What the hell am I doing in Canada at a Television Conference? I don't know anything about the shows these people are talking about, it should be Glen up here, not me. Wait I take that back. I like it up here. Let's start over at the beginning...
Several months ago I received a phone call asking if I wanted to take part in a panel in Canada called Banff. Now aside from the fact that "Banff" sounded like the sound Nightcrawler made when he teleported around, I knew nothing else about that word.
I believe BANFF stood for something like BIG ARTISTIC NURTURING FILM FEST, but I was wrong. Later I became aware that Banff was a name of a town nestled away in the bosom of the Canadian Rockies.
Let's skip about 2 months of living, and we come to Monday when I hopped on a plane bound for the maple leaf country. Now I admit I'm your typical person from the United States that believes Canada is made up entirely of glaciers and is akin to Siberia and Alaska. This is like most peoples' belief that Texas is an arid desert with jutting hunks of John Ford rocks dotting the landscape, which is moving with the tumbling tumbleweeds.
So I hop on the plane with a ton of clothes, my computer and my cds and I am prepared for the bitter icy storms, the frigid air, frozen eyebrows and beards. This was going to be real Jeremiah Johnson living, not like that Park City where it never got below freezing. Nope this was going to be sub-zero temperatures.
The first thing I notice on the plane as we begin our decent is the utter lack of elevated earth and glaciers. Instead I'm staring at ground that looks exactly like ground in Texas. WHERE ARE THE MOUNTAINS!?!? Where are the glaciers? And where are the wild flocks of meese?
As we land and we head to the place ya know where you depart the plane... oh yeah the terminal. I notice that there is an oil rig that has the head of a cowboy and a head of a horse mounted on the churning mechanical beast. It was like a cross between THE URBAN COWBOY, THE GODFATHER and THE TERMINATOR. I was frightened. What sort of world was I entering? Who are the Canadians, or Albertans or whatever the proper phrase is? I don't know, I've never been to Canada, but I am at this point harboring a great concern about French-speaking cowboys with a William Macy accent (the one from FARGO).
I depart the plane and CUSTOMS... Well I have everything I need... oh shit.... my pass...port.. It's sitting on my rolled top desk in my house which is a billion damn miles from my present location. My eyes turn Manson-like, you know all black with a thin border of blue around them. I stumble back a couple of steps and I begin to ponder my next step. I begin thinking... 'Canada is an open border, I shouldn't have to have any i.d., they probably just wave people in and out...'
THE BORDER GUARD
There is this whole line up of border guards in booths, each and everyone of them has one thing on their mind, "Let's nail Harry Knowles!" There eyes pour over me like those of an anteater hovering above an ant hill. Pure hunger for stupid American flesh, I can tell. They wanna pull that MIDNIGHT EXPRESS shit on me, I know it. They don't believe this is a real stomach, and when I don't have the proper identification, they'll slice me open and check for drugs, which they know I have because I have long hair and look like I love the Grateful Dead.
I'm doomed.... I walk wobbly-style on up to the cubicle, hand him my customs form, and then he asks the question, "I-DENT-FUCKING-ATION" I am soo screwed. So I pull out my driver's license, my voters registration card, my check book, my computer which is set to dial Austin numbers, I begin recalling presidents in order, I talk about who won the World Series, and how John Wayne is God, and I start chewing like I have bubble gum in my mouth (thanks, Jean Reno)
The man stares at me like I'm a fucking idiot. "Where is your passport?" I knew the answer to that, so I say it's on my rolltop desk at my house which is at the address on my driver's license, voter's registration, my Threadgill's neighborhood card, etc etc etc...
"How do I know that this is not a forgery? Do you have any idea how often this sort of thing is faked?"
"Ummmm sir, well uh it's like this.. ummm I have no idea how often this happens, but I have a return ticket see, and I'm here for a couple a days, and ummm I'm not taking a job away or nothing like that, nope, me here talk festival see" and I pull out my festival invite. His cold emotionless dark brown eyes stare deep into me. I'm doomed.
I begin thinking at him real hard, I think, "Move Along" it's what I do when faced with official opposition. Then as if struck on the head with a ton of green Nickelodeon goop, the guy says, "Move Along". I swear to God the man said, "Move Along."
So I move...I grab my bag and head out into the public area of the airport...
