Toronto Kensington Market’s Hot Hot Box Comedy Night

Despite the unfortunate fact that in my youth I had ‘free the herb’ permanently emblazoned on my upper arm, I’m not sure I can handle the pot smoke in the Hot Box Café.

Thursday night comedy is one of Toronto’s Kensington Market’s legends, where a bunch of stoners gather in a crowded café and smoke pot and then laugh maniacally at a handful of ranging comic talents. Last night, I patted myself on the back for making it out of the house and laughing at something other than Kramer’s slapstick for a change. It is, after all, finally spring, even though it was snowing. So I went.

And like, man, I had to open my heart wide, wide, wide in order to endure such a thing. Don’t get me wrong: once I thought marijuana was a spiritual, healing thing, world’s away from drugs and alcohol, and I still do. But yo, how much can you kids smoke for crying out loud?

I know, I know, I used to say it myself: “Man, you can’t trust anyone over 30.” Now that I’m practically pushing daisies at 36, it’s with a shudder that I look back at those experiments where I stopped using shampoo, or went vegetarian and ruined my thyroid forever. Still, it’s only been a few days since I shared a joint with a pal, so I’m not totally sold out. I still think it’s medicine, I still think it’s green, I still think it’s spiritual food. But yo, how big can a single joint be?

All around, these greasy dreadlock types are giving new meaning to ‘rolling a fattie.’ Then the air is a dense curtain of smoke and I’m choking just before I find myself higher than I’ve been since my kid brother turned 18 and finally started rolling ‘em smaller. And while I had half a mind to get up and get the hell out, I forced myself to just let it be, man, let it be. No one was hurting anyone else, despite the shampoo shortage. What was I really so afraid of?

Well, the washrooms for one thing. I mean, I love a dive more than most people. But these washrooms were unforgivably filthy. Why do hippies eat all those seeds and juices, only to catch medieval viruses from their own damn bathrooms? And while I am not a diva- I have mismatched furniture, and a life of ‘starving art’ has made me, um, creative, with the home décor, I can’t sit on chairs that are a hazard to my life. Plus, I can’t breathe.

I’ve been to Hot Box Comedy twice before and felt the same sort of panic attack and hyperventilation problems, especially when I had to pee for the third time. ARRGG! I don’t want to go down there! And my newly corporate old friend, draped comfortably over a broken stool, looking lame and weird in his top-opened button-down with his work tie slung over one shoulder, said, “since when did you get so uptight? I appreciate what they’re trying to do, man. The kids are all right.”

This is what I remember as the whole room turns into a communal ashtray. Appreciate what they’re trying to do.

And that is totally valid. For here, new comics can get acquainted with the spotlight in a, um, stress free atmosphere. Old hats can spin new yarns and see how they fly. And you can’t get a better deal in town- for a toonie, you get to see a number of comic acts. Seeing as they don’t sell booze, and in fact sometimes don’t sell coffee or tea either- that’s a night anyone can afford. Though I would gladly donate ten bucks toward hiring a bathroom cleaner.

Plus, laughter is the best medicine, and this longstanding run has provided years of laughter to audiences, stoner or otherwise, while showcasing some great talents and helping newbies polish their game.

Plus, everything I just mentioned is mere periphery. The real deal is the people with the guts to get up in front of a bunch of stoners and practice their free speech beliefs. While I’ve seldom seen any squeaky-clean comedy, never have I seen such a range of fearless joke targets. I cringed hearing a dog-with-erection story from an otherwise funny meister. I also had some good advice for the stand-up who thought we should kill all people with AIDS (Sandro Veri) so they couldn’t spread it to him: if it’s really such an anxiety for you, why not just cut it off? That said, I believe in free speech, and button pushing, and this say-anything free for all allowed for a phenomenal range of politics, bawdiness, religion, puerile bathroom humour, stripper jokes, and more.

Particularly funny was the old hippie biker type who looked like Cher’s husband in Mask, but friendlier. (Mike McDonald.) “When was the last time Marky Mark had a good song?” Also funny as hell was the Anthony Michael Hall Returns dude, who for all his wine women and song joking seemed flaming to me. His name was Peter Fulton- told you, the Breakfast Club lives. Finally, Lebanese-Canadian Dave Merheje is a special treat: on top of his hilarious rants, his sharp intelligence, and his panoramic ethnic coverage, this one has a helping of Eminem’s vocal dexterity. His ability to swiftly fit the right words, and a lot of them, into his joke telling makes for some serious hip hop rhythms in storytelling. He is animated and brilliant and bang on the mark, even when encroaching on sensitive ground. Indeed, Merheje is everywhere in Toronto, so look for his upcoming acts. He’s the one to watch.

So- will I be spending any more time at the Hot Box Café, or will I just follow Dave Merheje around the country? Hmmm, well, I’ll be going back- the freedom and variety are a strong pull. It’s really very, very good. Plus, we have to keep the underground counterculture alive, or we’ll all die watching Wal Mart commercials on late night comedy TV.

But I won’t be going every week, at least not until they serve gin, and I won’t be going back until it’s warm and the windows and doors can be opened for ventilation.

A Night at the Hot Box
191 Baldwin Ave, In Kensington Market
Toronto ON
Cost: $2

visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net
buy her book online at indigo or amazon, or through her site.