Road Comedy Recap: Trump, Triumph & Tim Hortons in…

Despite being located very close by international standards, until a few days ago I had never been to Canada.  I also grew up and lived in New York City until I was 40 and have never been to the Statue of Liberty.  But thanks to the dementia warlord that is Donald J Trump, I saw an opportunity to finally crack the Canadian Curse (I’ve emailed Canadian clubs on and off for probably a decade without a reply before last month) and bring my comedy north of the border.  It worked and I was booked to perform at Yuk Yuks in downtown Toronto on April 9th. Here is how it went:

Travelling to Toronto

I woke up at 4am on Tuesday April 8th (on purpose). I needed to eat a healthy breakfast (knowing I would be travelling 24 of the next 60 hours on Amtrak, healthy eats would be less likely) so I had my black coffee, scrambled eggs and blueberries, shaved to make my increasingly jowly face more Trump smooth, hopped in the shower and then ran with my backpack, suitcase and garment bag to the 5:33am train to Penn Station. When I arrived at Penn Station at 610am it was beautifully and gloriously empty as I stood in the Amtrak First Class Lounge surveying the station like Simba and Mufasa overseeing their kingdom.

Then came the call for the 715am Maple Leaf from NYC to Toronto. I went into the business class car and saw the one seat empty was the first seat with about 6 feet of legroom (or as Amtrak calls it “space for handicapped passengers”). I then settled in with some magazines (The Atlantic, New Yorker, Swank), a book, and podcasts for the long haul to Toronto.

The trip was on time and uneventful until we arrived at the Canadian border. I checked for my passport for the 47th time on the trip, gathered my bags and went with everyone else to the border patrol check.

If you did not hear them speak, you could confuse Canadian border agents for January 6th looking dudes.  White, tactical gear, thick beards. And then you hear them speak and realize these guys sound far too friendly to be cruel. Of course, if you’ve heard Canadian hockey players talk after games they often sound so much like kindergarten teachers or park rangers that you forget they just committed felony assault during the game.  The way South African, Southern and Boston accents always sound presumptively racist to me, the Canadian accent sounds presumptively non-threatening.

When it was my time to get called I was called by the one woman in the crew, who just so happened to be fairly hot.  She called out my name with a perfectly pronounced “Jean-Louis” at which point I told her I was willing to move to Canada if she was unwilling to do long distance.  She asked me a bunch of questions about what I was going to do in Canada and when she did not volunteer any interest in my comedy show I told her, “I already live with a woman who is bored with my schtick, I don’t need another!”

I then reboarded the train and we made our way the final two hours or so to Toronto.  It is worth noting that although the Canadian train crew was bi-lingual, friendly and more thorough on safety instructions than the American crew, they made a point of saying that our free business class beverage perk was not honored in Canada. THANKS TRUMP!

Union Station-Union Hotel

I booked a stay at the Union Hotel seeing that it was across the street from Union Station (by the way, who was naming our train stations in North America, George Forman (RIP)? – I have been to at least 12 union stations in North America).  A cab driver called out to me as I walked the frigid streets of Toronto, “you need a taxi, friend?” and I thought,”Jeesh, Canadians are friendlier!

I arrived at the hotel and after having my name pronounced perfectly at the border I gave my passport to the hotel clerk and he said something like “jjjen lewis?” and I said “Ooof, Jean-Louis, I thought Toronto would nail it!” and he replied in his Euro accent, “Hey sorry I only speak three languages,” to which I laughed but thought “Well no French and shit English seems like a weird combo in Canada, SIR!”  I just wish my border agent side chick were there so we could laugh at him together.

I checked into my room, which was small, but slick. I then went to Chipotle for dinner (was not sure how late other places would be open) and had a donut nightcap at Tim Hortons across the street from my hotel.  My four, yes four, visits to TH over the next 34 hours would yield gold material for my show, but at the time of my first visit I just enjoyed an objectively delicious donut.  As a patriot I won’t say they’re better than Dunkin’, but as a fat fu*k headed towards an early, footless grave, I will say that Tim Hortons’ donuts are the best chain donuts I’ve had.

I went to sleep at 11pm so I would be well rested for the CBC Morning Match radio show with David Common.

Rise N Grind

I woke up at 4:30 am. Why? Because God hates me apparently.  But it was a blessing in disguise. Because my voice, like a lot of people, is so much different when I wake up, it gave me several hours to sit and talk to myself in my hotel room so that when called upon to speak like Trump on air, it would not sound super crappy.  So I went across the street to Tim Hortons, which either had a slumber party with many adults or is an early morning hang for Toronto’s unhoused population. I had one two donuts and a croissant with a coffee. I returned to my hotel room and resumed talking until I felt like the impression was about 90% there.

I arrived at the radio station at 745am for my 820am appearance on air. I bantered with the show staff and then it was time for me to get on the air.  David Common, the host, has a voice for radio and a face for TV.  I thought, if this is the kind of face you put on your radio, it makes sense that your female border agents would be good looking.  I had a strong appearance and then celebrated with a trip to… Tim Hortons.

