Snow White didn’t have alone time to second-guess. If she had given any thought about the trappings of her life, a confined life rivalled only by that of the seventy-eight wives of Warren Jeffs, she would have been out of there in a heartbeat. Her muses kept her focused on the task at hand. How do I keep the Johnnie Walker away from Dopey? she might have queried. Or, What am I doing slaving away for seven irritating, overly sexed three-foot-tall men? Shouldn’t I get overtime? And I wish everyone would stop calling me Snow White. I’m not so pure. I have really dark thoughts. For one, I hate Happy. Fuck Happy. No one can be that happy all the time. I am going to put rat poison in Happy’s porridge and then there will only be six dwarfs and more room for me on the tiny fucking bed.
But Stinky the Skunk and Binky the Bunny made sure that Snow White would not fall down the hellhole of despair. Stinky kept Snow White singing and sweeping and delighting in the fact that she was the matriarch in a home consisting of seven grateful misfits. And over the years, we have benefited from her muses. We have read her story and believe that our prince will come one day also. It took a village of animals and dwarfs to get Snow White’s message across. An appreciative audience egging her on.
Now I feel better. I thought I was alone in my need to have a cheering section. I’m going to stop comparing myself to Margaret Atwood. She’s an amazing writer, but I’m better on television. We all have unique gifts. And we all have to do whatever it takes to make them materialize.
I’m going to have a nap now, in front of the fire. But when I wake up, I’m calling this young kid I know, who in fact looks like an Abercrombie & Fitch model, and I’ll pay him to strip and laugh as I dictate my book to him. I’m looking forward to completing a chapter and hearing my muse’s laughter and staring for a long time at his penis. I’ll do whatever it takes to complete this fucking book.
Television vs. Books
For years I said that I didn’t watch television. And I didn’t.
I still say it. Only now I’m lying. I watch TV. A lot of TV. Dr. Drew on Call, Antiques Roadshow, The Little Couple, The Amazing Race, Dancing with the Stars, So You Think You Can Dance, American Idol, National Geographic Channel, Fireplace Channel, Cottage Life, and Intervention, the mother of all reality television. Any makeover show, especially if it involves surgery—better yet, stomach bypass surgery. I love before and after shots. I love to see a five-hundred-pound man after he has lost three hundred pounds and can fit into a size thirty-two pant; it brings me to tears. I’m applauding him as I sit in front of my television, devouring a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream dripping with hot fudge sauce. I haven’t picked up a book and been really enthralled since The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and all the other escapades the tattooed girl experienced in the next two sequels. Occasionally, I’ll pick up a magazine—Time, Maclean’s, Psychology Today—read an article on Chinese counterfeit medicine, and feel like I have enough ammunition to carry on a ten-minute conversation with some knowledge that doesn’t have anything to do with my career.
But I’d rather talk, and boy can I talk—about obsessive stage mothers from Arkansas, or the wonders of the career and marriage of a three-foot-tall little person, or how a crocodile can devour a wildebeest in twenty seconds or less. I sat glued to the television when a retired couple from Mississippi were told on Antiques Roadshow that an old iron poker they found in their attic was now worth $40,000. Come on, that is riveting entertainment and at the same time motivating. Who hasn’t, after watching that show, cleaned out a closet in hopes of finding an unexpected windfall?
Am I illiterate? Will any book ever be able to hold my interest as much as Tom Sizemore getting sober on Celebrity Rehab? Have I destroyed my brain and its capacity to really expand and learn important things? I’m not selling out, am I? I will still camp out on Toronto mayor Rob Ford’s front lawn if he brings up the ludicrous and decadent idea of closing libraries again. Does that make me a hypocrite? I love libraries. My best and most loyal friend, the library, since I was eight years old. How many hours would I spend in the Portland Public Library when I was a child? A recluse among Longfellow and Robert Louis Stevenson, Emerson and Thoreau. If they lived in Maine, or even passed through the state, I was captivated with what they had to say.
“‘Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day’s occupation, That is known as the Children’s Hour’ … ‘Listen my children, and you shall hear, Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.’”
