A Moment in Film: Why I Decided to Have My Mid-Life Crisis as Early as Humanly Possible.

Deep within a dingy basement suite, I was half-heartedly rearranging a two-bit film set back into my original living quarters when I became distracted by an odd email from an old friend. He informed me I would receive another email from a young man in his extended family who'd recently graduated high school and was looking to dabble in film. This precocious tyke had watched a film project I was creating and posting online at the time, and he supposedly wanted to ask me some questions about it. I was in my mid-twenties, mid-way between this five-year-long undertaking that had become an unhealthy obsession. It was the late 2000s, so it was common for lunatics, such as myself, to be playing around with cameras and sharing the results with whoever was willing to watch, but what could the likes of me give for advice concerning filmmaking when I was desperately learning how to do it myself? What could I discuss with this kid? Maybe I was just taken aback because I wasn't the type who was used to being asked too many questions in general, hell, the only reoccurring one I could recall is, "How do you always manage to get food down the front of your shirt? Jesus! Is it even down your back?" If I were to impart any practical knowledge to this kid, I figure I better preemptively email him, saying, "Just eat over the sink." If he insisted on clarification, I'd merely reply, "It's a grown man's bib, trust me ;)" Despite his initial confusion, I knew he'd eventually thank me. Before I could do this, his email arrived and it was overwhelmingly vague: "Hey man! I saw your film project! Good stuff! I'm looking to do something similar! Can you tell me about it?"

Tell him about it... what could I say? Maybe I should explain the logic that led me to this unusual situation and provide a shopping list of life lessons I picked up along the way. I began by explaining how Phase One of my adult life was going to university to obtain a lucrative career to pay for Phase Two, which involved attending film school. After completing my journalism degree, I realized I wouldn't be Scrooge McDuckin' it in a pool of gold bullion any time soon, so enrolling in film school didn't seem fiscally responsible. Instead, I looked to Vancouver, BC (touted as Hollywood North at the time) and contacted a familiar producer to volunteer my services. I became this man's assistant for over a year and was hoping he'd become my mentor -- A quick mention: since I'll be referring to this character continually and it's not accurate referring to him as my mentor, I better think of another epithet. How about... my centaur? Why this mythological creature, you ask? Such a surreal guide seems fitting to this coo-coo bananas acid trip of an experience of mine. I did various work for my centaur and he also lent my services to his other filmmaking friends and acquaintances. 

There was a pattern I noticed: being on small independent film sets was priceless because you could try your hand at a variety of tasks and work with people who still had a love for life. However, being on larger productions could only be described as baptism by a 5,700 cubic feet-per-second deluge of molten-hot piss to the face (needlessly graphic, I know, but I honestly couldn't think of another description for the life of me.) 

Whenever I needed to earn enough money to survive, I could land paid work as a production assistant for various films and TV shows. If nothing else, working as a PA was an excellent lesson on the mind-bending experiences to be had on set, where you're responsible for a series of random tasks. One minute, my job was acting as the noise police, assuring "all quiet on set" while the cameras were rolling, and this could involve standing in one spot for 12 hours in the rain, wearing plastic grocery bags as waterproof socks and second-guessing every life decision. The next moment, someone gave me the authority to follow Jason Statham around a rooftop set, reminding him not to sit on the edge between takes, only to have him pierce me with his steely eyes and repeat, "Roy, gaw-i, tanks." A lesson that most name-dropping opportunities were of the conflicting sort that left me staring blankly at the ceiling several hours before falling asleep each night.

There were some amazing experiences to be had as a PA. I was lucky enough to learn the basic etiquette of filmmaking right in the middle of the action. I scored these opportunities because I was a goddamn gladiator when it came to holding umbrellas over actors. Sometimes, different departments would borrow my services if they were in a pinch and I quickly learned what their craft involved. I even created opportunities for myself. One such formative moment was hiding, turning off my radio so my boss would lose track of me, and peaking through a hole in a shoji screen to watch how they filmed an action sequence. 

I wrapped up my email by mentioning that I could provide contacts for this kid if he were interested in gaining any of these experiences. I didn’t think I was being a good Samaritan to this kid, but it felt like I had burned some mental calories for his sake. However, I soon received a dismissive second email from him, saying, "No, I don't want to know about all that. Tell me what it's like doing your project." 

Ah ok, he wanted to skip gaining experience and jump straight into filmmaking. All I could think of was providing another shopping list: I spent years saving up to buy all the required film equipment, taught myself the basics of how to use it, wrote and rewrote the script, began shooting with many patient friends and family and then struggled to edit it all into something mildly coherent. Beyond this, I could only recommend keeping one's head down in order to plow through the work and avoid too much introspection because that will only reveal how impractical the creative process can be. I had already invested considerable time and money into my project and it was horrifying to contemplate the carnage left behind once it was all over.

Any difficult task has an emotional toll and we artsy folk tend to be overly sensitive and hyperbolic when expressing our feelings over such matters. If I were to provide any significant advice concerning one of the most challenging undertakings of my life, I would need to open my heart to this stranger. After all, it felt as if this organ had welled up in my chest over the last few years and now this kid came to poke at it with a big stick. Sure, he only sent me a few sentences, but his question had been much more thought-provoking than the typical: “Is that mayo or toothpaste below your collar?” There were things I wished I’d known back when I was a naively optimistic kid and once I started writing it all came out in flood. It felt as if  I wasn’t actually replying to this kid, but to an email somehow sent from my long-lost inner child who had dolefully written, “Sorry to bother you, old friend. I know you’re busy with bigger and better things. I figure your days of eating Lego are long past, it’s probably all fancy mayo and toothpaste for you now... I just wanted to ask how you’ve been doin' fellah.”

After sending a long and sincere writeup to this kid, his third and last email I received merely said, "Ok, cool! Thanks!" and it was as if the little rapscallion just tottered off, leaving me... to my thoughts. Little shit prompted me to ask myself questions I never bothered asking before. To better illustrate the kind of emotional volatility this brief encounter evoked, just imagine coming across an obsessive busybody in some dark hovel who's clearly in a precarious headspace and asking him to open up about his demented hobby, then merely saying, "Huh! Neato!" and sauntering off after he just laid out all his handcrafted figurines representing the entire seaQuest DSV universe painstakingly carved out of root vegetables. For a brief moment, it was as if you lifted a mirror towards this poor sap and he struggled to recognize what he saw (Had his efforts resulted in creating an apt metaphor, or was this all just pure lunacy?) All he knows is he felt safe enough to open up about the trials and tribulations of carving the likeness of Roy Scheider out of rutabaga. Suddenly, all was quiet save the few existential questions rattling around his head. Let's just say my basement suite felt especially cold and damp that night.

I found a way to deal with it, rather than discarding this heartfelt e-mail, I kept picking away at it over the years, adding to and revising it into some twisted essay as if I was still talking to this kid. This became a strategy for wrapping my head around these strange times and even became therapeutic. Be warned, I minored in psychology, so when I'm motivated to attempt introspection, I tend to go a little too deep. This tangent might end up being a futile attempt to articulate some kind of theme among too many fragmented thoughts and mixed emotions, resulting in nothing more than what psychologists call cognitive dysentery. Don't worry, I promise I won't digress into unpacking some kind of psychoanalytic nightmare where I attempt to decipher my inexplicable fear of song and dance chimney sweeps and my even stranger fetish for hanging upside down... preferably in chimneys. Anyway, enough psychobabble for now!

Before I begin my tangent, I'd like to make a series of disclaimers to avoid any misunderstandings the reader might have. Firstly, I'm not writing this to promote my old film project, to tell you the truth, I don't think I'd recommend it to anybody today because, just like me, it hasn't aged well. Secondly, I don't intend any of these "lessons" to be overly helpful to anyone because one of life's little ironies has taught me that anyone eager to play the pro bono life coach is usually the last person to have his own shit figured out. I assure you, I have nothing figured out. These are just theories I have been playing around with. Thirdly, I'm aware there's nothing more obnoxiously cringe-worthy than listening to a self-purported "artist" explaining the intricacies of his or her craft. However, when I first arrived in Vancouver to volunteer on my first film set I was 23 years old, then one day I completed my first film project and noticed I’d become a 30 year old man. The time between was an extreme crash course in a variety of bizarre life lessons that will soon fade into the oblivion of my poor memory, so... fuck it! Let's get our cringe on! 

I'll kick this thing off by laying out the only seemingly sound advice I could give this kid. It’s not entirely irrelevant to everyone else since it deals with two inevitable hurdles we all face when attempting any creative task, be it something as simple as coming up with a witty remark to write in a birthday card (anything requiring us to share our quirk.) These two hurdles are dealing with self-doubt and doubt from others.

