Meet Zarrin: The Wet One /

Okay, now that you're paying attention...

...get your mind out of the gutter.  In fact, get your whole body out of the gutter.  You're gonna get a tapeworm.  Zarrin is "wet" for exactly 90 minutes a day -- the 90 minutes she spends teaching Bikram yoga to the masochistic masses.  (Ever tried Bikram yoga?  I have.  It makes you feel like you could conquer the world... if you could only stop barfing long enough to try.)

Zarrin is amazing.  She's smart, she's fit, she's independent and she's engaged to a bouncer.  (A bouncer at Victoria's Secret in the Eaton Centre, but a bouncer nonetheless.)  Her parents moved from Jamaica to Stratford when she was five.  Then they moved to Orangeville.  Then Port Hope.  Then Oakville.  Then Toronto, after eight-year-old Zarrin went on a surprisingly effective hunger strike.

Zarrin's dad is a nurse, and her mom is a doctor.  (This confuses people more often than you might expect in 2012.)  They've always made a good living, but they don't believe in handouts.  As a teenager, Zarrin's allowance was four dollars a month...and she had to contribute to the utilities bill.  For fifteen years, Zarrin attended a swanky private school in North Toronto, somehow managing to make mid-calf-length kilts and sailor collars look cool.  She hated art and loved Math.  She hated boys and loved her married Math teacher.  She went to McGill because she needed to get away from her parents...and, let's face it, because French guys are hot.

After four years together, Zarrin and her fiance, Chris, are ready to take their relationship to the next level.  When her parents buy a KILLER three-bedroom loft in Cabbagetown as an investment, they agree to rent it to their daughter.  For $2000.00 a month.  Jerks.  If Zarrin wants to live in her dream home and step things up with Chris, there's only one solution:  move in with him.  And Amelie.  And Maxim.  And Jen.  And Jen's bulldog.  (More on these characters later, but you can follow Jen on twitter under the handle @getloft.)

This is where Loft in Translation: The Series, Based on the Blog, Based on My Life (working title...) begins.

Zarrin loves her life, she loves her buddies, she loves her fiance (despite the odd fight sparked by the Victoria's Secret fashion shows he's "forced" to attend.)  But moving in with your boyfriend isn't easy.  And moving in with someone else's boyfriend is even harder.  Especially when he's French.

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'Loft in Translation' is a series concept by Kate Hewlett.  Ideas, feedback, corporate sponsors and independently rich benefactors welcome.

Loft in Translation: The Series /

Let’s face it:  life is tough for women in their twenties.

Sure, okay, their thighs still look like thighs, not cottage cheese trapped in sausage casing.  And fine, yes, the world is their oyster, not a discarded shrimp trampled underfoot at Loblaws.  They still get noticed by construction workers, they occasionally get carded at the liquor store, and men date them for their looks and personality, not for the width of their hips and their ability to rear children.

But they’re lost.   They’re broke.  They’re not sure whether to get a second degree, or pawn their first one for weed.  If they have boyfriends, they’re trying to figure out if he’s the one.  If they’re single,  they’re trolling eHarmony for men who know there’s an alternate spelling of “your”.  (Two, in fact.)  All they need is a place to call home… and they really can’t afford one.

Zarrin, Jen &  Amélie have been buddies since their first year at McGill.  They’ve studied together, partied together, and been charged for aggravated assault together.  (It was a misunderstanding.  Story for another time.)  But since school, they’ve taken very different paths.  Zarrin teaches Bikram by day and preps for her wedding (to fiancé Chris) by night.  Amélie has a blossoming career, tutoring over-privileged teens with underdeveloped French skills.  She’s also in her first-ever long-term relationship (with Maxim.  He’s French, too.)  Jen is a… uh, Jen focuses mostly on... Jen likes to cook.  Well, microwave.   And she’s got a really cute bulldog.

When Zarrin’s parents decide to invest in a swanky Toronto loft, they suggest that she and Chris rent it from them.  The location is perfect (Regent Par—ahem, Lower Cabbagetown).  The loft is enormous (three bedrooms… or two, depending on your definition of “partition”).  And the rent is… high.  HIGH.  Wow, Zarrin’s parents are jerks.  The only logical solution is for the couples (and Jen) to move in together.  But when two couples with raging libidos (and Jen) shack up together, the results are anything but stable.  Loft in Translation is a sexy, biting comedy about couples living together…together.

With Jen.  Because someone has to rent the cheap room.

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A new comedy by Kate Hewlett, who is not at all in her twenties but still remembers them.  Except for the tequila parts.

Follow Jen (@getloft) on twitter.  She's not real, but she's highly addictive.

