New Year Resolutions: 1980

First of all, before I launch into my clever little list, I want to convey my heartfelt gratitude for the thoughts and prayers that have trickled in the last while. I have been overwhelmed knowing that five or maybe seven people actually read and/or stare at this blog. I thank you for your support during this trying time.


I will give you the news straight – I do not have cancer. I hope I haven’t disappointed anyone. As it turns out, I just had a nasty ol’ cyst, which apparently is quite common. If it’s any consolation, I am still in pain and will probably have more cysts soon. Rest assured I will not keep you posted.


You know it’s time to think about getting another day job when you hope you do have cancer just to get out of work.


I apologize for using this blog as a forum for my fear. Moving forward, I will just stick to my neurosis. Always move forward – that’s what the brochures and pamphlets tell us.


It’s a new year -- the year of the rabbit at that! Any year that honours Bugs Bunny is a good year in my books.


It was a new year in 1980. I found this New Year resolutions list lying around my attic and I share it with you for your edification.
New Year Resolutions: January 3, 1980

1. I will not get hammered before gym class
2. I will not go out with guys I feel sorry for.
3. I will only sniff unleaded gas.
4. I will perfect my snarl.
5. I will throw out all my old Gentle Giant albums.
6. No more triple Black Russians – ever.
7. I will learn the erhu.
8. I will pretend to listen more closely.

After that the handwriting is illegible ...
From everyone here at Bennettworld – the cleaners, security, the IT department, shipping and receiving – have a very Merry belated Christmas and a cancer-free New Year.

Merry Cancer!

“It’s not urgent, but we need you to get a mammogram asap”


Nothing like coming home to this message on the old voice mail to make a gal’s Monday night. At least it was my doctor calling and not some recorded message, like Emily at Bell -- For leukaemia, press one. For biopsy press two. For carcinoma press three. If I ever met Emily I’d shove her into an alley and put the boots to her London student protest style …Ah, the London student protests of last week … takes me back to the riots of Thatcher’s England. Ah sweet bird of youth!


You know you’re getting older when your blog becomes a forum to kvetch about health matters. As if you care …

But care I must. Seems some nasty cells have accumulated in my fun bags. It’s disconcerting thinking I may have some gunk blotting otherwise pristine landscape. Must say, I’ve always been proud of my guns. They are the stuff of sonnets, of ballads and monosyllabic grunts. But even I saw something on the ultrasound when the technician smoothed the wand over my person. It looked like the Gulf oil spill, a big black patch on an otherwise gauzy image.


“Have you had a mammogram,” she asked.


“Uh, three years ago, I think.”
I tried to be nonchalant,  yet all I could think about was my sister Diane, who went through the whole breast cancer rigmarole four years ago.


I had the ultrasound on a Friday. That Monday night the doctor calls me telling me it’s not urgent, but to get my diseased knockers  down to the nearest x-ray clinic.

As I write, I am waiting for the results from my mammogram. I’d like it to be delivered as a singing mammogram:


Everything will be fine/your tumour’s benign!


So, it’s that weird twilight time, of waiting and trying not to think about what might be, which might be CANCER.
Wouldn’t it be something if I had breast cancer? I mean – how trendy.

In the meantime, I’m imaging myself tossing gifts and presents from Santa’s sleigh – all my socks with holes in them, rusty spoons, old paperbacks and other assorted possession – to pedestrians on the street. Merry Cancer! And no one would stop, no one would break their stride. We all have Christmas shopping to do, after all.

I’m thinking about the great Irwin Barker and how he shook this mortal coil. What a gift he left people.


Am I being self-indulgent right now? Probably.
Am I sorry? No – because I may have CANCER.

All I ask for is your pity.
Stay tuned!

Oh yeah -- listen to this if you want. I'm on Comedy Above the Pub with the ever effervescent Todd Van Allen and Darcy Flander.

http://comedyabovethepub.com/

Proud To Be Canadian

CBC TV gets a couple of things right. Hockey. Investigative journalism. Hockey.  Did I mention hockey.


What it also get right it covering the Remembrance Day Ceremony in Ottawa.

I was home yesterday (don’t mean to brag) and tuned into the Ceeb to watch. There on my set the National War Memorial gleamed under a brilliant sky. Throngs of people spilled onto the street and around the memorial. There’s something about Remembrance Day that gives the Parliament buildings a sharper feel, a more regal presence. War is both ancient and timeless and Canada, our young tender nation, has a footnote in the annals of history. Our people were there … and our people are there.

That we are able to pray as a nation together on this day is a treat. We’re not comfortable evoking God in public (let the Americans do that), but every now and then mentioning that old chestnut is reassuring. It classes up the occasion. I did wonder though, seeing how both a minister and a rabbi spoke, if an imam would be the closer. I wonder if Veteran Affairs will hear anything about it.


The 21-gun salute, bagpipe laments and speeches aside, what choked me up were the faces of the veterans. Nothing beats live television for this.

While the words flowed from the minister, the camera focused on elderly faces, full of dignity, honour and beauty. We don’t see faces like those in our media. We see faces plumped up and smoothed from Botox. We see young faces, Photoshopped faces, vapid faces — these are the faces we celebrate on a daily basis. So how breathtaking it was to see wrinkled, weathered visages full of genuine emotion. The camera captured one elderly woman, her hair shoulder length and white, soft around her countenance. Her blue eyes gazed off, remembering another time. She was beautiful, and the camera operator who captured her gaze thought so too.


The turnout for Remembrance Day ceremonies across the country was higher than usual yesterday. The spectacular weather might have had something to do with it. I like to think it’s because baby boomers and GenXers are getting older and realize the generations that went before made sacrifices we would never make. Grit is the word. They had grit and we have gripe. Might be flippant to say, but I almost envy them their history. Their times seemed to mean more than ours.

All in all, a good day to be a proud Canadian.

On Tour

I never thought I’d be happy to write those two little words. On Tour. After a decade of abandoning questionable one-nighters in favour of writing for other people from the comfort of my home office, I am gigging once again. Not with any voracity, but I am putting mouth to microphone in hope of inspiring others.

The topic is “Fun in Sobriety” A.K.A. life after drinking and drugging. I get to do a couple of my favourite things – preach and make people laugh. One without the other seems insincere. When I say preach, what I mean is … well, preach, I suppose. Offer up my story as a cautionary tale. Bear witness to the joys of being clear-headed.

Yes, I know the idea of “story” is being appropriated left and right. You can’t watch an advertisement without someone sharing their “story” about how a product or service changed their life. “Narrative” is the buzzword du jour in communication circles.

But testifying is as old as humanity itself. I swear; it’s true. There – I just testified. If my addiction story helps just one person examine their own habits and consider a new way of life, then I have done my job. I have told my story.

And the more I tell my story, the more I must stick to my story.

Did my first gig in Sudbury for Health and Safety Ontario. I was the lunchtime keynote speaker. I figured a lunchtime crowd might nod off, but they were very receptive. These folk laughed and applauded and fell silent during emotional moments. This wasn’t Yuk Yuks – I didn’t have to struggle to be heard. Afterward a few people thanked me for my inspiring message. Last year’s speaker was Dennis Hull. Apparently, I wasn’t nearly as dirty as he was. Or as bald.


What a privilege. What an honour to speak to these hardworking, decent, caring people. Angele, the event organizer, even took me on a tour of the countryside the next day. That’s something I miss sitting at a computer – the thrill of meeting people where they are, of seeing new places and immersing myself in that life, if only for a day or two.

I have a few more gigs coming up. Hopefully they keep coming -- in moderation, of course.

Rob Ford's Rap Sheet (Abridged)

This document has come to my attention via Mr. Milo Savanich (see his profile at http://www.responsiblewingnuts.com/), who purports to be a reputable internet source.


I post it for the sake of public knowledge.
[Rob Ford is a mayoral candidate for the City of Toronto. The election is Monday October 25, 2010.]


Below is an abridged version of Rob Ford’s known brushes with the law:


May, 1988 Ford is accused of streaking at a Toronto Argonauts football game. Mischief charge is dropped when police realize it wasn’t Ford, but another fat white guy.


Aug. 23, 1990 Police are summoned to an Etobicoke Quiltmakers Society reception when attendees complain Ford is “too loud” and “ruining a perfectly fine evening”.


Sept. 4, 1992 Ford drives his Oldsmobile Cutlass into a tree in what the Etobicoke Tattler later reports as "driver fatigue" caused by a "chemical imbalance." Police only notice Ford had been knocked unconscious 45 minutes into questioning.


Oct. 2, 1994 Ford is charged with impersonating Santa Claus at a Hooters charity event.


Dec. 12, 1995 Ford is fined him $100 for grabbing, propositioning and insulting Hazel McCallion at a Mississauga Rotary Club dinner.


June 21, 2000 Charged with urinating on a statue of Glenn Gould outside CBC headquarters in Toronto. Charge is dropped when Ford claims it was dark and he thought Gould’s likeness was a Port-a-Potty.


Dec. 15, 2001 Former MP Sheila Copps sues Ford for allegedly grabbing her buttocks while dancing at a nightclub. Charges are dropped when Ford claimed it was dark and he thought Ms. Copps’ buttocks were a bar stool.


Apr. 9, 2003 Ford is charged with assault for allegedly lunging at Noel Gallagher at an Oasis concert.


Apr. 26, 2003 Ford is ticketed in Albany, N.Y., for drag racing his Impala. He is ticketed again on May 5, for drag racing.


Oct. 2, 2004 Ford is served with a $12 million palimony and paternity suit by Enza “Supermodel” Anderson, but a court-ordered blood test proves he is not the father.


2000-2010. Ford is found guilty of disorderly conduct in council chambers at Toronto City Hall. Charges are dropped when Ford claimed he was “just doing his job”.

August Nights

It's a balmy evening here in the T Dot, the T.O., the TeeRonToe. It's a calm, mellow night. A person gets used to the heat in August. August is the middle age of summer, July's older sibling. September is the dutiful eldest of the summer bros. September, bah, too serious.

The sun feels a little rounder in August, the twilight gleams a little earlier. I was bounding up the subway stairs at around 8:45 the other night, emerged onto Yonge street and was positively enchanted by the wash of  pale yellow light. That's right people, I was enchanted. Let me rephrase that --- that's right one person who might be reading this because you accidentally stumbled upon this blog -- I was enchanted.

