It Is A Wonderful LIfe

     I gauge my emotional health on how I react to It's A Wonderful Life. Most years I smile at the familiar sentimentality. On a couple of occasions I've fallen asleep before the climax (that's what she said - BOOM!) This year, I felt George Bailey's desperation. I let out a maudlin sob at the end. The fact that the film  ran on CTV last night, December 6, may say something about our nation's morale. This is the earliest I remember the movie being broadcast.

      Is it just me, or is the news really bad these days? Is anybody else troubled by what's going on in the world? Before you say "'twas ever thus", hear me out.

      The other night I was staring glassy-eyed at the telly, while Dan tapped on his phone. Peter Mansbridge, growing balder by the minute, read this off the teleprompter, in reference to UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon's call for action on climate change:

            "Ban Ki-moon made it clear -- he has no time for climate change deniers, and no time for any country that doesn't put the survival of the global population before its own domestic wants and needs."

     "Hey, Dan?"

     Tap, tap tappity tap. "Yeah?"

     "Did you just hear what I heard?"

     Tappity tap. "What?"

     "That the survival of the global population depends on countries taking action on climate change."

     "...yeah?"

     "Ban Ki-moon has no time for Canada."

     Tappity tap tap tap.

     "Dan?"

     "Nothing we can do about it from the couch right now."

     "But. But. never mind  ... good night."

It's stuff like this that made me drink vodka from a jar on the subway. Now I shoot back the strongest chamomile tea I can brew.

     Survival of the global population, huh? I wonder what Ban Ki-moon is trying to say.

     I remember my dad being gripped by the oil crisis in the 1970s. Aged ten and wanting to appear precocious, I followed the news and attempted to express my outrage at rising oil prices. "Dad, this is a damned situation," I remember saying, it being the first time I used a curse word at home. My father responded to my trenchant commentary by grabbing me by the scruff of the neck and shoving a bar of soap in my mouth. I think I offered my opinion a year or two later about Watergate, something I had no understanding of either.

     What is a person to do about the survival of the global population, at 10:15 p.m. on a Thursday?

     Not much. 

     But as George Bailey and It's A Wonderful Life demonstrates, it can go one of two ways:

     1) Jump off a bridge.

    OR

     2) Make a difference in the lives of others through acts of courage, generosity and kindness.

     I'll take door number two, Monty.

     And I'll watch reruns of Seinfeld before bed.

Twas The Night Before Vote Time

Twas the night before vote time, and all through the ward

Not a drug dealer was stirring, not even a Ford.

The putdowns and smearing were strung out with care

In hopes the electorate soon would be there.

The children were tossing all angst in their beds

while visions of Daddy loomed in their heads

And mamma in her muumuu and Rob in Leafs cap

Had scrawled the last promise in a long list of pap

When out from the basement there arose a great clatter

Rob hoisted from his chair to see what was the matter

He shuffled to doorstep and then he did shout

"Hey Doug, vote's tomorrow -- get the fuck out!"

The stairs creaked and buckled as the big man came up

From smoking from bong and drinking from cup

He rubbed his wide face and with eyes all a glisten

He vowed he would fight, to the people he'd listen

Rob outstretched his hand to his very big brother

Then gave him a hug, and one for his mother

More sluggish than buzzards, Rob's posse they came

up from the basement; Doug called them by name:

Now Lisi! Now Loser!

Now Dixon! Now Bloods!

On, MamMo! On, Liti!

Before the street floods!

To the front of the driveway

To the wheel of car

Now dash away, dash away

Dash away all!

Doug was all dressed in sweats, from his top to his feet

His clothes were all wrinkled and stained from canned meat.

A bundle of signs he had flung on his back

and he took a big hammer from out of his pack

His eyes how they drooped, his dimples how creepy!

His cheeks were all bloated, his scars were all weepy!

His voluminous mouth flapped with a huge breeze

and sweat poured from brow, and onto his knees

His sibling young Rob planted hand on Doug's shoulder

Asked, "Make me deputy mayor, if I get older?"

Moved with compassion, and a trifle disgust,

"Rob, badass motherfucker, it's done!" Dougie did cuss.

Then no words were spoken as both got to work

They joined their ill posse, and assorted ill jerks

They planted Ford signs on lawns tidy and neat

Any person protesting is one that got beat.

Once finished they sprang and to team they did yell

And away they all flew like bats out of hell

But I heard them exclaim. 'ere they drove out of sight,

Happy Mayoral Election to all, and to all a  good night!

