My name is Milo Slippers.  I am 8 years old.  My dad took me to see a show called Monkey Toast.  I was excited because monkeys are my best animal and every year I ask for one, but I never get it because my dad says that Santa can’t bring animals or fruit across the border like the time my sister got stopped at the airport on our way home from Disney World because she had a turkey sandwich and the man said that she couldn’t bring it in because it used to be an animal but then she said she was hypoglycemic and so he made her eat it in the line up.

At first, I was disappointed that there weren’t any monkeys in the show and thought that my dad was lying so I would like him more than my mom but then a man in a jacket came out and talked about why he was mad. But then a lady came out and said some jokes!  I made my dad write down the names so I could say them properly.  Her name was Laurie Elliot. There were some other kids in the audience and she told them to put their hands on their ears so they wouldn’t hear her say blow job. I asked my dad what a blow job was and he said when it happens, I’d know.

Then some people came out and said some scenes.

Then the man brought out another lady.  She spends her days drinking wine and saying why people should buy books.  Her name was Barbara Bower, but she said people call her Babs.  I liked it so I went home and called my sister Babs but she didn’t like it because her name is Lorraine.  But now everyone is calling her Babs too.  That first lady named Babs got to write her own questions because she didn’t really believe that the people who do acting are making it up as they go along.  Her hair was very shiny.

Then those people came out and said more scenes.

Then there was a break and my dad bought me some french fries that came with this crazy sauce that we don’t have at home because my mom isn’t a chef and our kitchen isn’t a restaurant.

Then a man from TV came on.  His name is Richard Crouse.  The man in the jacket (whose name is David—I remember because that is my cousin’s name and he has spiderman underwear) made Richard Crouse show him his socks.  They were very fancy.  The Richard Crouse is on TV and talks about movies.  That is his job.  Probably that is the best job in the world except maybe testing jet packs in the future.  He went to Rome to interview the man from Star Wars (the new ones, not the good ones).  Then he could only talk to him for two minutes because a woman had to have makeup on.

Then those people came out again and said some more scenes.

Then everyone bowed.  Then we went home.

It was fun.  I liked Monkey Toast a lot.  When I grow up I’m going to have comedy too.

The people who said the acting were called Lisa Merchant, Sandy Jobin-Bevans, Jan Caruana, Naomi Snieckus, Herbie Barnes, and Scott Montgomery.

Well, it was a lovely evening as my husband Peter and I decided to go to the lovely Gladstone Hotel and see Monkey Toast in which our only son Kerry was performing along with several other fabulous improvisers whose names I can never remember. Peter and I don’t get out of the condo as much as we’d like to, other than to take the occasional cruise, so we were really looking forward to the show.  We got there early of course to get a good seat and Peter bought me a lite beer to sip during the festivities.  As a retired accountant, I made sure he tipped a proper amount.

The show began with that nice David Shore boy introducing the cast.  My Kerry looked handsome, although he could have taken more time to iron his shirt.  It was nice to see so many female performers as well; I remember the struggles for women’s rights so you go girls!  David seemed angry off the top of the show as he was ranting about bags of dog poop. It was quite funny, although I don’t think he needs to resort to talking about poop so much; he’s smarter than that.  He actually reminds me of a Jewish version of my son.

The first guest was a nice young comic named Harry Doupe.  He claimed responsibility for David’s mysterious bags of dog poop, which I thought was very smart and funny. As a former dog owner, I know of what they speak!  He also spoke about Marineland, which reminded me of some delightful trips Peter and I took with the kids when they were little.  And I disagree with Mr. Doupe—everyone DOES love Marineland!

The comedy that followed was truly inspired.  Apparently, the world was being taken over by gangs of dolphins with guns.  I have often been scared by the thought of all the violent gangs running roughshod over our fair city, so I thought this was a great metaphor and artistic statement on the state of our city streets in today’s world.  Although, I was a bit upset when one of the dolphins shot my son. Those performers are so good I almost thought he was really shot!

