I'm sure Ron James would cringe at being called A National Treasure.
He'd probably say his body has not yet been discovered in the Tundra or fossilized after his family jewels were eaten by bears. It's true, he hasn't had a cabin in the woods named after him like Pierre Berton where starving comics can go, suck on a pickled toe and try their material out on otters. He doesn't have an Order of Canada or a Governor's General Award, either.
But a National God Damned Treasure he certainly is.
He's had his own television show, and a comedy special that ran so many times on New Year's Eve that the CBC smoked the videotape. He failed as an actor in Hollywood so he came home to make the best of it in Canada -- and what's more Canadian than that!
He does have some hardware including a Gemini and a Genie, and two Canadian Comedy Awards. But he'll even admit that he is a B List celebrity who gets airline upgrades not because he's famous but because he travels so many kilometers every year.
Maybe he hasn't gotten the big awards because people have a hard time finding him. Now in his early 60s, he's still touring Canada and playing the bingo halls and the legions, swapping stories with the locals, and signing DVDs for wayward seniors.
Ron James is our version of the Hardest Working Man in Canadian Show Business, a man who could still draw a crowd around the television on New Year's Eve up or down the Bell channel playlist, but prefers to be a road comic spending his off hours donning hip waders and snow shoes to commune with our rapidly deteriorating climate, what's left of which is being sucked into sinkholes by well meaning do-gooders.
In short -- and he is that -- Ron James is a b'y doing standup in front of a country, asking it to love him.
In his new autobiography, All Over the Map, Ron takes the reader on a journey that would have made the late Peter Gzowski squeal with throbbing love. Whether he's up in a bush plane with a 300 pound narcoleptic bush pilot or sitting beside a Newfie granny forced to travel the country to see her wayward brood, Ron never fails to get the last laugh or squeeze out a tear.
He shares his memories of living with an elfin father back home in Nova Scotia, a man who was fast with a joke and a jig who delighted in the odd trip to Newfoundland.
"So eager was Dad to embrace his tribe, the man practically did a tuck and roll out the passenger-side door onto the road before the car came to a stop...Entering the house as if it were his own, he ruled the place with the skill of a seasoned road comic, regaling the kitchen with bawdy jokes in his typical machine-gun delivery and bug-eyed animation. His face took on that familiar glow born of a good buzz, as our hosts poured rum after rum for the elfin trickster whom I'm sure they thought had left a hidden forest kingdom for a night to work his magic among mere mortals."
Did I say he could write?
While his many stand up appearances leave fans wetting themselves with glee, this book is unafraid to expose the pathos and indignities experienced by ordinary folk who are largely ignored by people chasing fame and the almighty dollar. He writes about good decent people making the best of their lives, just trying to get along.
Mostly, it's just a great, great read especially for people like me who have long since given up any hope of business time at the end of the evening, and prefer the company of a little fellar who can spin a tale or two about the people of this amazing country. He's like a dose of Sleepy Time tea right before bed, or a gummy laced with love and goodness.
Now a small disclaimer here.
I've always been a Ron James fan, and I finally met the man in Ottawa when my dying friend asked if I would take her to one of his gigs at the EY Centre. The doctors had given Jennette the talk, giving her only a few short months.
"What's on your bucket list?" I asked Jennette after the appointment.
"I've always wanted to see Ron James," she said.
Jennette had decided she wanted to go out laughing.
And laugh she did. She laughed so hard, her cancer-ravaged bandaged chin started bleeding all over the place. While she was powdering her nose, and wrapping herself in a Mummy-like bandage, I held a place in line so she could meet Ron James.
Seeing Jennette ambling along on her walker, Ron left his post signing DVDs, and came over to my little friend with a handful of tapes of his greatest hits. He put his arm around her, and posed for a picture, filling her tiny heart with joy.
"Finally, somebody who's shorter than I am!" he quipped. "Don't run over anybody with that walker, darlin'".
Jennette was absolutely elevating like a helium balloon after getting in the car going to go back to her residence.
I still have the DVDs, and now I have the book.
He's a good egg, I say. Damned fine human. Not yet eaten by bears, or given a pin by the G-G to hold up his britches.
So go buy the b'y's book, will ya?
After all, he's a National Treasure.
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