When Viral Came to Town

My company recently produced a video for Alphabet Photography. It was a flash mob video featuring 100 choir members from Chorus Niagara belting out the Halleluiah chorus in the middle of a food court in Welland Ontario. You may have heard of it- it has gone viral.

How does a video go viral? Well, Alphabet Photography had a great concept, they hired a fabulous local choir to execute it, made sure it was properly produced to capture the sound and visuals in a way to engage the viewer and chose an unassuming mall in one of Canada’s underdog towns. When the economy went south, Welland was in the front seat of the bus. Up until now, Welland has been most recognized as a town with a burgeoning unemployment rate and a canal.

When Fagan Media Group was contacted to produce this video, I’ll admit, I was a little concerned. Having watched flash mob videos from locations such as Las Vegas, Antwerp, Grand Central Station, I wondered what a video from Welland Ontario would fetch. Sure it was a great concept but would anyone outside of the Niagara region sit up and notice? Then there was the logistics. This would need at least 5 cameras and an audio technician. The kicker being none of the cameras could be in view until the event unfolded. Being a live event, there was no way to guarantee that this would work.

We gathered at the mall at 6am on a Saturday morning in November for our one and only run through with the choir. As I huddled with my camera crew and plotted strategies, I was stopped in my tracks by the first note of the Halleluiah Chorus. The choir was warming up their pipes and I tell you, even at 7:24 am, it was beautiful. This isn’t going to be half bad, I thought as we strapped a camera to a forklift for an overhead shot.

After the rehearsal, the client gave us a run-down of how we should strategically position ourselves to be ready for the live event at noon. We began scoping out our spots around 11:20, exchanging ever so subtle eye contact with co-conspirators in a Get Smart kind of way. The camera crew had their detail lined out. I was to film the second soloist and then hustle my ass into the crowd to get reaction shots. Once the whole thing began and the gig was up, the cameras were free to roam openly but it was the crucial first minute that had me tied up in knots. I started pre-selecting interesting looking bystanders while praying they wouldn’t finish their New York Fries before noon.

The actual event was a blur. My ears told me something spectacular was in motion, but I was so engrossed in the immediate details that I really didn’t have a sense of the big picture. Afterwards we sat in a van in the parking lot looking like a b-movie sting operation and transferred the footage and audio from the various sources onto one computer, packed our gear and headed off.

The pressure was now on to get this little baby edited and posted before 100 other amateur videos hit you tube. Less than 24 hours later, as suspected, there was an amateur version on you tube. We worked like mad to wade through 5 camera angles to have it posted within a few days. The amateur video had caught some attention but nothing overwhelming, it was vastly different than the finished product with good audio and a range of camera shots that gave the essence of the feeling in the food court. The client posted the video and we all sat back and waited.

I was gob-smacked when the video hit 11,000.“Well, shut my mouth, this actually worked!”
As it steadily climbed, the whole thing started to feel surreal. At 500,000, I started to giggle as I wandered the aisles of the Superstore. When it hit the one million mark, I took some bubbly into the client to congratulate them on a great job. The little flash mob from Seaway Mall had gone viral. The people of Welland seemed to brim over with civic pride that in turn spilled through the rest of the Niagara region. Canada AM did a live show from Seaway Mall, coining it “The Most Famous Food Court in the World.”

Chorus Niagara became an overnight sensation, their website flooded, phone ringing off the hook. The world had fallen in love with the little choir from Niagara and their first show since the viral explosion was not only sold out but had people bursting at the seams with seating added in the foyer.

Quickly the numbers were jumping by a million a day and Alphabet Photography and Chorus Niagara were on a media tour that would make Madonna beg for mercy including hits on CNN, The View and Good Morning America to name a few . Me- not so much. No one really gives a shit how it is shot and edited but that is okay, I still walked around with the knowledge that I was viral.

I drank my coffee in the morning knowing I was viral. I paid my parking ticket safe in the knowledge that I was viral. My friends knew I was viral and were virally sharing it with others. 18 million people have watched this video and I still leave my house with no idea who they are. I find myself staring at strangers and wondering if they know. Do I look different? Is there a viral glow? I had a meeting with my son’s teacher and obnoxiously found a way to work the viral sensation into the conversation. She had no idea what I was talking about. The best part - she was from Welland! At the end of the day, even viral won’t win you any bargaining room with your son’s teacher.

The thing about viral is you can’t buy it. You can wish for it, you can plan for it; you can throw it out there but viral is nobody’s bitch. Viral ebbs and flows thorough computers around the globe, sometimes stopping in Albany and other times packing for a world tour.

I’ve started to feel a bit blasé about it. I no longer check the stats 8 times a day, I settle for every few days and feel a bit disappointed if it hasn’t passed the million a day mark. As the New Year approaches, I know that viral will slip through my hands and attach itself to its next obsession, I’m no fool.

Viral is here for a good time, not a long time. Like a holiday romance, it has left an afterglow but I know the rules. Will it change my financial profile? Who knows- so far the phone hasn’t been ringing off the hook but don’t think this won’t be my lead story in every meeting I have for the next 15 years.
Viral came to town, swept up a community, twirled it around, kissed it on the head and gently put it back where it belongs.
Halleluiah!

More Bad Jobs and the Women Who Love Them

The one sure thing about life is that it can turn on a dime. When the powers that be who control our Karmic path are feeling particularly feisty-- they can come up with some pretty interesting shit.

I was in the process of leaving my marriage, selling our house in Barrie Ontario and returning to Niagara to the comfort of family and familiarity. In preparation, I was travelling back and forth trying to set up a job. I scanned online job sites daily trying to find something I was remotely qualified for. Basically, I’m unemployable but for a small market in video production. Jobs in the Broadcast industry were not exactly abundant in the Region of Niagara. When I spotted a government sponsored job opportunity with a production company in St.Catharines, I felt the tides were turning in my direction.

I quickly responded to the listing and was given an interview set for the following week. I drove down to my parents place in Niagara the day before so I was sure to be rested and at the top of my game. I dressed professionally, checked my teeth in the rear view mirror to make sure there were no traces of spinach or lipstick and set off to my destination. I always try to give myself at least an extra half-hour of getting lost time and it rarely goes un-used. So here I was circling the block several times looking for the production office until I realized the production office was in a house in a suburban neighbourhood.

As I pulled into the driveway, I was greeted by a guy with a baseball cap sporting a spectacular mullet who told me to take a seat in the carport as Richard was still finishing up an interview with my competition.
He continued to wash out the beer fridge as he explained that he too was an employee through the government sponsored initiative. He then asked me a very strange question. Was there anything I would like to know about Richard before I go into the interview? Hmmm, yes I thought to myself, I’d like to know why his audio technician is cleaning out a beer fridge in the middle of a busy work week.

As I sat considering this, the side door opened and a young man in an ill- fitting suit exited the house, thanking Richard for his time as he scurried to his car. Richard came out to the driveway, a large imposing man resembling a grizzly bear, bearded, barefoot, wearing shorts and a dirty t-shirt. He introduced himself and asked me to follow him to the studio for the interview. As I followed him down a flight of stairs my eyes were having trouble adjusting to the increasing darkness. The studio was a rec-room with moldy smelling wall to wall carpeting, an arrangement of musical instruments and recording equipment. I was introduced to someone with a name similar to “Masher”, another government sponsored employee. Masher was thin with scraggly hair and an expression that gave absolutely nothing away. He nodded and took a seat directly behind me, just close enough to wrap a wire around my neck and strangle me if need be.

As my eyes adjusted to the lighting, I looked around the room filled with skulls and scary monster figures. We sat on an 80’s style couch with a coffee table covered in rolling papers, ashes and a large ashtray filled to the rim. Why I didn’t run for my life, I’ll never know.
Richard launched into a verbal press release of his many accomplishments. He was well connected with a local magnate who wanted to start a television station in Niagara. He had once written an application to a funding body that he claimed was so good that a representative from the funding body phoned him to tell him it was the best application he had ever seen in the history of applications. He didn’t however get the grant. He was an actor, producer, composer, singer, cameraman, editor and writer. A man who wore many hats.

His trump card was a horror flick he wrote, produced and acted in that was bought by Space Television for a measly sum to fill a 4-6am timeslot. He showed me a clip from the film - a scene where he played a drunken maintenance man who was savagely killed by a creature that emerged from a pond. It was hands down some of the best mugging I have witnessed- his character lurching and staggering in a drunken haze, culminating in one of the more dragged out death scenes in film history. I knew what the Space channel was up to. Having spent 15 years working for Chum Television, I was well versed in their sophisticated sense of humour. We were after all, the channel that played that annual holiday classic, “Corvette Summer” on Christmas Eve.
This little masterpiece would fit nicely for the demographic that was looking for something to watch in the wee hours after ingesting 10 or more joints. As he continued his list of triumphs, we were interrupted by the abrupt buzz of his intercom system. He excused himself and hit the button on the intercom saying, “Studio here.”

A shrill voice echoed through the system, “Is there anything to eat in this goddamn house or what??” “Amber, I’m in a meeting!!” he barked and signed off. Amber, I was told was his thirteen year old daughter.

He took a quick peruse of my resume and stated,” You’re way more experienced than anyone here so obviously you have the job” He assured me that I would be signing up for a monumental project that would change the way television was viewed and I would end up being adored by millions of fans by my mere connection to this epic series. This I imagined was justification for the shit government pay. What to do, what to do? Of course I took the job. It would gain entrance to the magnate that was starting a real station here, I justified as we went over the details of my new position.

I did have the good sense to realize my years of broadcast television experience should give me a little wiggle room in the negotiations and I used it to flat out refuse to report to work in his stinky basement. I would work from home and come in once a week to go over where we were at. He gave me a script of the masterpiece to look over before our next meeting as I would be a key co-producer, marketing guru and location scouter. As I climbed my way out of the bat cave, he stopped me with one final note. “We smoke a bit of dope here and I just want to make sure that isn’t going to be a problem for you.” Basically he needed to know I wasn’t going to call the cops on him. The basement reeked of stale dope so this was not really a shock to me but still a question I hadn’t come up against in previous job interviews.