In another scene, one of the performers—I think his name is Paul—played an older man smoking a pipe.  At the end, it turned out it was a soap bubble pipe the whole time!  Oh, I giggled to myself thinking about that whole room being filled with bubbles instead of the horrible stink of pipe tobacco. Peter’s father used to smoke cigars and those smells never go away!

The second guest was a young man named Kevin Shea who used to run Global Television.  I don’t watch much of Global as I usually just put in a videotape of my British mystery shows.  My favourite is Miss Marple!  But Mr. Shea spoke eloquently about the tough business of Canadian television and the sorry state the Canadian industry is in because of a lack of proper funding.  The show took a serious turn here, which I thought was good and respectful.  The cast did some wonderful comedy about strange television stations, including one where it was all done through interpretive dance!  How they moved their bodies in those ways, I’ll never know! Ever since Peter and I had our hernia operations, we haven’t been able to move like that at all.

The last guest was the lovely Geri Hall from This Hour has 22 Minutes.  I do watch that show occasionally, although Peter prefers The Hour with George Stroumboulopoulos.  She was lovely, and such a husky voice!  I hope it’s not from smoking—that’s bad for you.  She spoke of a wonderful joke she played on Stephen Harper.  I don’t like him so I was glad to laugh at his expense.

The cast did some wonderful scenes, including one about the Swine Flu and Stephen Harper (played wonderfully by my son).  It’s amazing to see those improvisers be so topical.  Why, they must read the paper every day!

They also had some hilarious laughs about places in Ontario where people live.  Every time someone mentioned Oakville or Owen Sound, I had to laugh out loud.  I know people from those places!

The show ended with a scene about a couple of religious people getting sexy in a church. It was quite risqué but by that time I had had a couple of lite beers, so I was into it!

Well, the delightful show ended and we applauded loudly for all the performers.  Peter and I had to leave right away, as it was close to 10pm by that time and much too late for us to be out.  As well I had to get up early the next day to complete work on my son’s taxes.  He needs to keep better records of things.

We chuckled to ourselves as Peter drove the station wagon back home to Etobicoke.  That’s a funny place too, but maybe not as funny as Oakville though!

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.

Wadda Toast!!  The night was off to an auspicious start with a room full of buzz, most definitely due to our line up of stellar guests and improvisers (Lisa, Jan, Sandy, Herbie, Jen and Collin Mochrie!!).  The players couldn’t wait to get on stage and light this Toast on fire!First guest on the docket – the fantastically funny and street savvy Jo-Anna Downey.  It’s a bit tricky following someone who is so funny but she was really great and the scenes that followed were fun.  Good times.

Next up:  “The Chicken Wing Kid” – aka Matthew Silverstein.  That’s right, you read correctly.  The Chicken Wing Kid’s photo, with his swollen lips and blood shot eyes, had appeared on previous shows.  David and cast member, Lisa Merchant, sat beside him at Duff’s Wings a few weeks ago and watched him eat several Armageddon wings, and the ensuing hell they unleashed on Matthew’s being.  David asked the question that was on everyone’s mind, “Why did you eat those wings?”  As it turns out, Matthew really wanted to have his name immortalized on the restaurant wall, listed among those who have also eaten Armageddon wings.  I don’t blame him.  I think we can all agree, given the choice, Shakespeare and Michelangelo never would have worked so hard on their masterpieces had they known there was the option to eat wings.  When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he stoically replied,  “Um, I just wanna, um, be, like, a business man.”  I loved that kid!

Jan plaed a young gal discussing the prospects of a better birthday as Collin milked his cow Betsy, played by Jen.  A scene followed where a chicken bone required immediate removal from a man’s leg until his lawyer stepped in and refused the invasive operation.