It's the transient appearance of subdued light that keeps me from talking on a cell phone or texting outdoors.

I remember light. I remember its particulars. I remember the incandescent light in the bathroom from my childhood, the way it brought out the beige hue in the pink tiles.

My mind is a daguerreotype.

August is full. It is the after-dinner yawn, the content belly, the drowsy peace.

By the way, August Nights is a wonderful collection of short stories by the late, great Hugh Hood. On a night like tonight, where the moon is new with possibilities and the air is plump and still, luxuriating in Hood's prose seems like the perfect nightcap.

Who needs beer?

Not me. Not when there are stars in a full August sky. My thirst is quenched.

Wasn't That A Party

Could've been the whiskey
Might've been the gin…


Well kids, did you have fun at G20 Central? Did you enjoy watching hooligans smash store windows and torch police cars? Did you tweet your friends to say “here on Queen Street, guy just lit cop car on fire, SSOOO great.”? Did you feel like the Leafs had just won the Stanley Cup? I mean, didn’t it feel like one big celebration? You really did fuck the new world order. Now it’s time to go back to the suburbs and work on that novel or study law or create sustainable eco-fashion. In 40 years you can tell your kids or grandkids that you were there man, at the G fuckin’ 20 in the T-Dot. Better yet, show them all the video and pictures of yourself smiling beside guys kicking in doors and spitting on cops. You kids ROCKED the G20.

Police Chief Bill Blair politely called you the”naïve and curious”. I call you middle class white kids who don’t know the meaning of the word suffer. Meanwhile, your vicarious thrills may have cost legitimate protesters with serious agendas their voice. How did you feel, with your clown nose on, watching black clad thugs breaking the store window of the TImmies where you get coffee on your way to work? Did it make you feel a little sorry for the new Canadians who man the coffee stations, who do so for minimum wage, who smile and take your guff? Did you think of them and how they may feel going into their violated workplace Monday? Funny, I didn’t see any of them protesting.

Fact is I used to be a punk. Okay, punkish. Okay, a punk music aficionado. I’m not without sin by any means. But at least I had the decency to take my anger out on the dance floor in the mosh pit where it belonged. Believe me, I sympathize with the need to do something about the rampant greed that’s dehumanizing and diseasing our world.

And here’s what I suggested, as a way of protesting.

Everyone should have just stayed home. No one should have set foot on Toronto’s downtown streets. That way, the almost $1 billion spent on security would have been all for naught. Then who would have been shamed?

Party’s over kids. Help clean up.

A moment with Eric

It’s been a sad time here at Bennettworld. We have been mourning the loss of comedian Eric Tunney, a wit, gentleman and elegance personified.

Eric’s death has hit me hard on a number of levels. I remember having a heart-to- heart with him in Edmonton when I lived there in the early ‘90s. He was on tour and performing at Yuk Yuks. We talked about the business, our insecurities, our dreams. I don’t think Eric was aware of his own magnetism. Being in close proximity to him felt like sunshine. His beauty made me swoon. I never made a play for him; certainly never felt I was in his league. Instead, I stood at the back of the room like the other comics and marveled at his presence.

Much has been made of Eric’s battle with depression. In a Toronto Star article comedian John Wing wrote about a memorial in L.A. with standup veterans and how “we wondered why we’d been successful and he had not, since it had nothing to do with talent.” I know Mr. Wing meant well, but the sentiment comes off as smug. As my ex, writer and comedian Rob Ross remarked, “Eric was loved and respected by his peers, friends and family. That’s success.”

Comedians mask their pain and use it as humour. It’s what they do. When that fails, the will to live fails. The soul shuts down. Depression takes over. It can be a long haul back to perspective again. Reaching out is the hardest thing a person can do, especially a comic. They’re supposed to be funny all the time. It’s been said before, but it bears repeating — there is no shame in asking for help.

I have made it a personal mission to tell my story and help people see a way out of darkness and addiction. I will continue.

An Early Draft of Tiger Woods' Apology

January never happened. Let’s just put January out of our minds. No more mention of January. January is a distant memory. If it happened, which it didn’t. How can we remember something that never happened? Don’t forget that January never happened.

I want to share with you an early draft of Tiger Woods' apology. While I wasn’t the speechwriter, I have it on good authority that this is legitimate.

Tiger Wood’s Apology: Draft 04

Good morning, and thank you for joining me. Many of you in this room are my friends. Many of you in this room know me. Many of you have cheered for me or you’ve worked with me or you’ve supported me.

Many of you may even be jealous of me. I make a lot of money hitting a ball. Millions and millions of dollars. I don’t even know the exact amount of money I make, it’s so much. Let’s just say it’s more than $2000 and less than the U.S. national debt.

I know people want to find out how I could be so selfish and so foolish. People want to know how I could have done these things to my wife Elin and to my children. And while I have always tried to be a private person, there are some things I want to say.

This is none of your god damn business. [note: too emphatic]

I’m a disgrace to men everywhere. [note: more sincere]. If I had sackcloth right now, I’d wear it. I’d also weep and gnash my teeth. Hey, I’d even take a crap on a Nike golf shirt if it meant I’d win other sponsors back. Instead, I am asking for your pity. I want to tell you about the disorder that afflicts me.

I am unable to keep my pants on around women. Okay, some women, Women like my mother or say, my housekeepers — those I can keep my pants on for. Everyone else is fair game. Crossing guards. Agricultural and Fish Product Inspectors. Cabinetmakers. Executive Assistants. Information Systems Analysts. Justices of the Peace. Meteorologists. Purchasing Managers. Shoemakers. Urban and Land Use Planners. All these skanks and more I find irresistible.

I know I have bitterly disappointed all of you. I have made you question who I am and how I could have done the things I did. I am embarrassed that I have put you in this position.

For all that I have done, I am so sorry. So very sorry. Very, very sorry. Truly sorry. Sorry.

I have a lot to atone for. The issue involved here was my repeated irresponsible behavior. I was unfaithful. I had affairs. I cheated. I was a heel and a cad. I was selfish, stupid and careless. Above all, I was caught. I stopped living by the core values that I was taught to believe in. I started living by Warren Beatty’s core values. I have slept with 56, 476 women. I know because I have a machine that tallies the number.

I once heard, and I believe it’s true, it’s not what you achieve in life that matters; it’s what you overcome. Achievements on the golf course are only part of setting an example. Character and decency are what really count. And millions and millions of dollars.

Parents used to point to me as a role model for their kids. I owe all those families a special apology. I want to say to them that I am truly sorry.

Did I mention I was sorry? I’m sorry.

I have a lot of work to do, and I intend to dedicate myself to doing it. Part of following this path for me is Buddhism, which my mother taught me at a young age. People probably don’t realize it, but I was raised a Buddhist. Obviously I lost track of what I was taught. So moving forward, I am converting to Catholicism, where hypocrisy is systemic and well received.

Finally, there are many people in this room, and there are many people at home who believed in me. Today I want to ask for your help. I ask you to find room in your heart to one day believe in me again. I’m like Santa Claus and God rolled into one. Believe in me, so I can continue being obscenely rich.

Thank you.

A Holiday Message From Bennettworld

A HOLIDAY MESSAGE FROM CAROLYN BENNETT, PRESIDENT AND CEO BENNETTWORLD

Sirs/Mesdames:

Good morning/afternoon/evening/night:

It's that time of year again. A time we spend paving the way for next-generation products that create real benefits in our world. A time to invest in our ever-growing product line, which enables us to deliver new and improved technologies. And a time to interface with stakeholders to ensure high-caliber, actionable best practices.

I want to cry.

At Bennettworld, we love the holidays and care about fostering partnerships and collaborative research with an emphasis on partnerships among organizations and industry-to-research organization collaborations.

Eggnog. Say it and you'll believe.

As the season approaches, our customer fulfillment process begins with initiating the project once your estimates are given to the Client engagement team. Once your project is confirmed, an Enhanced feature list is prepared. The project and its associated tasks are then assigned to the respective leads in the Design and Development team.

It's all about fulfilling your holiday wishes.

We follow the iterative model of development. In this methodology, once the preliminary requirements are clarified, the next step is to quickly build the prototype. The prototype then goes through continuous evolutions until it becomes the final product, exact to specifications. Our design and development processes are well defined.

Like that wrapped present under the tree you know is a sweater.

When you outsource to us, we are sensitive to the fact that you require high visibility of the WIP (work in progress). This is the reason why we have adapted this methodology. At each stage along the development, it evolves before your own eyes.

Like the magic of the holidays.

This is the most crucial phase that gives you an idea of the shape of things to come. Our prototype ensures smooth communication between user and developer with different backgrounds. This is an intermediate delivery stage before the final delivery that aims to establish the proof of concept. You can now almost feel the solution that you had entrusted us to develop.

Just one more sleep 'til Christmas.

So at this time, we at Bennettworld want to extend to each and every one of you our warmest wishes for the coming holiday season. May your holiday season be filled with holiday happiness and holiday joy, followed by a most wonderful New Year holiday, and then followed by fiscal restraint. Thank you for your continued support and loyal patronage.

Carolyn Bennett
President and CEO

David Letterman-oh-man

Yes, it's been awhile since I've jotted anything down for the insomniacs and compulsive web surfers who may stumble upon this blog. I can stay silent no longer! I had been working on a masterful bit of essay writing for this very space, but abandoned it when news broke about David Letterman.

Full disclosure -- I have never slept with David Letterman.

Not for lack of imagination. I have had my sex romps with the gapped tooth goof in my dreams, lurid fantasies involving Mujibur and Sirajul, and Dave promising me work on the show if I just let him cop a feel. What has transpired the last week has brought all my dreams perilously close to reality. Maybe I really could have worked on the show if I had put out.

In Canada, there is a certain amount of putting out. We must put up and put out. There was a time that I recoiled at the thought of putting out to advance my career. I thought it humiliating and beneath me. Now I wish someone, anyone, was beneath me. I wish someone would ask me to put out. But at the time, I thought having sex to maybe, maybe, be considered to be a script supervisor on "Dog and Katts" was ill-advised. What powerful showbiz men are there in Canada to sleep with anyway? Peter Mansbridge? Lloyd Robertson?

