Debacle of '05

Gather round my children for I will take you by the hand and lead you into the mysts of time and show you what could very well be the funniest/worst/funniest again week of my life. Mortal men would have been brought to the brink of sorrow and lapped up the murky water of devastation that would give them a tapeworm of depression. But I prevailed due to the fact that I used a Brita filter.

Let me take you back to the summer of 2005, when I was on Mr. Chapel. One of our stops was cancelled, but a friend of Jessica and myself from our year of CBC invited our group out to her place in Cochrane, Alberta where we would perform at some Remax event. It sounded ok and so we agreed. Our path to our battle of Evermore began.

We arrive at her parents ranch which covers a vast piece of land. They clearly do well for themselves. Her father has the classic rancher look. Full on beard, wears the cowboy hat along with those weird multicolored collared shirts. He's also very conservative. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I am trying to paint the picture of the scenario in which the Debacle of '05 rests. He used to work with lighting or sound or something and had come to not like actors very much. Mind you, all of us, with the exception of our one tech, were actors. But I was the creator, the writer, and director. I felt perpetually uneasy around the guy. I think he even smelled my fear. Cowboys can smell fear. Or is that dogs?

Either way, we had a week before we performed. And then it hit that we were going to perform for kids. With Mr. Chapel. Mr. Chapel goes over the head of some adults. It's satire. I could see how this is going to end. It was like being handed a prophecy. However, the daughter and the father both assured me that kids would like it, because I had a superhero in it. I tried to explain that the superhero was only a small part of the grander show. But like how the prophet is not listened to in his hometown, the actor is never listened to. We don't know anything about engines and hockey, so concordantly we don't know anything. Even the stuff I learned about.

Anyway, we had time before the performance at the end of the week, which I was predicting to be an unmitigated disaster. And you may be thinking that that is the thing I am referring to that brings me the previously unattained level of angst in my life. You are mistaken and you should just let me tell the story!

People thought it would be fun to maybe ride the horses. People typically think that horses are fun. I don't know why. But being that I am a fan of comradery, I agreed to go. But knowing that there was a good chance that I would fall off, decided to wear clothes that could get dirty. In this case, it was baby blue hockey jersey for some backwater team along with a checkered pants and grey cowboy boots. I looked like an idiot. When they were deciding who got what horse, they gave me the one closest to death and who was a show horse. They assured me that a show horse are trained to never gallop and the fact that he's old means he wouldn't want to anyway. I fell for that and got on the horse. The horse was also in on it and was behaving just fine as we went around in a circle in the training yard. That is the not the name of the area, but I am actor.

Once we got used to the basic stuff, it was decided that we would hit the dusty trail. It started off fine. Everybody was sharing laughs, talking about how their horse and how much they missed Full House. I don't actually remember due to the fact my horse wanted to go another way. As we headed down the road, my horse veered against my will towards the neighbours house. Now let me set the record straight, I didn't panick. I remember what I was supposed to do and that was to pull on the reins. And that's what I did. But the demon horse started to pick up speed instead. It was a mere trot, but it was mere trot away from where I'm supposed to be. I started to yell "Whoa!" along with the tugging. This made the horse go inexplicably faster. Despite my feeble attempts to stop the animal that is five times my weight, it sped to a gallop, the apparent thing that the horse is unable to do. It was a miracle! Unfortunately, the horse was headed towards a fence and I was thinking that show horses that have never galloped probably have never jumped fences either. I then thought that this may very well be my death or at the very least, it would go all Christopher Reeve on me. What? Oh, the Reeve comment? Too soon?

Anyway, the horse realized it could jumped, so it slowed down and turned around. I thought that I was safe, but the horse then continued on it's terrorizing rampage and went back towards all my friends at blistering speed. I then started to think that I was going to be sent headlong into one of them. It was at this point that Shannon, the girl who brought this death trip upon my head, come to meet me and stopped my horse. I looked over to see the father, who had watched a horribly dressed clown of an actor being tossed around like a rag doll on the back of a dying show horse. Strike one.

It turns out that when you tug on the reins and yell "whoa" while you also dig your heels into it's sides, you are sending "mix signals".

