An interview with Harvey Weinstein: A two minute play

Scene: A luxury hotel room in New York City. Harvey Weinstein enters wearing a bathrobe. He is disheveled. There is a knock at the door. Harvey goes over to a mirror and smooths his hair. He slaps his face a few times, grunts, then sings.

HARVEY
Hy-Rickety whoop-de-doo,
We're the Men of Sigma Nu!
Hullibaloo, Terickahoo
All together for Sigma Nu, HEY!!

He points at himself in the mirror. Another knock at the door. He saunters to the door and opens it to reveal Writer/Comic Carolyn Bennett, wearing sweat pants, a Montreal Canadiens hockey jersey, and a Montreal Expos baseball cap.

HARVEY

Who the hell are you?

CAROLYN

Carolyn Bennett. The writer/comic. We met 30 years ago at the Just For Laughs Festival in Montreal.

HARVEY

Wha – I was expecting … you're not Abigail Breslin.

CAROLYN

I knew Mark Breslin. And you, sir, are no Mark Breslin.

HARVEY

Who?

CAROLYN

Don't you remember that night in 1987 with Gilbert Rozen at Foufounes Électriques? I slam-danced you into a mod when you tried to slip your hand up my Youpee doll... you said to give you a call if I wanted to work for Miramax. Well, here I am!

Harvey squints at Bennett. He shrugs and sighs.

HARVEY

Look, do you want to give me a massage or not?

Harvey opens up his bathrobe to reveal his hairy stomach and flaccid penis.

CAROLYN

Oh. Wow. Oh...Wow. Yes. I have heard about your legendary prowess. Yes. Let's proceed. Okay, baby, I brought some lube.

HARVEY

Good. I think we'll need it.

CAROLYN

Absolutely. Make yourself comfortable and get ready for some slippery love.

Carolyn produces a tube of lubricant. She applies a thick coat to Harvey's genitals.

CAROLYN

Feel good, sugar?

HARVEY

Oh yeah.. that's good. That's ..ow.. ow.. OW. OW! OW!!! AAAHHH!! GOODD! AHHA! WHAT DID YOU PUT ON ME!

CAROLYN

A little love potion called Rub A535.

HARVEY

AAAAHHHHHH!!! It burns! It buuurrrnnnnsss!

CAROLYN

You better get used to that, brother.

Carolyn winds up and kicks Harvey in the testicles. She is about to leave, but turns back to address him as he writhes in pain.

CAROLYN

Sorry about the assault. I'm not on Twitter.

Fin

Phone call from United States President-elect Donald J. Trump to the Prime Minister of Canada, the Right Honourable Justin Trudeau

November 10, 2016

ring ring ... ring ring ...

Receptionist: Good morning, Office of the Prime Minister. Bonjour, Cabinet du Premier ministre.

Trump: Hi, get the Prime Minister on the line, will ya?

Reception: Excusez-moi?

Trump: Hey, look, I know you have call display. Just put the Prime Minister on the line ... Please.

Reception: ... Attendez, s'il vous plaît.

Hold music: Celine Dion's Dans un autre monde

Trump: (to Melania): Can you get me another Pepto-Bismol, sweetie?

Reception: Mr. Trump, Prime Minister Trudeau is now on the line.

Trump: Stephen. It's Donald. Can you congratulate me again? I wanna hear it one more time.

Trudeau: Mr. Trump, ah, a small reminder, my name is Justin Trudeau.

Trump: Right. Lay that polite canuckspeak on me again.

Trudeau: (reading from statement): On behalf of the Government of Canada, I would like to congratulate Donald J. Trump on his election as the next President of the United States.  Au nom du gouvernement du Canada, j’aimerais féliciter --

Trump:  -- yeah yeah, enough with that. Listen, Trudeau. We're going to be doing business together. You know me. I like to say it the way it is. So, I'm going to make you a beautiful offer, that I think, is fantastic for everyone involved. This is a limited time offer, so don't think too much about it. Listen -- I will buy your national and sub-national debt -- all of it. Because I'm a nice guy.

Trudeau: Quois?

Trump: In exchange -- in exchange for the branding rights to Canada.

Trudeau: Je ne comprends pas ce que vous dites ...

Trump: (to Melania); Do you understand what he's saying? (to Trudeau)   

So I will wipe out your debt, all of it, 

make all your problems go away, in exchange for branding rights. 

So we'll do away with the word Canada 

and call the place Trumpland. It's easier for business, a catchier name, 

it's fabulous. We'll take care of everything on our end. 

