Maybe not the best career choice, given the circumstances.

So I got a cold call today from a telemarketer asking if I wanted to know a "sure fire" way to save money on office supplies.

What's noteworthy about that?

He sounded JUST like Peter Lorre!

New Project - Reenactcat Productions

I am thrilled to announce the launch of my latest creative venture, Reenactcat Productions, all cat reenactments of classic films and stage plays! "Reenactcat Productions: It's about time!"

This is the publicity still from Reenactcat Productions first project, An Affair to Remember starring Bernie the wonder cat in the Deborah Purr role. Here she is on the couch, with her shriveled little legs hidden by a blanket, waiting to tell Carey Cat her terrible secret:


Her performance was incredibly powerful. The scene towards the end, when she whips the blanket off and begins to lick her shriveled little legs in front of him was incredibly moving. Her performance embodied a sense of romance, but also, a great feminist streak ran through it. She was truly magnetic onstage, even through the unplanned sequence when the love scene got interrupted by a rogue furball. Glen S at NOW magazine was less than kind about this incident, but I don't think he'd know good cat-based improv if it bit him in the ass. Oh, Glen S, if you're reading this, apologies that one of the ensemble actually bit you in the ass. What can I say? It's the risk you must take when working with felines, and honestly, isn't it worth it?

We are working on remount of this show (fingers crossed!) in time for the Toronto Fringe Fest!!!!

We are also in talks with B to the izzo for an all cat hip hop version of Madame Bovary for next season. I don't want to give too much away, but I think Richard O at the Star is going to love it. It will be full of depth (and you KNOW he loves depth!!!). Oh, and treats, depth and treats...because sometimes, treats are the only way we can keep her on stage.

Look at me! Giving away our big production secrets!!!!

Also on tap for next season is The Odd Couple starring Pickles and Eva. We are still uncertain as to who will be playing Felix and who will be playing Oscar - the choice would seem obvious, but Pickles has decided she wants to try and stretch as an actor. I think she is kidding herself. She is a natural Oscar and the sooner she realizes that the easier the negotiations are going to be. For those of you that are wondering, we will be doing the original version of the script and not the "all female" rewrite from the 80's. Just because we work with cats, and only cats you think we don't have integrity?

SO...I look forward to seeing you at the next Reenactcat Productions event. Admission is PWYC and includes a free lint brush at the door!

Bucky Pizzarelli

Bucky Pizzarelli snapped from my perch at the bar of the Montreal Bistro in Toronto - Saturday, March 18, 2006
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Last Saturday night I was at the Montreal Bistro where Jim Galloway presented a "WEE JAZZ PARTY" with his friends Bucky Pizzarelli, Johnny Varro, John Allred, Allan Vache, Archie Alleyne and Dave Young. Galloway is a sentimental favourite for me, but also, hands down, my favourite soprano player working today. Does that man swing! Any chance to see Dave Young play is a treat. And I'd never seen Bucky Pizzarelli live. Needless to say, I was a wee bit excited!

Bucky Pizzarelli is adorable. One of the greatest guitar players of his generation? An innovator? An institution? Sure. You bet. But also...ADORABLE! You can't help but smile when you look at him. His charm is infectious. He's grandfatherly. In fact, I wish he were my grandfather. Actually, that would make John or Martin Pizzarelli my father which would just be weird. And probably kind of Oedipal. Let's just avoid that creepy scenario altogether and call the senior Pizzarelli avuncular instead. I'm not sure I can impress upon you how cute this man is. At one point I had to close my eyes to be able to focus on his sound and not the fact that I wanted to sit at his feet and pinch his cheeks. But I digress. Yet again.

The set opened with the whole band on stage working through a trio of Gershwin classics - Strike up the Band, They Can't Take That Away From Me (which Galloway dedicated to Revenue Canada) and I Got Rhythm. Things really started to cook once they hit I Got Rhythm with John Allred on trombone standing out as the most inventive soloist. He was really reaching that night. Maybe because he had the weekend off from his pit-gig in NY playing for The Pajama Game (Harry Connick Jr. is starring in that show to rave reviews. I'm guessing he took Allred with him since he is a regular member of Harry's big band).

After the first three numbers the whole band cleared the stage, leaving Pizzarelli alone for a solo number. He played Honeysuckle Rose so beautifully and to such great effect it was even quieter than it usually is at The Montreal Bistro. There is a "quiet policy" in place at that club but during this number, I think the crowd was collectively holding their breath. Pizzarelli plays a seven-string electric guitar; the extra string (tuned to A) allows him to play a bass line to his own solos - the sound was so rich and layered, it was complex and haunting. There was an audible sigh of pleasure from everyone in the room before they burst into applause upon the tune's completion.

Dave Young then joined Bucky on stage for Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me adding his usual taste, swing and timing.