Fortunately, I could keep my self-doubt in check because I was in good company. I arrived in Vancouver at the same time as many artistic friends and acquaintances who also came to pursue their creative undertakings in filmmaking, acting, photography, writing and songwriting. Many of us collaborated and supported each other. I know this sounds cheesy, but it was a fascinating time and place. It reminded me of the creative atmosphere I read about regarding the beatniks in Grenach Village or classic rock musicians in Lorell Canyon. Having the opportunity to observe so many creative people, I noticed self-doubt originated from a struggle to meet one particular criterion; a severe issue that haunted every one of us. It was figuring out how to create something "good." Hell if I knew how and I'd never met anyone else who'd figured it out. However, I come to believe there's only one strategy in dealing with this conundrum.

The only solution is to appease that inner critic that lives in each of our heads, the one who will thwart all attempts at creating anything. My inner critic can only be described as my inner drunk uncle: He's been around my entire life, he's wholly belligerent and rarely coherent. All I can hope to do is satisfy him long enough so he shuts the fuck up and I can complete my work before he inevitably starts embarrassing me again. During my film project, I achieved the impossible in obtaining his approval, which lasted until one month after its completion. This momentary peace of mind was well worth all the exhausting effort.

Now, let’s deal with the second hurdle, which concerns doubt from others. Unfortunately, this isn’t straightforward despite there being a seemingly simple solution: not giving a shit about what others think… this works wonderfully and, just like any wonderful thing, it can easily be overused. I’d recommend this strategy if it weren’t so easy to get hooked, just think of all those we know who use it as a rule of thumb for every aspect of life. Why exactly do I consider this such a dangerous expediency? It's because I believe every single one of us is slowly becoming parodies of ourselves the older we get. I don't know why, maybe it's because we're all becoming too comfortable living in our own heads and beginning to see the outside world through a filter resembling a funhouse mirror. If you don't believe me and you have children, they'll come to remind you of this fact. Other people with their opinions can be the canary within the coal mine that is your psyche and they can quickly help us detect the build-up of overwhelming levels of batshit nuttiness. If this analogy seems over the top, then let’s just say, at the very least, others can help us think clearly amid the noxious fumes of our own bullshit.

However, there is a further complication to all of this. If you decide to do a project like mine, you will quickly realize that any such barometer is broken. Why? It's because we creative sorts don't do things that are considered "practical” and we easily baffle the more practical people around us. Doubt from others can sometimes be so overwhelming that it seems you've gone completely guano nut cluster. This requires far more careful discernment between people willing to provide invaluable constructive criticism and those who can become your inner drunk uncle incarnate.

Now, for a brief aside: I realize referring to those artsy sorts as "impractical" seems blasphemous to many of my kind, but I say to them, "Calm down." I realize art can make life fulfilling and I'm not suggesting we cut art programs in public schools when things get tight, all I'm saying is that once you begin experiencing the exigencies of life (responsibilities to others, dealing with tragedy or just struggling to get by,) you learn that those of us who have time, energy and resources to focus on creative endeavours are incredibly fortunate in our ability to take this impractical route.

Anyone with a creative bent should realize we're naturally quixotic and prone to being misunderstood despite all the effort we put into expressing ourselves. This anomaly just comes with the craft. During the time of my project, I'd occasionally rejoin the outside world to catch up with my practical friends who eagerly described their fledgling careers. I particularly enjoyed listening to them describe their dramatic internal politics at work because it was reassuring to discover that even the practical sort ripens for parody and adds an element of absurdity to the more consequential human endeavours. However, I noticed when it was my turn to explain what I'd been up to with my film project, I would get that wide-eyed stare as if I was describing living on the goddamn moon. This was disconcerting enough I would avoid talking about it. It just became part of the strategy of keeping my head down and plowing through my project. To anyone who experiences this and feels it soul-crushing, just take a moment to slip into the shoes of your practical friends. It's easy to understand where they're coming from if you perform a little thought experiment. Imagine listening to an allegorical friend describing their passion for an art form you are so unfamiliar, you'd most likely misunderstand. How would it sound catching up with an old friend who's striving to become, say, a rodeo clown:

"So yeah, my training involves going to the local zoo, where I can get mauled by the larger animals. I'm bringing a unique dimension to the craft; I'm not going for the traditional "sad clown" persona but rather the rainbow-bright palate atop a chalk-white primer of a birthday-party clown. Not to worry, the barrel with suspenders I wear provides a kind of makeshift kevlar overalls that prevents the goring of any internal organs. The whole experience turns out to be a win-win for everyone: I get my practice, the animals get their exercise and, because I have a knack for superseding any compulsion to scream in terror with an obnoxious cackle instead, I seem to provide a sort of catharsis for the younger spectators.

I admit, I'd probably have a wide-eyed canary stare like I was about to keel over.

This was the last bit of lucid advice I had for this kid. He might not have been interested in hearing about working on set, but I can’t omit my experience because I learned so much… I’m not entirely sure what. It was kind of like watching a David Lynch film: I’m not sure what I saw and I feel stupid trying to explain it, but it left deep enough an impression to help guide crucial life decisions. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like Mulholland Drive, more like Lynch’s attempt at a comedy based on a clown academy: there would be laughs, good cries and a few hard lessons why you should never look around that corner. WHY WOULD YOU LOOK AROUND THAT CORNER? (Maybe there were a few Mulholland moments.)  Before I say anything more about this matter, I want to mention that I realize my time on set was nowhere near long enough to make any sort of generalization. However, I still recount these experiences because, like I said before: baptism by molten hot piss. 

Filmmaking has always felt like a befitting pastime because my primary thought process usually involves a touch of dramatics. Whenever I ruminate on any pivotal life lesson, it almost feels like I hit a switch and a film reel begins whirling inside my head, projecting a vignette of a shoddy production into my mind's eye. Let me describe one such scene that has already started to play out.

Somewhere in the suburbs of Surrey, BC, I was on the set of a sexy backyard pool party scene for a Bollywood production that had come to Canada. I was part of the Canadian production crew collaborating with the Indian crew. The scene for today was a musical number and the massive yard was swarming with oiled-up extras wearing bikinis and speedos. I found a picnic table in a quiet corner and, like always, it happened to be right next to a wonderful man named Ramesh, who had set up his station for the day. Ramesh was an adjunct to the Indian craft services who specialized in supplying sweet milky chai throughout the day. Kind of like me, he seemed out of place here. With his meagre resources, this humble man was a stark contrast to the opulence seen on set. He was always squatting next to a giant pot on a kerosene burner set on the ground and he seemed to have an aversion to wearing shoes. What he lacked in resources, he made up in good spirits and I didn't seek him out for the endless supply of sweet chai, but I came to depend on his cheerfulness which was a stark contrast to the tensions on set. If this production was likened to drowning, he was a slight air supply bubbling through a fissure I desperately latched onto. As I set up my laptop, we began chatting with one another despite neither of us understanding each other's language. I hope he didn't mind my presence, at least I could make him laugh every time I poured a libation on the ground after every top-up, a custom he insisted on teaching me.

My centaur had paired me up with one of his production manager buddies on the Canadian crew. I forgot this guy's name, which is ironic considering the scope of his robust ego. He was the polar opposite of Ramesh's unassuming character. One peculiar tendency he had was to guide every conversation towards the same premise: What an astonishing natural phenomenon he happened to be; such a rare tour de force delivered forth for the benefit of all of humanity; certainly one of Mother Nature's mightiest queefs; a pervasive body of hot air traversing the earth's surface... I think I'll refer to him as Orson.

Orson joined my table while Ramesh sang a folk song in Hindi to himself. Orson joked, "Ah, I love this tune." Unfortunately, I began to chuckle at this joke despite all my efforts not to. It could have been my giddiness, or maybe it was the pure dickishness of the joke, but I couldn't stop laughing to myself. I not only wished to avoid having Orson think he said something clever but, more importantly, I didn't want to hurt Ramesh's feelings by giving the impression I was laughing at him. Time passed, people around the pool stopped dancing and began milling about, Ramash continued singing to himself, Orson leaned back with a cocky look on his face and I still struggled to stifle my giggle-fit, learning to hate myself even more.

We'd been filming for two months so far. Every day I made sure I was the first on and last off set, which made for a typical 15-hour day. I would open the production office myself on weekends so any pending administrative shit could get resolved. I was well beyond burned out and felt like I needed two days off at the end of the week to travel back home to see family and friends. After mentioning this to Orson, he expressed disappointment with my decision, probably because it meant a heavier workload for him during those two days. After reminding him I was "volunteering," he scolded me with a speech on how I would never succeed in "the industry" with an attitude like mine. " You must expect to go above and beyond to make it and...I don't think you'll ever make it."

Make it? Was I expecting to make it? I didn't think I was coming off as overly ambitious. I was here to observe and see how this shit was done so I could hopefully do it for myself one day. I was well aware that the concept of any pay-off was purely hypothetical; "Inner growth," as new-age hippies call it. He was the one who would regale me with all his concepts for unwritten scripts in his head and then sternly warn me, "I'm telling you this in confidence. Don't go stealing my ideas." My refusal to humour him still didn't deter him from inviting me into his grandiose daydreams of one day “making it.”

