10 Minutes on Obsession (not the fragrance)

        I'm the type of person who doesn't merely develop an interest in something. Unfortunately I'm the type that has to dissect a subject. I need to take it apart and see how it works. I delve into the history attempting to find out the why, put it into context of a when, and maybe somewhere along the line I can figure out a why.

      This is amplified by tenfold when I'm writing about something. It becomes a matter of trying to show off in a very MTV "You think you know, but you have no idea" way. It was in doing this kind of research that I discovered that Bob Kane was an asshole.

     The non geeks among you probably won't recognize the name Bob Kane. The rest of you will know that Bob Kane created Batman...At least he took credit for it, as it turns out that his friend Bill Finger added a good deal more to the mix than Kane ever did. As well as the overall look of the character (Kane's version wore a red union-suit, stiff batwings and a small domino mask, no gloves) Finger came up with the backstory, the main characters and the noir atmosphere that still remains with the book. Meanwhile Kane's participation with Batman seems to have stopped (apart from making sure his was the only name connected with the caped crusader, and ensuring he got a cut of any merchandising of same) with the 3rd appearance of the character, where Jerry Robinson pretty much takes over and you see a vast improvement in the artwork.

     I was researching the story of  Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster for a project I'm still hoping to develop, when I uncovered another story that put Kane in a less than favorable light. It seemed that when WW2 was over and Siegel & Shuster were in renewal negotiations with National Comics (aka DC) for the rights to their creation, Superman. They went to Kane for help, and laid their cards on the table. If they could get his help then they would have the top two creations in NAtionals stable and force them to the bargaining table. Kane said he'd think about it, then used the information to negotiate a better credit and merchandising deal for himself, and when Jerry and Joe returned , he apologetically told them that he regretted that he couldn't help them. National fired Siegel and Shuster and informed them that since publishing the first Superman story in 1938, which they had purchased for 132 dollars, they had owned the rights to the Man of Steel, and didn't need their permission to do anything with him. Siegel and Shuster end up in borderline poverty, and Bob Kane makes a ton of money particularly during the different resurgences of Batmania.

     Jill Sobule has a song called "Heroes" which asks the musical question "Why are all our Heroes so imperfect..." In most cases it's simply because they're human. Anyway I traded Bob Kane for Jerry Robinson ( who eventually did see that Jerry and Joe got some of what they deserved) and Bill Finger, so I figure I got the better end.

By the way this took about a half an hour to write, but I figured since I missed yesterday, I needed to make up time.

Ciao

    


    

  

10 minutes on Bullying

In the schoolyards of my youth we had bullies. They had different prejudices but it amounted to the same thing. I don't understand you, therefore I will beat the living crud out of you. Pretty simple philosophy when you think of it, but probably ends up taking up a lot of your time because you probably don't understand a lot.
        It was a simpler time too. You got bullied for being different. That's it. Just be different and sooner than later somebody will show up that doesn't like you. Lord knows I had my share. I was different in so many ways.
        I was fat. I was in choir. I had long hair (despite the fact that it was the 60's it hadn't caught on everywhere yet) and I was thought to be a wuss. The latter was a mistaken assumption. I could be called every name in the book, and there was some beauties, but I wouldn't react. Get physical and that was a different matter. I would make it a matter of finishing what had been started.  It happened maybe twice while I was in grade school, and then never again... Change anything? Nope. They just changed tactics.

And they don't go away. They follow you to Middle and High School. They adapt, and you adapt. One thing that I've observed, though, is that they really don't like creative types much, and that's straight up jealousy.
             It feels like it will never stop and, yeah, the scars run really deep. But you're smarter than they are. You have avenues of escape. There're always people and paper and blogs and most of all there's You. And you are supremely powerful. That's what I hear, anyway.

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Ten Minutes on Music and Childhood

I was a rock and roll kid, with pop tendencies, and a touch of blues thrown in to taste. in my house everything was played, pretty much. There was Jimmy Reed, Johnny Cash, Richie Valens, Bill Haley, Clyde McPhatter among others.

As I started to develop my own tastes I naturally drifted towards what I heard on the radio and saw on TV. And what was on radio and TV from 1963 on? The Beatles...So naturally, my first all music album was "The Beatles 2nd Album" mostly because it had a cover of the Marvelettes "Please Mr. Postman" on it. I'd had kid albums before but this was like a grown up record. Mom got the Rolling Stones, and was never much of a Beatles fan. This would be typical of our relationship for the next few decades. To be honest my mom has pretty good taste in music, and I credit a lot of my eclecticism to her. I picked up on some of her faves. Neil Diamond, Simon and Garfunkel, Gene Pitney...

Gene Pitney had the most amazing voice. He had a 3 Octave range. When I practiced singing I practiced singing to "Half Heaven, Half Heartache' or "Every Little Breath I Take".And when I was a kid I could hit those notes. Of course when I was a kid, I was also a boy soprano in St. Simon's Church Choir...Chew on that one 'til tomorrow...

This weekend I was introduced to the ten minute writing exercise as a means of uncorking the blockage that some writers go through. It was during the Fabulous Soul-O theatre workshops run by Tracy Erin Smith who is a great artist and a great teacher. The idea is to simply start writing and keep writing til the time runs out. Stream of consciousness, improvisation, call it what you will. You take a topic and just keep going until the 10 minutes runs out. The pen  keeps moving, the fingers keep writing for the duration, and when it runs out (the time) you stop. Some of what comes out will be crap (according to Sturgeons Law 90% of everything is Crap), but some of it might contain the germ of an idea, and some of it might be wonderful. I got some of each. It was enough to get me to enter the Fringe lottery. Something I haven't done in 14 years. Plus I figured that it was long enough from the last time that people would have forgotten.

     I'm at  a slight disadvantage here, because I'm a slow typist, and a slow cursive writer (my handwriting can be illegible if I'm in a hurry.

   By the way if you hadn't guess this one was about 10 minute timed righting exercises and time is now up...

