New article on Toronto.com: “Toronto’s Tourist Hot Spots”

New stuff on Digital Journal: click here

That’s it for now. Go watch Mad Men.

Keepin’ it short and sweet this time. is a post from: Jeff Cottrill.com

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Seems like it’s the only performance series of any kind in town that wants to feature me these days. And as long as I get free smoked-meat poutine out of it, I ain’t complaining. No sir, I ai not.

Not that I’m still avoiding all local poetry events. I’ve been out to the occasional one in the last two months – just to listen, not to perform. But as I ranted about a few months ago, in a post on this site that I’m sure almost nobody has read, I’m still a bit uneasy about the Canadian slam community’s tendencies towards humourless PC groupthink, and the witch-hunt mentality that comes out of it. There are times when the slam scene seems like a truly hateful, reactionary community to me, viewing everything in black-and-white, looking for excuses to be outraged and taking everything you say so damn literally. And it’s heartbreaking to see a (former) friend or two being sucked into the indoctrination.

The best way I can think of to sum it all up is: It’s just no fun anymore.

I think my problem is that I see spoken word as an art form, and nobody else does. To most of the slammers, spoken word is either a pulpit or a cult-like form of group therapy. Thing is, if I wanted to preach, I’d become a minister, and if I wanted to lose control of my emotions and revel in everybody’s shared vulnerability, I’d join a support group. I don’t go to literary events for these things. I go out of love of writing and, to a lesser extent, of performing. But while every slam has some variation of the slogan, “The points are not the point, the poetry is the point!”, I don’t think poetry is the point at all. It reminds me of when I co-majored in creative writing at York University and all the instructors and students tried to force me to be a minimalist: just like back then, everybody’s trying to eliminate everything that I find fun and enlightening about writing.

But while I’ve put spoken word aside temporarily, that doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing. On the contrary, I’ve continued to contribute articles to Toronto.com and Digital Journal.

Check out my recent articles for the former: “Toronto’s Best Staycation Destinations” (a guide to 2013 March Break hotel packages, now outdated), “The Best Bookstores in Toronto” (a three-part series), “The Best Spas in Toronto” and “Toronto’s Bookstore Cafes: From Comics to Cappuccinos”. In addition, a series of golf-related stories I wrote for them in 2010 have recently been updated and re-posted for some reason.
And you can read my most recent Digital Journal reviews and stories at this link. My review of the movie Mad Ship got more than two thousand hits in less than twenty-four hours, for no apparent reason. I have no clue what I did right this time (especially since it was a negative review). Maybe it got linked on some Rotten Tomatoes-type site?

That’s it for now. Time to find out if April truly is the cruelest month.

I was Deep Throat. Actually… no, I wasn’t. April Fool! is a post from: Jeff Cottrill.com

Related posts:

1. The August of Your Soul Hey buddy. So I didn’t do a whole frackin’ lot...
2. Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side… but it was weeeeeeeell worth it! Heya. For those who care, I’m featuring in yet another...

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Only one person has asked me about it lately, so it’s not like I’m delivering any eagerly anticipated revelations here, but no, I’m not going to be doing another Fringe show this year after all.

Maybe next year, if I haven’t found a secure editorial day job by then.
The reason is, I simply didn’t get picked in any of the lotteries I applied for – not Toronto, Montreal, Edmonton, Winnipeg or Vancouver. The only festival I got accepted in was Saskatoon, and only because it’s first-come-first-serve. As good as I’ve heard the Saskatoon fest is, I don’t see the point of doing all that work and flying all the way out there just for one festival. I felt so swindled (both financially and emotionally) by the end of the Grouch on a Couch experience that now I don’t want to go through it all again unless things have been set up right from the start.

But there’s other stuff.

Like this video of Eric L. Jones interviewing me last May, at a brunch cafe in Harlem. In which I look even more socially uncomfortable than usual.

