9. Russian in the Park

I run through the meadow at the top of High Park. The same meadow where in 2019 there was the world’s most annoying portrait photographer (To My Glorious Self Episode 15 — Land Acknowledgement). Near where Kenneth Zeller, a high school teacher from nearby Western Tech was murdered in 1985 by five of his students because he was gay. Every five minutes I drop and give me 15. I promise myself that I’m going to do 100 pushups a day until I can do 200 pushups a day.

I pull over to the side of the single-track trail to let a shirtless runner about ten years older than me go past in the other direction. We wave to each other. I think, man, I’d love to look as good as he does when I’m his age.

It’s the rearing up that hurts the ego. As I go from a plank to heaving one leg forward and underneath my chest, then pushing up with said leg to allow the other leg to follow so that I am now standing I am keenly aware that from behind especially it must be an awkward sight. Like watching a giraffe get up.

An eastern-European voice asks me how many I can do. It’s the shirtless runner from four minutes ago. I say 15. And he says he can do 30 but not in a braggy way. He says he runs here all the time. That this park means everything to him. He lives in a two-bedroom apartment in the neighbourhood abutting the park on the north side.

I am Boris.

I’m Jason.

We shake hands.

How old are you Boris?

72.

Daaaaaammmmmmn, girl! I think. 72. Shiiiit. Thought you were way younger.

Boris has been in Toronto for twenty years. His son, now 35, tells him the best thing he ever did was move to Canada.

Where are you from?

Moscow.

Up until last year Boris wasn’t so sure. His whole life was in Moscow. He had friends, an apartment, a job. He loved the city. But since the war he thanks God he is in Canada.

I don’t know for sure but I think many of us perceive this to be Russia’s war. When it’s not. It’s Putin’s. But nuance is hard so we paint with broad strokes. All Russians must be bad. All Russians must be anti-Ukraine. It can't be so simple. When I had my basement done late last year it was Ukrainians and Russians that did all the work. They didn’t seem to be fighting. The only ones to remark on it were the Canadian HVAC guys. For Russians and Ukrainians in Canada it must be like Americans and Canadians living abroad. If Trump invades Canada when next he’s El Presidente (or a proxy even worse than the Orange Emperor) it’s not suddenly America’s war. We can’t account for hundreds of millions of minds.

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Our perceptions are formed by scant headlines. We’re too anxious to read down to the end of the article.

I ask Boris if he’s a vegetarian.

No.

Do you drink?

No. Not for twenty years.

Hhhm. You came to Canada and stopped drinking.

In Russia it is tradition.

So I’ve heard. Do you have a pension?

A small one.

So he doesn’t have to worry about money … much. Are you married?

I have wife, he says rather balefully.

Married people apparently live longer. And yet one must ask if the goal of life is the quantity of it or the quality.

Are you a good sleeper, Boris?

I am asleep every night at 10 and wake-up at six.

How much do you eat?

I cut back. It’s all about calories. And genetics only plays 15-20% of equation, he says.

I’ve got to get business cards I think. I’m down near the pond now squeezing out my last twenty pushups that gets me to 100. I should have given Boris my number. We could run together. Or maybe just meet in the meadow and spot each other. God he looked good. He said his wife laughs at him for all of his worrying about his health.

I wonder if having someone make fun of you helps in the long run.

Last year I was in the mix for the latest Kiefer Sutherland show. The role I was up for was a rightwing podcast host. How much fun would that be? To play a really bad bad-guy. The kind we all rail against. The unequivocal Alex Jonsey-type of a-hole.

There was no part of me that wouldn’t want to sink my teeth into such a role. No part of me that would judge a man like that. First and foremost the man I’d be playing is a fictional character. Secondly, it’s not for me the actor to judge others or their ideologies. I do that plenty in real life. But when I’m acting it isn’t about real life. It’s about something closer to the truth.

When I acted in commercials (I stopped counting at 200) I never didn’t love the clear hierarchy of the medium. It wasn’t about the actor. It was about the beer, the car, the incontinence products, the salad dressing, the insurance. It took the pressure off. So much of my life is me focussing on myself. For a day I got paid to focus on a bag of shredded cheese instead. What a relief.

Other’s perceptions is that an actor sells out when they shill. That wasn’t my truth. I got to afford to be a stay-at-home dad AND pay for everything. In other words, I got real lucky.

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I have a reason to keep running. So that I might meet up with a septuagenarian from Moscow. Maybe we can go for tea. Or stop off at the Rabba across the street and pound protein bars together.

Normally I spin on my spin bike in my bedroom in front of the Criterion Channel. Today I did pushups in the dirt and made a new friend. Fuck yeah. I was reminded to be thankful we are not at war, we aren’t ruled by a despot (not yet Pierre) but that we must remain vigilant.

Perception are stories we chose to tell ourselves. Like that Kenneth Zeller didn’t deserve to live. Like that 140 million Russians agree with their leader.

Like I’m bad at running.

Actually I really do think I’m bad at it. But as long as there is a meadow there I’m gonna run through it. Every meadow needs its giraffe.

Work It Weekly is a drop-in scene study class with me, Jason Bryden, an actor and a teacher with over 25 years experience. It’s a great way to get back into class, to get coached on an audition and to find your community.

