admit, a comedy groupie.

But we kept going to their shows even though I knew they didn't like us anymore, and I suspected that they made fun of us behind our backs. Who knows, maybe they never thought about us, but we thought about them, all the time. We wanted them to like us. I wanted them to think I was funny. But the harder I tried to win their friendship, the meaner they got.  Every week, they got a little crueler to us, but we kept going, kept getting wasted, kept trying and failing to impress them.

Finally, I accepted that they didn't like us and I stopped going to their shows. I tried to comfort myself  with the notion that maybe the cool guy comedians hated all young, female comics- that they just didn't like woman in comedy, that sexism was the root of the problem, not me personally. But my theory was blown wide open when, just after I stopped hanging out with them, two new, young, female comedians stormed the Toronto comedy scene, and became beloved by them and everyone else in the city.

I licked my wounds and watched the new female comedians steal my thunder, the thunder that I never had which is what made it hurt even more. The girls were just like my friend and I, best friend, female comedians, only they were way more popular and funny.  It turns out the sketch guys didn't hate young, funny girls, they just hated us. I didn't understand why these girls were welcomed into the scene, and not me. Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that I was drunk for half a year, but in my defense, I was really good at Irish accents, so they were missing out.

I saw the new girls take everything I wanted, all the stage time and all the respect. They got on all the best shows, were considered professionals, meanwhile everyone just kept telling me that I had a lot of potential. I'd see pictures blow up on Facebook of the new girls at parties with the cool sketch guys, all of them getting along, seemingly patting each other on the back for how funny and cool they all were. I wasn't invited to the parties and no one was asking me to be on shows.

I smoked cigarettes on my back porch re-playing all the cold shoulders that had been thrown my way that year. I felt misunderstood and alone, but I wasn't. My best friend was there with me, going through the same rejection. We had no shows, no friends, but we had each other. It was the lowest point, socially, I've ever felt as a comedian, and eventually, I got over it, but I never forgot it. Since all this went down, ten years ago, whenever I've run into some of the sketch guys, they are still unfriendly. I guess they'll always see me as an annoying groupie, which is fine, because I'll always see them as assholes.

Monday, April 10, 2017

Nashville, Now

I do stand up a lot.

I do stand up more now than I ever have at any point in my ten years working in the entertainment industry. I moved to America on a visa that only permits me to work as an actress or stand up comedian. I can only work as an "entertainer" which basically means that I dream of being a waitress.

I live in Nashville because I fell in love with a southern man, who is also a comedian, and he sold me on the idea of moving down south and doing stand up together. I accepted, because every Canadian moves to LA or New York, and I like to be different. When I see pictures of Canadians in LA, all hanging out with each other on the beach, I'm like, oh gosh, I really dogged a bullet, but then I look out my window and see a confederate flag, and accept that there are lots of different ways to be an embarrassment.

I can only work as an actress or stand up, but there is very little acting work in Nashville, plus I'm not a good actress, so I am relegated to making a living in stand up, something I never had to do until I moved to America. There is one club in Nashville, which is very good to me, but in order to pay rent and buy weed, I go on the road. I am road comic, and believe me, it is as sexy as it sounds.

My life for over a year has been nothing but stand up.

I think about stand up all the time. Since I'm a girl and Canadian, I also think about how to sell myself to southern audiences, and it has been a series of trials and errors. Whenever someone tells me to "just have fun on stage", I wanna say fuck you, which is probably not the healthiest response. I will clarify, stand up can fun, but I didn't get into show business to have fun, I got into it to prove myself, to who or what, I'm not quite sure, and if anything has remained constant over ten years, it is that insecure driving force.

When I first moved to Nashville, I tried to maintain the routine I had in Canada. In Toronto, I would wake up around 10am, write for a few hours, go to the gym, read, and then go out and do shows at night. But when I moved to the States, I quickly learned, that that routine was impossible, as was any  routine, of any kind.

I wasn't able to write the way I wrote in Canada, which frustrated me, because also in my first few months in America, I discovered how little stand up material I actually had, and what jokes did work had no through line. I didn't have an act so much as 4-7 jokes I'd accumulated over five years. I had writers block and ten minutes to try to make a living off.  I could showcase well, but anything more than hosting and I was essentially screwed.

It wasn't until Zanies gave me a month of work hosting last July that I actually came up with new material. They gave me permission to experiment on stage, which was awesome. I learned that I don't need to write, especially over write, before trying something on stage. It taught me to just have an idea, the funny part, maybe a tag or two, but to just test the idea first, and play with it, and don't worry about nailing down the exact wording right away.