I was genuinely surprised at myself for not being angered at this scolding. Maybe it was because there was no chance of my taking seriously someone who sounded as if they conducted mock interviews with James Lipton in the bathroom mirror every morning. I was content enough just observing this fascinating specimen who was brimming with bullshit up to his uvula.

As many of the extras were making their way over to craft services, one bright red Speedo suddenly came to stand right next to my head, I looked up to see a young man all oiled, glittered and wearing red fuzzy antlers for some reason. "Hey, I know you! We went to high school together!" he said. I did recognize spotting him in the halls back in the day and recollected he was at the very top of the pecking order. I was surprised he recognized me because neither of us ever made eye contact before, but now here he was, standing a little too close for comfort, even if he had been fully clothed. Sure, he wasn't exposing the complete anatomy of our species, but he was exhibiting the furrows of his tightly swathed Southern Pink-Bellied Warbler. This thing was hovering at eye level. I began looking around me (there was no way housecoats were only provided to female extras.)

"So what do you do here?" he asked.

Orson leaned over to me and whispered, "You can tell him you're the third assistant director." He then leaned back in pure self-satisfaction at his act of charity towards me. This struck a nerve and I felt my blood go into a rolling boil.

I quickly glared back at Orson and I would have snapped back, " Yeah, no shit!" if I hadn't become the poster child for imposter syndrome. I had taken over all the paperwork for the third assistant director because he quit. This production was slowly falling apart while both Indian and Canadian crews were tearing at each other's throats. The only reassurance I got before stepping into this role was, "You have a journalism degree, you'll figure it out."

Orson wore an expression of smug self-righteousness as if he was granting me an opportunity to impress a former classmate. This was the bone he was throwing me after two months? Now I feel it fair to give myself a little credit and point out that I'm not overly difficult to please. Matter of fact, the only other time I experienced this guy's beneficence was spending an entire day driving him around when he decided to buy me one 99-cent taco from the Taco Bell value menu AND I STILL FONDLY RECOLLECT THAT TACO! It was so satisfying, being the only thing I had eaten in 24 hours.

Orson was also beaming with pride in having reached a kind of milestone. He revelled in his newfound ability to bestow a lowly neophyte bragging rights. Who gives a shit about high school acquaintances at a time like this? No, wait, I know who would. I'm being a caddy dick here, but it was apparent that kind of thing would be right up Orson's alley. Looking at his smug face gave the illusion I was living out a contemporary episode of the Wonder Years where an aged Paul Pfeiffer just finished explaining why he was indeed "so ballin' that they all come crawlin'." A brief glimpse behind this guy's facade revealed his mighty edifice teetering on a tenuous foundation. This was concerning because the mood on set had turned bat-shit insane over the last month, and it was as if I'd finally come to realize the person guiding me through this psychological battleground had unknowingly been the above mention rodeo clown. (Anyone else would have thought it strange that provisions for this treacherous expedition consisted of a rubber chicken and twirling bow tie) I wondered if this man's buffoonery played a much larger part in the drama around us. For a moment, I would have been so bold as to say this bullshit was a waste of my goddamn time if I hadn't scored a free taco!

I looked back at my old classmate and replied, "I'm this guy's lackey," and went back to work on my laptop.

This whole situation led me to ask one crucial question: What the fuck is wrong with me? Although I have control over this narrative and I'm trying to paint myself as the straight man amid a cast of vaudeville characters, there's no hiding the fact that I'm still the butt of the joke in this scenario. Just look at everyone's situation. There's Ramesh, who might have been overly positive because he had the opportunity to travel abroad and hopefully earn more than he was accustomed to. There’s the literal ball-bag on my right, who was successfully adhering to a regiment of healthy living, judging by his devotion to daily ab-blasting (good for him.) Finally, there was the figurative ball bag on my left, who had a fully paying career which validated his smug expression. There I was, the sad sack in the middle, who should have been paying off a student loan rather than incurring personal expenses for this production, despite the suspicion I would never get paid back. Ah well, such was the cost of a practical education.

I realize I sound contradictory, but I genuinely cherish moments like these because they’ve provided a rebirth of basic understanding. Scenes like these make for some strange Renaissance frescos adorning the interior of my head. Upon examining said piece, titled: Nitimur in Vetitum Chalupa Supreme, I think it conveys the motif that I don't ever want to be the punchline to anyone else's joke, only my own. I want to be a clown at my own rodeo, streaking across the horizon in a smear of blood, sweat and loose teeth—the most delightful cackle ringing in the air. Bring the whole family! Now, that will make for a brilliant scene.

It might seem like I'm still bitter about Orson, but I'm not. Characters like him will show up throughout life and provide some of the most pivotal learning experiences. Life teaches us that it's difficult learning what you SHOULD do, but it's far easier learning what you should NOT do. Luckily, there are plenty of these beautiful creatures to serve as guiding lights. They provide invaluable counter-examples: behaving the exact opposite of how reasonable people would in typical situations and issuing us first-row seats to witness the consequences. Don’t get me wrong, if these beacons become overwhelming in numbers, they can turn anyone's life from a dark comedy into a tragedy, but always try to remember that they are the cilantro of life (somebody loves them.)

There was another strange moment, when I received charity from my centaur. He was to conduct a meeting among a large group of interested parties to hammer out the details of getting a new production off the ground. He wanted me to join him in the meeting and carefully listen to the conversations. This piqued my interest because I'd never seen him genuinely excited for me to have such a "unique opportunity." This must be one hell of a bone to be thrown my way. He made it sound as if he was granting me a rare peak behind the curtain to see how this delicious sausage was made. 

Before I recount this situation with my usual sarcastic flair, I must mention how Centaur and I always found a respectful middle ground despite our contrasting personalities. One of the homework assignments he gave me was reading through the many scripts screenwriters would pitch to him in the hope of inspiring his next project. I was to let him know which ones were worthy of his attention and, after a while, I noticed a pattern: we were complete opposites when it came to agreeing on what constituted a good movie. I just wanted to point out how we could give each other respectful leeway despite our fundamental disagreements. Therefore, I’m hesitant to be overly judgmental towards my centaur because he was kind enough to allow someone as clueless as me to tag along and observe a world I didn’t even come close to understanding. However, I can’t resist recounting such a unique opportunity.

There was a big round table of producers, filmmakers, possible investors and other people whose roles I didn't quite understand, all haggling over the logistics of making this movie happen. There was an unexpected agenda however, Centaur had just watched Paul Haggis' 2004 movie Crash the night before and was blown away by Ludacris' performance. Well, not so much his performance, but the diversity of his portfolio. Centaur's mind had been blown over the fact that Ludacris was a "rapper turned actor." He wasn't only on a mission to cast him for this movie, but he also wanted to blow everyone else's minds all over the meeting room walls. Every single time he opened his mouth he pointed out, "You know he's a rapper right? But get this, he can act too. That's amazing. We need to get ahold of his agent." He would only repeat this premise throughout the meeting, but with slightly different sentence structure. "Anyone able to get ahold of his agent? This guy can sure act. It's hard to imagine he started out as a rapper, right? Crazy, huh?" He had no other point than this! Each time Ludacris was brought up, the longer the awkward silence seemed to follow. Even the dead air coming from those on speakerphone spoke volumes, I imagined their distant facial expressions matched those in this room (blank stare with long blinks.) I was expecting someone to blurt out, "Yes! Ludacris! We get it!" What was my reaction to all of this? I just stared at Centaur and thought to myself, "Shit, I'm never getting that $600 he owes me."

I'm not suggesting I held a presupposition that the film industry was some sort of bastion of creative integrity, only to have it shattered when I discovered it was nothing more than a ruthless business venture. No, no. I was shocked it could be such a poorly run business venture. I would have never imagined witnessing a scenario that would have run much smoother if my dad had been responsible for the operation. I could imagine him leading such a meeting now:

"You know what the latest craze is boys? Kids love watching those people who run around like maniacs and bounce off the walls. What's it called? Par Four? No, no, what is it?... Huh?....Oh yeah! Parkour! It's actually a pretty nifty thing this Par Four, keeps the kids active. It's a shame we didn't have it as kids, Marlin Brando encouraged such a sedentary lifestyle in my day. Our picture will be a real screecher if we can cast a fresh face to do this Hard Core stuff. How bouts we get Charles Grodin, he was great in Midnight Run! I just hope this doesn't lead to him and Johnny Carson giving each other such a hard time. That always eats me up! OK, who farted?... Makes me think anyone disrespectful enough to start cuttin’ cheese during such a big important meeting isn't too serious about making this movie. Huh, what's that?... You say it’s coming from the pastrami in the complimentary charcuterie board? Sure, likely story buster. I don't even know why I bothered asking my secretary to bring that in for you mollycoddled, big-wig, free-loaders. Now get out of my office!"