Manana

Adventures in Theatre 

(1)

“What a Drag!”

            I’m not sure why it started. Nobody in family, to my limited knowledge, ever did it so genetic predisposition is out. It’s like a mutation, I guess. It just kind of happened.

            When I was in kindergarten I got tapped to play the title role in “The Little Drummer Boy”. I was much cuter then and a blonde with big soulful brown eyes. Despite the fact that I had no lines, I took the role very seriously. The ox and lamb had nothing on me in terms of keeping time (I’ve always had rhythm), and I did it with great solemnity. It was a hit. There were tears. And at the tender age of 5 I became hooked on something more addictive than crack: Applause.

            From that point I went out for anything and everything. I was lucky enough to go to Rose Avenue Public School in Cabbagetown (In the 60’s it was a good school, I have no idea what it’s like now). Rose Avenue had what they called a “choir” program, but it actually did musicals. Luckily I could sing (I also ended up in an actual Church choir around this time, for reasons I don’t remember. I blame Davy and Goliath).

            The “Choir was run by Mrs. Donaldson. She usually had a big blond beehive going on and wore a lot of makeup, but taught me one of the most valuable things I’ve ever learned.  She taught me how to project. This has been both a blessing and a curse along the way, because I’m really good at it. The upside is that it doesn’t matter if it’s a 750-seat auditorium (like I worked on in High School) or a smaller venue, you’re going to hear me. The downside was that it took me a while to learn when and where to use this power, and when it was better left in the utility belt.

            So in grade school I began acting, more or less, regularly. Unconsciously I began to pick up tools like timing and the beginnings of characterization. I wasn’t aware of this, because I was having too much fun. I learned I could make people laugh and, if applause is crack, laughter is heroin.

            I suppose that the zenith of my grade school career would have been in 5^th Grade. We were told we were doing a version of Cinderella, and I’m thinking “ Oh swell, there’s nothing in that for me”(I was already painfully aware that I wasn’t cut out for leading man parts). But I was wrong. This is not unusual. I’m wrong often, and I’ve come to terms with it.

            Mrs. Donaldson took Sean Nee and myself aside, and I figured it was to give us the bad news that we weren’t going to be in the show.

If you’re my age and grew up in Toronto, you’ve seen Sean Nee. Remember those big posters they used to with a curly-headed forlorn kid sitting on a curb, with a bag of Oatmeal cookies in front of him, and the tagline “To Some kids, Dad is just the name of a Cookie”. That was Sean. He was a professional. He had an agent,commercials and everything. He was also a nice guy. i liked him.

                        (If the Google search turned up the right one, he’s now an Oxford Educated Ecologist who specializes in studying genetic engineering, among other things. This would make sense as A) He was English and B) He was “wicked smart”. If it is you, Sean, I apologize for the following revelation)

            So when the 3 of us were alone Mrs. Donaldson began speaking in hushed and serious tones. I wasn’t sure why it was hushed since were the only ones in the room, but I went along with it.

            “I have an idea for Cinderella, but I want to ask you two first to see if it’s okay. If it’s going to work I need my 2 best actors.” She said, quite seriously.

           

            That should have tipped me off. Mrs. Donaldson was never one to ladle out the positive feedback, a trait I would unfortunately inherit as a director. She expected you to do well, and if you didn’t, you’d hear about it.

            She took a deep breath and then said “I want you two to play the Ugly Stepsisters”

            There was a pause. It was a long one.

            In the Schoolyard Survival Manual there are certain rules that are laid out. Somewhere in between “Don’t have a funny name” and “Don’t have your mother bring you a snack at recess” is “Don’t be Different”. There are subsections to that one based on race, body type, and of course sexuality, even in grade school. I was already working at a disadvantage in terms of the funny name rule (subsection: “A name that can be changed to be funny”. At the time my last name was Boyes) and the different rule (subsection “Fat Kid”).  All I needed was to be parading around in girl clothes. It was bad enough I was an actor. That was already suspect.

            For some reason we decided that stealing the show trumped school survival, so we did it. And it worked. Our first entrance brought the house down, and for the rest of the show we upstaged Cinderella unmercifully. At the end of the day we escaped the wrath of the schoolyard. They were too busy laughing.

            I’ve only done drag on stage 2 other times. Once when I was producing “Les Belles Soeurs” for Theatre Etobicoke when we couldn’t find an old lady to play the senile, wheelchair bound mother of one of the women, who basically sits in the background and does nothing…

The other was when we did Rocky Horror at the Kingsway, the Brighton or the Roxy or whatever theatre was showing it. Somewhere in the archives at City TV is me on the New Music in full Frank N Furter drag for the 5^th anniversary of RHPS at the Roxy. Damn near won the lookalike contest, but I lost to woman from Michigan.

             The punchline is that my Uncle Ted, who hadn’t seen me in 10 years and despite the wig and heavy makeup, recognized me on television.

            I think the last time he saw me was as the ugly stepsister.

                        Mr. Scary

With everyone it’s a little different. In my case it basically starts in the pit of my stomach and starts making its way up my spine. Once it hits the central nervous system, the party really starts. It can range from a coughing jag to the utter conviction that I’m going to drop dead any moment. But it’s all the same thing, anxiety, jitters, panic, call it what you will. It’s the fear.

Everybody gets it. The degree varies. For some it’s a mild irritation. For others it’s paralyzing nightmare that controls everything they do. Unfortunately mine tends towards the latter category. Sometimes the simplest things require a major effort.

I’ve been dealing with this since early adolescence. Around the time I moved from downtown to the suburbs, it started to kick in, and in really odd ways. I was dealing with a number of issues at the time. My mom was remarrying so I was demoted from my position of “man of the house”. I didn’t know anybody in the new neighborhood and I’m not the most gregarious person on Earth. I was getting my own room, which was a good thing, but also gave me a sense of isolation. Let’s face it; I was easy pickings for the right disorder.

