AYE YI YI!
It’s been so long since my last post! Time is just flying by…sort of.
As many of you may or may not know, I work at a breakfast restaurant here in Toronto. I only work two days a week because my thinking was very much this, “If I wanted to be a full-time server, I would have stayed in Halifax.” I came here to be a writer. And so I thought that by only working part-time I would devote far more time to writing than I previously had when I was working full-time. And uh, holy shit, is that not the case. No. As it turns out, I can find so much more crap to do in my spare time. Do the terms, YouTube, Facebook and Twitter ring a bell? I’ve even gone so far to ignore writing that I’ve even taken to working out. Working out! I swore on my grandfather’s grave by taking a BLOOD oath that I would NEVER be one of those people who would strengthen their core!
And so sure, I gain a slight amount of solidity when it comes to the ol’ physique, but do I gain career-wise?
Also, if any high powered producers or agents after reading this want to give me my big break, believe me. Nothing motivates this writer faster than the possibility of being well-liked and not working in a breakfast restaurant. Here’s the deal. I am not to cool for school. Trust me. I would rather be liked.
This was a short update, but an update nonetheless. Until next time!
Liam
Annnnnnnnnnnd I’m Off…
Okay, round what is it now, three? Of online dating has officially come to an abrupt and expected end. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. Oh, no, wait a minute I totally know. Because everytime I finish a “round” if you will, of online dating something called “time” goes by. And in this time I make my way around town…I see couples…laughing…holding hands…mugging that old lady behind the liquor store and I just think, togetherness, y’know? Seems nice. And EVERYTIME I walk pass a couple who seemingly are enjoying one another’s company the same lyric from the song “Who Let In the Rain” wisps through my head… “I envy love that’s walking by, out on the street…” Shit. I wanna start dating again.
And I become very romantic about this notion, telling myself, “Liam. Be bold. You only have one life to live. Just go out into the “world” and try and meet that special someone who fulfill you in ways you didn’t even think was possible.” …And then the dating process begins and you’re like…holy mother of god…
First of all, I don’t understand the sect of online daters who are on these sites and yet never have the time to meet. They never have the time. They say on their profile they’re incredibly busy, their schedule is super tight and yet, yup they’re looking for Mr. Please-be-cool-with-never-actually-meeting-me-because-I’m-always-working-on-something-but-will-continue-to-talk-to-you-anyway-and-get-your-hopes-up-that-we-may-someday-meet-but-in-fact-never-will. …Wow…I would not envy learning to spell that last name as a kid…
And here’s the deal, I could totally be the guy that he’s telling this to because he actually just doesn’t want to meet and doesn’t know how to just come right out and say it. I get that. But my feeling is this: if you never are actually able to carve out an hour in your schedule for someone who is obviously in some strange way attracted to you, don’t be a dick. In short.
Also, the “I’m already seeing someone and am just looking for friends” people on dating sites. Get the fuck off this site. It’s for people who are lonely and miserable and trying to find someone. We don’t want to be your friends and no, we’re not happy for you!
It also strikes me as odd that regardless how much you talk to someone online, over the phone, what-have-you, it’s not until you actually MEET them that you find out who they really are. Which of course is such an obvious logic and makes anyone who just comes across this “realization” sound like an idiot, but it is true, regardless. Despite people’s chosen professions, when it comes to profile writing for online dating, everyone’s a great storyteller. They often time, I think, carve out or write the profile of the person they wish they were, not necessarily the person they are. Which is of course disappointing when you go on a date with that person and they turn out to be someone else, making you realize, “Wow. I will never get that hour back.”
Also, if you don’t have a profile picture, don’t bother e-mailing someone. I’m sorry, it’s the year 2010, everyone should have a profile picture.
And to the middle aged, straight, married men who contact me and others (I’m sure) on these sites looking for sex. Don’t bother. Because under neath that ill-suiting goatee and beer gut lies a man who’s harbouring tremendous issues of self-loathing if in their lives, they’ve been unable to accept themselves for who they really are. And I get it, it’s harder for some, for very valid reasons, but here’s the deal. I harbour enough self-loathing and guilt that could be the entire Jewish AND Catholic population to shame. So I don’t need to jump on board your “Intimate Encounters” band wagon.