 
 
 

Rejected Business Ideas

Ministry of Government and

Consumer Services

ServiceOntario

Companies and Personal Property

Security Branch

393 University Avenue, Suite 200

Toronto Ontario

M5G 2M2

19 August 2014

RE: Business Registration

Dear Ms. Bennett:

Thank you for contacting the Ministry of Government and Consumer Services, and for submitting your business ideas for registration.

After careful consideration, we have made the decision to rejected your application. You may wish to review your business plans, marketing strategies, financing, and overall concepts for your proposed enterprises. To recap, they are:

1) Bad Ass Baby Tattoo Company: Tattoos for the infants of ink aficionados.

2) Drive Thru Urinals: A complement to fast food drive thru windows. Allows the driver and passenger to relieve themselves via urinal or catheter, to save time. (You may wish to approach the Canadian Intellectual Property Office with this, as it is more of a patent)

3) Racoon A-Way: Do-It-Yourself animal removal kit. (Shovel, ax, large garbage bags)

4) Rent-A-Crank: Service provider. Acting as proxies for parents, elderly people nag and cajole successful younger adults, to keep them honest.

5) Gee-Had Me: Lighthearted greeting cards and novelties for Islamic extremists.

6) Old Tyme Movers: Environmentally friendly eco-movers, using horse drawn covered wagons. Fee charged by the hour.

7) Look Up: A computer app for mobile phones. Alerts busy texters when to raise their heads and focus on: crossing busy intersections, paying for food, buying groceries, boarding public transit, driving vehicles, engaging in conversation with a human being physically with them, swimming, bicycling, hiking etc, etc.

8)  Public Pylon: 24/7 on-call service that places traffic pylons around your vehicle, to reduce the risk of parking tickets.

9) Bad Ass Tattoo Removal Company: Hard-edged tattoo removal for the whole family. Sterilized needles optional.

10) Be Me, Be Free: Cloning service. Send replicas of yourself to events and occasions you rather not attend: e.g. board meetings, parent-teacher interviews, one man/one woman shows, family reunions, church, children's dance recitals etc..

We suggest you further investigate and develop your proposed business ideas. Not to put too fine a point on it, but we think you should abandon them all together.

Thank you for submitting your business ideas. The fee for each concept will still be applied

Sincerely,

Faceless bureaucrat

Miracle on the HI-360

                                                                          

From Kahului, Maui's main city, the little town of Hana is 52 miles away, or about 84 kilometres. Hana is nestled in the island's rugged eastern coastline, and according to the  

Go Hawaii tourist website, is considered one of the last unspoiled Hawaiian frontiers. I would call it a backwater, if not a marijuana outpost. The drive to Hana can take anywhere from two to four hours to complete, because it consists of narrow one-lane bridges, and hairpin turn, not to mention spectacular scenery. A person is apt to toddle and gape.
 

The Hana Highway (HI-360) has 620 curves and 59 bridges. That's a lot of body and dental work. The road weaves its way through lush rainforests, towering waterfalls, plunging pools and breathtaking seascapes. Did I mention the hairpin turns? If you visit the Go Hawaii website, you will see I lifted some of the Road to Hana description, and changed the adjectives. Gosh, you'd think I was a speechwriter for Prime Minister Harper. I am merely setting the scene expeditiously, to get to the funny part.

I had just come off a gig in Honolulu, and Dan and I were vacationing in Maui. Yeah, I had a gig in Waikiki. Was booked in December 2013, at the height of the Toronto ice storm. (The internet is a wondrous thing at times, when it's not a black hole for attention spans. A company from Australia found me on the You Tube --but that is another blog to procrastinate writing.) All the tourist websites and books said to DRIVE THE ROAD TO HANA. I must confess, I am getting cautious in my advancing years. I thought the drive may be a little too tiring for Dan, because there was no way I was going to attempt it. I do not own a car, have never owned a car, and only drive the cars of other people when they are inebriated beyond repair. I am an dyed-in-the-wool urbanite, right down to my library canvas tote bag and metropass. Nevertheless, I shook off my apprehension, rented a car, and appointed Dan as chauffeur for the week.

 Maui is not a big island, but beautifully craggy it is. I imagine it is like Newfoundland, without the sleet, snow and people saying "I's the B'y". As Dan turned the wheel one way and then the next, and as the car climbed the road to Hana, I felt vague unease. One false move, like say texting a client, or eating a burrito, and we'd plummet off the side of the road and explode like cars did in the TV show Mannix.  It was more than that though. I felt, in my gut, that something was going to happen, and that something would not be good.

I pretended I was relaxed and happy. I had every reason to be; I had just come off a successful gig, and was remunerated well. The drive was every bit as amazing as the tourist books said. Dan parked the car at a remote beach, and we headed for the water.