You know those ads with Digger the Happy Yellow Foot Fungus? He struts around looking for fertile feet to move into and multiply. I picture something like that for panic and anxiety disorder (I don’t really differentiate between the two). Mr. Scary. He’s a Disneyesque skeletal figure, has fangs, and for some reason wears a top hat and tails, with spats on bare bony feet. I have no idea why. I’ve always liked Fred Astaire, so it’s not about that. It’s probably an intimidation/status thing. Mr. Scary dresses better than I do.





Anyway it was about that time I had my first encounters with Mr. Scary. I remember the first one specifically. In the days before I slept with the television on all night I slept with the radio on all night. I had a pillow phone plugged into my transistor radio. By the way if you were born in the 70’s or later and you’re reading this, this is at the dawn of cable TV so there weren’t many stations that went all night, no VCRs, or the Internet. Insomniacs had fewer options, and I’ve always had trouble sleeping. Actually, in retrospect, when we moved was when all that started.

So I was in bed listening to the radio. I preferred the sound of a human voice to music for sleeping, so at 12 I started listening to the CBC. Everything was fine until I came across this show that was on Mondays after midnight called “Gotcha!”

“Gotcha” was possibly the easiest show the CBC ever produced. It consisted of a well-voiced actor reading macabre short stories with weird music and the occasional sound effect in the background. I searched the net for a sample of the show but couldn’t find one. Apparently the show has vanished. Normally the stories were lightweight but not always.

So one night I was in bed with the radio on and the Voice started reading “The Premature Burial” by Edgar Allan Poe and it scared the living crap out of me. I’m not talking about giving me the willies or the wiggins. It struck some primal in me that I had never felt before. Bear in mind that I had been raised to this point on a steady diet of monster movies, novels and records, and they never scared me. Famous Monsters of Filmland was my favorite magazine. Nothing ever frightened me as much as that story did on that night.

“The Premature Burial” is Poe at his paranoid best. It starts out with several documentary examples of people having been pronounced dead, only to wake up in a coffin. One particularly nasty example is of somebody waking up on an autopsy table screaming, “I am alive!”

The protagonist of the story suffers from a form of catalepsy that causes him to fall into a state so closely resembling death that only a doctor can tell the difference, and even they sometime miss it. Our hero is so frightened of being buried alive that he goes through elaborate precautions in his funeral preparation, having a custom made coffin equipped with a bell that rings above ground, in case the worst happens. Of course the worst happens, but happens nowhere near his funeral and he wakes up in what he thinks is a plain wooden coffin terrified.

I don’t know why the story affected me so much; I only know that it planted some thoughts that previously hadn’t been there. My mortality was suddenly a totally viable concept. Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Scary has entered the building. He has yet to leave it.

From that point it escalated. This totally irrational all-encompassing dread would hit me at any given moment without warning, and I couldn’t tell anyone because it would sound crazy.



Mortality was just the beginning. After many years of watching Vampire movies, I suddenly became convinced, not only of their existence, but that I was about to become their victim. I would get uneasy when the sun went down. The windows in my room had to be closed and locked. This went on until I came to the realization that Vampires didn’t go for religious people, so I started wearing a cross and reading the Bible. This was all well and good until I got to The Book of Revelations, which tipped me over the edge. I became obsessed with the end of days and that it was happening right then.

If I didn’t actually have a nervous breakdown then it was damn close. On dark days I would hide in my house awaiting the inevitable. One day when the weather abruptly went from sunny to stormy very quickly, I went home at recess and didn’t come back. I cowered in my room knowing that the end was nigh.

This went on for over a year.
Then Mr. Scary abruptly left and it was suddenly over…

At least that episode was. I came to the realization that this was not a good way to live, and that when the end came there wasn’t much I could do about it so I might as well get on with whatever was left. Gradually there was clarity and I could function, but I was never quite the same after that.

When it came again, it was just as unexpected. It was also 15 years later.

At this point I should also mention that I also have depression issues. Have had since I was a kid, and they pre-date the first anxiety/panic attacks. Yeah, I know. It never rains, but it pours.

I was in the middle of directing “A Streetcar named Desire” when Mr. Scary made his a return appearance. I would not recommend directing a Tennessee Williams play about the descent into madness, when one is descending into madness of a sort. I certainly didn’t enjoy it.

There were no Vampires or End of the World scenarios this time, just an overwhelming sense of impending doom. I hid out in the apartment a lot because I knew going out was just asking for trouble.

This was about the time that depression kicked in about the same time, forming something of a mental one-two punch. At a certain point the constant bombardment of “Life Sucks” and “You’re going to die” is not the World’s Greatest Affirmation. It tends to make one question whether continuing on this plane of existence is all that it’s cracked up to be, and I did begin to wonder about that.

Then, in a rare moment of lucidity, I came to the realization that I was contemplating suicide over a “community theatre production”. This epiphany sent me to get help.

The thing about help, though, is if its wrong it hurts or, worse, it does nothing. The initial diagnosis was incomplete because it didn’t address the panic issues. Apparently anti-depressants are supposed to deal with anxiety, but sometimes it just doesn’t work, so you have to add to the cocktail. So initially Mr. Scary went away for a little while. But he was liable to come back any time without notice. The first and (so far) last time I did summer stock, I became paralyzed with an anxiety attack that just wouldn’t quit. It was like good-old-fashioned-8-year-old homesickness multiplied 10 times. I walked around like a zombie for a day or so ‘til I could get back home. The kicker was I was on meds at the time. They just weren’t enough.

I’ve lost jobs because of Mr. Scary. I couldn’t get a driver’s license because of it. It’s hurt relationships. It gets in the way of my creative work. It affects my life everyday. During the early part of rehearsals for “Chorus” I was going through a major dual-tiered episode, where it became, despite the presence of the best cast and crew in the World, a struggle just to get to rehearsals. The pills help, but he still lurks. I know the warning signs now so, I can usually head it off.

I’m not a coward. It’s something of a point of principle that I try to face my fears. This is a chemical thing that I control with a prescription. I function in the real world, but sometimes it’s still a struggle. I suppose it always will be.

