I managed to get a peek at the red digital clock high upon the emergency room as five trained University of Alberta health-care workers hooked me up to everything they could Saturday evening.
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It was 6:05 p.m.
I knew things were about to get rocking and rollin’ at the Ast household in the west end, in celebration of the 90th birthday of the entertainer of the family, Don.
In fact, if I hadn’t had the digestive dancing, I was hoping to just be putting touches on this journalistic journey.
Instead, I was told of just how unwell I was.
“Your heart rate,” Dr. Burkart began, before lowering his voice, to emphasize my state of health, “is at 170.”
I thought of Ast, who is an award-winning comedian, and pondered what he would say about the situation.
I could just hear him.
“A heart rate of 170, son of a gun,” Ast would say.
“Not enough.
“You need 10 more heartbeats a minute.
“Then, you really would have done a 180.
“And, we all know you need to do just that.”
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Ast would laugh that unmistakable, almost sinister chuckle: an anthem, reminding us how humour is always at our disposal for entertainment … but can open the door in instances which are triple locked.
When my dad — the funniest man I will ever know — brought home an 8-track tape in 1973 of Nestor Pistor, I was enrolled into AA: Ast’s Addicts.
Dad and I wore the tape out, we played it so much.
Ast was going salmon fishing and was in his mother’s garage on Regina’s Acheson Street. Out of the corner of his eye was a long brown coat hanging on a wooden hook.
He put it on.
In the reflection of a garage window, Ast saw Nestor and created a Canadian comedy-scene icon.
My first personal interaction with Ast was intimidating. Very intimidating.
In the fall of 1992, the Rainbow Society, now known as Alberta Dreams, had their annual media talent night.
I always wanted to give comedy a shot, and, since there weren’t many acts, I was put on the show.
Ast was one of the judges.
Things went well that night, I guess: after some experience, Ast became my agent four years later, getting me gigs.
We were on the same bill for a Variety Club fundraising event. I was amazed how quickly Ast could go from singing a heartfelt ballad — he’s a wonderful singer and has numerous Juno nominations — jump backstage, put the brown coat on, and turn his cap sideways just the right way.
Within seconds, he was quipping Nestor’s stories, giving the audience the precious gift of laughter.
And now he’s 90 years old.
My stay in the hospital was only two days.
I am much better.
I credit much of my speedy recovery to, while getting my strength back, recalling all the funny lines and fun times Ast has given me.
Laughter, indeed, is the best medicine.
And, Don my friend: I’ll keep working on my 180.
Happy belated.
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