Reflections On Turning 50

1. Don't buy meat in a can. Even if it is a buck. Don't buy it. Trust me.

2. Listen more than you speak. Let other people mire themselves in the inextricable. Nod and say "I see".

3. Don't give up looking cool. Unless you are trying to look cool. Give that up.

4. When a server in a high-end restaurant asks if you want an appetizer, say yes. When they ask if want an entree, say no. When they ask you if you would like dessert, say "I see". When they present the bill, react to the cheque with a classic spit take. Oh yes -- and never go back there again.

5. Keep working to sculpt your body. Fret about your chicken wing arms. Shame youngsters in a push-up competition. Shame youngsters period.

6. Let crap go. By crap I mean empties, old floss, lint, grudges, Haywire ticket stubs, old yogurt containers. You'll never use them, especially the Haywire ticket stubs.

7. Love one another as I have loved you. No, I didn't come up with that one. The trick is to love yourself first. You can't give away what you don't have, i.e. money and toys. Then pay yourself first. That's what the banks say and it would appear that banks are always right.

8. Ignore your aches and pains. No one wants to hear about your sore feet, sciatica or psoriasis. Unless the person is middle-aged or older. Then they would love to hear about it to compare notes.

9. We're not as smart as we think we are. We may be wise, meaning we know that partying to access for 30 years will produce baleful results, but we do not know everything there is to know about science, art and the humanities. I'm pretty sure I mumble more than I ever have. I say "I see" about twice as much as I did 25 years ago.

10. Always be grateful for the people in your life. They are the buoys that help navigate the unfathomable.

Now go out there and live while you still can.

Spring

I am going to die one day.

Sometimes the thought will float like dust particles in a ray of sunshine (note to self -- dust more often). Other times the thought seizes as I stare into the void that is my bedroom (note to self -- stop sleeping alone).  More often than not, I'll be perusing the canned goods at my local megasupermart, deciding on whether to buy lentils for 99 cents and make curry, or buy red kidney beans for 79 cents and make chilli, when it clamps down, a cold hand on my neck. DEATH. It pinches, reminding me that the annoying girl at the checkout counter who talks on her cell phone while scanning groceries will cease, as will the 504 King streetcar at rush hour.

I don't know which one I'll regret cursing more when I shake this mortal coil.

The cells in trees, grass, soil, the guy who won't be quiet behind me in the movie theatre because he insists on describing the movie to his friend who is sitting beside him and who is capable of watching the film and grasping some semblance of story, squirrels, water -- I am them. I will return to them as a bird or garter snake or if I am to believe my childhood faith, a spiritual, imperishable body:

Or nothing. I will become nothing.

Life is a stake through my heart these days. 

Remember, as the sign says on the map at the mall -- YOU ARE HERE.

(Note to self -- take a walk in the woods).

On a lighter note!

Laughs For Scott Benefit Schizophrenia Society Of Canada 

this Wednesday April 11, 8:30pm

The Rivoli

334 Queen Street West

Toronto

With comedy all-stars:

Scott McCrickard

Kevin MacDonald

Ron Sparks

Judy Croon

Winston Spear

Rob Ross

Darren Frost

(perhaps even Mark Walker) 

In memory of my brother-in-law's brother Scott Way

Presence

"I'll fix his tooth and waive my fee."

Dr. Chen is a generous man. Livingston has been a friend for 30 years.

"It will change his life," I said. "Thank you."

Dan and I would have to trek to Thornhill though, past Bathurst and Steeles, over the threshold into Vaughan. That meant the subway to Finch, bus to Bathurst and a 25 minutes walk.

It meant getting to know Dan.

I first met Dan moving Wink out of his marital home and into a basement apartment. Dan, the man with the van, the white van, vans that stir a psychic murmur. 

Slight and agile, he handled bookcases, chairs, mattress and bed frame elegantly, symmetrically arranged objects down to the last inch and sliver.

He wore a toque, protective glasses and smelled of dust and work. He was anywhere between 30 and 50.