This monologue, consisting of so many sharp right turns, might give the impression that I'm trying to poke fun at my father, but to anyone who thinks this, I say, "How dare you." After this meeting convened, I would approach him and explain, "Dad, I'm proud of you for having multiple talking points."

As a kid, I was in love with movies and would constantly fantasize about making them. However, one's life passion is like any modern love story, there will be moments of turmoil that test your faith. These above-mentioned scenarios would convince anyone naive enough to consider the film industry a sacred cow to reconsider. A funny thing about the power of human reasoning is it tends to act like a swinging pendulum, making things.... well… complicated. One of the hardest but most essential life lessons that sent my head asway was that of disillusionment.

I've had enough experience with disillusionment to make me realize there's no such thing as sacred cows, they're just big mammalian Roombas who end up consuming much of their own cack-cake. Then reason swings me in the other direction and I realize I was just being a cynical prick referring to these beautiful, loving and tragically misunderstood creatures in such a manner. Suddenly, I swing towards my initial direction, but only a fraction of the distance, as I realize cows make shit pets. Sure, I saw one kick a soccer ball once. Whoosh, back again! A species' worth has nothing to do with its availability at Petsmart. Reason will oscillate until you're finally left free-floating in the infinite grey-scale of ambivalence. I still love film, but If I ever feel uninspired, I just find a different outlet because, in the end, everything boils down to an interest in storytelling... which is maybe why... Ludacris turned away from rapping.... and tried his hand at acting! HOLY SHIT, I GET IT!

The most important lesson gained from all of this was that working on set wasn't for me. The universe had an uncanny way of confirming this. On three different occasions, during three different productions, I encountered three different people which resulted in the exact same conversation. Each conversation was distinct until the mid-way point when the person stopped, scrutinized me with their eyes and asked, ”What exactly are you looking to get out of all of this?" I gave the same cookie-cutter response: "I want to learn about filmmaking and, maybe along the way, come across an employment opportunity that involves an iota of creativity." It was eery because each person would scoff and more or less explain, "Then just go and do something creative. If you stick around here too long, you'll just end up a techie like the rest of us." I'm not a sports guy, but I recall an important rule in American stick ball about a trifecta of strikes which urges reconsideration… Oh shit, I must have bumped up against that projector switch in my head because there's a new scene playing out:

It's just past one am. My mind is running on fumes. Shooting in Whistler this week. Going throughout every other floor of the hotel. Scanning list with room numbers for every crew member. Found one. Slide call sheet under the door. Got tomorrow's- no, no.- today's schedule set and printed. Finalizing this morning's start time was problematic. Downright contentious. It took all night for the director and production manager to agree on a time. It was nearly midnight by the time I got the go-ahead to print stacks of call sheets calling for a five am start. The crew already suspected 5 am so hopefully most will wake up in time. Printed them in the production office back in Vancouver. It takes an hour to drive from there to here. My one "fun" assignment has become the most difficult. My Centaur asks me to include a daily inspirational quote atop the call sheets. He says I'm making them too morose these days, says we need to keep up the morale of the crew. What about my morale? At least he has an outlet. There's his screaming fits before slamming his office door. After blasting one System of a Down song in full, he comes out fresh-faced. Just enough time for another coke break? Morale huh? Maybe I'm spreading my wings and finding ways to let off steam. Todays quote? I picked Kurtz’s timeless mention of the horror. Not a literary man? Apocalypse Now then. Classic film reference we can all enjoy. Shit, I didn't get yesterday's DPR filled out! What does DPR even stand for? I should look that up one day. DING! Text from my Centaur: “Call time now six. Only give call sheets to certain crew!" Too late. I've already distributed half my stack to who knows who. Fuck it, doesn't he know I've already fulfilled my quota for miracles? Found a portable toilet for the second unit's second day in isolation. They're shooting somewhere in the wilderness. It’s not really a toilet. More like a box to shit into. Someone took a shit in a piece of equipment yesterday. I don't blame them. Nowhere else to shit. Now they have a box to share. I mean if-

The door in front of me immediately opened the moment I slid a sheet underneath. I stood up and found myself face to face with one of the surliest electricians on the crew. This was the same guy I had to annoy on a daily basis, asking him for information regarding paperwork I barely comprehended. Now I was disturbing him at an ungodly hour in his personal space. On his most chipper days, I only heard him speak in curt monosyllables and he always had a resting face that undoubtedly communicated, "After I slaughter you, I will wear your skin and take up bareback beekeeping."

So this is how it will end? A swift punch to the throat from this old honey badger and I crumble at his feet while he calmly goes back to bed. If I manage to remain conscious until he steps over my body on his way to work, I will spend my last breath reminding him that the start time was actually six o'clock and not five. The poetic justice in having the final word will be glorious, it will be my swan song! His face suddenly contorted into an expression I'd never seen him make before. Was it a... smile?

"Buddy! Good to see you! Come on in and join us!" He shouted as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders. Going for a head-lock? No, no, I felt tenderness in his embrace as he led me into the room. Now this guy was good, eliminating any chance of eye-witnesses. In the case of being overheard, he's creating the impression I've entered on my own volition. I was trying to imagine this morning's police report: "He was having so much fun he couldn't help but launch himself out of a 30-story window. A classic case of over-excitement."

When I entered the room, I saw it was packed with electricians and grips, sitting and lying wherever they could, stoned out of their minds and watching Raging Bull. A handful of them yelled out my name, kind of like Cheers, but confusing as to how anyone bothered remembering it. Most of these guys were typically miserable as hell every other hour of the day.

I sat down and listened to them all discussing the cinematography of Raging Bull, what creative choices they would have made, what kind of movie they’d like to work on and how they’d make it look; all talking like real cinephiles that I would have never taken them for. I know their enthusiasm was most likely the weed talking, but the contrast between their current sentimentality and their earlier despondency was shocking. I couldn’t repress my pessimism and wonder if I had come across some sort of boulevard of broken dreams. Is this where I would have ended up had I graduated from film school? Miserable during the day, dreaming big at night? Would I be as jaded as them? Wasn't I already?

It was funny how a moment of normalcy could seem even more mind-bending than the ritualistic killing I was expecting to walk into. I felt the violent storm of the day was over as I quietly listened to their delightful banter, but this reprieve wasn't restorative, instead, it felt as if my brain had washed ashore and began mental dry-heaving. My mind frantically flips through a succession of thought fragments woven into a long monotonous patchwork as if the projector in my head has gone haywire. It becomes a Ludovico montage of all my experiences flashing before my eyes; not playing Beethoven but rather Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Oh no, here comes many more scenes within this scene:

Cue the beat of the LM-2 drum machine..."Relax, don't do it. When you wanna go do it."

One moment stuck with me, when I was a real honey badger myself. I was responsible for a new guy. He had issues with anxiety. Certainly, I could relate. He wasn’t set up for success, but I didn't expect total failure. He explained how his first day was going to be his last. Had genuine tears in his eyes. All I could do was shrug. No use reassuring him this was the one well-organized production of seven I'd worked on. Didn't fault him for his conviction. Already knew working on set wasn't for me. My callousness still disturbs me, but I also recall how busy I was running around. Trying to avoid having my own head bitten off. Who am I to say anything about how others react to these situations? They say it’s the nature of the beast. We all have our catastrophic days. Still remember mine. Lost the keys to a locked supply van. Single-handedly delayed the day's shoot. Figured I developed immunity to the wrath of others by then. Remember yelling at my boss, "Just fire me already!" He screamed even louder, "No! Then you'll learn nothing!" (He was a good guy.) Certainly, I learned time was money that day. Plenty of times I played the bumbling idiot. Had I been the one responsible for vast amounts of money and resources, I'd want to shout at me too. My boss was right, that's why I was there: Try and find those precious lessons like hidden nuggets. They were found in stranger and stranger places. Came across an extra yelling at the director. Says she wasn't informed the nightclub scene called for her being topless. Wages earned renegotiated so the delayed shot could carry on. The director felt generous enough to point out that this was one such lesson of value. Mentions something about this being a common strategy among background performers. Shit, don't have a notepad to jot this down. I'll make a mental note: "Every scene is better with tits." (Something tells me I'm not paying close enough attention. Too much going on.) Other lessons become darker. Halfway through production, everyone has a sense of how bad this movie is turning out to be. The lead actor seems worried enough to take on an uncredited directorial role. We go ahead with an elaborate car crash scene in downtown Vancouver during the middle of the night. All watch as a prop costing as much as a five-bedroom house instantly turns into literal garbage. It reminds me of the destruction of Tibetan Buddhist’s sand mandalas. Well, at least we captured the spectacle on celluloid. I still can't help but wonder who and what this passionate-less project is for. Is this was sociologists call "distraction?" What shit distraction. Sure, Rome had its bread and circuses but at least they were getting their ancient whole grains and got to watch all the pretty horses. We choke down Hostess while watching these destruction derbies. No! I'm being ridiculous. Art is subjective and most business models sound. The denizens of East Hastings surround me while I’m kneeling in the middle of the street. All watching while I clean up every last scrap of a former luxury sports car. Some are the same people who encountered me at 2 am in the alleyway, assigned to guard craft services with a baseball bat. (Don't worry, my heart wasn't in it) We came to film in a neighbourhood where folk have fallen so far between the cracks they have a hard time sharing our vision. Some steal as much equipment as they can. Crew and denizens played a vicious game of cat and mouse all night. The degree of animosity between both parties becomes startling. Hasn’t irony proven our greatest nemesis is usually closer kindred than we expect? I wonder if the one factor separating either party’s life trajectory was their drug of choice. These scenes are becoming less funny, kind of like that last joke of mine. It was too crass. Forgive me, my head is swinging like a pendulum again. Grounding such a stark reality isn't made any easier seeing those actors I've watched since I was a kid wander around this bizzaro dreamscape. They still wander through my mind while I lay in bed. This is a witching hour when names drop like bombs. I loudly whisper to the ceiling, "You might be charming as hell Michael Rosenbaum, but I can't let you on set because we’ve already locked it up. You’re going to get me in shit!” 

