Archive for December, 2007
Tonight, I’ll be sipping hot chocolate, and skating on an outdoor rink nestled in a snow-covered forest, atop Grouse Mountain.
There will be no drunken hoopla at the stroke of midnight. Nah. By then, I’ll be snuggled onto the couch. Spending some private time with my pal, Mr. Brian Regan (his HBO Special and his ‘I walked on the moon’ DVD).
Exactly the evening I’m in the mood for.
Happy New Year’s everyone.
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My flight from Edmonton arrives on time. But, a Red Code alert means luggage must sit on the Vancouver tarmac. I, along with other passengers, wait in the airport for our suitcases to appear
Herein….Colleen’s airport journal:
Day TwoÂ
Morning has broken here at the Arrivals gate. It’s been a fitful and restless night. While the granite floor played havoc with my hip bones, I took solace in the miniature pillow the shoe shine man kindly offered as I bunked down for the evening.
Of course, this one small luxury did not bode well with my fellow travellers. The Code Red alert has taken its toll on the frivolity that flowed so freely on yesterday’s flight when passengers lightheartedly shared pretzel bags and discussed Pauly Shore’s next career move.
Alas, no more. We have since broken into two camps. I, of course, am aligned with the ‘Airway Artisians’. We sleep in an asymmetrical circle and console ourselves with readings of Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’. A man named Azure has secretly been offering me pieces of his lactose-free, vanilla hemp bar. I, in my weakened state, gladly accept this humble gesture as food is now in short supply.
This is a far cry from yesterday when the airport shop glass cases swelled with egg salad sandwiches and carrot cake slices encased in saran. In fact, on that very day, the Vancouver Airport Authority decreed that, in light of the Code Red crisis, it would lower the price of a tuna on rye from $14.00 to $9.00 – a gesture so profound it brought dehydrated tears to my eyes.
Unfortunately, the effects of this kindness are dampened by the sadistic streak of a certain West Jet employee named Damien Harbinkle - who possesses a predilection for sporadically starting up Carousel 3 – all for the pure evil pleasure of watching us push and shove as we make our way to the luggage shute – only to hear his chortle and snort from the West Jet desk. (Apparently, we are not allowed behind the counter). This fact has resulted in much frustration for ’Tex’ (a member of the ‘Slick’ group) – a group of oil executives who set up camp atop said carousel.
Must run. Damien has, once again, started up the carousel. And, frankly, I just can’t take the chance.
Wing Dancer II
“Waaaahhhhh….I WON’T DO IT!” (stomp left foot).
Come on Colleen, everyone’s doing it. It’s so common, (says Miss Brow’s comic pal).
“No, No, NO!” (slam bedroom door).
But, Coll…
“LA LA LA LA LA LA LA…I can’t hear you. LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA.” (throw self onto pink canopy bed).
Colleen?
Silence. (pick at scab).
Colleeeeeen….I know you’re still on the phone. I can hear you breathing.
“Go away.” (brush Malibu Barbie’s hair).
I know you hate it. But, hey…I did it. Now, it’s your turn.
“You’re not the boss of me.” (slide cake pan into Easy Bake Oven).
Come on, I’ll even help get you started. How ’bout we make an afternoon of it. I’ll even take you for a treat at the liquor store afterwards.Â
“Icky. Yucky.” (feed remaining Sea Monkey).
LOOK Colleen, the only way us comics can now ask for stage time is through Facebook. Otherwise, you can’t get spots. You HAVE to sign up.
“NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. Up to a gazillion, bazillion, trazillion infinity – NO!”
(Hide under Little Mermaid quilt.
Make plan to quit comedy.
Become fake tattoo artist).
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Tonight: I made a fire. Poured wine. Practiced Heimlich manoeuvre on self. Put out fire. Moved it into fireplace. Cleaned up wine. Wrote a letter (L). Said the ‘F’ word (simply to feel two front teeth dig into bottom lip). Played pretend spa. Put cucumber on eyes. Removed cucumber. Too heavy. Wondered: If Don Imus was a store Santa, would he be banned from saying Ho Ho Ho? Removed cellophane from recent present (no, not a pack of cigs). Delicately opened new Steven Wright CD. Gazed at pictures. Read liner notes. Allowed fingers to skim case. Exalted in new CD smell. Placed disc in player. Pressed ‘play’. Settled onto couch.
Favourite lines:
Sometimes, when I go to a grocery store and I see a guy in the parking lot pushing 30 carts, I say: “Hey, other people might want to use those, you know.”Â
As my father used to say: “If worst comes to worst…we’re screwed.”
I have a CD burner: My fireplace.
Next week, I’m going to have an MRI…to find out whether or not I have claustrophobia.
In highschool, I went out with two girls. One was like the ‘girl next door’. If you lived next to a whorehouse.
Paul was a friend of mine. He was killed playing tag. But, it wasn’t really tag. It was ‘push’. Near the Grand Canyon.
The next song doesn’t go something like this. It goes EXACTLY like this….
Chimes are for stupid people, so they know when there’s a breeze.
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Made another fire.
Called 911.
Pressed play.