Martha O'Neill

In about 30 minutes, I’m heading the airport to catch a flight to Edmonton. Shane is out west for work, so I’m joining for the weekend so that I can showcase at The Laugh Shop. Tonight, I’ll be at the Edmonton club, tomorrow in Calgary.

Because Andrew often writes about his travel exploits, I thought my contribution this week would be a sort of homage to him and recount my trip in real time. Fingers crossed my journey will be a fraction as interesting as his usually are.

10:42am – leave the house for airport, but first must stop at Tim Horton’s at the Esso. Mama needs a bacon/egg sandwich and coffee!

10:44am – holy crap! The Esso is chaos! Cars everywhere, everywhere… but am determined, so park at a weird angle, blocking two pumps and run in.

10:48am – mission accomplished. Happier now. Off to the airport.

11:10am – park in the reduced rate parking lot, see the shuttle bus in the distance so start to (semi) run. Slosh Timmies all over my hand and ram wheelie bag into my ankle…bloody, bloody, frickin’ heck. I wish I wasn’t such a cheap-ass.

11:15am – shuttle bus with only me on it departs. Probably didn’t have to run. Driver is very friendly and surprisingly young to be listening to classic rock.

11:23am – arrive at terminal and enjoy last cigarette with two women who are evidently celebrating “100 years of Bowling in Canada” – according to their (identical) shirts and a man whose red shirt reads “Proud to be a Canadian”. Likely an American. Watch as the people in BMW’s and Land Rovers use valet parking. Likely not comics.

11:35am – head to security where I realize I forgot to put my liquids in a baggie, so must open luggage and show all around me what toiletries I use. Why I even have a proper wash bag anymore is beyond me, because it is now virtually empty. At least they didn’t make me take off my shoes.

11:50am – walk to gate with fresh Timmies in hand. Am assaulted by a woman pushing TD Visas who demands I come over and talk to her. I keep walking. Also witness businessman getting a “10 minute massage” reclined at a funny angle with his head through a hole in the head rest…lovely for him, unpleasant for me.

12pm – at gate and approach Air Canada staff to change my window seat to an aisle. Now the drama will begin!

12:02pm – crap. The AC lady is lovely and accommodating.

12:10pm – pilots walking past to get on plane. They appear sober.

12:20pm – board the flight with no hassles. Sigh. Sorry people.
12:40pm – which movie, which movie? How about “Benjamin Button”? Though it’s 2h 45mins. Ah, well – what else do I have to do?

12:41pm – film interrupted for pilot’s announcements. Pilot’s name is Ted Kennedy. Rethinking the sober verdict.

12:43pm – film interrupted again! This time for “important safety video”… such fun – Toronto comic Mike Tackacs is in the video… way to put on the oxygen mask Mike!

12:49, 12:51, 1:07, 1:22 – film bloody interrupted!!!

Sitting with two young girls who seem nice enough but can’t seem to stop taking pictures of themselves. Holy narcissism, Batman. Across the aisle is a man with a briefcase full of Bibles. His wife is highlighting sections of “The Watchtower”. Look out Edmonton, Toronto Jehovah’s coming your way!

4:10pm – baby won’t stop kicking my seat… cliché, but true.

5:20pm (3:20 Edmonton time) – twenty minutes late, but that’s about the extent of the drama. Though I did learn on the drive in from the airport that at “Diamond’s Gentlemen’s Club” has “All Implants, All May”, which seems important to share.

I feel as if I’ve let all of you down, no excitement at all. I guess we can’t all have Andrew’s good luck.

Dear Comedy god, please deliver me the strength to face another one nighter.

By your grace, allow the road to be clear of all encumbrances including rain, snow, sleet, heavy traffic and crappy drivers. Please also provide me with directions that are accurate and coherent and given by someone who actually knows where I am supposed to go.

And for the journey, I beseech you to send companions who are pleasant and jovial with good taste in music; for I am not sure I possess the strength to endure many hours attempting civility with a prick.

Upon arrival to my destination, please provide facility representatives who are actually expecting me and perhaps even pleased at my presence. May they also go so far as to provide me with drink, sustenance and a private, preferably secure space to lay my belongings and prepare for the evening ahead.

May the patrons also be expecting me, for I am wont to appear on stage with no prior warning to others; for the wrath of a chicken-wing-eating, play-offs-watching soul is arduous to bear. I pray for the televisions to be off, the chairs facing forward and for the drunks to wander away until the end of the entertainment. I mean them no harm, though perhaps becoming locked in the handicapped washroom would be advantageous to all.

Please also provide me with a clear and agreeable introduction, a microphone that is true, a microphone stand that will obey my commands and light that is sufficiently illuminating, though not eye-gougingly bright.

Give me the grace to provide abundant laughter to those in attendance, and the fortitude to deal with those who wish to speak to me whilst onstage, for though many think they are coming to my aid, they are, in fact, a hindrance. Also provide me with good will and patience to interact later with those who would like to support me by providing witticisms from the internet, their Uncle Monty or of their own concoction, which “I can use in my act”.