I nodded at my new colleague in the driveway who was now washing Richard’s car. His title was technically, “Audio Technician” but so far I had only witnessed him doing basic household chores. Masher, I believe was a Production Co-ordinator. Not to worry, I thought. I’ll be safely tucked away in my house putting in time until something better comes along.

I spent the next few days familiarizing myself with the script. The gist of it was based on a fictional town in Niagara that was silly with UFO sightings. The twist being that once the town members were caught in the UFO web, they were left with inexplicable musical talents of epic proportions. It was filled with the standard characters -- the Mayor, his wife who was having an affair with the pool boy, the hooker with a heart of gold and the musical genius that had fallen on hard times and was trying to win his family back with a spectacular musical comeback. I think we all know who was set to play that part. Mystery, intrigue, paranormal activity and almighty jam sessions. This script had it all and it was pretty clear this show would never see the light of day.

Richard had asked me to write a series of cast bios and I waited for him to provide the necessary background so I could begin my first task. He had held an open casting call that had attracted a wide range of unprofessional local talent. Though the job held the promise of a fan base of millions, it didn’t pay a dime and was casted accordingly with what could have been a sequel to “Waiting for Guffman”
My bios were shaping up to look something like this:

Jennifer Thomson hails from Ridgeway. Her experience as a bartender at Marty McMoose has afforded her the opportunity to study the frailties of human nature on a personal level. She brings this experience to the role of Ginger, the hooker with a heart of gold.

Richard Blowhard was born and raised in Niagara. Richard is an Actor, Producer, Director of Photography, Editor, Composer, Musician, Singer and Writer. His exceptional talents are evident in his body of work. Richard’s credentials include one ridiculously over-acted and badly shot horror film that can be found airing on the Space Channel in the wee hours of the morning.

My work was cut out for me as the cast and crew changed daily. I had convinced Richard that it wasn’t necessary to list me in the credits and no bio was necessary. He accepted my humble gesture and we scheduled our next face to face meeting.

The second meeting went much as the first. Dave with audio specialist was busy taking notes for a grocery list including re-stocking the beer and wine fridge for the many high profile potential investors Richard would be entertaining in the studio. Masher sat silently in the corner, leaving briefly for a cigarette run. Richard took this opportunity to tell me that Masher had spent time as a soldier in the war and had never really mentally recovered. Though he was quiet, he was actually a ticking time bomb. In fact the week before in a flash of rage, he had punched a horse in the mouth. I made a mental note to always position myself in a seat where Masher was in full view.

Richard offered me a Mike’s Hard Lemonade as we settled in to discuss my opinion of his script. I considered lying but something stopped me from doing so and believe me, it wasn’t due to any moral superiority. I just couldn’t stand his misplaced narcissism for another second! I started gently by suggesting the scene with the scantily dressed French maid running through the forest seemed to come out of nowhere and didn’t relate to any aspect of the storyline. “It’s a recurring dream that the down on his luck musician has” he explained. “Yes, maybe so but it seems a bit misogynist to me” I volleyed back.

“I don’t know what that means” he answered. Clearly the French maid wasn’t going anywhere and frankly it wasn’t my job to fix this atrocious script. So I sat biting my lip as he waxed on about his talent for another hour. None of the material he was supposed to have ready for me was done so I had basically made the 3 hour trip for nothing. I passed Masher on the way out who may or may not have given me a nod and took stock of the situation. I had worked in television for close to 20 years, produced an award winning documentary, worked with a group of colleagues that helped me learn and grow as a professional and all that has led me to this dank, stinky place working for a man who won’ t even put on a pair of shoes for our meetings! This was not good but I was desperate to start my life over in my hometown. I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet.

Weeks passed with little to no accomplishments. On one of my visits, Richard had a brainstorm for an upcoming scene. “Do you know anyone with a large boat and cottage on a lake?” he asked excitedly.
“No, I don’t. Have you written a scene that needs it?” I asked. “Well no, but if you know someone who has a boat and a cottage, I’ll write one." he advised. So now he wants me to provide luxury locations so he can sit in them and not produce any content. In the 2 months I had worked on this side show, he hadn’t shot a frame. As I left, he followed me to the carport and laid a bombshell on me.

“It has occurred to me that all of my staff is getting paid by the government and I’m not getting anything out of this” he said in a low scheming voice. “I’d say you’re getting quite a bit out of this including 3 employees you don’t have to pay, one who does your grocery shopping and house chores” I pointed out.
“What I’m getting at is that I would like you and the rest to pay me a cut from your wages” he stated.

I laughed out loud. Not only was it barely enough to live on, he now wanted a cut of the action. This was rich and also garden variety extortion. When I told him he could be reported for this, he quickly went into biker mode and said in a menacing tone,” You’re looking for a real dog- fight aren’t you?”

You know, it takes a while for the penny to drop with me I admit but this penny came crashing down with rapid force. The whole drive home, I weighed the pros and cons of busting his chops. Would he have me rubbed out? How on earth did I end up in this situation? I’m just a gal trying to make an honest living in a town of my choice.

The next day, I reported him and within a couple months was informed that there had been other complaints and his days as Studio Head with slave labour were done. The project I worked on has never seen the light of day as I suspected. I learned a valuable lesson about how much compromise is too much compromise. Rule of thumb -- any job involving an office reeking of dope with skull heads languishing around the room should be investigated thoroughly before contracts are signed. Silent co-workers have their benefits but it may be prudent to find out exactly why they are so silent.
The next job I took in Niagara was a lot closer to my experience level. Regular hours, decent wage and offices in a building that had windows. Although I was cautious during my interview for the position, I was pleasantly surprised to note that my potential employer was wearing a clean shirt and shoes.

Honky and Hannibal

It was 8am on a blustery Sunday morning in February and I was driving down the highway on my way to pick up Honky Tonk Man from his motel in Oshawa Ontario. From there I would be driving him to meet the rest of the crew where we would transfer to a van to travel to Cornwall for Honky’s afternoon show. What in the Sam Hill am I talking about you ask? Fair enough.

As a freelance producer, I am always on the hunt for a good yarn that can be pitched as programming. A colleague of mine from my sojourn at a PR company mentioned that in his free time, he put on wrestling events with a roster of the old guard mixed with local up and comers. I sat spellbound one afternoon as he recounted his weekend of trying to corral Bushwacker and Honky into the ring after a drunken car trip from the Toronto airport to the event in St.Catharines. It was a like a Japanese horror flick mixed in with a touch of Laurel and Hardy and I immediately smelt a documentary brewing. I asked him to connect me with his contact so I could get a piece of this action. I was introduced via email to Hannibal, a young wrestler with a big dream. Hannibal longed for a spot in the big leagues and to make that happen, he produced wrestling shows around small towns throughout Ontario where he would fly in former big names as the headliner and fill in the rest with local talent, himself included.

Hannibal had a vision for a no holds barred reality show on life on the road as a wrestler that included hookers, drug deals and drunken rages all caught by a hidden camera. Basically, ambushing his colleagues, illegally setting them up and selling it to A&E for a time slot leading into Dog the Bounty Hunter.

I was thinking of something along the same lines but a little more transparent. No hidden cameras, no set ups, just let the shit fly as it may but make sure I have a folder of signed release forms before it does. The last thing I need to add to my life is a mob of angry wrestlers with my home phone number.

After some planning and cajoling a couple of very skeptical cameramen colleagues (who kept shaking their heads in a “What is she getting us into this time” way) we were set to shoot a promo with Honky Tonk Man, Hannibal and whoever else showed up to the ring in the shit bag bar on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of February. My only instruction was to have a 12 pack of Molson Canadian on hand for the trip. As I pulled into the parking lot of the motel, I started to have second thoughts. I had watched “The Wrestler” the night before as a due diligence research attempt and was still wearing the hangover of its grimness.

I walked down the dim hallway to find Honky’s room door open and the man himself splayed on the bed, fully clothed, his red bomber jacket done up and his suitcase by the door. He looked a little bleary eyed but his hair was black shoe polish perfection.
“You Vickie?” he asked as he crawled off the bed. He was big and I was fascinated and repelled much like a child’s reaction to a clown that gets too close to their face. I couldn’t stop staring. I watched him squeeze his frame into my 1993 Volvo and it all seemed suddenly terribly wrong, like I had just invited a silver back ape to split gas costs on a weekend adventure. So I did what I usually do when I’m nervous, I talked non-stop. I couldn’t shut up for five seconds for fear of dead air. He was polite but clearly not a morning person.I was kicking myself for not repairing the glove compartment door latch which slammed open on to the Honk’s knee incessantly as he kept trying to shut it with growing impatience.

I was greatly relieved when we pulled into the parking lot to meet my camera crew for the rest of the trip though by the looks on their faces, they weren’t any more comfortable than I was.I asked Honky if I should call him Honky or by his real name, Wayne and he confirmed that Honky was his preference. I had to admire his commitment to his character. As we pulled into a Tim Horton’s, I asked if I could get him a coffee and his response was, “You get your coffee, I’m going in a different direction” as he reached for his first beer of the day around 9:15am.

We settled into the back seat to begin our first interview en-route to Cornwall. Four beers later, the conversation was in full swing. In his Elvis southern drawl, Honky bemoaned the loss of etiquette with the new regime, “ There is a handshake that is soft and gentle that says, you’re not going to hurt each other” “ And where are the girls waiting at the end of the show?” he barks. “There are no girls circling the parking lot at the motel anymore.”

When I point out that he is a married man, he rolls his eyes and says,” My wife would have to be stupid to think nothing happens on the road.”
Did he mind playing to small town crowds versus the heady days of sharing a bill with Hulk Hogan to 100,000 people? “Not really” he says, “It’s all the same, same people, same show, besides my family hates having me at home too long. I get in the way” Home for Honky is a suburban neighbourhood in Arizona where he lives with his Canadian wife and two teenage kids. He claims he gets restless if he stays at home too long and I admit, I’m having a bit of trouble picturing him at the student/teacher meetings or neighbourhood barbeques. No matter how you paint it, he doesn’t blend.