I imagine Letterman's paramours were more than willing. Let's face it, who wouldn't want to shtoop a wealthy, witty and powerful older man? Why would a young woman settle for some impecunious shlub? Look, I'm using Yiddish words -- I must really have a point. Hey, I'd sleep with him now, just to hear that goofy laugh afterward. HEE HEE HEE HEE.

Yes, there is the whole argument about sex in the workplace, harrassment and favourtism. I take this very seriously. I feel sorry for Letterman's wife. But how many men are cheering for Dave and thinking he's the luckiest bastard in the world? How many women are thinking, I wouldn't mind a roll in the hay with Arthur down in issues management? Until the internet totally sucks our humanity dry, we still have urges. Raw, shameful, perverse, pathetic, humiliating, potentially lucrative urges.

Time will tell whether more women will come forward. If they do, then this whole thing becomes old hat. Industry. I hope it doesn't happen, but his private life is fair game now.

No one's joke about the scandal will be funnier than his. That's the way of the comic.

One Man's Garbage Is Another Man's Refuse

It is times like these I get down on my knees and thank God I don’t have kids. I do that on a fairly regular basis, come to think of it, but now more than ever. You see, in the city where I live, there is a garbage strike. A stinking, rotting, putrid garbage strike.

Being a standup comedian and writer, I produce the infrequent bit of linguistic rubbish, but on the whole I don’t generate a lot of trash. I travel light. I don’t own a house, have a car, have a cottage, have a Seadoo, have a ATV, have a scooter. If I had to, I could fit under my sink. I am that compact.

I don’t like throwing things out. I have newspapers in my office with headlines like “Gary Carter Traded To Mets” and “Ford and Brezhnev meet in Vladivostok”. What little I have I hoard.

So the garbage strike in Toronto is losing its novelty. People are acting like maniacs. I suppose holding onto stinking diapers would test the mettle of anyone, but no reason to get in your car and try to run people over at temporary garbage dumps. Relax, people. Wake up and smell the excrement.

Let’s look at the economic benefits of the garbage strike.

The city is saving money on salaries …

That’s about it. Next point, Bennett.

My point is one man’s garbage is another man’s refuse. The strike will be over one day and we’ll all eventually reminisce about the Garbage Strike of 2009.

Hang on to your memories, people. Life is precious.

Portrait of Three Spinners

INSTRUCTOR: PETER GAULT
GYM: SYSTEM FITNESS, 2100 BLOOR ST W.
AGE: 50
IN CLASS MOTIVATIONAL MANTRAS: “Suck it Up!” “Attack!” “This is surgery we’re doing!” “Mind over matter!” “Feel good! “Be happy!
IN CLASS TUNES: Eclectic mix of techno and rock.
RESTING HEART RATE: 60 BPM

Bee pollen. And seaweed.

These are Peter Gault’s preferred sources of protein. No meat, no dairy, no legumes. No way.

He became a raw foodist in 1997 when he met California raw food pioneer David Wolfe in San Diego. At his home gym, Peter serves me a meal of “mashed potatoes” (ground cauliflower, cashews, olive oil and salt) and “hamburger” (beets, celery, avocado, olive oil and salt). It’s delicious.
“Only a handful of people in the city know how to make the food I make,” he says.

Gault is not only a hugely popular spinning instructor; he’s a wellness coach, a raw food chef and a wholistic trainer. Just don’t call him a guru.
“I’m not on that power trip. A lot of people are wanting that. I’m taking the pretension out of it all by making it fun.”

He got his spinning certification at Mad Dogg Athletics in New York and used to teach up to four classes a day. He says getting certification is easy but getting a job is hard. “In New York I used to ride my bike to all these different gyms to do my spinning classes. My life was a quest to hydrate. Now I teach one spinning class a day, which is the perfect amount of exercise.”

He’s lived in boats and trailers. He’s had two novels published and is ready to submit a third. He’s a passionate, off-the-grid guy and he attributes it to diet and exercise.

“Spinning is almost my theatre in a way, it’s where I get to perform. I put my class in the zone. Now and then I’ll crank up a really great song and let them go for it. No drills, no exercises. I’ll just let them meditate and enjoy the feeling.”


INSTRUCTOR: KATIE FLAHERTY
GYM: MAIN STREET CARDIO, 21 SWANWICK AVENUE
AGE: 45
IN CLASS MOTIVATIONAL MANTRAS: Drive it! I think I can, I think I can! Your endorphins kick in now!
TUNES: Top 40 favourites.
COMMUNITY SPIRIT: Off the charts

Katie is on the bike, legs pumping, and singing to U2. She has her eyes closed and her huge smile lights up the intimate church basement room. She radiates health, beauty and joy.
She also has multiple sclerosis.
“It’s exactly three years ago, May 18, that I was diagnosed with MS,” she says. “But I’ve lived with it for almost two decades.”

Katie credits Charlene Sullivan, Greg Lundrigan and Gudran Hardes, the owners of Main Street Cardio, for their support.
“When I found out I had MS, I cried a lot with Charlene. She always believed in me. I feel like this is home.”

Main Street Cardio is an inspiring environment. The designated heritage building with its stained glass and spacious rooms invites participants to nurture their bodies and minds through classes like spin, yoga and meditation.

Katie is no slouch on the bike. The mother of three teaches an hour class followed by a half hour stretch. “I’ve always loved spinning. It’s a great endorphin rush and calorie burner. You sweat out all your poisons. When my kids were younger and I’d be sleepless, I’d do a class and it just made me feel so purged.”

Doesn’t heat aggravate MS? “It can. If I’m in an exacerbation, when my tingles and my numbness torque up, I take it easy. Once it’s over, I slowly work my way back up. I don’t know if everyone with MS could do it.

For the past three years on National MS Day, Main Street Cardio has held a 108 Sun Salutations Event to raise money for the MS Society. Katie is an eager participant.

“My two feelings when I was diagnosed were ‘I’m going to live to the fullest and I’ll have to let go of some things’. It’s all about balance. Work hard, play hard and laugh.”

INSTRUCTOR: LYNN TOUGAS
GYM: Metro Central YMCA, 20 Grosvenor St.
AGE: 34
IN CLASS MOTIVATIONAL MANTRAS: A steady stream of coaching and instruction
TUNES: Dance, techno
BPM: 145-172

Lynn Tougas slides off her bike mid-climb and fetches the water bottle that a spinning participant dropped. She smiles and hands it to the panting woman. The class needs all the hydration it can get. This is spinning with a high level athlete.

“I competed with Team Canada at the Amateur Duathlon World Championship,” she says. “I went to Germany in 1998 and North Carolina in 1999. Duathlon starts with a 10 K run, then a 40 K bike and finishes with a 5K run.”

Lynn considered training for the Olympics, but finding a good female cycling mentor proved difficult. Instead she got accredited by the National Coaching Certification Program and uses those skills in her classes to keep people moving.

Lynn comes by her fitness honestly. Her father was in the Navy and used to show her videos of his basic training. Her mother took Lynn and her brother to the East Scarborough Boys and Girls Club (a YMCA outreach program) for judo and swimming lessons when they were young.

She loves the Y because of its diversity. “It’s an established charity. Money gets to the right places in a timely manner and it’s visible. People who work here tend to be here a long time.”

What does a high level athlete do to relax and have fun? “I play hockey in a co-ed recreation league a couple of times a month. Everyone at some time in their life should try a team sport.”

Lean and toned, Lynn looks a lot like another hockey player, Cassie Campbell. Single, she thinks she may intimidate some men with her level of fitness. Whoever she dates will have to be athletic. “Opposites attract, up to a point. My guy will probably end up being a rower.”

How can she assure a guy she’s not going to break him in two? “I don’t.”

She Shoots, We Score

Is A Pro Women’s Hockey League Far Off?


It’s Saturday night in Brampton and the Thunder is giving it to the Montreal Stars. Forwards are flying down the ice, slicing by the defense, letting shots rip. There’s a battle in the corner for the puck, which springs from a knot of players. It’s scooped and fired at the net. The goalie gloves it and the whistle blows. Rival players shove and yap at each other until the referee calls two penalties for roughing. The players go off but it’s all for naught – Brampton is ahead by four goals and there’s a minute left on the clock. There’s the feeling that after the buzzer sounds the teams will brawl, but it doesn’t happen. Destroying an opponent on ice is enough for Brampton. The first place Montreal Stars has not only been humiliated, now the team has to make the painful trek down the 401 in a snowstorm.

The fans stand and cheer for the Thunder. It’s announced that Hefford has just hit 100 points, a league record. The stands clear, folks filing out happy and satisfied. For seven dollars, they have just seen Olympic calibre hockey. They have. This is the Canadian Women’s Hockey League, home to some players on Canada’s national team.

“We started the league in 2007 after the NWHL folded” says Sami Jo Small, Olympic medalist and goalie for the Mississauga Chiefs. “Instead of waiting for someone to step in, a few of us decided to form a league ourselves. We organized and learned as we went. We registered under the Ontario Women’s Hockey Association, who helped us with rules and regulations, how to hire refs – everything we needed to run a league. “

It’s a thrill watching women’s hockey at an elite level. It’s a game of finesse and elegance, a fast, intense sport where the players are supremely skilled and conditioned. It’s a game where women are free to be themselves. The league doesn’t have to worry about marketing the game like it’s a novelty anymore.

“Women had to smile and look perfect in pictures,” says Brenda Andress, executive director of the CWHL, “but we’re in a time right now when the game is so excellent, it’s okay to see the real side of what makes us tick.”

Fans are past the days of side shows like Manon Rheume playing an exhibition game in the NHL. Judging by the 1500 people or so at a typical outreach game, the CWHL is proving itself a definite alternative to the NHL for hockey fans.

A pro women’s hockey league in North America isn’t a pipe dream. NBA MVP Steve Nash is an investor and part owner of Women’s Professional Soccer, a new soccer league launching this year with teams based in Boston, Chicago, Dallas, Los Angeles, New Jersey/New York, St. Louis, and Washington, D.C. Andress thinks now is the right time for women’s hockey.

“There’s huge power within our league, so much skill and passion. It’s unbelievable that this skill could be here and no one knows about it. We’re bringing it to life ourselves.”

