What We Survive

Picture of me and John Hood outside the Motel St. Jacques. 

Went up the road to Montreal for the funeral of my dear friend Sean Keane in December. Was supposed to go Washington D.C. that weekend, to celebrate a year of working on an American Civil War project (way to louse up my vcay Sean!).  Many old friends filled the back pews of St. Ignatius for the Rite of Christian Burial. Sean had a faith, a magical way of getting through life. The presiding priest mentioned Sean’s comedy and somehow worked in a moral angle. After the mass, some of us went to a burger joint on Westminster, laughed about old times and got caught up.

My home town. 

Hung around NDG and saw ghosts everywhere. Visited my old high school, the back where I used to smoke joints and wish no one would find me out, discover the twisted mental case lurking under the glazed eyes and cute smile. Imagined my former self 35 years ago, going up to that kid and saying .. nothing. Intervention? No -- I'd practise the fine art of turning a blind eye. Painting a room once the offspring has left the nest. Paint that room immediately and erase any trace of a former life.

Get out.

Marymount in NDG. What a dump. Apparently drug dealers pedalled their wares at the school every day. I learned that from an old Marymount guidance counselor I met at a twelve step retreat a couple of years ago. Apropos 35 years later meeting her. I told her I was one of their best customers.

My childhood and teenaged years. Ghost wreckage.  Helicopter parents? More like crash and burn parents in my social circle. Just the way it was back then. No interference with the natural progression of an independent life. Influence was more inference, letting nature weed out the weak.

What we survive.

Yep, the trip down memory lane had potholes and speed bumps and water main breaks. But it also had the blazing light of youthful exuberance, of drowse and bursting imagination. I almost went down, but live to rail, drift and love.

For those who will, please have a listen to yours truly on the Comedy Above The Pub podcast, hosted by Todd Van Allen and Darcy Fiander. 

http://comedyabovethepub.com/?p=1357 


I advertise the Tribute To Sean Keane.  Hope to see you there.

Winter

Here I am skating at the Clarence Downey Speed Skating Oval in Saskatoon. Which one I am in the picture? (Hint: I am not the speed skater)

I wait all year for this.

Air so cold it stings.  Snow squeaking underfoot. The high soaring sound of a deep January night. A crisply etched moon.  Solitude. Silence.

Winter is clarity. The senses are sharper. The brain, insulated by a friendly hat,  is at its optimal temperature. The world is angular, sketched, bare when it is dry. Precipitation is snow and ice, a magical force, enough to shut down airports, subways and buses. It can bring a city to its knees.

Kids get to stay home from school. The lucky ones get to go outside and play.

Blame snowflakes.

I grew up with snow drifts so high they could bury a kid alive. My brother once burrowed six feet deep into a drift, iced the sides, and tossed my little brother in the pit. And left him there, until his muffled cries alerted my parents who called out for him in the ringing cold.

Childhood.

Winter is survival, being conscious of the heart beat and breath. It is quiet streets and white icing. It is the soul's sojourn.

Winter is hockey and Les Habs.

I experienced cold like I haven't had in years, when I travelled to Saskatchewan to meet Dan's family at Christmas. It felt both familiar and foreign, Canadian yet  cryogenic. This is the way it used to be. I have been deprived living in Toronto, part of Canada's banana belt. The winters here are positively tropical.

But not this week.

The temperature will not rise above minus 5 for the next six days. I rejoice.  That means skating outdoors, skiing where the snow is and wearing a toque 24/7.

The full moon is on January 26. I'll be looking up into the deep, dark galaxy and pining.

Dear Sean

It's me. Carol. Your friend of 35 years.

It's been really hard, but I'm just starting to accept your passing away on December 4.

You had a massive heart attack. Your dad had to do CPR on you. Do you remember?  I don't get it -- you swam and ran every day. You ate bird seed, lots of fruits and veg. We talked in November and you told me how good you felt. You told me about a new project in the works. You ran some new jokes by me. We talked about your set at the Winnipeg Comedy Festival. Business as usual.

I now know that at any moment, business can get unusual. Fast.

I'm gonna miss your baritone voice over the phone. "Hello Carol, it's SEAN ....HHHHmmmmpppphhh."

