Ronnie Hawkins

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The Big Rocker grants The Hawk a miracle

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Sharon Dunn
The Big Rocker grants The Hawk a miracle
Ronnie Hawkins no longer has cancer, say doctors

[Photo: Carlo Allegri, National Post]
“Last time they gave me an MRI I was as clean as an angel’s drawers.”

A while back, I visited rocker Ronnie Hawkins and wrote a piece about how he had pancreatic cancer and had mere months to live. The tumour was diagnosed last July when Ronnie got jaundice. He received the death sentence Aug. 13, following which old pals like Kris Kristofferson, Robbie Robertson and Bill Clinton rallied ’round for the remaining months of his rockin’ rowdy life. Then a few days ago, I get an e-mail that says, “The Hawk Starts His Pay-Off to the Big Rocker.” Seems the Hawk is suddenly cancer-free — “miraculous cure” are the words used — and rallying ’round Toronto with a campaign to fight the lingering fear of SARS. Huh? Miraculous cure? Did I miss something?

I track Ronnie down at the Royal York Hotel where he’s been staying after his shocking announcement.”The doctors can’t believe it,” he tells me. “The cancer’s gone. The Big Rocker [as Ronnie calls God], the angels, all those prayers. Somethin’ healed me.” He reminded me he’d been given six months to live and had been told by the doctors it was getting bigger. But then, he says, “At my last checkup they couldn’t even find it. The last time they gave me an MRI, I was as clean as an angel’s drawers. It’s a miracle.” When Dr. Bryce Taylor operated on him after the diagnosis, he found that the tumour had grown around a vein. The doctors simply closed him up again. So the prognosis was grim. Good Lord, we were all crying when Ronnie received a star on the Walk of Fame last year.
I was happy when I heard the good news, but puzzled, so I decided to talk to the doctors. Hawkins’s Peterborough cardiologist, Dr. Bill Hughes, says, “I can tell you that the last two imaging tests show that there is no disease. I can’t explain what happened, but I’m delighted with the outcome. Ronnie is a great guy and he deserves a break. The prognosis for pancreatic cancer is normally very bad”, says Dr. Hughes. When I ask if it’s possible that Ronnie never had cancer, he says, “We just don’t know, cancer doesn’t normally go away. Maybe it is a plain old miracle.”

Dr. Taylor, Ronnie’s surgeon, was my next call. Here’s what he had to say: “I can’t make a comment on the effectiveness of pot and whisky and faith healing but the findings on Ronnie’s X-rays seem to have changed over the last eight months and no one could be more delighted than I am.” But how could it be, I ask. “It’s either, one, atypical cancer at the head of the pancreas (that’s how it presented) that, for some reason beyond our knowledge, resolved itself, or, two, it is an extremely unusual presentation of a localized pancreatitis.” Dr. Taylor says the lump was “as hard as a rock and in just the spot that it causes all the symptoms and signs of a cancer, including jaundice, and on an X-ray it looked like a cancer. I’ll be happier in a couple of years but X-rays seem to suggest that the hard lump has resolved.”

Ronnie, naturally, ascribes his miracle to pot, booze and faith healing — and of course his medical team. “These doctors are the best,” he says. He also credits Robbie Robertson who, he says, “sent me a brew from a medicine man made out of bark and berries”, and the blues rock legend Lonnie Mack, who sent him a potion from a monk in France. “And there was this here woman doctor from Poland whose herbal medicine dates back to Egyptian times.” Hawkins says he was willing to try just about anything, “except goin’ to Australia and lickin’ one of them frogs on the ass. I wasn’t going to do that, at least not until I French-kissed him first,” he roars. “And I was careful not to take too many things,” he says. Now careful is never a word I would use to describe Ronnie Hawkins, who admits, “When I found out I was going to die, I was smokin’ and drinkin’, but I wasn’t chasing women too hard because I was afraid that I would catch them and I wasn’t feeling that good after three operations in 90 days.”

Mary McGillis, Ronnie’s manager, says she’d given up hope: “I had thousands of letters from people praying for Ronnie and offering alternative healing methods, but after speaking with his doctors I though that Ronnie was dead.” Wanda, Ronnie’s wife, has another theory: “His attitude was never down, he made everyone laugh. He even joked about dying. There was always humour. That helped, and God up above.” She also mentions Adam, a 16-year-old healer from B.C., whose book, DreamHealer, is about healing oneself. When the doctors told her the good news, she says “I was afraid to believe it, I was afraid of the disappointment. You still have to pinch me.