I asked him if there was some part of him that enjoyed being in pain and he quickly replied, “That’s sick!” shocked at my inference. I told him he was now getting to know a little bit about me…
He spoke of a secret language the old guard used that isn’t so secret once he starts sharing it with me on camera. It was a way they could communicate without anyone knowing what they were saying and it went something like; Givezay mezay a beerzay.
A four year old could crack the code but it was delightful and I made him say things over and over for my own personal entertainment. Honky was hitting his stride and we were all under his spell as we pulled into the parking lot of the venue a few hours later.

One thing that really caught me off guard about Honky was his obsession with cleanliness. It bordered on concerning. He spoke about chastising younger wrestlers for not laundering their costumes often enough, his annoyance at people wanting to shake his hand while he was eating food, his constant supply of anti-bacterial gel. This is all fine and well but when you are climbing into a ring, exchanging blood and bodily fluids for a living, I wondered if he had chosen the wrong career path.

The sign outside the bar read, The tonkman which was a pretty good indication of the state of the venue. It put the shit in the word shithole. Apparently it had been closed the previous week due to an unpaid heating bill and the chill hadn’t yet left the building. In the middle of a filthy room sat the ring surrounded by fold out chairs. Three Gothic looking women were standing unpacking some cameras. I found out they were sisters, fanatic fans who recorded shows diligently and put them on a website called “ The Three Angels” I can’t imagine they were too pleased to see us in the mix but I wanted to try to get an interview with them anyway.

From across the room, I saw a figure that could only be described as a human pit-bull with a slicked back ponytail. This of course was Hannibal, the 24 year old entrepreneur and budding headliner. He came over to introduce himself and seriously, he made Honky look like a newborn kitten. This guy was a brick shithouse. He was restless and distracted, clearly disappointed that the ticket sales had not gone well.
“How can I fill a room in a bar that has been shut down for a week?” To top it, the WWE was coming to town the following weekend, a show he had little chance of competing with. “ I’ve lost hundreds of thousands of dollars putting on these shows” he tells me and I make a mental note that I should have asked for money up front for the hotel and car rental fees he offered to cover. I ask him what he thought of the movie The Wrestler and he calls bullshit on the fact that they would be able to afford a doctor in the dressing room. Honky on the other hand, found it incredibly accurate.

I set up for a quick pre-show interview with Hannibal as he crushed down a brewskie. When I asked him why he kept doing this he told me, “I love to bleed, I love to make other people bleed” Okay, I think.,this man is exactly where he should be because his thinly disguised rage tells me that if he wasn’t doing this, he would be out there killing somebody. When he wasn’t wrestling, he worked as a bouncer so his outlets for aggression were pretty much covered. Still as I watched him flex and do push ups and grease his bulging biceps, I felt kinda sick for the guy who had to meet him in the ring.

I always thought of wrestling in the WWF (or WWE as it is now called) as a male version of soap operas, ridiculous rehearsed drama with tight pants and over-bleached mullets. I had never really considered the fact that these guys really do get hurt. They hurl themselves from atop the ropes into the ring belly first, they crack things over each other’s heads, they get cut and bleed , all for very little money at this level anyway and not too much acclaim. Who in their right mind would sign on for this?
As I milled around the backstage area watching the line-up for this event gussy themselves up, banter back and forth, help each other tie masks and exchange stories from the front line, I could see that this group of daytime mechanics, IT workers, nine to fivers, were transformed into weekend warriors with their own fan base albeit a small base. They returned to the grind after a weekend bout exhilarated proudly wearing their battle scars. What the hell, I guess it beats drinking in front of the television all weekend. As I was asking Hannibal about the authenticity of the violence the MC for the evening interrupted the interview to jump in front of the camera and send a challenge to anyone that questioned if it was real, “ If this isn’t real, I’ll fuck my hat!” he bellowed. Yes the metaphor was skewed but I got what he was trying to say.

Honky was sequestered in a corner wearing his warm up tights and sipping on a bottle of Screech an ardent fan from Nova Scotia had brought him. He poured me a shot, (which for the record was disgusting) and answered a few more questions. He didn’t like joining in with the fray and purposely kept himself set up at a distance from the rest of the wrestlers in the open room. A few local wrestlers tentatively approached him to express their awe at being on the same bill as the one time great and he graciously received them but didn’t shake their outstretched hands what with the germ thing and all.

Pre-show, Honky goes out to sign autographs and sell Polaroid’s of him with fans, holding his Intercontinental Champion of the World belt. I even succumb and jump in though he generously didn’t charge me the $20 dollar fee as I had bought him the beer travellers. He is resistant to the new -fangled digital world and tells me his biggest challenge is finding film for his vintage Polaroid camera that churns out the fan photos instantly.

I took my place in the bar as the show began. A crowd of maybe 75 people had spread around the seating area leaving wide gaps of empty seats. I sat through a few of the warm up acts, a variety of Value Village costumes and large bravado but nothing too threatening or graphic. I noticed the “Three Angels” at the back of the room, their long jet black hair and all black ensembles, standing side by side all with cameras attached to their faces. Couldn’t help thinking that if they spread out a bit, they may get some different perspectives instead of 3 versions of the same shot but I wasn’t about to step on any toes. I started to approach them to see if they would be willing to talk on camera and when they caught sight of me, they scattered like cockroaches in all directions making it clear the interview with the angels was a no go.

I slipped backstage to catch some footage of Hannibal who was up next. He was in the waiting area flexing, pacing and making menacing faces so I decided to stand back a bit though we caught it all on camera. His opponent was a strapping guy with dreadlocks, a large floppy brimmed fuchsia hat and sunglasses. An unassuming guy from Quebec, he was quietly warming up as opposed to Hannibal who looked like one of the lions before the gates are opened in a gladiator arena.

As their match began, Hannibal turned into something,frankly rabid. He paced with a crazed look in his eyes and made a disturbing gaga gaga gaga sound over and over. Within a minute the match had already crashed out of the ring and into the audience with speakers being smashed over heads, tables being broken, and blood splattering dangerously close to the camera bag. The small crowd seemed to come out of their complacent trances and started yelling taunts as Hannibal and his opponent crashed through the folding chairs. POP! BANG! ZOW! I saw my cameraman briefly run by me screaming like a girl. This would take months of free drinks to repair, I thought to myself. Hannibal was the clear victor, no surprise there and afterwards he paced around the backstage area drenched in blood with no apparent wish to wipe it off. Unlike the other performers who ended their matches backstage with slaps on the backs of their opponents and handshakes, Hannibal didn’t acknowledge his opponent at all. He seemed to take this a lot more seriously than meets the eye. When I finally got him to stand still for a question, he told me he felt a lot better now that he was bleeding. Bleeding was a great release for him.

Next up, the big headliner, Honky Tonk Man. We stand behind the curtain filming him as he is about to go on. He looks over and gives us a mock terrified shudder and wink. He is decked out in a black one piece unitard with silver sequined musical notes on it and a fabulous over the shoulder cape. As his theme music blares through the speakers he slips through the curtain and is on. The crowd seems genuinely pleased to see him as he waves and points on his way up to the ring. He slips into the ring and begins to sing, actually lip- synch to his signature tune, “I’m a Honky Tonk Man”.
He entices the lack lustre crowd to clap along with a grain of success. His opponent is a short nerdy DJ from a local radio station who has brought a 20 something buxom blonde as his cohort. She balances tentatively on stilettos as she pulls at her skin tight leopard print tank top and mini skirt. They exchange insults, Honky from the ring and DJ from the floor. Someone from the crowd pipes in that the DJ’s sidekick looks like a hooker and Honky gamely picks up on that thread. He tells the DJ he has no right to call himself a wrestler with his beer belly and tennis shoes and as I’m looking at Honky now in his mid-fifties, wearing a tight unitard I can’t help thinking, people in glass houses…
The grudge match begins and let me just say, Honky is phoning this shit in. He isn’t breaking a sweat and with the exception of some real aggravation when the blonde sidekick starts pulling his hair ringside; this is easy money for a Sunday afternoon. My cameraman tells me afterwards that he was close enough to hear Honky say to the DJ while in a headlock, “Lets wrap this up and get something to eat.” As he exits the ring, the clear winner once again, the ardent fan from Nova Scotia rushes over to shake his hand. He side steps it but gives her a bear hug that has her beaming.

Backstage, the wrestlers are packing up and eating Kentucky Fried Chicken. Honky, now shirtless, drinks Screech and picks at a piece of chicken. I notice the floor beneath the buffet table is covered in blood and the girl in me starts to gag a bit.
We are off to the after party thrown by a local dive nearby. Honky says he’d rather just go hang out in his motel room and drink but knows he must make himself available for the fans. The bar is already in full swing when we arrive with karaoke and deep fried appetizers and pizza laid out. Hannibal comes in before Honky to cue Honky’s theme song for his big entrance. As Honky enters, the music blares and he raises his arms in an entrance worthy of Caesars victory ride into Rome. The small crowd cheers and quickly surrounds him and the woman from Nova Scotia has tears in her eyes. She tells me that when she gets back home, she wants to laminate the picture she took with Honky and put it on her husband’s gravestone. Everyone wants to buy him a drink as he regales the crowd with stories from the golden era. I see him off to the side showing the blonde buxom side-kick the difference between a wrestling fake pull of the hair and a real pull of the hair. Afterwards, he autographs her breasts.
The country music is blaring as I see Hannibal pick up a midget and swing him overhead. Hannibal insists we travel to the bar he works at in Ottawa, though Honky is getting tired and just wants to go back to the motel. He has had an unnerving encounter in the washroom where someone tried to shake his hand after they had taken a leak.

Hannibal convinces him that he will be treated like a king and we climb into the van for the 40 minute trip to Ottawa. I decide to throw the camera on them for the ride and it is clear that Hannibal looks to Honky as a mentor or father figure. He even goes as far as saying he wants to marry Honky’s daughter so he can be his son -in -law which is met with a non-committal whatever from Honky.
It’s the old guard and the new guard comparing notes. Honky trained in a barn and came into the business before it was tarnished in his eyes though he did admit that steroids, drugs and alcoholism were tools of the trade. But he adhered to a gentleman’s code. Hannibal trained with a well -known instructor who ran a school that practiced physical and emotional abuse aimed at breaking the wrestler down to the wood. He shared a story where he was given a scenario to fight a female wrestler, as they were trained to be as tough as the men. The scenario was that he was to pretend she was his girlfriend and he had just found out she was pregnant and he wasn’t pleased. He was told to try to kick the baby out of her. At that point I broke all the rules of impartiality and blurted out, “You know that’s fucked up right?”
The good news is he did but he wanted this so badly that he would do anything to get to the big show. He trained in Ultimate Fighting as well just to increase his chances of getting noticed though his passion was for the WWE.It suddenly dawned on me why these guys really couldn’t transition into another field when they were getting long in the tooth. They may as well be branded like cattle because where do you take the skill set that they come with. They were chartered members of the island of lost toys. This profession carried not only physical and emotional wounds but a performance high that just couldn’t be duplicated in the real world.