Finally, may remuneration be expeditious and exact, so that I may bid a hasty farewell.

For all of these things, Comedy god, I ask of thee. Because really, is it too much to ask, dammit?

Amen.

Years ago, during the last big recession, when I was laid off from my (really fun) job as a cameraman (cameraskirt?) & PA on Bob Izumi’s Real Fishing Show, I quickly discovered there were absolutely no jobs in TV production (especially for someone with my level of experience) – so decided to bartend, move home and save my pennies to do that Europe thing. Best decision I ever made; I ended up staying (in London) for nearly 8 years. I met my husband there, bought my first house, had my first child, landed some terrific jobs and did some exciting travelling.

When I first arrived in London, I stayed for 6 weeks then went off backpacking by myself. Many friends thought I was crazy to go on my own, but I’m so glad I did…I answered to no one, saw what I wanted to see and met some terrific people along the way. But there were some drawbacks to being alone. In Bern, a man followed me through the market area, in and out of shops for about 45 minutes. I finally turned around, yelled “STOP FOLLOWING ME!!” This, surprisingly, worked. He just shrugged his shoulders and loped off. Then there was the hostel in Lucerne where a Bosnian guy told me he would “have me before the end of the night”. No, no you won’t buddy-boy. But the most bizarre, and in some ways, scariest thing that happened to me was my visit to the Berlin Zoo.

The plan was to catch an overnight train out of Berlin and head to Cologne. I had put my backpack in a locker at the train station, but had hours and hours to kill with hardly any money… The Berlin Zoo happened to be right across from the train station, happened to be open and happened to be cheap. Decision made. It was early evening, but it was November so getting dark quickly. No mind – I made the first left and went straight into the monkey enclosure. I love the monkeys and can watch them for ages. By the time I left the building to check out the rest of the zoo it was pitch dark. I thought, well, surely the lights will be turned on any minute…so started walking. As I got further away from the light of the monkey house it became clear that no lights were coming on. And there didn’t seem to be one other person around. All I could think was that the zoo is closed and I’ve been locked in for the night. It was so dark at this point, I literally had to inch my way up the path. Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that I could make out the outlines of animals… holy crap…they weren’t even in cages or behind glass! Squinting I could see about a 6 foot ditch was all that separated me from the animals. What kind of animals, I hadn’t a clue. A few looked like antelope, but could have been gazelle, gnu, hell, they could’ve been horses for all I knew. To my left looked like lions or jaguars, maybe large bushes, no way of telling for sure.

Panic set in at this point. Were the animals hungry? Would I accidentally wander into their areas? Where were all the frickin’ people? Were there German zoo staff watching me via security cameras laughing? Finally, in the distance I saw a light. Turned out to be the beaver house, which was open. Believe me the irony was not lost, no matter how scared I was. At least I had a place indoors I could sleep and sympathetic creatures to hang with, if it came to it.

After a while, I thought I’d better man up and ventured back out to try to find the main gate. Inch by inch, I made my way there. The lights were still off and there was still no one around, but I was free! As I made my triumphant exit, I looked around to see if there was any zoo staff around. There was, but they were busy selling tickets to an Asian couple. Part of me wanted to go warn the people – there are no lights on! You’ll be alone! But the pissed off part of me won out, so I just walked away, relishing the thought that they’d soon be enjoying the animals by moonlight as I did. At least they had each other; and, of course, the beavers.

The best summer job I ever had was working at Ontario Place at the concert venue called “The Forum”.  It’s long gone, replaced with the much slicker, bigger “Molson Amphitheatre”; but back then it was a wonderful, home-sy place.

The stage rotated and the concerts were free.  The artists ranged from up-and-coming Canadian bands (Honeymoon Suite, Glass Tiger etc.) to well established veterans (Natalie Cole, Johnny Cash etc.).  My job was to take care of the performers and their crews during their stay – I fed them, stocked the dressing rooms – whatever they needed – well, whatever they needed that a nice, shy, conservative-ish college girl could/would provide…  Such a fun way to spend a few summers.

Every day brought a new band/artist, so there were any number of cool and exciting things that went on… but my favourite anecdote from those days was the weekend I met James Brown.

The entourage was HUGE, plus the band, Mr. Brown (as I was instructed to call him) and his wife (the one he later went to jail for abusing – I still shudder at that thought).  A busy weekend to say the least… and the crowds were there in force – over 10, 000 per show times 4 shows – it was quite the palooza (which, by the way, is a word I’m trying to single-handedly make mainstream).

After the first matinee, I was walking through the backstage area, carrying a deli tray (ubiquitous, it would seem, to backstage areas).  James/Mr. Brown was sitting outside his dressing room on a bench in the main thoroughfare, just watching the world go by (or perhaps enjoying the minions doing his bidding, I don’t know for sure).  As me & the deli tray walk past, he called out “Girl!  Come sit with me…!”  So, I did (of course!)