After a month at Zanies I had a couple of new bits and decided to not quit comedy yet. I wanted to retire all my old jokes, but I had nothing to replace them with, so I was still doing four year old jokes about getting gang-banged even though sometimes I was on the same show as my real life boyfriend.  I had a few new bits, but bits don't mean anything if there is no personality behind it. 

In the fall, I became preoccupied with what I looked like on stage. I was very self conscious of how I was coming across to the audience, and for a while, I was sure that if I looked super hot, this would help me. It was mostly insecurity. In my own estimate, I was doing really poorly on the road. I got polite laughter mostly every where I went, or I would bomb. So I thought, well I might as well look great if I'm gonna bomb. I started wearing heels on stage, full make-up, lipstick, hair done, nails. The full effect. I always hear "dress on stage how you would on a first date" but let me tell you, I've put more effort into what I look like doing stand up than I ever have for a man.

This approach lasted for a few months. Working weekends at clubs, Thursday through Sunday, two shows a night, is a long time to wear heels on stage. By the time Saturday night hit, my feet would be killing me, and I still wasn't doing any better on stage.  I became disillusioned again. I don't doll up in my real life, so I went back to jeans and t-shirt, and attempted a more Louis CK, schlubby approach. I never looked bad on stage, but I was over being glamorous, because all I really wanted to be was legitimately funny.

Then, I went on the road again.

One show, I left the mic in the mic stand, and just stood on stage, not moving very much. This made me feel really grounded, and I had a good set, just standing in one spot telling jokes, so I thought, ok, maybe this is my thing. I'm the "leave the mic in the mic stand comedian", and for a while, it really helped me focus on saying my jokes in a funny way. Instead of yelling my jokes and feeling like I had to be a circus-ring leader or weird hype woman, I could just say what I wrote, you know, just be funny. That was the idea, the execution of this theory was not so flawless. I worked with Wendy Liebman, who I love so much, and she's a petite woman and also very much her sweet self on stage, and what I love about her is that she never jumps around or is loud on stage. Her skill and jokes speak for themselves, and she draws the audience into her and crushes. So I thought, ok, that's what I'll do. I'll write really good jokes, be chill, cause I'm chill, right, and then my skill will be so good I won't need to be energetic at all.

I did this for several months.

I never took the mic out of the stand, and I was like, ok cool, this is what I do now, but then I worked a weekend performing for a mostly black audience and changed everything again.  I was like oh shit I need to move around, these audiences don't like "wry". So, I fundamentally changed who I was on stage for an urban club, which is a hack and terrible thing to do, but I'm out here trying to work and get hired again so I just need to make people laugh and I can't worry about appeasing some UCB rule book of what is cool.  UCB doesn't do comedy in the fucking Bible Belt. So I got hacky, and I got hacky fast. I took the mic out of the stand, and I moved my eyebrows around a bunch, and I strut around stage like I was on Comic View and I never said anything bad about the Clintons and I didn't die on stage which was all I was trying to do. I learned that it felt good to be goofy on stage, and that maybe trying to be cool and chill wasn't really me, so I was like, ok, I'm gonna move around on stage again.

Then I went to a festival and there was another comic there, a super hot black guy, and I thought he was amazing, but then I thought about him later, and thought, was he really funny or did he just look cool? He had great style, and a cool hair cut- he looked like the kind of guy that is way to cool for me and I respected that. So right now I'm on this tip where I need to look cool on stage. Not hot, cooooooool. I bought a pair of white converse shoes, I'm wearing black tank tops, and a lot of dark eye make up. It turns out that it is expensive to look cool, and try as I might, I still know that everything I'm wearing is from Target.

I was working at a club and a male comic discussed with the owner how he likes woman to dress like woman on stage. He said it so matter of factly, like woman should take advantage of being attractive, like it's that simple. Just throw on some blush and I've got an hour. Wow. Thanks.

I'd rather be a beast than look pretty on stage, and I would hope, club owners would rather me do a great job for their paying audience, than be mediocre and look like a day time talk show host.

But hey, if someone knows how a Canadian female road comic can crush audiences in the south, then please tell me. I need all the help I can get.

Monday, April 3, 2017

Self Esteem via Unrequited Love

The greatest loves of my life were not men I actually dated. 

This is probably offensive to anyone I've been in a relationship with and to the institution of monogamy as a whole. I'm not proud of the fact, nor is it healthy, that the men who have had the biggest impact on me, were those I've never kissed, and in some cases, never even had more than a five minute conversation with. The ones that got away because I never really had them, have, individually, had a huge influence on the trajectory of my life, and at the risk of blowing my cover, I'd like go into detail about one such gentlemen now.