My Sunday night class is more than just about acting. Find your voice. Take your space.

Email me at jasonbryden@gmail.com or go to boldacting.com for more info.

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And don’t forget to subscribe to my free weekly podcast the Bold Acting podcast — now more self-deprecating! I’ve been getting feedback that people miss my previous newsletter, Dear Diaryah and my podcast To My Glorious Self where I was brutally honest about … everything. Well, I continue to be overwhelmingly effacing in the Bold Acting podcast AND I tie it into my new business venture the Bold Acting Studios. So you’re getting what you loved about me plus you’re getting it with an actual point. The point is to be pointed.

I’m not just telling you about hernia surgery and how it relates to the scary ghost emoji and my ex-wife (Episode 6 - St. Joseph and the Coward). Now I’m telling you about my bullshit metre and how you have one too (The Bullshit Metre Inside of You). You can see how I’ve improved.

Subscribe to the Bold Acting Podcast wherever the podcasts are. And do talk me up when next your podcast club meets. In between the flagons of Pinot Grigio and the charcuterie send a little love my way. Talk me up.

8. Monologues on Monologues

The monologue inside my head has me regularly the victor. I am fostering grudges, serving up street-justice, putting dickwads in their place. My eyes narrow as I mutter. My brow pulls down. My face now angular feels like it looks like the sharp end of an anvil.

I walk around High Park holding another monologue in my hand. One written by André Aciman from his novel Call Me By Your Name — one of my favourite books (A High Wind from Jamaica, I Capture the Castle, A Whole Life, An Unforgettable Woman, The Animals being my other faves right now). I carry this worn out piece of paper memorizing these lines over and over. Just so I don’t forget how. And because I love the words and the sentiment. It’s the ultimate dad monologue.

You can watch it in the movie of the same name where Michael Stuhlbarg says to his son Timothée Chalamet in the penultimate scene:

… our hearts and our bodies are given to us only once. And before you know it, your heart is worn out, and, as for your body, there comes a point when no one looks at it, much less wants to come near it.

Those words mix with my words: the judgement of others, the inside joke from twenty years ago that suddenly pops up into the aether (that ancient Greek personification of the bright, upper sky), the How-dare-you!-vindication from the incident at the bank yesterday where I just wanted a little more information on the deposits I had made that hadn’t shown up and then suddenly they did but Parsimonious Kevin seems to have a terrible short-term memory or he’s being coy with me.

The bright upper sky is there but I can’t see it. I’m busy felling imagined foes.

I know those words of Aciman’s. That worn-out heart and that body no one wants to look at. No matter how much work I put into them there is no early parol for good behaviour. Time tramples me. There is no winning in the face of a charging Khronos. Just a little more with my boys please before they go adolescent dark. Just a little more energy and vitality before I am invisible. Just make the global heating go away for a while. And while you’re at it all this inflation and Fascism too.

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Khronos clipped Cupid’s wings as a matter of course it seems. It happens to us all. We lose that loving feeling. What remains is goodwill. My wing’s have been clipped but where am I good? I walk around slinging arrows at people I know not, will never see again. Yesterday while me and the boys were driving home from yet another walk through yet another cemetery (Mt. Pleasant, sooo beautiful) there was a man in a Miata and he just couldn’t make that left-turn. He wasn’t aggressive enough. And why had Google maps directed me to turn left off of Mt. Pleasant Road and onto Moore Drive when there’s no advanced green. Just endless weekend traffic. This instagram age we live in makes moving around more difficult than ever. If it’s beautiful we have to brag to the whole world about it and then we’re appalled when the whole world shows up.


I thought about the Miata driver for the rest of the night. He drove home with me. He parked his car in my bed. A new monologue. A new victim.

We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster, that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to make yourself feel nothing so as not to feel anything - what a waste!

It is done or it has happened. Wings clipped, heart worn-out. And as for the body … So why not just look up? I mean, if it’s all over. Just look up into the blue.

All grist for the mill, you say? Ah, lucky me, lucky you — that ever-loving mill. Round and round, a wooden chronos of sorts. We charge forth in straight lines as if the wheel we are on wasn’t a circle. We grow used to the watery lashings.

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Suddenly blithe crones in Tilly hats on one last canoe trip down slow-moving waters. Everything’s fine.


To feel it all. To remind yourself to stay there and feel. The aether isn’t nothing. It’s the bright, blue sky and that is what endless possibility looks like.

Wait? What’s that sound up ahead? Is that a waterfall?

Nah. Everything’s fine.

Thanks for reading. If you found something in this newsletter informative or helpful I want you to spread the word. I’d love it if you talked me up at your next book club or dinner party. Or reposted about me (@jasonbrydenofcanada). You can send people to boldacting.substack.com. Word of mouth is the best form of advertising.

And if you’re in Toronto please checkout my Sunday class. It’s much more than just acting. We’re making artists over here.

Thanks again. I couldn’t do it without you.

7. Great Ideas Are A Terrible Thing

I’m editing video right now. I can’t stand it. I’m too old for this. It’s sooo boring. It’s for a show my buddy Dave and I are making. It was his idea. And it’s a great one.