So why am I writing this? I’m trolling for sympathy? True confessions time? I’m trying to over come writer’s block? I had nothing better to do?

I don’t know. I guess I’m trying to make sense of something I don’t quite understand, and seeing it in writing helps. If somebody else reads it and can identify I hope it can help them look for what they need. And sometimes I just sit here typing and go with whatever happens to come out.

But mostly I wrote it ‘cause Mr. Scary didn’t want me to.

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THE DAY KLAATU SAID WHOA! (Warning! Spoilers!)

When I saw the trailer for "The Day the Earth Stood Still" I knew it was going to be trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with D and that stands for dumb.

Just to set the record straight, I'm not one of those classic movie geeks who's against remaking any and all old movies. Some of them work. Both Ben Hur and The Ten Commandments are remakes of silent films. Victor/Victoria is a remake of an old German film. And lest we forget "The Maltese Falcon" had been made twice before Bogart stepped into Sam Spade's shoes. "Fistful of Dollars" is a remake of "Yojimbo" (Unfortunately they didn't stop there. So is "Last Man Standing")

So, no, I'm not anti-remake. But I also think it's kind of silly to set yourself up for a fall.

There are certain movies that were done right the first time, and there's no real point in attempting to try to get lightning to strike twice. "Citizen Kane" leaps to mind. "Children of Paradise" is another one. So is "The Day the Earth Stood Still"...

This isn't a case of "don't mess with my sci- fi classics.". John Carpenter's version of "The Thing from Another World" is equal to Howard Hawks' version, and maybe even a little more claustrophobic. Phil Kaufman's "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" is just as paranoid as Don Siegel's. (We'll leave "The Invasion" out of this) I haven't got a problem with a remake that recognizes what made the original work and expands on it.

"The Day Klaatu went Whoa" doesn't do any of those things.

Where to begin? Keanu is too easy, in fact his flat acting style sort of suits Klaatu to a point. Jennifer Connelly is just okay (But the waif look doesn't suit her at all). John Cleese is wasted for the 5 or so minutes he's on screen. Kathy Bates is her dependable self as a Hilary Clinton style Secretary of State (Apparently the President doesn't deal with Alen Invasions). The Smith kid is annoying, but then in this version he's supposed to be...

Hey! We may have something... This version...Yeah.

Remember how in the original the Aliens...Okay the One Alien and his badass Robot comes to Earth because of Nuclear proliferation and impending space travel threatens the peace they've struggled to maintain for centuries "As long as you went about killing each other it was none of our business,,,"etc. Remember the theme of Non Violence? Sort of the cornerstone of the original? Remember that?

Okay, now forget it...

This Klaatu hasn't come to negotiate. This Klaatu has come with the Universe's Final Solution to Earth's environmental issues...Yes, that's right. Earth's Environmental issues are a threat to the rest of the Universe,,,No , not really. What's being threatened are billions of other species on Earth and the answer and the solution is to rescue all the others and 86 the one that's causing all the trouble. You know...Us. Not the US...You and me. The Universe's final solution is not unlike Himmler's, only a tad more comprehensive.

Kinda misses the point, of the original, don't you think?

The major culprit in this disaster is the script written by David Scarpa. It is gratuitously stupid which is sad because what it's based on is so smart. I'm not a science type, and I got lousy marks in it in High School. So maybe it's just that I've seen enough movies to know that if an extraterrestrial object is on a certain trajectory, then abruptly changes course, and then accelerates, my first assumption isn't going to be that it's a big meteor about to have a devastating impact on Earth. I would assume that some intelligence is guiding it. But lets go back to the meteor scenario. Having determined that Ground Zero is going to be New York City, my next move is not going to be to round up the leading scientists of the day (all of whom seem to be the same age) and ship them to where the meteor is about to impact. Wouldn't it be a better idea to get them as far away as possible to deal with the resulting crisis in relative safety? And this is just the first 10 minutes...

And Gort apparently is now an acronym for Genetically Organized Robotic Technology... I know. I said "Huh?!" too.

I could go on, but there's just too much. I will touch on something that I found a little irksome. I mentioned Jaden Smith playing the kid. I'll admit that when I saw the trailer, I thought "Cool, Jennifer Connelly has a bi-racial kid in this version". She does not. They go to great lengths to explain that the boy is a product of a previous marriage between Connelly's deceased husband and his previously deceased wife, presumably both African American. Connelly is merely the step mother, which gives the kid an excuse to behave badly toward her. I'm probably wrong but I kept thinking cop-out. Why couldn't he have been her kid? The separation anxiety from the death of one parent should have been enough to explain the kid's behaviour. I mean c'mon guys, you just elected a bi-racial President...

There is a plus side to this Movie.

The studio released a 2 disc special edition of the Original as a tie in.

It's on sale at HMV and costs less than 2 tickets to the remake.

I heartily recommend it.

Klaatu Barada Nicto...Big Time!

What the Dickens?!

‘Tis the season, as they say. No, not baseball season. I mean the Festive Season and all that stuff. Virgin Birth, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, you know...Stressmas...

Yes, Christmas comes but once a year, thank Christ...

Don’t get your undergarments in a tizzy.

It stopped being a religious celebration a while ago. Let’s face it, if Christmas actually had anything to do with the birth of Jesus Christ, it would be happening in May or June when he was actually born, depending whether you believe the historians or the astronomers. The ironic part is that we celebrate the birth of Jesus on what was an ancient Roman pagan festival of Saturnalia. But then you already knew that. Besides, if we’re really celebrating Jesus’ birthday, how come he’s not the one getting the presents?


Christmas is about swag and bad television and movies to sell swag, and swag apps.

Celebration of Christmas actually wasn’t all that big a deal until the Victorian era. If Cromwell and the Puritans had had their way, way back when, it would have been scrapped altogether (Pagan Celebration and all that).


And I blame Dickens.

