ART?  YES PLEASE!
By Gaylord Allan Voss – Art Lover
Who among you has heard the sweet call of Bacchus? Or yearned, as Keats did, to take flight on the viewless wings of poesy? Who has danced to the slow waltz of the stars as they reel about the heavens in their ceaseless whirl? What do you know of the grand mysteries and the sheer clarion joy of the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion? What of the boldness of love and the bright promise of renewal, sun-kissed by the heavenly hand of that immutable goddess Beauty?

I have drunk deep from the clear waters of the secret river, tasted sweet ambrosia, and anointed my loins with the peppermint-y balm of capital “T” truth. I have suckled at the majestic man-teat of Apollo, and laid my weary head on Cliodna’s ample cans. I have born witness to the eternal in the moment; I have seen Monkey Toast!

“Oh frabjous day, calloo, callay” that I first set foot in that ancient church, that hallowed hall, that Medieval Times for the art-smart set known as Gladstone Hotel. Expecting as I was nothing more than my usual Monday’s eve libation of a light beer and lemonade shandy with a twist of orange, imagine my surprise to find that theatre was afoot. Were it not for my saffron scented kaffiyeh I don’t doubt my head would have popped clear off my neck in shock… and delight!

And who could resist such a deliciously cheeky title as Monkey Toast? Something told me comedy at the quick. Having dabbled in clown myself, I was eager to shed weary care and wrap myself warm and forgiving arms of laughter and the lights dimmed I grew tumescent with anticipation.

And then, the cast was announced. These warriors of the boards, confidently emerging from some secret land, formed as they were of primordial clay, well-baked in the chiminea of the sublime – they were titans, each and every one. I chant their names that that I might invoke their spirits in my memory: Kerry, Naomi, Paul, Scott, Kirsten and dear sweet Matt.

And then our host, David, named for an ancient King, and every bit the monarch of Monday night himself fired his opening salvo; a teeth-gnashing soliloquy on the terrible subject of palatable Passover-friendly nourishment that proved no matter however dry and tasteless matzah may be, comedy goes well with everything. More than mere laughs however, it was a stirring reminder that we are both the perpetrators and victims of our fate… chained to the rock of tradition, and bound to bear it ever onward in to the ether of time.

The first guest: a comedian. Urban truth-speak thy name is Mark Forward, and he’s funny to boot. The stand up laughs were followed by a cagey interview that inspired the thespians to the delirious heights of comedy that included, but was not limited to; missing baby posters, the mewling homeless, adoption, racial tension on the highway and the ersatz comedy styling of stand-up Bob Jew-heart. Heaven’s cage was, to say the least, rattled.

Then a twist, a delightful twist! Audience members called to the floor to be interviewed. First up: Cindy with an “S”… Scindy?!  Goodly sous-chef from the twin hamlets of Kitchener Waterloo, your candor gave air to hot comedy balloon that soared through he heavens. After that Chris, an artist forever tugged by the call of the road – whose travails gave us the character Clooooouuuuud, an artists whose art was the act of living in different cities. Hot on his heels, in a moment of delirious ersatz on ersatz postmodernism, Clooooouuuuyyyde… a Jew-heart-esque knock off of the original, thought every bit the artist. The ability of Cloooouuuud and Cloooouuuuyyyde to speak together, as if in one voice, was a mesmerizing feat, and a subtle reminder that we should all learn to speak as one should we ever hope to end war and poverty. That, at least, is what I got from it.

After that, and intermission! Intermission? How could we expect any more from these people? Can an artistic orgasm such as this possibly have a second act? Never fear, this comedy proved to be tantric, as the second act held as many delights as the first. Joined, as they were, by Ed and Red partners Steven and Liana Kerzner the man behind the sock and the woman behind the bra and panties respectively the cast proved the age old theorum that smart+ opinionated = comedy (which is greater than or equal to art).

And what were given was no less that a treatise on the need for self knowledge in the form of a prison for people who pretend to be Jewish, a statement on the need for art to climb ever higher peaks in the form of a sheep-fucker, a powerful reminder that torture can take nay forms, be it water-boarding or the slow decay of an unfulfilled marriage, and a closing thought on the travesty of war filtered through the all too modern world of interactive video games. All that and the sweetest singing you ever heard.

Friends, I tell you, something mythical was born on Monday. Mythical, but also a living breathing thing. There in the dark womb of the Gladstone Hotel, a thing took shape that though mutable has left profound impact on the entire world and everyone in it. Do you know what it is like to witness such life coming to be? You mothers out there, you may have an inkling of what I’m taking about. Maybe, but probably not.

Art is and always will be a blurring of the lines, a moment in time, a feeling. It does set out to teach us anything, and in so doing, teaches us everything. I remain your humble student art and I thank you for the master class that was Monkey Toast.