I would take him to see Livingston. Compelled.

Our knees touched on the subway ride to Finch. I pointed out a sports story in the daily free rag, hoping he'd say something. I leaned in to hear him, his voice a soft breath. He covered his mouth when he smiled to hide his chipped front tooth.  I thought about Japanese women, the origins of politeness and his rough hands.

The crowded Steeles bus lurched and jostled the passengers, most heads down into IPhones. Two students got up to exit. Dan and I slid into their seats, the sun brilliant and forcing me to squint.

I asked Dan if he had any photos of his work on his phone. He scrolled the screen until he found his portfolio. Then he took me through his oeuvre, page after page of exquisite, high-end cabinetry and furniture, sleek custom-made kitchens, bathrooms, dens. Occasionally he mentioned a kitchen was featured in House and Home and the Globe and Mail. He put the phone away and leaned back.

The sun lit his white skin  I could see his eyes behind his glasses. He fixed on me. I wanted to, but I couldn't look away. His eyes were a glacial plunge, clear bracing aqua. I felt my heart expand and my body lift and float and dissolve. There was nothing but light.

When Livingston finished his work on Dan, and Dan came into the waiting room, this unassuming, slight and modest man smiled.

In a flash, years of solitude and pain, of getting by and just enough, blue veins of grief and subterranean longing vanished.

He was transfigured.

I thought, you've returned to me.

Remembering Joe Bodolai

I'm heading to a gathering for a colleague who took his own life over the holidays. The comedy community (yes, we are a community now rather than adversaries, that's what age will do) will meet at the Pilot Tavern here in Toronto for a farewell to Joe Bodolai.

Any Canadian comic over 30 should be familiar with Joe Bodolai. A writer and producer, Joe championed comedians for most of his career in Canada. When the news came down that he committed suicide late December I was stunned.  He was the most encouraging, positive, upbeat guy in the biz, the last person I thought would ever succumb to despair. Some of us used to joke about how generous he was, going to bat for comics who lacked skill and instinct. "That's SUPER," we'd say, imitating Joe.  Now he's gone and we're having to say goodbye to this wonderful man.

Joe gave me a COMICS episode at a time in my life when, addled and depressed, I just struggled to get out of bed. I promised that I would do the best job I could and not disappoint him. I saw him laughing in the audience during the taping and when I came up to a signature punch line, one of the only ones where I swear, I made sure to clean it up. I can still picture the look of relief and delight on his face. This was CBC TV, the channel that brought us Wayne and Shuster for golly's sake, I wasn't about to drop the F bomb in prime time.

Joe also got me into Just For Laughs. He made one quick phone call and I was in the Home Grown Canadian Comedy Competition. Again, that was another great show, but I went over my time and was disqualified. Shaun Majumder won. Hey, I was just happy to be there.

There will be many old faces at the Pilot tonight. Ironic that we should meet there -- Joe in his last blog cited "My inability to conquer my alcoholism and the things I did because of it." I'm sober now 10 years. As Muslims say  Ishallah. I wish Joe would have asked for help. Alcoholism is a disease, I don't care what anyone says otherwise. Dis - ease. It's a boomerang -- it will come back at you hard. The poor man. That's what killed him, not his bitterness toward the industry. Alcohol distorted his thinking and killed him.

I hope no one dwells on the tragedy of Joe's passing. I want to go to the Pilot and celebrate everything good he did for us, for our industry, for Canada.

You showed faith in me, Joe. You helped me achieve a dream.  

That is the stuff of the good life. No small thing.

Thank you so very much.

My Hour With Carolyn

It finally happened.

Through a delightful confluence that only email and the internet can facilitate, I met Carolyn Bennett.

For those of you who are not Canadian and who may be reading this blog -- that is, no one -- let me explain.