The Runnymede Public Library was a home for me and my two small children at least four afternoons a week when I was a young mom. The storytelling hours and the dedicated teacher-librarians created a magical world for every kid sitting cross-legged on the floor. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, The Giving Tree, Are You My Mother?, Jacob Two-Two, Alligator Pie. Those books and the little room upstairs that housed them was a second home for us. It kept me from feeling isolated and made me feel like a “good mom” ‘cause I was introducing my kids to books.
The library opened at ten. On the way there, we strolled through High Park and talked about nature and why Canada geese fly south in the winter. In those days, I knew the answer. Or if I didn’t, we’d find the answer in a book, together.
Now that part of my inquisitive, literate brain has stopped working.
Instead, I make myself a cup of tea, turn on the TV, and check out. Maybe that’s the question. Not if TV is bad and books are better. Maybe the question is why do I feel the need to check out? And why can’t books help me do that? It takes a lot of brain power with no distractions to read a book. Now, if I could board a plane and travel to the moon, I could get through every book in my library.
These are the books that sit on my night table, patiently waiting to be picked up and read: The Goldfinch, Wise Children, The Great Gatsby, Bring Up the Bodies, How I Became a Famous Novelist. I climb into bed, stare at the books, and shame myself to sleep. Too many thoughts of the day, my life, my kids’ lives, my career, the environment, politics, unemployment, foreclosures, sadness, hopelessness, injustice, despair. No book can distract me from all that.
Wait, that’s a lot of responsibility to put on a little book. I think I’m looking at this reading thing the wrong way.
Instead of needing to be distracted, maybe I could let myself be inspired. Elevated. Transported. Instead of thinking about what a book can’t do, let me think about what it can do.
That’s it. I’m going to march into my bedroom right now, and pick up The Goldfinch, and pour myself a cup of tea, and get all cozy in my down-filled chair, and put my feet up on the ottoman, and start reading. I’m so excited. Wait, what time is it? 7:45 p.m. Perfect. I have fifteen more minutes to read before I have to stop. It’s elimination round on American Idol tonight. I’m psyched to see what JLo is wearing and to hear what my lover, Keith Urban, will say. Every word that comes out of his sumptuous and sultry Australian mouth keeps my lady parts* all aflutter. I’d like to put a steak on his barbie.
*Book title alert.
Chimps in Tutus
Growing up in the ’50s and ’60s, I watched a lot of television variety shows. Jackie Gleason, Ernie Kovacs, Sid Caesar’s Your Show of Shows, Carol Burnett. Those programs, and the comedians on them, gave me a sense of belonging. I remember thinking that if those people could be up there making faces, then maybe there was a place for me. Twenty years later, I found a home on SCTV, a Canadian variety/sketch show, where for seven years I got to make my own funny faces.
The variety show was at one time the most popular form of entertainment. It all started with vaudeville. Eventually, vaudeville led to Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca, and the ultimate variety show of its time, The Ed Sullivan Show. Who remembers Ed Sullivan? It’s hard to explain Ed Sullivan today. He wasn’t funny; he didn’t sing or dance or do impressions, though he was often imitated. He had no discernible talent and appeared uncomfortable. I grew up with Ed Sullivan and remember all the acts: musicians, dance duos,
comedians, magicians, acrobats, jugglers, male and female impersonators, and trained animals. Topo Gigio, the little Italian mouse (“Hello, Eddie! Hello, Eddie!”) maybe the first openly gay rodent on network television, and Señor Wences, the Spanish ventriloquist. He would hold a box with a talking head in it and ask the box, “Are you all right?” Then he’d open the box and the head would say, “All right.” This would entertain me for hours. It was such an innocent time.