Two days later, we go quadding a thing I haven't really done before. It was fine and funny. We got muddy, we didn't crash, the thing didn't misinterpret me to the point that it almost killed me. We get back, turn them off and put on clean clothes. It turns out that you need to do something to drain something from the something in order to stop it from leaking something on their lawn and killing a large patch of grass. I was informed of this later and I asked the mother and daughter if the father was mad. They said, "He'll get over it." In other words, he was extremely upset. Strike two.

It came to the day in which we had to perform. I was more anxious than ever. I find out that the show is for little kids, not even junior highs who would be able to catch some of it. I accepted this fact as I got ready to move things into this igloo of a tent. I got into the van, started it up and moved forward, the van lurched and was up on something. I then heard yelping. I looked out my window and saw that the 15 passenger was currently standing on top of the father's favourite dog. I said "uh oh" and put it in reverse and back off. The dog runs off yelping and crying. Strike three.

Didn't see that one coming did you?

People arrive and the father starts advertising the show and they got all the kids excited to go. And as I looked upon their smiling faces, I knew that it was like I was sending them to the death of their joy. The kids all crowd into the tent. We have our screen up and start to perform. And every time we come out to do the next sketch we lose half the crowd. By the end, we had like five kids in there. All of which were the older kids. If I could've swore so loud that I would've finished off the dog who whimpering over it's wounds. The thing that I was supposed to be good at was one of the biggest disasters of the week. I was talking to the father afterward and he was clearly not satisfied. Strike four.

I only had 36 more hours before we would be out of there. 16 of those hours would be spent sleeping. How hard could it be?

Two hours later, the daughter came up to me and told me to go chase the llamas again. You see, two days before, when we were out in the pasture I jokingly tried to pet their llamas and the llamas would run away and I looked hilarious for trying to run after them. It was quoted as being "entertaining". So I figured, why not? Maybe I will regain some of my lost status. You know, any of it. So John and I tried to trap them and people were laughing. It was great. Then I got tired and that was enough. But then I noticed that the llamas were still running. In fact they were running for entrance to the whole ranch. I said "uh oh" and ran through a wooded area, jumping over fallen branches and through the thickets to head them off at the gate. The llamas saw me and actually picked up the pace and one of them escaped out the front. I hung my head low and walked back to Shannon. She, her sisters and the rest of Mr. Chapel helped me to go track them down. I was hoping it would be me who would bring it back, but it wasn't. Strike five.

I spent the whole week trying to not be the stereotypical idiot of an actor and instead fulfill and even move the step beyond to fulfilling the characture of an actor. It was awkward. It was one of the worst blows of the summer and it was only the first week of touring.

I was thinking that I should pull out a final stunt and ask permission to marry one of his daughters (of which he is very protective). Maybe the one who was eighteen. That would have been awesome. The main reason I didn't would be the fact that he may very well murder me. And I'm pretty sure I would not be able to fight him.

Then You Have to Explain to the Police Why You Gave Him the Poker in First Place

This is yet another entry in a row and so I'm actually using tomorrow's date, because you can only live each day once or some crap like that.

For those of you who don't know or care, there has been a bit of a compilation of dramas in my life. Some involve me and others do, too. Here's a brief rundown.

1. I put my foot in my mouth with this one person I know and I was a damned idiot in what I said. It was my fault and I had to bite the bullet and legitimately say sorry. It was some of the dumbest things I think I've ever said to an individual and so now I have to go through that awkward feeling of "did I make it up to them enough?" Apparently, you need to say something like 8 nice things to make up for one bad one. That's like 32 things I need to say nice. You see you can't use retroactive positive comments either. Oh well, that's 32 nice things for her and like 6 shots of Jack Daniels for me.

2. As of late, people making fun of me has started to take it's toll and find it difficult to face constant ridicule (although still unfair of me to put it on others). And there was a recent time where every single piece of conversation that came my way was a form of ridicule and that was like an awesome cherry of punch in the face that I've had to deal with in addition to the normal day-to-ridicule. It's the kind of thing that's worth at least 8 shots of Jack.

3. Another individual in my life did not make a certain engagement this past week and although it did not affect me that much personally, others in same said group have and now there's going to be that damned awkward thing in the air, where people pretend nothings wrong, but everyone knows there is something wrong. It will be "great". I can't tell if that last statement came across as sarcastic. Because it was supposed to be. Very sarcastic. Although ultimately I think it's only one shot. I mean Jack Daniels is so expensive.