The second half of the show got of to lovely start with our main guest, conspiracy expert, Richard Syrett.  Fascinating!  David and Richard talked about all kinds of different conspiracies, with David wanting to know if the Pope was responsible… for all of them!  Of course, a Pope scene followed, and rightly so.  Anyone who wears those huge hats in public is asking for a mocking.  Lisa and Jan were really strong in the second half with fantastic characters, and no Monkey Toast is really complete without a shirtless Herbie Barnes.  I haven’t slept since that night.We’ve tried to end the show on a musical note (sorry, bad pun) so Sandy came out as a casting director who had cast Collin as someone who was singing a new jingle for a car dealership.  Collin was reluctant to sing, but when a bare chested Herbie Barnes entered the scene, well, let’s just say the music was magic!

Overall, it was a super fun night.   And the poutine at the Gladstone is off the chain.  Seriously.

Well, if last night’s Monkey Toast wasn’t the Monkey Toastiest!  Wonderful guests, a great crowd, and some very talented guest improvisers.  As always, David Shore makes everyone feel extremely comfortable and confident when they appear on the show.  He has that special gift that makes Sunday night a night to look forward to.  David’s first guest was The Wordburglar (Sean Jordan) who dazzled the crowd at The Gladstone with his rhymetastic set.  His song and interview with David inspired a lively little scene in which Naomi Snieckus and Jan Caruana postulated a world where Richie Rich was a super hero ala The Watchmen.

Susan Fischer was next as her hilarious alter ego Evelyn Reese.  Her wonderful tirade on her recent desire to quit smoking set the cast up with a string of darkly funny sketches where Lisa Merchant kept getting the electric chair.

And if that wasn’t shocking enough, Jen Goodhue performed a shockingly gitty duet with former Second City buddy Matt Baram in which the line “There’s nothing more Canadian than seeing Gordon Lightfoot die in the arms of Leonard Cohen” was uttered.  Great piano moves by our resident keyboardist Kevin Baker on that number which brings us to the intermission.  You yourself may choose to pause here and enjoy a cocktail or perhaps you’d like to step outside for a cigarette…

And we’re back.  I don’t know about you but I rather enjoyed that intermission.  I had a spicy Caesar myself.  You know what was really spicy?  The second half of Monkey Toast!  Brent Bambury, the host of CBC Radio’s GO!, was David’s celebrity guest .  I could have listened to Brent “go” on all night but there were more improvised jokes to be made so we ploughed on.

Alex Hatz gave the audience a brilliant operatic scene with the ladies on a fictional, French radio call-in show.  Lisa Merchant played Dr. Laura Love to Matt’s love torn neighbor, seeking her advice. The whole thing was set in an elevator and flashed forward to see how Dr. Laura’s words of wisdom were helping matters.  A great audience and good times all around.  See you next time!

Despite the fact that is was Oscar night, we had a good house – THANK YOU MOVIE HATERS!  First up, comedian Nile Seguin did a great set with some awesome bits about his racist mother and his hair (seriously, that dude has HAIR).  He asked the audience if they, like him, ever wonder if they are actually hip enough to pull off their hairstyles.  Then the cast did some improv bits.*

Next up was David’s gastroenterologist Dr. Mark Atin, and the slide screen came down.  Yes, the audience and cast got treated to up-close and personal and 6 foot by 6 foot slides of the insides of our host and producer.  Then the cast did more improv bits.*

Our second act guest was none other than CBC’s Bob McDonald, host of Quirks & Quarks.  I love that guy!  Bob shared some great stories about astronomy, and his travels to Africa to see mountain gorillas in their natural habitat, which of course inspired the cast into improvising scenes as talking gorillas.  Naomi and I were in the last gasps of a scene involving Galileo and a girl whose parents were bulls (yes, both were bulls – a same-sex bull coupling) when Matt Baram – always a pleasure to work with – swept the scene by stepping in front of us and saying ‘Sweeeeep!’ when we didn’t get off the stage. Thanks to an on-mic call-out from Carmine, we then revisited a one-chair restaurant from the first half of the show (to all you improvisors reading this:  when in doubt, reincorporate!).  The show ended on a sweet moment as Matt finds true love.