I had two favourite acts on The Ed Sullivan Show. One was the Marquis Chimps. One Sunday night, the Marquis Chimps were doing a seven-minute routine involving five chimpanzees dressed in tuxedoes, prom dresses, and tutus. Riding tricycles, jumping on trampolines, turning somersaults, flying by on roller skates, playing drums, dancing the twist, you name it. The show was running long one night, so the stage manager goes up to the trainer, Mr. Marquis, and says, “Ya gotta cut three minutes.” Mr. Marquis says, “I can’t.” The stage manager asks, “Why not?” Mr. Marquis says, “These are chimpanzees, not teamsters. They’ve rehearsed a seven-minute routine, and that’s what they’re gonna do. I’ll tell you what we can do. We can start the act behind the curtain, and three minutes in, just bring the curtain up. That’s the best I can do.” The stage manager says, “Great.” So for three minutes, behind the curtain like some long-lost Samuel Beckett play, a group of multi-talented monkeys performed their hearts out for no one. Three minutes in, the curtain goes up to tumultuous applause, with the chimps already in progress. Today, we couldn’t have an act like that on TV. Someone would call it cruelty to animals. Those chimps knew their place. Mr. Marquis would put a banana on one of the chimps’ foreheads and the chimp would sit there for five minutes staring out, not touching the banana until Mr. Marquis said he could eat it. Where was Mr. Marquis when I was bringing up my kids?
My other favourite involves Clyde Beatty, the famous lion tamer who did what was known as a “fighting act.” Mr. Beatty would walk into a cage filled with lions, tigers, cougars, and hyenas, with a whip and a pistol strapped to his side. This one night on the Sullivan show, he walks into the cage, and he’s cracking the whip and yelling at these creatures, and, well, nobody likes that kind of behaviour, especially wild animals being forced to perform on television, and the lions and tigers in essence called a wildcat strike and turned on Beatty. Suddenly, the camera cuts to Ed, not exactly a brilliant improviser, who says nervously, “Let’s see who we have in the audience tonight.” Meanwhile, in the background you hear Clyde Beatty firing shots and screaming, “Open the door, for Chrissake, open the goddamn door!” More growling, gun shots, and laughter from the hyenas. By this time Ed is in the audience interviewing, of all people, Carol Channing, who is currently starring in Hello, Dolly! Ed says, “Well, look who’s here, it’s Carol Channing, everybody.” There’s mild applause from the audience, who are still waiting to see if Clyde Beatty is about to become the evening’s entree. Carol Channing, never one to shy away from free publicity, launches into an impromptu song, while Ed attempts to go to commercial by saying, “We’ll be right back with our hilarious friends from Canada, Wayne and Shuster.” Ah, show business.
I would love to have been born in the era when variety shows thrived. Or maybe I should have been born a chimp. I don’t think anyone has ever said to a chimp, like they’ve said to me, over and over again, “Bring it down” or “You’re over the top.” Has anyone ever said to a chimp, “You’re hilarious, you’re one of the funniest chimps on the planet. But in the right thing.” Or “I need you to be more grounded, Wasu, more real.”
Animal acts are timeless. Their comedy doesn’t go out of fashion. This probably explains the popularity of funny cat videos on YouTube. I can watch funny cat videos for hours. Cats in paper bags, cats sleeping on the heads of dogs, cats jumping out of boxes, cats being blown by a hair dryer. Hilarious. Or how about the “Denver the Guilty Dog” video that has over 15 million hits on YouTube? Denver even has his own Facebook page.
Last night I saw a very sweet movie starring Matt Damon and Scarlett Johansson, entitled We Bought a Zoo. One of the zoo’s employees was always seen with an adorable twelve-inch-tall monkey sitting on his shoulder. This little monkey upstaged everyone. I was star-stuck. Couldn’t get enough of the little fella. At the end of the movie, when the staff are all dressed in their brown uniforms, the camera pans up to the monkey, who is wearing his own uniform, a crisp brown onesie, and no one is looking at Scarlett anymore. I can hear aws from the audience, but it’s me who is laughing out loud. The monkey, of course, is oblivious to his wardrobe, but it’s so darn dear.
I know I’m not the only person whose face lights up when she sees an animal act; animals that appear to be smiling, or can dance on two legs, or sing or talk are captivating. The great Johnny Carson used to have a returning guest on his show, an animal trainer and his talking bird. The bird’s name was Howard. Johnny would engage in a conversation with the bird, but before he began he asked the bird his name, and the bird answered back in the most precise and articulate way, “My name’s Howard.” I don’t know if it was hearing the bird talk or watching Johnny’s absolute glee at hearing the bird talk that made me laugh, but I couldn’t get enough of Howard the Talking Bird.
