Archive for May, 2008
Tomorrow night – Sunday, June 1st, 11:00 p.m. to midnight,
 I’m Guy MacPherson’s guest on the Vancouver radio show ‘What’s so Funny?’
Co-op Radio, CFRO – 102.7 FM. Or listen online at www.coopradio.org
( A nice change from my usual stints on Al-Jazeera).
Hello?
Hi Mom. Just wanted to phone to say thanks for coming to the show. What did you think of my new material?
Well (sigh)…I don’t know, Colleen. Sylvia Plath? Nabakov? People don’t know who these writers are. And, that little bit on the Democrats…maybe…but, really.”
But, Mom…I love the Plath reference! It’s one of my favourites.
Well, I guess, sweetie. But, why didn’t you do your usual jokes? You know…the oral sex one…oh, and making love with the cable guy -THAT’s your best joke, dear – don’t forget that one. And, that multiple orgasm bit…and being raised in a strict Catholic home…Now, THIS is what people want to hear!”
(My mother – the Andrew Dice Clay of Catholic parents).
Monday night – If Woody Allen crossed his legs – his shoe would tap against my table. Such was the intimacy of the evening as he wooed with his New Orleans jazz band.
Tuesday – Me. Performing at the Comic Strip Live. Six minutes. Wildly exciting. Somewhat nerve-wracking. But, I felt good in my skin.
Later – over to Demetri Martin’s place. Word was he was trying out some new material for friends and fellow comics. Chatted with him afterwards. Demetri – the comic of hope.
Wednesday – Yankees. Alex Rodriguez hits two homers and a double. Hot roasted peanuts. Hotdogs. Passionate Bronx fans.
Thursday – Gotham. Jake Johannson.
I love this town.
Done. Book closed. I just read Steve Martin’s ‘Born Standing Up.’ These past few bedtimes he’s been a warm comfort – akin to sliding under the covers with a friend – laughing, talking, hearing of comedy sets gone bad, dreams, doubts, disappointments, hitting a creative wall, and joyously breaking through it. A local book critic lamented the fact that Mr. Martin’s offering was introspective as opposed to hilarious. EXACTLY. You see, Steve gave us something far more precious. He shared his intimate journey and its accompanying vulnerabilities. No head arrow required.
I particularly admired Steve’s ability to be a student of comedy. When he read that a laugh formed when a storyteller created tension – releasing it only with a punchline, he asked: What if there WERE NO punchlines? What if there were no indicators? What if I created a tension and never released it? He discovered that by denying audience members the formality of a punchline, they would be able to pick their own time/place to laugh.
He also inspired me with his on-stage mantra: ‘Every moment matters.’…Inspired me with tales of aggressive hecklers, no-show audiences, bad reviews, overly loud patrons exclaiming “I don’t understand any of this!”…Inspired me with his revelation that one…JUST ONE…unsmiling audience member could chip away at his entire routine, never mind the other 87 people laughing (oh, how this spoke to me). CLASSIFIED INFO: (whisper) I’ve always felt that EVERYONE in the audience had to like me – really like me as a person. (Realistically, that’s not going to happen. I’m just glad that Steve is human too).
Hey readers: Buy the book. Run your fingers over the cover. Crack the binding. Smell the pages. Gaze at the photos.
Taste the words.
Swallow.
Digest.
In my CD player this week…last week…next week: Demetri Martin. Just because. He’s simply my current persuasive back seat driver – the understated, writerly intellect infiltrating my mini-van, making my work commute unfettered, unbothered by insanely rising gas prices. Colleen - isn’t it embarassing to laugh alone in your car, windows up, waiting at a light? No. Colleen, do you know you just drove past your work? Bah. OF COURSE, I know this. I simply have to drive ’round the block once more. (Don’t co-workers know it’s sacreligious to turn off a car ignition mid-joke)? Ah, Demetri, Demetri – shall we allow others to indulge in our petite tete a tete? Perhaps a tete a tout le monde? A few of my Demetri favourites:
I like parties. But, I don’t like pinatas, because it promotes violence against flamboyant animals. Hey, there’s a donkey with pizzazz. Let’s kick its ass. What I’m trying to say is, don’t make the same Halloween costume mistake I did.