* bits: funny stuff done by the cast which are truly best captured with an asterisk and my firm belief: You had to be there.

Having just flown in from Majorca, where I had celebrated the 239th anniversary of the US Weather Bureau with the Smythe-Hunnicutts, I made my way to the Gladstone Hotel to indulge in what I hoped would be a night of slapdash frivolity, guffaw-inducing ribaldry and the like.  Unfortunately, the bar was too crowded. Quel dommage!  So, picking up my dashed hopes, as if they were my Uncle Clyde on a bender, I trundled towards a large crowd who informed me that they were here to see Monkey Toast.  I freely admit that the prospect of watching some simian brown loaves of bread filled me with a giddiness I had not attained since my accidental Viagra/Red Bull overdose (wait for the memoirs!).  Though not a monkey was to be seen, nor, may it be said, anything resembling bread, the audience and I had a rollicking good time.

The compere, David Shore (who reminded me of a young Admiral Penntwythe, but with all of his limbs), started off trying to elicit sympathy from the throng by telling of the various physical mishaps that he has endured through his life. Then followed the uproariously comic Ron Sparks waggishly discoursing on everything from the homeless to public transportation.  Jolly fun!  In an inspired bit of hilarity, NDPer Jack Layton interrupted after every joke to further his political cause.  How delightful!  Quel good!  Five make-it-uppers, as brilliant as Aunt Sylvia’s forehead after her chemical scrub, perform whimsical little skits based on the interviews young Shore has with his guests.  They were the rubber faced Lisa Merchant, puckish Matt Baram, divertingly droll Sandy Jobin-Bevins, the energetically mischievous Jan Caruana, and (as far as I could tell) their father.

Next up was the ethereally lovely Kim Parlee. Believe me I had no small amount of apprehension burrowed into my marrow as Ms. Parlee and Mr. Shore talked about the current economic woes facing the world.  How could the off-the-top-of-their-headers weave these metaphorically dreary threads into a comic tapestry that would keep our satirical knees warm?  Well, by gum, and through the teeth, they did it!  A woman with a jar filled with a trillion dollars worth of coins, a financial adviser torn between giving advice and scheduling his podcast, and a man with no bones who went by the moniker Spaghetti Joe lead the audience to spit-inducing, Manhattan-through-the-nose laughter.  I nearly had an accident!  Tres moist!

Now, Jack Layton—decent sort with a glint in the eye and a mustache that Baden-Powell would envy.  He seemed quite popular, as evidenced by the hoots and applause that followed his suggestions on making this country great.  This, of course, lent itself to uncontrolled insanity with Sandy (I think his name is) playing the ghost of Deifenbaker, young Baram playing the ghost of Sir Wilfred Laurier, and everyone else doing other things.  Ooooh, matron!  Sandy also transformed into the ghost of Billy Dee Williams and, I must say, his channeling of a sexy, black man with a penchant for Colt 45s bordered on eerie.  And I don’t mean the lake, ha ha ha!  The night ended on mad scientist Matt and his father trying to bring the country together through the unifying hate of Toronto (they blew up New Brunswick and bought Iceland—you sooo had to be there).   Interspersing those were short songs sung by non-corporeal entity impersonator Sandy and saucy curmudgeon Lisa as citizens across Canada deploring the Big Smoke.

As the giggle-fatigued audience left, throwing their hard earned cash into recyclable bags to cover the costs of putting on such an entertainment (unfortunately, all I had on me were some rubles and thirty euros in change—c’est la vie), there was a buzz on the streets that left one optimistic about the future.  How rich it was to be part of something that made you think without the undue strain of learning anything!