The CWHL has charitable status and is actively looking for sponsors to take the league to the next level. Currently, all players in the CWHL work or go to school full time. Some have small children. Sometimes Small babysits for the Chief’s Cheryl Pounder when she needs to go to practice.

“Cheryl’s with the national program and she couldn’t go skate because she couldn’t find a babysitter. The players help each other out that way, when the husbands aren’t available.”

Both Small and Andress are enormously grateful for the many people who volunteered and worked hard to get the league where it is today. They see it as catching on with a wider audience like the NHL original six did. Andress talks trades, drafts, coaching, revenue distribution — the whole shebang.

“We started up the CWHL because there was nowhere for elite players to go. A lot of Americans come up to play. They have the best university programs, but nowhere to play afterwards.”

Small played in a European women’s league briefly, but she says it’s not the same as here.

“Canadian players are the best in the world, and in North America, the best play in our league. If we could pay people, imagine how far we could go.”

Seeing excited little girls lining up to get an autograph from their hockey heroes after the match in Brampton, it’s easy to imagine the CWHL won’t have to wait long.

CWHL playoffs start in March. The final is on TSN, March 21 at 1pm.

A Copyright Doesn't Make a Wrong

My Great Aunt Rose, who lived to the ridiculous age of 92, resided in a one bedroom apartment at Yonge and Eglinton for over 40 years. In her later years, I did her grocery shopping every week not just out of familial duty, but to visit, have a shot of whiskey and a laugh.

One day, between cigs and an ounce of Jameson, she fixed her zealous eyes on me. “I saw your commercial on TV again.”

“That’s good. More money for me.”

“What’ja mean?”

“I get paid every time it airs, Aunt Rose.”

Her bright blue eyes went wide with disbelief. “You do? For that?”

“Yeah. I get residuals.”

“For that. To look like an idiot putting dishes in a sink?”

“Er, yeah.”

She took a drag of her smoke and shook her head. This challenged her Irish Catholic notion of life being a vale of tears. Someone actually making money for a television repeat, no actual toil involved?

I drained my glass and skulked out of my aunt’s place that day, feeling more of a scallywag than usual.

Isn’t residuals part of payment for creative work?

Now that I find myself in the internet and Web 2.0 game, I realize how unregulated this great frontier is.

The WGA writers’ strike was in large part over DVD residuals and compensation for new media e.g. content written for or distributed through digital technology like the Internet. While access to ideas, compositions and art is a wonderful thing, the people who create the work still need to feed themselves.

For every lousy commercial I landed I auditioned eighty times. For ever comedy special I did for television (2), I struggled doing sets in bars with names like The Beefeater and McSorley’s. Residuals aren’t free money, but payment for honing and practicing one’s craft.

This is all a whiny way of me leading you to this CBC Radio link and a stimulating discussion on intellectual property. This is important stuff, for while marketing is rapidly becoming “content” itself, its raison d’être is to promote the work and the ideas of others. And those ideas need nurturing a.k.a. filthy lucre to percolate.

By the way, that dish soap commercial kept me in TTC tokens and No Name instant coffee for two years. Coffee I shared with my aunt.

I Rather Like Christmas

Simplicity is in, according to the Style section of the Globe and Mail. Frugality is all the rage. Gone is conspicuous consumption. It’s no longer de rigueur. In these days of economic uncertainty we all must make sacrifices, even the Ferragamo wearing set.

I’m sure folks on the street who call heating grates home are nonplussed to know they’re trendsetters.

I have never, never understood women who like to shop, who need to buy shit to feel good about themselves. I don’t understand the covetousness over shoes and purses. I think any woman who likes to shop is devoid of imagination. I am being a bit hypocritical here because I enjoy reading about fashion and I appreciate well designed do-dads. I just don’t need to possess any of it.

I find the idea of a magazine called Real Simple preposterous.

You know what I got for Christmas this year? Army surplus wool blankets! I’m thrilled. They have that scratchy feel that takes me back to childhood. They’re the next best thing to hair shirts, I tell you.

We’ve blown our wad folks. We just don’t need anymore shit. No more purses and cars and big screen tvs and radish presses and cappuccino machines and play stations and cell phones … okay, people still want cell phones. Not me. I was given a cell phone in July. I have yet to turn it on.

I rather like Christmas — not for the goods and services, but for the cold wintry weather. And something about divinity born among us. That’s kinda cool.

Viva la downturn economique.

I Hate Halloween

I Hate Halloween.

There was a time I liked Halloween. Not anymore. It’s a commercial wankfest as big as Christmas. From two hundred dollar princess costumes to plastic glowing skulls to coffee shops charging five dollars for admission to, get this, their “coffee shop Halloween party” (yes, I just came back from a local fair trade coffee palace advertising this), Halloween is a money sucking faux holiday.

Now I have gone to my fair share of Halloween parties, in various states of consciousness. I have dressed as Elizabeth I, Julie Andrews, a knight and, when the imagination started failing, a nurse. But in the last ten years the marketing of Halloween has made participating seem obligatory. I don’t want to walk into my bank and see it festooned with tombstones and ghosts. I don’t need the reminder that I’ll be dead before I see my money again. Just give me my rapidly dwindling resources and feck off.

I don’t think I’ve ever given candies away to kids on Halloween. I always make sure I’m out at a movie or something. When you’re single and you live alone, giving candies to children, well, I dunno …I feel suspect. I don’t have much to do with children all year — why start now?

I once liked Halloween. “It’s The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown” with its moody backgrounds, pumpkin patch worship and Vince Guaraldi bass and piano riffs captured the essence of a once otherworldly night, a night where the veil between the here and hereafter slipped just a bit.

Now Halloween and all its crappy, soulless merchandise is just another amateur night.

Bah!

Gliding High

“Straight ahead is Kitchener. Guelph’s at 2 o’clock. Can you hear me?”
I breathed slowly and deeply to fend off panic. It didn’t do a god damn thing. Every inch of my body shook. Good thing I was sitting down.
“Do you want to take the controls?” yelled Steve.
I brought my right hand over to rest on the joystick. I couldn’t stop the trembling in my hand, let alone steer the plane.
“We’re hitting a thermal,” he said.
Nauseated, about to pass out, I clenched my teeth. What if the wind tore us apart? What if my instructor had a seizure or a heart attack? Who would land the plane? Terror squeezed the oxygen from my lungs as I braced for a wild ascent.

This was one of the best days of my life.

Life had been dull as of late. Being conscious seemed an insensible slog. Life had lost its newness; sobriety had lost its novelty. The voices in my head grew louder. You can have a drink. You can smoke a joint. Where had the edge gone? Where were the highs? My life was a windowless, airless, florescent-lit room stacked with reports no one ever read. On the subway, on the street, in meetings and shops, I felt the creeping approach of decay and irrelevance. I prayed not to do anything stupid.

Then a letter came in the mail.

“One Free Introductory Gliding Lesson” read the gift certificate. On the card, a pilot wearing shades sat in the cockpit of a glider, vertical toward the stratosphere. My boyfriend purchased the lesson for me, in a not so subtle attempt to shake me out of my doldrums. The Southern Ontario Soaring Association (SOSA) Gliding Club invited me to quit whining and fly.
Gliding as a sport started more or less because of the Treaty of Versailles. After World War I Germany was restricted from manufacturing or using powered aircraft. Aviators, jonesing for the sky, developed, designed and flew motorless planes. They discovered how to surf the natural forces in the atmosphere to fly farther and faster. By the time World War II came around, the Germans had a supply of pilots ready to be trained in warplane operation.

Some of the old guys who run SOSA look like they could have flown in World War II. There are some hard core aviators at SOSA, retirees who live to fly. My guy Steve had been flying for thirty years. You are in good hands at SOSA.

The most frightening part of the lesson was being dragged to 3000 feet by the tow plane.

Every lurch, bump and dip felt extreme. Imagine turbulence. Now imagine being able to see turbulance infront of you, in the bobbing and weaving of the tow plane. There’s no in-flight entertainment system to distract you, no episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm to watch. This is flight — heady, exhilerating, weird.

At 3000 feet the rope connecting the tow plane and glider released (yeah, it’s only a rope that keeps you fastened). Then off we went into the wild blue yonder; soaring, dipping, rising.

I began to relax half way into the flight. The terror of surrendering to natural forces eased into wide-eyed awe. Stretched below, verdant, bucolic, Southern Ontario: the cities of Kitchener, Waterloo, Hamilton, shiny grey clusters. Above, cumulus clouds, white wisps and patches of condensed air, the friend of gliders everywhere. By the time we sailed down to land on SOSA’s grass airstrip, I wanted to grab the control stick and head skyward again. Sheer bare-headed bloody freedom.

SOSA offers intro gliding flights on the weekend until the end of October. They also offer introductory aerobatic flights. To top it off, it’s across the way from African Lion Safari. But doing both in one day — that might be too much excitement to handle.

www.sosaglidingclub.com

What Do I Know?

One of my university professors was a genius. That word gets bandied around a lot, but the man possessed an exceptionally subtle mind. John Buell taught Communications Studies at Concordia University in Montreal. He had a PH.D in English Literature from the Universite de Montreal and was also a playwright and author. Several of his books were adapted for the big screen. I remember him well; gesticulating, guffawing and delighting at his own logic, animating heady material for dopey kids barely out of their teen years. We had to read McLuhan and Innis. We studied the history of the alphabet. We dutifully avoided the language of marketing. He had compassion too. Feeling lost and fragile, I once hung back after class and asked him if irony was an emotion. He looked at me, put a hand on my shoulder (yes, you could do that back in the mid-eighties) gently smiled and said, “It’s hard being young.”

The one thing that has stuck with me all this time is something he insisted on — that we distinguish between information and knowledge. To this day when I offer an opinion, I weigh it and try to figure out if I’m just parroting something I gleaned, or if I feel it to be true.

In the July/August issue of Atlantic Monthly, the article “Is Google Making Us Stupid” has had commentators ruminating. Margaret Wente at the Globe confessed that she didn’t have time to read anymore and that Google ate her brain. Indeed, several people interviewed for Nicholas Carr’s excellent article admitted to having their mental habits altered because of the internet. The author laments the demise of his attention span eloquently:
“Once I was a scuba diver in the sea of words. Now I zip along the surface like a guy on a Jet Ski.”

