Sex, Lies and a Videotape

March 2021

The party was on. She got her parents to agree they would stay upstairs while we congregated on the lower level. It was a small townhouse with a modest semi-finished basement, but it would work for the gathering. Christmas lights were strung up haphazardly by the stairs. A fold-up table was positioned in the middle of the room to accommodate a record player and speakers in case we wanted to dance. There were a few chip bowls placed around the couch opposite the makeshift dance area. It was a party after all.

We weren’t particularly popular. We knew just enough people to create a guest list. Our focus hinged on the attendance of a couple in particular.

Oh my god — do you think he’ll actually show up to this? 

He was a grade ahead of us. It sounds dramatic, but I don’t think there was a girl (and looking back a few boys) in school, whose adrenaline didn’t spike or whose palms wouldn’t sweat, when he came walking down the hallway in their direction. We didn’t run in the same circles, but there was enough thin peripheral overlap if we really wanted to stretch it.

Except we were still in junior high, and unlike the palpable divide experienced when inhabiting the same world, high school was a completely different one altogether. 

If we could exploit the lack of parental presence he might say yes. If we could make it a more mature party (like the ones we imagined being thrown by his new peers) there was less chance he would say no. I don’t remember how the idea came up. Or whose idea it was in the first place. We would have it on hand just in case we needed to age-up the festivities. But I know I must have been the one to volunteer. 

I knew where the videotapes were kept in the cabinet at home. 

Hidden in the very back and hard to reach. In their dark storage all you could make out was how their cases were conspicuously turned the opposite way so you couldn’t read the label on the spine: “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”. “Deep Throat”. “Debbie Does Dallas”. Another one simply titled “Swedish”. I was confident I could sneak one of the tapes out of the house and return it before anyone was the wiser. 

I chose to go to Dallas.

To now write my recollections of the night is somewhat strange as my memory is remarkably scarce of its events. Except for that videotape. 

He arrived to the party with a friend who had also attended our junior high and had been one of the more approachable members of their pack. Even then I remember thinking this friend was wise to the grift; an agent-like sidekick who understood all too well the ceremony surrounding this [ceremonious] boy even when he didn’t notice it himself.

Those who wanted to see the movie had to venture to the main level of the townhouse where the TV was. Her parents - true to their word - had remained upstairs on the second floor. Hushed laughter as we pressed play. It had been on for several minutes before the first garbling noise. Before image and sound became distorted. Then nothing. 

The tape refused to spit from the mouth of the player when we hit eject — we had to yank it out. Once removed, endless ribbon continued to spin from its spools. We had no choice, but to cut it free from the taut and tangled mess still connected to the opening of the machine.

At this point it’s possible I started to cry. Knowing me I likely did. 

It was his friend who helped me salvage what was left of Debbie’s doings. Unfurling and flattening the film. Scotch-taping the ends together. Using a pencil to slowly rewind the ribbon back into the cassette’s body. We reinstated it well enough for me to return it to its dark shelf and feign any knowledge of its warped predicament.

After the disastrous screening I was spent. I wasn’t much in the mood for a party. I went back down to the basement and sat on the couch in the shadows.

He was standing behind the fold-up table quietly shuffling through the records we had brought to listen to that night. He placed one on the turntable and gently dropped the needle down. “Head over Heels” by Tears for Fears came over the speakers. 

Memories remarkably scarce of their events. Except for that song.

He may have noticed me sitting there when he chose that album. I wanted to believe he had played it specifically for me. 

But it didn’t matter that he didn’t. It was all I needed to hear him say in that moment.

Art School Confidential

November 2020

I started High School in the fall of 1986. I had been accepted into a Specialized Arts program at Danforth Tech in east-end Toronto.

I think it was Mr. Wilson who taught the Commercial Art component. What I definitely remember are the groovy outfits he wore; polyester slacks the colour of raspberry Kool-aid. Airbrushing was all the rage back then and a couple of students brought in their personal gear so they could experiment with projects.

The room was split into two work spaces: one side housed long communal desks, while the other was left an open area so we could set up our easels for figure drawing. I’m not sure this curriculum would be allowed today. In order for us to learn to draw the human form the models posed nude. Women and men. I recall the teacher’s introduction to each of those lessons - a reminder really - if you laughed you were out of there!

I fell in love with what we called the stovepipe technique, where I would quickly sketch a stick figure that laid down the initial pose of the model. Over top of those lines, I then held the pencil or charcoal in such a way where my index finger anchored the tip flat against the paper, and in a continuous circular spiral-like motion, I could then flesh out the body shape.

Again, this was a group of barely turned teens being tasked to keep their composure. We miraculously pulled it off, save the time we were graced by a pretty young female model with a butterfly tattoo. Her presence had elicited nervous energy in some students of a different kind that day.

Mr. Porco taught us Interpretive and Abstract Drawing. The classroom was huge, divided into three sections: the front area had large square communal tables for paper work/drawing. The middle section was a sculpting area where we could craft our plasticine, eventually transforming the pieces into clay ceramics, using the kiln in the back work area of the room.

I sculpted - with unintentionally hysterical results - an original portraiture bust. I named him Julien. He had curly hair reminiscent of a young Art Garfunkel and a moustache that can only be described as Rhett Butler meets Magnum P.I.

I really wish I had kept him.

Fine Art and Still Life Drawing was taught by Mr. Barnes. The smallest of the three classes, our desks surrounded an enormous table in the centre of the room, on top of which sat every kind of drawing prop and bric-a-brac imaginable. It was a mystery how long those artifacts had lived on that table. One student swore they saw a tiny mouse poke its head from between a pile of pussy willows during a lesson. If only the layers of dust coating those plastic fruits could talk.