And guys, priding yourself on qualities like excessive drinking, bitchiness and complete disregard for the human race is not cute. I get that growing up you saw very little representation of gay people and sadly only saw the cliched heterosexual construct of a gay man and have taken on that persona thinking it’s what a gay man should be, but it’s not. Typically, people in general don’t find these qualities endearing. So why then would someone looking to form a relationship with you find them attractive.
And guys. If your idea of a joke is the time you called that woman at the bar a, “fat betch” then you seriously need to check yourself before you wreck yourself, because that is the worst fucking joke OF LIFE!
It is for these reasons…and others that I’ve probably forgotten to mention that I’m off online dating.
Also, I’m done with online dating for profiles like this. Okay, I won’t post his name or picture, but what I’m about to do it copy and paste his profile VERBATIM! I swear I’m not making ANY of it up. Okay, here we go…
First off, I just want to say that if you saw this guy’s profile pictures, he…well…we all remember the show “3rd Rock from the Sun,” right? Well, this dude looks like an alien that’s trying to pass for a human, I’m just sayin’… Oh! And I should say that this kid is seventeen (but apparently will be eighteen in five months)…
Okay, and we begin.
“I am seeking a: Man
For: Dating
Do you drink: Socially
Do you smoke: Often
Profession: None
Smarts: N/A
(And now it starts to get good. Again, verbatim.)
Interests: Not sure. (Really?)
About Me:
Hahaha, Taste Or Music, And Hobbies,
Well Then My Hobbie Is…. I Like To Poke Things With A Stick (:
I Cant Say I Like All Kinds Of Music Most, Techno, RnB.
I Cant Say I Gave Goals, Well I Do But Its 3 Goals But Its Were My Life Takes Me. Withen The Future.
First Date:
First Date Eh,
who Says There my Type. Hahaha That Sounds Means ):
My First Date Would, Obv Be No Perfect, But I Say I Would Like To Do Anything They Like. ( SEX IS OFF LIMITS ) I Like To Get To Know My Man! And See How He Is. And If Im Interested In Another Date. And I Expect Them Be ThemSelfs, Becasue Its How It Should Be. But The Guy Is More Then Welcome To Pick Were To Go! Im Fine With Trying New Things, And Old Things. (:”
Yup. That’s what I’m working with, people.
Officially unattached and uninterested,
Liam
P.S.
Here’s the song I was talking about before:
“Who Let In the Rain” by Cyndi Lauper, which can be found on her “Hat Full of Stars” album.
Second City.
Time to move away from my fake prostitution stories and move on to something a little more relatable (hopefully).
I’ve finally come begun an education process which was one of the reasons I came to Toronto in the first place. I’m finally attending Second City. For those of you that aren’t aware Second City is an education and performance centre that was started up exactly fifty years ago in Chicago. Since then, it’s branched out into Toronto, Detroit and I believe Los Angeles and has churned out some of the world’s brightest and funniest performers/writers. Tina Fey, Steve Carell, Gilda Radner, Stephen Colbert, Amy Sedaris, the list literally goes on and on. So naturally, I’m trying to dip my toe in that pond.
Now, I’m taking two classes. One of which is comedy writing the other, focusing solely on improvisation. I gotta say, so far…that improv class is really kicking my ass. And no, I didn’t mean to rhyme just then. For as outgoing and talkative as I am, I’m not really comfortable as a performer. If I had my way I would just turn every character into a version of myself. Which probably wouldn’t bode terribly well Shakespeare. Can you imagine Othello if I were in it? Yikes. Although, I guess it wouldn’t be a total stretch if I played Othello…if Othello’s main character traits resembled that of a sitcom sidekick from the 50′s.
I’m always nervous to go up.
Who? Me?
There’s such a huge part of me, as I’m sure is the case with everyone, where when you go up onstage, you want to say something totally brilliant and funny, and something that no one’s ever heard of before. And that can really stop you and impede on your ability to just get up and perform.
Oh, I have an -- aw, shit. Forget it...
Everytime I perform or do something onstage I feel like a dweeb.
No, no. Don't mind me.
