Colleen’s Late Night Musings, Doubts, Conspiracy Theories

Current Gigs:

Headlining – Thursday, February 10th, Kingston Taphouse & Grill, 755 Richards, Vancouver. Showtime – 9:00 p.m.

Corporate Show – Saturday, February 19th, Aunt Leah’s Society Fundraising Concert. Local musicians – featuring Reid Jamieson!
Sponsored by SHORE 104.3 FM

Thursday, February 17th, Kingston Taphouse & Grille (yes, again), 755 Richards, Vancouver. Showtime – 9:00 p.m.

Every Friday at 8:25 a.m. – Comedy Kick on SHORE 104.3 FM – I scour the comedy clubs, find the best lines and clips of the week.

Any day. Any time. XM Sattelite Radio (Sirius). Heard across the U.S. and Canadian airwaves. Comedy Breaks – My set from the recent Vancouver Comedy Festival. (Haven’t heard it myself, but, a friend called to say he DID). Go figure. I never even knew.

Tap out.

~

Esteemed French mime, Marcel Marceau, renown for his ˜In the Box” mimicry, was buried in a simple pine coffin this past year, ironically immortalizing the very sketch that brought him fame.

Parisien waiters recognized Marceau’s passing by giving the silent treatment to American tourists (a gesture which initially began in 1934 in anticipation of Mr. Marceau’s death). The initiative was so successful, the French tourism board has decided to extend it to August 10th, 2018.

French Prime Minister Nicolas Sarkozy held his own tribute, commenting: “Let’s have a big old game of charades, shall we?!” Ministerial staff were seen to roll their eyes in anticipation of Sarkozy’s annual, snicker-fueled rendition of Winnie the Pooh.

Upon finally removing Mr. Marceau’s make-up, embalmers were shocked to discover the identify of one Jimmy Hoffa. The Reverends Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson were, reportedly, on their way to Paris (just because).

In honour of Marcel Marceau – two minutes of raucous noise.

Note to self:

When backing car out at 4:00 a.m.
always remember to open garage door.

My nine-year old son’s favourite song is

‘Holiday in Cambodia’ by the Dead Kennedys,

the ear-splitting, 80’s underground punk band renown for its acerbic,

left-wing commentary on social and political issues,

the musical mocking of right-wing ideology,

the vilification of the Reagan administration…

…all while simultaneously exposing the

hypocracy of various far-left liberal elites.

~

Kind of brings a tear to the eye,

doesn’t it?

I’m thinking of taking on the role of Miss Moneypenny, the fictional character in the James Bond movies and books. She’s the secretary to ‘M’, who happens to be Bond’s boss and the head of the British Secret Service.

I’d call myself Miss Penny Candy and adorn my body with edible bling (candy necklace, earrings to match). I’d carry a concealed licorice whip in my handbag, and one of those trick Juicy Fruit packs that snap clean the finger bones off any unsuspecting gum-taker. Upon command, my Pez dispenser would release a venomous vapour (not unlike that of patchouli) rendering a rival spy unconscious within seconds. Once bound and awake, the prisoner would be subjected to an endless loop of ‘Full House’ (Season 2, Episode 7 ‘Uncle Jesse gets a haircut’) until the enemy’s secret code was divulged (usually within 8 to 12 minutes).

Each day, I’d artfully arrange myself upon my desk in a variety of film-noir poses, ensconsed in flickering green and red hues from a neighbouring Quizno’s sign. Taking long, slow draws on my chocolate cigarette, I’d gaze at the ceiling and indulge in my prediliction for uber-spy foreign languages (Urdu, Swahili, Gaelic, Stephen Hawking) while uttering sensual, yet philosophical, gems such as:

“I need somewhere to blot my lipstick. Can I use your lips?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere Agent X. But, don’t stop trying.”

“Nietzsche…..just wasn’t my type.”

I can’t fax, file, unjam the photocopier or make coffee (unless it’s to poison the enemy). Who cares?

“Miss Penny Candy, take a memo.”

Oh….I think not.

Gum, anyone?

Vegas.

Hot.

Dry.

Broken.

The smell of steeped concrete. And, shattered dreams. A life compilation of unfortunate decisions played out in sagging strip motels in hues of dusty rose and foam green, with 1960’s cursive on the marquee: ‘Stay for a night. Stay for a week! Stay for the rest of your sotted and lonely life!” The kind of sad, low-lying cement squats complete with teeny, kidney-shaped pools and long-forgotten, rusted lounge chairs. Where dead bodies are folded into suitcases, messily stuffed behind the ground floor ice machine, or self-propelled from the roof of Honest Arnie’ (Liquor! Cigs! Gaming! Tattoos!).

And, there’s the other Vegas. The glinty. The glittery. Where lions are showcased in glass cases for snapshot happy tourists. Where platinum is the new gold. Money is the new happiness. And, lives, ironically, not that far removed from the mortals at the dusty rose oasis. Oh, there are shows, shows, shows. A dancer could find work within the half-hour. A Vegas slogan: ‘Making the world a better place one dancer at a time.’ (or was that Kierkegaard)?

Appearing (and disappearing) nightly: Magic. Though, sometimes magic gets ugly. Sometimes magic gets competitive. There’s ‘The World’s GREATEST Magic Show’, and, ‘Steve Wyrick – REAL Magic’, and ‘The ONLY Magic Show’, and ‘The Strip’s Best & Only Truly Worthy Magic Show’, and, ‘The BESTEST, MOST IMPORTANTIST, SCREW THE OTHERS, Magic Extravaganza’ (fun for the whole family). Then, there’s Penn & Teller.