Looking to the future, Ronnie tells me, “Baby, I’m gettin’ ready to rock ‘n’ roll, and those blue-haired girls [on the road] are demanding with their beehive hairdos. I may look like Santa Claus’s older, demented brother but that’s all right.” Before we say our goodbyes, Ronnie makes a final pitch for Toronto. He tells me he attended a Blue Jays game and dined in Chinatown this past week and “I wasn’t worried about catchin’ nothin’. I couldn’t pay Toronto back 1% of what I owe it. It’s the greatest city on the planet.” And then he adds that catching SARS would be as likely as “winning the lottery three times in a row.” That’s probably true, Ronnie, but not the best analogy, perhaps, for someone who has just beaten incredible odds once.

by Sharon Dunn

Bruce Cockburn

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Next time we’ll stick to yoga

 From the

Sharon Dunn
Next time we’ll stick to yoga
Getting to know Bruce Cockburn is no easy task. I proceed cautiously

[Photo: Peter J. Thompson, National Post]
Bruce Cockburn has a new album coming out in June. He moved to Montreal two years ago to be close to his daughter, a student at Concordia University.

Fifty-seven-year-old singer / songwriter Bruce Cockburn, recipient of 12 Juno Awards and numerous gold and platinum records, hasn’t changed at all, even down to the silver round-rimmed glasses. “The secret,” he says, “is an irresponsible life … perhaps.” I spoke with Cockburn at a special gala held by the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto honouring both Cockburn (who has an album coming out in June) and Canadian tenor Richard Margison. The only change, it seems, is his place of residence.
“I moved to Montreal two years ago,” he tells me. “I woke up one morning and realized that I’d b
een living in the Toronto area for 20 years [he’s from Ottawa].” I ask if he got the 55-year itch.
“I had itches long before I was 55,” he quips. “It was time to be somewhere else. Toronto has been very good to me, but it was long enough …”Then Cockburn admits he had another reason to move to Montreal … a love interest. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. He moved to Montreal to be close to his daughter, Jenny, who is attending university there.
“She’s taking her master’s in anthropology at Concordia,” he says proudly. I point out that if I told my son, who is in university in California, that I was moving there to be close to him, he would probably hightail it to some farther-off locale like Australia (something he’s already threatened should I show up in LA with my bags).
“Our relationship isn’t like that,” Cockburn insists. “We got to know each other as adults. Her mom and I split up when she was 3 1/2. We got closer when she started in college.”
When I ask him where in Montreal he lives, he says, “I don’t want to be too specific. People think they have a relationship they don’t. They feel they know me through my songs and they do know something about me, but they don’t know me.”

Getting to know Cockburn is no easy feat, at least not from my perspective. When I try to learn a bit about him personally, he balks. “I don’t want to go into that. I don’t want to be like Ashley MacIsaac, not that I’m of that frame of mind anyway,” he says, which seems to indicate that he has absolutely, completely, positively nothing in common with the famous, er, infamous Cape Breton fiddler and he wants the world to know it. When I ask if he has any plans to retire, he tells me, “Guys like me never retire. Look at B.B. King and John Lee Hooker.

“As well as songwriting and touring, Cockburn remains firmly committed to social issues. He is honorary chairman of Friends of the Earth, a non-profit environmental organization. He says he wants to work forever. I ask, politely, about the profitability of his business over the years. “I’m not going to talk about money with you,” he barks. “My money’s not anyone else’s business.”
“Can I put it another way?” I say, still trying to get a handle on the guy. “Are you working because you have to, or because you want to?”
“A little bit of both,” he concedes, calming down a bit. This man does not like the money question. As he gets settled to have his picture taken, I ask tentatively, not wanting to be on the receiving end of his wrath again, “OK, money is taboo. What other topics are taboo?”
“Shoot,” he challenges.”Sex?” I ask.”You could try,” he says.I decline, but am amazed that he takes less offence at the idea of a question about sex than a question about money.” How about regrets?” I ask. (This is a question people usually really like.)
“I’ve got a lot of regrets,” he tells me.”Great,” I say. “
What’s your biggest?”
“None of your business,” he growls. I’m starting to wonder why this guy agreed to do an interview at all. Oh yes, I remember, his new album. But then again, maybe he’s just shy. Cockburn finally answers the regrets question with, “Regrets are part of the process of learning to appreciate life.” I cautiously ask if he would ever marry again. “Never say never,” he replies. “I don’t have any plans. And I feel a reluctance to involve the state in my relationships,” he adds sarcastically. Fair enough. I decide to compliment him again (maybe it’ll put him in a better mood), and he truly is ageing nicely. “I’m lucky with skin and I don’t smoke any more,” he says. He becomes enthusiastic, finally, when he tells me that he quit smoking through yoga. “Yoga breathing replaced the need for tobacco six years ago. And yoga still does it,” he tells me. When he encourages me to try yoga, I point out that I don’t smoke.
“But you’ll feel good,” he promises. “There are other beneficial side effects. The whole premise is that the body and the spirit affect each other, which we know, but tend to forget. Yoga encourages integrating different parts of the being.” He’s so into yoga I expect him to get into position at any moment. It’s enough to make me want to buy a yoga mat. And the next time we meet, the first thing I’m going to mention to Mr. Cockburn is yoga. I’ll bet he’ll be much nicer to me then.