Context is everything. Before I discuss this particular infatuation, first allow me to paint the picture of Hannah Hogan in the year 2008.

I had just graduated from acting school and was trying to get an agent, but no one was returning my land-line phone calls.  I've never had more stamina in my "career" than right after I graduated college, so I wasn't discouraged, rather, I felt invigorated by the industry's apathy towards me. I was Meryl Streep being told by Hollywood that her nose was too big, I thought rejection was necessary step in the life of any great talent, followed immediately by me becoming a national treasure and my home town renaming its streets after me. I also suspected that, if I were poor, I would work harder, so I refused financial assistance from my family- the bravest thing a white woman can do- and got a job at Timothy's, a Canadian coffee shop that wanted to sound like Tim Hortons but look like Starbucks. The day job paid my rent, and allowed me to afford my own head shots, acting classes and of course, Belmont Mild cigarettes. I was an actress now, so I had to stay on brand.

I made the mistake of signing up for classes at The Second City, and was immediately infected with the improv virus, a disease that took me years to shake from my system. At the time, however, I loved improv, and I thought I was on a path destined for SNL or the very least, This Hour Has Twenty Two Minutes. I wanted all the stage time I could get, which is hard, because unlike stand up, improv is a coordinated event, where a group of people, if not always an audience, must agree to show up and perform. Team work has never been my strong suit, hence, why I am now a stand up comedian, but I was too young then to recognize my flaws, and instead pushed ahead, foolishly thinking I worked well with others.

It was my great fortune that, after taking a Harold Class, I was invited to be on an improv team at The Bad Dog Theater. I was thrilled to be asked to be on a team, because it was the first time any one, other than myself, had recognized my talent. I always suspected that I was amazing, and believed I was an undiscovered living legend, but no one else had openly acknowledged my genius, so when I was cast on a team, I was reassured that my path to stardom was going according to plan.

There were a few hitches, though, namely, that I was a bad improviser. The problem with having a lot of passion is that that's all it is: a lot of energy, not enough skill.  I thought I had "great ideas", but my team mates informed me that I was just "bulldozing every scene." Apparently, improv is about listening and being grounded, two principles that confounded and disturbed. How can I listen if I'm busy being the funniest person on stage? None of it made sense. So, after a few terrible shows, and an audibly frustrated team and coach, my confidence began to wane. I got in my head, which is not a good place to be in when doing improv, sex, or karaoke. After all the classes, rehearsals and shows, I felt like I was getting worse at comedy, like I was un-talented, or at the very least, like every one around me sucked, and both these conclusions depressed me.

Like all my great loves, I fell for him right when I was ready to give up.

I showed up at The Bad Dog Theater and had already resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have another terrible show. I knew I was doomed to bomb on stage, or worse, be mediocre. Internally, I was in a foul mood, but on the surface, I was smiling and talking a lot, most people probably considered me cheerful, but inside, I had forsaken my hope of ever being funny, and it was with this suicidal attitude that I took to the stage to entertain.

I don't know what I said, I just went on stage and started talking, probably in an incomprehensible accent, very typical of my sensibilities at the time. I expected who ever joined me on stage would call me crazy, we'd die a slow death, and then someone would sweep the scene and relieve the room of our treachery.  That, however, is not what happened. HE came on stage, and began delivering all these brilliant straight man responses to my over-the-top, hack, character. He made me look good, and the audience was laughing at me, at him, and at us. Our scene was funny, and the audience loved every bit of it. The show proceeded, and every time I walked on stage, he joined me, and again, we crushed it- together. It was the first time that my identity as a genius actually manifested its self in real life and I was shocked when I didn't receive a standing ovation at the end of the show.

I fell in love with him because he made me look good, which is the only reason to fall in love with someone.  It should be noted that we were on an improv team for several weeks before this particular show, but it was not until he made me look funny that I in any way noticed him as a sexual being. I always knew he was handsome, but so are a lot of guys, and I need something more in a man, namely, their ability to prop up my self esteem.

Thus ensued my summer long infatuation with a guy on my improv team. Our team had weekly rehearsals, and it shocks me to admit now, but improv was the best part of my week because I got to see him. Of course, when he was around, I didn't talk to him, in fact, I mostly avoided him. I thought he was so cute, talented and amazing that I blushed at the site of him and I didn't want him to know I liked him because he had a girlfriend but mostly because, deep down, I thought he was out of my league. From what I gathered creeping his Facebook, he was very well educated, a real prodigy,   and had lots of friends who did fun things like drink and play pool. I, on the other hand, am not well educated, not unless you count a two year diploma for Acting For Film and TV, and while I had friends, they were not mainstream cool, namely, they were improvisers.  I felt honored to even know him, confused as to why he was even doing improv, but blessed because working with him made me want to be funnier, and wanting to impress him inspired me to work harder.

