Stalking Rick Mercer
Copyright © Stephanie Dickison 2006.
I have a thing for celebrities. I know that they are just regular folks spending their days making music videos, television shows and movies. But they have something that the regular person is lacking. That special something. That’s what’s fascinating.
I live in a neighbourhood that houses a lot of celebrities. But none more fascinating than Toronto’s own Rick Mercer. He is not only sexy, but smart. He can talk politics at the drop of a hat and has no fear in talking to anyone – He has skated with Belinda Stronach and driven a huge oil rig. What is there left to do, Rick?
So, it is with this fascination that I spent a couple of months observing Rick Mercer, the man behind the celebrity. You know, for strictly anthropological purposes.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005.
Rick leaves the house with blue recycling box in hand. He drops it at the lawn’s corner and walks east to where our neighbourhood’s shops and cafes are. I see that he is a big white wine drinker.
Big.
Tsk tsk, Rick. And on a work night too… Does Gerald know about this?
Thursday, October 27, 2005.
Apparently the Mercer accountant has visited because there is a large, clear plastic bag filled with shredded documents. Rick, don’t you trust your neighbours? We are Canadians, politely appreciating you from afar, giving your space and privacy. What is that? $400 for appetizers and drinks at Jamie Kennedy’s? Or is it, it couldn’t be $4,000?!? Where is my scotch tape?
Sunday, November 6, 2005.
On my nightly walk, I pass by Rick’s house. The light’s are out, his car is gone. Hmm. He has Monday Report to do. Why isn’t at home working? Where could he be? Is he all right? Maybe he’s just napping. I walk as lightly as possible to the side window, which I gather is his living room. I try not to crunch down into the driveway as I press up on my tippy toes. I can’t see anything but a couch and a piano. I wonder if he plays. He doesn’t really have the hands for it, but I bet he has a musical ear, can play anything that he’s heard only once. I think he did play once for Paul Martin, now that I think of it.
I move down the driveway, peering in windows, looking for clues. There is a note on the refrigerator, held up by a very expensive magnet (he really must learn to manage his money better). Are these instructions for the housekeeper while he is away? I can’t read it and have left my Land’s End binoculars at home. Think, Dickison. Think. Did I absorb all of that military training for nothing? I take out a meal replacement bar. It’s going to be a long night.
Later that same Sunday, November 6, 2005.
It’s 2:36 a.m. and I am awakened by a car on approach down the driveway. I scatter into the nearby bush (Sheridan Gardens Blue Fir – $290). I don’t want to bother Rick. He’s just a regular guy like you and I. He gets out of his car (Saab – 1999), takes out his keys (Key fob includes an Esso swipe key, a Newfoundland flag and a picture of Jack Layton) and approaches the front door. I come out of the bush, arms flailing, and wailing like a baby bird shrieking for food. I run all the way home.
Monday, November 7, 2005.
I take a new route to the store today. Just for today. No reason, really. Just wanted a change is all. Is that Rick Mercer buying water at Sam’s Milk? What kind of water does he like? Is he a Fiji man like Jennifer Aniston, or does he like old school evian like Rachel McAdams? I reach into my pocket for my binoculars…