The Hockey Hall of Fame

After TH, I made my way to the Hockey Hall of Fame.  Fans of mine know (or should know) that I have become a big hockey enthusiast over the last few years, even if attending NY Rangers’ games sometimes feels like 10% of the audience would have cheered on the assault of Abner Louima.  I have also complained about hockey culture where players cannot seem to master the art of humility without also appearing lobotomized. That excessively performative humility hit a new level when I went to the Hockey Hall of Fame and saw that it was in the basement of a shopping mall.

I did enjoy my trip to the Hall (bought a fridge magnet, which I just realized I left in my hotel room), spent a few hours investigating everything and came to the conclusion that Teemu Selanne, who scored 684 career regular season goals, is aging like a guy who has not stopped scoring.  The picture I took is not perfect, but if I don’t share it with you then I’m just a guy who takes pictures of handsome hockey players. Ummmm so anyway then I left and had lunch at Shake Shack (continuing to sample the Canadian specialties). Union Station (Toronto edition) is maybe the nicest train station I’ve ever been to (Moynihan is like a side car compared to the sheer size of Toronto so it’s unfair to compare the two).

I Live For The Funk

I then went into a funk that has become a sort of regular thing for me over the last couple of years.  I begin to despair about my comedy career (justified), which then spirals to a feeling that my life is failing on every level.  I think this is because of the importance of my comedy to me and how that importance has not been validated in many of the ways I would need it to be, to have the career that I want. And when you consider I have been doing comedy almost my entire adult life, it is a difficult spiral when you think before shows (in order) – I should be doing better – but I am not – have I wasted my life? – is the rest of my life good enough to compensate for this complete failure of my main adulthood pursuit – it doesn’t feel that way – I am in a city where I need ticket sales to even give me a chance at more gigs – and even if those gigs materialize will they lead my life or career to change at all – no, of course not – well get dressed and get this fucking show over with but be sure to text your girlfriend that she needs to make you quit comedy as you have done for half of your gigs this year.

Then I realized I had been sitting on my hotel bed for two hours doing nothing but thinking these thoughts. No book. No TV. No music.  And with that happy attitude I left the Union Hotel for Yuk Yuk’s, just desperate to do the show and never do comedy again.

Yuk Yuk’s

When I got to the club I ran into three fans who told me they’d been fans of mine since 2016 (intentionally or unintentionally flexing that they were fans of mine before I gained millions of admirers for 2 months in 2020) and of course the words of praise, combined with the ambiance of a comedy club beginning to fill up with people, began to melt away the funk.  I went up to the green room to dress up like Elon Musk. I was emceeing my own show as Elon, then a local comedian, Armin Arbabi, would middle (very strongly) followed by me as Trump.

The Musk set went well and Armin did very well and then it was time for the main event. I gave probably a 20 minute speech to the attendees on why they should be honored to be the 51st state and then took questions from the crowd, which I think was close to an hour.  Part of me believes, as I write this, that there is really no purpose in relaying how my set went. It is not the first time I have done a show where I know the show deserves and deserved a 5000 seat theater. But an inevitable truth has been coming into focus for me over the last few years: those opportunities are not going to happen for me. My modest expectations on the heels of the show of a big Canadian tour have already been watered down significantly, so my feelings are not just the morose musings of a comedian experiencing the roller coaster of entertainment emotions. But with all that said, the show was a hard A+. It was beyond worthy of hot border agentess, a delicious Tim Hortons donut and Teemu Selanne’s eyes. The responses from the fans, the club owner and the video crew I hired to record the show were the sort of unmistakable, emotional reactions to deeply enjoying something. I left very proud and satisfied.

 

Now when I finally physically left the club after a mega meet and greet I looked like a guy who had just been fired from a job – limping along Toronto city streets at 1045pm on a Wednesday carrying a backpack, a pair of New Balance sneakers and a flannel shirt (did not feel like changing out of the suit until I got back to the hotel).

I went to my Tim Hortons for a celebratory donut, but they had just closed. As I was walking away disappointed, the employee cleaning up opened the door and said “Sorry about that.”  And that felt better somehow than the quick satisfaction of a donut.

I made my way to Jack Ashtons’ (a restaurant open until 1am), for a delicious hamburger and fries, a traditionally American meal that based on the (thousands) of Canadian flags in the restaurant felt like a trap.  For the first time in a while I slept deeply and had to be rudely awakened by my alarm.

Leaving Toronto

My assessment of Toronto is probably how jazz artists felt about Paris before WWII – leaving my country to finally sell tickets and receive a response that satisfied me is, after having a Haitian father, probably the Blackest experience I’ve ever had.  It is a nice looking city, the people appeared to be as nice as advertised and I had one of my favorite shows ever.  I got a coffee and a donut from Tim Hortons (yes, this was the 4th trip for you folks who were counting) on my way to the train and made my way back to New York.

When I got home I was greeted by Laura and Cookie, as always. I deteriorated into a foul mood, probably because of the reality that constantly hits me with my comedy career – I will not be the success I want to be, but I tasted a night of it. But there’s no Tim Hortons guy to call out “sorry about that” when the disappointing nights follow.

Thank you very much Toronto.