But great ideas are like Spanx: I look great when I’m wearing them but it doesn’t mean I can skip the gym (or start eating fries again). It’s the execution of an idea that makes it worth something.

Some Recent Great Ideas of Mine

-Yoga classes on commuter airplanes. Other passengers pay extra to watch.

-Get rid of streetcars. Replace with cheap, electric articulated buses. Make a giant Transformers robot of old streetcars. Invade America. They’ll never expect it. Besides, Vermont has always secretly wanted to be Canadian anyway. (Shoutout to maple syrup.)

-The Scratching Post. It’s like a massage parlour but just for back scratches.

-The grilled-cheese-lasagna sandwich. It’s real. I’ve made and ingested a number of them and I can tell you with all certainty these are the next big thing.

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Ideas are a dime a dozen. It’s not the strength of the idea that will carry you through, it’s the you. It’s the work. Inspiration comes from a composite of experience, context and gathered knowledge. The muse isn’t some magical force from on high, it’s how we process information around personal preferences. There’s the inspiration you get from a song where you’re inspired to feel something you wouldn’t have otherwise. You put pen to paper and start writing. Then there’s the inspiration you get from watching a really good show or movie and you think I want to do that! Except someone already did. Then there’s the inspiration you get from art or a story where the artist or writer makes it look so easy you think I could do that! But you didn’t.

It takes a pant-load of courage (or self-delusion) to make something and then put it out there for all to pick apart.

Dave and I have had a lot of show ideas together over the years. For this show we’re filming various proofs of concept. So far we’ve been to a crime scene clean-up and a couple days ago I visited a somatic sex healer.

THIS IS THE PART MY PARENTS SHOULD SKIP

(I wrote that in all-caps so they could see it.)

I didn’t know what a somatic sex healer was either. Dave sent me to her because I talk openly about my psychological erectile dysfunction. I’m rusty. I’m older. My testosterone levels aren’t what they used to be. Not being in a romantic relationship means sooo many good things but there are also things I’m missing: companionship, intimacy and modelling for my boys relational collaboration with another human.

Her name is Monica and this is what she does (from her website):

“Cultivating erotic wellness will not only deepen our capacity for joy and intimacy but also lead to a world with less violence and more empathy.”

Big goals. But why not?

First we talked. She asked me questions like What was your most wonderful sexual experience? I didn’t have an answer. Maybe that’s telling. All I could think about was why did she use the word wonderful like that? That’s weird. Clearly I was still in my head.

My head garners so much of my focus. Always has. But being in my head (and being on a dance floor) have never benefitted me or anyone else. I overthink things (and I have a high centre of gravity). These are just facts.

She’s playing some Drum & Bass now and she tells me we’re going to do some shaking. My inner critique turns into Clint Eastwood if he were forced to spend the weekend at Burning Man doing ‘shroomies in a speedo while manning the face-painting tent. But my intransigence melts away as I shake off the adrenaline that covers my skin like a fishnet body suit.

Then we go into her inner lair where there is a massage table, velvet curtains and moody lighting. I’ve already set up my cameras. Monica tells me to disrobe as much or as little as I feel comfortable. She will remain clothed. I still don’t really understand what’s going on.

She leaves the room. I take it all off and lie down on my back on the table. She comes back in and tells me she will touch me wherever I want in three minute increments. She tells me what kind of touch she can do. Then she’ll move on to another body part. I ask her to touch my feet and I immediately start falling asleep. I love my feet being touched. Then I ask for weight. I want to be smothered I tell her. She gets a weighted blanket and puts it on me. A blanket was not exactly what I was hoping for. Then she put her hands on my chest. That didn’t do anything. I asked her to put her hands on my abdomen and tears shot out of my eyes so quickly, so hard it felt like they were hitting the ceiling and splattered back down on me in a convection current of bottled emotion. I was blubbering and heaving and snotting and crying like an American teen that’s just discovered Starbucks has brought back their beloved venti Unicorn Frappuccino.

I was generating mucosal weather systems while lying naked on a bed with a stranger standing over me in a basement in Greektown. And this was just a Thursday!

Do you do that? Do you zoom out like Google Earth high above your present location only to see how tiny you are? How funny it must look to a seagull with x-ray vision flying over you.

Then Monica said “Do you want me to touch your genitals?”

I’m not sure anyone has ever asked me that in that way. Through the weighted blanket she cupped me while still holding my belly. I continued to cry but I couldn’t out-and-out wail. I just couldn’t let go. It was too embarrassing. There was only so much of myself I could tolerate.

I asked her what was happening. She said “The body holds trauma in the muscles and your body is releasing that trauma … a lot of it.”

I named my trauma: a circumcision I could remember (I was four), a hernia surgery, my vasectomy. Do other people cry this much? I have to cry more often. What a release!

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After the session I thanked her, paid her $282.50 and go outside with my tripods and ring lights. I stand there on the sidewalk for a moment reminding myself to revel in this new lightness I’m feeling.

A seagull hanging out in front of the nearby Big Carrot health food store looks at me sideways. I flush with embarrassment and walk to my car.   