Mr. Barnes was a strange man. Aloof, yet present. Distant, but kind. A certifiable eccentric. There were hushed rumours he would lock his classroom door during his lunch period and smoke grass.

That would explain the table.

Strange, as I get older (I’m probably the same age as he was then) I look back on the memory of Mr. Barnes wishing I had recognized his strangeness the way I have come to understand it now. Perhaps I feel this way because I see some of it in myself.

SCTV Played at My House

November 2020

I still remember the old convertible that had been towed into our backyard. In my mind’s eye, it’s reminiscent of the “hunk of junk” Danny and Kenicke re-build for the big race at Thunder Road. (What can I say — child of the ‘70s.)

This would have been around 1982. I grew up in east-end Toronto and our next door neighbour at the time - a TV producer for the comedy program SCTV - had asked my parents if he could use our yard for a new skit they were working on. My family collectively watched the show and were huge fans. It was an easy answer.

On the day of the shoot the crew arrived with bags and bags of dirt and lots of flowers. They would be used to fill the old jalopy for “Backyard Buddies: a skit featuring John Candy playing a DIY handyman with some lofty ideas for home improvement.

It was beyond thrilling for my sister and I to stay home from school that day. My Mom also taught at the Elementary School we attended. It was just a street over and a couple of teachers, who were friends of mom, stopped by that afternoon to join in the spectacle. The house was buzzing. So many people preparing: Lights, Camera, Action!

I don’t remember John Candy arriving to the house. Both my sister and I were far too shy to make our presence known, but I do remember Candy using my bedroom as his dressing space. For me it was a serious showbiz We’re in the Money kind of moment. (What can I say — child of the ‘70s with a penchant for ‘30s musicals.)

I think it was Miss Peacock who seized the moment. She was young and pretty and if anyone could pull off approaching him, with the eloquence required to make such a request, she could.

Written on a piece of 3x4 inch notepad in blue ballpoint pen the autograph read:

Jennifer and Jessica,

Thanks for the acting lessons.

John Candy

We knew we needed a secure place to store our papered treasure. We slipped it into the sleeve of our “Bob & Doug McKenzie: Great White North” album for safekeeping. (What can I say — we were huge fans.)

I’m not sure if someone from the crew, upon seeing our record, made the suggestion for what happened next. SCTV was simultaneously filming another skit a few doors down from us. To this day I still don’t know what the premise was, but Dave Thomas and Rick Moranis were helming it. My father accompanied us down the street with our album in hand. I remember arriving to the address and recognizing it as my neighbourhood friend Hiku’s house. Out front two people were chasing each other around wearing elaborate rubber gorilla masks. It was Thomas and Moranis taking a production break.

It was my Dad who seized the moment. He was jokey and confident and if anyone could pull off approaching them, with the gusto required to make such a request, he could.

Written on the album next to Bob & Doug’s likeness in blue ballpoint pen the autograph read:

Jennifer and Jessica,

Take off, eh!

Bob & Doug McKenzie

When we got home, we carefully taped John Candy’s autograph onto the album cover alongside the hoser’s salutations.

I’m not sure if the artifact has been travelling with me throughout my journey. I thought about checking to see if it was tucked among my current vinyl so I could post a photo to accompany this writing. Maybe the album is in preservation with my sister, (which reminds me I really need to give her an overdue ring.) I bet my Dad remembers the story well if I were to ask him.

Perhaps the record resides among my Mom’s collection in PEI. I haven’t returned to the island since her passing last November. I wish she was here so I could call her. To hear her voice again and experience her laugh at the memory of it all.

The Poetry Reading

September 2020

I met James Franco in 2014 at the Bowery Poetry Club NYC. He was there to do a night of readings alongside the poet - and his mentor - Frank Bidart. (I sheepishly admit I was a bit of a Franco apologist back in the day; he appeared to be a genuine oddball who suffered from pretty boy syndrome, which made it difficult for people to take his eccentricities seriously. When news eventually hit of him sliding into the DM accounts of underage girls on social media it became virtually impossible to defend him.)

The crowd at the Club that night was wacky; a mix of LES Bohemian stalwarts and manic Jersey girls clamouring to gawk at a movie star.

Spring Break Y’all.

Everyone in attendance received a copy of Franco’s photography book from his art show “New Film Stills” — recreating Cindy Sherman’s “Untitled Film Stills” (already a spotty undertaking) — along with an original painting consisting of a page torn out from an old issue of Art Forum Magazine haphazardly splashed with acrylic.

Hearing Frank Bidart read his work was captivating. I had not known of him before that night.

A book signing was held after the event. I bought a copy of Bidart’s poetry and stood in his small queue while the line next to us swelled to meet Franco. Bidart was approachable and friendly. I thanked him for a lovely evening. I was going to leave after that. But I had this idea...

I watched people in the line beside me buzz excitedly around Franco taking selfies. I waited until I was the last attendee in the room before walking up to his table. He was sitting there with a publicist. As I handed over his photography book for signing, I commented on how much I had enjoyed the evening. Both he and the publicist saw me fiddle with my phone at the same time. I gathered my courage and asked:

“Mr. Franco, I wanted to ask…if you would take my photo?”

I still recall the publicist’s face; eyes wide as she snapped her head around to look at him for his reaction. I could tell I caught him off guard, but he recovered quickly, I mean he’s a pro. Now he was completely on guard. He squinted at me and shook his head slowly:

“Yeeeahh...I don’t think so.”

Busted. He knew what I was up to, but instead of applauding my moxie he was annoyed. The peculiar thing is I think what irritated him most was the focus would not be on him. Up until the last moment he appeared amiable - or at least resigned - to taking a selfie with me.

That’s what disappointed me most. He was no longer the oddball eccentric I liked. Instead, he shape-shifted into a pretty boy movie star.

And that’s not really my scene.