Power chords come rapid fire from the Roland Jupiter 8. “Relax, don't do it. When you wanna suck, chew it.".... Wait... What the hell is that song about again?

Back in the crowded hotel room, I tried to ease my anxiety by going back to mindless busy work. Finding a pen, I began revising the start time throughout the stack of remaining call sheets. Guys grabbed final copies from me and began reading the day’s schedule aloud.

“The second unit is shooting in the middle of nowhere for several days," I explained.

"You hear someone took a dump in a gib trunk?" Someone asked.

"Yeah, I bought a type of box for everyone to shit into." I described the contraption for the marooned crew.

"I call dibs using it first!" Someone quipped.

One of them noticed the later call time "So the start time is now six? Hmm, three hours from now.”

"Were you guys planning on staying up all night?" I asked.

"Not now, looks like we've got until six.”

My guard lowered as we started joking around and it began to feel as if I’d been invited to the older kids’ slumber party. I listen to them share stories of past experiences on set, each trying to top their craziest Sylvester Stallone story. It was a shame I’d known these guys for months and I didn’t know a thing about them until tonight. However, this was the perfect send-off since this would be our last time together. Little did we know there would be a mutiny on set come six o'clock, when the crew who received my original call sheets was left needlessly waiting on set an hour early. Much of the day was spent dealing with this pandemonium. Things became so heated, the department I was working for decided to quit the production that day, so I never found out if anyone would get a chance to ride the new squat box... Come to think of it, who were they expecting to clean the thing? 

The idea of little ol' me being the catalyst for the near destruction of an entire production still hasn't fully sunk in. I’m not sure if I can claim responsibility for this fiasco, but whenever I think back on it today, I can't help but smile a little. (As I mentioned before, I can be one catty dick.) Anyway, I’m digressing and this is a long story for a different time.

I noticed the surly electrician who had invited me in was sitting across the room and staring at me with a big grin, "Now tell me," he asked slowly, "What exactly are you looking to get out of all of this?" 

What was I ultimately looking for? A sensation I get after performing a simple magic trick, one that I've managed to pull off now and again and still blows my mind. I first experienced it at age five while staring out my bedroom window like a house cat. Suddenly, I had an epiphany: I could create a miniature replica of the surrounding neighbourhood where all my stuffed animals could live. Initially, I felt daunted by the seeming impossibility of the task, but then came the excitement over my resolution to try it. Naturally, I contracted my Mom to construct the first massive cardboard house with a gable roof, chimney and cellophane windows. My oldest brother and I spent an evening painting the exterior and decorating the interior. Soon afterwards, I had many other houses connected via ribbons serving as telephone lines, allowing each family unit to organize picnics easily. If anyone toured the community, they’d notice most houses were just half-assed decrepit cardboard boxes, but this could pass off as a commentary on how the growing disparity of wealth even afflicted stuffy society. It wasn’t long until I was standing in the middle of Main Street thinking, “Holy shit, I'm actually the mayor of mother-fucking Teddy Town. For my first decree: milk and cookies for everyone!" If any disconcerted adult had the audacity to question my efforts at that moment, I would have merely smiled and replied, "I did it because I could, you silly fucking goose." It seems like I'm making a case for casting Joe Peci (de-aged in post) for my life and times, but I’m just over-compensating for my strange obsession with stuffed animals as a kid. The concept of materializing an idea into reality always astonished me. I'm still that simple child fascinated by the shadow puppets I'm making on the wall.

I figured I better put the breaks on my random story-time lessons since I sympathized with the kid's indifference towards my first email. My advice could be summarized as, “It kinda sucks working on set, now give it a try." All information I provided was also outdated because it was well before the internet had become such a colossal resource where one could learn how to make films, find tools for crafting them, obtain a limelight for any handiwork and a forum to interact with a potential audience. In the early 2000s, I worked with many ambitious people like Orson who figured the only way to attain a platform for their creativity was climbing that ladder, where the first rung involved playing the lap-dog, until they finally reached the ultimate height of becoming an impulsive flake. Today, it's easy to become beholden to no one, not even those who insist on adhering to industry standards, such as finding employment for Ludacris. I don't regret gaining experience on set, but if I decided to just go it alone like this kid, I might have prevented aggravating my IBS. Then again, maybe not. The internet is an even greater resource of those counter-examples mentioned above, to the point where they could instil a sense of ambivalence towards human nature. 

One piece of meaningful advice I could give this kid would be to take the time to scrutinize this online workspace we are all coming to depend on. The internet is the central conduit to every aspect of our popular culture, yet we still struggle coming to terms with it. This advice isn't restricted to those making film projects but to anyone looking to contribute any online content. We will all have to learn to embrace our impractical creative side in order to navigate the uncharted waters of the internet. 

I'm disposed to such a suggestion because I found media studies to be the most interesting thing at university. Two particularly fascinating things were Marshall McLuhan's cryptic messages and one professor who continually lamented how the internet was the death knell to all traditional media. I was fascinated by his lectures on how this online goulash of multimedia would blur the lines between genres, between author and audience, and between professionals and amateurs. He foresaw the day when the busiest publishing house was going to become your Aunt Candice's social media page. My professor wasn't simply losing sleep over what the internet would do to his industry but what this meant for reliable information.

Only in the current age of the internet is Marshal McLuhan's maxim about the medium being the message to be fully comprehended. Anyone who grew up in the 80s remembers the criticism of television as the prominent medium of the era; How we were all passively watching whatever narrative was being peddled by an expanding media conglomerate and coming to resemble some sort of tuberous root vegetable growing on couch cushions the world over. However, with the internet, we're no longer mere spectators but active participants contributing to our popular culture. This was Chomsky's wet dream come true, right? Well, pay attention to how you feel after going down any rabbit hole of endless content, if this information were likened to a type of sustenance, then it would be as nourishing as opening the covers of your couch cushions to eat the foam inside piecemeal. We now have more of a hand in manufacturing our own consent, but how has that worked out for us?

Today people marvel at McLuhan predicting the effects of the internet on society with his idea of the global village more than half a century back, but I'm not as impressed by his clairvoyance, matter of fact, I'm willing to bet that if I travelled back in time to describe the rudiments of the internet to the average person their common sense would be more accurately foretelling: " So you're telling me if I need to learn how to... I dunno... fix the fan in my bathroom, I can just look up an "online" tutorial? Wow! Wait, it sounds like this medium allows anyone to broadcast their own public access television channel from their basement. Say, I have a neighbour who makes his own line of tinfoil hats, can that maniac find a way to monetize his hobby? So everyone can toss in their two cents on any topic? It sounds like public discourse could easily become comparable to a bunch of assholes scratching their vitriol on the wall of a universally accessible toilet stall. Come to think of it, I don't think I'll bother plugging into the devil's cerebellum, as long as I have all my favourite biweekly magazine subscriptions, I'll be fine." I'd be willing to bet many people would consider our age of information an ironic misnomer.

I seem pessimistic because I'm of that baffled generation who remembers witnessing the transition into the age of the internet. To the likes of me, the internet is not far beyond Thunderdome. We all know your Aunt Candice is sweet as pie in person, but reading her scathing newsfeed proves she can quickly become an iron-clad road warrior. We're all in a public discourse extending between stranger and stranger bedfellows to the point it can bring out the worst in everyone. On the one hand, the internet can seem like nothing but a forum for the rabble to let off steam. The only worthwhile debate they broach is whether "elitism" should be considered such a dirty word. On the other hand, you have content creators who provide enough inspiration to ensure that trolling will develop into a legitimate art form one day.

What I'm saying isn't unfamiliar to anyone, so much so that it's become tiresome listening to those familiar personalities from traditional media bewailing these troubling times and pinning responsibility on the disposition of a new insolent generation, which has nothing to do with it, but everything to do with the medium itself. Long gone are the days when public interaction was restricted to letters sent to the editor, angry calls to the television station or the rare public egg-throwing. Now we are all piling atop this platform in hordes, wearing our psyche on our sleeves and eager to scream into the ether. No wonder all these old media personalities are shitting themselves; it's as if the Gremlins have taken over the TV station.