Canada is a constitutional monarchy. We have a parliamentary system. Our head of state is the Queen Of Great Britain. Our real head of state is the prime minister. Perhaps you've heard of him -- he plays piano and enjoys throwing parties like the G20. He likes America and is hastening Canada as a feeder league for the United States. This is nothing new, just the rapidity of it.

We send politicians to our House of Commons in Ottawa to ... uh ... to ... er ... I know -- represent our interests, to help pass or block legislation, and to fill the House of Commons for the television cameras. They are a lot like background actors. When one gets to speak they are bumped up to principal. Some are better actors than others.

There is a politician who represents the riding of St. Paul's here in Toronto named Carolyn Bennett. She is a very accomplished woman; a doctor by training, an advocate by temperament.  She is currently the Liberal critic for Aboriginal Affairs. This is an important portfolio, especially if you are aboriginal.

I am not a politician. I just so happen to have written for one, was proud to do so, but have returned to the freelance/creative life. I came, I saw, I skedaddled. Now I'm plugging away at screenplay scripts, speaking engagements and other noble pursuits.

I have been receiving emails lately inviting me to the private holiday gatherings of Liberal party members. These people aren't slouches. These people have helped run the country. I have not helped run the country. I can barely run a cell phone. As flattered as I have been, I have had to 'fess up. You have the wrong Carolyn Bennett, but really, thanks for thinking of me. If you ever need a comic to perform at one of your conventions, let me know.

So I was delighted when my email address and the good doctor's appeared together, inviting one of us to another high-powered house party.  Being the good entrepreneur and freelance hustler I am, I took the opportunity to graciously decline the invite and ingratiate myself to Dr. Bennett. I emailed her, congratulating her on all our success, wishing us well and to keep fighting the good fight.

She got back to me immediately and invited me to her holiday gathering/fundraiser the next night. Would I want to do a little bit about being mistaken for Dr. Bennett?

Yes, yes and yes.

I arrived at the party the next evening and was warmly embraced by Dr. Bennett. We chatted like old friends. Her husband, film producer Peter O'Brian, chatted with me. I did five minutes of shtick for the people gathered and they laughed, thank god. Dr. Bennett told me that she used to be mistaken for me as well, when I was a film writer for eye weekly back in the day. Nice!

Generous, hard-working, dedicated -- Carolyn Bennett is a chip off the old CB block. She really is a marvellous woman, not your stereotypical self-serving politician, but someone who genuinely cares about people.

As surreal as it was, I felt at home with her. My much better half,  my successful forebearer -- Carolyn Bennett, MP. I hope she continues upholding our good name. Somebody has to.

Merry holidays and happy Christmas one and all!

Oh yes -- be sure to listen to Todd Van Allen's Comedy Above the Pub podcast  http://comedyabovethepub.com/ Dec 16 edition for an interview with me and good buddy Winston Spear.

Death Doesn't Take A Holiday

The phone rings at 10:15pm. I'm watching something on TV. I forgot to put the short ring on the phone, so I have to get up and answer.

It's comedian Darren Frost. He has his sombre voice on.

Crap.

"You've got bad news."

"Yup"

"Awww ...man. Who died? Wait -- let me guess."

I go through a list of  prime candidates for an untimely passing.

"No."

"All right, who then?"

"Stewart Silver."

Disbelief floods my body. Shock is a marvellous thing. It is like Teflon coursing through the bloodstream, coating nerve endings, buffering reality. It is always the same physiological reaction. I have experienced it before with the sudden death of my father.

"Stewart Silver?"

"Yeah -- I just had lunch with him on Friday. He was moving to New York. He just got his papers ..."

Stewart Silver was a Yuk Yuks stalwart, a solid emcee and host, a career stand up, a writer, an entrepreneur. The kind of guy you take for granted. Any time I was on a show and he was hosting I knew I was in good hands. He was reliable -- not flashy, not a star. He got the job done, went on the road, worked his craft. He wrote because most comics eventually want to do that to make more money.

He could take a joke, I used to insult him, no holds barred, go after him like everyone else. That's what comics sometimes do in the green room -- it's ritual. Blow off steam on the next guy. Kibitz.