Stephen Harper has cured my blog-o-phobia /

I've been away for a long time. But I'm back. At least for today.

No, I am not shamelessly promoting any theatre or TV projects. I am not writing about my cats. (Rufus went and died on me, so that part of the blog is done until the day that his obese, fuzzy cat ghost starts haunting me at night. Fingers crossed.)

I'm writing because I'm terrified.

1984 didn't happen in 1984 and it didn't happen in Oceania; it's happening in Toronto in 2011. Let's first be clear about something: I am politically challenged. I have voted Green, Liberal, NDP, Reform (I wish I was kidding) and Conservative. I tend to vote for the person, and not for the party. (Occasionally, I vote for the hair of the person, and not for the party.) I have no beef with Stephen Harper, other than the fact that his morals and my morals do not line up. So what? It just means we'll never hang out or start a book club together.

But when the Federal government cuts ALL FUNDING to the SummerWorks Festival (Canada's largest juried theatre festival) out of the blue, without reason, I worry. I worry so much that I start using capitals and italics with reckless abandon. I worry that my recurring nightmare - about a dystopian state where freedom of speech and creative expression are a thing of the past - is coming true. (Aside: In my dreams, the Earth is overrun with giant abused cats. Thank god the Harper government can't make that happen... right?)

The SummerWorks Festival is the pride and joy of Toronto's arts community. It breeds new Canadian plays, it launches careers, it takes risks, it gives the voiceless a voice. I attend the festival every year (unless I'm actively avoiding an ex), I have acted in three SummerWorks shows and co-written one. I met my best friend doing a SummerWorks show. I have seen some of the best plays of my life (The Russian Play, Greenland, If We Were Birds) at SummerWorks. I don't use the word "lifeblood" very often, but SummerWorks is the lifeblood of Toronto theatre. Lifeblood. Lifeblood lifeblood.

I am so mad I could kick a pig. And I really, really like pigs.

The Toronto Sun (I like to read it for the articles about boobs) IRRESPONSIBLY printed an article about a "terrorist" play and put my friend Lwam on the cover under the headline "Sympathy for the Devil: Your tax dollars help stage play that portrays terrorist in a positive light". So, first of all, my friend Lwam is an actor. HE'S AN ACTOR, TORONTO SUN. And now he's been branded as a terrorist. So that's cool. More importantly, the article was complete and utter bullshit. (That's right, I'm swearing. Sorry, Dad.)

But who the heck reads the Sun, right? Stephen Harper, evidently. I can only assume that the "article" and the uninformed, Sunshine-girl-lovin' buzz it generated contributed in some way to the funding cuts.

If this is not the case, fine. Let's call it a coincidence. Even if the Sun article had nothing to do with Harper's decision, the funding cuts are completely, utterly unacceptable. What kind of Prime Minister, what kind of government, eliminates 100% of the funding to a festival for which Canada is famous? I don't care if you play the piano, Mr. Harper, you don't know the first thing about art, creativity, joy, or passion. You don't know what it's like to work for free just because you love something, to live pay cheque to pay cheque so that you can tell a story you believe in. You don't know what it's like to work twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day without pay, just to offer a complete stranger fifty transportive minutes. You don't understand.

Real life is about breakups, cancer, laundry, loss. Real life is about clogged sinks, stubbed toes, money, rules. Theatre is about getting away from it all. It's about education, entertainment and escapism. The SummerWorks Festival is responsible for creating thirty five new Canadian works every year -- and thirty five new ways to see the world.

Harper: I challenge you to attend this year's festival August 4-14. See what you think. And then make better decisions. Also, please fix the Health Care System. It's broken. Admit it. (That was for my dad.)

For everyone else, please please please show SummerWorks your support by making a donation to make up for the $50 000 that they lost. Give five dollars, fifty dollars, your first-born child and your convertible. Anything. Or write a letter... and send it after the postal strike is over and before the garbage strike begins. (It's Toronto, right? There has to be a garbage strike in the summer.)

If you've never heard of the festival, maybe you've heard of Rick Roberts, Nicolas Campbell, Kristen Thomson, Brendan Gall, Julian Richings, Mike McPhaden, Hannah Moscovitch, Yanna McIntosh? No? Well, maybe you should go to SummerWorks. Oh... wait... they just lost their funding.

Here is a link to an article with more info:

http://ca.news.yahoo.com/torontos-summerworks-indie-theatre-festival-loses-federal-funding-191348597.html

Here is a link to the SummerWorks Festival itself, where you can donate if you so choose:

http://www.summerworks.ca/2011/home.php

And here is a link to a barking cat, because we all need a little joy in our lives:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aP3gzee1cps

Thanks for reading.

K.