He then begins the most bizarre rant/monologue I’ve ever had the good fortune to witness.  He said things like:  “Guess how old I am, girl!” “I’m 54 years old and I’m in gooood shape – did you see me tearing it up out there?!  Yes, I still got it!”  I just smiled, nodded and tried not to drop salami on his shoes (they were purple! – the shoes, not the salami)

At some point during our wee chat, the Clown Band came in for their break – their dressing room was in the same area.  What’s “the Clown Band”, you ask?  They were a half-dozen university music students – hired to dress like clowns and wander Ontario Place with their instruments, entertaining the kids with such classics as: “The Wheels on the Bus”, “Roll out the Barrel” and “The Ants go Marching”… you get the picture.  Anyway, in walks this group of tired, hot young men who immediately walked right toward James Brown and me.  You can imagine their reaction – I mean, for all his faults, this was James friggin’ Brown!  They stopped in their tracks and stared.  James/Mr. Brown said:  “You boys musicians?”  They nodded and muttered things like yes, sir.  He said, “Well, then play us a song!”   I swear to God, the sight that ensued has been burned into my brain, crystal clearly, for all these years.  Picture 6 young men, dressed as clowns, make-up smudged and running from the heat, playing their hearts out for the King of Soul.  Mr. Brown was clapping his hands and tapping his foot while I held onto the increasingly heavy tray, darting my eyes from him to them.  It was truly something to see.  The boys, to their credit, played really well.  When it ended, Mr. Brown clapped enthusiastically, the boys panted with exhaustion and I said (louder than intended) – “Well, that was fucked up”.

I don’t know if I ruined the moment or provided the perfect ending… The boys shuffled off to their dressing room, James/Mr. Brown went to have his hair done and I delivered the (now sweaty) deli tray to the crew room.  Good times.

As a comic, I’m constantly searching for ways to mine new material. I don’t know how other comics write, but my method is very random – something funny happens in life and I think, “How can I make this a bit?” Or someone says something that strikes me as usable. Usually, I’m lying in bed and in the moments before I fall asleep a hilarious idea strikes which I’m certain I’ll remember in the morning because it’s pure genius! comedy gold!, so I don’t write it down, and predictably it’s gone by morning.

So in an effort to be more productive (especially after the loss of my thick, well thumbed comedy book – clearly, I’m still mourning the loss…) – I’ve started making a list of anecdotes/crazy/memorable stories from my past. And frankly, I’m impressed by the amount of stuff I’ve come up with. The trick now, is turning them into viable jokes; always the trick, really.

Which brings us here – I thought I’d write out some of my stories over then next few weeks which would a) help me in the development process (you may see these on stage someday…lucky, lucky you!), and b) fill column space (again, lucky, lucky you!)

The following is going to be the first story because I’ve actually tried it out on stage twice – once very poorly and once with more success. We’ll see if it actually becomes something. But for now, it becomes a column!

Two things you need to know about my father before we begin. One, that earlier in his career, he was a defence attorney who had a small practice with my Godfather and two, he’s a story-repeater – i.e. he’ll tell the same story over and over and over again. Maybe he was a comic in another life.

For years, Dad would say “Did I ever tell you about the time I defended Bob Gibson?” I know, I know, my reaction was the same… who?! And for years I’d pretend I hadn’t heard the story before. “Who’s Bob Gibson, Dad?” “Well, he was a famous folk singer!” “He discovered Joan Baez!” Who is, in fact, interesting and famous, unfortunately, though, not Bob Gibson. Bob gave Dad all his albums, though I don’t think the plastic was ever cracked on any of them. “Well, gee, Dad, that’s cool”. And thus would end the story…‘til the next time. “Did I ever tell you about the time I defended Bob Gibson?”…. Sigh.

Finally, about 10 years ago, I cracked. I’d heard the (unbelievably unimpressive) story so many times I just couldn’t take it anymore. When Dad started his “Did I ever tell you…”, I said – “Did you ever meet anyone else famous in all those years, Dad?” And to my utter amazement, he said “Well, there was the time that Archie (my Godfather) defended Jimi Hendrix…” JIMI HENDRIX, kids! My reaction was predictable – along the lines of “holy-crap-that’s-cool” and “you’ve been sitting on THIS story for the last 20 years?!? He said “well, I didn’t defend him, I only met him briefly in the waiting room of the office, you know, made small talk”.

I said, dump the Bob Gibson story and immediately replace it with this. He said, but, I didn’t defend him… I said, “Dad, if you only saw the imprint of Jimi Hendrix’s butt cheeks on your reception sofa, it’s still a better story.”

I may have hurt his feelings a bit, but I’m certain my intervention has upped his status amongst those of us who listen to the stories over, and over, and over again.

And God bless you, Bob Gibson, wherever (and whoever) you are.

Next week: “James Brown, the Clown Band and Me”.