You won't have to do a thing, except stay out of our way.

Trudeau: ... Je ne comprends pas ce que vous dites ... Parlez-vous francais?

Trump: (to Melania). What the hell? (to Trudeau). Okay ... Moi, je suis, uh, 

payez lots of money, pour votre, uh, country. Canada, non, 

Trumpland, oui. D'accord?

Trudeau:  Attendez, s'il vous plaît. Allow me to consult with my advisors.

Trump: I'll give you two minutes.

Hold music: Roch Voisine's Un Simples Gars

Trump (to Melania): I don't know why he wants to speak French? I don't get it.

Trudeau (back on line): Mr. Trump. I would like to thank you for your generous 

offer to buy our national and subnational debt. Your thoughtfulness is 

appreciated. However, our government politely declines your offer. 

We thank you for your interest 

in our sovereignty, a wish you all the best as you prepare to become 

the next President of the United States.

Trump: Wait a minute -- are you sure? What are you holding onto up there? 

Give it up, it's been over for years. We already own you. 

Why not give up the charade and make it official?

Trudeau: Le Canada n’a pas d’ami, de partenaire ou d’allié plus 

proche que les États-Unis. Nous sommes impatients de travailler de très 

près avec --

Trump: -- yeah, yeah, we'll be in touch. The offer is only good for another day.

Trudeau: If you have any further inquiries, you can have them directed to our Minister of National Defence, the Honourable Harjit Singh Sajjan.

Trump: I don't know that guy. What's he look like?

Trudeau: He looks Canadian.

Trump: Beautiful. You people are so good looking. I like good looking.

Trudeau: I have to go, Hadrien just threw up.

Trump: Who? Doesn't matter. Think about my offer. We'll see you around.

Trudeau: See you on ice. Au revoir.

 

Captain America Enters U.S. Presidential Race

(exclusive to Bennettworld)

Captain America a.k.a. Steven Rogers has entered the race to be the next president of the United States.

The patriotic super soldier declared his bid for the White House in a press conference yesterday.

“I am dedicated to the preservation of the American people against the forces of evil,” Captain American said. “I will use my shield to decapitate any army of evildoers to defend our way of life.”

Captain America’s late entry as an independent candidate for the job as President has come as a surprise to politicians and pundits.

“I get that Captain America is an expert tactician and has an enormous capacity for work, I get that. I get that he loves his country. But he is a fictional character appearing in Marvel Comic books. An actor in costume played him at the press conference. For me, that raises some questions,” said conservative political consultant Karl Rove.

A Gallup poll conducted after the announcement of Captain American as a presidential candidate found that a slim majority of Americans would vote for him.

“What this would indicate is that the American people love their cartoon characters,” said Senior Research Director Tyson Caldwell. “Although Donald Trump has held ground for many months, it would appear there’s a new superhero in town.”

Those opposed to Captain America becoming the head of state and commander-in-chief of one of the most powerful nations on earth dismiss the poll as irrelevant.

“I have said it before, but it bears repeating – Captain America is a fictional character created by comic book artists and is the creative property of Marvel Comics,” said Allison O’Donnell, a Masters student in pharmacology at Georgetown University. “Besides, the Super-Serum and so-called “Vita-ray” treatment he has purportedly taken has not had FDA approved double-blind clinical studies.”

Patton Gettysburg, the campaign manager for Captain America is optimistic that his candidate will present a serious challenge for both Donald Trump and Hilary Clinton. As neither a Republican nor a democrat, America represents a massive constituency exasperated with the other presidential contenders.

“Parties are for poopers,” said Gettysburg. “The American people want a President that adheres to no political party and has no plan, someone who is agenda-less. The People want someone who can speak to their needs on a relativistic, atomic basis.”

When asked by New York Times journalist Jonathan Martin at the press conference what in specific he would do for the American People, Captain America said, “If someone needs their car washed, or they needed me to go pick up some milk for them at the store, I will be there to help. That’s a promise.”

“For all 321,442,019 persons and counting?”

“For all 321,442,019 persons and counting,” said Captain America.

The Gravitational Pull of Rob Ford

I am partial to the laws of physics. One law in particular has been on my mind of late -- gravitational pull:
The size of gravitational force depends on the mass of the object being pulled by the Earth. The size of this force is the weight of the object.
A massive object will have more gravitational pull that a lighter object. Case in point, Rob Ford, his own planet, has attracted more people with his magnetism than I have. Can the law of gravitational pull be applied to the phenomenon of Rob Ford?
Yes, is my conclusion. I have experienced it.