I feel his pain.

Allow me to demonstrate.

Try to get through this paragraph without hitting one of the hyperlinks. Try to stay focused on what I’m writing. Now imagine if it were dense, like a very technical policy report or a 19th century novel luxuriating in detail and description. Do you feel like Steven Page after his drug bust, all twitchy and sweaty? Do you feel ready to skim over these words? Do your eyes jump ahead?

Do you feel like you’re missing out on something? Do you wish you were somewhere else?

Altering our brains is nothing new (hey — I’m firmly in my Carlsberg years myself). I’m just acutely, uncomfortably aware that media is changing my thought process.

I don’t know what I know sometimes. And it scares me.

Carr refers to a U.K. study that found people using sites hopped from once source to another, rarely returning to the site they were first reading. The conclusion is “It almost seems that they go online to avoid reading in the traditional sense.”

Does this mean we’re all ADD? Is Novartis in cahoots with Google?

It’s easier to skim a website, more convenient to consume bits of info.

But really, do I know anything as a result? What do I retain?

Thorough reading involves a kind of dialogue with what’s being read. This requires concentration and contemplation — grappling with meaning. Above all, reading in the traditional sense sharpens a person’s critical and analytical skills. Not so easy to question a source when a person has five different sites going at once.

I read novels. I force myself to read because I’m a writer. I want to appreciate how other writers use metaphor, how they beat out rhythm, how they paint a picture with words. I want to do the work of imagining myself.

I wonder about my nieces and nephews and how they think. Can they read Dickens? Do they know how? It’s not their fault if they can’t.

I blame Al Gore. He invented the internet. I read that somewhere.

Odds and Sods

Forgive me dear reader, for not updating this blog since April. I thought I was clinically dead for awhile, but it was just a false alarm. I've been on another government contract, which feels like I'm close to death on certain days. Only another 40 years or so to go until retirement to the big waiting room in the sky. I hope the magazines are good.

Everywhere I go, people want to know what I think about CBC losing the rights to the Hockey Song ... Okay, that's a lie. Two people have asked for my opinion.

CBC has misplayed this one. In its rush to modernize and reinvent itself, I think it's gone too far. Plus the old bag who wrote the theme is shrewd. Now the Ceeb is holding a contest to find the next great Hockey Night in Canada Theme Song. The Corpse is going to pay the lucky winner $100,000.

A measly $100 grand.

That's rights and all, I imagine.

As someone who has sold the rights away to a few of my own projects, I know what a lousy deal this is. I found out that some of my old comedy bits are airing on AOL radio. How the hell did this happen? Some sap in Kentucky or New Hampshire is listening to a 12 year old bit of mine and chuckling, if not guffawing - all without me receiving a cent. Oh well -- maybe my bit about being raised Catholic is helping some tortured soul somewhere put down the razor blades.

Whoever wins the Hockey Night in Canada Theme Song contest is cursed from the get-go.

The comparisons to the old theme will be plentiful and unkind.

Even the best theme will jar audiences for at least a few seasons.

The compensation is an insult. If CBC owns it in perpetuity, the compensation is criminal.

***

BONUS FEATURE

Because I am lazy and weary from writing all day, I am posting some deleted material from my first novel. Hopefully this will whet your appetite for the published version. Or it could disappoint you terribly. I am willing to gamble.

Enjoy.

Suzanne Foley's ruminations over her death and burial:

Plus, she hoped her tombstone would be forgotten over time. Cracked, covered in mold, overrun with weeds and neglect, her grave would inspire conjecture. When she lived in Toronto, she’d cut through Mount Pleasant cemetery from Yonge Street to go to a retail job. The only thing that made catering to impeccable North Toronto matrons bearable was the twenty minute walk through rows and rows of graves. The buried disquieted her, the tombstones and tombs mostly decades old. One crypt in particular disturbed her, the tomb of George Lehr, a man important enough to have a crypt, yet not important enough to have a larger maintained crypt. She would tense as she passed George Lehr’s final place of repose; crumbling, the entrance chained, a window yellowed and cracked, pillars slanted from erosion. Who was George Lehr, she’d wonder, pausing to absorb more of the fright. Was he loved? Generous with his time and money? Or was he some would-be robber baron disgraced by a scrubwoman who bled to death aborting the baby she claimed was his? Even when the sun shone, the crypt remained gloomy. She remembered visiting Sir John A. MacDonald’s grave in Kingston and being shocked at its ordinariness. The first Prime Minister of Canada’s resting place forsaken, across the street a Tim Horton’s attracting more honour and respect. At least the Americans knew how to bury people. They went to town.

Tech-No?

I saw something on the TTC the other day that made this veteran of public transportation do a double take. An earnest looking father getting off at College Park stood poised to disembark. His young son, who I figured to be one and a half, sat silently in a stroller. So far, so good. I peered down at the yearling to make a face. He would have none of that. Instead, he balanced an iPod in his tiny hand and stared at the screen. He had earphones on and was watching Shrek.

Now I would figure being on a moving train surrounded by big people would be fascinating enough for a tot. Apparently not. The sight was so incongruous, I chortled (yes, I chortle in public on occasion). Now I ask myself – is this incongruous? Was this a case of a tired father wanting to sedate his son by mesmerizing him with a magic box, or of a techno-savvy dad wanting his little child to be electronically literate?The debate rages.

It rages between, say, those who applaud the changes to come at CBC Radio 2, and those who voice their protest on Facebook or the blog standonguardforcbcradio.It rages between, say, proponents of fast food and those who embrace the slow food movement.Technological change is inevitable. The way we communicate is changing. What we communicate hopefully endures. Television didn’t replace radio. People still listen to vinyl. Beethoven isn’t going anywhere (except on Radio 2, where he's GOING TO HELL IN A HANDBASKET). By the way, I think there should be more protests outside the CBC building. When was the last time CBC fans protested the demise of a favourite show? NEVER -- that's when.

If I have to hear anymore promos on Radio 2, I'll take a flute and shove it up a CBC executive's cakehole...but I digress...

Hey – I’m typing this blog on a computer, the greatest invention since the printing press. I like technology. I'm just not enamoured with it the way some web 2.0 idols are. It's just another tool.

The more technological the world becomes, the more I enjoy birds.

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Let it Snow

I am a fan of winter. I love the cold, I love the snow, I love the silence. Give me a wind chill over a humidex reading any day. There is very little smog when it’s minus 10. My evening walk is made blissful by the absence of people on the street. It’s just me and the deep, dark sky. Everything is in sharper focus – the stars, the moon, animals. Winter makes me forget I live in Toronto, something I’m always grateful for.

The latest snow storm in Toronto has left citizens pleading for mercy. It’s just getting funny now. I have never seen Toronto laden with this much snow. It depresses people. Why? If only they understood the mystery of winter... Hmmm. "The Mystery of Winter". I LOVE IT. I think I'll pitch it.

In a few weeks all this quiet beauty will be gone. No more Nordic skiing. No more skating at night in the park. No more looking up at the winter sky and feeling like I’m eight again.

Winter is an eternity for some people.

For me, it is Eternity.

I will miss the winter of 2008.

EI-EI-Oh

It’s not often that I deal directly with the government. Sure, I’m aware that certain entities rule society, but in my daily life I try to avoid these entities. Governance, like charity, begins at home. If I get up when the alarm rings in the morning, I consider the day a success. So it was with extreme trepidation that I recently applied for E.I. The only government service I use on an occasional basis is our health care system. Yes, we pay for it through taxes, but seeing a doctor without physically shelling out a nickel never ceases to amaze me. I had an organ removed two years ago. This required major surgery and a hospital stay. I didn’t have to put so much as a deposit on a credit card. Three squares a day, drugs administered by caring staff – it felt like a vacation. But E.I, that feels like doing hard time.

The last time I sullied a government office with my presence was when E.I was U.I. Remember those cards you had to fill out? Are you ready, willing and able to work? No, no and yes. As a self-employed artist I haven’t been eligible for E.I in twenty years. My last contract, ironically enough for a government ministry, deducted money at source, including E.I. contributions. First time I’ve had taxes off a pay cheque in many years. Why not investigate the world of government programs? How frustrating could it be?

I applied for E.I. online. The process has been streamlined for easy access. You can have your cheque deposited directly into your bank account. Sweet! Unfortunately, there comes a lot of hassle with it, in the form of reporting your activity to The Man every two weeks. That hasn’t changed. They want to know the dates worked in a week, the gross amount earned, the name and address of the employer, monies received other than salary and dates and reasons if not working. As a freelancer, I balk at the intrusion. I am self-directed, thank you very much. In Toronto, with our unemployment rate at 6.6 per cent, a person has to work 665 hours to be able to claim E.I. If the unemployment rate is 13 per cent and over, only 420 hours of toil is needed. There’s regular, maternity and parental, sickness, compassionate care, fishing, out of country and family supplement benefits, all out of the same kitty. For once in my life I was deemed “regular”.

My local Service Canada location is at the Dufferin Mall. In my ten years of living in the west end, I have never set foot in the place. People are invariably stunned when I tell them this. “Do you live under a rock?” is the usual response. Yes, a big, heavy, comfy rock that keeps me from going to places like malls. I broke out into a sweat the minute I entered the consumer terminal.

After a half an hour of panicked searching, I finally found the Service Canada office in the basement. Surprisingly, there was no lineup. I queued anyway, out of habit, until the woman behind the desk waved me over. I handed her my crumpled Record of Employment (something you’ll need if you ever apply) and hyperventilated. I still needed a couple of other ROEs from CBC, which is like getting blood from a stone. I flashbacked to the time I was ushered out of line and frisked at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam. Why? Maybe I shouldn’t have worn army pants and a t-shirt that said “Kill the Rich and Eat the Poor”. As I stood trembling in front of the Service Canada clerk, I regretted ever going on their website and hitting the “send” button. I collect my self-employment receipts in a shoebox. How would I ever keep track of my whereabouts? Although E.I. is every working person’s right, it still feels like a quagmire.

I have to wait the obligatory two weeks before I know if my claim is going to go through. In the meantime I’m hustling for more work. Just don’t tell Service Canada. It’s time for The Man to pay it back.