Dave’s and my show probably won’t get made. Shows are hard to get green-lit at the best of times and we failed to sell one when everyone loved white guys. But it doesn’t really matter. We’ll just keep making them and then we’ll get even older and more tired and cranky. But there will be a record of those great ideas. If we can figure out how to use Youtube. It’s the perspiration that makes it real.

And speaking of perspiration — yoga on planes! Am I right? It’s a license to print money. Take the seats out and lay down some mats and all of a sudden your puddle-jumper from Billy Bishop to Montreal-Trudeau is either a workout or an eyeful.

Anyway, I should get back to the editing. Thank God the light was low in that massage room. This ain’t pretty. This is 50. And you can’t heal with your Spanx on.

Have you subscribed to the Bold Acting Podcast? Find it wherever the podcasts are.

Got a question for me? Send a voice memo to jasonbryden@gmail.com and I’ll answer them on the podcast.

It would be so helpful if you talked this newsletter up to your friends. Subscribe, rate and review to the podcast. If you’re getting something out of this then I am honoured. Show your appreciation by taking a moment to spread the word. My advertising budget is limited.

You can find me on YouTube

insta @jasonbrydenofcanada

or at boldacting.com

Book a coaching, attend my Toronto class or send me a question: jasonbryden@gmail.com

Thanks and I look forward to hearing from you.

6. Tolerance is the Best We Can Hope For

Remember when tolerance was a bad word? For about five minutes. It was right after we discovered we have to love one another despite our differences. Now that the bar has been lowered down to the dirt I am advocating for mere tolerance.

Toleration Nation

Clearly we’re wired up for assholery. So much so it makes me question the Theory of Evolution. It should be called the Theory of Intermittent Social Evolution and De-Evolution When it Comes to Humans Maybe, Hopefully, Fingers Crossed. We evolve but we devolve too. When she lost her job as premiere of Alberta in 2019 Rachel Notley said something along the lines of this is still progress. Hers was the first NDP government in a 1000 years of Albertan conservative rule. And even though she lost to Jason Kenney — someone I think we can all agree as one of Canada’s best carpetbaggers (And lover of cats) — her’s was a premiership that the NDP and the Left could be proud of.

One Step Forward

Progress is marked in blood and failure, regression and upset. One step forward is the step one should focus on. Not the ten steps back. Tolerance now would be an improvement. And the only way you make progress is taking small steps in the right direction. It seems insurmountable at times. It can be overwhelming to say the least.

A Gentle Reminder to Prioritize Your Worries

What are you worrying about? I would argue that if your worries are too big or too small they're not worth your time.

Too Big:

1. Climate Change

2. Politics

3. The Economy

Too Small:

1. Your appearance

2. What people think of you

3. Expectation

There is no Don't Worry just like there is no Be Happy. We're going to worry. You can’t stop worrying by telling yourself “Don’t do that” just like you can’t change your mood with a command like “Be happy!” So worry about the things that really matter. Worry creatively so that you can come up with the solutions you need.

Become a discriminating worrier. Reframe your pearl-clutching. Call it something else like brainstorming or white-boarding or whatever is least annoying. Put pen to paper. The slowness of writing with a pen will slow your breathing down. You’ll gain perspective.

Then if you’re like me publish your chicken scratch for anyone to see. Or not. Not all of us require an audience for our most intimate drivel. I hope for the largest one possible.

Fear-Based Living — A lose-Lose

When we are fearful (of others, of a situation) we are taking comfort in a guaranteed righteousness. If we are found to be right in our fearfulness then we were right! But if we were found to be over-cautious and the bad thing didn’t happen then we were just being cautious. No one can fault you for staying safe. Fear is a win-win. Except that it’s not, of course. No one ever made anything great through cowardice. You miss out on life. The one thing that with each day lived we have less and less of.

He’s Okay I Guess

The evidence is in. I’m not great. I tolerate me. Just like I tolerate my weird neighbour that has a dog that never stops barking and is barking as I write this (Shout-out to Marley!) Just like I must tolerate my renter who yesterday complained there were too many bugs outside. I told her there wasn’t much I could do about it instead of saying Are you joking right now? You’re not seriously suggesting that bugs outside, in nature are my responsibility also?

How’s your neighbour?

She’s okay, I guess.

How’s renting your basement going?

It could be worse.

How’s it going as a parent?

On some days my kids might describe me as pretty good.

You’re the One You’re With

No more crushing it. There’s nothing to crush. No more killing it. No more murdering. You don’t have to knock it out of the park. Just relax. All this will be over in a blink of an eye. Legacy doesn’t exist. You’ll be dead. If it’s pretty good it's great. It’s impossible to always love the one you’re with. For the one you’re with is you. You’re just too exposed to not disappoint some of the time.

Now tolerate others as you wish to be tolerated. Starting with yourself.

Have you subscribed to the Bold Acting Podcast? Find it wherever the podcasts are (except Spotify. I can’t figure it out yet.)

Got a question for me? Send a voice memo to jasonbryden@gmail.com and I’ll answer them on the podcast.

It would be so helpful if you talked this newsletter up to your friends. Subscribe, rate and review to the podcast. If you’re getting something out of this then I am honoured. Show your appreciation by taking a moment to spread the word. My advertising budget is limited.

