BOMB’S ECHO

In recent weeks more and more Canadian soldiers have died in Afghanistan. The reports have been troubling, not just for the obvious tragic reasons, but because of a personal experience a while back. About a year ago I and two other comics performed for the troops at a Canadian base which I have heard referenced a couple of times on the recent reports. I remember distinctly that many of the guys in attendance (maybe most of them?) were going to Afghanistan soon.

I haven’t done any research into the names of the fallen soldiers, so I don’t have any hard facts here, but I think it’s safe to say that at least some of these young men were sitting in the audience that night. Certainly it didn’t cross my mind looking out from the stage that some of the faces looking back might not be around a year later. No, I was pre-occupied with other things.

Namely a strong desire to get off the stage. Because that show sucked.

Seriously, I usually have two or three shows in a year that stick with me as crappy experiences, much as I’d rather forget them, and this gig definitely made the list. The boys were rowdy, drunk, rude and obnoxious. Technically I probably had worse bombs that year, in the sense of less laughter. Actually, on this night, I got a few good laughs, even a couple of applause breaks. And the audience weren’t all horrible. Many people were attentive and appreciative (I think some spouses were present) and one of the officers told some rowdies to pipe down, which was considerate. But it still left a crap taste in my mouth. The ebb and flow of their attention and the dick-head remarks forced me to plow through most of my stuff, searching for the bits with a punchline blunt enough to register with their boozed-up grey matter. It was actually a relief when a large faction wandered outside to smoke, restoring a level of calm to the proceedings. The other acts didn’t have much fun either. As we left, some of the troops were talking about how the only good one was the host who made fun of them in the first ten minutes, not even pretending not to notice us walking past them. They were the sort of people you encounter that you have to dismiss as a bunch of assholes who, God willing, will never cross paths with you again. The sooner you forget about them the better.

Except, months later, the evening news wouldn’t let me forget about them, or the fact that many of them will absolutely never cross paths with me again.

It gave me mixed feelings thinking about the dead soldiers. Part of me felt guilty, imagining that that comedy night may have been the last live entertainment some kid saw, and it was a disappointment. It smacked of a wasted opportunity to give some comfort and levity to people who would not feel either ever again. Part of me got a little mad remembering the hell-gig, prompting me to wonder, “Why are we sending drunken hooligans to defend freedom and democracy when by all rights they should be wearing togas and funneling Moosehead?” Then I’d reflect on the complexity of human beings and the measure of a man’s worth: “How do insufferable jerks turn out to be courageous heroes? Did I miss something? If I did, what does that say about me? How good is a comic who fails his country’s bravest sons?”

In short, the experience resonated more than most bombs.

A couple of months ago I met another soldier. It was during one of the Emo Phillips shows I hosted in Ottawa. I was working the crowd, doing the “any birthdays?” thing, and, as usual someone drew attention to a reluctant celebrant. I asked him, “What do you do?” He said he was a soldier, and just got back from Afghanistan. This was met with supportive applause from the audience, followed by my defeated remark, “Fuck. How do I make fun of that?”, which was met with some welcome mirth and giggles.

Turns out this guy was wounded overseas. After the show (it was a very good one) he approached me, and I saw that the side of his face was badly bruised. We chatted a bit, and he had his picture taken with me (I assume, if it’s still in his digital files, it’s labeled something grand like “Me and someone not Emo Phillips”). Then he thanked me and went on his way.

I’m assuming he was pleased with the show, and that it contributed to a birthday he was no doubt extra happy to be celebrating. I was glad that he caught me on a good night. Some guys are just lucky, I guess.

Meeting him reminded me of my lousy military skirmish a year prior, and it helped ease the sting of that memory. Actually, I don’t really worry about that other gig at all anymore. I’ve done some great shows since then. Perspective shifts. Time heals. Which is one of the good things about my business. In comedy, a bomb only FEELS like the end of the world. But there’s always another chance to do better.

We may as well be happy about that. ‘Cause a lot of people aren’t so lucky.