That summer, while in the throws of unrequited love, I started a sketch comedy troupe. It was all I could do to keep myself above ground. Our sketch troupe performed every Thursday, and we wrote and performed new sketches every week. I was riding the waves of love and the ensuing creativity that were the symptoms of said love. They say Aphrodite is the goddess of love and creativity, and if my twenties taught me anything, it is true that love or lust definitely arouse great amounts of art, or in my case, character monologues.

I began reading The Artists Way, which is a very artsy self help book that helped me to identify my insecurities, creative blocks and deepest desires. I felt good artistically but awful emotionally. To distract myself, and appear popular on Facebook, I started hanging out with other comedians, going to parties, making friends, writing, and of course, making vision boards. It was summer in Toronto! The flowers in the Annex were blooming, people were getting Vitamin D again, life was rich and painful and I was inspired by every love-sick moment of it.

Then, suddenly, tragedy struck. One day at rehearsal, he announced he was quitting the improv team because he was moving away, to another city. I was devastated. I was almost ready to make eye contact with him, and now he was leaving me, perhaps forever. I went through all the normal stages of grief, but landed on denial, and decided to hang out there for a while. How was I going to stay inspired if he was gone? How was I going to be funny with out him? I started drinking more, and really related to the pop song, Bleeding Love, by one hit wonder, Leona Lewis.

The last improv show we did together was a very big deal to me, and after wards, I analyzed every moment of the scene, looking for subconscious hidden meanings behind the "chicken scene", but came to no satisfying conclusions, no real evidence, that he had feelings for me. After the show, I walked up to him and said, it was nice improvising with you, you are so talented,  and he said, thanks, and then walked away, out of my life, forever. He was always, unlike this blog, a master of brevity.

The next week, after he abandoned me, through Bad Dog Theater, I had an audition for a TV show. They were doing an across Canada search for young comedians. I auditioned, it went well, and I got a call back. I auditioned a third time, and was cast as one of the leads of the new sketch TV show called, "That's So Weird". It was so stressful auditioning for the show, but when I felt untalented, or like I couldn't shake-off my self doubt, I thought of him. I thought that he thought that I was funny, and I kept going.  To this day it amazes me that I booked that show. Since then, I have bombed so many Tim Horton's commercials, but at that time, I channelled my twisted, perceived confidence HE had in me, and it made me feel invincible.

Eventually, because I got a real life boyfriend, I deleted him off Facebook and I got over it.  I am embarrassed that I let my infatuation go so long and deep, and now that I've had serious relationships, I know I didn't actually love him. You can't love someone you don't know, or at least that is the mature thing I feel like I should say at this point of the story. I'm thankful for him being in my life, for the brief few months that he was, because he did bring out the best in me, and that's what love is supposed to do.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Now, in Nashville

I was sick for a month and was convinced I was dying. I woke up one morning with a runny nose, and this was all the evidence I needed to substantiate my suspicion that a decade of seasonal smoking and a year of Nashville hot chicken were finally catching up to me. My friends reassured me it was just Tennessee allergies, or the flu, but my anxiety knew the truth: I was happy and in love, so the next logical thing to happen was that my life was going to fall a part, like a twisted Greek tragedy or the American political system. In an attempt to get my affairs in order, for posterity, I deleted any tweets that didn't get at least three re-tweets and I created a YouTube highlight reel of all my best stand up jokes. If I was going to die, I wanted the world to remember me as I was, an obscure female comedian.

It happened like this: I woke up alone one day because my boyfriend was out of town, doing comedy. Normally, I like it when he leaves because I can do things I can't do when he's around, like watch chick flicks or cheat on him. But my favorite thing to do when he's gone is stay up late and play on my phone. I did this all the time when I was single in Toronto, and I like to treat myself to this indulgence now, when he's away, because I feel like it's rude to shine a bright phone screen in his face when he's lying beside, me trying to sleep.  On this particular morning, however, I woke up and my eyes were predictably sore from late night scrolling but my head also felt groggy and I couldn't breath through my nose. It's unfortunate that my mind is super cool like this, but I instantly jumped to the conclusion that I was dying.