A few years ago, the Emanuel-Howard Park United  Church (now called Roncesvalles United Church) in Toronto called upon my comedic services to host a wine and cheese fundraiser. This church is about as left-leaning, LGBTQ-positive, social justice-activist as it gets. Its tagline is "A Radically Welcoming Christian Community". Like any good Catholic, I love the United Church of Canada (no kneeling, no mass). Many of my friends are members of this church, so when I was asked to host, I was happy to help. The gig gave me an excuse to wear a gown with my Doc Martens. Besides, being in alcohol recovery, I have grown fond of church basements.

Our MPP and MP for High Park-Parkdale were in attendance that night, eager to support this church and its charitable works. The organizer told me that she had invited Mayor Rob Ford as well, but did not expect him to show up. I took that as my cue to fire off some Rob and Doug jokes, the lingua franca of the comedy scene at the time. The material went over well with the audience. I then brought up a band that played a couple of songs while getting ready for the next part of the evening's business, the auction.

From my vantage point in the wings, I could see a little commotion in the audience, a parting of the crowd making way for someone or something. I thought more beer was being delivered. That's when the event organizer rushed up to me.
"He's here!"
"Who's here?"
"Rob Ford! You've got to introduce him now!"
After the band finished its song, she prodded me back on stage. Stunned, all I could manage to say was "Folks, please welcome to the stage, Mr. Rob Ford!"

I didn't call him "His Worship". I was too shocked. He crossed the stage with a plaque in his hand and proceeded to give brief remarks of congratulations to the church and its volunteers.
That's when I felt the gravitational pull of Rob Ford, the large man with the ruddy face and blond hair, impeccably dressed in a suit. I could feel his charisma like shock waves. He had a cherub's aura, a bizarre innocence. I marvelled at him as he presented the plaque to the event organizer, one of the main stalwarts of the church. The crowd applauded, and after a few pleasantries with some congregates, the mayor took his leave with his people. 

That gesture of venturing out into lefty territory and paying tribute to people who earlier laughed at jokes made at his expense converted me into a fan of Rob Ford. The fact that he had addiction problems made me sympathetic to him. Was he a good mayor? No, but he was a savvy politician. For better or for worse, he put the city of Toronto on the map and arguably did more for tourism that the billion dollar extravaganza of the Pan Am Games. For a year or so, we all were citizens of Crazy Town, and it was exhilarating -- just ask the media, the late night talk show hosts, the comedians. Mr. Ford didn't have a pretentious bone in his body and was incapable of artifice. He was a comedian's friend, someone not afraid to laugh at himself because if you can't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em. 

When I heard he had cancer, my thought was that the media and those who hounded him would only be happy when he's dead. And now he's dead. I'm not happy. Toronto has just lost one of the most colourful characters this city has ever known. What it has gained though is its newest folk hero. Maybe that's what Mr. Ford was aiming for all along. 

Rob Ford was a force of nature. Denying his affect is like denying magnetism. He had pull.

I was Pierre Trudeau's and Justin Trudeau's Girlfriend

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is purely intentional.

EXCLUSIVE TO 

CAROLYN BENNETT WRITER/COMIC BLOGSPOT.CA

I was Pierre Trudeau's  and Justin Trudeau’s girlfriend. Not at the same time. Wait, let me think. …. …. … … ……. ……. … .. no, not at the same time.

I met Pierre in 1996 at the corner of Sherbrooke Street and Rue Guy. I was about to get on the 165 Bus opting for the scenic route up The Boulevard to get to Côte-des-Neiges and eventually Van Horne to board the 161 to Côte-Saint-Luc, when I tripped on my untied shoelaces and into the arms of an older man wearing a cape. “Superman?” I exclaimed. “Non, mademoiselle, -- Pierre Elliot Trudeau.” He righted me against a wall and held me by the shoulders while I caught my breath, which took 15 minutes.  My knees kept buckling and he kept holding me up, until a passerby told us to “get a room”. We did.