Stewart Silver was Jewish. Me, I love the Jewish guys. Jewish guys are some of my best friends. The first guy I ever went out with in Toronto was a Jew. Is a Jew -- he is still one of my closest friends 26 years later. In my experience Jewish guys treat women well. They love shikas, probably because there's no pressure to marry us. Being around Jewish guys has always made me feel special, part of an in-crowd. I grew up in Cote St. Luc Quebec, where we were one of the only Christian families for miles. I had proximity to a different culture and faith, something exotic. It could be lonely for us goyim, but it gave me a good excuse to be insular and imaginative.

There will be a Shiva in Toronto next week for Stewart. It's still hard to believe this staple of the club is gone. I wasn't close to him, but I certainly had respect and affection for him.

I haven't actively worked for Yuk Yuks in 15 years, but I still consider myself a Yuks comic, even thought I do independent shows.  My years at Yuk Yuks have trained me  for just about anything -- combat, search and rescue, counter-terrorism operations. They call comics over 40 veterans for a reason. It's only now, years later, that I realize how unique stand up comedy is. I held down a day job for three and a half years recently. I could not get used to the glacial pace. The pay was great, the people pleasant, but the routine was deadening. I need the explosions, threat and danger of the imagination, of active creativity   I need the assurance that there are others like me out there -- risk takers. There are. Stewart was a great example.

There is plenty of time to be dead. I won't do it while I'm alive.

Thanks Stewart, for living the life you wanted.

Why Halloween Sucks

I figured it out.

I now know why I have an aversion to Halloween.

It all starts with Phil from finance.

Imagine a guy who works in the financial department down the hall from the unit where you work, which we’ll say is issues management.

Phil wears a suit every day. He nods to you when you pass him in the hallway. He presses the elevator button for you when you are both heading down to grab a coffee.

Phil smiles when you joke about the Leafs, “This could be the year … they flame out again.”

Phil sometimes does not look up at you when you pass him in the hallway because he is texting away on his BlackBerry.

Phil canvasses for the United Way. He has two small children.

Then on October 31, he changes.

He shows up to work wearing a cape.

Just a cape. Over his suit.

It’s the way he laughs though, that makes you pale from embarrassment.

It’s more of a giggle, an inane yuk.
He runs up and down the hallway trying to flutter his cape.

The women from operations laugh. You – you try not to stare incredulously.

You whisper to yourself take it outside buddy.

The display of sanctioned make believe is excruciating.

But this is what Phil has to offer. And you smile. To do anything else would be cruel.

Okay – here’s the real reason Halloween sucks:

I grew up in Cote St. Luc, Quebec, a predominately jewish neighbourhood.

Halloween was not high on my neighbourhood’s celebratory occasions list. There may have been a pumpkin on a stoop once every twelve houses.

It felt strange wandering the streets in a bed sheet and top hat under a moody and dark October sky, looking for treats where few were to be had. Where were the other kids?

It's almost 5pm Halloween night here in Toronto. I hope the little kids in my neighbourhood have a fun evening.
Me, I'll do what I do every Halloween -- dinner and a movie. But at least I won't feel alone.

Happy Halloween.

Madonna and Me

Full disclosure – I do not know Madonna personally. I don’t own any of her music, have never seen any of her films, or buy any of her accoutrements. I can name maybe three or four hits. Like A Virgin, Vogue ... there, I’m drawing a blank already. I remember a slutty friend I lived with in the mid 80s introducing me to Madonna via a music video. Yes, it was the Like A Virgin music video, the one where she’s on a gondola in Venice I believe. Man, I all seems so tame now. I was indifferent then. I am a little less indifferent to Ms. Ciccone now.