I’m going to see if I can find that on YouTube right now … okay, I couldn’t find Howard the Talking Bird, but I found Pancho the Singing Parrot, another guest of Johnny’s, and have been fixated on that video for twenty minutes. The parrot can sing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” just as clearly as Tony Bennett and sounds like Renée Fleming warming up. Johnny is beside himself with wonder. He is mesmerized. And so am I, watching it. Great television. I miss Johnny Carson, by the way. And Jackie Gleason and Jack Benny and Carol Burnett. I had the honour of appearing on both The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson in 1981 and The Carol Burnett Show in 1991. Carol and I performed a Star Trek skit together. You can find that on YouTube also.
I have to say, the sketch holds up after all these years, and when I show the video in my one-woman show, it still gets laughs. Timeless comedy. Johnny and Carol were comedic giants and generous performers. I idolized them.
The first time I was a guest on The Tonight Show, I was in my dressing room getting ready for my appearance when there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Carson. He came in to tell me personally what a fan he was of SCTV. I later found out that he never met his guests before a show. I was deeply honoured. His respect for SCTV was genuine. No one liked to laugh more than Johnny Carson. I wish I could show you the clip I have of my appearance with him. Thirty years later, you will still chuckle at his asides and inflections, and looks to Ed and to the audience. He was a master of the take, and his comedic timing was unrivalled.
When I was first booked on the show, the producer asked to show a clip from SCTV called “Cooking with Prickley,” in which Edith stuffs a turkey with the aid of a Rhythm Ace. Mr. Carson also personally requested that he and I do a sketch together. He wanted to play Tex Boil, of Tex and Edna Boil’s Organ Emporium, and he wanted me to play Edna. He had seen the characters that Dave Thomas and I created for SCTV and loved them. I was game, of course. How do you pass up a chance to act with the incomparable Mr. Carson? So, on national television, Johnny Carson and I performed together with no rehearsal at all.
Johnny nailed it. He was loose and silly and made himself and me break up laughing during the routine. He committed to every nuance of Tex. He was utterly charming. I, on the other hand, was nervous and self-conscious, and you’d think I’d never been in front of an audience before. During the commercial breaks, he continued talking to me about his favourite SCTV characters and sketches. A mere three weeks later, The Tonight Show asked me back again. Sharing the stage with Johnny Carson that night is one of those show-biz moments I will never forget.
When I watch young comedians today, I confess, I’m in judgment mode. Not many of them make me laugh with complete abandon. Maybe it’s because I’m jealous, maybe it’s because I’m out of sync with their references, o
r maybe it’s because the style in which the comedy is delivered is contrived or lazy. Maybe I’m just not smart enough to get what they are trying to say. Maybe I’m too old.
Most of the time, I watch expressionless and bored.
But give me a little dog dressed in a pink-sequined tuxedo, dancing the rumba, and I’m on the floor.
We’ll be right back with our hilarious friends from Canada, Wayne and Shuster.
Months after writing this story, I filmed Night at the Museum 3, with Ben Stiller. I loved working with Ben because I was a long-time fan, and I couldn’t wait to ask him about the monkey he had appeared with in the previous two Museum movies. He explained to me that the monkey was a capuchin, and her name was Chrystal. He told me that she was shy and a bit skittish, and had worked in the business for twelve years. Chrystal, he told me, was the monkey in We Bought a Zoo. “She is very well behaved,” Ben said. “Her trainer takes great care of her; in fact, during rehearsals, she wears a diaper. When the camera is ready to roll, the trainer takes the diaper off and wipes Chrystal’s bum. Chrystal stands upright and completely still in front of the crew and other actors as she prepares for her part.” I thought, That capuchin is a great actress. Chrystal knows that what she is doing is important. She is proud and uncompromising. She is the Christian Bale of capuchins. She’ll do anything for her craft. Not me. Even if the part called for it, I would not let my bum be wiped in public. There’ll be plenty of time for that after I check into the Actors’ Retirement Home.
Lady Parts Page 9
