Tag Archives: humor

Robin

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Laughter has died,

But for a moment,

As the jester reposes

Into tranquility.

Frenzied fantasies

Silenced of a sudden,

Cut off from a world

Unable to keep up.

Rest frightened clown;

Be still and be whole;

Clap hands with peace,

As we clap hands in mourning.

The hurricane is stilled;

Black clouds soften;

Yet we will laugh anew

Bearing scars of ache.

Robin Williams meant the world to me. A supernova of mirth and tears, bravery and anger…and always, just a man.

Today, the man found his end, as so many of his ilk have.

But his legacy will echo for eternity to brighten our nights and nourish our souls.

Sleep, noble prince, assured that we are better for knowing you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfunRtzlEjA

 

500

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So I have hit the milestone blog post: 500.

For some of you, who have followed me from the earliest days, you are no doubt thinking: “500? Really? Seems like 5,000.” For those of you relatively new to the wonder that is my blog, please note closely the previous statement.

I dithered over what to write for my 500th post, and have decided I’m going to talk about you…well, some of you.

I “follow” quite a few blogs…I read many fewer…and I seek out even fewer. I’m sorry for those I don’t visit more regularly…hours in a day and all that. It’s some of that last group, I want to highlight here…those glorious few who make me stop whenever I see they’ve posted something new.

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Filippa Levemarks Blog

The paintings that this woman creates and the themes she explores by mixing media and mixing subject-matter blow me away. Rare is the image that doesn’t elicit some emotion in me. Hers is a style I have seen nowhere else and is worth exploring.

 

Jack Flacco

To read Jack’s blog is to have no clear idea as to who Jack is, and I mean that as a compliment. Jack takes on any subject it seems, but always in a thought-provoking and welcoming way that makes you want to contribute with a comment. His latest topics have been: monotasking, Veronica Mars, infectious pandemic readiness and phone addiction.

 

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Bare Knuckle Writer

As the title suggests, Steph Snow is a no-holds-barred writer who likes to talk (or rant) about writing. With generous dollops of humour, she discusses the creative fortunes and practices that torture her soul on a seemingly daily basis. Misery truly does like company.

 

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Readful Things Blog/Julian Froment’s Blog

I list these two blogs together because they are both discussions of the written word—e.g., reviews of books and authors, discussions of book marketing—and because the bloggers (Ionia Martin & Julian Froment) are beautifully connected at the soul (I don’t ask questions about any other forms of connections). Amazing people whose love for words is only surmounted by their love for each other.

 

Schelley Cassidy Photography

As a photo-hobbiest, I deeply appreciate the craft and skills that other photographers bring to the world. In this case, however, Schelley and I seem to share a greater fascination for the minute rather than the panoramic, as suggested by her regular feature “What is it?” where you only see an aspect of an object and are left guessing as to what that object is.

 

Ron Scubadiver’s Wild Life

If I couldn’t have my life, I would want Ron’s. A world traveller and freelance journalist, Ron is an amazing photographer, capturing incredible aspects of life in the many places he has visited. I particular enjoy his collections of people photos, often taken at a festival or gathering, which are incredibly natural and inviting.

 

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Ned’s Blog

Ned Hickson is not right in the head. And that’s what I love about him. A journalist in the Pacific Northwest and volunteer firefighter (or latex-coat fetishist…can’t really tell), Ned brings an irreverent sense of humour to everything he writes, earning him several accolades including his own NSA file. Ned also has a book to his credit, which I believe he has to return to the library next Tuesday.

 

Curnblog

More a collective than a personal blog, Curnblog offers amazing insights into all things film, whether examining an individual film or genre from angles such as sociology, creativity or cinematography. Predominantly the work of James Curnow, the blog is like having your own little film school where you can access new and unusual topics on a weekly basis without the pressure of essays, theses or exams.

 

There are so many other blogs to which I would like to direct you, but I am happy that you made it this far down the page. Perhaps for my 1000th blog post!

My gratitude for your patience and enduring interest.

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You never “no”

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Because my mother refuses to throw anything away, but prefers to store it in a drawer or cupboard until I come for a visit, I was reminded this past trip to BC about a phase in my writing career that kind of occurred sideways.