That is, he headed for the water, and I was stuck guarding keys and wallets. I watched him frolic in the big surf, thinking it was a bit rough. My stomach clenched some more. I glanced over at a bbq hut in the distance, and saw a man leaning on a shovel, his eyes closed.

I turned back to the ocean, to see Dan climbing up from the beach, heading toward me.

Without his glasses.

Dan wears glasses. Dan needs glasses. To see.

     "Darlin', I lost my glasses in the ocean," he said.

And that's when I flew into a rage. Looking back at it now, I supposed I hadn't completely shaken off my apprehension.

      "I knew it! I knew it! I knew something was going to FUCK UP! I had this feeling ALL DAY LONG, something was going to FUCK UP. And something FUCKED UP."

I paced around in a fury, at the same time steeling myself for the tortuous drive back. I would have to get behind the wheel, be the responsible one, and draw upon my driving school knowledge from 1996.

     "GET IN THE CAR NOW. It's going to take six hours to get the hell out of here!"

What happened next is what I like to refer to as "Miracle on the HI-360."

Not wanting to endure my wrath for an interminable journey back, Dan insisted on driving. Being a coward, and an angry coward, I let him. For the first 20 minutes I hollered anytime the median line disappeared . Then, I started to relax. Dan was driving well. Not only that, he seemed to drive better without his glasses. He took hairpins turns with panache, exceeding the 15mph speed limit, and then some. I resigned myself to driving once we hit towns and the city again, but no, he kept going, passing other cars and keeping up with the highway traffic going 65mph, all the way to Kihei where we were staying.

Unwinding with beverages on the lanai at the condo, I asked Dan why he insisted on driving.

     "It was either I drive, or you mad at me for the rest of the day."

     Yes, Miracle on HI-360. The thought of someone ranting in a car for six hours gave him new vision. And it gave me insight into my own catastrophic thinking, and my need for control. If you take the Road to Hana, remember to just enjoy the ride.

                                                                                                  

Les Habs and Me

The last time the Montreal Canadiens won the Stanley Cup, in 1993, I was a young standup comic, full of piss and vinegar, pissing vinegar more likely, from metabolizing lethal doses of alcohol, marauding down town Toronto screaming Les Glorieux! Les Canadiens sont la!! Now, in 2014, I am unlikely to be drinking alcohol any time soon, but I am sorely tempted to join, or start, a riot again. Because if the Habs win the Stanley Cup, unbridled emotion will ensue.

I haven’t lived in Montreal for 25 years, but I still tell people I am from there. It’s in the blood, (or these days in the mucus, this being spring allergy season).  Being from Montreal isn't just a fact of birth; it’s a state of mind. It’s picnicking with your best friends on Mont Royal; it’s narrow cobblestone roads and lounging on a terrace; it’s minus 35 degrees and not being able to feel your fingers; it’s referendums on sovereignty that keep the rest of Canada hostage. The Canadiens, the hockey team that helped define Quebec, unite Montrealers from far and wide. In Toronto, when I see a brave soul coming out of the closet as a Habs fan, donning a Habs cap or wearing a Canadiens T-shirt, I resist the urge to kiss them.

Why I pour so much emotion into a hockey team, I can’t say. I do know that the game of hockey has seen me through some dark times in my life, when grief and anger almost swallowed me. Much has been said about the Montreal Canadiens being Quebec’s new religion. It is accessible worship and immediate communion. I have had to remind myself to pull back at times, to not get overly invested emotionally in a game’s outcome. But, lord, how the Canadiens can enthral and invite devotion! It is the rouge, bleu et blanche, those vivid bold colours that ignite the eyes and heart.

Why do I still love the Habs? Because they were my youth -- helped me through all the pain and glory of it. They were my young adulthood and now, my middle age. They are my long time companion. The team, no matter what, will always be my Glorieux.

I Was Rob Ford's Girlfriend

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Not out of the realm of possibility mind you, but purely coincidental.

I was Rob Ford's girlfriend.

I dated him on and off from 1987 to 1998. Mostly off.

We met at the Etobicoke Ribfest. He asked me if I'd like some of his secret sauce on my ribs. I thought he meant the food I was eating, but no, he meant my ribs. 
I thought he was funny.

I was 14 , he was 29. I've always had a thing for older men. These days I'm dating William Shatner, or Bill, as he likes to be called.  I feel confident in saying to you, my friends, that Rob Ford is no Spock. He's not even Scotty, or Bones, or Lieutenant Sulu, or Captain Pike's yeoman.

Forgive me, I digress. It's the brain damage...

 

Rob asked me if I liked ACDC and Rush. I shrugged and said "I dunno". He asked if I liked Guns and Roses and I said "yeah." Then he handed me a gun and a rose.