As we entered the bar where Hannibal worked, he grabbed me from behind and bit my head. I think it was meant as a form of camaraderie or affection but he literally bit my head. I flattered myself for a moment that he considered me one of the inner circle but in reality he was just really, really drunk. This was a younger crowd and though Hannibal had gone ahead and set up the theme music for Honky’s entrance, the crowd viewed him more as an oddity as he waived his arms around in full character. They didn’t really know who he was but his mere stature; Elvis hair and loud clothing were enough to draw attention. They didn’t know why they should stop and applaud but they did anyway in a haphazard way. As Honky sat in a corner nursing a drink and Hannibal worked the room drunkenly trying to pick up women, I noticed a large screen television airing the Oscars. I couldn’t hear the sound but looked up just in time to see the announcements for the Best Actor award, an award Mickey Rourke was nominated for his role in The Wrestler. As Sean Penn took to the stage to accept the award, I felt deeply disappointed. More than ever I wanted Mickey to take this one home because I had just spent the last 15 hours witnessing how accurate and heartfelt his portrayal was.

As we left the bar to head back to the motel, Hannibal was nowhere to be found. The last time I saw him he was staggering and slurring and dragging a young woman around behind him. Honky was starting to break down as well. Though he held his liquor well and didn’t seem messy all day, it was now late and I can’t even track how many drinks he had not counting the 2 bottles of Screech. As we waited outside , I hear him yell at the doorman, “I’m the Intercontinental Champion of the World and I can’t get one fucking beer for the road?!”

On the way home he asks me repeatedly, “Vickie, how the hell are you going to tell this story that is different from any other one?” Every time I try to answer him, he cuts me off and asks the question again which wasn’t a bad thing because I really didn’t have an answer to that question. It’s so easy to mock him but at the end of the day, I liked him, not in a let’s keep in touch way but there was a sweetness to him. He was funny as hell, kind to his fans and gracious to his fellow wrestlers and had found a profession that he truly believed in for 30 odd years.
We dropped him off at his motel around 2am after we assure him we aren’t stashing any more beer and as he staggers to the door, he turns and says with a grin, “You will never be the same after meeting the Honky Tonk Man. You will never be the same”

Promo for Honky and Hannibal
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYX1P2YrAMY

Plenty of Shit

Okay, I know internet dating has been dissected, pissed on and examined to death but I still feel the need to weigh in on the subject. Apparently we have fully and completely embraced the concept that meeting a significant other is en-par with the Home Shopping Network. There really is no other way to do it and if you are a woman of a particular age who works from home in self-imposed isolation in a town where it is frankly illegal to be single, online dating really is the only option.

I started browsing the weekly specials on Plenty of Fish, (the poor man’s Match.com.) and found the state of romance is in crisis. As Stevie Wonder would say, “Love’s in need of love today.” After perusing the local talent, I boldly sent a message to a man that looked like he may not have done jail time and he responded with, “I’m looking for someone younger and thinner.” It was as easy as standing at the butcher and rejecting the cut of beef for having too much fat on it. This little fishy was unceremoniously tossed back.

I was hurt and shocked at the free for all lack of manners that this sort of online courting encourages. It’s like closing time at the Legion for God’s sake. I pretty much took my toys and went home with my tail between my legs. I was never really good at dating when I dated. It was more hanging out with a group of friends until one day; I would notice the cut of one’s jib and wonder if maybe we should be living together. It was an organic decision or maybe just a lazy decision but it worked. My bad judgement was in plain sight, live and in person.
The safety of a computer screen really does open the floodgates for frank and jarring assessments that not even Don Rickles would deliver in person. It’s a sales pitch, here’s my wares, this is my car, this is my motorcycle and here is me sitting on my friend’s sailboat. It makes me wonder where these dashing James Bonds are hiding in the harsh light of day. And demanding?

- Anyone with baggage need not apply
- I’m fit and expect you to be too
- Want a woman who looks good in jeans but can rock it in heels

I have literally seen profiles of men who claim to have a Master’s Degree that spell Master’s Degree wrong. And anyone who uses a phrase resembling, “I like to treat my lady like a queen” should just be reported. To be fair, the women aren’t behaving much better. I’ve heard horror stories of woman demanding to know the make and model of vehicle a man drives and his yearly income before she will as much as break out the lip liner. Behind the keyboard, all bets are off!

Sure there have been success stories; a couple of my friends have actually batted one out of the park on their first online foray. I don’t want to see them anymore but they are both very happy. But what I really want to share with you today is the story of another friend who without question has attracted the mother lode of weird shit in her quest for true love.

Picture a beautiful, smart, successful businesswoman who “got it all going on “as they say. Innocently and hopefully, she signs up to Plenty of Shit, carefully crafts a profile that will highlight why she, in a sea of dames warrants a second look. Unlike me, the response to her profile is immediate. The fish are biting and she has her pick of eligible men, fleets of cars and motorcycles all with the promise of a life shared with long walks along the beach, spontaneous weekend jaunts through country flea markets, and gourmet dinners with bottles of wine all over the ten dollar mark.

A Perch hailing from Washington DC catches her attention. He works in editorial for the Washington Post and their conversation quickly moves off the page on to a land line. They seem to have some things in common, sure the commute may get pricey but within a year they can decide which location best suits their perfect union. He begins asking her what her favourite section of the newspaper is, collects data such as back to front reader, section by section or graze the headlines before committing fully.

As their attraction grows, he mentions that it would be nice to speak to each other on Skype and if it isn’t too much trouble, perhaps she could sit quietly reading the newspaper as he watches. Are you kidding me?? We have a newspaper reading voyeur in our midst. I’ve heard of them but never actually come this close to an offender. Perhaps they are more common in Washington but this is Canada and we don’t watch people reading newspapers here, so my friend made a hasty retreat and dove back into the pond, confused but still game.

Once again, the fish are biting and this time she sparks up a conversation with a Grouper who owns his own business and is located in the same city, both good starts. They spend hours on the phone, taken aback by the ease and intimacy of their conversation. They are just short of picking out towel colours together when they decide to meet for dinner. And a perfect dinner it was, he was a gentleman, she felt like a million bucks, they lingered over their wine and basked in their good fortune to have met. This really could be the one and she decides to play by the for -keeps rules which means no sex.

They make plans to see each other a couple days later and text late into the night before they drift off to a perfect sleep. On the eve of their second date, she texts him to confirm the plans for the evening and he tells her he is just leaving work and will call her when he gets home. Four hours later, she still hasn’t heard from him so she texts him to tell him to lose her number.

A few days later, feeling she had perhaps made a hasty judgement, she opens the door for contact again. When he doesn’t respond, she becomes anxious and begins texting like a mad woman. Aha, he thinks, she took the bait. This time, he’s all business. He’ll play but what he really wants is for her to fulfill a long time fantasy. Well she thinks, I’ll see what I can do to accommodate, what pray tell do you wish for.
The Grouper would like her to leave her door unlocked so he can enter her home, have his way with her in complete silence. When he’s done, he will get dressed and leave without a word. Your basic rape fantasy, every girls dream and off the charts romantic.

This time she’s feeling waterlogged and steps back for some reassessment. I mean its only love for christ sake! How difficult can it be?
After a few weeks, she gingerly puts her toe back in the water. This time, a shark swoops in and starts circling with a song and dance routine worthy of Gene Kelly. He is a very successful businessman, extremely good looking and can’t wait to get his hands on her. The fact that he has 8 children by a few different women raises a few questions. Not this time mister, she firmly stands. She flatly refuses to meet him and she continues to flatly refuse on each of the 15 to 20 times he calls. This time she heads right to Google search to get the 411 on the hammerhead. Well what do you know; the guy is a repeat offender for fraud and domestic abuse. He’s been very busy between siring 8 children, running his businesses and cheating people out of scads of cash.

She severs all ties and congratulates herself on dodging a bullet. That is until his wife starts calling. She calls and calls and threatens and calls some more. Apparently, he wasn’t as single as he claimed and when his wife busted him by finding the phone records, he turned it all on my friend claiming she was a lunatic stalker. Plenty of shit indeed. It then moves onto to calls from the wife’s sister and an attempted set-up meeting with the wife’s brother in-law. Finally the wife calls to ask for my friend’s version of the story, I suspect this wasn’t the first time she had been through this. As my friend peels back the layers of deceit, she finds herself becoming a confidant to the wife, a shoulder to cry on. As the wife sobbed into the phone, “But, he was supposed to take care of me!” , my friend realizes things have gone too far and threatens to phone the police if so much as the family cat contacts her again.

By now her search for a mate has left her shivering in the foetal position, looking sideways as she covertly exits and enters her building and wondering what the big hairy deal is anyway about coupling.
She focuses on concrete details in her life like work hell and unreliable friends.
Then, just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water, a Speckled Trout leaves a message in her shit box.

She opens it with trepidation and reads the Coles notes of his life, his dreams, his passions, his concerns for the environment, his unscathed heart laid bare for her to take. And the trump card, he is a poet. Really she thinks, how much trouble can a poet stir up? They correspond and she phones me nightly to give me updates and read me the latest of his lukewarm poetry. Although I am encouraged that the newest model comes with a clean record, I’m concerned that she is becoming confused, straying from the core of who she is in order to fill the void. I mean, in any other arena, her and I would be savagely mocking poets, the old her wouldn’t go within spitting distance of a poetry reading.