The thing that I couldn't stop thinking about was how terribly timed my death was. I'd have to go back to Canada, get free health care, move back in with my dad, which was awful, because my dad doesn't have cable. I'd have to leave my boyfriend, our cute little life in the south and he wouldn't be able to come with me- I wouldn't want him to have to make that choice- so I'd break up with him, crying, please no this will destroy us, let's just walk away now before things get too painful! I imagined it like that Party Of Five episode when the older brother gets cancer and he breaks up with his girlfriend because the stress of the sickness was too much for the relationship, only my breakup would be much more dramatic than that because I'd be sick and have to go through US Customs.

It really broke my heart that I had to leave my boyfriend because I was still in love with him and I figured that losing him would but such a strain on me emotionally that I wouldn't have the will power to beat whatever illness I was fighting. I'd die quickly, from cancer, but mostly heartbreak.  I thought, of course! Of course this is the way my life plays out. I was an emotionally stunted, career-driven woman, but then fell in love, realized that there was more to life than money, fame and Instagram followers, but then just when I become enlightened, boom, ebola strikes. I'd come full circle, all my nine lives were up, I'd learned what I needed to learn, time for me to go, and it made sense, but it still sucked. I was almost comfortable living in America. I mean, I just started saying y'all with out being self conscious about it. It was all so unfair.

My impending death and break up were torturing me. Even if I went to Canada, and I got health care and I went into remission, my boyfriend and I would still not be able to be together because even if we got married I wouldn't be granted a green card because part of getting a green card is a medical examine and I would fail the examine because of my illness.  So my boyfriend and I would have to break up, never be able to be together, torn apart by sickness and my Canadian passport. I would have to quit the entertainment industry and social media because it would be too painful to see everyone continuing on with out me, with their careers, relationships and political opinions. I'd move into a small apartment, somewhere depressing like Barrie, ON, become a recluse and weather the cold Canadian winters alone, a shadow of my former self, not answering phone calls, even if my agent was like, the CBC wants to shoot a pilot with you, I'd be like, no, I don't even know what life is any more, let alone what it means to be Canadian. Even if a new hot guy loved me and wanted to take care of me, I'd be like no, I will only love my ex boyfriend but we can't be together because I'm sick and Canadian and he's an American road comic.

I felt so guilty and angry because my sickness was going to ruin my boyfriends life. He's not like me. He's doesn't worry, he's always happy, he's grateful. He's simple in the best ways. He enjoys life, he's just happy to be alive- which a very hard concept for me to grasp. I started thinking about how after I died, my once sweet, happy boyfriend, after years of sobriety, would start drinking again, he'd become mad at God because once I was gone, it became impossible for him to be or pretend to be happy. In my mind, of course, in our break up, Tinder doesn't exist and my boyfriend has never heard of rebound sex.

I had a headache. For four days I was sneezing and had a runny nose. Then, I felt better, worked a weekend in Chattanooga, didn't sleep much, returned to Nashville, and felt tired again. This cycle repeated itself for a month, with intervals of feeling slightly tired and stuffed up and times when I felt perfectly fine. All during this period, back and forth in my mind, I kept thinking about how I was dying, and I'd have to go back to Canada, and I was going to ruin my boyfriends life, and how when people would talk about me in the future, they would say "It's so sad, what happened to her." or "Hannah lived in Tennessee? Why?"

I didn't want to go down like that, so in a last ditch attempt to get healthy, I made some changes. I stopped eating cupcakes three times a week, started taking vitamins, and drank more water. I went to the gym. I sweated. I stopped checking Facebook. I listened to country music. Conway Twitty. Merle Haggard. Margo Price. These angels lifted me out of my cold, and back into the light of tranquil, anxiety free, sweet tea, living.

I still struggle with sleep, but I try really hard, when my boyfriend is gone, to not stay up on my phone. I attempt to just close my eyes and rest. Sometimes it's easy, and other times I think of remarkable ways that my life is going to implode.  My boyfriend tells me all the time that instead of using my imagination to think of terrible things, use it to think of jokes. I've started doing that, and he was right, it's a much better use of my creativity. He's so sweet. I don't know what I'd do with out him.

Thursday, March 16, 2017

Whatever Happened To Hannah Hogan: The Dublin Years

I was sitting in a bar in Dublin with my best friend and my French boyfriend, the first man I ever loved, Joyce. We were drinking Guinness and had just stepped back in from having a cigarette. I smoked Marlboros back then, the European kind, not the America kind. Years later, when I moved to The US, I tried American Marlboros thinking that they would remind me of my Dublin years but they just tasted like regular, terrible cigarettes and didn't bring me back to that magical era, when I lived in Ireland, the time in my life before I started my life.