We never became sweethearts, but we were, you know? Sweethearts without all the yucky sex stuff. Innocent love, love that a man and woman who make each other laugh know. You were always in my heart, even 35 years later as I turned 50 in my little apartment in Toronto, where I have lived for almost half my life. Montreal though is home, is where we laughed and riffed and started doing comedy at Ernie Butler's Comedy Nest on Bishop Street.

Where your legend began.

And now I'm typing out this dumb letter, this stupid letter to you, where ever you are. I vacillate between rage and sadness and despair. Why did you go?

At first I was pissed off at god. At your funeral, I looked up at Jesus on the cross and thought -- you loser... Why do we worship you? Why did you rip Sean away from his family?

I came very close to going on a bender. I've been sober for 11 years.

It's only weeks later that I have it figured out in my mind.

God didn't let you die, Sean.

God created you. Gave you a touch of divinity, a comedic soul. You were so gifted. Your jokes are some of the most quoted among comedians. God is love, and you expressed that love through your being. I remember you once told me you wanted written on your tombstone "He Made People Laugh".  You did, Sean. Did you ever.

No, God didn't kill you.

Death did.

Sean, remember that poem we had to read in high school? (that is, when you went to class)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

There are some things I remember from high school. Death, thou shalt die, not Sean.

John Donne wrote that sonnet in the 17th century. Here's my concise 21st century version:

Death, go fuck yourself

You steal children from their schools, a bullet to the head and body over and over. Sickness and decay and rot.

Get over yourself

I no longer glorify you, I grew up

And feel the sun in my bones

Death, go fuck yourself

Whether you sneak or skulk or settle in for a long visit

You go

But my friends on the other side don't

God is what creates love.  And as difficult, as gut wrenching as it is, I choose to believe, I HAVE to believe, that one day we will be delivered. What is the alternative? Something that doesn't make us laugh.

So Merry Christmas Sean. We will be planning a tribute show in Toronto for you, with proceeds going to the SPCA. And even though I have done one of your jokes in a gallows humour kind of way "Oh yeah, Sean Keane died. About a week ago... It's only now I can laugh about it" , I still can't laugh. That will come, when we do the tribute and play your old prank phone calls.

Sean.

You Made People Laugh.

Your true and noble epitaph.

Love,

Carol

A Stress-Free Way To Pay Bills And Get Instant Cash!

I still anticipate the arrival of daily mail. Not the electronic kind, but the kind where a guy in uniform walks up to your house and drops letters off in a thing called a mailbox. Some mailboxes are attached to the exterior of a house, some houses have slots in their doors for letters to be inserted, and in apartment buildings, residents have little individual mail slots or boxes where they collect mail. Mail. Coming home to mail. Maybe a postcard from a friend vacationing in the Swiss Alps, or a card acknowledging a milestone or a holiday.  Mail. From Canada Post!

Ah, the romance.

Today I received this gem from my credit union.

Dear Carolyn,

Imagine you have $511.28 in your chequing account.

Now imagine writing a cheque for $1000 … $1500 … or even $5000 without any concern that it will “bounce”. This is the straightforward, honest benefit of having an Advantage Line Of Credit.

By using your Advantage Line Of Credit, you increase the balance in your chequing account so you can pay unexpected bills …cover vacation expenses …or other occasional blips in your cash flow … ((I stopped reading after this).

Now, I could be wrong, (and please correct me if I am), but isn't this sort of marketing and/or economic policy what created what the U.S. government calls the “fiscal cliff”. But – how could it be? The benefit of having an Advantage Line Of Credit is straightforward and honest!

I mean, like, hey, I gotta go to Aruba. It’s just an occasional blip in my lifestyle.  Fer sure. My cash flow is trickling. It might be an infection, I dunno. I’ll write a cheque for $5000 – that should take care of the yuck, like, ya.

Fiscal Cliff: Hey, cheque! I wanna see you bounce! Toss yourself off me!

Cheque: But I can’t bounce. It says so in the direct mail campaign.

Fiscal Cliff: I don’t believe it. Show me! First rule of storytelling – show, don’t tell!