by Sharon Dunn

Garbage

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Stalking the elusive garbage truck

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Sharon Dunn
Stalking the elusive garbage truck
Fickle creatures by nature, you have to be vigilant
The big thing on my mind this week was garbage. I put the bags out as usual for Friday morning collection, but they were still there Friday night. And with nothing but a very hot, smelly weekend ahead, that was a big deal. I stood out front watching hopefully for the familiar sights and smells of the garbage truck, but it was not to be. At nightfall, I hauled my refuse back into the garage.
“The truck might be here in the morning,” a neighbour yelled from across the street. But with the raccoons about to start their night shift, I couldn’t take the chance. I seemed to be the only one on the street taking my garbage back inside, so I figured I must have the most exciting waste. Why, I could almost smell the tandoori chicken in bag 3, and there’s nothing like the scent of rotting cantaloupe mixed with paint thinner wafting from bag 5.

Garbage has become so complicated. I pine for the good old days, before blue boxes, green boxes, lawn bags — and be sure to cut the cardboard just right. And if you don’t comply, the results can be disastrous. I once had a heap of garbage growing outside my house that the truck absolutely refused to take. The pile included an old pool filter, bags of sand, three broken vinyl chairs, cardboard boxes (that I was told weren’t cut correctly), a wire sign rack and two orange pylons. After about a month, close to tears, I called the city office.
“If the pool filter is steel” the receptionist told me, “it has special pickup. And you’ll have to bring in the bags of sand yourself. We don’t take sand.” He insisted that the big orange pylons were my responsibility. “But the city left them in front of my house when they were working on the road,” I wailed. “They’re not mine, they’re yours.”
“Sorry.” The fellow then told me I should ‘be nice’ to the guys on the garbage truck.
“The garbage man doesn’t have to take all that garbage, you know. It’s at his discretion.
What on earth does “be nice” mean? Should I invite the guys on the truck and their families over for a barbecue? Such were my thoughts as I tucked my garbage safely in the garage. When I awoke Saturday morning there was but one thing on my mind: What if the garbage truck comes early and I miss it? Frantic that this might happen, I got up at 5:30 a.m. and started to read the paper. I guess I fell asleep because the next thing I know, it’s 7:45 and the phone is ringing.
“The garbage truck is here,” my neighbour warns.
“No,” I wail, streaking through the house trying to find a T-shirt and shorts. I set off the house alarm somewhere along the way, but I don’t have time to disconnect it. Barefoot, half-naked, I run on to the street. Just in time to see the garbage truck fly by.
“Please,” I yell plaintively, flailing my arms. “Please, I can’t miss garbage day.” And then, miraculously, the garbage truck stops, and the two city workers walk toward me, smiling. They even carry my garbage to the truck. I tell you, it’s a vision I won’t soon forget.

by Sharon Dunn

Ed Mirvish

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Celebrating a local hero

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Sharon Dunn
Celebrating a local hero and the best of the city
Mirvish’s birthday party is more than a family affair

[Photo: Kevin Van Paassen, National Post]
Clowns were just some of the live entertainment featured at Honest Ed’s during Ed Mirvish’s 89th birthday party on Bloor Street yesterday.

It was Ed Mirvish’s birthday party yesterday, an annual celebration held on the west side of Honest Ed’s at Bloor and Bathurst streets. Too bad it’s raining, I thought, as I slid into a seat near the stage. And too bad Ed’s not here to enjoy his party. Ed (who actually turned 89 on June 24) has been in hospital for seven weeks following a bad fall. For a while, after he developed pneumonia, the prognosis didn’t look good at all. But yesterday, Russell Lazar, Ed’s long-time assistant, said that despite the odds, Ed seems to be on the road to recovery.