You know, Charles Dickens. What's wrong with Christmas leads right back to Ol' Boz's doorstep.

So the story goes that Charles Dickens was in financial debt and wrote what he considered to be a low grade potboiler ghost story and gave it the sarcastic title of “A Christmas Carol.” (“A Christmas Carol in Prose, Being a Ghost Story of Christmas” is the full title, which just makes it worse if you ask me, and nobody did.)


You all know the story. Ebenezer Scrooge, really cheap bastard, gets redeemed by his equally cheap bastard dead partner and friends just in time for Christmas. God bless us, every one. There have been a couple of hundred different adaptations of it. Every sitcom and cartoon has done a variation on it.


Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” was an immediate hit. It touched all kinds of nerves, and that has a lot to do with Charles Dickens’ talent as a writer. He was the master of the guilt trip. Hell, his entire body of work is pretty much based on it. Anybody read Oliver Twist?

In “A Christmas Carol” Dickens tells his, by this point in his career, worldwide audience that they don’t do Christmas right. “You’re not happy enough. You’re not singing and dancing enough, and more to the point you’re not being generous enough. You’re not GIVING enough” is essentially what he’s saying. And, apparently, the general public thought he was right.

Ever since, retailers everywhere have owed him a percentage.

I hear a chorus of you crying, “No, Michael, you’re missing the point of the story! It’s about the joy of family and helping your fellow man.”

To which I respond, quite simply, “Horse Radishes”

“The Spirit of Christmas” didn’t exist as a phrase or a concept before Charles Dickens foisted it upon an unsuspecting world, but we’ve been dogged by it ever since. This concept also served to make Christmas a competition. Think about your own family. Who among us hasn’t had that fleeting moment of resentment when somebody gets what we perceive as a better present than we did. Can I get a show of hands?

You may say I’m a cynic (and you’re probably right) but I’m not the only one. Based on the success of “A Christmas Carol”, over the next bunch of years, Dickens wrote a new “Christmas Book” or story pretty much every year. And they usually made scads of money, not as much as the original, but enough. He also toured with “Carol,” and his one-man performances became legendary and are recreated to this day. They still make a lot of money.

So, when you’re at home with the family and the annual fight breaks out, or you don’t get what you were expecting, or you are depressed because you can’t afford to get something for everyone, or you’re just not feeling in the Christmas spirit, remember to give credit where credit is due. Blame Charles Dickens!

But don’t blame Jesus. It isn’t even really his birthday

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Finding Faith

Chapter 2

“Prepare ye…”

It was dull and cloudy outside so the view from the front window of Art’s Haus was less than inspiring, but it kept Phil from looking at, and hence wanting to strangle Margot Morelli as she prattled on about “…responsibility to our subscribers and to our mandate, as well as being mindful of the fiscal bottom line”. He was being backed into a corner, yet again, and he didn’t like it today anymore than he had when he was 8, nearly thirty years ago now. Ironically it had to do with the same subject in a round about way. He waited until he sensed her coming to a conclusion and then stood up and started to pace.

“I don’t care what the reasoning is…I can’t direct the damn thing, and I’m the one who’s going to have put in the hours.” He said, when she finally finished.

“I’m afraid the church is insisting. It’s a condition of their approving the extension of our lease.” Spencer Mackenzie chimed from the sofa, where he currently was currently horizontal, showing a complete lack of respect for the decorum of the meeting, but nobody was going to say anything.

Art’s Haus was technically Spencer’s house. He had inherited it from his Uncle Harold, and rather than bear the burden of the mortgage and renovations himself, he had invited a group of his artsy friends to move into the five bedroom monstrosity in Parkdale. Over the years, the place had gone from near dilapidation to structurally sound, but with a bizarre looking exterior that reflected both its owner and occupants. Stripes and solids clashed with patterns. Brick and wood lived not quite in harmony and, having used leftover set pieces from Rose North Players various productions, several divergent architectural periods were represented. It all made for a place that was interesting to look at, but not, in any sense of the word, pretty.

“Quite simply” Spencer continued “If we don’t do the show, we have to find a new performance and rehearsal space, which we basically can’t afford to because it will cost us half our audience, and we’re hanging by a thread as it is financially.”

“I don’t understand what the big deal is, Phil” Margot piped in. “It’s a good show and it’s a draw. We could make money for once! Is that such a bad thing?”

“The big deal, Margot, is that it’s a dated piece of pseudo religious hippy dippy, lovey dovey, singy songy crap.” They were, of course, talking about “Godspell”, the Stephen Schwartz musical based on the Gospel According to St. Matthew, that had begun life as someone’s doctoral, or at least that was what Phil thought he had read somewhere. “And since when do we give in to cultural blackmail?”

“Since you insisted we do “Hurly Burly” over the Easter Holiday last season” Spencer said, flatly.

It was true. And while Mr. David Rabe’s slashing indictment of Hollywood types, is a great piece of theatre, it also contains a lot of words not generally said in church, not to mention the sex and drug use. Even this would have been fine, had not the new Reverend’s wife attended a performance just before Good Friday, and been understandably appalled at what she saw. She had called the board, and the board in turn had called Margot, the executive producer of Rose North Players. The production of “Godspell” in time for Christmas was the compromise that had been reached in Phil’s absence. As artistic director he should have been there, but it was a morning meeting and Phil was still hung over from the cast party. At the time, he hadn’t taken it seriously, but they had set audition dates and were now deciding on a rehearsal schedule and he was forced for the first time to face the reality of the situation. It was not the optimum time for a director to decide he doesn’t really want to do a play, but that was Phil.

“Why the hell does it have to be that show? Why can’t we do Superstar? Same story, and that at least has some balls to it.” Phil grumbled.

“He gets crucified at the end! What more do you want?” Margot countered.