I bet anyone reading this has a suspicion by now --and you are correct--I'm going full Old Man, pulling up my pleated slacks to my armpits and about to explain why you all need to get the fuck off my lawn. To be fair, just as over-exposure to any of the natural elements quickly ages you, over-exposure to popular culture will corrode anyone into a cynical husk of their former selves. For most of my life, I've been a heavy consumer of popular culture (Well-marinated in the public psyche if you will.) Popular culture conveyed via the internet is like living in a perpetual sandstorm. Oh no, I feel hyperbole coming on, I think it's best I illustrate my point by providing a specific example of how this newfangled technology sends me spiralling down a deep pit of befuddlement:

So I'm on YouTube researching the temperament of pet anteaters, you know, the last vestiges of warm-fuzzy feelings in this world, when I'm rudely interrupted by an advertisement. It consists of a dapper young man eating a salad in what looks like an airport food court. Whoever is behind the cellphone camera filming him is also briefly interviewing him about what people could expect by joining his webinar. Without looking at the camera and between mouthfuls of salad, this guy explains how he can teach anyone to be as successful as him by adopting a three-day workweek and joining the ever-growing socio-economic class of the nouveau-douche. I'm captivated throughout this advertisement because I suddenly feel optimistic about the probability of cosmic justice and my witnessing him choke on an unsuspected pube in his kale. As the kids say, "spoiler alert," it doesn't happen.

This moment still haunts me, not because I fear anyone would fall prey to this guy's scheme, but because the idea of being fed such a consistent diet of bullshit via the internet that my subconscious will begin craving a tall cold glass of snake oil to wash it all down. This is a medium where charlatans don't even have to break a sweat (I’m not fixated on this specific example, rather, I’m referring to any content created by an armada of hacks.) I worry about my own work getting caught up in a vicious cycle where bullshit begets bullshit. We are all swimming in it, and when it becomes as inconspicuous as water is to fish, I might become nothing more than a huckster of my own brand of bullshit... Now that I've had half a second to think bout it, I realize I already am.

Ok, allow me to readjust my five-and-dime trousers and give myself a little credit: I don't think I've become that platonic ideal of the curmudgeonly Old Man, but it definitely seems like I've been hanging out with him; like I'm pulling up a rocking chair next to him on his ethereal veranda to shout at the kids at the end of the cul-de-sac for being too goddamn noisy with their squeaky sneakers and pop-rocks. I know, I know, he's not really a good influence on me. Hell, I'm beginning to suspect my laughing at his Mary Tyler Moore Show references is the result of him secretly feeding me quaaludes because he keeps referring to his Werther's Originals as Disco Biscuits.

I'm optimistic there’s still hope for me because of several points of contention between the two of us. For one, I refuse to believe there's ever been a golden age. Our culture isn't devolving from a previous era of genius; it’s just an illusion of perspective as our personal outlook matures. Just consider how much we rely on the powerful narcotic of nostalgia to help us deal with the disillusionment that comes with age, and how much of our enthusiasm in youth was due to our unfamiliarity with cliche at the time. Genius is plentiful in any era and always will be, finding it is another matter, especially in the rising tide of the internet.

Another contentious point between us is my thinking of the internet as a neutral instrument. Like any other technology, it merely amplifies human nature, so much so that the results can be likened to screeching feedback from a microphone set before an amp cranked to 11. With our ever-increasing interchange of information, there seems to be an inherent obsession over 'quantity' of content (such is the basic business model for everything in life). Even amateurs develop a "post or perish" mindset. This has inspired a visual metaphor in my head of a vast array of gems floating in an ever-expanding sea of shit, and I say this readily admitting that my own work will only help intensify the current of this slurry. Then again, maybe I'm being overly pessimistic; it's a relatively new technology after all and we might eventually get a better footing over time. I imagine the advent of the written word saw a vast majority of assholes just rolling their papyrus into the shape of bullhorns and screaming into them.

Ok, so far my "meaningful" advice to this kid now sounds more like, "The internet is one big messy open market of half-baked bullshit, see for yourself." I'm sentimental enough of a sap to feel the need to scrape the bottom of my heart in order to come up with some sort of solution. I might have to sanctimoniously step atop my soap box to explain my heartfelt theory for a possible remedy, but I feel one is in order after spending so much time complaining, if nothing else, it might stave off some of my cynicism. Please indulge me as I go bouncing out on a limb to discuss something abstract. I might be able to keep my footing, after all, there were times on set requiring me to wax philosophical.

Going on a road trip with Orson between distant locations was an obnoxiously didactic experience, where he imparted his wisdom for hours on end. He suddenly asked me a pointed question: if I had the opportunity to make my own movie would I insist on having total control over my creative vision? Half listening, I replied, "Yeah sure." He then proceeded to scold me for my naive egotism in failing to recognize there's so much to learn from collaborating with others in this field. He asked how I knew better than people far more experienced and talented. I couldn't disagree with him, that's why I was here after all, I was looking for guidance (from anyone but him). I understood Orson had chosen a path where exclusive creative control was considered something to be earned, but I hated to be the one to break it to him that technology wasn't on his side. 

The internet is an open mic for anyone to step up and self-indulgently do whatever they think best, a freedom now taken for granted. Orson would probably envision a future landscape made up of life-long amateurs, such as myself, as his post-apocalyptic nightmare. However, he should know that this route of haphazard agency isn’t necessarily the easier path to take.

I wouldn't envy the curious kid's journey alone on the internet. Firstly, he'd have to deal with the cognitive dissonance from being surrounded by endless chatter, yet feeling so isolated. He might find a supportive online community, but I bet it would pale in comparison to the commune of bohemians that became my support group. Even those hurdles that lead to crippling doubt I mentioned earlier will be turned on their heads. The internet is a difficult space to navigate in search of validation. Whether your work is panned or praised, the barometer is wonky because we're always busking to an anonymous crowd. Your target demographic is everyone and anyone and those who will demand the most attention will be the myriad of bored sociopaths hangry for any sort of spectacle. Anyone deciding to take this online pilgrimage desperately needs guidance, but unfortunately, we’re all left to ourselves. Who knows, maybe this kid was reaching out to me, hoping to find guidance through this digital hellscape, little did he know I was an unfit Virgil. While it might seem as if I were leading him past the first circle and its wailing hordes of malcontents, it was only to reach the nearest kiosk selling Doritos and Mountain Dew. The only hope for this kid finding guidance was if he looked deep within himself.

The only thing we can do is be mindful of how we conduct ourselves on this platform and try to develop our own personal work ethic, one built upon principles we hold dear. I believe this can help guide anyone through all the noise, obtain peace of mind and gain the confidence to drop one’s work into the sea of feculence. Orson was an example of someone devoutly following his personal work ethic but, after accompanying him, I realized his route wasn’t for me and I needed to forge my own path. I eventually found a suitable mentor to help me along the way, someone to nudge the needle of my moral compass.

Luckily, this mentor was far closer to home: my inner drunk uncle. Sure he could seem incoherent and hurtful but, carefully listening to him, I could tell he had a scruple or two. I decided to stop thinking of him as unresolved psychological baggage and treat him like family. We both shared the same skull after all, so I imagine we had similar vested interests. Who knows, maybe he genuinely wanted to feel proud of me. One particular maxim he was continually screaming at me made a lot of sense. What was it? I'm glad you never asked. It’s the same directive every high-school teacher badgers every student about: "Do your homework!" This very concept has provided the foundation for my personalized work ethic 

What do I mean by doing homework? Well, it involves all the preliminary effort in establishing the groundwork of whatever it is that you wish to produce. It's the mundane, unsexy drudgery required in painstakingly crafting your output, be it as lofty as creating a magnum opus or as trivial as sharing an opinion. 

What does homework entail specifically? It can be simple: If you're left feeling uncertain about your work, just think back to your childhood when LeVar Burton was reminding you to crack a book now and again. Hell, if that seems like too much work, just take baby steps, maybe just second-guess yourself before clicking "post” (Put more bluntly, take the time to shut the fuck up now and again.) I realize we can't all remain silent, we all have too much work to do in this messy world, but luckily we still have a vast array of quality resources at our disposal to teach us about the many nuances of this world. It's best to remember this since we live in an age when so many people feel compelled to immediately share their 140 character-limited, hot-topic brain fart which either results in an apologetic retraction or embittered obstinacy. Anyone who considers their own power of speculation as a worthy commodity should know there's a glut in the market and a little forethought wouldn't do them harm.