And I’ve been writing more stuff for Toronto.com and Digital Journal. If you’re a visitor to Toronto and like shopping, check out my picks for the city’s five best malls. My contributions to the site’s new “Neighbourhoods” feature should be online soon, too. And I’ve got new stuff on DJ, although my “Five Most Overrated Movies of 2012” op-ed piece obviously sucks, since it’s my first article on the site that hasn’t received a single “Like”. (Hint, hint.)

And finally, catch me this Sunday in another feature gig at Storytelling at Caplansky’s.
I’m thinking of performing an off-book version of my grown-up fairy tale “Beautiful Swan”, from Guilt Pasta. That means I have five days to get it off-book, though…

Toodles. Don’t forget to write.

In what specific location may one find the beef, good sir or madam? is a post from: Jeff Cottrill.com

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Wikipedia can be a barrel of willikers sometimes.

This Sunday, I’m back at Storytelling at Caplansky’s, hosted by Marilla Wex.
Then, next Friday, I’m back at Jammin’ on the One, seeing if I can enlighten the improv folks once again with a touch of the spoken word. It’ll be the first time I’ve performed any spoken word onstage since mid-October, when I apparently pissed the world off. Well, more so than usual.

That’s really all I’ve got to say right now.

See you in the funny papers, Nimrod.

Not bloody Martin Smith from Croydon is a post from: Jeff Cottrill.com

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For those who care, I’m featuring in yet another Storytelling at Caplansky’s this Sunday. Come on by if you’d like to hear some amusing stories with delicious smoked meat. Hosted by either Michael or Marilla Wex. Huzzah.

Nobody’s asking me, of course, but in case you wanted to know, I’ve been taking something of a break – let’s call it a “sabbatical” – from the Toronto poetry scene for the past five weeks or so. I’ve been devoting my time to looking for a new day job, debating whether I want to do another Fringe show next year (more on that in a future entry) and writing more reviews and stuff for Digital Journal. (Oh, and playing way too much online Risk. Addictive stuff.) Journalism seems to be the only thing I’m capable of doing halfway right these days, so I invite you to check out my more recent stuff on the Digital Journal site. Here’s the link. Clicky clicky. Don’t worry, it won’t bite.

Just to clarify, it’s mainly the Toronto community that I’m avoiding right now. If a series outside of the city is still interested in giving me a gig at some point (say, Guelph, Lanark County, Ottawa, Winnipeg…), I graciously accept. But I’m just not feeling the love in T.O. right now.

I started performing spoken word regularly in about 2000 or 2001 – several years before slam became, more or less, the only game in town – and yet, despite the friends I’ve made along the way and the small successes I’ve had, I’ve always felt like an outsider to the community. Look: I get it, people. I’m not a poet. My material isn’t poetry. It’s prose, imbued with elements of storytelling and comedy, but lacking in metaphor, concrete sensory images and emotional ear candy. My writing isn’t subtle enough, or finely crafted enough, for the “literary” scene, and it’s not hip enough for the slam scene. There seems to be no real place for anything ranking between those extremes.

So why have I continued doing this? Because I’ve enjoyed it so much. And because people have been generous enough to feature me in their shows so many times, despite the fact that I don’t really fit in. And I’ve been happy to support the community in return, even while occasionally being very critical of it, by attending readings, shows and festivals. But now, because of unrelated reasons, I’m not so sure I enjoy it anymore.

At any rate, I’ve come to feel that being part of the slam community – and maybe the poetry community as a whole – is a lot like being part of the Mafia.

Seriously. Being a member of the slam community feels like being a peripheral character in Goodfellas or On the Waterfront, in the sense that you never know when somebody you’ve mistaken for a friend will suddenly turn on you, on a whim, just because you said something stupid. To survive, you’ve got to stand in line with the rest, stick to your deaf-and-dumb act and hope you don’t fall outside of the established code.

There are people in the slam community who claim to be working hard to make slam a “safe” space for everyone – free from fears of violence, harassment and intimidation. And I understand and sympathize with the positive intentions behind this. It makes perfect sense. Everybody wants to be safe, right? Nobody wants to feel threatened in any way while out sharing your passion for an art form.