Three hours later, I woke up in the Don Jail with a transexual, a gecko, and a George Foreman grill!  Wait for the memoirs!

Oh my goodness!  Another sold out show at the Gladstone Hotel for Monkey Toast.  It’s hard to believe in this age of 500 channels and every Police Squad episode at our finger tips on the YouTube that people still go out to see live comedy in this world.  You really have to give people in this city credit for not only braving the sub zero temperatures to see shows this time of year, but also for keeping the idea of live theatre alive in their hearts.  And the audience at last night’s Monkey Toast was rewarded for their efforts.

David’s first guest was stand up comedian Jeff Elliot who got the crowd going with a great set of jokes delivered with a charming informality not unlike a Demetri Martin or, one of his current inspirations, Zach Galifianakis.

Host David Shore (who was fighting the sniffles, apparently) then brought out audience favourite Adrienne Weinberg from She Takes The Cake bakery.  Not only was Adrienne a delightful guest on the show, but this magical lady brought enough pastry for the whole audience.  She introduced us all to the signature “Monkey Toast Cookie” made from a sugar cookie, shaped like toast, and topped with green icing.  I’m not sure if you can still get them at She Takes The Cake, but if you try to get one, ask for extra monkey. You won’t be disappointed.

Kevin Hearn, from The Barenaked Ladies, started us off in the second act with a lovely tune called “In The Shade”.  Kevin’s music has a hopeful sincerity, which also carried over into his interview with David.  Their discussion included Kevin’s involvement with Lou Reed’s Band and his own battle with leukemia.  He needed a bone marrow transplant and everything.  I know what you’re thinking:  How do you make anything funny out of Lou Reed?  Well, the cast rose to the challenge and performed a scene about a man with a boner deficiency.  It brought the house down.  Jan Caruana was at her most hilarious as the supportive virgin who would do anything to help her friend recover from his illness.

Carmine Lucarelli, who hasn’t joined the Monkey Toast gang for a while, was the motor of the cast.  He found solid ending for most of our scenes and truly had everyone’s back.  Naomi Snieckus and Herbie Barnes were gut-splitting as a pair of French video store clerks helping an Anglo-Canadian film actor (played with precision by Lisa Merchant) find “the best Canadian film ever made”.   And I have to give props to Herbie who will be taking Daryl Dennis’ hit play Tales of an Urban Indian to the Public Theatre in New York next week.  Good luck, dude.  Hey David, when is Monkey Toast going to New York?  Can I come?

How It All Went Down…

First off, heartfelt thanks should go out to the big crowd that showed up last night! Without them there is no show!  Actually without them there would still be a show, but it would be a very sad show.  And I’ve been a participant in some of those sad, sad improv shows where the actors outnumber the crowd members, and that shit scars you for life! Improvising for a crowd of less than ten people is a lot like asking a stripper to put her clothes back on in front of everyone after she’s finished getting out of them.  It goes beyond the call of duty!  It’s a slow and painful death that I don’t wish upon anyone.  What the hell am I talking about again?  Oh yes, Monkey Toast last night.  Well the guests were (as usual) fantastic!  Oh before I get to that, Dave talked about his ass again.  Check that, he talked about his ass hole this time, so I guess that makes it different.  Nope, check that again, he’s always talking about his ass hole, only this time he had photos to back it up!  Shore recently had a colonoscopy and wanted to share it with the world!  Hurray, I now know the track that the chocolate choo-choo train takes on route to its watery station!  Again I digress, so if you’ve taken the time to read this, I apologize.  FYI if you just read that last sentence then you have indeed taken the time to read this!  Okay, the guests…

First up, Dave Brennan!  Dave is living large off of his Imponderables royalty cheques, yet he still seems to be a very down to earth guy.  Dave was his usual funny self, and gave us plenty of material to work with, including a scene about the energy power of a handful of grapes.  FYI a handful of grapes can lead to little girls wrestling their fathers coworkers, which I believe is the premise of the Mickey Rourke runaway hit The Wrestler.