Archie Alleyne was then added to the mix for On The Street of Dreams and A Sleepin' Bee. It was cool to see Alleyne play with these guys. This is the kind of gig, in Toronto at least, that would normally have gone to Don Vickery. Vickery's a reliable drummer who rarely solos and keeps impeccable time, something that seems welcome to these trad players. But it can all be a little too pedestrian and predictable. To see Alleyne play with this group, when I'm used to seeing him play hard bop in the tradition of Art Blakey, well, it was quite something. Dave Young, of course, plays everything and plays with everyone and he was clearly getting a kick out of the fact that Alleyne was taking the occasional solo and really challenging the band with his choices. He still played within the limits of the Dixieland, swing thing they were doing but he succeeded in making it his own.

Bucky then took a break and Johnny Varro took the spotlight, playing a few tunes - Have You Met Miss Jones and A Beautiful Friendship among them - in the trio format.

The whole band congregated once more and really swung the set to a close with It Don't Mean A Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing. Needless to say, it did. Quite a meaningful evening indeed.

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An aside: I would have reported back sooner, but things have been a little hectic for me lately what with a big project at "CSIS" (and the mother of all head colds). I don't want to get into the details because I don't talk about my work here. I like to think I have other things to talk about and frankly, I would live in fear of getting "dooced" if I did blab about my day job. I will say only this...it rhymes with the "Ford of the Blings" and it is not nearly the disaster the blood hungry press in Toronto and the New York Times, et al would have you believe. Check it out for yourselves, folks. Populist entertainment. And that's all I'm saying. About. That.

Photo Series: My Toronto

Part Three: The Beach

There are few things I can think of more rejuvenating, replenishing and relaxing then spending a day at the Beach. Now I'm not your sun tan lotion and beach towel kind of girl, Toronto's beach is where it's at for me. It's nature in small doses. Stand at the shore, look East and see nothing but water. Sit on a rock and close your eyes and you could be literally anywhere. Look West and see the city's skyline looming overhead. A pleasant reminder that all of five minutes away, a short walk through the quaint little cottage-like houses near the water, is the shopping and the restaurant Mecca of Queen Street East. And at least three Starbucks within spitting distance. I like my nature in moderation, what can I say?

Like Edward Scissorhands, only less "cutty"...

You ever wish that your hands were made of that red fabric that lint removers are made of? Anyone? No? Just me?

The Psychology of Politics...and kitties

Who's a pretty little conservative? Can't you just see her in pearls and a twin set?
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Eva, the eldest of our three kitties here at Chez Clayton/Nolan has a tendency to hiss. She's got a nervous disposition and frankly, I think she's convinced everyone is out to get her. She'll hiss "preemptively" and then run away, for no good reason. Like one of those kids in the playground who yells "DON'T HIT ME!" even though nobody was going to hit them and then, as a result gets hit, because, let's face it, who could help themselves?

If research is right, our cat is a conservative.

Scientists in the Berkeley area have been tracking 95 people for the last 20 years, from the time they were kids, to see if there was a pattern in their childhood behaviour and how they turned out politically. It was recently published in the Journal of Research Into Research and Personality.

According to the study, the kid who always thought everyone was out to get him and was always running to the teacher with complaints grew up to be a conservative. The confident, resilient, self-reliant kids mostly grew up to be liberals.

Of course these are not absolutes, but I do think it's interesting. I will say this though, much as I adore her I'm sure glad Eva can't vote.

Chalkboard, heal thyself.

I was in my neighbourhood coffee shop the other day "Tango Palace Coffee Company and Cappuccino Bar" and the chalkboard behind the cash register which tends to display daily specials and whatnot, read "Stop picking on yourself".

Nice.

It was like having coffee with Oprah.

Blarney.

Well, Happy St. Patrick's Day, internet friends! It's almost noon. Are you drunk yet?

I had a thought this morning as I was getting dressed in my distressed looking, faux vintage St. Patrick's Day tee shirt. It's meant to look old and funky and it should be worn under denim jackets or blazers. You know the kind I mean. Like this:


It says "I'm excited about this holiday, but I'm still cool". I bought mine (which says "Luck o the Irish" on it) a couple of years ago when I was doing a lot of stand up comedy gigs in bars and clubs around town and when I was drinking more beer. I must have been under the influence. I'm not that kind of cool. I'm not convincing anyone. Not even myself. It's complete blarney. I'm one small step away from being a kindergarten teacher with bad, holiday themed earrings here. This is me, inching towards a future that has a Christmas sweater in it. Somebody stop me!

Themed tee shirt aside, I am proud of my distant Irish heritage. Did you know that St. Patrick was the patron saint and national apostle of Ireland who is credited with bringing christianity to Ireland? And with it, one assumes catholicism. And with that guilt. And with that - drinking! The holy trinity of the Irish people!

And that's no blarney!

