DAVE? DAVE'S NOT HERE...

There was a certain scent around the National Arts Centre on Friday
night, of that burning green herb, that pungent bringer of giggles.
The masses -- the guys in tie-dye shirts and greyed Allman Brothers
hair, the youngsters in their Chuck Taylor shoes and hipster poses --
were coming together to laud the ancient gods of Stonerism, Cheech & Chong.

The scent was also keen inside Southam Hall, where a bold few in the
sold-out crowd sparked reefers. One half-expected to hear the
recorded voice of Hamilton Southam tsk-tsking it all, but nothing
could temper the stoked anticipation of the assembled disciples of
dope. They were ready for their tiny slice of history -- opening
night on the legendary duo's first tour in decades -- and they hooted
and laughed before the show even began. None outdid a particular lady
in row H, who wore overworked Lycra, smelled of Lynchburg, Tennessee,
and would have laughed uproariously at a recitation of Paradise Lost,
had it been read in an I'm-so-stoned-man voice.

Tommy Chong's wife, Shelby, primed the crowd with a short and raw
set, and when her husband and his long-estranged friend came out, the
place deliriously jumped to its feet. If Cheech & Chong were anxious
about their reception after all these years, they could hardly have
asked for a more sincere reaffirmation.

What followed was a blurry mass of jokes about flying boogers and
tampon pipes, of the familiar skits with interludes of Chong's
recollections of his recent time in jail ("You know all that homo
stuff, that Bubba stuff? It's not true. It doesn't hurt.") and his
political thoughts (Prime Minister Stephen Harper is "Bush Light.")
But mostly it was the old classics -- Let's Make a Dope Deal (with
prizes of "B.C. bud"), the defecating dogs (dumping on a newspaper
photo of Harper), and cruisin' with Pedro de Pacas. The all-time
classic -- "Dave's not here" -- wasn't offered, though it was clearly
wanted. The merchandise table in the lobby did a brisk business in
"Dave's Not Here, Man" T-shirts, at $40 a pop.

Does comedy age like wine or music or literature, its body and
substance maturing, or does it remain tied to the notions and mores
of its day? It couldn't be nostalgia for a sizable measure of
Friday's audience, for those who were not yet born when Big Bambu hit
turntables in 1972, or even when Up in Smoke hit movie screens in
'79. For the others, it just didn't matter: they toked (many of
them), they laughed (all of them), and they had a good time. As for
Cheech & Chong, they were having fun -- Chong even said so -- and why
wouldn't they be? Reunited, opening night, full-house, standing
ovations; for those onstage and off, it was a high ol' time,
literally and metaphorically.