The Yearly Visit With The Accountant

"I owe how much??"

It's a privilege to live in Canada and pay taxes, I keep telling myself.

"It's a privilege to live in Canada and pay taxes," I say to my accountant.

"Keep telling yourself that," he nods.

We've been together a long time, Gary and I. He's seen me go through several boyfriends, jobs and hair colours. I have settled on grey, in general. Nice and neutral, without being black and white.

"Can't you do anything?"

"You need to spend more."

"What -- and be one of those people who spend more? No can do."

He frowns at a figure.

"That's all you spent on your hair?"

"Look at it."

"I have clients who spend more on chocolate bars in a year. Go to a nice salon sometime."

"Nice salons intimidate the hell out of me."

He taps on his calculator and I sit back. He shakes his head.

"Did you try to figure out the HST on your own? Is that what these numbers are?"

"Yes. I thought I was helping..."

He sighs and continues tapping.

"I'm performing more," I say.

"What -- oral sex?"

"If I was performing oral sex on a regular basis, my income would be way higher."

"That is true," he says. "Sorry, I couldn't resist. I could only say that to you."

"I take deep offense to your sexist and demeaning remark ... can I write off pajamas?"

He shrugs and keeps calculating. I am always on top of my taxes. This stems from being raised by two public servants. My father was honest to a fault. To a fault. As was my mother. They never should have told me, when I was eight, that I had "teeth in the back of my head." To a fault.

I see Gary, my accountant, once a year, usually in April. I think he's had some work done. The skin on his face has a sheen, a tightness. I want to say "bubula -- why?" His hair doesn't have a touch of grey. We're the same age. No one will give him incredulous stares at Me Va Me, like the entire restaurant did me.

"By the way, I'm no longer seeing clients in April. No more one-on-one sessions. It will be strictly drop off."

I am crestfallen. "But Gary -- does this mean I'll never see you again? You were the one to tell me to get an upper GI series. They found an ulcer, thanks to you!"

"You, you can come in late March or May. Do you know I have over six hundred reports to file? I'm getting old..."

I wanted to tell him no, that I didn't want to hear that talk, that we will always be in our springtime. I tug at the shirt riding up my back.

"Is this goodbye then?"

"Stop being melodramatic. No -- I still need your EI tax deductions. You'll have to come back next week."

I'm relieved. My accountant wants to see me again. He is not going anywhere. He will stay behind his calculator and not age, not forget what he just said, not misconstrue.

Not this year. 

PS: If you're in Toronto, come see Hitler's Ass

It Pays To Dust

"Dust is the enemy of electronics," my engineer father used to say. It is also the enemy of writers. Dust collects on long neglected work such as plays, stories, novels. The more indefatigable of the writing species hustles their work. I'm the type who tends to let the dust collect, not become I lack ambition, rather, I am indifferent to dust. Only when I have a hard time breathing do I get out the rags and give 'er.

Two weeks ago, I dusted off a never produced, barely read one act play and submitted it to a Toronto theatre company holding a contest for new work.The five plays that made it to the finals were read last Wednesday, to an enthusiastic house.

I found out today that my play, Hitler's Ass, won and will have an eight show run in mid-April.

Surprised? Yes, if not shocked. I have no connection with this company and assumed I would be in the running, but not a winner.

It pays to dust.

The title Hitler's Ass is a cynical move on my part to attract attention. However, it is apropos of the theme; the quest for physical perfection and eternal life on earth -- all shades of Nazi experimentation on humans. It is an ass.  It is a stubborn fallacy.

How's that for an answer?  Plus it will grab attention.

Thank you Sterling Studio Theatre, for having the courage to form a company, rent a space and produce new work. I sure don't.

Yeow.

http://sterlingstudiotheatre.com

What We Survive

Picture of me and John Hood outside the Motel St. Jacques. 

Went up the road to Montreal for the funeral of my dear friend Sean Keane in December. Was supposed to go Washington D.C. that weekend, to celebrate a year of working on an American Civil War project (way to louse up my vcay Sean!).  Many old friends filled the back pews of St. Ignatius for the Rite of Christian Burial. Sean had a faith, a magical way of getting through life. The presiding priest mentioned Sean’s comedy and somehow worked in a moral angle. After the mass, some of us went to a burger joint on Westminster, laughed about old times and got caught up.

My home town. 

Hung around NDG and saw ghosts everywhere. Visited my old high school, the back where I used to smoke joints and wish no one would find me out, discover the twisted mental case lurking under the glazed eyes and cute smile. Imagined my former self 35 years ago, going up to that kid and saying .. nothing. Intervention? No -- I'd practise the fine art of turning a blind eye. Painting a room once the offspring has left the nest. Paint that room immediately and erase any trace of a former life.

Get out.

Marymount in NDG. What a dump. Apparently drug dealers pedalled their wares at the school every day. I learned that from an old Marymount guidance counselor I met at a twelve step retreat a couple of years ago. Apropos 35 years later meeting her. I told her I was one of their best customers.