You might say to me, that's some highfalutin bullshit coming from a guy whose work consists of basic slapstick and the occasional masturbation joke. Sure I might have created a pile of hot garbage but goddamn if I didn't work hard to make it burn so evenly. Also, not to worry because I will take time to shut the fuck up. Matter of fact, I might just shut the fuck up for a couple of years and truly enjoy it. I think the Buddha said something about the serenity of shutting the fuck up. I'm not entirely sure... What's that LeVar? Yes, I do think it's important to visit my local library. 

Now I follow my ethos to a fault, guaranteeing I'll never be prolific in my work. That's ok because I love steeping myself in homework. The older I get the less gratification I get from achieving "goals," but now I have the patience to appreciate the incremental joy that comes during the process, providing truth to that hackneyed expression concerning the importance of the overall journey. When I think back to all the great times I had making my project, my mind always wanders back to those moments of inner peace: Spending hours writing at the Vancouver Public Library, drinking bad coffee and listening to Wait's Bone Machine or Bowie's wacky Berlin years. Those were my moments of zen. There are times when it seems as if life is just one long cognitive behavioural exercise, so being able to obtain the proper levels of neurotransmitters by doing homework for a beloved task (harmless to oneself and others) is what constitutes a genuinely goddamn blessed life. I’m not sure what specific human needs are being fulfilled here, my dinky projects provide a safe place for my mind to wander during the darker times. In times of chaos, it provides a slight sense of control.

Now I can hear the rebuttal from those other creative sorts who have a more proactive punk-rock ethos. "Nice try justifying your procrastination and trying to discourage the spontaneous torrent of my profundity. There's no stopping me. I'm like Kerouac on a bottomless supply of amphetamines." Ok fair enough, to those of you, I say, " Shine on you crazy diamond!" However, if you're a slow learner like me, I ask, "HOW CAN YOU HAVE ANY PUDDING IF YOU DON'T EAT YOUR MEAT?" Just look online and see how many slow learners there are.

I'm not suggesting we need to fool ourselves into thinking we're setting the world to rights through our work ethic, just that it can help set each of us along our own genuinely meaningful track. If you believe in that then you might develop a little optimism which, believe it or not, I still have. I'll be so daring as to turn a leaf right now and say, if you know where to look, our age of the inter-webs can be an exciting time to live, especially for an old crank like me. It seems inconsistent of me to spend so much time complaining and then finally decide to paint a rosy picture. Well, that's the funny thing about ambivalence, while you recognize the ugliness of something, you can also celebrate its beauty.

I think I'll lower my slacks back down to my hips since they're beginning to chafe my nipples and bring out my inner child to have the final word (I'm as shocked as anyone else this lil’ guy still exists.) While he's pretentious enough to go all McCluhan on everybody and his idealism is a little sappy, he will counteract my tirade nicely. He makes the plea to consider the internet a tangible artifact of our collective consciousness, a vast reservoir of our shared intellect, indeed a sustenance, a well of potable water that we best not shit into. The internet can be more than an amateur’s playground where we develop our imposter syndrome, it’s an important platform for the portfolio of any aspiring artist, no matter where they happen to be in their career. It permitted me to have an early mid-life crisis where I could blow my life savings on a vanity project. Sure, I might not be able to afford that again, but there are so many resources online that I can still put on one heck of a puppet show, or sufficient enough to keep my inner drunk uncle satisfied.

I suddenly have the urge to do a word count on my use of the expletive "shit" in this piece and so far I'm up to 38. Obviously, there are some repressed emotions I’ve been holding on to for a long time, but who am I really letting it all out for? I'm aware that my intent to provide advice to this nameless kid isn't very convincing. I have a confession: I couldn’t care less about him. He even makes for a shit literary device (Word count 39.) I better explain my intentions quick because my inner uncle is beginning to pipe up and he's already on his fifth vermouth. The real reason I worked on this piece and decided to share it was because my three-year-old boy got a hold of a digital camera and took endless pictures of his feet, a lamp, the wall, etc. After taking each picture he excitedly rushed over to show me what he created. I recognized his enthusiasm and wondered if he would learn to nourish his creative bug. If he did, maybe I'd have a few helpful pointers for him. If he didn’t, then that's just as good, at least this essay will provide him with some context to his father's strange past behaviour. 

Now I want to take time discussing all the friends and family who went far out of their way to help me with this project, despite there being no benefit to themselves whatsoever. Not one of them hesitated when I requested their assistance, making me feel far less of a maniac for attempting to create this strange series. The involvement of these beautiful people was significant as they’ve played important roles throughout my life. This project will be one hell of a fevered dream when I rewatch it in my senile years.

ANDREW 

Both Andrew and I were under the impression we’d first met while working together as wild-land firefighters, however, we later discovered we’d unknowingly been friends as toddlers. Briefly living in the same small town, we attended play school together and met up for the occasional play date. This was surreal considering it always felt as if we had been kindred souls separated not long after birth. I can imagine us in class, sitting next to each other criss-cross-applesauce. Andrew stares at me in disgust while I struggle understanding the classroom’s policy on all-you-can-eat crayons.

One particular story always comes to mind when thinking of what Andrew means to me. We had been working on the fire line for almost three straight weeks. Our crew was filthy, exhausted, miserable, demoralized and all jam-packed into a pickup truck. Everyone sat silently except Andrew who sat between us, beatboxing and scratching at an invisible turntable. I was the only one paying attention to him giving an exuberant performance to absolutely no one except himself. I almost began to wonder if he was rehearsing for something. I asked, “So… uh… do you DJ on the side?” He stopped and nonchalantly replied, “Nope!” He returned to his performance with even greater gusto to make up for my interruption. This was the moment I got an inkling of what kind of an emotional life raft this beautiful man was to become for many years to come. Andrew was a buoy I clung to in the tumultuous storm of life.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I have come to depend on Andrew’s ability to keep a cool head in heated situations; the man is a human cucumber. I feel it necessary to try to better emphasize the effect Andrew has had on my mental well-being and how his mere presence has allowed me to lead a fully functional life. There’s one other scene seared into my memory.

We were called out for a night shift at a fire that was consuming an entire lumber yard. Being surrounded by flame at midnight provides the perfect simulation of the world coming to an end, no less ominous than coming to extinguish the vestiges of Beelzebub’s bonfire as if he visited our realm to celebrate its looming doomsday. This wasn’t far from the truth as some nefarious force forfeited these supplies vital to our infrastructure in order to dump a load of carbon straight into the atmosphere. There was no chance of extinguishing such a dense fuel source, the only strategy was dealing with the shower of embers flying far past the fire line. We knew the fire was spotting yards away when we saw specks of light suddenly flickering amid the surrounding tree line. We’d run to extinguish these hot spots, praying that our pumps would sustain pressure because the moment a tree was candling far above reach, we’d need to extract it via chainsaw. I didn’t even want to consider this option since this would be my first time falling trees in the dark.

The only force counteracting such pure entropy was our meagre tenacity, yet, the violent tempo at which the backdrop danced around our silhouettes made it seem as if our bodies were moving slow-motion. It had been hours since I knew the whereabouts of the rest of the crew, but that was of no concern because I had stuck close to Andrew the entire night. Suddenly he turned towards me with the utmost gravity and shouted, “Why is the first place to become so uncomfortably sweaty always that spot between the ass and the balls?”

“It’s called the perineum Andrew!” I holler back.

“Peri-what?”

“You’re talking about the perineum! 90% of the body’s water is lost through the perineum!”

“Is that so?”

“Actually I made that last part up!”

“Well, it feels like that would be true…That’s some strange trivia to claim expertise buddy!”

“The fire must have burned through a patch of some kind of hallucinogen because it feels like I’m trippin’ balls. EITHER THAT OR I’M - [At this point I broke into Foreigner’s Hot Blooded accompanied by Andrew’s beatboxing.]”

As you can see I’m as conditioned as a Pavlovian dog, I just need to see Andrew’s face in order to maintain composure. Obviously, I needed Andrew by my side while attempting the far more terrifying task of filmmaking. What exactly do I bring to our friendship? Not sure, all I know is I consumed three straight years of his life with constant filming. 

I have one last bit of trivia I’d like to share. Andrew has become a successful entrepreneur, a self-made man who has relied on keeping a spotless reputation online. He informed me one day that when he googled his name this was the third image that popped up. If ever I was to have a low moment like Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life, someone only needs to show me this pic to remind me of the kind of impact I’ve had on other people’s lives. “Clarence! I want to live again!”

 

LAURA

There is an opinion within contemporary literary criticism that it's rare for a man to write in a woman’s voice convincingly. It has been suggested that even James Joyce’s attempt with Molly Bloom’s soliloquy missed the mark. I can only say that I did nothing to disprove this theory. I feel bad because I gave Laura nothing to work with. All I provided for her character was: "Hot towards Andrew. Cold towards me. A weird love triangle." Laura didn’t hesitate for a second and she ran with it. When it came time to film the only guidance I provided was, “Alright Laura, do your thing.” 

Laura and I have known each other since we were little kids, so I was comfortable leaving it all up to her. She was incredibly professional and patient, which was crucial because I had no idea what I was doing initially. She was my biggest source of encouragement throughout the entire project.