You can find me on YouTube

insta @jasonbrydenofcanada

or at boldacting.com

Book a coaching, attend my Toronto class or send me a question: jasonbryden@gmail.com

Thanks and I look forward to hearing from you.

5. Heal Me from Perfection


Four of us go up North every few months. It’s a quarterly man-retreat. And it saves me.

It used to be about gluttony. We’d eat, drink and get high as much as possible, trying to jam all the fun we could into our precious few days together. Now it’s about healing. We still drink and eat and some of us do drugs but we also pray and meditate and chant and argue and cry (A little. It’s not Super Soul Sunday or anything). We go skinny-dipping, stack wood, play games, walk in the forest, watch hockey and sing karaoke. I love karaoke. I’m getting better at doing stuff I wouldn’t normally do.

Like, historically I don’t like:

- Leaving the house

- Nature

- Cold water

- Karaoke

- Praying

- Meditating

- Watching hockey

- Playing games (Rummykub, Code Names, Dominoes to name a few.)


I Go Along for a Ride

Each morning my friend Mo and I do his morning practice down in the basement. Whenever I’m with him I go along with his prayers, his meditation, his qigong. Heal me from perfection was something he said during an ancient Hebrew prayer. The desire for perfection as a wound. Something in need of a salve. Something that was done to us. It’s the ego keeping you in a constant state of want. A way to brag about your work ethic. It’s also a way to keep yourself small, unknown, above-it-all.



What I aim for is to be a satisfactionist. (Every time I type this word spellcheck tells me I’ve made a mistake. If funner, orientate and firstly are words then satisfactionist should be one too.) Satisfactionism in parenting, in partnership, at work, with friends, with ourselves. Wouldn’t it be great if the bar was lower?

“How’s your marriage going, Rachel?”

“Satisfactory, Bob.”

“Congrats,” says Bob.

Sounds pretty good to me.

The power of “pretty good” means you don’t expect the world from one person. It means you’re working on it. It means you’re not defined by your last job but your future potential instead. This applies to creativity as well. It’s far better to put stuff out there that’s pretty good than hold onto stuff that’s not quite the masterpiece you were aiming for. You’ll learn more. You’ll practice getting feedback. You’ll get better at being less precious about your great ideas. You’ll find fulfilment in creating a body of work. Your fear will decrease.

Go in the Wrong Direction

After the praying was over some of us smoked some weed. Others made a morning cocktail (Right now I’m head over heels with The Sharon — 2 parts vodka, 2 parts Five Alive. Good morning!) Then we went for a walk.

Just by being in nature I like it more. I don’t love it. I don’t like bugs, camping, cold, wind, heat, scary sounds, other campers, Germans, canoes, bears, birds (too flappy), Australians or outhouses. I like walking. More and more. Maybe it's because my knees hurt and I can’t run anymore. Maybe it’s because you’ve got to earn lunch somehow. Either way exposure therapy works.

That night I stood outside in the dark looking up at a wash of stars and I listened. And there was nothing. I mean the silence was oppressive. I could actually feel it in my skull. It felt like the air pressure changed. It was a bit much actually.

I was still filled with anxiety, however. Despite the prayers, the qigong, despite the meditation and the strategically timed Sharons. I could only find a temporary detente from the knots of nerves that covered my stomach like a cinched net.

In class recently I encouraged a young man to do the opposite of what he was doing. Just to get out of his own way. It’s a brutal and honest way to work because you immediately throw out what you’ve always considered the things that served you and you replace them with the unknown. You jump into the abyss to see what’s there. And then it’s invariably not pretty. And then we massage it and tweak it until we’re back to 90% you and 10% something new. And the sum of that is a new layer. And you realize it was no big deal to put down your self and try someone else on. You’re still alive even though you’ve done something scary.

The young man accepted the challenge bravely and surprised us all. It was amazing to watch. I love hanging out with people half my age. There’s so fucking cool this generation. I’m constantly surprised and impressed.

Go in the wrong direction. Just to see what you hadn’t considered before. It’s going to be ugly but you soon discover ugly is amazing. Ugly is the goal. Discomfort is where the art is. I wish I had known this earlier. I was too busy being cool which if you know me is the absolute last thing anyone would describe me as.

You Win Some, You Lose Some

I still don’t like cold water. I’ve done my research. I don’t like it and Wim Hoff can go fuck himself.

I still don’t like bugs and generally run from them. I’m not good at meditation. Mostly it makes me angry and/or I start thinking about sex. Not a great combo. Hockey is and always will be boring. Although I wagered Kondor the Leafs would lose in overtime in game five and I was right. Here’s a picture of me with his five dollar bill and him giving me a foot massage to prove it.

Not only do I like dominoes now but I regularly destroy the competition. I’m obsessed with karaoke and started taking singing lessons to become better at it. And most surprisingly, I like to pray. I’m not into religion but prayer doesn’t have to be “Dear Lord …” it can be more along the lines of “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do …” I don’t need all the answers and that’s a frightening proposition but that’s okay. It’s okay to be scared about stuff knowing that you’re not alone. And that whatever you do to get out of your own way can only help those around you.