My childhood and teenaged years. Ghost wreckage.  Helicopter parents? More like crash and burn parents in my social circle. Just the way it was back then. No interference with the natural progression of an independent life. Influence was more inference, letting nature weed out the weak.

What we survive.

Yep, the trip down memory lane had potholes and speed bumps and water main breaks. But it also had the blazing light of youthful exuberance, of drowse and bursting imagination. I almost went down, but live to rail, drift and love.

For those who will, please have a listen to yours truly on the Comedy Above The Pub podcast, hosted by Todd Van Allen and Darcy Fiander. 

http://comedyabovethepub.com/?p=1357 


I advertise the Tribute To Sean Keane.  Hope to see you there.

Winter

Here I am skating at the Clarence Downey Speed Skating Oval in Saskatoon. Which one I am in the picture? (Hint: I am not the speed skater)

I wait all year for this.

Air so cold it stings.  Snow squeaking underfoot. The high soaring sound of a deep January night. A crisply etched moon.  Solitude. Silence.

Winter is clarity. The senses are sharper. The brain, insulated by a friendly hat,  is at its optimal temperature. The world is angular, sketched, bare when it is dry. Precipitation is snow and ice, a magical force, enough to shut down airports, subways and buses. It can bring a city to its knees.

Kids get to stay home from school. The lucky ones get to go outside and play.

Blame snowflakes.

I grew up with snow drifts so high they could bury a kid alive. My brother once burrowed six feet deep into a drift, iced the sides, and tossed my little brother in the pit. And left him there, until his muffled cries alerted my parents who called out for him in the ringing cold.

Childhood.

Winter is survival, being conscious of the heart beat and breath. It is quiet streets and white icing. It is the soul's sojourn.

Winter is hockey and Les Habs.

I experienced cold like I haven't had in years, when I travelled to Saskatchewan to meet Dan's family at Christmas. It felt both familiar and foreign, Canadian yet  cryogenic. This is the way it used to be. I have been deprived living in Toronto, part of Canada's banana belt. The winters here are positively tropical.

But not this week.

The temperature will not rise above minus 5 for the next six days. I rejoice.  That means skating outdoors, skiing where the snow is and wearing a toque 24/7.

The full moon is on January 26. I'll be looking up into the deep, dark galaxy and pining.

Dear Sean

It's me. Carol. Your friend of 35 years.

It's been really hard, but I'm just starting to accept your passing away on December 4.

You had a massive heart attack. Your dad had to do CPR on you. Do you remember?  I don't get it -- you swam and ran every day. You ate bird seed, lots of fruits and veg. We talked in November and you told me how good you felt. You told me about a new project in the works. You ran some new jokes by me. We talked about your set at the Winnipeg Comedy Festival. Business as usual.

I now know that at any moment, business can get unusual. Fast.

I'm gonna miss your baritone voice over the phone. "Hello Carol, it's SEAN ....HHHHmmmmpppphhh."

We never became sweethearts, but we were, you know? Sweethearts without all the yucky sex stuff. Innocent love, love that a man and woman who make each other laugh know. You were always in my heart, even 35 years later as I turned 50 in my little apartment in Toronto, where I have lived for almost half my life. Montreal though is home, is where we laughed and riffed and started doing comedy at Ernie Butler's Comedy Nest on Bishop Street.

Where your legend began.

And now I'm typing out this dumb letter, this stupid letter to you, where ever you are. I vacillate between rage and sadness and despair. Why did you go?

At first I was pissed off at god. At your funeral, I looked up at Jesus on the cross and thought -- you loser... Why do we worship you? Why did you rip Sean away from his family?

I came very close to going on a bender. I've been sober for 11 years.

It's only weeks later that I have it figured out in my mind.

God didn't let you die, Sean.

God created you. Gave you a touch of divinity, a comedic soul. You were so gifted. Your jokes are some of the most quoted among comedians. God is love, and you expressed that love through your being. I remember you once told me you wanted written on your tombstone "He Made People Laugh".  You did, Sean. Did you ever.

No, God didn't kill you.

Death did.

Sean, remember that poem we had to read in high school? (that is, when you went to class)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

There are some things I remember from high school. Death, thou shalt die, not Sean.

John Donne wrote that sonnet in the 17th century. Here's my concise 21st century version:

Death, go fuck yourself

You steal children from their schools, a bullet to the head and body over and over. Sickness and decay and rot.

Get over yourself

I no longer glorify you, I grew up

And feel the sun in my bones

Death, go fuck yourself

Whether you sneak or skulk or settle in for a long visit

You go

But my friends on the other side don't

God is what creates love.  And as difficult, as gut wrenching as it is, I choose to believe, I HAVE to believe, that one day we will be delivered. What is the alternative? Something that doesn't make us laugh.