Next up, we had wine expert Warren Porter who informed us that some local dead dude‘s estate recently hauled in $40, 000 for one bottle of wine.  That dead dude won’t get to enjoy that amazing bottle of wine or the $40,000 so I guess the jokes on him!  Warren gave us the inspiration for a scene about “Mogen Davis”, a failed pop star from the mid 1990’s.  Davis needs to find a new line of work, but just isn’t sure what the future will hold.  If that sounds familiar that’s because it is also the premise for the current Brad Pitt epic The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button.  Only in this case Mogen Davis ages forward and he’s a pop star not a whatever the hell Benjamin Button is.  I know at one point he was working on a ship in Russia, beyond that he’s basically a drifter.  Moving on…

Our second half guest was author Patricia Pearson who is actually the granddaughter of former Prime Minister John Diefenbaker!  Or something like that…I’m not a great listener.  Anyhow she has a book out called A Brief History Of Anxiety (Yours And Mine) which looks to be great.  I’d be sure to read it but bookstores freak me out!  But you don’t have that excuse so go buy it!  Today!  In fact, stop reading this article right now and buy the book!  I’ll wait right here.

Okay, you’re back!  Now put the book down and let me wrap this up.  Pearson inspired a severally racist scene about a Mexican not wanting to cross the border on a Tuesday.  Well to be truthful the whole scene was being played with the usual sensitivity that can be expected from Sandy Jobin-Barnes (me) and Herbie Bevans until the entrance of Paul Batesable as a parrot that spoke the extremely distasteful line, “Polly want a taco”.  All of this would have been too much for me to handle had I not remembered that this was simply a tribute to the Golden Globe winning film Slumdog Milionaire.  Well done boys!  You really nailed it!

So in closing, thanks to the guests and to the phenomenal crowd for making David and the improvisers look so good!  We couldn’t have done it without you.  Well we could have done it but it would have been like being assassinated for being the first openly white politician in America.  Which I believe is the premise of the Sean Penn hit Milk, now in theatres.

Of Metaphysics and Mimico:  A Trip Down the Jewish Staircase.

By The Honorable Wendell “Snuffy” Kirkpatrick (“Mayor” of Mimico, Amateur Puppeteer, A Capella Enthusiast)

Friends I ask you, is there a week in the year more barren and complex than the one between Christmas and New Year’s? Whether you celebrate these occasions or not, they serve to book-end a string of days, each of which has the familiar, tortured drag of an eternal Sunday afternoon. There’s an apprehension in the air that’s difficult to put a finger on, yet it persists, lingering like smoke; the melancholy of days passed, the queasiness of those to come. Throw in the usual concerns about the coming New Year with its attendant anxieties, stir in a little obvious “human cycle” hokum about death and renewal, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for neurosis.
Or maybe, just maybe… Hilarity?

Unfortunately no.  I wish I could report that the scenes of Monkey Toast inspired one to rise above the mid-holiday funk, but sadly this did not occur. I lay most of the blame for this squarely at the feet of the improvisers, particularly Scott Montgomery, but more on that in a moment. Off the top we were introduced to these so-called “performers,” as rag-tag and motley a crüe as I have ever seen.  Expectations were high, and the house crackled with a palpable excitement. Alas had we but known what was to come, we might have fled into the night to take our chances with Old Man Winter, whose icy caress is surely no crueler than the barbs that would fall like so many deadly icicles from the lips of these savage jesters.

But before we get to that, a note on the guests: Big Rude Jake was first, and he sang movingly on the subject of some sort of blues “snow” that fell on his street (a metaphor?). It was a stirring reminder that toe-tapping rockabilly is the real “reason for the season,” and though I did find his wallet chain and pompadour hairstyle mildly threatening, the dulcet tones of his voice, and his charitable intentions more than assuaged my fears. Thank you Big Rude!