4. I went on a date recently, which technically went well, it didn't end as I hoped. Meaning that that's the end of that. That was a lot of "that"s for one sentence. My english teacher would kill me for that. Oh, and my over-use of exaggeration. Anyway, through said experience, I've had an epiphany and now have a renewed vigor for life and self-confidence (but I still don't like the whole ripping Dave's being apart from 1). But I think I may have foolishly told the individual that majorly influenced this epiphany and that may have been a mistake. And I'm left with have to figure out what the hell is going on. That's easily worth the price for the 10 shots.

5. I'm planning on having a launch party for the Mr. Chapel DVD release and many of these people may be there all together under one roof, ready for a sitcom-like meltdown. And even if they don't come, all the conversations that involve inviting them will just suck. 1 shot for every invitation. That's like 30 shots.

I didn't sign up for all this, but this is what you get for getting involved socially and having little diplomacy skill to deal with it. It's like giving and enthusiatic kid a hot poker and releasing him into a mall full of people. And then you have to explain to the police why you gave him the poker in first place and you have to tiptoe around the fact that you were there to steal from the jewellery store and why the hell did I use my little cousin for that. That kid can't do anything right. I mean I needed you to be a distraction. How hard is that?

Oh and now I have to buy a lot of Jack Daniels. That's like one of those big bottles and I can't throw money around like that. That's worth two shots.

And When I Say "I help", I Mean "I Run the Slave Trade" Kind of Help

Sweet mother, it's been a while since I've posted. I'll try to work on that. Anywho, this is the thing that just recently came up. I've been receiving responses from people who saw Mr. Chapel this past summer. It's been an uplifting experience. So far, every single one has been negative and in fact one takes it a step further and implies that I am actually trying to tear the church apart.

Well, I guess it finally came out. I'm just a jerk that wants nothing more than to destroy the very thing that I'm trying to help. That way I can help more and stay in business. And when I say "I help", I mean "I run the slave trade" kind of help.

But seriously, I think all these kind responses have been like that hand that reaches down to help you out of the muck and mire and brings you out in your time of need and gently cradles you. It is also assuming that the same hand then turns around and punches you in the kidney once you're asleep. Nothing beats that feeling of thinking you're helping and then finding out that you're "not".

So now I might as well go the rest of the way and finish the DVD's, sell them, and give all the money to crime rings and the Hitler cloning project like I was originally thinking. You know, "helping" mankind. Then I can start up a trendy heroin habit like I always dreamed of.

A Mystical Journey of Wonder and Imagineering

A lot of people who may stumble across this page might look at this site and wonder who is this illustrious individual who seems to have his life put together. For the last time get off my property and peeking in through my window! Anyways, for many people who know me, "Mr. Chapel" has been a significant part of my life for the past year. Man, that sounds like I'm having an affair or something. Anyway, Mr. Chapel is the name of the sketch comedy show that I wrote and performed all over western Canada and some of the States. It was a show that grabbed people by the wrist and led them through a mystical journey of wonder and imagineering without the aid of hallucinigenic substances, and said to them, "Hey, come with me and I'll show you what flying over the rainbow of hope really means."

More accurately it was out to wreck havoc in the complacent and challenge people to think instead of resting on their intellectual laurels and eat the fattening ice cream of mindless faith and then they get the perverbial spare tire of passionless ritualism or the flabby arms of staunch ignorance and then it gets to the point that they are trapped inside their house of a mundane life. Mr. Chapel is like the life-saving liposuction for these people and I am like the doctor who does the liposuction and gets paid millions of dollars. Except I have jack squat, so I'm like the guy that does it free out of his basement using a spoon and a vaccuum cleaner and three feet of fishing line. Wait, somewhere along the line I lost my analogy.

Point is that Mr. Chapel was a great time and you can see in this picture my Mr. Chapel crew.

In the days to come I'll probably post more stuff about my adventurous summer.

That's enough blogging for today. Sweet merciful sanitation officer, there's got to be a better word for blogging than blogging. It seems like I have the stomach flu and the partially moldy tuna sandwich I had at lunch is coming back to haunt me.