The birthday party had all the pomp and circumstance that attends a tribute to a local hero –Ed’s friends and family were there, as were city politicians and total strangers who admire Ed from afar. There were even birthday greetings from afar, from the likes of Tony Bennett, Mickey Rooney and Jean Chrétien.The gathering also included a couple who have touched everyone in Toronto: When George Stonehouse and Marie Jones, the parents of 10-year-old Holly, who was murdered in May, were introduced, a hush fell on the crowd.
“I always thought that if anything like this happened to me, I couldn’t function, that I would end up in the hospital,” Maria Jones told the crowd. “But you have given us the strength. Like many, I wanted to tell them how much I have thought about them in recent weeks, but I was uncertain what to do. I ended up approaching them, then dropping my business cards and pen on the ground. As I bent over to retrieve the items, I looked into the sad eyes of George Jones, who helped me to pick them up. I thanked him, and as I sat there in the rain half-listening to the speeches, mostly thinking of the Joneses, a young woman asked if I would like her umbrella so my notes wouldn’t get wet. I turned and offered it to Maria Jones.

[Photo: Kevin Van Paassen,
National Post]

“I’ll hold it for you,” she offered, so we huddled together under the umbrella. “Hug the person next to you,” Anne Mirvish, Ed’s wife, said from the stage. “I think we should celebrate the gift of life, the power of love. That’s what Ed would want.” I so wanted to hug my seat mate, but held back. She’d think I was crazy, I thought. Later, after I got up to take some photos, I looked back and couldn’t see the Joneses. There was so much I had wanted to say to them, about how courageous and dignified they had been throughout the tragedy. I looked about some more, and it was then that I saw them, standing off in the corner alone. Many people were aware of them, but like me, most held back, trying to figure out the polite, Toronto thing to do. Then I remembered what Anne Mirvish had said, and a hug seemed like the best response in the world. I walked up to George Jones and put my arms around him. Then I gave Maria Jones a hug as well. And wept. It was then it dawned on me that this is what Ed Mirvish is all about, the best of Toronto, whether it’s rallying around a devastated family like the Jones, giving away thousands of Christmas turkeys or throwing a free party for anyone who might like to come. In short, it was a family affair.

I asked Anne to sum up her feelings for Ed, the inspiration for all of this, in the form of a birthday card. She changed her words a few times so that she would get them note perfect, then said with tears in her eyes: Dearest Eddie,I hope we have many more happy years together, I want to hold you in my arms and I can’t, I want you home. Love AnnieMaria. Jones came over to say goodbye to Anne, and they hugged and cried, like good friends do. “I hope that Ed’s going to be OK,” Maria told her. George Jones stood quietly to the side. “Would you mind a picture with Anne Mirvish and your wife?” I asked tentatively. He shook his head, “No, I’m sorry,” he said, not unkindly. A bit of a media frenzy began in front of Maria, but she quickly made her way over to her husband. “I have to go,” she whispered, her voice cracking, and the two left quickly.
“I saw you talking with Holly Jones’ parents,” said a voice. I looked up to see mayoral candidate John Tory. “I feel the same way, Sharon,” he said, noticing my wet eyes. “I feel so badly for them.”So here we were — one big family, really, standing in the rain, consoling one another about Holly Jones, and honouring Ed, who has made a life’s work out of turning every one of us into his immediate family
by Sharon Dunn

Harry Potter

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You can’t beat that new book smell

 From the

Sharon Dunn
You can’t beat that new book smell
Potter fans show up at midnight just for a good whiff

[Photo by Sharon Dunn, National Post]

For Harry Potter fans Ruth Goodwin, 13, Ellen Payne Smith, 14, and Liz Johnston, 13 — plus hundreds of thousands like them — last weekend’s book launch had all the excitement of a major movie opening.