I like when good things happen to me, but, I wait two weeks to tell anyone because I like to use the word ‘fortnight’.
 I want to make a jigsaw puzzle that has 4,000 pieces. When you finish it, it says ‘go outside.’
I like professional football. I like to go to the stadium and watch the games live. I paint my chest before I leave the house. But, I don’t have many friends, so I usually just do punctuation and tack on a group already in progress. Sometimes it works out kind of weird because we ended up on TV and it said… ‘JETS?’
Graffiti is the most passionate literature there is. It’s always ‘Bush sucks!’ or ‘U2 Rocks!’ I want to make indifferent graffiti….’Toy Story 2 was okay!’ or ‘I like Sheryl as a friend, but I’m not sure about taking things further.’
The worst time to have a heart attack is during a game of charades.
Saying ‘I’m sorry’ is the same thing as saying ‘I apologize’. Except at a funeral.
…around the block again.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Nothing in the world
is as pretty
as you.
(Spencer Brow, age 11)
She arrives home ensconsed in the giddy afterglow of consumption as she has performed in her favourite Vancouver comedy room with some of her favourite comics in the universe and beyond. Best part is – she killed. But, she hates the word ‘killed’. Overdone. Akin to ’break a leg…how ’bout them Canucks…and, soy chai latte.’ How does one explain the explosive juxtaposition of ‘gettin’ it’ and ‘givin’ it’ to the audience tonight? A formidable task. She is piqued by the complexities of the comedic process. When does it gel? When does it curdle? Zen and beyond, she does not process the abstract stats that make for a killin’. All she absorbs through her thin-skinned pores is the warmth of goodness, laughter, and connectness with Orion, Cassopeia, and other audience constellations. Oddly, an unrelated realization unfurls its embarassed self: Time does not heal all wounds. Who first uttered this? They are wrong. No worries, she has soaked her taste buds in Mission Hill Pinot Blanc splashed into oversized goblets – which makes for a stellar set as she and two friends had arrived absurdly early for her gig. What’s a girl to do? Bill Hicks adventurer she aspires to be - she experiments with varying degrees of lucidity as they relate to a microphone and stand. She discovers that three oaky, fruity elixirs are just about right on an evening such as this.
One might drive under such an influence.
But, one should never blog.
The time had come. My oldest son had reached the age of 14A. The rite of manly moviehood passage beckoned. I reached into my closet and grasped the package that, for the past year, sat nestled in my Irish wool sweater. Unwrapping the cellophane, I popped open the hard plastic case (my God, I love that sound) and dropped the disc into place.
Tonight, I would share a beloved movie, ‘High Fidelity’. Stephen Frear’s 2000 adaptation of Nick Hornby’s novel is such that I no longer watch the film. I feel the film. The over-arching self-consciousness of John Cusack’s character as he searches for self-actualization pokes holes in me. His red, raw openness, his over-thinking/over-analyzing/moodiness/desire to (eventually) face the truth - even if it’s unsightly and prickly – it all steals me away. What can I say? I adore the guy’s passion. (Question to self: Jeez Colleen, why do you always relate to the male roles? DeNiro’s Jake LaMotta, novelist Brian Moore’s Ginger Coffey, even ridiculously silly Zach Braff in Scrubs). All I know is I appreciate passion. Not the needy/clingy type but, the authentic adoration for another person…and for life. A comedian pal said last week that he loved my passion (we’re NOT talking sexual here). Ah, he must be referring to that bubbly, fiery, quirky, luscious mutant genetic predisposition that consistently lands me hip-deep in trouble. I guess it IS nice to be around…, but, try LIVING it! And, hey…why aren’t we talking JOKES?! Okay, back to the movie.
So, we watched. On the couch. Eating icecream.
While the movie spoke more to my sensibilities a decade ago, it still managed to resonate, to sweep me away.
And, my son, in his usual under-arching manner, said: “Nice, mom. Thanks.”
“But, it’s no Blades of Glory.”
From a 14A boy, that’s as good as it gets.
.