You see, living in Toronto, I couldn’t help get caught up in the Madonna brouhaha at this year’s TIFF. Apparently Madonna’s people had instructed TIFF volunteers to turn their backs and face the wall when Madonna glided by on the red carpet. TIFF volunteers and the general public expressed outrage at Madonna’s gall. The comments section following online stories about the incident tore into her. Arrogant! Classless! Granted the request was a little bizarre, but I am cutting Madonna some slack, which I’m sure is of immense relief to her.



Imagine, for a moment, being Madonna. Imagine waking up every day, irrelevant, yesterday’s news, a joke to serious musicians. Imagine looking at your plastic, tapered face in the mirror every day and wondering what more you can do to stay beautiful when you never were conventionally beautiful in the first place. Now picture yourself maintaining the punishing physical training you must endure to keep your body chiseled. Then imagine picking up a newspaper (yes, how romantic of me) and stewing over that usurper Lady Gaga. Snow White and the Wicked Queen comes to mind. So to stay in the game you reinvent yourself as a filmmaker (because you can) and shop around an effort at various film festivals, being gracious while the press excoriates you.



Give me open mic night at Eton House any day.



I found the women who surrounded Madonna on the red carpet curious. One wore a novelty antennae thing on her head. Another grey-haired, frazzled woman stuck close to Madonna, ushering her by local reporters. They looked Madonna’s real age. They are Madonna’s people – a privileged position and one of enormous trust. I liked them.



Madonna tried her best to be pleasant. She had her game face on. I think she had Nicklas Lidstrom’s game face on.



I found the whole thing pitiful.



Maybe it’s because I’m approaching 50, but I’m softening toward the sex that is the same as mine. Now is the time we see who’s bought the cosmetic bill of goods – in our celebrities, in our public figures, in our own lives. Is having a Botox or surgically enhanced visage going to change anything? Man, I want to age as eccentrically as possible. We’re all ash in the end. I want to be cross-eyed in an open casket when I’m laid to rest.



Madonna –- I understand. It’s sucks to be you. I know why you commanded TIFF volunteers to not gaze at you. You are so insecure, so fragile underneath the perfect bod and sculpted face. I wouldn’t wish your life on my worst enemy. Stick to your imperfect people and find comfort and acceptance with them.



As the Ontario saying goes – it’s six of one, half dozen of the other. You didn’t have to do it. But you did.

July 27, 2011 at the Rivoli

It is August now.


August -- the fullness of summer, the stupor of the year, easy living for the rich and sweaty trudge for the rest of us.


The trudge was made manic and absurd Wednesday July 27 2011 at the Rivoli in Toronto. I saw who was on the bill and made my way down to the club.


Here's the list:


Winston Spear

Ron Sparks

Dwayne Hill

Rob Pue

Kevin MacDonald

Paul Irving

Boyd Banks

Mike Wilmot


That night an all-star cast of comics performed in front of eight paying customers.


Now lesser comics would have seen the size of the audience and refuse to go on stage. Not these intrepid performers. Perhaps it was because there were spouses and friends in the audience, but the comics put on one hell of a show. Mike Wilmot, who had just returned from a nine week tour of Australia, addressed a corner of empty chairs. I paraphrase: "I just played sold out theatres and here I am back in Toronto. Good old Toronto -- where you get off the plane and a midget punches you in the cock -- WELCOME HOME."


It's always a treat to see Boyd and Paul Irving. Their brand of truth is not for the faint of heart. At one point I was laughing and crying at the same time. Boyd is the only man alive who can grab my ass without me taking offense. I remember Boyd and his dad at the Yuks on Bay Street in the late 80s grabbing my ass and giggling away. Like father, like son. Twenty five years later Boyd grabbed my ass and I felt nostalgic. I realized my ass has sagged a bit. I felt like apologizing but didn't. We're both still alive and that's good enough for me.
Great to see veteran comics, uncompromising, acclaimed comics, riffing and givin' it like it was 1999. This is the art of standup.

Do yourself a favour and go see some live comedy. Put the remote down, step away from the internet and live.

The Case of the Peculiar Har Gow

Will I ever learn?