But there’s a side effect of this well-meaning activism that bothers me: it’s the witch-hunt mentality that comes out of it. Sometimes it feels almost McCarthyist. It’s as if people are actively looking for an excuse to call you out on something, either out of a misguided sense of good citizenship or just to get brownie points from the cool kids. Remember The Crucible? “I saw Goody Proctor mock the Trigger Warning!” “I heard Goody Putnam make a joke I didn’t like!” “I saw Goody Nurse do something that wasn’t a shining beacon of positivity!” Bring out the stake and matches.

And the irony of this whole thing is that now, I don’t feel safe or comfortable among the slam community anymore. Or at least not welcome. Because of this witch-hunt mentality I’m seeing, which sometimes comes out in subtle ways and sometimes is blatantly obvious, I have to be so careful of everything I say and do that it’s not worth the bother. Why does everything have to be so black and white, anyway? Sometimes I wonder if the real bullies are the ones with the noblest intentions.

And now it’s gone too far. Now, thanks to a couple of idiotic misunderstandings, I am told that I’m not a “safe” person to be around, that others feel physically uncomfortable in my presence. And why? Primarily because I included a certain offensive line while I covered somebody else’s poem.

And sure, there’s always been the option to accept my apologies and just let it go. Instead, it’s seen as more constructive to turn the whole mess into a lame real-life version of Mamet’s Oleanna.

I’m not saying we should all go around deliberately offending each other. That just makes you a jerk. Nor am I denying that people have the right to be offended or upset by racy content in someone’s poem, particularly if they have undergone terrible past experiences that make their emotional reactions involuntary. But isn’t there a certain point where you have to shrug and say, “Hey man, it’s art”? Art isn’t meant to be taken literally. Art is about self-expression, about revealing your own twisted view of the world, not about tiptoeing quietly around an audience’s comfort zones. And yes, sometimes art (especially humour) is going to shock and offend if it’s honest. I’m confused when somebody who listens to Eminem or watches Family Guy can turn around and scold a writer over a disturbing line in a poem. Why do Messrs. Mathers and MacFarlane get away with making terrible jokes about violence against women? Why are the rules different for them? Because they’re famous?

I’m no stranger to the usual humourless, knee-jerk, PC overreactions. I’ve laughed them off. There are worse things than getting self-righteous morality lectures from nineteen-year-old college students about how they think “Sally Dumps Jimmy” or “A Love Letter” is misogynistic, or how I supposedly wrote Grouch on a Couch for no other reason than an immature need to shock people with naughty language. Usually, I assumed that they needed to grow the hell up. Now, I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore. I don’t write or perform spoken word to make people feel “unsafe”. I think the situation is utterly absurd, but I’m not trying to make any trouble. Maybe I’ve been wrong all along, and the true moral point of view is this: if art and wit make one person feel “unsafe”, we should ban them. Let’s just end all art and wit. Let would-be artists devote their lives to nothing but Hallmark-card poems and photos of kittens with misspelled captions. What a fine and safe world that will be.

So that’s why I’m not going to poetry events in Toronto these days. I’ve removed myself from most of the Facebook communities – I don’t even want to know when the events are. And I doubt it’s making any difference. I mean, it’s not as if crowds of people are banging down my door and begging me to come out and read “How to Write Like a Lawyer” on an open mic.

But I am doing a spoken-word set in January at an improv show, if that counts for anything. At least the improv kids don’t feel “unsafe” around me. They get it: we all say stupid and offensive things once in a while. That doesn’t mean we’re all Mel Gibson.

Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side… but it was weeeeeeeell worth it! is a post from: Jeff Cottrill.com

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C’mere.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Lookin’ fer somethin’ to do this month? Are ya?