Joyce was older than me. I felt very sophisticated for snagging him since he spoke broken English but mostly because he was my first real boyfriend. He called me "little girl" and would really enunciate the Lit-TULLLE. At the time I thought it was sweet, because it was, but in retrospect-and probably only because I have a million feminist voices haunting my mind- it seems a little creepy that he called me a child. But Joyce wasn't creepy, he was handsome, he had blue eyes and even though we couldn't really have sex it didn't matter cause my heart was alive even if other things weren't.

This was 2003 when Ireland was deemed one of the best places in the world to live by travel guides and my dad. A handful of people were saying it was a hot spot, so when I decided after high school that I was burnt out and didn't want to go to university and pitched to my Pa that maybe I would go back-packing for a year,  my dear Da suggested Ireland, because we are Irish Canadian and it would be like a return to the motherland. And Ireland was great, I think. I didn't see much of it because I landed in Dublin and for a year and a half, never left the city.

I was 18 when I arrived and the only person I knew was a very contentious Quebec Separatist, let's call him, Le Asshole. We met on a traveling website called Swap, which was a program that helps travelers get hooked up with people and places in the country they are moving to. So I met up with Le Asshole and very quickly I realized he was not the person I wanted to hang out with. He was a French Separatist and I'm sure they are not all assholes, although I haven't met any before or since him, so he is my only gauge. Immediately Le Asshole started talking about politics, which I knew nothing about, especially not boring Canadian referendum politics. He seemed very angry, but I think he just didn't like me and I was probably really difficult to wander the streets with because I was 18 and useless.

He disappointed me the first night when we went to an Irish Pub and after one pint, he wanted to go back to the hostel. I was 18- have I mentioned that?- so I wasn't legal to drink in Canada yet, and since deciding to move to Ireland all I could think about was getting super wasted, like all the time, as much as I could. I literally wanted to drown myself in beer and leprechauns for the entire duration of my two year visa, but this weird frenchie of a separatist dude wanted to have a sensible beer and then go back to our hostel and listen to The Tea Party. YEAH.  Le Asshole's favorite band was the Tea Party and even though I grew up in Peterborough, ON, I knew that that wasn't cool. I have a vivid memory of being on the top bunk in our hostel room and hearing Le Asshole blast Heaven Only Knows so loud that I could hear the lyrics through his ear buds. My escape to Ireland was struggling because I was stuck with literally the worst Canad(ien) ever, so I said au revior to Le Asshole and moved out of that hostel in search of cooler people to be co-dependant on.

I found myself at the cheapest hostel in town where, word on the street, they did drugs! The Chelsea Hotel was just a block away but it was far enough away from Canadian hard rock central, so I was happy. If I could describe my mentality when I first arrived in Dublin it would be: WHO WANTS TO GET DRUNK? I was ready to party and my decision to move hostels was vindicated when I went to the reception desk and a Canadian greeted me. His name was Mike and he was from Toronto.  Mike and I hit it off and he reassured me that this was a "rock and roll" kind of hostel and that there were several long term residents. Later, I discovered Mike and his Polish girlfriend were swingers and that they once tried to hit on some long term residents during a late night stint on ecstasy. But at the time, I was relieved to have a Canadian welcome me to the hostel and excited that it was a bad ass, ready to party kinda place.

I stayed in a dorm room that always had fluctuating guests but there was a core group of us that remained the same. Oz, from Australia, Dave also from Australia, Gail from France, Duffy from England (he got kicked out pretty early on but was still always around because he sold hash). Almira was my best friend and she, like most backpackers one will ever meet, was Australian. I instantly bonded with Almira because we both knew that committing to live in a communal hostel, purely for kicks, drugs and fun was ignoring our better judgment, a decision that would hurt us in the long run, but none the less, we stayed on, deciding we would rectify ourselves from this terrible period in our lives at some later juncture, namely whenever we hit rock bottom or the hostel burned down.

The Chelsea hotel can be summed up in this way: everyone who stayed there said they would one day write a book about it. I don't think any one has, probably since most of us have either gone on drug addiction or parenthood. I have done neither but I am a stand up comedian so I'm too busy with social media to do something as pointless as write a novel.  Some of the more notable things about the Chelsea Hotel was that the showers were common and attached to the toilets, so that when I showered I would smell some European shitting a foot away from me. It was rare when the showers were not clogged with hair. I cleaned myself in two feet deep water and the shaved pubes of four floors of backpackers. It's not that there were not maids at the hostel, it's that the cleaning job was so disgusting, the maids just decided they would not clean the showers until a thorough, toxic clean was done first. So the showers were never cleaned and hundreds of people were showering in their own filth. I don't know why I was surprised when I got the flu five times while living there, at the time, I blamed it on cocaine.