“I know, but in “Godspell” he gets crucified cutely. The whole thing is too cute. The clowns…The songs…”

“I like the songs” James Chaney chirped in at exactly the wrong moment. The newest member of the North Rose Players executive was a keener who had actually volunteered to be secretary, despite having no previous skills that the position would seem to require. He wasn’t that swift, but he sure was eager. That and he happened to be Margot’s Boy Toy du jour, made him a shoe-in for the job. Up until that point he had been sitting quietly at the big dining room table they had acquired for the Gurney play, pen at the ready to take notes that had so far not materialized. Then he compounded the error by starting to sing “Day by Day. Day by Day. Oh dear Lord, three things I pray…”

Phil fixed him with a glare that appeared to be able melt steel, and James wisely decided to stop the performance. Fortunately the phone chose that particular moment to ring. James had literally been saved by the bell. He was about to express that and then decided not to would be the safer course of action.

Phil picked up the receiver and nasally answered “Rose North Players! Cute Crucifixions are us! How may I direct your call?”

“Philson?” It was Marigold, the last person he wanted or needed to hear from today, so of course she called.

“Hello, Marigold I…” He was about to say that he was in a meeting and that he couldn’t talk right now, which is what he probably would have said even if he hadn’t been in a meeting, but he never had the chance because she cut him off.

“Oh Philson, I’m so sorry. I called as soon as I heard. Are you okay?” She sounded as if she had been crying, which was totally out of character for his Mother, the bitch goddess, so something must be terribly amiss.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking and heard what?” He was hoping that this was some incident on one of her beloved soaps, but her tone was all wrong.

“Oh Shit! You haven’t heard. You don’t know, do you?” And now he was aware that the Iron Lady of Ontario St. was actually in tears.

“Know what, Marigold? Spit it out!”

“It was just on the noon news. There was an accident” He could hear her stop and gather herself before delivering the punch. “Philson…Matthew is dead”

And that’s when time froze, and the world seemed to go out of phase.

Phil dropped the phone and walked out of the room. None of the others said a word. The look on his face was enough to tell them it was something really bad. They still heard Marigold on the other end of the phone calling her son’s name, but none of them wanted to pick it up for fear of finding out what had caused that look.


Chapter 3

“Assume a Virtue…”

As far as Phil was concerned it wasn’t an accident that had killed his best friend, it was sheer stupidity. It was the stupidity of the student temp who had been cleaning the inside of the tanker truck , had dropped his goggles, and was then dumb enough to go back down into the tank to fetch them, where he was overcome by the fumes. It was the stupidity of the co workers who ran for their manager instead of doing something themselves. It was the stupidity of the manager, who also happened to be Phil’s best friend Matthew of taking it upon himself to go down into the tank to rescue the idiot kid, and then himself succumbed to the fumes, lost consciousness just as he was able to lift the kid to safety, fell backward, and broke his neck when he hit the bottom. It was sheer senseless stupidity all the way down the line.

But perhaps the stupidest thing of all was the fact that Matthew Blessing was still working at the goddamned brewery after all these years. It was only supposed to be a temporary job to pay his way through university, which it had. But in the end Matthew found that he was happier as a manager at Labatt’s than he would have been as a business administrator, Vice President of Exxon, or Prime Minister of Canada. It was a disappointment to his family, but they knew that when Matthew made up his mind, that was the end of the argument as far as he was concerned. The final irony was that Matthew Blessing didn’t drink. Not even the beer he ended up giving his life for.

When asked why he had chosen this particular path his reply was simply “I like the people”.

“Yeah, and look where liking people gets you” Phil muttered to the musty air of his cluttered room in Art’s Haus. After he had watched the news report on Pulse 24, he had turned off the TV, and went straight to where he had spent the last 24 hours, sitting on his bed, with the lights off, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing but the past…

They had done everything together since childhood. The incident with Marigold at the church was nary a blip on the radar of their friendship. And the fact that they were such opposites in everything seemed to make their bond that much stronger. Matthew was the sensible, grounded one while Phil was the artsy, fartsy , space cadet.

From grade school to high school and then onto University, they were together even though they had completely different majors. Phil continued to pursue his theatrical bent, hooking up with Spencer and the other residents of Art’s Haus along the way but his ties to Matthew remained strong. That was until he became engaged to Amanda. Then it became more difficult…

Phil thought of their last real night together. It was a week before the wedding and, being he was Matthew’s best man, Phil was determined to take his friend out for one gigantic fling. The fact that he was probably going to be the only one doing any flinging was not lost on Phil. Spencer had wanted to join them, but Phil shut him out. He wanted Matthew to himself this night, because somehow he sensed that it would never be like this again.

Prior to going out Matthew had made Phil promise to behave, and Phil kept his promise. The problem was that Matthew hadn’t specified how he should behave, so Phil chose badly. Against his better judgment Matthew had let Phil talk him into going to Doon’s, a seedy joint in the west end which offered females taking off articles of clothing for entertainment purposes.

They sat at a table close to the stage, where the divine Ambrosia was dancing to Prince’s “When Doves Cry”. She had strategically placed doves covering various parts of her anatomy, not real ones of course. That would have been too high end for a hole like this. Matthew was still sipping his first ginger ale, while Phil was on his second screwdriver.

“Oh yes, come to me to me Miss Audubon.” Phil said, chairbopping to the music.

“These places always bore me” Matthew stated, honestly.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. That’s it, baby! Yeah! Work it! Martha Graham would be proud of you, honey!” He grinned at Matthew, who was determined not to laugh.

“I mean, seriously, what’s the attraction?” Matthew asked

Phil pointed to Ambrosia “She is! The mostly naked woman up there doing the interpretive dancing! She’s the attraction!” Ambrosia grinned at Phil for the compliment, and Phil blew her a kiss in return.

“I don’t see it”

“You don’t see it because Amanda’s got you so whipped you’re starting to look like Quasimodo on the pillory”

“Not true” Matthew replied, aware that he had done so a little too quickly

“It’s totally true, and you know it. For instance, what’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home tonight?” Phil stared at his friend and arched an eyebrow waiting for his answer.

“Close the Door”

“And the second thing?” Phil leaned in.