GEEKS
As I enter the freezone, I see a couple of wide eyed geeks awaiting my presence. They looked like high school versions of myself and Glen. He was a well rounded fellow and Him was a lanky dude. Turns out these two are rabid film freaks in the Eleventh grade. We talked for a bit, then I saw the BANFF TELEVISION DESK so I went over to ask for direction in life. The two geeks followed the larger (me).
"LAAAAARRY!!!!" exclaimed the lady behind the counter.
"Ummm, no, I'm Harry."
"No you aren't stop fooling Larry!" she went on.
The two geeks behind me were in hysterics, I was trying to explain who I was, but apparently she took my jovial face to mean I was a stark raving lunatic. She was probably right. Finally upon proving my existence as a Harry, she told me we would have to wait awhile. So...
THe geeks and I continued. We talked about all manner of subjects, they wanted to know more more more more... They laughed and chuckled and seemed vaguely bored with me. Well I ain't Jim Carrey, my face doesn't distort unless you attach bungee cords, then watch out.
Around this time my van master arrived, the guide that was going to take me and the rest of the Donner party up into the treacherous mountain passes. He'd be my Peachy that I'd hold onto snow blind while our mules died, he'd be the flesh I'd eat when the oreos run out. And he sounded and looked exactly like I imagine a younger brother of William H Macy would. He had a bit of a psychotic riff he'd go on, and he looked a little light on the meat to be my food in the mountains, but.. we'll see.
The geeks gave me a video tape of a short film they made called THE ONE, I have no idea what to expect of it, but they told me it was a ripoff of Reservoir Dogs, so I guess it has to have people pointing guns at each other. Can't be too bad.
I load up into the van, taking the shotgun seat lest the indians attack, I've heard of the Blackfoot and Cree that allegedly roam these parts, and I remember LAST OF THE MOHICANS, they'll take my lovely lass, and I will find her, I will, no matter how.. oh.. you know how that goes. Anyway, I konked out. I dozed like no tomorrow. Sporadically I'd awaken to talk with the President of the Sundance Channel that was sitting behind me, or to listen to William H Macy (the guide, driver, lunch) gripe about the.."fuuuuuckin' ahhshooles that yaaa see driving dese days!" Great voice. Ya.
Finally after what felt like 32 hours of sleep we arrive in Banff. This place is unbelievable. Turn the sky purple add 3 moons and this is a set for Princess of Mars. It is right out of a fantastical Frazetta world, except without the dudes riding on the backs of polar bears. I kept looking for the flocks of meese and mounties, but I couldn't see any. This is what convinced me I had been picked up by a twister and sat down a place soooooooooooommmmme wheeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeee ooooooooovvvveeeerrrrrrrr th' rAAAAAAIIIINNbOOw, waaaay uP HIGH... but I wasn't wearing ruby slippers and I didn't see any munchkins, but there were flying monkeys, they rock.
I check into my hotel which is the Banff Centre (I misspelled that Centre word on purpose cause that's how they spell it up here... go figure). I check in with no problems then take a cab to Banff Springs where apparently everything is going on, and I share it with these two ladies, one of which produces with David Kelly (I think that's his name, Paul knows it cause he's addicted to his shows.) Ally MacBeal and The Practice (which won a prize up here). We don't really talk much, but I did tell her about Paul's addiction problem.
MY GOD, we arrive at the Banff Springs Hotel,and the only way to adequately describe this is to picture the house from Psycho, the hotel from the Shining, Louis the XIV big pad and some other classy joint ya think fits in. Surrounded on all sides by violent mountains, this is the most striking building combined with a setting I've been to since the pyramids at Tikal in Guatemala. It's the sorta place where you instantly want to team up with Charlie Chan to find the ghosts, or make a sack of Scooby Snacks and get together with the Mystery crew (meanwhile finding a nice quiet closet to hop into with Daphne... wow. Cool thought.) God I need to get a girlfriend, like immediately.
When I get here, I get my bag with goodies and my credentials and party passes. Which I get to instantly use three for the big ta do, up stairs. At this point I notice lots of scantily clad beautiful women in slinky clinging dresses. Every single beauty is off set by the sun, a mountain and a beautiful building in the background. Each lady is a picture of the sort of woman you instantly see yourself clinging to's pinky toe begging to be accepted. So I get to the first girl's pinky toe and I sa.. Uh just kidding, that only happened behind my forehead.