Still , I admire her determination and try to stifle my guffaws as she reads his latest instalment. I almost lose it when she tells me they plan to meet at the Free Times Café, a haven for acoustic performers, poets and whiny navel gazers. I’m actually astonished it’s still open. Who knew you could make that much money selling root vegetable soups and herbal teas. She really has gone too far, she wears fur coats and never leaves the house without lipstick; she’ll be lynched by this mob.

But at least she’ll be safe and no doubt she’ll likely excuse herself to go to the washroom and sneak out the back exit. A few days before the big date, the poet decides to fast track the relationship and sends her a few images so they know they are on the same page. As if the poetry wasn’t offensive enough, she opens the email to a selection of serious hard core porn pics that leave no question to what his sexual preferences are if they should choose to take it to the next level. When the poets can’t be trusted we are in deep shit. Though she cancelled the date, he has been begging her to reconsider and he promises to go back to square one, the salad days before the golden showers were introduced. And again I return to the false bravado online dating reinforces. Can you honestly imagine sitting face to face with someone on a getting to know you date and having them plunk a pile of beav shots between the Caesar salad and salt and pepper? Of course you can’t because it wouldn’t happen.

For now, she’s kicking it old school as am I. We may linger a little longer in the aisles at the supermarket waiting for Mr. Right to reach for the olive oil at the same time that we do. Watch nostalgic old films where men and women kept some surprises until the end. Smarten up, mind your P's and Q's! If you want to insult my appearance you are going to have to take your chances and say it to my face. I’ll be taking a long slow walk on the beach by myself.

Misbehaving

I’m thinking of starting a winery. I’d like to call it “Barrels of Bad News” featuring a range of wines for every occasion including:
- Nausea and Regret Merlot
- Weight Gain Riesling
- Bad Decisions Chardonnay
- I said what? Pinot Grigio
- God I’m sexy Cabernet Sauvignon
- I’ve always hated you Shiraz
- When will I learn Chablis
- I am not slobbering Chianti
- Who’s afraid of Virginia Wolf Cab Franc

There will be a minimum purchase of 8 bottles and a club discount for those who order 2 cases at a time. Monthly giveaways of restaurant sized blue boxes will be awarded to premium clientele.

I started ruminating on this when my neighbourhood late night bottle collector actually stopped me to gush like a crazed fan that my house was his favourite stop. Time to take a good hard look I thought.

I went through a similar situation around 13 years ago when I made the heartbreaking decision to break up with my best friend, Belmont Milds. I had smoked with a conviction that most can only dream about. Rain, sleet, tornadoes, nothing got in the way of my pack a day romance, the longest relationship I had known lasting close to 20 years.

I would smoke and smoke and smoke some more and then in the middle of the night as I reached for my Ventolin inhaler to keep my asthma at bay, I would light a fresh one .
Though it was a tough call, smoking or breathing, I finally made the call to lose the butts and acted swiftly before I could change my mind.

For me, it was no less than a patch that threatened an instant heart attack if I as much as took one covert drag of a ciggy. And with the patch came a month long spiral of depression and grief as I learned to live with the day to day reality of life without my soul mate.

Friends assured me I wouldn’t regret it and bolstered me with tidbits like, “Food will taste completely different.” What they didn’t tell me was I would discover an inner sweet tooth that would have me chasing the dragon for a bag of jube jubes like a common junkie. I was in a grand funk railroad.

Initially I remember wondering how people who didn’t smoke actually got through the day. Do they simply sit and stare into space? It’s amazing how much extra time you have when you aren’t pulling on a dart every 20 minutes. I was inconsolable, convinced that my essence was directly related to that blue and white pack and without it I was a fraud, a shadow of my former self. My right arm had been amputated, my soul was reassessing, re-jigging, trying to find a comfortable position.

Around the second week of this self -induced torture, I found myself in New York interviewing Fran Lebowitz for a literary program I was working on. On top of my state of panic about going one on one with the Queen Mother of quip, I was having second, third and forty fifth thoughts about my insistence that cigarettes were really bad for me. Ms. Lebowitz breezed into the hotel suite and lit up a spectacular aromatic American cigarette, a few feet from me. When someone pointed out that it was a non-smoking suite, she simply said, “What are they going to do, arrest me?” She then sized me up and asked me why I wasn’t smoking as though it was as obvious a question as why I wasn’t wearing pants or had a turd sitting on my shoulder. I tried to appear confident yet casual as I answered, “Well I couldn’t breathe so I had to choose between smoking and breathing”

She eyed me suspiciously and with a sly grin replied, “Breathing is highly overrated” My god she is profound, I thought as I mentally ripped the Marlboro from her hand. I could easily have made an afternoon of it but hell no, not even La Lebowitz could break my code. It takes so much work; I mean really hard work to quit something that you love that the idea of returning to square one is unbearable.

It took a good long while before I didn’t think about sparking up 30 times a day but slowly, it started to fade to the background and the first time I realized an entire day had passed without even thinking about a cigarette was landmark. Still , thirteen years later, the smell of a freshly lit cigarette makes me nostalgic and if Health Canada came out with an apology admitting that they had been wrong all along and cigarettes were actually a benefit to our health, I would frankly mow you down getting to the nearest corner store.

There was a time, a long long time ago when bad behaviour was celebrated. I’m talking the days of epic public displays of bad behaviour the likes of Richard Burton, Peter O’Toole and Richard Harris. I fondly remember a story of Richard Burton and Peter O’Toole shooting Becket. The movie being wrapped, they went on a colossal bender only to be called back for one shot of O’Toole putting a ring on Burton’s finger. The story goes, that by the time they caught up to them, they were so intoxicated that they couldn’t connect finger to ring. I loved this story though in this era they would be hustled off to rehab before they could say Jack Rabbit. Not to minimize addiction but it seems rehab is the new sexy. Camaraderie today is a shared carbonated water and colonic. It just doesn’t have the same ring.

And what really sends me over the edge is the coffee boycott. Come on, must we be stripped down to the wood. When I hear someone proudly announce they have given up coffee, they might as well be telling me they have become a Scientologist. I simply won’t have it. Sure, if you legitimately don’t like coffee I can come to terms. We probably will never hang out but I get it. It’s the ones that actively and ridiculously insist on removing it from their repertoire for health reasons that send me knocking my head against a wall.

Who decided that we have to be perfect? I’d like to meet with them over a bag of pork rinds and a couple brewskies and get to the bottom of this. Is it necessary for everyone to live to be 140? Not to mention the overcrowding this kind of thinking evokes. Sure, I don’t have to be the most popular blue box on the street, I can compromise. Perhaps Murray Merlot should be an occasional guest instead of having his own key to my home. I even considered meditation until I remembered that the few times I’ve tried it at the end of a yoga class, I usually end up giggling like an obnoxious six year old. But coffee, don’t touch my coffee. I mean it back away slowly.

The Story of H - Part Two

Mustique
November 2007
I sat in the Barbados airport anxiously waiting to meet my travel companions. We were to leave in small groups on chartered planes to the tiny island of Mustique. A couple reasons for my anxiety, one I am not a plane person and the thought of getting on a small aircraft made me uneasy but the big fat reason was I had agreed to attend the week -long celebration with an intimate group of complete strangers. H had mentioned her friends throughout the years but with the exception of a short meeting with her only other Canadian friend Heidi that had taken place a good fifteen years ago, I had not met a single one of them. I had met her father over a luncheon in New York, again 15 odd years ago but no one else from her family. This was quite possibly the craziest thing I had ever done and I had a lot to compare it to.

I had received a letter from her sister in law, outlining the accommodations, scheduled plan of events which was fairly loosey goosey except the day of the service on the beach, a rotation of dinners at each villa and a few housekeeping notes. It was suggested to load up on duty free Grey Goose, all else was taken care of. I was to be housed in a villa called Shogun with 9 other of H’s friends and a couple of her cousins. This was an assortment of H’s favourite people from around the globe, an eclectic crew coming from locations such as London, New Mexico, Los Angeles, Palm Beach, New York, Connecticut, Los Cabos, Honduras and St.Catharines Ontario. I can feel you feeling my anxiety right now. I had done a little research on the joint and wasn’t surprised that it was a haven for wealthy rock stars and fashion designers. This was the place Bryan Adams whisked Amy Winehouse to on her first meltdown. Below I have ripped some tourist info that may help paint the picture:

Famous as the bolthole of celebrities and the super-rich, who build their villas here, Mustique is an enclave of around 130 private villas (some 70 of which are for rent) with one hotel, a guest house (stylish and very expensive nonetheless), a bar and a few shops.
Okay, I didn’t have a clue what bolthole meant, but I knew it was big and my anxiety was hitting fever pitch as I sat with my crisp faux Louis Vuitton baggage.

I noticed a small group gathering and timidly went up and introduced myself. Howard, a close family friend who had been their decorator forever was chatting with Heidi the Canadian who had moved to New York many years ago, fallen in love and moved to Connecticut where she was raising two children with her banker husband. The Canadian thing goes a long way and I basically wrapped myself around her ankles until we got on the plane. Some had already been flown over and some were coming after so it was a small crew that boarded the toy airplane to the island. The sun was going down and the pilot had an air of panic about not being able to see the landing strip if we waited any longer so of course count me in! The flight was loud , tumultuous and didn’t lend itself to a getting to know you chat so I quietly white knuckled it and hoped I would at least see a Mint Julep before the plane went down.

Land we did and when we emerged I felt like Dorothy when the house finally crashes to earth and she steps into a technicolor wonderland. We were greeted in the tiny 2 room airport by staff members from our villa, packing Evian bottles and warm towels to freshen up. We were then whisked away in a cross between a jeep and a golf cart, a little thing they like to call mules (no cars on the island) through the tropical surroundings and narrow roadways until we reached our destination, “Shogun”.




We climbed out of the mule to a scene that can only be described as an episode of Fantasy Island. A torch lit path leading to an entrance where waiters in whites and blacks held trays of tropical cocktails. Seriously, I actually took a quick scout around for Tattoo. We were shown to our rooms; mine an airy suite with a bed, private patio, en-suite and library. The bedrooms formed a horseshoe shape around a fully stocked Koi pond and beyond the dining room, a minimalist living room with an open space looking out on a breathtaking view of the ocean. Next, the patio with another dining area, a pool, and waterfall. The property boasted its own golf course on site and a guest house with another pool. I was starting to warm to the idea.
After we all checked out our digs, we gathered in the dining room for a luxurious dinner prepared by the staff. I looked around the table to take stock, starting to feel very Agatha Christie.