“Lock the door” Matthew hedged. He knew where this was going.

“And once you’re finished playing with the door, what will you do?” They were practically eye to eye now.

“Call Amanda and tell her I’m okay” He gave an exaggerated sigh just for Phil’s benefit.

“Aha! My Point, I believe” Phil cackled, triumphantly.

“She worries about me, you know”

“Yeah, and she especially worries about you when you’re out with me” Phil finished the second and was signaling the bartender for a third.

“Well, you are a heathen” Matthew observed with a stone face.

“And I’m damned proud of it too! A heathen he calls me, no less. Well at least I’m not about to marry someone I met at Bible camp, when I was 14.”

“I was 15 not 14, and we were both counselors”

“That’s even worse!” Phil was getting louder. Even he noticed it, but it didn’t stop him “At 15 you’re supposed to be listening to the siren song of young budding hormones eager to spread themselves over anything that moves. You are not supposed to be getting engaged to the first femme who strikes your fancy…I mean if you’re into that sort of thing. I myself have never liked for my fancy to be struck. It’s painful, and not in that ‘hurts so good’ way”

“We didn’t get engaged until last year and you’re getting drunk” Matthew said, matter of factly.

“Yeah and you’re ducking the issue. And tomorrow…I’ll probably be getting drunk again.” This last was said quietly, almost as an aside.

“Anyway you’re hardly in a position to criticize me on that score, Old sport” Matthew grinned slyly.

“Should I stand up? And what’s with this ‘Old Sport’ shit? Are you suddenly Jay Gatsby?”

Matthew ignored him. This time it was his turn to lean into his friend “You’ve been in love with the same woman since you were 8 years old”

“Fuck off. I have not. I just liked her”

“You’ve been tongue-in-the-dirt-puppy-eyed-freaking-Barry-Manilow-humming in love with my sister Faith since you were 8 years old, and don’t bother denying it.” Matthew sat back in triumph.

In the meantime Phil’s jaw had dropped open. “Freaking? Did I actually hear St. Matthew Blessing actually use the word ‘freaking’? Gosh Matthew, that was nearly ‘fucking’. You must be serious”

“Listen , Sparky, just because my best friend has a potty mouth, doesn’t mean that I have to” Matthew took another sip of his ginger ale then continued “ And speaking of “nearly fucking”, have you ever “nearly fucked” my sister, Faith?”

Phil looked at Matthew blankly for a moment before he responded “No. No, I haven’t nearly fucked your sister, Faith. I haven’t even actually fucked your sister Faith. Oh, and Matthew?”

“Yes, Philson?”

“In the future, I would suggest that you leave the use of the words “fuck” or “fucked” or “fucking”, or any variations thereof to the professionals like me. It just doesn’t sound right when you say it” Phil said, meeting his friend’s eyes.

“Why’s that?” Matthew asked

“I don’t know…It’s just that you make it sound like a dirty word” Phil answered.

“It is a dirty word, Phil”

“Well, yeah, the way you say it.”

They looked solemnly at one another, then simultaneously burst out laughing.

Once they recovered, Matthew was still curious. “You’re telling me nothing ever happened?”

“…nothing ever happened” Phil echoed.

“You were in a tent with my sister, Faith Blessing, of the famous Blessing Triplets, all alone for 2 days in the wilderness. And you’re telling me with a straight face that you didn’t make a single move on her? A woman you’ve been in love with since the first time you laid eyes on her, and you didn’t do anything?”

Phil stared at his drink “No, I didn’t”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why not?”

It took a long time for him to answer, but when he did he decided to try to be honest for a change. “I didn’t do anything because I was scared. I didn’t want to screw things up. It was too important to me. I didn’t want to intimidate her, I didn’t want to take advantage of her, and so in the end I ended up doing nothing.”

“Then why did you ask her up there?”

“What me? It was her idea. Are you kidding? I never would have had the nerve to ask her to go camping. I hate nature. I’m a city kid. I was born at the corner of “Down” and “Town”. Anyway it was a long time ago…Its dust”

There was a brief lull in the conversation, and then Matthew began to chuckle softly. “I just find it really funny that the same guy who can walk up to virtually any woman and charm the pants off them, figuratively and literally, can’t even talk to the one woman he really wants.”

“Oh hell, we talked. We still do occasionally. She and I have had great conversations. She even knows how I feel about her. But I could never follow through because…well…because she’s Faith”

“I think maybe you should have tried a little harder” Matthew concluded.

“And I think you should stop trying to pimp your sister. It’s unseemly. And speaking of unseemly…” Phil’s eyes traveled to the latest eccdesiastical marvel taking the stage. She went by the name Nyoka, the Jungle Queen. She wore leopard skin in places Tarzan never dreamed of and had a Bettie Page style hairdo. Phil, who was a big fan of retro in movies and, of course, strippers was immediately smitten. He stood up.

“Come to me you nubile young sex monkey!!” He then unsuccessfully attempted the Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan yell. He was about to take another shot at when his view was blocked by an escaped Gorilla, complete with nose rings, dressed in a leather jacket.

“Did I just hear you call my girlfriend a Monkey?” The Gorilla asked, with astonishing clarity for a simian, Phil thought.

“Not just any monkey, Koko. I called her a Nubile Young Sex Monkey. It’s a very rare breed indeed. You’re a lucky primate” Phil clapped his hand on the Gorilla’s shoulder, then gave him a congratulatory handshake, and was out the door before the great ape realized he was gone.

Matthew came out of the club a few moments later. They began walking down the street in silence, until Matthew finally said “Nubile Young Sex Monkey?”

“How was I to know that Konga was her boyfriend? Hey, it was worth a shot. The Nubile Young Sex Monkey is known to be very fucking fickle…or is that very fickle fucking? I must remember to ask Jane Goodall. Either way I might have gotten laid if it hadn’t been for Digit back there. Let’s see, now where shall we spread our special brand of Joy?”

Matthew sighed “I don’t know about you, Dr. Leakey, but I’m going to spread myself over my bed. I’m tired.”