Several years ago, I was in desperate need of a job (wow, some things never change). So desperate, in fact, that I decided to take a flyer on and leverage my background in science writing and magazine editing for a job as editor of a manufacturing automation industry trade magazine published by CLB Media.

It should be noted, I knew and to this day know nothing about manufacturing. But I can write and I can edit and I have a good idea for design. I also have a fondness for money.

It was obvious throughout the interview with the magazine’s Publisher and Director of Sales & Marketing that I could write and knew magazines well, but that if I got the job, I would have to scramble to understand the issues and lingo of a completely alien industry. They were kind, but it was obvious the job and I were not a match.

When I finally got home, I was in the middle of discussing the interview with my wife when I received a phone call from the company VP, Publishing who said my interviewers had mentioned me and that the company had a medical humour magazine (Stitches) and companion consumer pub (Stitches for Patients) that were in need of a new editor. Would I be interested in talking to him and its Publisher the next day.

Uh, yeah!

The job didn’t last very long–the magazines had been in a steady decline for years before they found me and never recovered sufficiently to keep operating–but it was a great experience, and not only allowed me to write nerdy medical comedy but also allowed me to eventually add the title Associate Publisher to my resume.

And all because I was desperate enough to apply for a job for which I had few qualifications but showed general competence and a willingness to listen and learn.

I offer the covers of my first three issues of each magazine below (thanks mom).  The insane covers are the work of the amazing illustrator Max Licht under the direction of the equally amazing Art Director Graham Jeffrey.

The Race: A Celtic Legend (sort of)

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Two great chieftains stand at odds, menacingly snarling at each other, mighty armies at their backs. The only thing separating them is a simple Celtic druid.

“I am the first son of Glamorgan, who was first son of Dafydd, who was first son of Griffold, so the kingdom is mine to rule,” bellows Dafydd of the Mountain, raising his might sword above his head in challenge.

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Llewellyn of the Glen merely spits at Dafydd’s feet in disgust.

“Dogs, every one of you,” he snarls. “I am the first son of Blundewey, who was first son of Varus, who was first son of Glendoch. I am the rightful ruler!”

Dafydd drops into a fighting stance, causing Llewellyn to swing his axe.

“Enough,” cries the druid, slowly rising to his feet. “We cannot have our lands torn apart by yet another war.”

The two chieftains slowly lower their weapons as the druid passes between them and walks to the edge of a cliff. With great ceremony, he points across the waters toward a small island on which stands a great castle.

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“The sea brings us great wealth, but it also makes us vulnerable to attacks from across the waves,” the druid intones. “The great ruler of this land must therefore not only be a mighty warrior on land, but also a true master of the seas.”

“That is I,” spouts Dafydd.

“I am the master of the sea,” scoffs Llewellyn.

“The sea shall decide who is best,” replies the druid. “The succession shall be decided with a race. The first to touch the shores of that island shall rule over all.”

The two chieftains grunt their ascent and turn their armies in opposite directions toward the pebbled beach at the base of the cliff.

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Resting against the shore, two great ships swallow up the dwindling sunlight. One ship is jet black and sports a great dragon that snarls at the waves. The other is blood red with a horse that flails its anxious hooves into the surf.

The clansmen climb into their great ships, taking up their oars, brethren at their sterns ready to push them into the raging waters.

All noise stops, even the breeze, as the druid takes up his position and raises his arms to the sky.

“Let the gods of sea and air bless your efforts and deliver this land its rightful king,” the druid declares before violently dropping his arms to his sides.

With a mighty grunt and the hiss of resistant pebbles, the two teams push against the ships, forcing them into and over the arguing waves.

In each ship, the warriors pull mightily at the oars, the whine of the oar locks providing counter stroke to the rhythmic grunts of the rowers. The sea fights back, but the dragon and horse cannot be denied and slice their way through the offending currents.

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At first, the race is even, both armies in deadly earnest to claim the crown for their sovereign, but bit by bit, Llewellyn’s boat begins to pull ahead.

“Harder, you demons,” Dafydd cries to his men. “Pull harder or suffer the fires that Llewellyn has planned for your wives and children.”

Dafydd’s men strain harder against the oars, but the dragon continues to press onward, seeming to clip the tops of the waves sent against it.

“Give me your sword,” Dafydd orders one of his warriors.

“You cannot reach him with a sword,” the warrior cries, handing over his weapon.