Then I notice all the guys in the tuxedos and I realize that I am greatly underdressed for the situation at hand. In fact I'm looking like an underpaid geek that doesn't work for a living in the traditional 9 to 5 kinda way. Nope, instead I am dressed in slacks, shiny shoes, silk shirt and scooby doo tie. Heh heh heh. To the last I grapple with fashion, for clashing's sake I wear cottons and silks with Hanna Barbara!
There is food in this place and all that I had partaken of was a turkey melt on the plane (raaaaaaalllllpppppppppphhhhhhh) So you better believe I was ready to get my way to the sprouts and lettuce and tomatoes and carrots and salmon and meese meat (that's where they all went) and wine. Oh yeah the frommage is pretty tasty too.
After the stuffings, they have everyone get seated for the Awards ceremony, and while I'm sitting in there tired as hell, a fella from C.O.R.E. that I met on Robert's set shows up. We talk about how we have both visited each other's turf so it's his turn next. Then he walks off, and the mounties show up!!!
THE MOUNTIES
They really do exist. I thought they were works of fiction like a talented Gabor, but in they walked soldier stripes on there red sleeves, black belts crisscrossing their chests, smokey the bear hats and those Rocketeer style flaring paints but in Black. They walk with their shoulders back, chins held high and a truly honest look upon each brow.
Then THE mountie, Paul Gross appears. Wow. DUE SOUTH fella. Geez this guy sure looks like Superman. He's got that truth, justice and the Canadian way look down. He could play any number of noble looking adonis'.
TIME OUT: Folks, at this point in writing I just cried. Why, well I happened to glance out my window to watch the evergreen trees sway back and forth, white capped mountains behind that, beautiful clouds lit with the orange of the rising sun against a Superman blue sky... oh and a bird landed on the window sill and sung a few notes. This place is amazing. TIME IN:
Bob Newhart
There are awards going out and a lot of clapping going on, but I'm not very interested, because I have seen not one single film, show, short. SO I feel very out of place, until the Bob Newhart presentation. It seems this festival has a Peter Ustinov (Hercule Perot, most likely hacked to death in spelling) Lifetime achievement award for making people laugh. And Newhart was collecting tonight.
Now I have to admit, I thought I could give a rat's ass about Newhart, that I had no emotional stock tied up with him in any way, shape or form. I was wrong. As they began showing clips from Bob's lifetime of funny manning it, I began to remember all the times I caught Newhart on television, all the "this is my brother Daryl and my other brother Daryl" and I couldn't not smile. (Don't you English Majors love the use of a double negative?)
Then Bob took the stage... He looked exactly like Newhart, so I can confirm that the guy who played Newhart really does look like the real Bob Newhart. Where they found a double for this man that could act and look just like him is amazing. He was being quite gracious and humble at receiving the award. And he told a couple of jokes that were dead on. Unfortunately my memory for jokes is about like my memory for the rules and usage of the English language.
But after the kidding, and when he was ready to leave he said something that hit me right smack dab in the ol chest cavity. "When people come up to me and say, 'Thank you, you have made me laugh for a long time,' I respond with, 'It's been my pleasure.'"
That isn't a great sentence, but it was the tone, the rhythm, the emotion in which he said it. How he almost choked on 'pleasure'. It was that last phrase, "It's been my pleasure." Perfect. Every now and again, someone says something better than anyone has ever said it before. Though it had been spoken throughout history a mere multi-millions of times, this way was the perfect way to say it. Like Sean Connery saying, "Let it go" or Arnold saying, "I'll be back" or Gable saying, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." I was frozen to my seat with a single tear rolling down my expansive cheeks. It was a thing of perfection. I could feel myself getting choked up, so I left the proceedings, I could not stay any longer. This was what I had come to witness.
So it was that I found myself a cab, and I rode back to the hotel, fully intent on writing all of this up for you readers that want to know what's going on with me. However, the bed called for me, and I accepted the call. My windows open wide, paradise on the other side, I slept with the sweet scent of pine cones tickling my nostrils.
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I will attempt to get more stories of Banff up as soon as possible. I'm pretty much free through Sunday to write till my heart's desire. Though I have a bar-b-cue I have to attend, a trip to Lake Louise and another trip to the top of a mountain to do. However, you can rest assured my trusty computer will be strapped to my back, like Spidey's change of clothes.
