Carolyn Bennett Writer/Comic

I had never seen anyone die.  The rasping I read about in fiction was unmistakable. I was the first to hear it. The other women in the room were chatting, doing their best to keep spirits bright. “Uh, I think it's near.” I moved over to the bedside and listened to my aunt's breathing. My cousin and my aunt's friend gathered close. I held my aunt's hand. Her respiratory system spasmed. It's an uncanny sound, the death rattle. It's a signal for loved ones to ready themselves. * Around the corner from my apartment is an old house. It is home to a couple of professional set designers. This time of year the house is transformed into pure magic. Why they arrange and construct such an elaborate display and rack up enormous electricity bills year after year, I don't know. All I know is that it brings such inexplicable joy to my heart. * Auntie Martha was what my mother would call a “grand dame”. She never had kids...

Scene: A luxury hotel room in New York City. Harvey Weinstein enters wearing a bathrobe. He is disheveled. There is a knock at the door. Harvey goes over to a mirror and smooths his hair. He slaps his face a few times, grunts, then sings. HARVEY Hy-Rickety whoop-de-doo, We're the Men of Sigma Nu! Hullibaloo, Terickahoo All together for Sigma Nu, HEY!! He points at himself in the mirror. Another knock at the door. He saunters to the door and opens it to reveal Writer/Comic Carolyn Bennett, wearing sweat pants, a Montreal Canadiens hockey jersey, and a Montreal Expos baseball cap. HARVEY Who the hell are you? CAROLYN Carolyn Bennett. The writer/comic. We met 30 years ago at the Just For Laughs Festival in Montreal. HARVEY Wha – I was expecting … you're not Abigail Breslin. CAROLYN I knew Mark Breslin. And you, sir, are no Mark Breslin. HARVEY Who? CAROLYN Don't you remember that night in 1987 with Gilbert Rozen at F...

              “ATTACK!”             He's yelling at us, like he always does.             “Deep breaths. Oxygenate the blood. Oxygenate the brain.”             I like my brain oxygenated, because as Neil says, rust never sleeps.             “Be confident. Be aggressive.”             The same mantra every few days. I never get tired of it. Sweat is pouring into my eyes. I lose my grip on the bike – the bars are slick with my yuck.   I recover with a stalwart pace. A pounding techno soundtrack hurls us on. Not many places where a woman over 50 can go to get her freak on and not feel conspicuous. It's a 10a.m. rave, complete with water bottl...

            A Tuesday morning, and I'm sitting on a bench at my local park, watching the kids play on the swings, and wondering at what age does it all go wrong. Flashing back to my own childhood; an indifferent grip on the monkey bars; spinning on the merry-go-round to the point of nausea; suggesting to the boys that we play mortician instead of doctor. The idea of play would only take hold in my life as a teenager and adult, as a means to control and suppress a powerful imagination. The Tuesday morning is splendid and the sky is blue and cloudless. I sigh and wipe away a maudlin tear.             She stands beside me, arms akimbo, frowning.             "Look at that," she says, pointing her chin toward playground apparatus. "That slide is not up to code."         ...

            My ninety-seven-year-old friend seemed agitated. Fists pounding on the armrest of her wheelchair, Loretta would not hear otherwise.             "I'm telling you, Donald Trump is the President of the United States!"             Did the nursing home hop her up on more goofballs? I have heard that it is better to go along with an elderly person's delusions than to point out reality. If she would not listen to reason, then I would have to placate her.             "Okay, Loretta. You're right and I am wrong. Donald Trump is President of the United States."             "Don't patronize me you little shit. Can you ask the volunteer agency to send me another friendly visitor?   No offense,...