There’s a time and a place for everything and the long lineup of devoted Harry Potter fans at the Indigo bookstore at Eglinton and Yonge at midnight last Friday is definitely not the time or place to announce, “I’ve never read a Harry Potter book.” I get a few looks of downright disbelief and a few pitying glances. I am definitely a minority of one. About 500 people are waiting to buy the fifth instalment, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, some of them caped, and a few carrying stuffed furry friends from the movie. There are even real furry friends on hand — a live boa constrictor, a white rat and a cockroach, compliments of an animal-leasing service called Critters, whose owner, Marty Cummings, is a Harry Potter fan. I keep a wide berth of the creatures, and decide to focus on three hugely enthusiastic girls. “We are really into this,” says 13-year-old Ruth Goodwin. “Harry Potter is my life.” But it’s not just about Harry. “The quidditch captain,” says Ellen Payne Smith, “I have dreams about him. I’m such a fan.” The 14 year old adds dramatically, “It’s sad, to be engaged by one thing.” Ellen is shocked I haven’t read any of the books, and assures me that “after reading the book, you can never read another book.” She even listens to audiotapes of Harry Potter books every night until she falls asleep, “sometimes for up to an hour.” Liz Johnston, 13, tells me she has even memorized parts of the books. “Some people are reading them backwards,” she tells me, “and one of our friends read each book about 50 times. “Surely an exaggeration, I suggest.
“Really, every time she reads one, she ticks it off,” says Liz. During the wait, the girls fret about who will die in Phoenix. I’m trying to worry along with them, but I just can’t feel it.
“It’s Hagrid,” says Ruth. Ellen agrees. But Liz says, “I’m afraid it’s one of the Weasley’s.”

Ruth and Ellen have prepaid for copies of the book at another store and must wait to pick up their copy. Liz is the only one buying tonight. “But we’re going to smell it and take pictures of it,” Ruth tells me. The three of them plan to go back to Ruth’s place for a sleepover.
“The fourth book, I read in a day,” says Liz, who tells me that she would like to marry Ron Weasley “and have lots of children.”

Young people are not the only ones enchanted by the Harry phenomenon. There are a lot of adults in the lineup. Consultant John Winter, who is buying the book for his daughter, defends Harry when I say I’ve heard people say the books are no better than the Nancy Drew series and won’t stand the test of time (which draws some hisses from the lineup).
“She’s not a great writer,” says Winter, “but she’s tagged into a great idea. Book three is astonishingly good.” He figures he’ll have the book read by morning. At midnight, I look around for my trio of girls, who have somehow edged right up to the front of the line. The countdown begins and the crowd roars: 10…9…8…7…
“Our young hearts can’t take this any more,” Ruth moans. It feels like New Year’s Eve, and as the clock strikes midnight I finally catch the mood. For a brief moment I am as overwhelmed with the excitement as anyone in the crowd. When Liz picks up her book, she gasps, “I’m hyperventilating.” Then she tries to get away from her friends, explaining, “I’m going to read it on my own for a while. It’s my book.” But it is not to be. Ruth grabs the book and takes a big whiff of it. “It smells so good”, she sighs.
“Let me try,” I ask. I smell the book and … nothing. Liz and I flip through it together and can’t find who dies.
“She’s [Rowling’s] not just going to say who dies,” Liz reasons. She reads from the book jacket: “Dumbledore lowered his hands and surveyed Harry through his half-moon glasses. ‘It is time,’ he said, ‘for me to tell you what I should have told you five years ago, Harry. Please sit down, I am going to tell you everything.’ ” The girls squeal with excitement. I leave the rowdy crowd, powerless, and Potterless… and head out into the night.

Taste of the Danforth

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I could almost taste that Greek holiday

 From the

Sharon Dunn
I could almost taste that Greek holiday
But then I remembered why I usually avoid events like the waiter race

[Photo: by Sharon Dunn, National Post] Global TV’s Alan Carter and Mix 99.9’s Kim Rossi on the Danforth.

My orders were to show up at Logan and Danforth at 1:30 p.m. Saturday for the Taste of the Danforth’s big event – the waiter race. Now, let me explain: I usually avoid this type of invitation (participation in events like relays, pie-eating contests or memory games, like the plague) because I never win them. Maybe it’s the crowd of onlookers that throws me off, or maybe it’s the competition, or maybe it’s just a lack of talent on my part. About the only thing I’ve ever won was a beer-drinking contest at a Club Med…my son was so proud.

As I make my way down the street toward Logan where organizers expect a million people to visit the Taste of the Danforth over the weekend, I pass numerous outdoor barbecues offering gyros and shish kebab, cooking within inches of displays of lacy underthings. The lingerie is bound to end up smelling like pork, but maybe that’s a selling feature. I find myself thinking that maybe I won’t find the event and won’t have to compete, but alas, as I approach, I realize I will have no such luck. On the positive side, the race seems simple enough. Contestants, all members of the media, have to hoist a glass filled with water on a tray and run a relay three times around a statue that organizers have erected so that they end up with three glasses of water on the tray. I have agreed to compete not because I have particularly good balance or am a fast runner, I have done it because I am a good sport. And I just want to make it completely clear that the grand prize of a trip to Greece, compliments of World of Vacations and Air Transat, has absolutely nothing to do with my attendance.