The room was around the corner at the Ritz Carlton Hotel, the "Grande Dame" of Sherbrooke Street. Ironic that I should be walking in with a former Prime Minister when in fact, I had been banned from the establishment since 1994 -- some trifle about dousing a balustrade with gasoline and lighting it on fire. Pierre lowered himself on the king bed, shrugged, and then loosened his pants. I could tell by his pinched expression and general ennui that making love to me would be just another public service for a man who had given so much to his country.  I grazed his flaked and bony fingers with mine and whispered “it’s okay. Let’s just drink instead.” He ordered several bottles of Dom Pérignon (which I adored when someone else was buying). I drained the bubbly while he stroked my dirty blond hair and watched La Petite Vie on Radio-Canada.  I must confess my memory fails me a bit after this. At some point in the evening I recall Justin Trudeau knocking on the door and imploring his father to leave. “Je t’aime papa”, he cried. Pierre did not leave me. Au contraire [from the French for “on the contrary”] dear reader, he listened as I recited poetry I had scrawled on hotel stationery, and caressed my back as I knelt before the toilet vomiting.  Afterwards, I have a vague impression of his thin lips on mine, blowing into my mouth while applying steady compression on my chest with the heels of his hands.  

The next morning I woke up on the floor, fully clothed, pallid and parched, with delirium tremens and a mark on my neck resembling a hickie. The DTs are gone, but the “hickie” remains, In fact, every year on the anniversary date of my rendezvous with Monsieur Trudeau, I allow the faithful to touch the stigmata, which is formed in the image of a middle finger. Suffice to say, I have not washed my neck in almost 20 years.

I will always t’aime Trudeau senior. But you won’t believe what happened almost 20 years later with me and his son Justin!

NEXT MONTH PART II: The Justin Year(s)day.

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. 

Master Of One's Own Stuff

“These scribes are going to be hard to put in, so put some glue on the back edge and use some shims to clamp it into place.”

"Wha?"

"First, hand me the dado blade. I need to cut a rabbet."

   

"Will do ..."

I rummaged through a tool box, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. I held up a screwdriver.

"Is this what you want?"

"That's a screwdriver."

'I know ... "

Dan found the dado blade by looking in a drawer. I knew I was in for a humiliating few days.

I have been helping Dan in the woodworking shop. Dan is a master cabinet maker/carpenter/all around guy who deals in physical reality. I am a writer/comedian/person who deals in abstractions. I thought it would be a lark to get my hands dirty. 

Precious little me.

My biggest workplace hazard is a paper cut. Dan's is sawing off his fingers. Being surrounded by heavy machinery and hand tools was a welcomed distraction from computer screens and the suck of the internet. 

Now, working in the shop is a bit of an obsession. It is where I go for serious ego-deflation.

I am white collar. Dan is blue collar. I am impressed each of us even have collars.

Dan grew up in Biggar Saskatchewan and worked on his uncle's farm from the age of seven to 15.

I grew up in Montreal Quebec and worked at pumping gas, serving food and mangling the French language from the age of 15 to 23. The years seven to 15 I spent avoiding any semblance of responsibility.

 
Sitting at a computer and spitting out, say, this blog, requires a modicum of ability. A grasp of grammar and sentence structure helps, as does a vocabulary. Having something to say is icing on the cake. The hardest part of writing is sitting still and blocking out the external world. Writers have to go into a kind of trance. Being in a trance is dangerous around heavy machinery. Full attention is better.

Dan's work requires a firm grasp of external reality. Measurements to the exact millimetre. Dexterity. Physical strength. The ability to carve, mold, hammer, glue, sand, drill, AND draw.  This is the ultimate arts and crafts. His work is spectacular.

He also has to envision what a piece will be, engineer its functionality, assemble and refine parts to create a whole unit. All this in physical reality.

There was a time when doing things yourself was part of life. Now we farm out different aspects of ourselves; we hire people to mow our lawn and garden, fix the roof, walk our dogs, pick up our dry cleaning. Dan can rewire a kitchen because it's something he learned from working alongside electricians. Dan is not an electrician, but can do the work himself. Self-reliance comes naturally to him, the result of growing up in a rural environment. 
It is a quality I admire very much.

Modern society has denigrated the useful arts, to the point where it has made your average city dweller infantile. We are becoming a society of lard-ass automatons, unable to think and do for ourselves. Snobbery toward those who work with their hands, those who build, is ignorant. Where are all the jobs now, the media tells us? The skilled trades. 

There's a brilliant little book called Shop Class As Soulcraft by gearhead and philosopher Matthew Crawford. It examines our lack of connection to the material world and celebrates the honour of the manual trades. There's a chapter called To Be Master Of One's Own Stuff where Crawford illustrates the idea of spiritedness:

Spiritedness is an assertion of one's own dignity, and to fix one's own car for [ example] is not merely to use up time, it is to have a different experience of time, of one's car and of oneself.

I am a hell of a long way off from being master of my own stuff, but at least I'm willing to try. I want that different experience. I now have the splinters to prove it.

 

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

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.