You Were Never Going to Achieve Perfection Anyway.

If you practice being in the not-knowing it can be an exhilarating place. And it’s surprising how quickly everything becomes imbued with meaning. You admit to yourself that you don’t have all the answers and suddenly you can see all the world’s suffering. You feel yourself doing the thing you were meant to do and there is a cosmic-ness to it. And the cynic inside of you goes “This is getting a bit woo” but it feels so good you don’t stop. And to talk about it is to invite criticism and eye-rolls and maybe even stop making perfect sense. But in the end not knowing means the pressure is off.

Not micro-managing means less work.

Not being annoyed all the time means you’re at peace more.

Being easy-going means you’re open to something happening.

But what do I do in the moment? I’m fine sitting here writing, staring at my navel but when emotions run high what kind of man am I?

Sunday Morning

We packed the car. We drove for 2.5 hours. Back to my beloved Toronto. I dropped Kondor off and drove back to Little Poland. I parked the car. I didn’t unpack it. I went inside and the cat yelled at me. I yelled back. Then she yelled at me. We went back and forth for a while. It’s just what we do. Then I got on the spin bike. I turned-on my favourite movie for the dozenth time (Paul Sorrentino’s The Great Beauty) and suddenly the net loosened almost immediately.

Maybe it was home.

Maybe it was just being on a bike.

Or the Italian cinema.

Whatever it was, it felt perfect.

4. Give The Audience Tomatoes

This is not a new concept. I stole it from someone else.

I’ve known for a long time I’m not an original thinker. More of a synthesizer of stuff that is hopefully great. Why reinvent the wheel when there are wheels lying around everywhere?

The result is none of our business. You perform to the best of your abilities and in accordance with the given circumstances. Once you’re up there looking at them and them at you your work is over. Now everything happens in the space between. So why not just give the audience the very thing they can hurt you with? Then we’ll know it when it comes. We won’t be surprised. We’ll be expecting the worst.

Hey look, there’s tomato is flying at me. I had a feeling this was possible. I must be doing something right.

Don’t worry, you won’t be shaping a conclusion now foregone.  We can’t jinx things. It doesn’t work that way. When you expect the worst you’re not affecting anything. I hate to break it to you but you don’t have that kind of pull. You can plan for the worst and hope for the best without affecting the outcome. What it will do however is positively affect how you respond to said outcome. And that’s the whole fucking idea. It’s not about the result; it’s about how you respond to the result. Sorry for yelling.

So go ahead and give the audience tomatoes. Let them decide whether to throw them or to eat them. Your responsibility lies with something that happened well before tomatoes ever came into the picture. We are the cause of the response. We are the behaviour. We want tomatoes. Without them we are hobbyists.

All of this could just be pages in my courage journal. Me talking to myself. Cheerleading. I’m saying to you these pearls bear repeating. It’s amazing how we supplant reason for whatever shit the ego has dragged up. So spread this upon all aspects of your slice of life in a thick layer: Give them tomatoes. Whether they’re cheering or jeering, by the time there’s an audience your work is done.

Impro

When I was coming up in Calgary I would improvise at the Loose Moose Theatre Company. My friend Chris and I would drive to the northern end of the city near the airport and try to get on stage. It was fucking nerve-racking. We would hum and haw about going there. Should we do it? Or should we just stay here and drink more rye? But God you learned so much being up on stage. It was thrilling getting notes after from Keith and Dennis. With TheatreSports you always had judges on the side of the stage with a horn and a basket. The horn to get you out of a bad scene. The basket to put over your head in shame if you get a penalty for saying something untoward. Shame and badness celebrated, laughed-at, exposed for the tiny nothings that they are.

Because it wasn’t about the result. Mistakes were expected. Shit scenes were a part of the evening. We were making things up after all. We should have a horn in real life. When a relationship ain’t working anymore — Honk! When a job isn’t suitable any longer — Honk! It’s no big deal. That’s the way life goes. Dealt a bad hand? Bail on it. Honk. Start over. It’ll be better next time. Probably.

“Hang on tightly, let go lightly.” — Clive Owen in Croupier.

Mistakes Were Made

You hope things will go your way. Sometimes they don’t.

Somewhere along the way we’ve made mistakes or bad luck bad themselves. We hide them from each other when really we should be showcasing them to the world. Once you shine a light on things they are less scary. And then other people see them and can relate because we’re not special. We’re all doing the same thing. We all have dry scalps and diarrhea. The pressure is off because mistakes made means we’re engaged. The only way you don’t screw-up is if you’re sitting on the sidelines. The mistake is not making mistakes. Honk-honk!

One of the fathers of the computer Doug Englebart said something along the lines of You can measure maturity by how comfortable a person is with embarrassment. The more tomatoes the better, I say. Until they no longer hurt. Luckily we have our whole life to practice this. We can start at any time. We can restart anytime to.