Cheque: Okay, Cliff. Watch me soar muthafecker!

SFX: Weeping and gnashing of teeth.

                                        THIS AD BROUGHT TO YOU BY 

                                     FRIENDLY GUYS BANKRUPTCY TRUSTEES

                                    FRIENDLY GUYS: MAKING IT ALL GO AWAY

And people ask me why I get headaches.

Whoever wrote and approved the copy for the Advantage Line Of Credit should be forced to take out an Advantage Line Of Credit, rack it up without any enjoyment and suffer the torment of financial insecurity. And when they cried for mercy, all they’d hear is a ‘blip’ sound.

 It’s stuff like this that’s causing the middle class to collapse.

Me, I’m still waiting for a postcard from the Swiss Alps.

Where Have I Been?

Is it Halloween already? It seems like just yesterday, August 18, 2012, I was saying my prayers in a nosediving air plane. It’s been nearly two months since that incident. I apologize to you, the one or two web surfers who happen upon this web page. I promise to be more consistent. Oh yeah, I also promise that the check is in the mail.

Halloween 2012 is one to remember on the east side of North America.  Superfreak Sandy cut a deadly swath through the eastern seaboard and into southern Ontario. Here in Toronto, a woman died after being struck by a wayward Staples sign. Apparently she was on her way to the store to buy batteries. Somebody should Staples together the balls of whoever neglected to fix that sign months ago.

Every once in awhile, we are shaken to the core and humbled by the elements. Control? IPhone 5 isn’t a decent makeshift paddle. The latest IPad is a lousy floatation device. Your $270 hair cut isn’t behaving in the gale force winds. Drat. Must take that up with the stylist. In an second, we could be taken out by a century tree, slathered like butter.

Note to self.

This is all to say Happy Halloween.

I actually bought and carved a pumpkin. Anything requiring manual dexterity on my part becomes a “Charlie Brown” – that is to say, I carved a “Charlie Brown” pumpkin,  I do “Charlie Brown” laundry,   I make “Charlie Brown” goulash.  I am going to give the kid upstairs some Halloween candy, for the first time. The child is now seven. I have seen her grow up in front of my eyes. For the first six and three-quarter years of her life, she has said nothing to me. It’s only in the last month she's looked at me. Maybe her parents said, “That lady who lives on the second floor has just turned 50. It would be nice if you acknowledged her. She is all alone.”  Me, I love a mute kid.

Yes, Halloween is subdued this year. It’s anti-climactic. No witch, goblin or zombie is as scary as Mother Nature in menopause. Her hormones are out of whack, and tons of greenhouse gases spewed every minute don't help. We’ve pissed off Ma with our human progress.

FYI – I am one of the co-writers of  this year’s pantomime hitting the Elgin Theatre in Toronto, November-January, the Ross Petty Production of “Snow White and 007.”

 That is my self-promotion for the year.

Boo.

Routine Until It Is Not Routine

Late afternoon, August 18th. I'm on an airplane flying over Saskatchewan. An Embraer 190, configured 2 by 2 in economy. A cute little plane. My head, full of snot, is against the window and I am dozing lightly. The refreshment trolley clicks by, the pleasant chat of flight attendants and passengers a gauzy connection to consciousness. There's a New Yorker magazine resting on my lap. I've had a glorious vacation in the Canadian Rockies with my new love. We climbed peaks in Banff, paddled in white water on the Fraser River and camped beside a creek near Lake Louise. I haven't camped in over thirty years, but I am game. He dropped me off in Edmonton and continued to drive to Saskatchewan to see his parents. I was not ready to meet his family, so I chose to fly out of Edmonton.

I open my eyes a little. The young man beside me has placed my empty Styrofoam cup into the garbage bag held open by the flight attendant. Nice lad, I think. Good looking too. A courteous seat mate. I close my eyes again and drift.

Then, the plane dips.

Slows.

Suspends.

And drops.

The young guy is shifting in his seat. My heart immediately beats fast and hard. A flight attendant makes an announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please stay seated with your seat belts fastened."

I pry my eyes open slightly. The young guy is craning his neck, looking down the aisle. He turns and shoots a look out the window.