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“I don’t have to reach Llewellyn,” Dafydd bellows, raising the sword above his head. “I have to reach the island.”

With that, he brings the sword crashing down onto the railing next to him, where but moments ago, his hand rested. CHOP!

Dafydd roars as his life blood spews across the deck and his severed hand cartwheels around his feet.

Stabbing the sword into the floor between him and his warrior, Dafydd quickly snatches up his hand and cocks his arm for a mighty throw.

“The druid said it,” he yells into the wind. “The first to touch the shores of that island shall rule over all.”

With all of his might, Dafydd throws his severed hand forward, watching it arc over Llewellyn’s boat on which it rains blood, toward the island. Everyone behind him rises to their feet to see the fleshy ballista arc…arc…arc…and…

SPLASH! Into the water a good 30 feet from shore.

Everyone on Dafydd’s boat is crest-fallen, as blood gushes from his open wrist onto the deck. Clenching his remaining fist in anger, Dafydd turns to his warrior.

“The other hand!”

“What?” the warrior cocks his head.

hand

“Cut off my other hand and throw it,” Dafydd commands.

“I’m not going to cut off your other hand,” the warrior complains. “How will you hold a sword or feed yourself?”

“When I am king, others will defend and feed me.”

“I don’t know,” the warrior whines. “Should we put it to a vote? Everybody raise a hand-”

Dafydd grasps at the warrior’s vest but really only knocks him to one side.

“Cut off my other hand or I will cut you in half right here!”

The warrior looks at him as if asking “really”. Dafydd just holds his fist against the railing and nods at the sword.

The warrior raises the sword above his head and…

“Nothing will stop me,” Dafydd declares through gritted teeth.

CHOP!

Dafydd screams into the night as the warrior grabs the hand and throws it for all he’s worth.

SPLASH! It doesn’t even travel 30 feet from the boat.

Dafydd stares at the warrior, eyes unbelieving what has just happened.

“Nothing will stop me,” he repeats, “except a warrior that throws like a girl!”

Resigned to his fate and starting to feel the effects of the blood loss, Dafydd slumps against the deck.

“I guess that’s it then,” he sighs to no one. “Llewellyn will be-“

“You could touch the island with your foot,” the warrior thinks out loud, slowly reaching for the sword.

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“I am not giving up my-“

CHOP!

“Aaaaaaaah!”

SPLASH! The foot quickly sinks and resurfaces to float against the nearby hand.

Through a haze of agony, Dafydd looks up to find the warrior approaching with the sword. With his arm stumps and one good leg, he backs toward the rowers.

“No, no, no!”

CHOP!

“Aaaaaah!”

SPLASH! Another foot.

The night is filled with the cacophony of CHOP! Screams! SPLASH! as shins, legs, forearms take flight one after another, only to fall short.

In the distance, Llewellyn’s men puke over the side of their boat as it slowly fills up with blood and human tissue, their puke coursing streams between the severed body parts.

A soldier on the battlements of the castle, however, sees a fuzzy round ballista finally strike the shore, rolling up the beach and coming to rest against a bolder.

Face contorted in perpetual agony, a small rivulet of blood makes its way from the hairline of Dafydd’s decapitated head. As the blood reaches his right eye, the eyes suddenly fling open and look around.

Macbeth

“I did it!” Dafydd cries into the night. “I won! I won! I am the king of-“

He is suddenly distracted.

“Oh, shit.”

A raccoon grabs Dafydd’s head and drags it down the beach.

And thus began the reign of Llewellyn the Fully Assembled.

(Images are property of owners and are used here without permission because the druid said it was okay.)

Reading carefully: Tantrum Sex

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So, it would appear that I misread the poster at the community center a couple of weeks ago.

Where I thought I was going attend a couples retreat on Eastern philosophies and practices, I had actually signed up for a weekend workshop on:

Introduction to Tantrum Sex

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Itinerary

09:00 – 10:00:             Blow your own stack!

10:15 – 11:15:             Snappy come backs and other hard-to-reach stains

11:15 – 12:30:             Spermicidal foaming at the mouth

12:30 – 02:00:             Lunch (everybody eats out)

02:00 – 03:00:             Tears as a lubricant…for pretty much everything

03:00 – 04:15:             Tearing a strip off while riding a brass pole

04:30 – 05:30:             Fits…and what to do if it doesn’t

 

(Image is property of owner and is used here without permission…does that make you angry?)

