Mercer, Trudeau and Clinton’s BIRTHDAY BLOWOUT
Canadian comedian and TV host recalls a pre-PMO Trudeau in second instalment of his memoir
It was a beautiful July night in 2008 and I was in the backyard of a house in one of Toronto’s toniest neighbourhoods.
The event was called “Barenaked in Rosedale,” and it was a fundraiser featuring, as you may have guessed, the Barenaked Ladies.
I had been to a few fundraisers in my life, but nothing this exclusive. I didn’t know why I had been invited, but I was thrilled to be there.
It was all for a good cause, of course, but I remember having no idea what the cause actually was. The backyard pool seemed to hold some clues. Inflatable lifebuoys were bobbing around in the water, each carrying a sign with a single word — Diversity, Strength, Community, Teamwork, Empowerment, Hope. It was a salute to virtue signalling, and so it was no surprise that the guest speaker was celebrated private citizen Justin Trudeau.
And to his credit, Trudeau was a celebrity. When he entered the garden fashionably late, the other guests — the gold medallists, Grammy and Juno Award winners, bestselling authors and certainly the TV monkeys like me — paled in comparison. He moved through the room as if he owned the place.
The master of ceremonies was Canada AM host Seamus O’Regan — and he introduced his dear friend Justin Trudeau to great applause. Trudeau did a fine job of congratulating us all for coming, praised the organizers for their hard work and the owners of the home for the use of their garden. He mentioned that he was dedicating his life to serving Canada, and he managed to say every word that was floating in the swimming pool at least half a dozen times.
There was certainly a buzz around him. And not only because of his celebrity-by-birth status. The political lay of the land had just changed dramatically. Paul Martin had lost a general election. Stephen Harper’s Conservatives had formed a minority government. The Liberals were not used to being out of power, and there was a certain desperation in the air.
People were looking for a silver bullet, and Justin Trudeau was certainly shiny and new. All eyes were on him.
Much later that night, after the second encore, I was returning from a visit to the world’s nicest porta-potty (it had hardwood floors!!) when I heard a pssst.I looked and saw Justin Trudeau hiding behind some bushes. He waved me over, lifted a branch and revealed a tiny private clearing inside.
I know of only two reasons why a man might ask another man to join him in the bushes. Hopefully, this was neither of those. I discreetly wandered over.
Turns out he was simply taking a break from selfies and wanted to make small talk. “How is the TV show doing?” he asked. “How are you?” And then he gazed into my eyes and asked, “Are you really happy?” This is exactly the kind of thing I have no capacity to handle. “Wow,” I said. “Am I happy? That’s a loaded question. I thought you called me in here to ask me to join you in serving Canada.” A not-soclever crack acknowledging all the attention he was getting.
He turned even more serious. He continued to look me directly in the eyes even more intensely. It was unnerving. Then he placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezed it in a paternal manner and said, “No. When the time comes, if I ever have to ask you to step up and serve Canada, I will call you from my secret phone in Ottawa.”
So it turns out there’s a third reason a man might invite another man into the bushes: for an awkward encounter in which he reveals he is so delusional he believes he is destined to be prime minister.
At the time, all I thought was, “Wow, this dude is nuts. And apparently, he has a Batphone.”
Of course, I was the delusional one. Nine years later he became prime minister. And during his tenure in Ottawa, that call from the secret phone has never come.
Ironically, my partner Gerald and I crossed paths with Justin before.
When former president Bill Clinton turned sixty, his charity, the Clinton Foundation, called on Denise Donlon, Canadian broadcasting legend, to produce a celebration for Clinton in Toronto. It would be a fundraiser for the foundation’s work in Africa, particularly pertaining to HIV and AIDS prevention and treatment. She put together a mind-boggling lineup. Kevin Spacey, at the time one of Hollywood’s biggest stars, was the master of ceremonies. Music was by James Taylor, Jon Bon Jovi and Sarah McLachlan. Comedy legend Billy Crystal would be appearing, and Paul Shaffer was the musical director.
We didn’t plan on attending because tables started at twenty-five thousand dollars and topped out at two hundred thousand. But on the very day of the gala, Gerald got a call from Denise. She had two seats in the sold-out house that needed filling. It was very kind of her; she could have filled those seats with literally anyone. We were in. We donned black suits and headed on down to the Canadian Room of the Royal York Hotel to fete a former president.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much money in one room. Every bigwig in the country seemed to be in attendance. Gerald was seated next to Canadian film legend Norman Jewison. I was next to former Ontario premier Mike Harris. Denise has a wicked sense of humour.
The auction for charity was like nothing I had ever seen. Up for grabs was a private dinner for ten with Bill Clinton at Nobu in New York — private jet included. Then there was a trip to London, England, and to Africa with the former president, also on a private jet. There were also pickup basketball games with Michael Jordan; dinner with Barbra Streisand; a hangout with Bono in Hawaii; and some of the best salmon fishing in the world at the Long Harbour Lodge in Newfoundland and Labrador
In one night, in one room, they raised twenty-one million dollars for the Clinton Foundation.
Later, there was a small reception where we bumped into Justin, this time accompanied by his wife, Sophie Grégoire. This was the first time we’d met Sophie, and she was a treat. We were making small talk when we noticed an even smaller, perhaps even more exclusive reception happening in yet another room. A who’s who of prominent Canadians — the sort of people you don’t usually see lining up — were waiting their turn to get in. “What’s in there?” Sophie asked.
Justin looked at their tickets and said, “That’s a VIP reception with Clinton. You get your picture taken with him. We don’t have that ticket.”
Sophie looked at us, and then back at the line, and said, “I’m going to sneak in.”
Justin looked aghast. “Sophie — you can’t sneak in the line!”
“Of course I can,” she said. “I used to sneak into the adult movies all the time when I was fourteen. It’s easy; just look like you’re supposed to be there.”
And with that she wandered over and, as if by magic, seamlessly merged into the line.
Gerald said, “I like her.”
I could tell that Justin was both horrified and insanely impressed.
I concurred. “Justin,” I said, “you married above your station.” He agreed.
Trudeau is the only prime minister I knew socially before he entered politics. Aside from the time in the bushes, we would on occasion cross paths on the speakers’ circuit. Later on, when he began to publicly toy with the notion of running the country, both he and Sophie were guests on “Rick Mercer Report.” He had not been elected yet, but he had become a legitimate public figure. They were my tour guides at the Quebec Winter Carnival, and she killed. As did he.
But by the time Trudeau took office as prime minister, I wasn’t so keen to hang with PMs on TV. Times had changed. Or maybe I had.
Either way, we never called the PMO looking for a date.
(Justin Trudeau) mentioned that he was dedicating his life to serving Canada, and he managed to say every word that was floating in the swimming pool at least half a dozen times. There was certainly a buzz around him. And not only because of his celebrityby-birth status. The political lay of the land had just changed dramatically. Paul Martin had lost a general election.