Once again I am drawn to a food sale, this time har gow (shrimp dumplings) on sale at my local low-end megasupermarket. 70% off.
They were frozen. FROZEN. How can you go wrong with frozen food? Doesn’t the freezing kill bacteria?
You’d think.
You’d think WRONG.
Freezing works if it’s done properly.
I boiled up said edibles, thought they tasted a bit off, but ate them anyway because I thought THEY'RE FROZEN and that my taste buds were the source of corruption.
Ah Bennett. Bennett Bennett Bennett.
Two days later, I finally stopped gripping my abdomen. The stabbing pain subsided.
Defeated, I studied the package.
Made in Thailand.
If I had READ THE PACKAGE and saw that these frozen balls of gut bombs were made in Thailand, I would not have bought them.
Me, I love the har gow, but LOCAL is the way to go. The ones BESIDE them originated in Richmond Hill.
No more deeply discounted har gow from Thailand for me.
I have been turned off food for awhile now. I am tired of digesting.
Will somebody reaffirm my faith in nourishment?

FYI -- Tonight is the REVUE REVUE VARIETY SHOW. I am excited and har gow-free.

It should be great!

I'm Still Standing

It is now two weeks after the federal election a.k.a The Hangover. The Conservatives have their majority, the NDP is the official opposition, the Liberals were decimated and the Bloc almost annihilated. Oh yes – and Elizabeth May now gets to sit where no Green party member has sat before.
I see I’m still standing.


Yes, Carolyn Bennett, MP for St. Paul’s here in Toronto, has survived the bloodletting. I suppose it’s that Carolyn Bennett magic we Carolyn Bennetts cast on mortals – a combination of being almost beautiful, persistent, and wearisomely bright. Every time I saw a Carolyn Bennett sign on a lawn I smiled. You go Carolyn Bennett! Don’t let slashed tires and defacement stop you. Go back to Parliament Hill and do whatever it is you have spent many years doing, and I will piggyback on our good name.

Too bad about Michael Ignatieff. Am I the only Canadian who warmed to him? Too bad he didn’t play a musical instrument, although knowing him it would have been the cello or harpsichord. He needed eyebrow lessons from Ron MacLean. One arch of the brow and it could have been a minority.

What it is now is anyone’s guess. I’m looking forward to the NDP and Question Period.


Speaker: The honourable member from Berthier - Maskinongé.

MP: Yeah …uh … where’s the bathroom?

No, I’ll leave the debating and the politics up to Carolyn Bennett. I’m too busy doing things like looking out my window at a squirrel tearing through a bag of cheesies.


Not to be outdone by a squirrel, team Fanwackwik won Audience Choice in the 24 Hour Toronto Film Challenge. Maybe it was partially due to some of that Carolyn Bennett magic, but most definitely due to the indefatigable Kevin MacDonald. It’s weird but fun.

Here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ezrp9YOOE5s


You are welcome to have a look.


Questions? Comments? Abuse?

Today -- Special for you!

It has been brought to my attention that I don’t promote myself enough. I have been asked the questions; “Why aren’t you on Facebook?’ “Why isn’t your standup on You Tube?” “Why do you keep such a low profile?” “Why don’t we know about you?”


I’m old fashioned. I believe that work, whether it is a novel, screenplay, short story, or visual art, or any sort of endeavour, should be created FIRST and the promotion or marketing of that work should come SECOND. Creation, in my mind, is a private act, mulling and musing subterranean. Besides, I figure this is the job of an agent, but I guess I’m wrong in this crazy world we call digital all show, all the time.
I was once offered a gig to write a stage play for an actor. She had the marketing, the finances, the theatre and the dates of the performance all set. What she didn’t have was a play. I turned it down. Again, I’m hopelessly out of step.


So, in the interest of keeping you up to date on what I have on my plate, here it goes – SPECIAL FOR YOU, MY FRIEND!