I hate you guys. I'm going home.

Looks like the cafeteria is closed, chillun'. Isaac Hayes has quit South Park, where he voices Chef, saying he can no longer stomach its take on religion.

Here's his statement:

"There is a place in this world for satire, but there is a time when satire ends and intolerance and bigotry towards religious beliefs of others begins. Religious beliefs are sacred to people, and at all times should be respected and honoured," he continued... "As a civil rights activist of the past 40 years, I cannot support a show that disrespects those beliefs and practices."

South Park co-creator Matt Stone's response:

"This is 100 per cent having to do with his faith of Scientology... He has no problem — and he's cashed plenty of cheques — with our show making fun of Christians."

Stone said he and co-creator Trey Parker "never heard a peep out of Isaac in any way until we did Scientology. He wants a different standard for religions other than his own, and to me, that is where intolerance and bigotry begin."

Word, Matt Stone. Word. It's a shame that the pod-people got to Hayes, but I can't feel too sorry for him. To paraphrase what one of the South Park kids might say to Hayes...."Dude, that's weak!".

Anna Wintour doesn't like fat people. I don't care. Eve Ensler does.

Would I be preached at or would I feel changed? That was the question I had going in to see Eve Ensler's (of The Vagina Monolgues fame) new one person show The Good Body in Toronto last week. As it turns out, neither.

The Good Body delves into our culture's all consuming preoccupation with an unhealthy feminine ideal, the tyranny of, what Ensler calls, women's “deep, deep programming to be good,” and her own, insanely self indulgent, preoccupation with her 50-something belly. While Ensler went on and on about her hate for her stomach I couldn't help but wonder if she'd never heard of spanx underwear. Check it out Eve!

The thing is, while spanx seem to be a happy solution for women of my generation, Ensler is clearly dealing with more here than a dislike for her gut. This is less about flab than it is about unhealthy relationships with her parents, unhealthy expectations and Anna Wintour. Perhaps those of us in our 20's and 30's (I was joined by a young 20 something friend at the show) suffer less because of women like Ensler and their attempts to make sense of this goofy preoccupation with fat, the true "f word" in the female vocabulary.

Who knows? I could stand to lose some weight, sure. But I'm healthy and I like food and I work out. Whatever. I've got a drawer full of spanx at home and I like my curves. I'm sure Anna Wintour would hate my guts...and my gut. Again, whatever. Anna Wintour can kiss my fat, white ass. And there it is, I am not concerned with being "good" and neither are any of my 20 or 30 something girlfriends. That must be the main difference. I suppose it's niave of me to make statements like that considering the number of young women out there today with eating disorders, but I truly believe that our relationship with food is healthier, at least in general. Ensler's peice made me think, that's for sure and that is a good thing.

While I wasn't moved or changed by the theme or content of her show, I guess I wan't really the target audience. I did however, find her performance riveting. Her characters were very real and distinct from eachother. They were vibrant and compelling in a way that I wasn't prepared for simply because I think of Ensler more as a writer and an activist than as an actress. She has a magnetic stage presence, a great voice and an infectious smile. She's just wonderful. I wish she felt better about herself.

Happy Birthday Terence!

I'm guilty of this as much as anybody, but there is a tendency to not celebrate our great artists and their special anniversaries (like birthdays) while they are young and alive for some reason. So in an attempt to rectify that I want to send a great big Happy Birthday Terence Blanchard's way. For my money he's one of the greatest trumpet players and composers, not just working today, but ever.

My top three Terence picks (so far):

The Malcom X Jazz Suite (1993) - based on his score for the Spike Lee film.

Let's Get Lost (2001) - All Jimmy McHugh tunes with guest appearances from some of today's top female vocalists.

Bounce (2003) - Debut release on Bluenote. Great originals and a truly amazing version of "Footprints".

If you're not familiar with his work, check him out immediately, you won't be sorry!

How does one pick up a valium habit?

Since they don't sell diazepam at the wine rack, I guess I'll never know.

I'll tell you this much though, things have been so action packed at "CSIS" the last few weeks that if pharmaceutical relaxants were readily available to me I might be a happier girl. Might? Scratch that! Rewrite! I would be a much happier girl. For the meantime I will settle with bubble baths, red wine, Kurt Elling in my ear and the thought that this guy should HOST the Oscars some day:












Would that not be the best choice that the folks at The Academy have made...ever?

If I got to watch three hours of Clooney cracking wise and being handsome on television next March it might prevent me from doing questionable things in the future, like tonight when I asked a mean, nasty old woman on the trolley car if she was "raised by wolves". It was rush hour and she was giving a seat to her canvas tote! I had to do it!

I'm taking a long weekend. It's not safe for me to be around people in my present state of mind.

For the record, I think she *was* raised by wolves.

Kirby, gone but never forgotten.