But I have to remind myself, that you know, I came to Second City to look like a dweeb and to learn and home skills that could absolutely benefit my writing. Because at the end of the day, that’s why I’m there. I’m not looking to become the next virtuoso actor/improvisor. I’m just treating this like my formal education. This for me is my Harvard or NYU. And you know what? Those schools are difficult for a reason. They push you and help you expand not only as a performer or a writer, but also in some respects as a person.
My writing classes are by far my favourite. There’s something about sitting down with a bunch of sarcastic, funny people and just spitballing ideas around that really just make my day. Being told that if I get any animal or animal by-products on someone’s seat I’ll be dead, not so much so. Here’s the deal, I think that guy from my class was kidding. But here’s the deal, he was tall, sort of buff and bald. And if I’ve learned thing over the years, it’s this: don’t fuck around with baldy. Needless to say, I went back to my seat.
I’m always really impressed by the voices that emerge in my writing class. Not vocally, but intellectually. It’s so interesting to hear someone’s perspective or point of view of what the deem funny or how they approach “funny,” but primarily honesty. Another reason why I’m liking Second City, Second City is not a place to come and learn how to tell jokes. Both classes I’m in place such a huge emphasis on being. Which, for me, is far easier than being funny. Because being honest, is just a matter of reacting and in most instances, the humour comes through in that situation anyway.
I’m excited by how much more I have to learn. I hope I can move on and escalate to the higher levels in improv and writing.
Well, this is Liam, signing off, are as my writing teacher likes to call me, “Jew.”
Jew-lite
Liam
“Jew”
Hello.
Am I vessel through which all creative forces flow? If by, creative forces, you mean penises, then yes. I am. Unlike celebrity and politics, whoring truly is a whore’s business.
I feel my clientele slowing down, though. Maybe it’s the economy, maybe it’s because word has spread that if you have sex with me you have to deal with this:
And this:
…And this…:
Things are getting tricky, readers. I need a new angle. I need something that will really draw people into my court. Let me tell you a story.
I had a man the other night tell me that he came to based upon word-of-mouth (there are too many innuendos to tackle from that last sentence) and that this was my chance to defend myself. Apparently, I “talk” to much, and apparently I actively “voice” myself when I’m bored…and so what if I make a face (refer to picture 3) when you make a weird sound when you climax. For god’s sake, I’m only human!
We never did “the deed,” instead we just talked. Thank god, because he had crazy person eyes. Y’know the kind of eyes where one’s lookin’ right at ya, but the other one is cocked towards the corner of the room where he keeps his gun. …Hey! I can’t be picky! Still paid, though. That was nice.
I don’t mind men with eyesight problems. …I tell those men that I…look like… Zachary Quinto…’s gay distant cousin.
Liam
Toronto Life — A Real Story
First off, as I’m writing this, you should know that I’m in a library. And you should also know that I just sneezed really loudly — TWICE! And was given the dirtiest look by a woman sitting across the way. She looked at me like I was single handedly responsible for the chaos that was the G20. Oh, yeah. I was here for that. Nothing to out the norm. Y’know, police cars set on fire, tear gas let loose, several buildings smashed and broken into, again, the usual.
I was dowtown for the riots — not by choice. I work right on Carlton and Yonge, and for those of you who paid attention to the news knows that, that was one of the areas rioters hit. Luckily they hit it — no joke — minutes after I left work. All forms of public transit were closed and so I had to walk home, which wouldn’t have been a big deal except for the fact that promptly as I was heading on route back to my apartment, a sea of police officers on megaphones were yelling, “Many protesters are already North and are moving North up Bay and Yonge!” Shit.
And so we (my friend Edwin and I) moved South. A potentially risky move considering that that’s where the majority of the rioting began, but if the cops were telling us that they were moving North, then we were gonna head West and then South to try and avoid any commotion. Our timing was good, but we certainly passed the residue of previous rioting that occurred in Southern part of downtown Toronto. Two police cars, with windows broken in, smashed windows of buildings and graffiti all over the place. I sort of just wanted to see the one stray metal barrell, standing erect with fire coming out of it. I don’t know, for me, that would have just really completed the picture.
And so, Edwin and I went to his place and were out of harm’s way, but I certainly knew people who were not. Well, one person, a co-worker of mine, Blaine. He was on the scene taking photographs of what was going on and along the way was trampled by a horse, hit by a cop and served as some sort of medic to a girl who was shot in the face with a plastic bullet courtesy of the cops. Dontcha love happy endings?