1). My screenplay, “The Mac and Watson Springtime Reeferendum Show” will be in the hands of director Jim Donovan come May. I look forward to his feedback and hope to get this mother*&%ker off the ground. Making a Canadian film is sort of like, I have been told, trying to orgasm when you’re middle-aged. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I hope to firm things up in the next few months. Producer Avi Federgreen is still keen on the project, which makes me happy.

2) My novel, “Technical Difficulties” still languishes with Coteau Books in Saskatchewan. I have been encouraged to self-publish, but am undecided.


3) I will be hosting The Revue Revue Variety Show at the Revue Cinema, 400 Roncesvalles Avenue, Saturday, June 25, 9pm. Produced by myself and the inimitable Winston Spear.

4) I will be hosting the Comedy Brawl, Crown and Tiger Pub, 414 College Street May 18, 8pm.

5) SPECIAL – THIS WEEK -- WEDNESDAY APRIL 20, 7PM TIFF LIGHTBOX.

I am part of a film team entered into the Toronto 24 Hour Film Challenge Festival. Tickets $10. We are Fanwackwik.

That’s it for now. Next month – Special for you – actual content.

Pizza of the Damned Part II

Where was I?

Right – so the troglodyte behind the counter slips a beige triangle in a bag and puts it on the counter. I pay my five bucks and take the slice home.

I slide the slice out of the bag and look at it as it lies on a flimsy paper plate. It appears plastic, like a piece of decorative fruit. I touch it. It’s tepid and spongy. Damn it though, there’s no time for second guessing, no time to even put it in the microwave. I chew hard and swallow.

Three hours later I’m back home, watching a rare Thursday night regular season hockey game on CBC. Suddenly, my intestines wobble and cramp. A pain so foreign makes me sit up. For the next twelve hours I am twitching with sickness, besieged by some thing attacking my innards.

My guess – the pizza.

How can you tell if you are given pizza of the damned?

1) The guy behind the counter tries to sell you something other than what you want

2) The guy shield his eyes from you as you pay

3) Pizza is way down on their list of specialties

4) You drop your slice and it bounces

5) It looks like that fake vomit sold at novelty stores

6) Looking at it, your mouth goes dry

7) It’s the same colour as the bags under your eyes

8) It doesn’t yield when you touch it

9) It smells like machine water

10) It looks back at you


I’m convinced now that having any fast food as the weekend draws near is risky. Here’s my theory – people are so worn out and depleted from their jobs during the week, by the time Friday rolls around they just want to get the hell home. That goes for people who work in the fast food industry. Don’t buy a car made on a Monday or Friday the thinking goes – beware the Friday gyros. Actually, beware the gyros any day of the week.

Folks -- when it doubt, throw it out.

Pizza of the Damned Part I

I should have known better.

I did know better.

That’s what happens when you rush around like an idiot and you need to eat something fast – standards go out the window. Or in this case, they are expelled violently.

I got food poisoning from a slice of pizza. That’s right, a slice of pizza. A food staple. Milk, eggs, bread, pizza; that’s the order. What the hell am I going to do?

Truth be told, I don’t eat the stuff all the time. I only eat it when I’m mentally exhausted and am tired of bibibap or goat curry. I eat it when I’m in a rush.

Eating when you’re in a rush is not conducive to wholesome living. I’m big on wholesome living about 80 per cent of the time. The other 20 per cent of the time I'm bottom-feeding on scraps.

So I go into the joint and order a deluxe slice. I hadn’t been in the establishment for awhile, but on the occasions I did buy their food products, I found them unremarkable but satisfactory. Edible.

I glanced around while waiting for my slice and felt uneasy. A fat woman, red faced, sloughing, wearing her bleached orangy hair in a thick braid, fried something in front of me. What it was I still don’t know. It could have been halibut, it could have been Playdough. She dumped the fried brown mass on a plate and waited for someone to take it away somewhere.

The lad handling the pizza dough did so without wearing latex gloves. Old school I suppose. I felt a vague revulsion watching him stretch and prod the drooping paste.

Folks – I have to run now…. To be continued!

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.