The nose of the plane is angling down.

The captain comes on. "Flight attendants take your seats."

We nosedive further. My stomach squeezes and my heart pounds.This isn't the familiar rock and roll of turbulence. I still have my eyes closed. I don't want to believe that we're plummeting from the sky.

My brain recites the Hail Mary, remembering the Robert Redford river crossing scene in the World War II film A Bridge Too Far. I recalled  being in an gilder plane a few years back, engine-less, riding the thermals, rising and falling with the wind. I imagine we are doing the same thing now.  

I open my eyes to see the young guy gripping the emergency brochure. A baby is screaming. A flight attendant yells at a panicked passenger.

"Sir, sit DOWN please!"

I am thankful for the mucous dulling my senses.

We rise and fall again. I steal a glimpse at the young guy. Sweat beads on his forehead and his eyes are wide. I realize I need to say something reassuring. I look at him and smile.

"Hey, how ya doin."

He clears his throat and smiles back. "Okay."

I feel like reaching out to hold his hand, but I don't. "We just have to trust. Pilots are trained for this kind of situation."

He nods and looks over my shoulder, out passed the wisps of cloud and at land and water.

We've dropped thousands of feet from the stratosphere. The pilot comes back on.

"You may have noticed we made a rapid descent and that your ears popped a few minutes ago. That's because the aircraft has lost cabin pressure. Safety is our top priority, so we are diverting to Winnipeg."

The young guy tells me a flight attendant was sitting in the back pouring through the airplane manual.

"I'm going to kiss the ground when we land," he says.

We dive towards the Winnipeg airport, angling over suburbs, houses and trees. We touch down abruptly and taxi to a gate. In minutes, mechanics are in the cockpit, under the plane, circling.

The young guy is talking now.

"I can't wait to get in my car and be in control."

I nod, not bothering to remark sagely. Then he asks if I was scared.

"Yeah. Sure."

"You didn't seem scared. You were so cool. You told me to trust."

I pause, then let out a sigh. "What else is there to do?"

As shaken passengers jump up to queue for the washroom, I know what I can do.

I can meet my new love's family sooner rather than later.

Inhaling

My sweetheart came over the other night, caked in dust and grime, shivering.

"I think I've inhaled too much lead today," he said.

No pantywaste, this one. All sinew and bone, tough as jerky, a rusty spike.  I replied with a family chestnut.

"You're imaging things."

Yet another restaurateur in T.O wanted the distressed look. Reclaimed chic. Dan had been sawing, sanding and finishing barnyard wood for a week. Barnyard wood  is poison, full of feces and nails and apparently lead. Dan works in a shop that makes melamine factories in China look appealing. I examined his bloodshot eyes.

"You're fine."

Two hours, Advil and an epsom salts bath later, Dan passed out on my couch, blankets tucked under his chin. The temperature outside was 37 degrees with a humidex of 42. I suppose I should have taken his temperature.

I don't know from lead intoxication. My biggest workplace hazard is a paper cut. What I do know is that there probably are more farmhouse restaurants opening up in T.O then there are farmhouses in Southern Ontario.

I remember reading about developers bulldozing vast areas of rural China, to build suburbs. At one suburban mall there's a restaurant with a rural Chinese theme. Maybe some woodworker in China is inhaling lead from the reclaimed wood he's finishing for the restaurant.

People want wood in their homes, restaurants and offices because they crave nature. Electronic communications technology has dulled our senses. Possibly made us dense. Have you ever watched anyone under 25 try to make change at the local megamart checkout line without the aid of electronics? It's truly frightening. I feel quaint being able to count.

I suppose the elegantly blighted maple, pine and spruce at some of Toronto's most trendy spots brings comfort and a sense of continuity to the folks who frequent these establishments. I just deleted "debit-ridden entitled automatons". "Folks" is less judgmental. I am one of them, one of the urban zombies who's starved for natural history. Just don't take our electronics away. Do that and who are we? Who are we now?

Dan update: He is not longer shivering. This week he is outdoors helping to build a Zen studio.

Sitting at this computer, communicating via email, I'm the one who feels sick.

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.