Only three of us have shown up — Global TV’s Alan Carter, The Toronto Sun’s Kevin Connor and me — so maybe it is my lucky day. I can beat these two, I think smugly. However, as emcee and mayoral candidate John Tory announces the beginning of the event, another competitor emerges from the shadows — a lithe, athletic-looking woman named Kim Rossi, from radio station Mix 99.9. Rossi was the afternoon drive-home host with Steve Anthony, but now, I hear, she’ll be joining Humble & Fred in the morning.
“Have you been a waiter before?” I ask, trying to suss her out.
“Yes,” she says, and I get that sinking feeling. Kim and Alan start the competition, Alan looking quite goofy as he picks his way to the finish line, reminiscent of a horse running through mud. Kim goes faster and, at the end of the course, is still looking good, which is quite a feat. Now Kevin and I compete. I know I look at least as silly as Alan, but I’m faster than Kevin (though he looks very good, with his tray perched professionally on his hand). At one point, I slow down so he can catch up. Ok, that may or may not be true, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. After some deliberation among the judges, Tory announces the two competitors who will not go on to the finals: Kevin and Kim. That means Alan and I are going forward. I can’t believe they’ve chosen me over Kim. I’m already on the plane to Greece, dreaming of Athens and maybe a Greek island cruise.

Then I hear someone whisper, “Fixed!” and one of the organizers approaches Tory to tell him that he’s made a mistake: Kim Rossi is going to the finals; it’s Sharon Dunn who’s out. I watch indignantly as Kim and Alan duke it out in the finals. Kim is ahead, but then she spills all of her water and has to refill on the last round. “That’s illegal,” I yell, but no one’s listening to me. I don’t push it because I’m not sure whom I want to win, Alan or Kim. Actually, I do know: I want me to win. After deliberations, it’s decided that Kim is the winner. In a way, I’m relieved I didn’t make it to the finals. I would have created a fuss about Kim spilling the water. Then I would fuss again because the winner gets only one ticket to Greece. So I saved money in the end, since I don’t have to pay to bring the rest of my family with me. What this column is all about is giving readers an up-close view of what a sore loser looks like, because like everyone else on the Danforth yesterday, I want to go to Greece.

William Hoover, III

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An alternative to the Hamptons

 From the

Sharon Dunn
An alternative to the Hamptons
Heir to the Hoover vacuum fortune puts his house up for sale

[Photo: Sharon Dunn, National Post]
William Hoover III with his Jack Russell terrier, Digby.

MARTIN’S POINT, N.S. – I head for Wigmore Hall, in Martin’s Point, just outside Chester, to see William Hoover III of Washington. Heir to the Hoover vacuum fortune, he has lived here for five years. Says an acquaintance, “He didn’t have to be in Chester where the rich and famous are; he wanted privacy.”
I’m a few days ahead of Town & Country magazine, who are also on their way to interview Mr. Hoover, whose estate is about to go on the market for $6.5-million, boasting a tennis court and a beautiful ocean view. Mr. Hoover has me for tea, and as I raise my hand for a toast, he says, “You can’t have a toast without alcohol; it’s bad luck.” Why, you learn something new every day. Mr. Hoover runs to get the alcohol, but since it’s only noon, I pass on the cheers. About his property, he says, “I like working with this kind of project. It was a blank canvas when I bought it: So many trees, it was a solid barrier, you couldn’t see the ocean.”

He has transformed the property, while retaining its rugged charm, and I tour the house admiring his vast assortment of art and sculptures. Mr. Hoover, who is obviously a collector, also spends his time creating large metal sculptures and has a workshop two kilometres from his home in Martin’s Point. His first introduction to the East Coast of Canada, he tells me, was 20 years ago, when he was tuna fishing off Prince Edward Island. “My mother used to come here in the mid-1930s with her friend Gloria Grosvenor, granddaughter of Alexander Graham Bell, to Baddeck [Cape Breton], home of the Alexander Graham Bell museum.” Mr. Hoover hadn’t been back until five years ago, when, he says, “I was taking a cruise with my mother and one of the stops that our yacht, The Seabourne Pride, made was in Baddeck. “My mother looked out the window and said, ‘My god, there’s Beinn Bhreagh [Gaelic for beautiful view], there’s the place I used to stay [Mr. Bell’s home in Baddeck].’ They would take the train from Washington to Cape Breton [Sydney], from their boarding school, Holten Arms. She tried to encourage me to spend time here,” he says.

