You all may know my brother writes plays for a living.

Stop laughing. Obviously he’s doing well… he owns, not rents.

He’s prepped to release his next play called Courageous and before he started his press scrum, he emailed a copy to myself and my other gay, legally married brother with this question:

I’m about to open an new play here and will be doing inevitable interviews about it. It’s about the charter of rights and freedoms, and in the course of it, there’s a gay couple who are denied the opportunity to get married at city hall. Are you guys okay if I mention that both my gay sibs got married here in Toronto, one at city hall?

Bless his heart. I stealthily read the play at work and I’m suitably impressed (I’m sure I missed a few symbolic nuances by Alt-Tabbing between my screens when my boss walked by). I’m not going to go all Richard Ouzounian about the play (it is good, he’ll hate it) but I do have to mention one particular exchange between Todd who is confronting George, a refugee to Canada, and Lisa, his wife’s best friend, about their dinner choices:

TODD

I know, right?

LISA

Good one. You all set?

GEORGE

Yes.

TODD

What’s …?

LISA

George and I are going out for dinner.

TODD

Really?

(To George)

Really?

GEORGE

Really. We are going for pan…

LISA

Panzarotti.

GEORGE

Panzarotti. Baked or fried.

LISA

How do you like that, asslick?

A beat, Todd is thrown

Let me explain why this is significant.

Over my brother’s career I have made great efforts to see myself in any shard, sliver or crumb of his writing. When he started to publish work, I would tear through his pages looking for some reference of me: some slight nod to my existence so that would I live on in his work. I’d analyze and and all comments made by his characters and lay them across my life, my experiences with my brother, to see if they fit, like some scientist sequencing DNA from a horse and jamming it into a monkey.  With similar results:

Me: So when the Secretary in Plan B enters, crosses and places that file on the desk and blows everyone away with this beau geste, that was like… me… back when I was 15 and you borrowed Mom’s car without her knowing and I said I was responsible for the missing map in the glove compartment, right?

Michael: Uh. No.

And so it goes.

Back to Courageous. The above exchange filled me with such pride and glee when I read it because SharkBoy and I constantly order baked panzarotti when we dine at Olympic Pizza 76 (Yonge and College, possibly the most reliable restaurant in Toronto, but that’s another post). We’ve been going there for years and like Chip and Dale come to life, we always ask each other if we will be getting baked or fried panzarotti (SharkBoy: fried, me: baked)! Michael obviously picked up on our display of food fussing and placed it lovingly, like a baby Jesus wrapped in swaddling words*, in his current play.

Finally! I’m there. I’ve arrived! You may touch my sleeve.

*Xmas reference! Happy holidays!