And the band played Wake Up Little Sushi

TANKS FOR THE MEMORIES: Keep your friends close,
your anemones closer.

Here’s something I just learned. 

When a giant red sea cucumber  --  one of the 450-odd creatures that make their home in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Aquarium in downtown Toronto -- feels threatened, it frightens off its predator by ejecting a portion of its gut out through its anus. And I totally get that. When I'm scared who knows what might happen?

But that’s not my point.

My point is, that giant red sea cucumber factoid is just one of the countless important things I learned this past Friday evening, when my wife Helena and I visited Ripley’s aquarium for its monthly Friday Jazz Night. 

You heard right. Twelve Fridays a year, the aquarium features live jazz, from 7:00 to 10:00 p.m. Visitors can wander among  more than 16,000 marine critters sipping wine or beer; specifically,  Lagoon Lager, listening to live jazz.

It’s even more fun than it sounds. It's like you're dancing with the fishies!

  GREAT CORRY RIFFS:
Horn player and singer
Ouellette

And you want to talk educational? 

The red sea cucumber intel was just a tiny sample of all the stuff we learned. Here's six more take-home gems.

6. English is weird. Not only did we see several rock bass and striped bass, I saw a bass clarinet. Bass and bass. What are ESL learners supposed to do with a situation like that? I'm sure glad I was born knowing the language and didn't have to, like, learn it.

5. The bass clarinettist was one of the Sonny Balcones, the jazz combo that outshone even the most Finding Nemo-ish creatures at the aquarium Friday. I'd say the Sonny Balcones were worth the price of admission. At centre stage: A laughing trumpet-playing lead singer named Corry Ouellette. When we first got there, Ouellette wore a long silvery sequined dress that looked like it could have made from the same sparkly stuff the school of shimmer fish in the tank directly over Ouellette's head were wearing. For the second set, Ouellette changed into a flappers-style mini -- get it? flapper? oh never mind -- and her third-set look was long, slinky and if you really used your imagination could be seen as mermaidy. The Sonny Balcones not only took the gig seriously, they had serious fun and even had people up dancing. Imagine! At the aquarium! The Sonny Balcones: Two fins up! Four starfish out of four! Catch them if you can. Tell me to stop making fish puns!

NASTY OVERBITE: Nothing
preps you for being under a shark.

4. The glimmering fishes wearing the same look as Ouellette? They're "alewives". Why isn’t the person who named these fish famous? Another winner? Hands down the biggest fattest laziest and by my reckoning the contentedist critter in the place -- an underwater Jabba The Hut--is the Potato Grouper.

3. Speaking of inventive, I’d love to have been at the meeting where somebody came up with the idea of mixing live jazz with live fish. It's like pineapple on pizza. Who would have thought it would work? At Ripley's Friday, everybody in the joint was laughing and joking. It was a fish party. 

2. Walking under a two-metre long shark with its teeth bared is simply not an activity that human brains have evolved to handle with ease. It didn't matter that we were safely separated from the sharks by what I'm sure was thick plexiglass, it felt just a tad unnerving; very easy in fact to identify with that giant red sea cucumber we discussed back up there at the beginning of the story.

1. Finally, Jazz at the Aquarium would be a marvelous first date. Unless you're a sea cucumber.

How to Get an F in French

EH VOILA: My first peek at the Far Side
 Photo by Chuck Swinden, first published in Northern Life

When I was growing up in the west end of the Northern Ontario mining community of Sudbury, I attended St. Albert's Catholic Elementary school for exactly eight years and one half day.

Yup. An extra half day.

On what was supposed to be my second day of kindergarten, instead of heading up the hill to St. Albert's, I snuck around the house and hid under the back porch where I remained until it was safe to come out, certain that I wouldn't have to go back to school ever again.

Here's why:

We Carters — and there were lots of us — lived a block south of St. Albert’s, on Eyre Street. I was the youngest of 10,  so was the last to go to school. 

My parents Tom and Huena were extremely progressive and thought it wouldn’t be bad if we were bilingual so they gave us a choice: St. Albert’s had two streams; one French and one English. Most took the easy route and went English though my sister Mary wisely opted for French and is now fully bilingual with I believe two university degrees; one in either official language.

But more than two streams, St. Albert’s actually consisted of two schools: the first floor was English; the second storey French.

And I just thought of something. We called St. Albert’s a separate school. Until 10 minutes ago, I thought that meant, separate, as in “not public.”

But what it really meant was that it kept two cultures firmly and distinctly and — I should add  unfortunately — separated. 

The French and English kids had separate classes, separate administrations, separate entry and exit times. Separate Christmas concerts. Separate everythings.

The French kids’ 15-minute morning and afternoon recesses were 15 minutes before ours, so we could hear them in the yard, having way more fun than us while we were still in whatever class we had before recess.

I’m sure there was a logical explanation for the separation but for the life of me; I mean literally —  for as long as I’ve been on earth — I haven’t been able to make sense of it.

All we knew was that the French kids were different and I’m certain it was a case of vice versa, too.

A few years ago, I was at a street festival in downtown Toronto and had a conversation with a woman that went something like this:

Her: “You’re from Sudbury, you say? My husband’s from Sudbury.”

PETIT CHIEN CHAUDE: Who thought he
could outsmart the system.

Me: “Really? What part?”

Her: “West end. Pine street.”

Me:  “Ha! I was raised on Eyre, which is very close. I wonder what elementary school he attended.”

Her: “St. Albert's.”

Me: “What year was he born?”

Her: “57.”

Me: “Me too! What’s his name?”

Her: She said a French name, that I remember but won’t use here because I didn’t ask her permission.

The thing was, he and I had never met. He was French!

She and I laughed and commented how strange it was and I was like, “to us English kids, all we knew was the French kids liked to fight; the boys were dumb and the girls were easy.” 

(I've not sure but I'm pretty sure my bilingual sister Mary is no easier than the other Carter women.)

We were laughing a lot by this time. 

Her again: “My husband thought the same thing about the English and he didn't find out until he was at university that English moms and dads sleep together, too, just like French ones.”

Here’s something weird. 

I had a friend in high school and then university named Raymond Cote; one of the coolest kids around. 

He rode a motorcycle, had more than his share of artistic ability and super taste in music. Loved parties. 

Get this. Ray was my age. He lived directly across the street from St. Albert’s, two houses west of my aunt Kaye MacDonald. He, like, me, was Catholic though I should add that the French and English Catholic kids attended separate churches, too. The English St. Clement's was kitty corner from the school; the French St. Eugene's was another block north. Sheesh!

Ray and I didn't even get to know each other until high school.

(Of course Ray Cote was one of the brightest kids I ever hung out  with.)

Decades after I had left Sudbury, Northern Life newspaper published that photo of St. Albert's being demolished and I realized that was the first time I got a look at the second floor of the building. 

I can’t believe I’m not making this up!

And that, to make a short story very long, is why on day two of KG, my mom found me under the porch..

When I was four, I thought I’d be smart and attend French school. So my very first day of school was spent in French kindergarten. surrounded by people speaking a language I couldn’t understand a word of.  I did not see an upside.

And my mom — who I should add spoiled me something perfect — never forced me to go back.

I missed kindergarten in either official language. 

So here I sit; unilingual and really bad at colouring inside the lines.