The Seabourne Pride also stopped in Halifax and, Mr. Hoover says, “When the boat came in to Halifax, I remember thinking it was like a little London: People were polite, they said please and thank you and made small talk before discussing business, all the things they don’t say in America.” Mr. Hoover’s famous grandfather, he tells me, was a friend of Henry Ford, who invented the first automobile. “Ford was always talking about the demise of the horse and my grandfather had a harness and saddle business. Anyway, he ended up buying the patent for the vacuum cleaner from a guy named Spangler, whose grandson is a friend of mine.”Before buying in Chester, Mr. Hoover, who had a ranch in Wyoming for 15 years, says, “I had a motorcycle crash in 1996 and almost had to have my leg amputated. I couldn’t do the ranch scene any longer. I discovered Chester after reading about it in Esquire magazine, reading about the great life in Nova Scotia.”I was disenchanted with the Hamptons, where I spent my youth [Long Island]; it was getting to be a hassle, with traffic making it a three-to-four hour drive from Manhattan.

And here you find property for 20% of what you pay in the U.S.,” he says. Mr. Hoover says he spends his winters abroad and in Mexico, at Costa Careyes, “a private resort about two hours south of Puerto Vallarta.” He adds, “It has 10-million dollar homes and polo; you’d love it, Sharon.”
“I already do,” I assure him.
But Mr. Hoover still considers Chester his home, proving it to me by saying, “I came back here for Christmas last year.” Christmas aside, boating, he tells me, is the main reason he loves Chester. “I have a gentleman’s yacht,” he says. I mention to Mr. Hoover, 50, who is divorced from actress Camilla Sparv, that I’ve heard he’s a playboy type who has lots of parties.
“Who told you that?” he laughs, “Although I did have one party last summer, an unveiling of ‘Ecstasy,’ a sculpture I made.” And when his property sells, will he buy again in Chester?
“Probably an island, next year,” he confides, admitting he has to stay, partly because, “I now have friends who’ve followed me here from New York and Europe.”

Mr. Hoover picks up his Jack Russell terrier, Digby, and holds him for a photo by the gorgeous waterfront he’s developed. It’s the first time in my life that I can recall being envious of a dog.

by Sharon Dunn

The Indy

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Young things get racy …

 From the

Sharon Dunn
Young things get racy during Indy weekend
VIP party lures Miss Molson Indy, Miss Universe Canada
There’s something different about a racing crowd. Take the VIP party at Gretzky’s restaurant on Friday, hosted by race car driver Paul Tracy. Everything — and I mean everything — was over the top. Motorcycles were revving up and so were appetites, as evidenced by the hordes at the sushi tent. Booze was flowing and pretty girls were everywhere, many of them wearing Miss Molson Indy banners (how many contenders could there be, I wondered). Tracy and the other drivers were holed up in a VIP area at the back of the restaurant — seemingly heavily guarded to keep the guests, who were actually invited to the party from coming in. Very strange. When I asked why, a guard told me the racers wanted to eat without being disturbed. Sounds like my dog. Obviously, race-car drivers are primal individuals, as evidenced by the fact that only good-looking young things were allowed in.
“But Paul will come out and say hello to you,” I was assured. I declined, not wanting to separate the man from his food (Rover is the same way).

Speaking of young things, I ran into Miss Universe Canada 2003, Leanne Cecil, who assured me she was lured there by the sexiness of racing. She was wearing an outfit by New York designer Betsey Johnson, and confided, innocently, “It cost $600.” She gestured to her incredible red suede stilettos, and said, “I even brought a red umbrella. I’m red all the way for Molson Indy.” The 26-year-old Cecil told me she is a beauty queen who is “breaking some stereotypes,” most notably that she is working on her third university degree. She already has a Bachelor of Science (she majored in biology and chemistry) and a Bachelor of Education. She has just finished her third-year in pharmacy at Wayne State University.
“The thing is, a lot of people envision a stereotypical pharmacist as a geeky guy counting pills,” she says. No more.

Racing fever lasted throughout the weekend. Yesterday, I got a call from Victor Webster, who is in town shooting Mutant X. He’s also just finished an episode of Sex and the City, where he plays Kim Cattrall’s love interest.”We’re sitting right in front of the pit,” he told me excitedly. “My publicist gave me comp tickets. I’m here with my brother who is a huge racing fan.”I asked the Calgary native, who has lived in Los Angeles for the past 17 years, if he was enjoying himself, and he assured me that indeed he was. “They brought me down to get into a special two-passenger car they use for demonstrations, but I couldn’t get into it. I’m 6-foot-5.” Oh, well, you can’t have everything.