What took me by surprise was how it was really only the pockets of Toronto being hit by the rioters that seemed to feel the strain of the situation at hand. Because literally, the second you were one or two streets over, people were walking around like nothing was happening. Odd…
Anyway, Toronto as a whole has proven to be a fairly positive experience so far. New friends have been made and my job seems to be going well. No, not the fictious hooking job, the real job. The serving job. I’m actually surprised at how quickly I’ve grown used to the city. What once used to feel like some urban monster that was going to swallow me up, now feels, dare I say — small. Or at least familiar.
I’ve come to befriend a really awesome girl named Amanda Campbell who maintains a theatre blog here in Toronto called, “The Way I See It.”
http://www.twisitheatreblog.com/
Check her out!
And for those of you wanting a brief recap of the interesting things that I’ve experienced since moving to the big city, they are listed below:
- Had a crazy man bark at me on the street. And not in a sexy way. Figures.
- Saw a bird pooping while flying. …Or was I pooping and just saw a bird flying…? Hm. Whatever.
- Saw the musical “Jersey Boys” for free courtesy of Amanda Campbell and got a tour of the backstage area with the star of the show, Jeff Madden.
- Have been told by almost every new person that I meet in Toronto that I look like Dan Levy. I wish I looked as good as him.
- I keep falling for straight boys.
- And I now write fake anecdotes about my time on the street servicing the men of Toronto.
To which my Mom said upon reading those stories, “I’m fine with you writing whatever it is you wanna write, but just be ready for some guys to be intimidated by these stories.” A valid point, but you know what? I don’t think I want to go out with a guy who isn’t smart enough to get that those stories aren’t a joke. Just sayin’…
Okay. That’s enough for now.
Liam
Street Corner Diaries: Vol. 2 — For Billy
Horns are blaring on the street. Not for the soccer game, but for me. That’s right. As it turns out, the street crowd in Toronto is craving some grade G beef, from one Liam K. A. Gareau. Now it’s not my fashoin to brag, but just the other night I made $5.87…from eight different guys! What a difference a night can make! Well, hello July rent, you are WELL on your way towards being paid!
Had a Joe last night you was real speacial. ..Was he a Joe? Or was he Kenny? …Maybe a Raul? The point is, is that he had a penis. And when that and $1.21 is combined, you’ve got yourself a done deal.
Joe is a quiet man. He felt the need to tell me this when he spent the first 45 minutes of our “date” ranting and raving about his job and ex-wife. He tells me that they’re still on speaking terms, but told me after 15 minutes of talking about her, that he didn’t really want to get into it. Joe is tall. Not overwhelmingly tall. Not so tall that you would point and lagh at him, calling him a giant. Even though that’s what I did. But that’s not the point. I’m only 5’10(ish). Gimme a break.
He’s also one of the nicer “dates” I’ve had. He made sure that I was comfortable and relaxed. He even folded down all the seats in his mini-van to give us some more room! What a guy! What a guy indeed…
Clothes are coming off, we bend to the task and it’s then that his pattern is revealed. I don’t mean behavioral patterns or mental pattens. But more the pattern etched into the Chia pet that is his pubic hair. I couldn’t tell if it was a smiley face winking at me, some sort of Chinese character that he was told meant “Peace,” but probably means, “Veggie Chow Mein with Rice.”
I couldn’t help but take a pause and bring it up.
“What, uh…what is that?”
“What? Oh, this old thing? Yeah, I got it in the 90′s, thought it would be funny and while you think that it would grow out, for whatever reason, it’s staying that way.”
“I feel like it’s looking at me. I feel like it’s a face with a jaunty, crooked nose.”
“Well, do we need to talk about it? You’re sort of killing the mood.”
“Oh, sorry, did you want me to keep feeding you this Big Mac on top of this pancake, while I Tweet about it?”
“Well, not anymore…”
It was then that I decided to leave the van after promptly being kicked out. But it was mutual…on my end.
Toronto sure has a lot interesting gents. Many of whom I hope don’t infect me and are single and looking.
