The Art of (Advising) Discretion

I love when you’re watching television and they'll run a warning before the show, you know "Warning: This show contains violence and mature subject matter. Viewer discretion is advised."

Viewer discretion is advised... well thank you, thank you Mr. TV Network for advising me to use my discretion, a word that means to make my own choices. I'm really glad you are giving me permission to do this, you know, because I've been sitting on my couch mindlessly wishing you'd let me make my own decisions in life, so thank you for letting me know for the next hour that I can.

Of course what the network is saying is there might be something coming up that will scare you or jar your senses in some way, and that you may not want to watch.

This particular warning came last night as I sat down to watch one of those movies full of death at the hands of swords, guns, and the like. Basically the kind of overblown Hollywood popcorn flick that makes you scratch your head at who this is disturbing or offending. The only answer I can think of to this question is, "someone whose loved one was killed by an evil, eye patch wearing, reincarnated samurai." If this describes you, let me extend my heartfelt sympathy for your loss, I'm sure the one robotic armed samurai with the unexplainable Scottish accent will one day get what he deserves.

For the rest of us I find it hard to believe this violence demands our discretion, so let’s sit back and be mindless like Hollywood intended.

What's ironic is that certain commercials don't run with such a warning, like "The following commercial will make you feel really guilty for not adopting a village full of African orphans, viewer discretion is advised."

I was thinking about this late last night when I was innocently watching my movie on television, sitting at my home in Toronto when a Workplace Safety and Insurance Board of Ontario ad (WSIB) came on. For those of you from the area you’ll probably already know what I am talking about, for the rest of you I'll explain.

The Workplace Safety people have begun running ads whose messages are all "there are no accidents". They begin with a person doing a job; say a construction worker welding or a retail employee climbing a ladder to stock shelves. As they do their job they will look straight into the camera and tell us details of their life like "on the weekend I'll be getting married, but I won't be walking down the aisle, because..." and then they'll explain what’s wrong with the situation.

Then suddenly, in a flash of carnage, an accident (sorry WSIB I've got to say there is such a thing as accidents) will happen in gruesomely real detail.

Last night it was a chef who slipped on a wet floor while carrying a big pot of boiling water. She slams her head off the stove before colliding with the floor, the scolding water burning her limp body.

My mouth was still left gaping in shock (something I swore only happens in cartoons) as we faded back into the film of pyrotechnics and computerized guts, for which my discretion was to be used on.

My point is Hollywood's brand of violence and destruction doesn't really disturb me because for some reason I feel pretty secure genetically mutated (to cure cancer... somehow?) sharks won't chomp me to bits. Yet these workplace safety ads scare and disturb me to no end. It's the small accidents in life, those random things that are chilling.

In fact thanks to WSIB I have begun compiling a list of jobs I will never, ever do. I just cross my fingers they never run a commercial on improperly grounded microphone's killing comedians.

So run your redundant discretion warnings not before staged fights between rich actors, but before the truly freighting and upsetting. Why warn me about a car chase involving stunt men when you spring on me real life pictures of dead people in the news every day?

It reminds me of this show I was addicted to back in college called City Confidential. The concept of this true life documentary is that at the beginning of the show they'd introduce you to some big city or small town in America. They gave the history of the place, profiled the locals, some of the areas 'hot spots' like local bars or restaurants. They'd engulf you in this feeling of "what a great place," and then suddenly they'd rip it out from right under you.

See City Confidential is the story not only of the city, but a mystery that captivated the place. And like most captivating mysteries, Confidential's always revolved around murder.

What ultimately made the show was narrator Paul Winfield. His voice was one part wise old man simply telling you a story, and yet another part was laced with this chillingly playful tone that causes every turn of phrase to make your skin crawl.

Lines played on the location, "...and a mysterious death that had Newport caught up in a story with more twists and turns than the corridors of a seventy room seaside castle." Often still they'd simply use a play on words that'd be humourous if it weren't for the subject matter, and even when dealing with grizzly murder there'd always be a contradiction in the level of playfulness in the narration that’d be creepy and powerful. A lot is lost when it just sits before you on a page, but all the same, we cannot forget the ultimate example, "actually, the police had already ruled out Satan as a suspect."

They were real people, the exact same type who dot our lives, living in neighbourhoods eerily similar to ours, and their stories of events crashing down into murder were again, all too real.

And this is why when I walk in a forest late at night or a dark basement it’s not the themes from Psycho or Halloween I hear in my mind, it's Paul Winfield, narrating my every move.

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Leave Them In Stitches

Not to long ago while working on a television series I ended up coming into work on a day I originally had off. This isn't unusual for the world of television which operates fast and loose with words like 'schedule' and 'hours' to the point where we make brain surgeons with constantly beeping pagers look like homebodies. Which is strange because we aren't the ones saving lives, though I suppose give us a big enough budget and we can defiantly script, cast, and shoot the illusion of life saving.