Later, when I heard that Paul Tracy had won, I took full credit. I knew it was a good idea not to disturb him while he was eating.

by Sharon Dunn

Ron James

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“I don’t get rich, I get recognized.”

 From the

Sharon Dunn
‘I don’t get rich, I get recognized’
Yes, it’s Ron James, that guy from the show about canoes

[Photo: Kevin Van Paassen, National Post]
Ron James brings his one-man show, The Road Between My Ears, to Toronto on June 6 and 7 at the Wintergarden Theatre.

Today I’m investigating whether Canadian humour is funny. Or, as a friend puts it, why Canadian humour is so unfunny. My research subject is Ron James, the Nova Scotia native whose comic credentials include This Hour Has 22 Minutes, Just For Laughs, Ernest Rides Again, and a one-man show, The Road Between My Ears, which he is currently touring around the country (he is performing on June 6 and 7 at the Wintergarden Theatre).

I wait for James in the purple and green foyer of his office. He’s late. A punctual sort, I don’t find this funny at all. Finally he arrives, 20 minutes after our scheduled time. He is full of apologies. “I was at the CBC … they had interviews lined up … I was stuck in traffic …” This annoys me even more. “What are you going to do to get me out of this mood?”, I ask, adding sarcastically. “What appointment would you be on time for?””I wouldn’t be late if there was a cheque involved,” he tells me, “and I’m never late for the weekend. Or vacation.” OK, that’s kind of funny, but he’s got to do better than that. “And how is life as a Canadian comic”, I ask. “I don’t get rich, I get recognized,” he says. “People say, ‘Hey, you’re the crazy guy from that show with the canoe and the pretty lady [Blackfly, in reruns on Global TV]. A round of pickled eggs for my buddy.’ ” (That last bit is apparently an East Coast legion joke. Don’t worry, I don’t get it either.)

James tells me one of the perks of his huge recognition factor is that, “I drink free — all the way from Windigoostequin, up to the Qoogebankewak, and down to the Catchawichitiwakamahtah.”
“Are those real names?” I ask, after he spells each out for me. He insists they are.

He tells me a bit about himself — that he has two daughters and that his wife is from “a long line of dairy folk who would sell their soul for a squeaky bag of curds.” In 1991 he went to Los Angeles in pursuit of fame and fortune. “I hit the wall. Ron Howard hired me to be part of a show and it was cancelled. I was in Newsweek on Tuesday, cancelled on Wednesday and on Thursday I was pulling a tree out of Robert Urich’s front yard, God bless him, with my buddy’s pool digging company.”
“Didn’t Urich die?”, I ask.
“Yes, and I had nothing to do with it,” he quips. With that, I’m convinced. James is funny — and very Canadian (his cellphone rings to the Hockey Night in Canada tune and when someone leaves a message it plays O Canada). His final test is to tell me an authentic Canadian joke.
“I told one at my event this morning,” he informs me. “It didn’t go over.”
I urge him to try it out on me. “I said something about Canadian reporters, that they weren’t embedded, but then again I don’t know what action they were getting back in the crib.” He laughs heartily. I tell him I don’t get it and he tries to explain. He tells me that “crib” is a jazz term for “home” but I still don’t get it. We agree that it’s not a good joke if you have to keep explaining it. I concede that maybe it’s just me. I ask him to tell me a joke that usually goes over well.
“They gave me a bun on Air Canada that was as hard as the hobs of hell,” he says in an East Coast accent. “Stale? This thing came off the table at the Last friggin’ Supper. And in the middle was a slice of ham so thin the pig never even felt it comin’ off his arse.” I laugh. That was very funny. And I have to admit that James has pulled me out of my foul mood. And he’s proven to me that Canadian humour can be very funny.I decide to get in on the action, and tell him a Canadian joke that I made up: “Two guys are talking,” I say in my best East Coast accent. “One guy says, ‘I hear you had to shoot your cow. Was he mad?’ The other guy answers, ‘Well, he wasn’t very happy…’ ” James roars. He likes it.I ask him to rate it on a scale of one to 10.”A seven,” he says, “and take your time with the delivery.” A seven? A lousy seven? This Canadian comedy is a tough business.

by Sharon Dunn