I LOVED Kirby Puckett. Which makes me just like every other 12 year old kid in the 80's who loved baseball. He personified everything that is great about baseball, and to me, he always will. No matter what.

There are many, many tributes to Kirby out there, and many more to come. I found this one particularly touching.

Gael Fashingbauer Cooper's beautiful story from MSNBC's website:

Kirby Puckett remembered

I was all set to write a short tribute to Jack Wild, who died last week at 53, and to say how shocking it was that someone eternally fixed in our collective memories as a little boy could ever be in his 50s, much less ever die so young. But I hadn't quite got around to eulogizing the "Oliver!" and "H.R. Pufnstuf" star when another death came far too soon, and this one hit me even harder. Kirby Puckett, dead at 45. I know, he was an athlete, not an actor, and the sports section is already covering his loss, but this is the entertainment section, after all, and Kirby was nothing if not one of the best entertainers I ever saw.

I grew up with the Minnesota Twins, and I grew up dealing with the fact that they were awful.  I remember when local boy Kent Hrbek joined the team in the early 1980s, and Sports Illustrated put him on the cover with the headline "Best of the Worst," highlighting him as a good young player on a horrendous team. Then Kirby came by in 1984 and it was as if Central Casting had sent him over to play "most unlikely major-leaguer ever." He was a round guy, not too tall, resembling the out-of-shape fans more than he did most other professional athletes. He grew up in Chicago's projects and worked on a Ford assembly line before playing pro baseball. How down-to-earth is that?

It is impossible to picture Kirby -- which is what every Minnesotan called him, no disrespect intended -- without picturing him smiling. He had seen poverty and real hard work, and he knew how glorious it was to be able to play his favorite game for a living. Every kid in the state loved him, and he seemed to love them back. We all knew someone with a dog, a cat, a hamster, a goldfish named Kirby. Kids honored him with the greatest thing they could, gifting his name to a family member, and he respected that honor by never giving up.

The Twins won the World Series in 1987, and in 1991, looked to be headed there again. I was a broke just-out-of college kid still living at home, but when it was announced that the team would be having a lottery for tickets, I took a chance. And unbelievably, for someone who's never been lucky in her life, I won tickets. And that's how my dear friend Ann and I were sitting in the stands at the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome for all of the Twins home Series games, including the marvelous, the impossible, the legendary Game 6. Oct. 26, 1991.

Baseball legend has it that, before the game, Kirby walked through the Twins' locker room and literally said "Jump on my back, boys, I'll carry you." It's not bragging if you can back it up. Which he went right out there and did. First, he soared up against the wall in the third inning to rob Atlanta Brave Ron Gant of a multi-base hit. The game went into extra innings. Ann and I buried our faces in our hands, destroyed our fingernails, hid behind our hair. The eleventh inning. Game six of the World Series. No matter how many times you see something like it on TV, you can't feel the adrenaline, can't share in the mass agony and hope and hysteria that swirls around you like the small of stale beer. And then Kirby was at bat, and all of Minnesota's gossamer hopes went with him.

From the minute he swung that bat, the ball was gone. The Star Tribune reported that the following ovation went on for ten solid minutes, but it seemed much longer to me. Minnesotans are reticent folks, calm and quiet and not given to hysteria. That Dome, that night, took all those stereotypes and smashed them, smashed them over the wall and into pulp smaller than snowflakes. Kirby was mobbed at home plate by his teammates and in the stands, complete strangers hugged and kissed and jumped and screamed. The Twins won the World Series the next night, but like the 1980 Olympic hockey game against the Russians, it was the second-to-the-last game that lives on forever, a pristine, golden memory, a "do you believe in miracles?" moment.

Kirby's life started out difficult and it ended that way. Glaucoma drove him out of the game early, he and his wife divorced, he was found not guilty of some ugly charges when a woman claimed he grabbed her at a local restaurant. But he will be remembered not for that, but for his magical smile, that positive attitude, for how he retired from the game with utter and complete grace, saying "Tomorrow's never promised."

It wasn't promised to my friend Ann, either. My World Series seatmate died four years after we laughed and cried and danced in the streets around the Dome together. Out of nowhere, she suffered a pulmonary embolism at just 28. Tomorrow wasn't promised her, either.

It's not baseball season yet, and I'm more than a thousand miles from Minnesota. I haven't seen my friend Ann in ten years, and never will see her again in this life. But I'm thinking back to that fall week, 15 years ago. I'm thinking back to whatever fateful twist directed some unseen Twins' employee's hand to pluck my name at random to win a chance to buy World Series tickets. In my mind I'm seeing that ball soar, and hearing that ovation that rang out as if it would never, ever end. And I'm thinking back to not just Kirby, but to Jack Wild again, and his show's theme song's opening lyric now stuck in my mind: "Once upon a summertime, just a dream from yesterday."