We might not make as big a difference as real doctors, but you can't argue the blood we work with is far less nausea inducing, not to mention its edible!

The work we had planned to finish the day before wasn't finished and so I came in for what promised to be a couple quick hours.

Now I will not pretend to know the inner workings of the universe, won't attempt to grasp the un-graspable, but I will tell you this: somewhere out there some flag goes up, some light begins to flash on some intergalactic dashboard the moment you suppose a job will be quick and painless and calls to action something, anything, that will prevent it from being so. This unfortunately is one such story.

A co-worker by the name of Sky and I were heading first to the west side of the city to a storage unit to pick up some stuff for the production, drive it across Toronto to the east side and deliver it to another building where one of the departments on the show had set up shop.

We diligently loaded up the rental truck, hauling object after object up the ramp until the thing was full. A heavier and more awkward job than first expected, we were all the same making fairly good time when we pulled away from the storage unit.

I'd like to think it was the rain's fault for what happened next, though any meteorologists and/or physicists reading this might argue that five minutes of light drizzle can not cause a metal ramp to get slippery. To this I say that all meteorologists and physicists who will will not keep their mouths shut should stop reading now, because it was most certainly the rain's fault.

See Sky and I were at our destination unloading a large and awkward piece of metal and I was walking backwards down the ramp when one of my feet slipped (yes, I'm sticking with slipped) and suddenly found itself involuntarily leaving the safety of the ramp. My other foot stood steadfast as the first collided with the pavement. My legs, now further apart and on completely different levels than would be advisable produced a loud ripping sound, the likes of which I had never heard before.

I looked down cautiously, fearing the tearing noise was some muscle or bone that had decided to split off from the rest of my body. It turned out to be much worse.

I had never had a pair of pants rip before, in fact I may have been going through life convinced its something that only happens in cartoons, like a falling anvil or the ability to pull a door out of ones pocket, fling it against a wall and proceed to use it. But then there I was with a large rip straight down the center of my shorts, so long and expanding that there was very little keeping the two legs connected.

I stood there dumbfounded, unsure of what to do next as Sky probably began wondering why the heavy piece of metal was not moving.

I couldn't tell from my vantage point what underwear I was wearing, and my memory of getting dressed in the morning seemed to be of no help, so I stood there, praying for a brief moment that they were an acceptable pair, ideally not anything with a bright Superman 'S' imprinted on them... not that I own such a thing.

At this time I would also like to ask a certain cashier that may at some point in her life stumble across this and who may disagree with some statement's in the last paragraph to also please stop reading and not tell tales about a certain Cidiot and his boxer purchases, which clearly flies in the face of any cold hard facts printed in this column.

So now here I was, virtually the beginning of the day with a whole lot more to go, the unnatural realization that my shorts were torn longer and wider than the Grand Canyon. Then it hit me. I was at the Wardrobe Department!

I finished unloading the large metal object that by this point had tripled in weight, I then ran into the Wardrobe Department as fast as my legs could carry me. Okay that's a lie, I slowly moved towards said building, trying to avoid moving my legs at any angle or length that would get me fired for indecent exposure.

Finding the head of wardrobe I asked him if he had a needle and thread I could borrow.

"Of course," he replied. He then asked me why.

Sheepishly I explained the events that had unfolded, he took a quick look and then beamed with a reassuring smile.

"Oh that's no problem, just take them off and we'll get someone to sew them up for you."

Now by this point you probably think the embarrassment and awkwardness is coming to an end for me. For this I say thank you for your wishful thinking, the worst though, was this...

I was sent to the bathroom to change out of my shorts so that the woman, the best in the business I was ensured, could mend them. As a substitute to wear while I waited I was given a plastic garbage bag with two holes cut in it.

A garbage bag.

I proceeded to put it on, like a cross between a large plastic diaper and something MC Hammer might have worn back when he was 2 Legit 2 Quit.

I stood for a good two minutes facing the bathroom door, bracing myself to walk out into the busy room in a garbage bag, allowing the proper amount of blood to rush to my ever reddening cheeks.

Fifteen minutes. Yes fifteen minutes I stood off to the side of the room as the woman went to work on my shorts, allowing everyone in a ten foot radius to get in as many garbage bag diaper pot shots as they could dream up. I contemplated my career choice, there are probably few brain surgeons who find themselves foregoing scrubs for the clingy comfort of a black garbage bag.

Finally the shorts were presented to me, and you know the woman really must be the best in the business as it was as if they had never ripped in the first place. I quickly waddled back to the bathroom, tightly holding the garbage bag for fear it slip off in one final embarrassing act.

"You picked a good place to rip your pants," offered a nearby wardrobe assistant as I headed for the door, "could you imagine what the Props Department would've done for you."

I could not. Though when I do visit Props I'll be sure to keep my eyes open for falling anvils, the rules of the real world and of cartoons have never felt so murky.

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