Give me an ass: "Ass!" Give me another ass: "Ass!" What does it spell? Ass ass... ins. Assassins. Wow, I need more sleep. /

I'm sitting in the Evil Empire (Starbucks) drinking a grande soy unsweetened green tea latte (when did I turn into that person) and realizing that I finally have time to blog. Yaaaahooo!

So, I spent the last two weeks in Barrie, Ontario doing the first run of Assassins and all I have to say is this: Barrie is nice. If you can avoid the Hooters. And the weirdo five-way intersection where the green lights don't correspond with the walk signs. But the waterfront is beautiful (I love the sculpture there, for some reason. Welcoming and protective at the same time. Like a good pet.)

Here's a picture, for the two people who care:

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/70/Spiritcatcher_barrie_wide.jpg

Anyway... yeah, Barrie's not so bad. The show was well received and except for the odd candy-wrapper-krinkler, the audiences were great. We open in Toronto on Thursday at the Theatre Centre. To buy tickets, you can go here:

http://www.ticketweb.ca/snl/Search.action?query=assassins+stephen+sondheim

I'm loving links today, for some reason. Links links links. La la la. La la la links.

Sorry. Too much green tea. (I'm off coffee! It's been five weeks!)

I am really really proud of Assassins. Please come and see it if you can. The performances by the other actors blow my mind every single night. The amount of talent (and hotness, on an unrelated note) in this cast is extraordinary. Plus, the show itself is a brilliant piece of work: dark, funny, moving, thought-provoking... and short! An hour and forty five minutes! Of music and stuff.

More later...

k.

A big bust /

No, no, not like that.  I didn't have breast augmentation surgery, or buy a new push-up bra, or meet Pamela Anderson at a Science Fiction convention.

Hey...wait...I got your attention though, didn't I?  If my male readership increases by 76% this week (as I suspect it might), I'm going to start every post from hereon in with a completely inappropriate, breast-related title:  "Twin Peaks" (about a ski trip I've taken), "The Bluetit" (which would obviously be an exploration in British ornithology), "Staying Abreast" (of all kinds of issues -- it's important).  The possibilities are endless.

Sorry.  I'm on a cornucopia of prescription medication.  I'm finding things funny that really aren't.  Eg.  The green tea I just ordered is in fact red.  Ha ha ha ha HA HA HAAAAAA.  Yep.  Wow.

I'm going to try and write this post without sounding full of self-pity, but I am currently sitting in Heathrow Airport after the worst vacation I've ever had (well, it's tied for first with the family vacation we took to Jamaica when I was nine.  I burnt my face off and my parents weren't speaking.  That one was pretty bad.)

I arrived in Italy late last Thursday night with the following goals:  visiting my mother (which I accomplished), relaxing (nope), shopping (nope) and seeing the Italian countryside (noooope).  Instead, I had two days of vacation, then started having sharp chest pains which radiated down my left arm.  I didn't want to go into hospital (always a wise choice when you think you're having a heart attack) so I waited it out.  In the middle of the night, I woke up in crazy amounts of pain and had to take an ambulance to the hospital just outside of Lucca.  It was a bumpy ride and I kept getting the giggles (well, the crying giggles...criggles?) because it sort of felt like a Leslie Neilsen movie.  Also, the last time I was in Italy, my mother had to take an ambulance and I rode with her.  So ridiculous.

[Okay...just to explain...I wrote that part of the post over a month ago and then got on a plane and forgot all about it.  I'll finish it off now!]

When we arrived at the hospital, I was seen right away (one of the benefits to having a mother who lives in the middle of nowhere) and the grumpy doctor did an ECG, took my blood pressure, and told me that it wasn't my heart.  Good news... but that's all he said!  I went in on a stretcher, and left on foot.  In a LOT of pain.  He gave me codeine -- which I later discovered I was allergic to -- and made fun of me in Italian, not knowing that I could understand him.  (I took a language class in preparation for my "vacation".)  My mother and I were then told, at 4 o'clock in the morning, that we couldn't stay at the hospital, we couldn't take a taxi because there wasn't one, and there was no other way of getting home.  So we walked.  For forty minutes.  In the dark. I suppose I came across as a "difficult American tourist" or some stereotype like that (I'm Canadian, of course, but I'm guessing Dr. Awesomepants didn't care) and the doctors thought I was overreacting.  I WASN'T!

Anyway...the vacation was a bit of a bust.   Just a bummer, I realize.  Not a tragedy.

I flew to England after a week in Italy and saw five more doctors there, trying to get a diagnosis and stop the pain.  Did I mention that I never get travel insurance because there's no need for it?  Oooooops.  Now I know.  Won't make that mistake again.  Ever.  Ever ever.