Well, fer starters, I gots a gig dis Wednesday, see. A gig at Zemra Bar Lounge. Shhhhhhhhhhhh! Turns out I’m doin’ dis spoken-woid set at a show what they call Flowetic Wednesdays. Also featuring Whitney French. No, I dunno if the dame’s really French, but dey say her words are sweet. Sweet enough to steal. Dere’s also dis open mic for all youse punks what wanna show off your jollies to the woyld, see.

And den, flatfoot, why, don’t get sore, see, ’cause I gotta brass knuckle what’s gonna mess up you coppers like… ah, screw this.

And then I’m reading a cover of one of David Clink’s poems, at the launch of his new collection of humorous poetry, Crouching Yak, Hidden Emu. At Hot Sauced Words on the 18th, also with Mike Bryant, Cathy Petch, Sandra Kasturi and other funny lit folk.

And on the 28th, catch me at Storytelling at Caplansky’s once again. Maybe I’ll diss another quasi-famous person. Which will cause you to go, “OMG like your jus jelous!! LOL your a looser”.

That’s all for now. Happy Canadian Thanksgiving.

October. And the trees are stripped bare. Of all they wear. What do I care? is a post from: Jeff Cottrill.com

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Particularly if they’re sitcom characters. In which case, it’s compulsory that they’re trapped in elevators or phone booths. Or that the only person available to deliver the baby is a cab driver.

Preferably a wacky cab driver. With a Latino accent, clashing polyester clothes, and a zany catch phrase like, “Fardingbag?! I ain’t got no Fardingbag, sister! Wowsers and mergatroids, where did I put that fudge?”

Cue laugh track.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, it’s September.

Here’s what I gots goin’ on in September:

This Tuesday, the fourth, I’m going to be interviewed on the local radio show HOWL. This is my fourth or fifth time on the show, I believe (the first being more than ten years ago). Hosted by Nik Beat, the hour-long show will also feature blues musician Chuck Jackson and author Ryan Frawley, with music by Hellywood DolZ.

So tune in to CIUT on Tuesday night at 10:00 p.m. (that’s 7:00 p.m. if you’re on the west coast, or 3:00 a.m. Wednesday morning if you’re one of my U.K. friends). It’s 89.5 FM in Toronto; elsewhere, you can hear it on the station’s website.

Sunday, September 23 is the date of this year’s Word On The Street festival. Burning Effigy Press will be in the fringe section of the exhibitors, and I assume I’ll be there for at least part of the day, trying to sell my CD Clown with a Coat Hanger and my chapbook Grouch on a Couch. More information about the fest is available here.

So you could buy Grouch at WotS… but why wait until then? Get it here.

And then, the next Sunday, I’m storytelling at Caplansky’s again, as part of Storytelling at Caplansky’s. Other booked storytellers TBA.

Oh, and by the way? I need a job. An editorial job, preferably with a magazine or online publication or something like that. Please send me leads. Experience, connections and hard work are getting me nowhere.

JeffCottrill.com has been videotaped before a live studio audience.

Happy Labour Day, Charlie Brown! is a post from: Jeff Cottrill.com

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So I didn’t do a whole frackin’ lot in July, except for uploading a year-old video of my one-man show. But with the bitter August wind comes the tender trellisses of the sinister dexterities of new gigs.

(This is why people tell me I’m not a real poet.)

First of all, I just got offered two parts, a last-minute replacement, in the Frolick theatre company’s ongoing production of Adventures in Slumberland on Centre Island. It’s based on the classic Little Nemo comic by Winsor McCay. It’s a family show, and if you have little people in your household, it’s a perfect outing for them.

(EDIT: I’m going to be doing Adventures in Slumberland from now until September 3. Shows run every day, usually hourly from 11:15 to about 7:00, weather permitting. For the most part, I’ll be in the later-afternoon shows, as part of the “B” cast.)

I’m playing Flip and King Morpheus. Why, I even get to sing a song. It’s only my second* paying acting gig, and I didn’t even have to audition for it. They didn’t even need a head shot. Sometimes it just helps when somebody knows you.