Exposure Therapy

How do we start to practice taking fruit and veg in the face? Like with everything you’ve got to first go to the green grocer. (Perhaps this analogy has reached peak ripeness.) Find the path of least resistance to whatever scares you most and do that. Just do it. Don’t think about it. Thinking will ruin everything. Thinking is why we’re in this mess. Too much thinky. When we invite the scary into our lives we give ourselves an opportunity to respond. If we do this in a controlled environment we can chose an obstacle that we’ll have a good chance of overcoming. And then we are encouraged. Start with the small. The very small. Ensure yourself a little win. Then do it again. See them pile up.

One of my many charming flaws is my unending impatience. I want stuff/something/I’m-not-sure-what, right now. I don’t want to have to work for it. I’m lazy. I’m not alone. For example I have noticed there are plenty of people online these days calling themselves influencers. And maybe they are but wouldn’t it be nicer to have someone else say that about you? I want someone else to say nice things about me. I want to be influential but that will take a lot of work. And it certainly means less if I’m the one telling people that that is what I am.

Do stuff. Let other people weigh-in. Hopefully it’ll be positive. If it isn’t it doesn’t matter. You’ll make more. Be the person now you’d like to see in the future. Being them is different than saying you are them.

It’s About Quantity

When you make stuff in public you practice with the blinds drawn. When you make more and more then you become inured to the response. When you’re not on social media you won’t be tempted to look for a response that is none of your business. Just give them tomatoes and then keep giving them tomatoes. They want you in spite of the jeering.

Quality isn’t a yardstick. Quality is just an opinion. Quantity is a yardstick by definition. That’s something you can control. Keep the stakes low, take risks in public, feel the fruit glancing off of your big, empty, unthinking head. See how you’re still breathing. Nothing matters. You’re doing stuff. You got things going on. You’re not on the sidelines. You’re in the world. You can’t jinx things. You gave them art they didn’t know they needed. And they’re eating it up.





3. Actors aren’t Storytellers

But Comedians and Lawyers are.

Actors like to call themselves storytellers. We are not. We are collaborators. We are tiny, unique cogs in a money-gobbling, agist, sexist, filthy, crazy, drunken, coked-up, fucked-up, beautiful machine when we get the chance. We are but one part, surrounded by and dependent on many other artisans. Lawyers are storytellers. Stand-up comedians are storytellers. Politicians too.    

So you’ve got your story, your side of things. How do you make it irrefutable? Let’s use lawyers as an example. Who would you want to defend you? The blowhard? The showboater? Or the courteous, confident advocate that listens? A compelling narrative comes from a storyteller that leaves room for the audience. A great lawyer can not only hear what people are saying but what they’re not; they can read a room because they are still, quiet and not afraid of silence. A lawyer that takes their time is a person confident in their skills. The audience can smell this a mile away and they’ll want more of you. They’ll come back for you time and time again.

Because we can’t watch great lawyering easily let’s look at great comedians like Chris Rock, Mike Birbiglia and Sarah Silverman. The most important thing they all have in common is: Provocation.


The Point is to be Pointed

Your story has to be controversial. No one will listen to us being meek, sit on a fence or pander. No one wants that. We have enough of that in the world. Even the most devout of us, the most reverential or sensitive get bored of hearing what they’ve already heard. We need to be surprised. We want to blush. We want to be affected. When you hear Sarah Silverman talk about her dad she has you in the palm of her hand. It’s incredibly inappropriate but I defy you not to laugh. When Chris Rock talks about the price of bullets your first thought isn’t “Wow, this guy says the n-word a lot,” it’s “Wow, this guy should be a lawmaker.” Even someone as soft and gentle as Mike Birbiglia knows that to stand out you have to get honest, not second-guess yourself and you have to go out on a limb. His joke outlining his experience masturbating into a cup at the doctor’s office is a great example (And a great sample. He now has a daughter). The shameful, the humiliating, the personal — these are what good stories are made of.

The point is to be pointed but you don’t have to be loud about it. Choose wisely, judiciously. Provoke to be seen, to be heard. You can’t be shocking for the sake of it 100% of the time. If it isn’t working you have to have the wherewithal to adapt. You have to read the room and then keep reading it, realize your behaviour is no longer working and tweak shit. Now we can talk about acting.

In your scene work you are collaborating with another person. You’re both telling the same story. Underneath that you’re telling your character’s story also. If your character’s story is boring to the other actor you won’t be affecting them. If you’re not affecting them then you’re not holding up your end of the bargain. You must surprise them. You must go out on a limb. But before you strip naked, cover yourself in gasoline and light yourself on fire you must read the room.

Know thy Audience

You won’t know how to tell your story without first knowing to whom you speak. Actors always rush in thinking that everyone was just standing around waiting for them to start talking. I would love for this to be true but it’s not. It is about listening. It is about the other person in the scene. And it’s about the audience. Where are the people that are ready to hear you? What kind of show are you reading for? Is it a drama or a comedy? Hallmark is going to play different (read worse) than HBO.

This of course applies to real life as well. Have you ever experienced a person next to you on the sidewalk yelling happily into their phone? A woman was outside of the green grocer yesterday talking so loudly she could have hung up the thing and the person to whom she spoke would have still been able to hear her. Here is an example of someone doing something private (a phone call) in a public space. She wasn’t aware of herself or her surroundings. When we take a minute (in an audition, in a job interview) to silently gather information we do two things: We gain power over the other person through our stillness (like a monarch or an assassin) and we affect our performance. Have a look at Stuart Lee reading the room and then telling that very same room why they’re a disappointment to him. Watch up to the 3:20 mark. Where he accuses the audience of murder. That’s how you collaborate with an audience. That’s provocation done by a master.