Meh. I hate magic.

There’s something called ‘Little Legends’. Celebrity impersonations performed by…midgets. And, another called ’The Lucky Chengs’. Celebrity impersonations performed by…Asian people. To each…his/her bizarre own.

Visit the ‘All You Can Eat Buffet’ that tastes like – chicken. Fetish-inclined? Become an embedded shopper at the outlet mall devoted entirely to shoes.

Meh. I hate shopping.

At least, there’s COMEDY, folks. Is this a place where peaked, over-cooked, “what the Hell do I do now?” comedians go to die? Palliative Comic Care for the Rich? We’ve got Roseanne Barr, Seinfeld, Ray Romano, Jay Leno, Bobby Slayton, George Wallace, Louie Anderson, Wayne Brady, Rita Rudner, Wanda Sykes…

And, me.

Tonight. 11:00 p.m., AJ’s Comedy Night in Vegas.

Nowhere near the strip.

I’m poor.

I’m happy.

.

Intelligent commentary. Music that surfs the soul – nestling in faraway places.

Canwest music critics from across the country have each selected their favourite album of the decade. Better yet, they explain why.

From the healing elixir of Patty Griffin’s melancholic vibes to the film noir romanticism of Tom Waits – the chosen discs are lush, dark and brooding.

Surprisingly, many are Canadian: Metric, Broken Social Scene, Arcade Fire. All this alongside such epic American songsters as Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash.

Check out the entertainment section at www.theprovince.com

Reconfigure your inner revolution.

Comedy has challenged my emotional homeostasis, toughened my resolve, allowed me to cut my teeth, albeit sometimes on my own skin, provided intellectual buzz, and, introduced me to like-minded thinkers who reconstruct my core. It has also given me more laughter than I could ever imagine. For the record: One of my most memorable sets:

Las Vegas, March 2008 – AJ’s Comedy Tavern:

Kenny Chesney wails from the juke box in a place where second-hand smoke goes to die, along with broken dreams, and battle-weary livers. Blackened windows and doors suggest anonymity along a dark stretch of highway where dead bodies are conveniently dropped in the dead of night. There is no audience. Just a line of aged men, bereft of a future or even plans…like…say, tomorrow? Ashtray and drink their only companion, they sink their gaze into a vortex of spinning fruit and neon.

The show’s producer turns off the music. The comics assemble into a faux audience. No flicker of acknowledgement from John Deere patrons. I realize that, other than one employee, I am the only woman in this bar. I am also the only person, in the history of AJ’s Tavern, to ask for a Pinot Blanc.
There is no Pinot Blanc.

We begin. The comics are filthy. Some are funny. Every six minutes, a drunken, Hawaiin shirt-clad patron staggers across the room and plugs in the juke box. Reba fills the air. The MC stomps across the floor and yanks out the cord in a silent fit of fury. This in/out dance proceeds during the entire show. After the show, this patron will be beaten up by a large, heavily tattooed bartender. This bartender is six-months pregnant.

I do my comedy set as another inebriated local slow dances with himself in the front row. Fellow comics laugh, applaud. I close on a decently solid joke after a ten minute set. Trepidation has turned into giddy satisfaction. It’s not about the set. It’s about feeling wildly uncomfortable, being so out of my element…and, yet, staying with it. Doing my best…when every minute seemed like a fortnight.

~

I’m ready to teach a new art term. My work as a radio broadcaster fills me up, for sure. But, this is a colourful and immature diversion. I love dipping my fingers in crimson, magenta, and sunflower yellow. I also like inhaling the fumes. Which is probably why I’m a sub-standard artist. Luckily, I’m teaching modern art. Besides, I have been compared to Picasso with my paintings of one-eyed, three-breasted men. (His, apparently, were on purpose).

The term begins: Eight weeks of sculpting little boys and girls into aspiring artists. We will explore the Dutch Masters. Navigate Cubism. Discuss advanced art concepts (abject poverty, insanity, sleeping with the gallery owner). This time, having learned my lesson, I will avoid mentioning Van Gogh’s trysts with a prostitute (it did, however, prove advantageous in the CanWest Spelling Bee for the word ‘Gonorrhea’).

I teach these classes in French. While the language sometimes flows smoothly from my lips, most of the time I grasp. Stutter. Regress into my high school lessons. We paint Guy a la Bibliotheque. Sketch Monique a la Discotheque. Sculpt a large Pamplemousse.

I wait for the bell to ring. I’ve yet to meet my young Salvador Dali-ians. Some will return from last term. Others will be new – a blank canvas. But, please – a little prayer to the God of Colour Wheels – that ONE boy from last time. Please, not this term. Give me a rest. His constant tugging at my sleeve. The tantrums. The stomp of his stubborn little feet. The endless, inane questions. Tap on my shoulder. Tap. Tap. Tap. Stomp. I have 25 children to tend to. He blocks my every move.

Bell buzzes. Children stream into the room. There is a shriek. A yelp of delight. Oh! Fantastique! C’est bien! He pushes through the tide of students. Arms outstretched. Mademoiselle Colleen! He propels his body into mine. Arms sling around my neck. “Colleen, je t’aime!”

He is warm. He is soft.

He smells like Fruit Roll-up.

I bite my lip. Then dissolve into a grin.

How the Hell am I supposed to write dark, satirical comedy material with this sort of nonsense going on?