Reruns

In 1997, I did a COMICS episode for CBC. Ten years later it is still running. It just ran the other week. I have people (I'd like to call them fans, but that would be presumptuous) approach me saying they loved my act. I had one foxy young man look me over and ask “what happened?” What happened? I put on ten years. I haven’t put on any weight, but I’ve let the hair go a lovely shade of silver. To hell with dyeing the hair. I’m 45 and quite proud of the fact. I’m alive, despite my best efforts. Now that I don't imbibe intoxicants or partake in recreational drugs, I have turned to fitness for my high. I hope to die in an avalanche. Okay, I hope to die in my sleep, but an avalanche is a distant second.

Be that as it may.

It’s strange seeing your former self replayed every couple of weeks. I wonder if Arnold Schwarzenegger's sister calls him up saying “I saw Kindergarten Cop AGAIN the other night on TV. I’m sick of you.”

Must admit, I was good. Not great, but good. And now as I embark on the standup trail again, I hope to be good-to-very good.

As you can see, I need a PR person badly…

Of Brown Bags and Paperbacks

One of the unexpected pleasures of this nine-to-five job I have for another two weeks is the morning commute. I adore a full-to-capacity subway train in the morning. I burrow my way through the crowd and prop myself up against the glass door in between cars. NO ONE ever heads to this oasis of calm. Why? Why does everyone cluster around the doors where people enter and exit? They seem poised to stampede.

Safe and snug in my cubbyhole, I produce a paperback from my satchel (yes, I have a satchel -- what's it to ya?). For the fifteen minutes it takes me to travel to my lucrative yet deadening employment, I am happily immersed in the world of the particular author I'm reading. Lately it’s been Dickens and David Copperfield, but I’ve had to say au revoir to Peggotty in favour of a library book that’s just come in—Joe Keenan’s “My Lucky Star”. Keenan was a writer/producer on “Fraser” and this is his third novel. Show off. It’s every bit as sophisticated and witty as his television work.

As for brown bags, I must say I’m getting a little tired of taking my lunch to work. I ran out of lettuce today and added parsley to my cheese sandwich. Why I would have a bunch of parsley and not a head of lettuce in my fridge I can’t say. SEE WHAT THIS JOB IS DOING TO ME? It’s sheer madness! Some days I feel like driving my head through my corner office window, just for the physical sensation.

Marketing geniuses have suckered the unwashed into purchasing high end condos that will go up at the corner of Yonge and Bloor, in the not-so-near future. The bastards! They are going to knock down a perfectly ugly block of low rise offices and cheap ethnic eateries so some debt-ridden patsies can bed down in 300 square feet cubicles/nestings. I’ll tell ya – that’s gonna be one disappointing view from the 35th floor. Stollery’s on one corner and the Bay on another. Wowee. Oh so chic. Idiots! Meanwhile where will the stupefied go for six dollar chicken thali? Why didn’t the city consult with numb and bored neighbourhood office drones first? Developers – they don’t know nothin’ from chicken thali.

Two more weeks to go. How do people do this all the time?

Initiative, Innovative, Developmental Capacity

I have been derelict in my duties as one in a faceless horde of bloggers jotting down thoughts for a public both real and imaginary. I apologize for my slacking off but I have a good reason -- I have been employed at a job that requires me to go into an office and write. I am a government communications hack. Yes, I have given up on myself. For another two months. Then the contract ends and I'll be back to being a freelance goofball.

There's a lot to be said for being a freelance goofball. The dress code is not as strict. A person can peruse dollar stores in the middle of the day. The mind can drift.

Who would have thought I wouldn't be able to let my mind drift on a government job? Who would have thought government workers actually did anything? Not me. I bought into all the stereotypes. Lordy, how do people multi-task all the time? It's bullshit, it really is. To quote Charles Emmerson Winchester from M*A*S*H, "I do one thing at a time, I do it very well and then, I move on". I must admit I enjoy playing adult, going into an office and being accountable to a team of people. But I also love being a free range artist, pecking and scratching at dirt.

Do you know what I look forward to most days? Deciding what colour of shirt I'm going to wear to the office. Should I wear blue or green?! Today I freaked out and wore yellow. YELLOW. Try having a serious conversation with a peer when you're wearing yellow. The shirt was soft, too. I felt like a newborn.

The only thing that sustains me through hours of deciphering mind numbing bureaucratic language is knowing that I have an agent who has taken on my first novel. Joy. Once this contract is over I'll get back to squeezing out meaning through my own syntax and style.

I hope I never see the words "initiative" "innovative" and "developmental capacity" in a single sentence ever again.

Live and Alive, Live!

I’m back on the standup trail again, after a long hiatus spent writing and having various surgeries. It’s different this time around. I’m ten years older and my hair is “executive blond”. I am no longer the fresh young face on the circuit. Instead, I am the battle-worn 45 year old face on the circuit. I’m lucky though, two litres of water a day has kept this battle-worn face baby smooth. So has not smoking and quitting drinking. I look like I’m in my thirties. Just ask guys in their 20s I’ve courted. Why am I back in the clubs trying to make audiences laugh, when I should be home curled up in front of the TV watching gruesome footage of the latest suicide bombing in Iraq? Because if you watch enough footage of suicide bombings, followed by stories about celebrity misbehaviour, juxtaposed with commercials for banks and skin crème and pizza pops, you’ll go mad. Doing standup comedy is like being a part of a fight club. You feel every joke bomb like a blow to the head, and every bit kill like a sweaty embrace. You feel. I’m learning that in middle-age, having brain and body totally engaged at once is a rare and pleasurable sensation. I am greedy for it now. I have been reborn.

Yes, the standup world has changed. Audiences are younger. My frame of reference may need sharpening. I don’t have a cell phone, I don’t have cable, I don’t have a satellite dish, I don’t have high speed internet. I am on Rogers Most Wanted list. It takes me 25 minutes to download four pictures. Why am I not more wired? Simple. I don’t want or need these things. Yesterday’s convenience is today’s necessity. Tomorrow we may find robots essential. But for today, I prefer to give the kid down the street ten bucks to mow my lawn, rather than a cyborg. Come to think of it, with his IPOD taking permanent shape in his ears and his trigger-happy text messaging fingers, the kid down the street is already a cyborg. Get a jump on the competition, Billy! Why not.

It is hard for me to relate. I like listening to birds.

But I persist. I’ve enjoyed riffing on middle-age, how I used to line up for Clash and Sex Pistol tickets and now I line up for a two dollar box of Bran Flakes at Price Chopper. There’s quiet satisfaction in saving a dollar fifty on cereal. That ought to stick it to the man! No need to protest at G8 summits. Younger audiences intimidate me a little. They can be quite conservative. What I may lack in celebrity knowledge they make up for in ignorance of world events, politics, science, religion and anything that doesn’t revolve around their own precious selves. In short, nothing much has changed since I was a pus-filled youth. The only thing different now is the accelerated speed of stupidity and lack of regard. Plus ca change and all that.

I’m not interested in playing only to the Bran Flake set. One of the hippest comics out there is George Carlin. At 70 he’s as relevant as ever, a sharp social satirist who’s not afraid to tear into American culture (or lack thereof). No subject is off limits: suicide, genocide, natural disasters -- all are fair game. Age shouldn’t matter when it comes to comedy; voice and originality should.
So come to the cabaret mein chum. Check out some live comedy. You never know, you may see someone in your demographic on stage, live and alive.

Diary of an Insomniac

July 5, 2007. 3:45am.
Dear Diary. Or should I call you a journal? I think journal sounds more mature somehow. What do you think? I can’t decide. Why don’t we just leave it for now.

My bedside clock says it’s 3:45 A.M. Wait – now it’s 3:46 A.M. I’ll have to be awake in another three hours. I’m debating whether or not to get up and do something productive like vacuum or drywall. I’ll debate another hour and exhaust myself into a twitchy semi-consciousness. Sounds like a plan.

I know why kids are afraid of the dark. In the void they see the spectre of their future as monsters and goblins. Adults know these spectres as loans officers and employers. Fear looms larger in a darkened room. Your own inevitability is clear.

Maybe I should have some milk.

July 6 2007. 4:25 A.M.
Dear Journal. Hmm. I kinda like “Dear Diary” better. “Dear Journal” sounds too 1984ish, too bureaucratic. What ever happened to the Orwellian predictions of 1984? I suppose brutal conformity did happen. Everyone wore pastels.

Mortimer at work said I did a good job on the report. What did he mean by that? What was he getting at? I don’t trust him. He has crystals in his office. He has an office. It’s all a ruse to trick me into a false sense of security. I’m on contract for God’s sake, I could be out the door in a second, panhandling on Yonge street with punk kids from Richmond Hill. Or worse, I could be doing amateur night at a stand-up comedy club. I have an idea. I’ll smile more often. I’ll walk down the corridors, smiling. All the time. My co-workers will either think I’ve been promoted to a staff position or I’ve gone insane. Flip of the coin.

Maybe I should have some warm milk.

July 7, 2007. 5:12 A.M
Dear Journal/Diary. Can’t sleep, but for a solid reason. The people upstairs are blaring techno and “whooing”. ‘Tis the season. Then again, every couple of nights is the season for them. It sounds like one of the party guests upstairs is either throwing up or having sex. It’s been so long for me it’s hard to tell the difference. They say having sex helps you sleep. That’s the way I used to sell it to my ex-husband. Maybe that’s why he’s my ex.

Maybe I should go knock on the neighbour’s door, not to tell them to keep it down, but to be louder. If I’m up, I’m up.

July 8, 2007. 2:57 A.M.
Dear Diary/Journal. Sometimes you just can’t sleep. They say women are biologically lighter sleepers that men. We always have an eye and ear open in case a baby cries. I have an eye and ear open for my own crying. My eyes feel like they’re calcifying. I’m so tired I can feel my skeleton turning to wire. Electricity darts under my eyelids. When I do manage to fall asleep, it’s invariably on public transportation. A passenger usually jostles me because I’ve drooled on their shoulder. Maybe that’s what I should do now – get on the streetcar! The mundane anguish will lull me.