After several months of partying and one New Years eve where I experienced my very first black out, I  decided to quit my coffee shop job and focus on writing poetry. Incredibly, my stay at the hostel was where I first started reading for enjoyment. This is before smart phones and there was no TV in the hostel so I needed something to do in between rolling tobacco and doing MDMA. Inspired by the books I was reading, namely "Woman who Run with Wolves" I started writing a lot, like the real coming of age, broken flower that I was.  I'd walk along the River Liffey, pretending I was Oscar Wilde or Bono, writing about everything and nothing, that is to say, I wrote about my feelings.

Money began to dwindle and I didn't feel like emailing my dad. Again, I was 18 and while I did have a phone it was expensive to call Canada so my communication with friends and family was relegated to email. Catch is, I didn't want to talk to family or friends, that was the whole reason I moved away, so I very rarely talked to anyone and I liked it like that. But because I was broke and needed a job, Mike offered me the day time receptionist position at the Chelsea. It was a 12 hour shift and I was responsible for booking guests and making sure other guests checked out on time. It was an easy job and I mostly spent it listening to Neil Young and smoking hash.

The most eventful thing that happened when I was the receptionist is that I discovered a dead body. It was my first, and so far, my last discovery of a dead human. It happened this way: a fellow who had checked in with the night receptionist had failed to check out during my shift. I knocked on his door, no one answered. I got the skeleton key, walked into the room and discovered a limp, very dead body on the bed. I don't really remember what happened next because I've told this story so many times I have definitely exaggerated the details, (I may even be making the entire thing up right now.) I can't say for sure, but from what I remember, the Garda told me that the man died of an over-dose. Needless to say, from that point on, I always had a great story to tell at the pub.

After eight months sharing a dorm with people having sex in the bed below me, showering in filth and finding a dead body, I determined it was time to leave The Chelsea Hotel. Almira and I collectively got our shit together and moved into a flat on the other side of town and that marked the end of my rock roll hostel life and the beginning of my more peaceful time in Dublin.

I got a job at Haagen Dazs. My boss was a sexy French man named Joyce and right away I was totally, madly, stupidly into him. I was very excited to be falling for him because before our lives collided, I had come to the sad conclusion that I was never going to fall in love. I'd had boyfriends, but I didn't really like them or at least I didn't like having sex with them and at the time that was what I thought love was (and still do, I guess). I was sure there was something wrong with me genetically, that that was why being in love was never going to happen for me. I tried dating a girl in Ireland, her name was Moira, and given her name and her sex, I just could get into it. I was so upset about not being able to fall in love.  I thought I was some kind of asexual failure, a pretty girl sure, but heartless and empty.  I could have been a character in the Wizard of Oz, The Scare Crow, The Lion, The Tin Man and the Canadian; just looking for their lost pieces to be whole again. So yeah, that's where I was at, and drying out from partying, when I met Joyce.

Joyce told me later that he didn't think I was very pretty until I started wearing make up (a calculated move on my part and one that taught me a valuable lesson: always wear make up when trying to trick a man into loving you). I had an enormous crush on him for a few weeks, he asked me out and when we kissed at the end of the night it was the only time in my life that a single kiss swept me away in such a stupidly cliche manner I shan't ever forget it! I was in love! It felt so amazing! To want this person so much, but more than anything, I was just thrilled to discover I could love. Just weeks before I thought I was either dead inside or a lesbian. Things can change so fast!

Mine and Almira's lease came up and in retrospect, this was totally a shitty move but I moved in with Joyce and for some reason didn't think that I needed to pay rent. He lived with six other people and I just stayed in his room, rent free, eating scones. I quit my Haagen Dazs job to focus on my true vocation: poetry. After all, I was in love and now I had a muse and it was imperative that I explore the various ways love was now fundamentally inspiring and changing me.  I wasn't doing drugs any more- I never would do hard drugs again- and I was only drinking occasionally and of course still smoking lots of cigarettes because my boyfriend was French so duh.

Everything was wonderful. Almira and I had escaped the dark hole of the Chelsea Hostel, I was in love and my little soul felt alive which was nice cause I hadn't felt good for a long time. I even started emailing my dad and friends again, mostly to brag about my cool, new French boyfriend and the European trip we were planning.