The cast:
Sean and Jeff- Cosmopolitan, strikingly handsome couple from L.A , arrived with extra wigs and were instrumental in arranging this whole show.

Erick- Boyishly attractive actor who appeared in an independent film that H made the year before she got sick.

Heidi- As per mentioned fellow Canadian turned Connecticut housewife, extremely organized, energetic, team captain and head cheerleader.

Padma and Boris- Magnetic couple from New Mexico, H went to private school with Padma and they were lifelong friends ever since.

Tara- Divorcee from Upstate New York who H met on an Ashram.

Steven- Cousin of H who lives in Los Cabos. Fit, handsome, understated.

Nedenia- Another cousin and H’s closest friend, boisterous personality, was with H during her final months in Argentina.

Gabriel- British, Ricky Gervais type.

Vickie- middle-aged single mother with an overactive imagination.

So, we ate, we talked about H, exchanged our favourite H stories and talked about H some more. To be fair, most of them had met before so I was one of the only wild cards in the bunch. After the meal, we did what most people do when they are in unusual surroundings getting acquainted. We drank our faces off. Drank at the villa, drank at the local beachside bar “Basils” (where many drunken celebrities have taken the stage spontaneously) and then had a moonlit visit to H’s favourite Macaroni beach. Back to the villa where the wigs were cracked open, pool was christened and by 3am we all felt pretty darn sure that this was all meant to be. The gal had orchestrated the perfect gathering with the perfect mixture of personalities. And why should I ever have doubted that, of course any friend of H’s would be hand-picked from around the world for their unique perspective and open minds. Still a little voice whispered in my ear just before I drifted off to sleep, “What on earth do you think you’re playing at? “

The next morning around 11ish, I staggered out to the blazing sun for breakfast on the patio. The group had mostly assembled and apparently the staff that had been ready and raring to go for an early breakfast was a bit taken aback by the slovenly crew. I’ll pause for a moment here to address my casual use of the word staff. I know it sounds very off-hand like I was completely comfortable tossing out requests, leaving dishes at the table and clothes strewn around my room only to be picked up , laundered and returned with no questions asked but it really was a bit odd and frankly I liked it.

I was slightly afraid of them and craved their approval in the same way we all try to create fantasy friendships with our mechanics.

The following day, we met up with the peeps from the other villas. H’s half –brother Stan, his wife Leah and their 3 beautiful daughters and sophisticated teenage son. Leah, was a former model who had the kind of beauty that looks as though she was born on a piece of driftwood. Her children were inquisitive and well mannered, her son seemed to harken from another era and would have fit seamlessly in a room with Gershwin or Noel Coward. It was quite spectacular to watch him glide elegantly along the beach or tickling the ivories at one of the two cocktail lounges. I took a long walk with Heidi who was able to fill in some of the blanks of H’s decline. She also assured me that H had told her about her trip to Niagara and really got why I moved back there. I was comforted by that. The rapport between the group was intimate and familiar though we had only come together 24 hours before. It was exactly how it had happened with H so many years before and I never underestimate the power of instant connections. They are a rare gift.

After an afternoon at the beach, we stopped in to have refreshments and watch the charter plane descend with H’s father, mother and step-father, the last of the arrivals. We jumped in the mule to meet the plane and it was when I saw her parents appear that the reality of why we were all here really hit me. They greeted us warmly though the weight of the situation wasn’t too far from the surface. H’s father in particular, looked like he’d been side swiped by grief and appeared much frailer than I had remembered. Her mother, still beautiful in her 80’s, was charming and elegant with a slight reserve that likely came with her pedigree. H’s parents had long ago divorced but there was still residual tension, that awkward combination of living separate lives but forever being connected by the child that carried both of their imprints. It was striking to see each of them so clearly embodied in her.

The next day the scheduled afternoon memorial set the tone right out of the gate. We had a sombre late breakfast and then the group seemed to wander off in different directions, each looking for some space to prepare. I went for a walk around the island, so surreal in its perfection. Around 2:30, we gathered in the foyer to make the trip down to the beach. The ride was silent and I looked over to see Erick with quiet tears streaming down his face. This was it, the final goodbye. If we hadn’t gotten to know each other yet, it sure seemed we were getting a crash course now. As we assembled on H’s favourite beach, I watched her parents arrive and in a moment that was so simple yet heartbreaking, H’s mother looked at her ex-husband and said, “It’s our girl.” They took each other’s hand and joined the circle .I don’t think there is anything sadder than witnessing parents saying goodbye to their child.

The ceremony was poignant without being maudlin, just what she would have wanted. Her nephew and nieces sang a beautiful piece of music, we all shared stories about H and when the time came, her ashes were divided between us to take into the ocean. Her father took the ashes and spread some on his cheek as he wept openly. We each took our ashes and waded into the ocean, I kissed my hand and released her.
I went to her mother to express my condolences and she said, “She was my best friend.”

Later at Shogun the festivities began as we re-grouped after we transformed into our wigs and gowns. I attempted a Liza Minnelli on Gabriel's make-up. Heidi looked smashing in her Angie Dickinson best, Jeff and Sean with their haphazard wigs plunked on their heads and H’s nephew who hands down was the most stunning dame in the room. A few surprises, a few Bea Arthurs and me who wished I had spent more than 8 minutes at Value Village as the end result was a cross between Anne of Green Gables and a lounge singer.

There was an air of celebration, a release after the emotional afternoon and note to self; there is no faster way to level the playing field than a mandatory drag order. Dinner was served on the patio and there were toasts and remembrances. H’s father stood up and read a poem he had written that stopped the table with its raw emotion. The gist of it was a lament that she had not needed him more. There was discomfort from some at the table, the mood having turned as it so often does in situations of grief and farewells. But it was honest, touching and painful. I wanted him to know how much she adored him and how she spoke of him and her mother with such pride. A friend of mine once advised that in situations of death and grieving, everyone deserves a get out of jail free card and I’ve adopted that credo. Though I don’t know all the details of their father, daughter relationship, what I witnessed that night was a broken man who couldn’t accept that his child was gone before him.

And then again the tides turned and the soiree turned celebratory with music. dancing and silliness, a party that could only have been better if H herself was in attendance. The patio that lead off the living room held a pedestal under a light holding H’s red wig.

The next day as I wandered out to the patio, I passed a bench holding an array of exhausted wigs piled on top of each other and a few of the kitchen staff sneaking where the hell did you people come from glances.
H wisely made sure the trip didn’t end on that note, not her style so we had a few days afterward to reflect, dig deeper and relax. The staff surrendered to our idea of breakfast which was a truckload of bacon and grilled cheese sandwiches around 11am. We lounged and read ,explored and danced. I had my first snorkelling experience with H’ brother Stan, Leah and their kids and didn’t get hysterical.

I have never completely recovered from the movie JAWS and am tentative at best around the ocean. The day after the service, we went for a swim and I got to a place where I was jumping in waves with total confidence until one of them grabbed me, dragged me down, spun me around and playfully popped me to the surface. Instead of freaking, I actually considered it a nod from H.

We rotated dinners between the villas, highlighted by a spectacular American Thanksgiving orchestrated by Leah. We played games of Sardines where one person hides and each person that finds them must hide with them until there is one lonely soldier. Considering the size of the villa’s this game could potentially take weeks. Each evening usually ended by dragging all the living room cushions out on to the patio where we would all lie gazing at the stars and as Heidi put it evaluate the events of the day. And then an early hour kitchen raid before we turned in.

By the end of the week I knew about Tara’s troubled ex-husband, Erick’s quirks and talent that went deeper than the average L.A actor, Steven’s subtle humour and hysterical recounts of family pets over the years, Sean’s intelligence and sweetness and Jeff’s wide open heart, Heidi’s instinctive nurturing and plans to adopt, Padma’s quiet strength and Boris’s new parent glow, Nedenia’s huge personality and Honduras soul and pretty much everyone knew I was in desperate need of a date.

I was grateful to her generous family who boldly took on her unusual last wishes. How odd it must have been for them to share their daughter/sister/cousin's farewell with a group of strangers but I can only hope we helped give them comfort and an insight into other facets of H's life.

On the final day we left in shifts as we were all departing to various locations. It felt odd leaving H behind though I knew it was a ridiculous concern. I had a final drink at the airport with Sean, Jeff, Erick and Steven and once again felt like Dorothy making the conflicted departure from Oz.

We have kept in touch, I visited Jeff, Sean and Erick in Los Angeles and as we sat late into the night laughing and yakking and evaluating, we all commented on how H would have loved this evolution of friendships that now seemed cemented. I showed Sean around Toronto for a day in late fall. The following year, Leah was diagnosed with breast cancer and after a gruelling course of treatment, thankfully recovered. Shortly after that I received an email from Heidi breaking the news that she too had been diagnosed with breast cancer but not to worry as she was absolutely going to beat it. She apologized for bearing bad news so soon after H’s death. Heidi died in the fall of 2009, after a brave struggle, the cancer being unusually invasive and unrelenting. I have kept in touch with H’s father who still struggles daily with the loss.

I hate when good people leave, I miss H and her fantastic energy but I do feel her presence in each of the people I met on that crazy ride. It has been said that people in our lives are on loan to us and we should enjoy the time we have with them but not expect to have it forever. Energy doesn’t die, it just changes form.

The Story of H

I first met H in the early nineties in Los Angeles California. I was visiting an old pal/sometimes lover from Niagara who had moved to L.A. and was working on the ground breaking David Lynch series, “Twin Peaks.” I was having a horrible time as he spent all day working, I had assumed we would spend the week more on the lover side but arrived to find he had a girlfriend and the clincher, I didn’t drive. The only other people who didn’t drive in L.A. were homeless, criminally insane or both and I met several of them on my daily walks around the Hollywood Hills. My pal Chris did arrange for me to spend a day sightseeing with an Australian friend of his who was working as John Schlesinger’s assistant. Brett picked me up in one of Schlesinger’s sports cars, drove me to Malibu where he basically berated me the entire day. A seasoned misogynist, he yelled at me for getting a sunburn, challenged everything that came out of my mouth and when he dropped me off at the end of the day, said he had a great time and we should do it again. I asked him if I had been in the washroom during the part where he was having a great time and he rolled his eyes and peeled out of the driveway.

