For Throwback Thursday- which I’m surprised has yet to be recognized as a national holiday- here are three short, violently offensive sketches featuring the talents of the Alex Dafoe, Wade Fennig, Ryan Tapping and my father, Marcel Perro, co-written by myself and Bob Woolsey.
Because I have a terrible memory, I can’t guarantee that this is true but I vaguely recall that the premise of these started with a mutual friend suggesting to Bob and I that it would be funny for a series of sketches about a group of suits in a boardroom making decisions throughout history. So naturally, we stole this idea and decided on JFK’s assassination and the invention of soccer. Gentleman, scholar and bandit Keith Opatovsky filmed the shorts that I do believe were screened at the occasional Idle Minds show. Check out their website and like them on the Facebook. And if you’re in or around Vancouver, check out their live shows. They’re funny fuckers.
Every day was exactly the same.
I’d wake up around noon. There’d be stale coffee in the pot. You could reheat it and lump in enough sugar and milk to kill the dead taste of preservatives and chemicals. Or make a fresh cup, at least as fresh as instant coffee could be. It usually depended on when payday was. Or on how hung over you were.
If I could stand it, Foley would be on my couch. I figured I owned him at least a tough old sofa and dirty blanket. He didn’t like to be at home anymore since his mom and Jerry the Mechanic had become less than subtle about their love tryst. Something about hearing your mother scream in sexual ecstasy that makes it hard to get in eight hours on a weeknight.
“He’s fucking my mom, I know it.” Foley finished his beer. Signalled for another.
Chris scoffed. “How can you think about something like that?”
“People fuck. My mom is people. Easy, man.”
“How would Jerry even know her?” Chris was often purposely aloof, always leading Foley by the nose.
“Cause I invited him over to dinner. She wanted to meet him.”
Jerry was the mechanic and body shop guy Foley was apprenticing with. He was almost sixty, battled gout, and made inappropriate comments about the underage girls who passed by on the way to the coffee bar a block over. Sometimes he’d wander out front for a cigarette, always with a wrench. He’d toss it to the ground. “Help an old man grab his tool,” he’d ask, and you knew he was referring to his dick because of course he was referring to his dick.
CHAPTER 7: PUNK ROCK
I kept it under my bed next to a He-Man lunchbox and loose collection of dirty magazines. Had my mom stumbled on either of my three treasures, I deduced it would bring an equal amount of discomfort and anxiety, though I could have probably explained away the Hustlers. Had she opened said lunchbox, well the dime bag and cocaine-y piece of glass would have been a little more difficult to justify, though to my mother, probably somewhat less than why I had my father’s 1959 Fender Stratocaster tucked under an old blanket.
The case was pristine. It was a sort of metallic black that shimmered in light, a single peace sign sticker centered on the back. It had two clasps, each with its separate three digit combination lock coded 666 and 420- hey, I never said the man was clever- and between them, a silver engraving with my father’s name and my mother’s (our) phone number on it. The velvet lining inside was soft to the touch. Under the neck was a box for picks, capo, tuner, rolling papers and a lighter, all of which were included. The strap was handmade and smelled like a freshly deadened cow.
My grandfather had Parkinson’s. He was a proud man, always careful to shield his trembling fingers and unsteady grip when his grandkids were around. I think he thought we didn’t know anything was wrong, and we probably didn’t when we were really young, but it never really mattered to us anyway. “Grandpa shakes, whatever,” I can remember thinking. It was important to him to appear stoic, unfazed: the thing was grandpa wasn’t very good at hiding it. He fought through the awkward meals of jittering silverware and dropped fork-fulls with a sweet old man smile all while making inappropriate jokes about how he still has to chase away other guys from grandma. He had a walker when his balance was going, but he never took it when my brother and I would take them to lunch at the mall across from their high-rise. He was a proud man.
One day grandpa got Alzheimer’s.