“Again? Aw Jesus Christ, Matthew” Phil shouted, and immediately regretted it.

“Hey!!” Matthew warned.

“Sorry…Fuck…Shit, I did it again” Phil moaned.

“I don’t mind the “Fucks” and the “Shits”. It’s the use of the name I object to”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, but don’t kack out on me again tonight, Matthew. It’s you last week of freedom, and it is my mission as your best man to send you into wedded bliss as totally debauched as humanly possible”

Matthew was quiet for a moment then cautiously said “Okay, this one time, but you know I don’t debauch easily”

“I know that about you, St. Matthew, and I respect it. I don’t completely understand it, but I respect it. And it’s because of that very respect, and the fact that you are my very best friend in the world, that I plan on doing most of your debauching for you” Phil smiled, benevolently.

“You’re too good to me” Matthew said, in mock gratitude.

“And don’t think that I don’t know it” Phil agreed, and then he added “Hey, can I borrow 20 bucks.”
The evening continued much as it had begun. They found another strip joint. Matthew watched Phil drink and get rowdy, but they both laughed and were having a good time, until it came to the drive home. Then the tone shifted. As they headed towards their respective homes in the west end along the 401, there wasn’t much in the way of talking. The radio was set to Matthew’s favorite oldies station and Michael Jackson, the younger, and his brothers were pledging “I’ll Be There”

“So what’s next for you?” Matthew asked, finally

“You mean after the Wedding? I told you. We’re prepping “The Comedy of Errors” for October.” Phil replied. He was tired and not as drunk as he wanted to be.

“I meant what are your plans for the future?” Matthew glanced over at Phil.

“I plan on getting me one of those flying cars, like in the Jetsons. I’ve always wanted a flying car” Phil quipped, in a vain attempt to steer the conversation from where he was sure it was headed.

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know what you meant,” Phil interrupted testily “I have no idea. I don’t think that far ahead, you know that. You’ve always had the answer to all those questions. You’re the original answer man. You’ve always known where you were going, who you were going to marry, where you were going when you died, and presumably what color suit you were going to be wearing at the funeral…"

“Blue” Matthew said, quickly

“Of course, blue. But in case you hadn’t noticed in lo these many years, I’m not like you. I’m the Question Man. What if I don’t like where I’m supposed to go when I get there? If I don’t ever get married, will people think I’m gay? And if I’m getting cremated anyway, does it really matter what colour suit I’m wearing.?"

“You missed one” Matthew observed

Phil started to answer then stopped himself, sort of. “Oh, no you don’t! I am not getting sucked into this conversation yet again. Sorry, but I pass”

“You brought it up”

“And I’m letting it back down again” Phil said with finality

“Okay” Matthew said, but he knew his friend well enough to know that once started it wouldn’t rest for long.

“I don’t feel like doing this tonight” Phil griped

“Fine”

“I mean it, Matthew!”

“I know you do, Phil”

There was a loaded silence between them, filled by the Monkees singing ‘I’m a Believer’. Finally Phil couldn’t stand it anymore. “Okay, what?!” he demanded

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it” Matthew grinned.

“Just spill it so we can move on” Phil grumbled.

“I was just thinking that I was worried about you, you know. I mean for all your external confidence you seem like you’re lost. And I was just going to put forward the notion that some of your questions might get answered if you took of your soul for a change, instead of denying that you have one. Minor stuff like that” He had said all this while staring straight ahead at the road.

“Fuck off” Phil said, simply

“Good Answer!” Matthew replied without missing a beat.

“One of the reasons that you and I have remained friends so long is that, but for the occasional slip up like Easter, 1978, Christmas 1985, and now, you have never tried to push your religious beliefs on me. Let’s just keep it that way, okay?” He feigned trying to go to sleep, but it was a non starter and he knew it.

“Hey, I would never push my beliefs on you. You know that. Besides, I have ample evidence that what works for me wouldn’t work for you. Not to mention the fact that I wouldn’t want to risk crossing Marigold again. I just see you kind of floundering, what with all the drinking and indiscriminate fornication. I get the feeling you’re looking for something that you’re not going to find by either method.”

“And where would you suggest I look, Pope Pius?” Phil was not enjoying this conversation at all, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Somewhere inside yourself, which could end up leading to somewhere outside yourself” Matthew said gently.

“I don’t get it” Phil said, resorting to the familiar.

“And I can’t help you to get it. Especially at the moment on account of I’m too tired and you’re too drunk, and besides you’re home”

Phil stared at Matthew for a long time, then was suddenly aware that his friend was staring right back at him. They had come to a stop in front of Art’s Haus, and he hadn’t even realized it.

“Are you going to be okay?” Matthew asked, sincerely

“Apparently…Apart from my immortal soul, that is. Don’t try to save me, Matthew. I’m not drowning.”

“Not yet…And I’ll never stop trying to save you. You always were a lousy swimmer” He grinned in that perfect Matthew way. “I’ll call you tomorrow. We have to pick up the tuxes.”

“Not too early, I plan to be ill” Phil managed to figure out the door and got out , and then as an afterthought added “I still think Lime Green is the way to go”

“I’ll think about it” Matthew restarted the Civic

“Good Night, St Matthew” Phil said, with genuine affection

“Repent, you heathen, you!” He reversed the car and then drove off.

That had been 10 years ago. In the intervening time they had remained, close. But it was different. There were always other people around. It was rarely if ever just the two of them. There was Amanda, of course. They had never had kids, but they were active with various children’s charities and had actually recently been discussing adoption. Phil had the theatre company, and all the thrills and headaches that that entailed. They would get together at performances, holidays, and the occasional party, but it was hard to avoid the fact that the once dynamic duo were leading largely separate lives. It was never intended to be that way. It was just something that happened. It always does.

Now Matthew was gone. He was gone because of stupidity, and because he was always trying to save somebody.

Phil finally got into bed, pulled the covers over his head and wept quietly for his lost friend.