So Merry Christmas Sean. We will be planning a tribute show in Toronto for you, with proceeds going to the SPCA. And even though I have done one of your jokes in a gallows humour kind of way "Oh yeah, Sean Keane died. About a week ago... It's only now I can laugh about it" , I still can't laugh. That will come, when we do the tribute and play your old prank phone calls.

Sean.

You Made People Laugh.

Your true and noble epitaph.

Love,

Carol

A Stress-Free Way To Pay Bills And Get Instant Cash!

I still anticipate the arrival of daily mail. Not the electronic kind, but the kind where a guy in uniform walks up to your house and drops letters off in a thing called a mailbox. Some mailboxes are attached to the exterior of a house, some houses have slots in their doors for letters to be inserted, and in apartment buildings, residents have little individual mail slots or boxes where they collect mail. Mail. Coming home to mail. Maybe a postcard from a friend vacationing in the Swiss Alps, or a card acknowledging a milestone or a holiday.  Mail. From Canada Post!

Ah, the romance.

Today I received this gem from my credit union.

Dear Carolyn,

Imagine you have $511.28 in your chequing account.

Now imagine writing a cheque for $1000 … $1500 … or even $5000 without any concern that it will “bounce”. This is the straightforward, honest benefit of having an Advantage Line Of Credit.

By using your Advantage Line Of Credit, you increase the balance in your chequing account so you can pay unexpected bills …cover vacation expenses …or other occasional blips in your cash flow … ((I stopped reading after this).

Now, I could be wrong, (and please correct me if I am), but isn't this sort of marketing and/or economic policy what created what the U.S. government calls the “fiscal cliff”. But – how could it be? The benefit of having an Advantage Line Of Credit is straightforward and honest!

I mean, like, hey, I gotta go to Aruba. It’s just an occasional blip in my lifestyle.  Fer sure. My cash flow is trickling. It might be an infection, I dunno. I’ll write a cheque for $5000 – that should take care of the yuck, like, ya.

Fiscal Cliff: Hey, cheque! I wanna see you bounce! Toss yourself off me!

Cheque: But I can’t bounce. It says so in the direct mail campaign.

Fiscal Cliff: I don’t believe it. Show me! First rule of storytelling – show, don’t tell!

Cheque: Okay, Cliff. Watch me soar muthafecker!

SFX: Weeping and gnashing of teeth.

                                        THIS AD BROUGHT TO YOU BY 

                                     FRIENDLY GUYS BANKRUPTCY TRUSTEES

                                    FRIENDLY GUYS: MAKING IT ALL GO AWAY

And people ask me why I get headaches.

Whoever wrote and approved the copy for the Advantage Line Of Credit should be forced to take out an Advantage Line Of Credit, rack it up without any enjoyment and suffer the torment of financial insecurity. And when they cried for mercy, all they’d hear is a ‘blip’ sound.

 It’s stuff like this that’s causing the middle class to collapse.

Me, I’m still waiting for a postcard from the Swiss Alps.

Where Have I Been?

Is it Halloween already? It seems like just yesterday, August 18, 2012, I was saying my prayers in a nosediving air plane. It’s been nearly two months since that incident. I apologize to you, the one or two web surfers who happen upon this web page. I promise to be more consistent. Oh yeah, I also promise that the check is in the mail.

Halloween 2012 is one to remember on the east side of North America.  Superfreak Sandy cut a deadly swath through the eastern seaboard and into southern Ontario. Here in Toronto, a woman died after being struck by a wayward Staples sign. Apparently she was on her way to the store to buy batteries. Somebody should Staples together the balls of whoever neglected to fix that sign months ago.

Every once in awhile, we are shaken to the core and humbled by the elements. Control? IPhone 5 isn’t a decent makeshift paddle. The latest IPad is a lousy floatation device. Your $270 hair cut isn’t behaving in the gale force winds. Drat. Must take that up with the stylist. In an second, we could be taken out by a century tree, slathered like butter.

Note to self.

This is all to say Happy Halloween.

I actually bought and carved a pumpkin. Anything requiring manual dexterity on my part becomes a “Charlie Brown” – that is to say, I carved a “Charlie Brown” pumpkin,  I do “Charlie Brown” laundry,   I make “Charlie Brown” goulash.  I am going to give the kid upstairs some Halloween candy, for the first time. The child is now seven. I have seen her grow up in front of my eyes. For the first six and three-quarter years of her life, she has said nothing to me. It’s only in the last month she's looked at me. Maybe her parents said, “That lady who lives on the second floor has just turned 50. It would be nice if you acknowledged her. She is all alone.”  Me, I love a mute kid.

Yes, Halloween is subdued this year. It’s anti-climactic. No witch, goblin or zombie is as scary as Mother Nature in menopause. Her hormones are out of whack, and tons of greenhouse gases spewed every minute don't help. We’ve pissed off Ma with our human progress.

FYI – I am one of the co-writers of  this year’s pantomime hitting the Elgin Theatre in Toronto, November-January, the Ross Petty Production of “Snow White and 007.”

 That is my self-promotion for the year.

Boo.