Try to get away with murder.

Acting is in the Behaving

So what do you do if you’re not busy flapping your gums? It’s about behaviour. Speak only if it improves on silence. Same with moving around. A great solicitor knows this. They stand there, they take their time. Same for a politician. They stand there not talking because they know as long as they’re not talking they’re not screwing up. The queen knew this. Her son not so much. Not yet. He’s still got time. Not a lot but …

You’ve all seen that clip of Justin waiting it out for 21 seconds? Man, that’s good. He always wanted to be an actor. He’s got the hair and the earnestness for it. While he’s not talking we’re on the edge of our seats and he’s not screwing up. That’s the power of silence.

Silence is provocative. Making eye contact is provocative. Having some contempt for your audience makes them want you.

Charisma Can Be Taught

Anyone can learn this stuff. I mean anyone. Even my neighbour who won’t talk to me anymore since I told him I didn’t want to go hiking with him. I just didn’t want to spend a Sunday afternoon with him. I wanted to go hiking with his neighbour (who also happens to be my friend). So I asked him to go hiking. But when the neighbour in question saw us getting into our cars to drive out to the country he said he wanted to come along. I said, “Look, it doesn’t hurt to ask except for right now. This is going to hurt your feelings because you are an emotional midget (I didn’t say that last part) but I just don’t want to hike with you. If I had I would have asked you but I don’t so I didn’t. I asked your neighbour instead because we’re friends. You and I are friendly because we live 100 feet from each other and our kids are friends. Do you see the difference there? We’re friendly not friends. Friendly isn’t the same as people that spend time together. Those people are called friends.”

Charisma doesn’t come from cleverness. In fact, the charismatic are not known for the words they say as much as how they say them and how they choose them. And how they can just stand there and weather an awkward silence as though it wasn’t awkward at all.

Think of a sniper. They’re not out there spraying the battlefield with bullets. They’re waiting, they’re quiet, they’re confident in their skillset.

To tell a compelling story you first have to identify the stories you tell yourself. Are they old? Is your operating system running old scripts? Do you need an update? If you tell yourself old, stale stories (I’m not good at parallel parking, I don’t like mushrooms, etc.) you run the risk of telling the same sort of drivel to others. You are what you say.

You can make your story the thing that will resonate long after your gone without flourishes and without tricks. It’s a simple concept. You stand there and practice listening until all those great ideas you’ve collected over the years fall away and we get to you. Nothing is more compelling than just you. In fact it’s all you have to offer the world. This isn’t news but it bears repeating. We need to remember that we are the greatest gift we can offer.

But what if no one wants our gift?

Have you reinvented of late? It’s painful but ooh, the growth of it! The extreme learning curve. The satisfaction and the sense of accomplishment. You don’t have to go big. You can just take care of things you thought not possible. For example, I used to have a lazy eye. I don’t anymore. I trained it out of me. I used to have a gummy smile. I practiced being toothier. Admittedly this is low-hanging fruit. If you watched the clip of Mike Birbiglia above you’d notice that he suffers from vocal fry. If I got my hands on him I would gently suggest that he could continue his very effective stage whisper (that he is so good at) without his vocal chords collapsing and his audience wouldn’t have to hear his story in spite of this tracheal complacency.

So fix the story delivering machine. Take care of the unforced errors. Make sure you can hit a ball before you try swinging a bat in front of a pitcher.

You Put It All Together

You are pointed, as in you aren’t afraid. You provoke — just right amount because you know your audience. You’ve read the room and done your homework and you are charming. These are the three tenants most emblematic of a story well told. But now you ask What about the story? I am here to tell you the story matters less.

Have you seen Taladega Nights starring Will Farrell and John C. Riley? Remember what it’s about? Of course not. No one does. It’s something to do with Nascar and Jesus. The story got in the way of all the funny. As soon as we have to spend time on exposition the audience tunes out. So skip the back story and don’t worry about the middle. You need a beginning and a big closer. The plot points are less important than the telling of it. People walk away from a performance remarking on the performance. Story comes well down the list after who we’d like to have sex with, who was the funniest, and who seemed the most annoying.

We are base. We are animals. We want to be surprised and delighted. We want to be turned-on and convinced. We could really care less about the story points. So the pressure is off.

The End

To tell a good story start by not talking so much. Start by listening to other great storytellers. Don’t laugh loudest at your own jokes, listen more, ask questions. Now that you’ve gathered the information you know your audience, you’ve gained status over them through stillness and silence. You’ve lowered their expectations because you’ve under-promised.

Now, let that zinger fly. You know the one. That sparkly gem you’ve been keeping in your back pocket for just this occasion.

Always remember you’re not a storyteller. You’re in collaboration with your audience. Leave room for them. They want to be a part of things. And you want them to hang around. Commit to the bit. Take a deep breath then pull the trigger.   

Be the confident sniper that is confident in their skillset. And watch your people come back for you time and time again.