July 9, 2007 3:54 A.M
Dear Diarnal. Get it – Diarnal? I’ve mixed Diary and Journal to form a Diarnal. Sounds like a sleeping pill. July 9th sounds like a sleeping pill. My adrenal glands must look like pillows by now. How can one person have so many stress hormones. And what’s with my pituitary gland? Isn’t it where melatonin is produced or whatever the hell hormone helps you sleep? I can’t keep track of my glands. Mortimer at work suggested I do yoga. What’s he getting at? What does it matter? The earth is scorched, the sun is angry, the environment is turning to dust. Then why does it feel like winter? Am I hot or cold? I’m confused. Screw people and their cars – they’re killing the planet. I don’t want stuff – I want other people to have stuff I can rent. My brain is a centrifuge of obsession, an amusement park ride that won’t stop.


July 10, 2007. 4:21 A.M.
Hey. Monday, or Tuesday morning. No, Tuesday. Good news. I’ve been let go from the office and my new landlord is moving into my apartment. Most people would lose sleep over this, but it doesn’t affect my nocturnal habits one bit. This news would kill a person accustom to eight hours of uninterrupted slumber, but not me. I feel great.
I’m hoping this crisis will have the reverse effect on me. Maybe the enormity of the stress and my chronic insomnia will cancel each other out. Maybe I’ll fall into peaceful, fretless sleep and have sweet dreams. I’m only losing my livelihood and home, it could be worse. I could have the flesh-eating disease. As far as bad things happening, this is bad, but you know, uh, I could have the flesh eating disease.

Maybe I should have some warm milk with a shot of rum. Wait - I don't drink. Remember that.

June 11, 2007. 11:55 A.M.
Dear Diary. I just woke up! I went to bed at midnight and slept solidly, the whole night through. Without meds! So this is what it’s like to be clear headed and rested. If I could manage a coma like this once every couple of weeks, I think I’ll be fine. I have nothing else to lose. But sleep.

Kickin' the Bucket

“My father died.”

My best friend’s voice was flat. Clutching the receiver, I sighed. Although it’s presumptuous to say I know how she felt, I did know how she felt. Fourteen years ago my own father dropped dead while driving his car. The shock of losing a parent I had just talked to a day earlier kept me numb for weeks.

“Uh huh.”

Now, I know the weather is nice and everyone’s out inline skating or catching festivals or calling in sick to work, but, in fact, death does not take a holiday. Death can happen at the most inopportune times, like when you’re stuck in traffic or when you’re walking to the store for a litre of milk or when you’re having sex. Every now and then I’ll be on the subway, perusing that Metro rag, trying not to look at people, when I’ll gaze over the heads of passengers and think, "I am going to die. And I don’t know when".

“Gotta find a flight back.”

“Try American.”

No hysterics, no sobbing and weeping. This was a time for logistics, of organizing a far flung family and hastily putting together a service and an interment. To complicate matters, my friend’s father married three times.

She caught a milk run from Louisiana, while her brother drove up from Virginia and her two other siblings drove in from Montreal. As per her father’s wishes, the body was cremated immediately. Sitting in the beige pews of a middling funeral home in Kitchener on a Wednesday afternoon, my friend and I stared at a photo of her father propped up against the urn.

“My brother’s going to speak.”

“Ah, yes.”

Her brother is an evangelical Christian preacher and, most decidedly, the black sheep of the family.

“He better not…start.”

“There there.”

Several of my friends have lost family members in the last month. I went to my first Shiva last week. I found the evening poignant. Members of my friend’s synagogue led the prayers. And I thought French was hard to understand. I think I was the only goy there. I felt privileged to be invited, to witness this communal sharing of grief. Ritual, whether you believe in what is being said or not, connects us to each other and to history. My own father was barely mentioned at his own funeral. Now that’s old school. No one person is bigger than the resurrection in the R.C tradition. Eulogies are for cry babies.

As we listened to a cheesy rendition of Amazing Grace on the organ, I thought about how my friend must have felt looking at the urn that housed the ashes of her six foot, seven inch father. Five months ago they were fishing in Algonquin Park.

The eldest brother blubbered through a rambling tribute than ran well over 30 minutes. Then the preacher brother spoke. My friend rolled her eyes at her sister, who also rolled her eyes. I admire my friend’s militant secularism, but felt I had to pay attention to her brother, seeing how I would be one of the only people in the small chapel to do so. Her brother (at one time the preacher to the Montreal Expos) launched into a passionate sermon. He knew his scripture, the boy did. He also made everyone squirm. At one point my friend grabbed my arm and loudly whispered “when will this end?” I patted her arm and stifled a yawn.

The service concluded and my friend bolted toward the door for a smoke. This is modern dying, the secular and the sacred jockeying for position, families and friends struggling with their beliefs or lack of belief, or indifference. Meanwhile the deceased is off somewhere, or nowhere, or like City TV, everywhere. Fin.

I call my friend often to see how she’s doing. To my surprise, she never mentions her father. Her grief will come eventually, through a soft summer breeze or a smile from her daughter. It will hit her hard, this transient mystery. Maybe then she’ll develop a gentle tolerance for her brother.

The Dishonourable Carolyn Bennett

I’m Carolyn Bennett. Not the doctor and Member of Parliament, but the writer and comedian. I’m about ten, maybe 15 years younger, similar in colouring, hair length and height. My friends say I’m better looking, but they’re my friends. Dr. Carolyn Bennett makes ten times what I do, so okay, I’ll take being better looking. It’s difficult having the same name as a person more famous than you, especially when you’re in the fame business. I’m not nearly as well known as Dr. Carolyn Bennett, although I do get the occasional stare in the subway. Then again, who doesn’t? I’ve had a modicum of national exposure (my own CBC Comics special, spots on CBC Marketplace and various other odds and sods around the dial) but I can’t compete with a woman who is both a doctor and a member of parliament. Maybe I should have studied medicine as an undergrad, instead of the bottom of a beer glass in the school pub. Oh well. Then again, maybe she wonders about all those years she wasted delivering babies and campaigning for political office. She could have been telling jokes at the Beefeater Inn in Lethbridge, Alberta.

I think having the name Carolyn Bennett sometimes works to my advantage. I always seem to get a good table in upscale Toronto restaurants. I only had to wait two weeks to get an MRI. The best of all was when an invitation to the opening reception of an art exhibit at the AGO surfaced in the mail. A dreadful mistake was made, for it was addressed to Carolyn Bennett. Besides the occasional foray to the gallery on free evenings, I tend not to expand my mind in that particular establishment. My name must have been mixed up with her name on a mailing list. I don’t think the MP for St. Paul’s would have lived in the former Legion Hall turned flat that was my abode. But I did what any good comedian would – I went. Mark Breslin, the owner of Yuk Yuk’s, accompanied me and we mingled with the event elite. Every so often he called me “the honourable Carolyn Bennett”. As for the exhibit, Matisse is not my favourite Fauvist, but the flowing champagne and delectable nibbles pleased. I wonder if Carolyn Bennett ever receives mail for me? Maybe that would explain where my subscription to “The New Curmudgeon” goes.


I pity the poor actor or musician or comedian who is saddled with a name like Joe Clark or Stephen Harper.
There was a player in the NHL named is Jim Carey. Imagine how many comedians named Will Smith are trying to make it as comics.
Inevitably, I have thought about changing my name. Every so often, I’ll go on stage as Ginger Beef. The name Rufus Bennett has been suggested. I hearken back to my high school days though, when my principal said, “Carolyn Bennett – that’s a stately name,” as he handed me a suspension slip. It is a stately name. It’s my name. I don’t want to change it. It suits me. I wish Jennifer Lopez suited me, but it doesn’t. I am intrinsically, tragically, thankfully Carolyn Bennett.

Now if I decide to run for parliament and get a medical degree, watch out Carolyn Bennett.

- originally published in the National Post

Promoting the Self

In the most recent issue of Canadian Screenwriter Magazine a column appeared about using blogs as a means of self-promotion. Let me make one thing clear -- I only have a blog because everyone else is doing it. I am following the herd on this one. I have no problem proclaiming that I have a gift for writing. What I have a problem with, and have always had a problem with, is promoting myself. My self is a mishmash of painful memory, something I actively try to escape through writing and performing. I'm reminded of the film Amadeus, when Mozart pitches himself to the Court, saying something to the effect of "I am a silly, irreverent man, but my music is pure, is glorious." I understand that sentiment.

I have just completed my first novel. Now it will go through the rounds at publishers. I feel like I've just begun. If it goes no where, at least I will have written a novel. But dang, it's good!

My best to this year's WGC nominees. You're all winners. You have perservered.

Times Change

There comes a time in every freelancer’s life when they say “enough”. Sure, the advantages of freelancing are many -- the 10 second commute to the home office, being able to concentrate without interruption, the freedom to sing when the urge strikes. The downside is the office politics. I can be cruel to myself. There are days when I take myself out for lunch and find it impossible to make small talk. Complaints to the boss fall on deaf ears. Sometimes it gets really bad, when I can hardly stand my own shallow breathing. The slight rise and fall of my chest, ugh, make it stop.

One day while trolling the internet to avoid writing, I stumbled onto the Times Change Women’s Employment Service website (or as I lovingly call it, the Shit Happens Employment Service). Times Change offers career counselling, job search workshops and computer workshops for women who by choice or necessity are in the market for new employment opportunities. These services are all offered free of charge, thanks to funding from the federal and provincial governments, as well as the United Way and the Trillium Foundation. The word “free” motivated me enough to check out their office on the 17th floor at 365 Bloor St. E. It’s been years since I’ve had to circulate my resume and I figured a little help gratis couldn’t hurt.

I’m a little amazed by my own change of heart. Ten years ago the thought of participating in anything female exclusive would have been anathema. I balked at doing all female standup shows, thinking the concept was unnecessary and coddling. Now, having being broken and humbled on a few occasions, I have changed.

I went to Times Change, over the federally run Employment Resources Centre, because I wanted to be in a nurturing environment. There – I said it.

“Times Change is a less intimidating and more supportive atmosphere,” says Julie Warrington, TC’s intake and outreach coordinator. “We may be a not-for-profit service, but we are as every bit professional as other employment centres."

The only catch for women who want to use TC is that they either have to be unemployed or working no more than 20 hours per week (or the feast or famine type like me). However, the resource centre, an up to date library of everything you ever wanted to know about the working world, but were too apathetic to ask, is available to anyone. It’s a cornucopia of labour market data, career tomes and occupational workbooks – everything I’ve ignored for 20 years.