And that’s the (mostly) truth – my new bio

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Okay, so my producer for SomeTV!, the sketch comedy insanity currently in production in Toronto, asked me to provide him a short bio for the group’s web site.

Keeping in mind the sheer brilliance/stupidity of what we are attempting, I sent him this:

A born story-teller and punster, Randall told his first knock-knock joke in the Obstetrics Department of a Toronto hospital at the ripe old age of today. His early comedic repertoire consisted of poop jokes, fart jokes and snot jokes, but on learning that Vaudeville was dead, he learned how to write. After several failed attempts at living other people’s lives (scientist, journalist, press agent, ad man), he has more recently focused his energy on sketch comedy and screenwriting. In 2014, Randall won the Nashville Film Festival award for Best Animated Feature for his screenplay Tank’s. His influences are caffeine, Mel Brooks, sleep deprivation and human frailty.

Would love to hear your thoughts!

Randy (the one in the middle)

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Unexpected surprises: Steve Allen autobiography

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Steve Allen

So, as I was waiting to join my friends in a taping of our sketch comedy show SomeTV!, I decided to check out a nearby second-hand book store.

Under normal circumstances, this would be a complete love-fest for me, but as funds have been a tad tight lately, I was really only in the store to browse (yeah…that could happen). Well, as I moved through the section of film and television books, I happened across an autobiography of Steve Allen, who among other things was the first host of The Tonight Show.

As I had nothing but respect for Allen’s comedic timing and his ability to get amazing, ad-libbed comments out of pretty much anyone, I picked the book up only to see that they were only asking $2.99 for the book, entitled Mark It And Strike It.

Despite this price being five times the cover price of the book, I decided I could afford the few dollars and bought it.

Wow! Was I in for a surprise!

That Allen manages to include information about his childhood, marriages and early jobs is the only reason that this volume could ever be called an autobiography. The reality is that a full two-thirds of the book are dedicated to a vast range of subjects that reflect more Allen’s thoughts on and opinions about the world in which he lives in 1960 (yes, the book is three years older than me).

Allen discusses the vast gulf that separates Art from Science. The loss of spirituality, or perhaps more accurately, the misappropriation of spirituality in the United States. McCarthyism and anti-Communist terrors that permeated society. Issues of racism and sexism that were tearing the country apart. The nature of humour and comedy and its tortuous demise at the hands of populism.

Aside from my surprise at finding such topics in an autobiography and in the ideas being expressed within the pages, the greatest reflection came as I reached the end of the book and realized that almost 55 years later how little has changed.

The Arts still suffer in a school system fixated on the STEM disciplines (science, technology, engineering, mathematics).

There is still rampant use of God and Jesus as weapons across the United States in defense of excluding other cultures.

Admittedly, anti-Communist sentiment has subsided as Communism itself has subsided, but it was quickly replaced by anti-Muslim sentiments.

One need only look at the leadership of the United States and the parasitic pundits to realize that racism and sexism still cling like so much fecal matter.

And the recent controversy over the Colbert Report shows that satire and wit remain under constant attack.

Yes, this was possibly the most effective $2.99 I have ever spent in my life as it gave me more than a few hours of entertainment…it gave me a never-ending stream of subjects to contemplate.

 

(PS This is not intended as a comment on the United States as we have more than our share of problems in Canada. I simply discussed the US as that was Steve Allen’s context.)

 

For more about Steve Allen, check out these links:

Frank Zappa on The Steve Allen Show

Steve Allen’s Man on the Street

Steve Allen Online (official web site)

Lesser known April days

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April Fuel’s Day – when gas is half-price at all retailers (particularly taco joints)

April Fall’s Day – when pranksters leave banana peels all over busy downtown streets

April Phallus Day – when everyone gets to be a dick

April Fail’s Day – when the community makes all those stupid videos about stupid ideas

April Fill’s Day – when women named April have sex

April Fell’s Day – when Norman’s daughter April holds a memorial for her dad

April Foal’s Day – when everyone gets to horse around

April Feel’s Day – when everyone on the subway/metro gets handsy

April Phile’s Day – when everyone who loves April won’t shut up about it

(Image is property of owners and is used here as a joke.)