The evenings were spent socializing with young industry hipsters that were friendly in a- “I’m pretty sure you can’t advance my career but just in case I’ll talk to you” kind of way. The girlfriend hated me which I totally understood, and Chris spent his time avoiding the whole mess. The Hollywood scene was as creative as a Sears Christmas catalogue and it depressed me that this was the centre of the universe where the majority of our movie watching decisions were made. It depressed me that Arnold Schwarzenegger was considered an actor and that box office numbers translated into industry respect. When Chris told me his friend H from New York was in town and would be coming over for the evening, I braced myself for another soul sucking evening.
H entered the room like a perfect storm. Long wavy blonde hair, no makeup, wearing jeans and sneakers, she dropped her knapsack on the floor and said; “I am here for no more than 48 hours. I can’t stand to be in this shit hole for any longer.” I came out of my trance and perked up a bit but still held back. The night was young; it was L.A., people turn on a dime.

We exchanged pleasantries and she went over to peruse the book shelf. She barked out a guffaw as she pulled a book on EST, California’s latest craze in the personal transformation vein that was sweeping the nation. Chris had attached himself to it and had spent his last visit to Niagara trying unsuccessfully to convert his group of jaded Niagara on the Lake friends to join the movement. I was really warming to this gal as we gathered our things to head out to another evening on the scene. Later that evening as things were getting boisterous, I heard H say, “Who is that Australian asshole, he just yelled at me for 5 minutes!” I looked her in the eye and said, “We gotta talk” And talk we did.

The next day, Brett the misogynist invited H and I over to Schlesinger’s house to swim and hang out while his boss was out of town. Neither of us drove so after he yelled at us about that for a few minutes, it was decided he would pick us up at 11 am sharp the next day. We both detested him but decided that was no reason to deprive ourselves of a day drinking smart cocktails poolside at the famous directors digs. After Brett showed us where the drinks were and advised us not to expect him to be waiting on us, we settled into our lounge chairs. We devised a game where we would talk about Brett using someone else’s name so we could rip him to shreds in his presence without him catching on. It worked beautifully and Brett realizing we weren’t interested in him at all, soon went off to play on his own though occasionally would flex his muscles and dive into the pool to do a series of laps for our benefit. Okay, I can be shallow too!

Throughout the day I discovered the background on H which was pretty remarkable in itself. H was the child of a famous Oscar winning actor who was really at his peak in the 60’s through to the 80’s. Her mother was an actress and corporate heiress who hailed from one of the wealthiest families in America.I mean ridiculously wealthy as in Rockefeller, Getty or Johnson. Her mother had homes in Beverly Hills, New York, Palm Springs, the Hamptons and Colorado. Not just homes, estates that were fully staffed at all times. So basically while I was gob smacked over Schlesinger’s gold plated taps in the bathroom and the original art collection, this was chump change to H. I had heard bits and pieces about this but she divulged slowly and not until we had established an intimacy in our conversation that made her comfortable that we hit it off because of her personality not her pedigree. She was one of those people that have a natural and honest curiosity about life and its inhabitants and though that may not sound unique, it really is rare to find someone who has the time to really do it. She could observe a situation, sum it up, offer advice, seek advice, discuss, dissect, and discourse, all without being preachy, pompous or judgemental. Add a dry sense of humour that doesn’t miss a trick and you have just what the doctor ordered for my sojourn in the city of lost souls.

As the sun was going down, a petulant Brett feeling bruised by our lack of attention, informed us that the rest of the group would all be coming to meet us for dinner. While H was inside, I asked him I could use his shower and he directed me to his bedroom, told me to use his hair products sparingly as they were expensive and shut the door behind him. When I returned downstairs, H was acting a bit odd, suddenly distant to the point where I asked if something was wrong. She said, “I don’t know how to say this but did you just go have sex with Brett??” I burst out laughing and asked why on earth she would think that after we had just spent the last eight hours bonding some of which included Brett bashing in great detail. Well, apparently while I was in the shower; she was calling me unaware that I had gone upstairs to take a shower. As she stood at the bottom of the stairs, Brett opened the door to his room buck naked and said, “She’s up here.” She naturally concluded that this was L.A. and anything was possible though she was disappointed that she had misread me. After we sorted that up and reaffirmed Brett’s biggest asshole in LA status, we carried on as before.

We scrolled through Schlesinger’s rolodex and drank and dialled Michael York’s answering machine. We compared the merits of spokes-model vs. infomercial host and jumped on the bed that Mick Jagger had allegedly had a threesome. We sequestered ourselves in a corner smoking buckets of Marlboro lights, revealing, mocking and judging.
The next day H was scheduled to go back to New York but I was having none of that. I told her she couldn’t in good conscience leave me here for the rest of the week with this emotionally bankrupt crew, my host whose girlfriend had broken up with him due to my presence in his house and four more agonizing days that offered little but a good slap upside the head by Brett. She saw my point, cancelled her flight and stayed on until I made it back to Canada.

A month later she flew to Toronto for my birthday and so began a 17 year friendship , her flying to see me in Toronto most of the time and me flying to see her in New York some of the time. On her first visit to Toronto, I suddenly had host city panic. She hadn’t been to the city before so I wondered what was expected of me. I hated sightseeing almost as much as I hated board games but I braced myself for the inevitable show and tell. When she arrived, I laid out a potential itinerary of local landmarks and she looked at me like I had three heads. “I thought we would just smoke and drink and watch movies in your living room and maybe, maybe go out for cocktails somewhere down the street if we are up to it.” God has created the perfect houseguest I thought to myself.

And vice versa when I went to visit her in New York, though her version was her Mother’s penthouse overlooking the East River in a building on the Upper East Side. It was very easy not to leave the penthouse though we did venture out late at night to some of her favourite haunts. The first morning in New York, I was awakened by a butler in black and whites serving me a breakfast tray in bed. “This feels kinda weird”, I noted but H assured me that we had to let him do this as her mother wasn’t often at the property and he felt like he never got to really do his job. His job also included keeping the kitchen stocked with our favourite food, wine and cartons of Marlboro lights. I could get used to this. But besides this glaringly obvious difference in our lifestyles, I never really felt that money was what made her tick. I know that money can’t buy happiness, but it can sure free the mind and wallet to do what makes you happy!

H travelled extensively and would arrive in Toronto with her impish smile, back pack, jeans and sneakers from exotic locales around the world. She had friends dotted all over the map and would think nothing of hopping on a plane on an hour’s notice to come to Toronto for the weekend or Ireland or Timbuktu if that’s what called her. She was never showy about money though and could smell an opportunist from 50 paces. Though I do remember a night in Toronto as we had some cocktails at a hotel we spontaneously decided we wanted to meet up with some friends in Niagara on the Lake so H went to the concierge and rented the only transportation they had available, a white laser limo. We picked up a friend on the way, took the concierge who was finishing his shift with us and peeled down the QEW. As we pulled up at the quaint Oban Inn Lounge with music pounding and lasers ablaze, one of the bartenders exclaimed, “Holy shit, I think the Temptations have just arrived!”

I remember her once telling me she went to an Irish bar in New York one day and sat beside Gabriel Byrne. She then went to an Irish bar 36 hours later in Ireland and sat beside Gabriel Byrne. She called me from Heathrow airport thrilled by a sighting of Mother Theresa peeling through the airport. “That woman is built for speed!” she stated. These were normal occurrences in her life and she believed that very little was accidental. Once when I was bemoaning about a serious crush I had on a man that wasn’t available, she definitively told me that when we have strong feelings for someone, it is because on some level they are feeling the same way. I loved this theory and I’m sure it would sit well with stalkers around the world as well. She believed in the spirit world, chance meetings and old souls of which she was most definitely one. H was one of those people who make you believe that anything is possible.

Like many kids of the rich and famous, she had a sometimes conflicted family life with a roster of half brothers and sisters from various marriages. She was the only child from her parent’s union and I sometimes felt the fractures of a family life that had so many layers. She adored her father though often butted heads with him and went through phases of non-communication. Her mother, she described as beautiful and one of the kindest, sweetest people on earth though a frosty relationship with her mother’s latest husband sometimes had H keeping her distance. H fell in love many times, even got engaged to a dentist in Dayton Ohio for a while but inevitably she would leave. I could never imagine someone grounding her.

As the years passed and my life settled into marriage and motherhood, we didn’t see each other as often though kept in touch through email and phone calls. I could go 2 years without seeing her and pick up like it was yesterday when we met. When I was pregnant, H sent me a cake from North Carolina because it was something her sister who was also pregnant was craving. When I told her I was getting a divorce, she flew into Toronto and booked us into the Four Seasons where she said we would drink Caesars, order room service, watch a marathon of movies and talk, talk, talk. As we were checking in, the elevator doors opened and a 6 foot 7 inched, Tommy Tune whisked through the lobby in a cape and full masquerade ball feathered mask. This didn’t surprise me at all.

On her last visit, I picked her up at the airport (yes I was driving finally) to take her to my place in Niagara. She emerged, bottle of duty free Grey Goose as per usual though we had long since given up the Marlboro lights. She looked somewhat elegant. The sneakers had been replaced by knee high boots and her hair had been dyed a fabulous shade of red. She met me at the exit and breathlessly said, “We have to wait, Heather Locklear was on my flight and she is just the cutest thing.”

She was coming to visit me at my cottage in Niagara, my landing after my marriage ended.
It was an unseasonably warm November and we sat on my porch drinking Caesars and chewing the fat, analyzing, speculating and commiserating. She had initially thought that moving out of Toronto was a mistake and I was anxious to show her why my little world in Niagara made sense. I started to wonder if her life of so many choices had made it impossible to make choices. Hers was a world of never ending possibilities but also an underlying loneliness. Our friendship at this point had a longevity that had its own short-hand and in a year that had been tumultuous, it calmed me to have her there. We kicked back old school and when she left, I was exhilarated and exhausted just like the old days.