Julie, a university educated former massage therapist, was once a client of Times Change herself. “We have a huge range of clients, from women with high school educations to those with Masters Degrees. New immigrants and refugees come to us because we make them feel comfortable. Our goal is to inspire women and give them the confidence they need to find work. Times Change helped me chose a different career.”

I participated in the Job Search Workshop, a thorough crash course in how to identify and pursue job opportunities. Self-marketing (never my strong suit) was a key component. I learned that there are different resume formats and that potential employers actually look at these things. In my workshop there was another freelance writer, two newly arrived immigrants and a woman who had been out of the workforce for ten years. By the end of the four half days, I had a better head for presentation skills and a deeper appreciation for the immigrant experience.

“We need a women’s employment centre because of the reproductive aspect,” says Holly KirkConnell, one of TC’s employment counsellors. “Women leave the work force more often. We have children. We are still the primary caregivers. I remember the days when there was no maternity leave. Paid maternity leave only came about in the late 1970s. That’s not so long ago. After using our services, 70% of our clients are either employed, self employed or have returned to school.”

TC’s approach toward employment is wholistic. For instance, its career planning workshops aren’t based on assessment testing. Rather, the workshop draws upon the personal stories of each woman to reveal their dreams and aspirations and then gives them the tools to pursue those dreams. Without dreams, what are we?

Go to the website www.timeschange.org for more information.
Now what do I do with this resume thing?

Bow Wow Yowsa

Just when I’m finally out of my childbearing years (due to miraculous surgery that has rid me of mind-bending endometriosis) and eager to embark on life again unfettered, my 30-year old neighbours recently saddled me with their dog for a week. Why? They went off and had a baby. Not only do they have a dog, now they have a baby. Show-offs. I have managed to elude both dog and baby. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like the aforementioned – but to house, feed, nurse, educate, guide, discipline, soothe, entertain, wash, stimulate, groom, indulge and train not to shit on the floor, well, that’s where I’m a spectator and not a participant. Call me cold, but I just don’t get it. Why buy when you can rent? Why tie yourself up? Maybe I’m deficient in a vitamin or something.

Perhaps saddled is too harsh a word. Entrusted. They entrusted me with their dog. Max, a cockapoo of advancing years, has the insane energy of a rowdy pup. The first night he camped out in my living room, howling like he’d killed a moose. At 2am I took him for an extended walk, trying to calm him down. He yanked me through the empty streets, plunging his nose in every shit and garbage pile he could find. At 3:30am my neighbours took Max back upstairs. At 5am, my neighbour’s water broke (better than the pipes, I always say).

For the rest of the week Max stayed in his apartment and I stayed in mine. A civil arrangement, similar to the one I have with my lover. I’d go upstairs four times a day to rouse the mutt for toilet breaks. I’d pour sad looking food pellets in his dish, mix them with hot water, say bon appetit and leave. Eventually a creeping guilt won out. Was I being a bad caregiver? Perhaps.

So off to High Park we went to join the dog people, the people who treat their pets like children and chat with each other about their dogs. I had to let William’s sitter go – she didn’t engage him enough… Max was no match for the Great Danes, Chow Chows, Dobermans, Labs and other assorted purebreds. I felt inadequate. I can only imagine how Max felt. But that’s what’s great about being a dog – you can put on weight, stink and have no money and still get laid. Even get laid in public. No wonder people love dogs. We envy them.

What surprised me was the response of other pedestrians as Max and I walked by. For the first time, I was on the leash side of a dog, a very different perspective. People would smile. Some would smile broadly. That never happens to me when I’m walking alone. Very hard to scowl or look pained when you’re walking a pooch. Some people would muss up Max, pet him affectionately. Eventually I told people he was mine. I beamed with pride. Maybe that’s what I’m missing out on by not having a dog or a baby – the ability to beam with pride and not look like an asshole.

My neighbours came home with the new baby yesterday, an eight-pound girl. Living perfection. And I’m happy to report that for the first time in a week, I got to sleep in. Through the ceiling I can hear the wee one cry on occasion. Max, on the other hand, has gone strangely silent.

I hope they can co-exist in peace. Like dog, baby and neither-dog-nor-baby people.

The 12 Days of Chemo

My beloved sister Diane is undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer. She never smoked, drinks on occasion and lived in the Rocky Mountains for 20 years. Her diet has always been nutritious. Her first mammogram ever was eight months ago and after futher tests and a lumpectomy were done, stage 2-3 cancer was detected. Bewildering and frightening.

And funny.

I talked to Diane before Christmas over the phone. I asked her "where are you as far as your chemo treatment?" "Day twelve post treatment," she said. Twelve. Twelve days. "The Twelve Days of Chemo," I offered. She laughed. We riffed a bit and then I came up with this Christmas carol for my sis:


THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHEMO


On the First day of chemo my doctor gave to me: A, C and T.

On the Second day of chemo my husband gave to me: 2 buckets to barf in and some A, C and T.

On the Third Day of Chemo my body gave to me: 3 bouts of nausea, 2 buckets to barf in and some A, C and T

On the Fourth day of chemo my husband gave to me: 4 salty crackers, 3 bouts of nausea, 2 buckets to barf in and some A, C and T.

On the Fifth day of chemo my body gave to me: 5 bowel movements, 4 salty crackers, 3 bouts of nausea, 2 buckets to barf in and some A, C and T

On the Sixth day of Chemo my body gave to me: 6 bleeding mouth sores, 5 bowel movements, 4 salty crackers, 3 bouts of nausea, 2 buckets to barf in and some A, C and T

On the Seventh day of Chemo my stylist gave to me: 7 different wigs, 6 bleeding mouth sores, 5 bowel movements, 4 salty crackers, 3 bouts of nausea, 2 buckets to barf in and some A, C and T.

On the Eighth day of chemo my body gave to me: 8 hours of sound sleep, 7 different wigs, 6 bleeding mouth sores, 5 bowel movements, 4 salty crackers, 3 bouts of nausea, 2 buckets to barf in and some A, C and T

On the Ninth day of chemo my children gave to me: 9 friends a’ mooching, 8 hours sleep, 7 different wigs, 6 bleeding mouth sores, 5 bowel movements, 4 salty crackers, 3 bouts of nausea, 2 buckets to barf in and some A, C and T.

On the Tenth day of chemo my husband gave to me: 10 minutes of cuddling, 9 friends a mooching, 8 hours sleep, 7 different wigs, 6 bleeding mouth sores, 5 bowel movements, 4 salty crackers, 3 bouts of nausea, 2 buckets to barf in and some A,C and T.

On the Eleventh day of chemo my oncologist gave to me: 11 pamphlets about radiation, 10 minutes of cuddling, 9 friends a mooching, 8 hours sleep, 7 different wigs, 6 bleeding mouth sores, 5 bowel movements, 4 salty crackers, 3 bouts of nausea, 2 buckets to barf in and some A,C, and T.

On the Twelfth day of chemo my family gave to me: 12 rounds of hugging, 11 pamphlets about radiation, 10 minutes of cuddling, 9 friends a mooching, 8 hours sleep, 7 different wigs, 6 bleeding mouth sores, 5 bowel movements, 4 salty crackers, 3 bouts of nausea, 2 buckets to barf in and the hope that I’ll be cancer free!!


Cancer can be beaten -- or at least mocked.

Civilization and its Many Discontents

Everybody knows the Jean-Paul Sartre quote “hell is other people”. Everybody at one time or another can nod and agree with it. However it begs the question “was Jean-Paul Sartre any great shakes himself?” It’s very easy to point the finger of blame at other people and hold them responsible for your misery. But if you’re the one doing all the pointing, chances are you’re the hell.

I recently quit a high paying job. It’s very unusual for me to bail out of a gig because I’m a freelancer. It’s also unusual for me not to get along with a co-worker. But such was the case. I had to leave for my sanity’s sake. My co-worker did a lot of pointing.

I give people the benefit of the doubt. I enjoy working with people. One of the best ways to create a team environment is knowing how and when to support other people’s ideas. It’s essential to collaboration. Putting on a television show is a collaborative effort. There may be room for pride, but there’s no room for ego. I have learned that the hard way. I am used to having pages and pages of script tossed. I may think that what I’ve written is good, if not hilarious or poetic, but if the powers that be don’t like it, out it goes. An accepted fact – I am a cog in the machine. I save my soul for fiction and essays.

Without going into details (and believe me, I’d love to document every tension filled minute) I found it impossible to collaborate with this co-worker. I think my co-worker had a major psychological disorder. I had to make a decision – cut and run or be provoked into a physical attack. I cut and run. That’s what it came down do. Fight or flight. No nuances, no subtlety. I did not have the wherewithal to deal with her. I realized my limitations in this situation. It was lose-lose.

She’s the kind of person who makes your gut tighten in that weird “something’s not quite right here” way.

A wise friend of mine comforted me with the immortal lyrics “You gotta know when to hold ‘em/know when to fold ‘em/know when to walk away/know when to run.

I ran.

I did the right thing.

Other people said that I should have fought, should have insisted to the powers that be that one of us had to go and that it wouldn’t be me. Sometimes bullies win. It’s that simple. It’s a hard lesson. Am I a wimp? A coward? Well if being a coward means sleeping again, being able to eat and returning to the people and places I love, I am a deserter. I chose to lay my arms down, instead of waste my time battling malignant ambition. The first week of my employment, my co-worker provoked me with a rant about the Iraq War and how she was originally for it. I felt my gut tighten (see above) and realized I was being pushed into confrontation. WHY I have no idea. This had NOTHING to do with our work. I did not want to engage in a debate about Iraq, with someone who was clearly out to “win” at all costs. It was not the time nor the place. And that’s my problem, I suppose. I believe in a TIME and a PLACE for things. How hopelessly courteous of me.

There’s a great verse in “The Gambler” that gets glossed over.

Now every gambler knows/that the secret to surviving/is knowing what to throw away/and knowing what to keep.

It goes on:

‘Cause every hand’s a winner/and every hand’s a loser/and the best thing you can hope for/is to die in your sleep.

Kenny Rogers may not have been Jean-Paul Sartre. But he sold more records.

I can sleep again. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll die in my sleep too.