Next up was a guest from the audience (Jack? Mark? Bill?) an out of work poker enthusiast and all around nice guy whose warmth and convivial attitude would serve as a bright counterpoint to vulgar japery of Mr. Montgomery and his ilk.

Finally we had Jaymz (sic) Bee, who appeared to be in some sort of gaudy shoe competition with the aforementioned Big Rude Jake (Advantage: Big Rude, but it was a close one). Jaymz (sic) was mocked roundly by host David Shore for his refusal to eat a slice of pie. I’m sorry Mr. Shore, but some of us believe in a little something called manners. I’m sure had everyone been given a slice of delicious pie Mr. Bee would have happily gobbled his down; it reflects well on him that he did not. Incidentally Mr. Shore, you seemed to enjoy your meal very much. Shame on you sir!

Now, alas, we come to the cruelest cut. The so-called “comedy” segments of the evening. Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but I seem to recall a time when comedy was all about sharp one-liners, observations of how men and women are different, and the occasional prop. Clearly times have changed, and not for the better. In lieu of the classics I, along with the rest of the audience (who were laughing, I assume, out of politeness), were treated to a cavalcade of jokes about orphans, cigarette burns, motherless children, the lack of people of color in advertising, the Riemann Zeta-Hypothesis, world hunger, eccentric record store owners, Jewish staircases (!?), and strip-tease performance art. Pure balls, all of it. To be reminded of such things at such a complicated time of year is a grim tiding indeed!

Had Merchant, Constable, Barnes, Gallagher, Caruana, Baker, and the loathsome Montgomery limited their bile to the above mentioned subjects I may have walked away unscathed. Sadly they saved their most crass ape-snaps for some of society’s most cherished institutions. First: The Nylons. You may cast your stones at me, hate-mongers, but leave my music alone. The a capella wonder that is The Nylons is about so much more than singing. It is about freedom, peace and love; clearly things that all of you hate. Rest assured, the Nylons fear nothing of your ilk, for they live in a world above you. Second: Metaphysics. Invoking the name of David Hume at a scene set in a learning annex to generate cheap laughs is hardly appropriate. Perhaps some of the democratic constraints favored by the great man himself would benefit Monkey Toast and spare us all further sullying of the classics. Next: Puppetry. Do not mock what you do not understand! Miss Caruana’s turn as a globe trotting puppeteer who performed speculative, erotic re-interpretations of the endings to classic films was a slap in the face to those of us who take this sort of thing seriously.
Ah but the performers saved their deadliest venom for their final “skit”, one in which Merchant and Constable created a scene set in my own beloved Mimico. Mocked as some sort of backwoods, hillbilly wasteland at the fringes of the civilized world, the town was presented as the sort of place that would test one’s very faith in the Almighty above. Ah, but this was a mere preamble to Montgomery’s appearance as the Mayor. At first I was shocked to see myself portrayed on stage, and I held a slim glimmer of hope that Mr. Montgomery would set things right and deride his compatriots as a pair of braying jackasses. Horribly, it was not to be. Montgomery instead chose to portray your’s truly as a jowly, blowhard – a fool, a stooge! Where was any discussion of my sparkling attendance record at city hall, or my much lauded plan to re-organize public works? I noticed how you conveniently left out any mention that this summer’s Corn and Apple festival (Aug.16-18) is likely to be our best one yet!  Well Monkey Toast, if you set out to make a grown mayor cry: Mission Accomplished.

Mr. Shore, in the future if you plan on sticking with this “comedy” thing in lieu of a respectable career please consider the quality of your performers, and the nature of your craft. I doubt I shall come your way again, but if I ever find myself in the neighbourhood perhaps I’ll pop in to check on your progress. I am a firm believer that people can change if they really want to. I wish you luck, and a Happy New Year! Also, please punch Scott Montgomery in the nose, it is the very least you can do sir.

Yours,
Snuffy