At this point, a few weeks after the fact, I'm still pretty frustrated because I'm not exactly sure what the injury is.  I know that it's something to do with my ribs; I think it's muscular; that's pretty much it.  I've been seeing a chiropractor -- who, thankfully, has introduced me to a machine known as The Thumper (my favorite invention since The Sandwich Maker) and that seems to be helping a bit.

Anyway...

All this to say:  I mentioned a few weeks back that I couldn't post for a while due to a top secret mission.  The mission was that I was going to surprise my friend Jessica who is attending theatre school in London.  I was going to show up at her door and freak her out. ( "YOU THOUGHT I WAS IN TORONTO!  I'M IN ENGLAND!!!  BLAAAAAHHHHHHAAAAAA!")  I knew that she would read my blog if I posted about my trip, and I knew that if I blogged, I wouldn't be able to resist talking about my trip.

So that was the big mystery.

Needless to say, the surprise didn't happen because I couldn't get out of bed!  I got to see her, though.  And she carried my bags at Heathrow!  All day!  And she is a dear, dear friend who I would trust with my life.  (Thanks, Jessica, if you're reading this instead of doing a term paper.  I love you.)

Onward and upward:

I started rehearsals for Sondheim's Assassins on Monday morning, directed by the incomparable Adam Brazier.  It's terrifying and exciting and wonderful.  The team is AMAZING.  Totally humbling.  And no egos!

And I have to play the trumpet.

Ohhhhh dear.

All the best to all of you in 2010!

Now to make some New Year's Resolutions:

1) Sleep more.

Uh...that's all I've got so far...

k.

The Twelve Days of Christmas -- Hewlett-Style /

Imagine the following, sung beautifully by...I don't know...Andrea Bocelli, or something.

Accompanied by my father on violin,

myself on a rusty trumpet,

and two identical twin six-year-olds on a piano that hasn't been tuned in 25 years.

That's how this song plays out in my food-coma-induced imaginings.

Ready for it?

(NOTE:  When forced to choose, I opted for rhyming over logic.)

On the first day of Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me: a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the second day of Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me: two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the third day of Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me: three french sticks, two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the fourth day of Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me: four (but one in particular) sibling nerds, three french sticks, two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the fifth day of Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me: fiiiiiive coooold drinks,

four sibling nerds, three french sticks, two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the sixth day of Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me: six nieces playing (well...only two, actually, but "niece" rhymes with "geese" and that's hard to pass up.)

Where was I...

Oh yes.

The sixth day of--wait a second, who the hell celebrates Christmas for twelve days? I would gain twelve hundred pounds and get paper cuts from all the present-opening. I just think it's weird. TWELVE DAYS? And who needs that many birds as presents?

But more importantly...

Six nieces playing, fiiiiiive coooold drinks, four sibling nerds, three french sticks, two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the...wait for it...seventh day of Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me: seven lawns a-swimming (because it rained -- give me a break), six nieces playing, fiiiiiive coooold drinks, four sibling nerds, three french sticks, two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the eighth (freakin') day of (eternal) Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me: eight soybeans milking, seven lawns a-swimming (see above apology), six nieces playing, fiiiiiive coooold drinks, four sibling nerds, three french sticks, two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the ninth...

Small break while I get a glass of wine to give me the strength to continue this...

In-breath, out-breath, in-breath, out-breath...

On the ninth day of Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me: nine cold pills chancing (and if that doesn't make sense, I blame the Sudafed), eight soybeans milking, seven lawns a-swimming, six nieces playing, fiiiiiive coooold drinks, four sibling nerds, three french sticks, two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the tenth day of Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me:  ten stuffed guests sleeping, nine cold pills chancing, eight soybeans milking, seven lawns a-swimming, six nieces playing, fiiiiiive coooold drinks, four sibling nerds, three french sticks, two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the (allllmost there, people) eleventh day of Christmas, the Hewletts gave to me: eleven Skypers Skype-ing, ten stuffed guests sleeping, nine cold pills chancing, eight soybeans milking, seven lawns a-swimming, six nieces playing, fiiiiiive coooold drinks, four sibling nerds, three french sticks, two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

On the TWELFTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, the Hewletts gave to me: twelve plumbers plumbing (not true, but it rhymes), eleven Skypers Skype-ing, ten stuffed guests sleeping, nine cold pills chancing, eight soybeans milking, seven lawns a-swimming, six nieces playing, fiiiiiive coooold drinks, four sibling nerds, three french sticks, two twins I love and a nut loaf instead of cooked meat.

I am done.

Merry Christmas!

I still need to do a post about my trip to Italy, which was a complete bust.  All that and more...soon...

k.