We made out in his Dodge Caravan. He kissed like he was slurping back a beer. I went along because he was 29, an older man, like Alfred Hitchcock or William Conrad from the Quinn Martin Production Cannon. I let him feel my breast, and then almost let him feel my other one, but then I noticed his brother Doug was in the back seat watching, so I told Rob I'd see him later, alligator.

Rob was a giving lover. He gave me weed, booze, crack and once a little cough syrup because I was coughing. He liked to go down on me, he called his move the "Robbie Bobbie". One night he got wrecked and didn't want to make out. Instead he rested his head on my lap and cried, cried about all the times he was bullied in school. Kids called him fat and stupid and an imbecile, that he was too fat to play football. He felt so hurt, lonely and worthless. I told him it was okay, that we all feel like outsiders and losers. It was okay to feel pain, that we are only human and that kids could be mean and cruel. Then he punched me in the face.

That's when I had to leave.

He said "don't go baby! I won't do it again! I'll show them -- I'll show them all -- I'll coach football! I'll be a leader among men!"

I downed my beer, hiked on my jeans and headed for the door.

"Baby please," he begged, "I'm fine. Stay with me! I'm gonna be someone someday. I swear one day I'll rule this town! I'll be Mayor of Toronto. I'll be famous!"

I never saw him again, until I turned on Sun TV in Toronto and saw him and his brother had their own show. Too bad it was cancelled, but I hear he's on You Tube now. You Tube! Can you imagine!

Now Rob will probably have book deals and a line of BBQ grills and his own brewery and his own ecstasy stamp. 

He might even be on talk shows.

But that's okay. I don't fault him for capitalizing on his misfortune.

Why? Because I was Rob Ford's girlfriend -- and for the right price, I will do the same.

Ford More Tears

Happy New Year, dear reader. It is 2014: year of the horse, the 100th  anniversary of the start of WWI, 75^th anniversary of the stirrings of WWII, the year Canadian Forces pull out of Afghanistan and, most monumental of all, the municipal election year in Toronto.

Ah, Toronto, city of tempered glass, concrete, steel, and a subway system that hasn't changed since Charles Nelson Reilly appeared as uptight Claymore Gregg on the television series The Ghost & Mrs. Muir. Money is being invested in infrastructure, apparently. I think we’re getting a new swing set for a park. This is my adopted city, one that has been good to me. What’s been extra good to me in recent memory is our mayor, Rob Ford.

People have asked me (okay, maybe not) “why haven’t you commented on Mayor Rob Ford?”  I believe the expression is “gilding the lily”. Why tamper with comedy perfection? Mr. Ford has been a gift from the comedy gods. I have always held that Toronto proved its exceeding progressiveness by having elected the world’s first developmentally delayed politician. Perhaps in 2014, the City should consider imposing an IQ minimum for candidates, like those height requirements needed to board certain amusement park rides – you have to be this smart to run for mayor.

Now Mayor Ford is in the running again for re-election. He has called his campaign “Ford More Years”. Dan, my paramour and live-in caregiver (he makes a mean pancake) on hearing the news, immediately quipped “Ford More Tears”.  Being the comedian in the family, I put my spin on it with Ford More Gears, Ford More Beers, Ford No Hears etc. But Dan was first out of the gate and, I admit it, captured the exasperation of sentient beings everywhere with Mr. Ford, his antics, Ford Nation, and the dumb and dumber team of Rob and Doug.

Thing is – Dumb and Dumber is one of my favourite comedies. Rob and Doug Ford make for great entertainment. Too bad Rob Ford is the actual mayor of Toronto. I would vote for him in a second if everyone agreed to let him run amok for the cameras, to let him exist only on television and in opinion pieces and blogs. He’s way more fun than Mark Grimes (who?) or Gloria Lindsay Luby (who?). Rob Ford has put Toronto on the map. Sure, people say he’s disgraced the city and has sullied its reputation, but is that all bad? We’re on the map! Come see our new aquarium!

This is when my Gemini nature really emerges. My 100% whole grain side says “Rob Ford shouldn't be allowed to vote, never mind run for office”, while my frosted sugary side says “Yo, smoke a fatty, fatty, and mow Pam McConnell down one more time.”

In the book Amusing Ourselves To Death (published in 1985) Neil Postman theorized that television sacrifices quality of information in favour of feeding the insatiable needs of entertainment. In 2014, this is not only true, it is an industry, a lifeblood.

We are all complicit in the creation of Rob Ford, as critics, citizens and consumers.  He is the lightening rod for our civilization and its discontent. So hello 2014,  bonne année, Kung Hei Fat Choy, and Insha'Allah, we’ll stay sentient, sense of humour intact.