AFTER THE MONTREAL SHOW WE DROVE OVERNIGHT BACK INTO THE STATES. THE MONTREALIANS (THE MONTRALEEZE? THE MONTRESQUES?) WERE A GREAT AUDIENCE. JEN SAYS IT’S THE BEST SHOW I’VE DONE. THE Greedy Bastard Tour organizers have moved us here to Burlington for a day off instead of leaving us to enjoy some respite in Montreal. There was no time to sleep on the bus till Vermont, so I broke out my little Taylor guitar and thumbed through some old favorites in a fake standards book. It was like camp with Jen and Gilli singing along lustily. Even Skip joined in, though bitching that it was not in his key and he doesn’t know these songs. Well hello, if you tour with the Sex Pistols, what chance do you have to get to know real Broadway songs?
“Where are the homosexuals when you need them?” I asked, as we broke down for the third time on a chorus.
Two great shows in a row. Last night Montreal and the night before we kicked ass in London, Ontario. I was determined not to lose two in a row and I tried extra hard to be on my guard against the steroids coursing through my manly body on their way to my Achilles’ heel. I beefed up with some weight training, a shower, and a hot cup of tea, which is three out of four for maximum happiness. (Do I need to spell it out?) I was pumped and ready, and I’m glad to say that London took off like a rocket and we never let them go till we had them out of their seats screaming and stomping for more. God bless ’em. There was a nice cover story in London’s entertainment paper Scene that says the Nudge Nudge sketch is “a classic, right up there with Abbott and Costello’s Who’s on First,” which is praise indeed.
The Radisson Hotel Burlington is a bit of a comedown after the Château Laurier in Ottawa, even though I am in their best suite: the Ethan Allen suite. I thought that was a furniture shop, but no, he is apparently a local Vermont hero who saved the state from becoming part of New York. The walls are paper thin, and I can hear the couple next door bickering. The Ethan Allen suite has a great view of the car park, but as I am leaving for the elevators I see, through a picture window, an unbelievable view of a wide blue lake with flags snapping in the wind and sailboats tugging at their moorings. Across the choppy water lie long lines of pale orange hills. This glorious sight is Lake Champlain, a mini–Great Lake. So this is Vermont. What a glorious day. There is fresh air out there, and fabulous views and adventures to be had, and I am to be stuck inside all day talking about Monty Python. In the cafeteria I can feel Mister Grumpy settle in beside me. Muzak pollutes the air. Secondary music is really bad for you. It’s worse than smoking. At least smoking doesn’t stop your thinking, but Muzak makes me resentful and gloomy. I stare at the tiny tin jug of warm water and the tea bag that is offered as a tea experience and I feel Mister Grumpy getting nearer.
“We could have been in Montreal,” he says, “smelling the fresh bakery smells and watching the endlessly fascinating French girls going about their bijoux shopping. But no, we are stuck in a cafeteria listening to someone whine on about how they’ve got a friend.” Not in here they haven’t.
When I was writing The Road to Mars,8 I became interested in wondering what exactly is comedy? Is it something unique to our species, or would we expect any other intelligent life-form to have a sense of humor? (The Search for Intelligent Laugh in the Universe?) Does comedy have evolutional value? Did it help us evolve? These are interesting questions because they are close to what being human is. Personally, I think comedy is a survival tool. Comedians tell the truth through a sense of moral outrage. They’re the first to point out that the elephant is in the room, that the emperor has no clothes. They say the right things at the wrong times. Laughter is a recognition of the accuracy of their observations. This bottom-lining is invaluable for our survival, for unless we learn to interpret what is really going on in the world we cannot avoid danger; we will always be trapped by rhetoric.
Comedians are not normal people. It is not a normal thing to do. You don’t become a comedian without some early traumatizing experience, so comedy is also a coping mechanism. People make jokes when they are in peril, or at heartbreaking moments such as funerals. It happened to us at the memorial service for Graham Chapman. It was a very solemn and sad event, and then John Cleese started it.
“Graham Chapman is no more. He has ceased to be. He has rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. He is an ex-Python. And I say good riddance to him, the free-loading bastard.”
John didn’t stop there. He went on to be more and more outrageous.
“In conclusion, I would like to be the first to say ‘fuck’ at a memorial service.”
The reaction was uproarious as he became funnier and funnier, and in the end the spirit of Graham was released, and we all felt liberated. Yes of course everyone was sad and in tears, but we were laughing. After that, the hardest thing I ever had to do was sing “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.” For a moment trying to sing it was just terrible for me, because music makes you weep, while comedy makes you weep and laugh, but because of all the earlier laughter I got through it.
Always look on the bright side of death
Just before you draw your terminal breath.
Life’s a piece of shit
When you look at it.