Liam
Street Corner Diaries: Vol. 1
Well, Mom the day has finally come where you can be embarrassed for your son on a completely different level. Yes, the level that forces you to not want to bring up my name in front of other family members or close friends. And let’s face it the latter’s more important because we don’t talk to seventy percent of our family. Which is fine with me because well…I don’t care for seventy percent of our family. But this is your firm and fair warning that you may not want to continue reading this blog as it may tarnish the beautiful and innocent image you have your youngest (and most likely to support you when your old) son.
It all started off as an innocent joke amongst friends. “Liam’s moving to the big city. Just you wait, he’ll wind up hooking on the street to make an extra buck.” Well, that day has come because let’s face it. Times are tough, money is tight and according to my priest, so is my asshole.
I never realized that there would be a market for my kind. You know, the frumpy and hairy, but wouldn’t you know it, there are people who’s level of self loathing is so deep they’ll literally pay to sleep with…well, as it turns out…anybody.
And so along with my day-to-day trials and tribulations, I’ll also be commenting on my blossoming prostitution career. A career where you can literally, sleep your way to the middle.
Now my first client is tomorrow. He seems nice enough. A little shy. The first time he called, I’ll I could hear was heavy breathing and then wouldn’t you know it, on the second phone call he really opened up and actually started talking. He said that he’s actually quite a chatty man. And he said he even talks with his hands. Well…as much as he can possibly do with only one free hand…
Don’t worry. I’m doing this safely. A friend of mine is accompanying me to the appointment. It’s not a three-way thing, it’s more of a…buddy system thing. And see, that’s the good thing about knowing s few people in a new city. Not necessarily so that I can make friends, but more so because then someone can identify the body.
Wish me luck!
This blog is dedicated to Theo. I hope he doesn’t find this offensive.
Liam
P.S.
No, I’m not actually prostituting. …But it’s fun to write about!
CFC
Well, judgment day. My interview with the CFC has come…and gone. It’s done. It happened. I can’t take it back now. Up until twenty minutes before the interview I wasn’t nervous…and then I walked through the front doors and jitters started to take over. My throat was dry, my hands were shaking and my bladder was feeling the need to release. Luckily one of those things didn’t happen. I’ll let you guess which one! 
I was half an hour early as a result of allowing myself WAY to much time to get down there. To be fair, it was a good idea. I’m still not terribly familiar Toronto, I fact I fully came to realize when I wanted to head to Spadina and found myself in the Danforth. To my Toronto peeps, you’ll know what a big trek that is. Anyway, I digress. I wait in a small cafeteria-esque dining room and await Tara to take me to the interview room.
I felt really out of place there. I felt like Carey Mulligan again in “An Education.” For for the unfaithful readers of this blog, this is when I’m surrounded by people far more interesting than myself and I feel terribly inadequate. But there’s no time for that now. I have to put my game face on because Tara has entered the room and has begun escorting me to the interview room.
And there they are. The panel. All people with warm and friendly faces. I’m put at ease…relatively. Right away they dive into the script I submitted in my portfolio. They ask where the idea came from, why did I write it, etc. and I go off. I break off into tangents which I digress from, apologizing for said tangents. They say that they like my answers. It gives them a better idea of who I am. Maybe this is them being polite. I don’t know.
The interview lasted 50 minutes and it felt like 5. I walked away not entirely sure of what to make of the interview. I couldn’t tell if in their minds they were thinking, “We like you. We’re going to support.” Or, “Foolish boy, we’re going to dole out pity-support.” Even though there were only six of us in that room, I certainly felt like a small fish in a HUGE pond. I’m supposed to hear back from them in the next two weeks, regardless of outcome.
In the words of my friend, Tessa, “Aye, yaye, aye!”
Liam
A lot has gone on.
It’s been awhile Bloggers, but I’m here for a quick update. I’ve found a place to move to in Toronto and out of some bizarre miracle, an interview with the Canadian Film Centre has appeared.
Toronto this time around is a little more uneventful…which maybe is okay. My interview with the school is tomorrow and it will be then that I provide you with a more in depth blog post, but for the moment I am confined in a lovely Victorian styled bed and breakfast that is run by a woman who I hope I never wind up like. Bitter and suspecting. Yikes. I’m on my way.
I guess musicians are right, living out of a suitcase ain't all it's cracked up to be.
Liam
