Calvin's left shoe

My friend Calvin de Grey was no stranger to death. I died with him many times.
Together him and I had more reincarnations than Shirley McClaine.

I can remember him and I huddled together in the cement tunnel at the old Comedy Store in Jameison street. We were waiting to go on, and had both been doing the rounds of tv auditions during the day. Cal frowned, leaned forward and confided "Rodgers" (he always called me by my sirname, he accepted me as "one of the guys"), "Rodgers I am not sure about this whole tv career thing. To go on television you have to look intelligent. You have to look like you read books!"

He looked puzzled as I broke out laughing. You see, Cal was the quintessential blue collar philosophist. It wasn't a put on. He was one of those guys that was just as funny offstage as he was on. He was mostly clueless as to how funny he really was! And it was those moments, when he would come out with his little "Calvinisms" that I treasure most.

"Rodgers, Rodgers, I'm scared - what do I do now?" He and I had been performing at a women's maximum security prison in Sydney. We had finished the show and been invited to have coffee with the inmates. It was a surreal environment. Guards stood by as we sat in the vinyled lounge, and our plastic coffee cups were checked before we sipped from them.
"Just talk" I whispered to Calvin. And so I led the way. I turned confidently to the inmate next to me and said "how are you?" and the small talk led to a conversation about her silk screen printing. Calvin, encouraged by this decided he too would broach conversation with the heavy set tattooed lady next to him. He opened with "So what are you in for?"

And she shot him an evil look and replied darkly, "I murdered me old man." He quickly shutup and drank his coffee in a hurry to get out. (And anyone who knows Cal, will remember, he hated coffee!! Lol)

Performing at the male maximum security prison was another matter though. It was a beautiful thang to see 200 plus rapists murderers and thieves all waving their arms in the air docilely singing along to Calvin's "Hi hi hi hi, lo lo lo lo!!"

Then there was the time we both went to see Mort Sahl at Kinsellas. We came out, inspired, renewed and determined to dump our blue material and follow the genius of Sahl's lead. We decided we would be doing political satire from now on, yessirree..no more dick jokes for us.

The following night we went out and promptly died a dogs death. One after the other.

There was a voice over gig we did together where the director told me to do "make my voice sound more blonde". Cal cast me a glance, and for some reason that stupid direction had him and I in fits for the rest of the session, much to the annoyance of that studio.

And who could forget the jetclub? Calvin de Grey compered, with me as the first blood sacrifice, followed by Anthony Ackroyd as headliner for the cannibals collective gathered below. The genius marketeers of the day had billed us as "new wave comics" which basically meant we were cheaper to hire than a rock and roll band. So we often went on before some heavy metal band to die like swans at a Dick Cheney hunters benefit.

One death stands out in my memory, because it was such a classic and human moment. Calvin had the distinction of being one of the more "calm and detached" comics when it came to hecklers, but one night at the old comedy store, one drunk managed to annoy the piss out of Cal. Cal tried every comeback, insult and squelcher, but this drunk just kept on going, until Calvin in a fit of frustration took off his shoe and threw it at this guy's head!

The comics gathered at the bar organised for the obligatory 'cognac of death' to be sent backstage to Calvin. We got the waitress to deliver it to him. And we managed to place his shoe alongside the cognac. Only a comic will really understand why we always remembered it was his Left shoe!

Calvin de Grey billed himself as a true blue ridgy didge dinky di bloke who told jokes. But he was more than that. He was a good mate, he wasn't a comedy snob, he loved comics, he loved the audiences, he loved people. He was just plain funny, and I feel priviledged to have known him. He once told me that in the beginning of his stand up comic career if he died, he would feel bad for two weeks right up until the next gig. 'You know you are a pro comic when you die, and you've forgotten about it by the time you get home' he said with his goofy knowingness.

As mutual friend Alan Glover reminded me, when you think of Calvin de Grey you can't help but smile, and that's not a bad legacy for any human being to leave.

cheers Calvin.

That was the final death, now keep the beer cold til we pass over!

I had a dream

I had a dream last night that I was doing a stand up comedy spot, performing to three people. It's been a while since I have done stand up, so I went "frearching" (comic term meaning frantic search through mental comic archives) for the "right routine". What is the "right routine" for three people?

Mentioning the bleeding obvious? Pointing out that two blokes looked like they were hooking up for a date arranged from rants and raves on Craigs list?

In the end I chose to play "Mother Comedy" - starring in my own absurd Chekovian drama performing to the other younger female comics. I dished out advice and observations like some jokesters boffin. "Oh yes, journalists make a fuss over female comics" I said knowingly. "They often said 'it must be so difficult to be a female comic'".
I paused to deliver the punch.
"I never quite know how to respond to that, so I always tell journalists 'yes, it was much easier when I was a guy'". Rich laughter. (thankfully).

Playin' to the other comics I was. Not really "professional"- but when the number of comics outnumbered the audients then it felt like the way to go.
And they were good comics, impressive ladies. All dressed up, all georgeous and glamorous and funny to boot. Looked like they all stepped straight out of a page of Maxim to give the photographer a piece of their minds.

In this dream I was stumbling from routine to routine, pulling out a few sure fire one liners and routines here and there, then forgetting bits, putting in a set up but forgetting a tag, throwing in a tag with no set up. Perhaps the wine didn't help matters. It was a bit like travelling through a neighborhood you used to live in and once knew like the back of your hand; only you've been away for awhile and now they've put in a shopping mall and the church is gone and some of the roads are only one way. It's changed and you've got to find a new way to navigate the old route. I kept bumping into things along the way.

It was a nice cosy feeling though. To be back up. When it comes down to it, I suppose I don't have stage fright, probably more like real life fright.

I must have that dream again.

St Patrick's day.

Tomorrow is St. Patrick's day, otherwise known- (unofficially) -as international alcoholic's day. Tis one's holy obligation to get pissed.
Most people really do see green on the Tuesday morning following St. Patrick's evening of celebration.
It seems odd that people would celebrate this Christian missionary of old in a very pagan way.

I wonder- on the feast of Isis- whether wiccans get together and hold mass to celebrate? To be sure...

and I can't help wondering how they celebrate the feast of Dionysius at AA meetings? hmmm.