Then, on the following weekend, Plasticine Poetry Series is welcoming me back to feature for a fourth time. Hosted by the sexy and saucy Cathy Petch, the show will also include the literary talents of Duncan Armstrong, Heather Wood and Carolyn Smart.

You should go to that one, because they now do the series at Pauper’s Pub, and Pauper’s Pub has Keith’s cider. Which is great muhfuggin cider. Actually, I think they just have it as a temporary replacement for Magner’s, which is also pretty good. Anyway, come for the cider and stay for the performances. There’s an open mic, too.

And on the following Sunday, it’s Caplansky’s time again. I tell stories. Perhaps I may even tell one in spoken-word form.

In the meantime… read my Digital Journal stories. Now. As in, these ones.

Toodles.

* Unless you count Grouch on a Couch. But I don’t, because I spent far more money doing that show than I earned from it. And unless you count the work I used to do as a movie extra, but come on, that’s hardly acting.

The August of Your Soul is a post from: Jeff Cottrill.com

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But I’ve got other fish to nuke for the moment.

Remember how I kept hyping before that a video of Grouch on a Couch was going to be online soon? (Assuming that anybody reads the posts on my website, that is?)

Well, now it’s “soon”. Grouch on a Couch is online.
Because I’ve finally gotten around to setting up my own goddamn YouTube account.

I’ve even set up a playlist that includes not only Grouch but a few other random videos of me that other people have shot… one of them is from the Bowery Poetry Club in New York, another is from a Skype broadcast event in the U.K., and so the hell on.

So now… if you’re one of those people who swore on their mothers’ graves that they intended to see Grouch on a Couch when I did it onstage, but still missed it – now you can see it!

Well, you can see a low-quality video of the show.

Specifically, of the least-attended performance of it.

In six parts.

Better than never seeing it at all, right? I hope so. Because I’m never performing it again. This is the only way you can see me perform the show now.

Why don’t I just make things easier and embed the whole thing here? Yeah, I’ll do that. You can go make popcorn in the meantime.

“Grouch on a Couch” is now online, suckas. is a post from: Jeff Cottrill.com

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It means… that I’m featuring in Storytelling at Caplansky’s once again. On Sunday the 17th. They must love me there, even though they don’t laugh much. I believe I’m going to perform a relatively new piece, “A Love Letter”, which has been going over very well at numerous open mics and which I’ve recently gotten around to memorizing.

So, officially speaking, all I’ve got on the gig front at the moment are Caplansky’s this month and Plasticine (my fourth feature there, I think) in August. And I’ll also be appearing on Nik Beat’s radio program, HOWL, once again in August.

But… there may well be more coming up.
Specifically, I’m waiting to hear back about at least a couple of potential out-of-town slam features in the coming months. No chicken-counting yet, my friend, but look out for stuff. I’m back, baby.

I went to New York a few weeks ago, where I did a feature at the excellent Jujomukti Spoken-Word Sundays series in the East Village, along with Kat Georges. And I saw the wonderful Book of Mormon, and even toured Carnegie Hall. Not nearly as funny as the Carnegie Hall Show, by the National Theatre of the World… but next time somebody asks me how to develop the skills and talent to become a world-renowned concert pianist, I’m going to reply: “57th and 7th”.

Yes, I just pulled an Allen Woody. Deal with it, bucko.

I’ve also been writing news stuff.
Oh, didn’t I ever mention that I occasionally contribute to Digital Journal? No? Well, I do. Mainly for fun and exposure. I even got paid for it once. And then ninety percent of those earnings were immediately deducted from my Paypal account for a service I’m not even using at the moment, but that’s another story.

You should read my articles and click Like, so that I get points and stuff and maybe another eventual ten dollars. Here’s the link to my articles.

You should especially read the E.T. op-ed piece I posted this morning. Because almost nobody else is, apparently. What, everybody’s too cool for E.T. now? (My third-grade classmates certainly weren’t. Take that.)

Happy summer. Build a dirt-man for me.

June, she’ll change her tune / In restless walks, she’ll prowl the night is a post from: Jeff Cottrill.com

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