The (Secret) Diary of Jesse Dore

Jesse Dore; General Manager and booking agent of the Corktown Tavern (Hamilton, ON) and all around nice guy. Side jobs include, door fixer, rain preventer, sound maker AND theatrical performer.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Jesse? OUR Jesse? Our own Jesse Dore? I had freaking NO idea! Since when?” Well.. since Saturday August 29th at approximetely 8:55pm.

I’m dishing the dirt Jesse. I’m sorry, but I feel that this new talent of yours is great enough to be shared with the world.

His grace wilst dancing is a sight to be saved on memory cards for cell phones and cameras across our great city and beyond. It’s as if his movements are captured and overtaken by the Earths elements. The passion oozes with every fluid motion. Oozes people; oozes. His ability to become any character is a feat many attempt to aquire within long careers of rejected auditions and failed series pilots.

While sitting at the Corktown on the previously mentioned date, Jesse was busy. Not too busy though to comment on the unkempt styling of Max Wray’s hair following a down pour that’s become all too familiar this summer. With several gestures, Jesse became; literally became the leader of the T-Birds, with a “swoosh” through the hair mimiking a comb running through either side of his fine coiff. Simultaneously his effortless feet barely grazed the floor mimicking the dance that made John Travolta famous in Grease.

I wish you’d been there. For realsies. All within these few seconds of displayed talent Jesse also accomplished a massive burn at the cost of Max Wray’s ego. Well done Sir!

As I sat in disbelief and awe of both instances, I requested to know the next production that he would be performing in. Without disclosure of such information, I threatened to write this blog in order to get it out of him, (as threatening is the Hamilton way to get what you want I’m told). His reply was “It makes me feel that you’re just <going to be> telling everyone that reads your blog that I’m gay.” To which Max replied, “So… what… 4 people will think you’re gay?”

Burn Max. Burn.

Keep your eyes peeled on stages across the GTA. This boy’s gonna be a star!

  

My Tattoos, Shockingly, Aren’t for You.

Hey! So! I got a new tattoo. It’s on the knuckles of my middle fingers and I heart them. Now when I give people the finger, they will get a surprise! I like surprises! Wait… no I don’t.. I actually hate surprises. It’s not so much the moment of surprise, but more the element. I hate the waiting, and most people that have attempted to surprise me have failed.

There’s also a type of element that I am not fond of in the least. Those wacky tattooed people that think that because they have tattoos and I have tattoos, it means that we’re automatic best friends. WRONG! The tattoos that I have accumulated over the years have a story, and just because you have some tribal arm band does not, I repeat, DOES NOT mean that I want to talk shop with you. Sometimes I’ll play along if you’re cute and genuinely interested, but really, at the point where my arms are almost covered, it would take hours to get through each one and the background story.

I was in Oakville last night, and some 40 year old drunk man was at the same bar as I was. He was in front of me heading up the stairs for a smoke, and when he saw me, he slurred, “Hey, nicccceee innkk ggirrll.” (I don’t know how to spell to make it sound slurry…) I thanked him and continued up the stairs. Upon hitting the patio, he asked me what they meant, and I politely replied that they all have a story, and most of them are personal, but thanks for asking. He got so mad that I wasn’t obliguing his curiosity that he asked why I would get them for…. Well…. I got them for me… not… you…. duh! He was even more insulted, not that I really cared and stomped away.
This is not the first type of incident I have been involved in. Constantly while out with friends, and usually by drunk boys, I will find myself being grabbed by the arm and demanded to spill the beans on what the map is on my right forearm. Which one is the newest? Which one has the most meaning? (Like,… really?) Which one hurt the most? “

“Oh my god! I love them all! Can I just look at you for a minute?”

No. No you can’t. You have to pay for that sort of thing where I come from. Hamilton.

So. Moral of the story is, that anyone you see that has a tattoo, doesn’t mean you can touch. You may look, cause it’s hard not to, but enough with the grabbing. Please. I’m liable to break the ligament that does the touching. For realsies. Thank you.