 

TIMOTHY

I've spent much of my life following my big brother around like a lost puppy, so it only seemed natural that he joined me in these shenanigans. Initially, I only asked him to help me with the thankless task of creating my webpage and a variety of other technical chores. I desperately wanted him to be in the project, but there were only four main characters and since we looked so much alike I thought it might ruin the project’s illusion of believability. In retrospect, this was total horseshit, especially considering how Andrew eventually came to play his doppelgänger. Now I’m confused as to what illusion I was trying to maintain. When my brother mentioned an interest in being involved I knew I had to come up with a solution, so I came up with an antagonist he could play, one disguised in a wig and sunglasses (For the sake of the illusion.) This extended the project another year, but creating his segments was extremely enjoyable. If I hadn’t added his character the series would have consisted of me dancing around like an idiot far more than would be tolerable. 

I consider my big brother to be responsible for my creative inclination today. As kids, he would constantly play with me; I’m not talking about him merely humouring me, but he would fully collaborate in play. If we weren’t playing Hot Wheels or Playmobil, we would rule over the streets of Teddy Town. As we got older our games evolved into a variety of ways of throwing shit at each other. This was huge for a kid who looked up to his big brother four years his senior. These moments were so formative that they gave me the… I don’t want to say “bravery” to express myself, but I think it's appropriate to say it made me more shamelessly expressive.

ERIN

There might have been a time I felt pompous enough to think that I had a handle on this acting shtick, but that was until I watched Erin go into full swing. She was such an outlandishly talented performer that she made acting seem as easy as breathing. This made me realize I had light years to go before having a basic understanding of this craft.

All of us in this project were working full time or going to university, so I would film everyone separately to get the most out of their schedules. I would then edit it all together into a janky patchwork to give the illusion we were all in the same room. This process was inorganic and cumbersome, but whenever Erin came to help, it was a breeze and everything fell into place.

Just before I started this project, I met up with Erin for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime. I immediately asked if she could play the most challenging role in the project, a part I knew she was daring enough to play: a lady of nocturnal pursuits. She graciously agreed and was undaunted. However, at one point while filming, she stopped, we awkwardly looked at each other and she said, “Ok this is weird." I apologized and felt it necessary to make it up to her by thinking of a better character for her to play, one that could be described as mobile-home refuse… ah well, I tried.

 

 

RORY

Rory was a fellow artist forging his way in Vancouver and was one of the most fascinating characters I’ve ever met. He was generous enough to invite me to play for his band despite the fact that I’m the farthest thing from a musician. This was one of my most exciting but terrifying experiences since I could barely handle playing in front of other people. I knew Rory was one of those friends I would ultimately disappoint, but I’ve got to hand it to him, he lasted an exceptionally long time being incredibly patient and supportive regardless of my lack of skill.

When it came time to ask Rory for help, what I had to offer was far less generous. The first script I wrote was much shorter and only had three characters: Andrew, Rory and I, where Rory would play a disheveled pizza delivery boy. When I scrapped this storyline and wrote the longer script I had another part for Rory to play… a disheveled pizza delivery boy. When Rory read this, he said, “Huh, it seems you really think I was born to play this part.” Of course Rory agreed to do it, but I felt bad and tried reassuring him that this unoriginal part was a result of my shortcomings as a writer, if anything.

 

CARLY

Carly was one of the loveliest human beings I've ever met. She was incredibly kind and soft-spoken, but at the same time, she was a goddamn powerhouse of fearless creativity. After playing drums in Rory’s band she would immediately perform with her other band or play solo. If she ever had a single ounce of fear doing any of this, she never showed it. She was a big inspiration to me and helped me learn how to get over myself so I could do what I needed to.

My fear of playing live manifested itself into a nervous habit of staring at the back of Rory’s head the entire performance, in anticipation of him turning around to indicate whether I was playing my part satisfactorily. Every time I caught Rory’s eye he would always give a look that communicated, "Why are you looking at me? Stop that!” Just like any child who didn't find support from one parent, I would turn to the other and stare even harder at Carly playing the drums beside me. Every time, she would look at me and smile in her calm and serene way, causing all my anxiety to melt away. If Carly wasn't there I couldn't have played the four chords I knew.

LEIGHTON 

Anything I write concerning Leighton will no doubt be contentious because, according to him, I’ll find any opportunity to objectify him, treat him like a piece of prime sirloin meat if you will. Granted, I knew that putting Leighton in my project would provide a little eye candy for all sentient bipeds out there, but I want to reassure Leighton that he's far more than that to me. I'll set the record straight, Leighton is an erudite influence I’ve always kept by my side during life’s biggest challenges, this is because he’s taught me so much relating to every facet of life. I might not be able to provide an example pertinent to filmmaking here, but it’s no less critical: If you ever find yourself stranded in the woods at night with another man, the best way to ensure survival is to maintain total bare skin-on-skin contact. Not only that, but both survivors need to spend a good time working up a sweaty lather between the two of them, a good measure being the battery life of a portable stereo playing Teddy Pendergrass' entire discography... My god I miss our camping trips in Banff.

 

ROSS

This film project was inspired by Ross and I living together in Greater Vancouver after graduating from our journalism program. The moment we arrived, we helped each other fasten on our clip-on ties and delivered our resumes to the two biggest newspapers in the province. When it became obvious that our services were declined, we both said, "Fuck it! Who needs them? Let’s just create our own blog."

I’ve only experienced the type of collaborative writing common to a newsroom through school and volunteering, but it all seemed like bad pantomime. Writing with Ross was the only time I’d ever felt like I was in my element. We’d write all night and at the crack of noon the next day we’d make our way to the local pub, a den of iniquity called Scruffy's, where’d we have many breakfast Caesars and scratch away in our notepads under the suspecting eye of the unsavoury clientele.

I've never met anyone as hilarious and as talented a writer as this man. There’s no better joy than playing off his insanely unique sense of humour. Our process seemed less like collaborative writing and more like freestyle jazz. Ross was like Ornette Coleman, who introduced the world to the Shape of Jazz to Come. I was some guy who found a saxophone at a garage sale, hoping to ironically play Careless Whisper, however, upon closer inspection, said instrument turned out to be a Fisher-Price toy that only played Farmer in The Dell on loop... and that’s what you call “chemistry” kids.

 

JENNY

I rented a house at Sun Peaks ski resort to film an action sequence. We had three days to film everything and the lead-up was incredibly stressful because a fair amount of resources were on the line. I think I exuded much of that stress onto Jenny who would play an essential part. I needed her to be a catsuit-wearing femme fatale on the day. I could only imagine her reaction when she received a package where she happened to be stationed for the fire season, inside was a crudely drawn storyboard, several skin-tight suits and a note urgently asking her whether any of the costumes were the right fit. Rather than treating me like the creep I was, she wrote to tell me to calm down and assure me all would work out. In the end, we all successfully filmed everything in the allotted time and had a blast doing it.

Before wrapping up this essay, I want to mention two random moments for my own sake. They will remind me how everyone’s passion can lead them through some of the highest and lowest points in life. One moment, we can feel on top of the world and the next, we become utterly foolish. The first moment was the most epic writing experience I’ve ever had and the second was the most tragically pathetic. 

My most epic writing retreat involved going on a five-day hike in Nepal along the Annapurna mountain range. I took a blank notebook to specifically write an entire scene in those five days. I rarely set myself such a short deadline, as I usually spend ages picking away at things. This was a spectacular journey where I encountered the sublime. I used my time wandering through remote mountain villages or sitting to ogle at breathtaking terrain to mull over a script for Andrew, Ross and I to perform. That’s right, Im saying that I ascended the Himalayan mountains in search of inspiration and descended with one of my favourite bits. 

Now for my lowest point: After working in the sun all day, I’d ride my bike to the Vancouver Public Library. This routine forced me to focus on writing for several hours. One day I set up my laptop at a large table shared with many others and then all went dark. I fell asleep sitting straight up with my head leaning back in a pitch-perfect snoring position. Suddenly, I startled myself awake with an uproarious fart. This must have been one hell of a blowout because when I’m out, I’m usually out cold. The moment I came to, I immediately saw everyone staring at me in disgust, which seemed a little over the top. I thought, “Come on people, life happens.” However, it quickly dawned on me why I had become the pariah of the room upon detecting the extreme pungency of my essence filling this vast open-concept facility. This bouquet was far too intense to be the result of one gust, but it was apparent I had been dropping ass in my sleep, maybe for the past… half hour? Forty minutes? I was a big sweaty mess, making a biological racket among all these university students quietly studying. This was the moment  I realized my hobby had turned me into a genuine lunatic barely suited for society. If I had been bolder then, I would have reminded everyone around me, “Stay in school kids.” 

Moments like these remind me of that old debate concerning the degree to which life imitates art or vice versa. I think it’s a symbiosis where it’s difficult to distinguish the two, both being equally absurd.