A month later, she called and said, “Are you sitting down?” My god, I thought, she’s really going to get married this time. “I have ovarian cancer, but not to worry because there is no way this is going to take me. It just isn’t going to go that way.” I believed her too because when H put her mind to something, there was no stopping her. In the following months she went through a series of treatments both experimental and traditional. She was always upbeat and flatly refused to acknowledge anything but a mild inconvenience this whole business was causing. She sent pictures of her newly shaved head and told me that she had purchased a series of wigs that made her look like alternatively Cher and a drag queen. I know this is starting to sound very “Beaches” and I apologize profusely for that but she really looked at the whole damn thing as an opportunity to re-evaluate.

After her hysterectomy, she emailed me saying, “Sweetie, the hysterectomy was tough, but they got it all and I am now on the road back” I was elated and frankly not surprised that she had shooed it away.
I wrote her a love letter that every great friend of many years deserves to receive and we shouldn’t wait for the “Big C” to deliver it. The next conversation wasn’t so hopeful. They hadn’t gotten all of it and now there was talk of having to have a colposcopy bag which she refused on no uncertain terms. It was the first time I sensed any panic in her voice as she said, “This is not how my life is supposed to go”

The week after, she told me she was going to Brazil to see a healer named “John of God”. Her specialist in New York had nothing left to offer so who was I to question. I told her I loved her and to keep in close touch. That was the last I heard from her. H went off the radar having travelled to Brazil with her cousin and best friend N. My phone calls and emails went unanswered. A few months later, I received a call on Mother’s Day from N saying that H had spent the last few months in Argentina exhausting all avenues of experimental treatment until she was finally too weak to return to New York. Her family flew out to say their good-byes and N crawled into her bed and held her as she left this world.

H left a letter with very specific instructions when she knew she had lost the battle. I share a few highlights:
“I am writing this to let you know what my wishes are after I have moved onto that Samba line in the sky.
She requested her ashes be scattered on Macaroni Beach on her favourite island of Mustique. She chose a list of close friends and family that she invited to spend a week at her expense celebrating her life on the island. She wrote:
“I’d really like it to be a celebration of a life that I loved, the love, joy and laughter that all of you brought me, and the fact that I have gone happily to the next state of consciousness. Don’t forget energy cannot be destroyed, it just changes.”

In addition to the week-long celebration was an insistence that the spreading of her ashes must without question be followed by a dinner party where everyone must attend in drag, wigs mandatory, no exceptions.
To be continued…

Smoke Drink Sleep

Yesterday was my birthday and as I enter the second act of my life, I thought I would take stock of where I’ve been, where I am and where I want to go for the next 30 odd years. Unfortunately, I don’t have the cash flow to take a trip around the world to figure this out so my backyard in St.Catharines Ontario will have to suffice. As the coffee brews, I ruminate on birthdays of years gone by. Events that were anticipated months ahead and usually involved a week’s worth of pub crawls, brunches, work lunches and a few dinners. Fast forward to 2010 where I sat home, savouring multiple episodes of Millionaire Matchmaker and Flipping Out with 2 complicated poodles by my side and a cheap but earnest bottle of Pinot Grigio. I cast my mind way, way back to my twenties, the “Smoke” years.

After years of confinement at the National Ballet School, I decided to cut loose and embark on a career with ballet’s poorer, black sheep cousin, Modern Dance. Modern dance in the 70’s and 80’s was taking shape covertly in dusty cockroach infested lofts and church basements around the city. Where ballet was an exercise in torturous control, submission and starvation, modern dance was a haven for reckless behaviour and starvation. Modern dance was heavy with importance, angst and ferocity. The first time I walked into Toronto Dance Theatre to take a Martha Graham technique class with Patricia Beatty, I almost puked with fear. This was a fierce crowd; the Graham technique really separates the men from the mice. Ballet is all about the fantasy, swans sleeping with humans, village girls going insane after misguided affection for royalty, Willies, I don’t even know how to start to explain Willies. Tight buns both on the head and in the rear, sparkly short skirts, stop on a dime pirouettes and Cirque de Soleil flexibility. All served up with a saccharine smile that says, “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now! My feet are bleeding, I threw up my meal before the show and I will have hip replacements before I’m fifty but just try to stop me! I’m here until someone yanks my 36 year old bones off this stage!”

Over at Modern dance headquarters, Ms. Graham was eating you from the inside out. The work was intense, raw, the slight hint of an insincere movement being called out immediately. The dancers wore ripped, threadbare clothes; hair carelessly tossed on top of the head or even better, shaved off to make way for the art. Modern dance was living out loud and if there was an issue it was vigorously debated, combusted, thrown into the ring to fend for itself. It was not for the faint hearted and I admit that every time I walked into a Graham class, I felt as though there was a Vegas style neon sign on my back that read “IMPOSTER!!" I was a cross over from the trite world of ballet and no matter how hard I tried to rein it in, I’d inevitably start to get giddy when a pirouette was introduced or my leg lifted above knee level. Busted! At one of our post show receptions, an embittered, catty drunken male teacher of mine slurred angrily, “You may be classically trained but you have no control over your glute muscles!” (Translation: ass or as ballet discreetly calls it derriere)

Ouch, thems fighting words but I was still in my Smoke phase and I didn’t have the moxie to tell him he was flat- footed and had limited range in his arabesque. I meekly lit another cigarette to stave off the hunger and sipped my el cheapo glass of white absently wondering if I would ever meet a straight man.
I loved gay men and still do though not in a stalker fag haggy kind of way. I had little choice considering I was ensconced in the world of dance since I was seven years old. I fell madly in love with an assortment of gay men. To me, it was a glass half- full situation, maybe I would be that woman that changed it all but of course my optimism has always tended to be wildly misplaced and this pattern was no exception. I learned to live with unrequited love or at best, science experiments that lasted a few days on average.

Modern dancing wasn’t exactly a lucrative career. You really had to love it, I mean really had to love it because this was before the “So You Think You Can Dance” days and the audience for modern dance was typically about 40 other modern dancers who had to hate it on principal. So you rehearsed your butt off for around 3 months pre- show, performed for little or no money and then danced for an audience of peers in a show that opened and closed the same night. I would emerge after the show to a small group of loyal friends that all wore the same puzzled look on their faces or even worse, my parents with my mother fighting back tears of horror and frustration for a career that had gone so horribly off track. To bankroll my sickness, I spent 4 nights a week bartending at the downtown Holiday Inn ,being serenaded by a roster of lounge singers and drunken businessmen. On slow evenings, I would anonymously send up requests for “Puppy Love” by Donny Osmond but they caught on to me around the third week and would roll their eyes and throw the crumpled request to the floor.

By my late twenties, I decided it was time to hang up my dancing togs when I was offered a full-time job at the trendiest address on Queen St… Citytv. No more bartending, no more slogging my way through dance studios, this was a real job with real people making real money. Or so I thought.
Here comes the “Drink” phase. The transition from starving artist to full time employment was fairly painless because I landed in the one job chocked full of renegade ideas, explosive on- air personalities and the ultimate wizard behind the curtain and more often in front of the camera directing it all. Having grown up at the ballet school, I had never been to high school or university and this was as close as I could get to that experience. Best of all, best of all, it was crawling with single men. I was like a kid in a candy shop. The place was dripping with sex and I was making up for lost time. I still loved my gay men but it was novel to spend time with a guy who wasn’t checking other guys out though they weren’t much good at sharing feelings I soon discovered. These were the golden years of Laurie Brown and Daniel Richler’s “New Music”. The city watched as Erica Ehm learnt the ropes live on air. There was a spontaneity that suggested things weren’t in control because often things weren’t in control. Ideas came from every nook and cranny in the joint not a bunch of suits sitting in a boardroom. It was sometimes volatile, competitive, childish, petty and emotional and I was in heaven. We worked together, we drank after work together, we slept together, some married (myself included) co-workers, divorced co-workers, married other co-workers, we told tales out of school. The cleaning man, a middle aged Italian man named Mike, was suddenly catapulted to local fame as a recurring feature in promotions for the station. Our staff parties started at 6pm in the building and often didn’t wrap up until 6am the next morning. Love it or hate it, there wasn’t any other programming like it anywhere and Toronto finally got to see its multi-cultural community reflected on television. Nothing was off limits. Brona Brown and her camera would tour the halls and pounce on unsuspecting employees to give a vignette summation of the job they were performing. You could always tell she was en route by the sudden surge of people diving into hallways, under editing bays and behind pillars to avoid the on camera assault. Brona, walking the deserted halls, pleading for someone to toss her a break and appear in a segment. And it was always on a day you were hung-over, wearing glorified pyjamas and no make-up.

Public meltdowns were commonplace, drinking at lunch was mandatory and the birth of the videographer, a cheap solution to the traditional full crew marked the dawn of a new era. We made shit money and spent most of it on alcohol, cigarettes and taxicabs. We were given a daily hall pass to leave the building with expensive equipment to make TV for god’s sake! To this day, I haven’t quite replaced that level of creativity in a workplace and I wonder if it’s even possible.

A few production companies later, a few trials at living in different cities, marriage, divorce, death, motherhood, we now settle into the “Sleep” phase though by that I don’t mean to infer that I am going to lie down and die. Not yet anyway. I am older and wiser though let’s not bank too much on the wiser part. The good news is I suspect you don’t ever really figure it out. I and many of my peers have honed skills, active minds (if not bodies) and yet are being cast out in droves to make way for the new generation of upstarts. Fair enough, I don’t need to take on the digital revolution; I’m too tired for that. We will always need upstarts, but I still want to kick some proverbial ass. With the exception of HBO, I find television is looking and feeling more and more like the fifties. Safe, mundane, and inoffensive. Me thinks the upstarts, have some upstarting to do. I don’t want to get my information from Barbie and Ken.

So what is a middle aged gal to do? While many, (in fact all those I mocked for having safe employment choices) are now cashing in on the other end with early retirements, I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Creativity doesn’t fade away; it just goes to bed earlier. I’m still curious, I still give a shit and I know you do too. So to all you old renegades out there, what say you we get together, throw it against a wall and see if it sticks? I’ll watch you if you watch me...