So there we were, Me, Almira and Joyce, sitting in a Dublin bar, enjoying life and a pint when it suddenly hit me: holy shit, I am in Ireland. WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING IN IRLEAND?! I looked at Joyce and I felt so happy to be in love with this guy, but at the same time, inspired by him to begin my own life. He was living in Ireland to improve his English so he could go on to be a business man (it was more complex than that but his English wasn't great so that's what I took from his blathering).  I felt for the first time this need to do something with my life. Joyce made me want to be a better woman, it sounds corny, but that's why love is love, it's tres corny.

I quietly decided, sitting in the bar that day, that it was time for me to go home. I had another year on my visa but I didn't want to use it. I wanted to go home and start my life. I didn't know what that meant and I didn't even know what I wanted to do with my supposed life but I knew I wanted to go home, and begin my life, even if that meant I had to leave Joyce.

After I told Joyce what I wanted to do, he was very supportive- did I mention he was wonderful and  we were in love!? Before I went home, Joyce and I took a trip to Europe together and other than when I got mono in Austria, we had a blast. We went to Paris, Prague, Vienna and my favorite Budapest. We smoked cigarettes, drank wine, told each other we loved each other and I wrote a bunch of poems. It was perfect.

A week after we returned to Dublin, I got on a flight to meet my Dad in England and Joyce went back to France. We did see each other again, but it wasn't the same. I was back in Canada and I didn't love him any more. By that time I had a new love, acting. It turns out, I was fully capable of lusty, six month love affairs, but long term committed relationships were still a ways down the road for me. I probably broke his heart, but he was too annoyed to be working in Sears in the Eaton's Center in Toronto to think about what an asshole I was.  He ended up moving to Guatemala and got a girl pregnant, so in the end every thing worked out because I was living my dream as an actress and he learned to procreate. C'est La Vie!

Saturday, January 28, 2017


I like to play this game when I drive through the south called, Guess The Plantation.  It's a single player game, similar to solitaire or masturbation, and it usually happens when I've been staring at my phone for too long- also similar to solitare or masturbation.

This is how I play, Guess The Plantation:

I'm in the passenger seat cruising down 75, somewhere south of Atlanta but north of Florida, and I look up to see a large farm field sprinkled with cotton. It looks innocent enough, beautiful even. So I'm taking in this sweet farm field set against a darling big blue sky and think to myself, Wow, this is Instagram moment!

But then 7th grade Canadian history pops into my head and I remember all that, um, *stuff, about the south and I wonder if 200 years ago there were slaves on this field. Where now I see long, metal, automated machines, did there used to be rows of people, picking in this field? So then I use ole' Google Maps to search my location and ask Siri what this area was 200 years ago. Sometimes it's a plantation, sometimes it's a battle field, sometimes it's nothing at all. Admittedly, Guess The Plantation is not a super hype game but Eye Spy is too hard to play in a moving vehicle.

If I was cooler and drove drunk more, I'd play a drinking game where every time you see a confederate flag you have to drink. It would be the perfect pre-game, drinking game because their aren't enough confederate flags that if you drove for an hour you'd get wasted, but there are enough that if you drove for an hour you would have a nice little buzz on. You know, that perfect zone where you're super social but not sloppy. I call it The Confederate Flag Drinking Game. It's not a very creative name but branding is about simplicity.

I asked my friend what kind of people fly confederate flags outside their homes and he said people who have guns. Of course that is the answer. The argument from people down here, in defense of the flag is that it doesn't represent pro slavery beliefs, but rather it is the battle flag for courageous men who died protecting their family. Good answer. Whenever you're in an argument bring up protecting your family and immediately you gain some sympathy. Not always though. The government didn't seem to care about families in Waco, TX. But that is another drinking game all together!

I've been to a couple Civil War Museums in the south. Actually, I've inquired about going to a couple Civil War museums but without fail none of them mention slavery. It's always, The south fought for state rights! It was about agriculture! AGRICULTURE! The museums don't just avoid talking about the pesky slavery component, they flat out deny that it had anything to do with it at all. So I've never gone inside the museums. I'm not spending money on revisionist history. I can get plenty of that from my ex boyfriend.

And finally, I'd like to state for the record that the south is not filled with racists. It is filled with people with racist ancestors but something tells me that is not limited to the south.  The younger people I know in the south are the most tormented people I've ever met, specifically in reference to religion. So I play this game called Atheist or Mad At Dad?

The way I play it is when I hear a southern millennial complain about religion, I try to guess whether they were raised atheist or by overbearing Christian parents. In the south, 10 times out of 10, if someone hates God it's cause they were raised in the church. I would not recommend this as a drinking game in the south cause you would literally be wasted all time.