Ricky Blue's Other Life
Ricky Blue
Ricky Blue
is a Montreal-based humorist, singer, and writer. He and partner George Bowser are the famous Bowser and Blue comedy act. Here's his bio from their Bowser and Blue website.

Ricky Blue was born in Liverpool, England, but raised in Maine, New Jersey, and Toronto. He has an MA in English from Concordia University. He has been involved in bands and media music in Montreal for over twenty years. In 1981 he won an international 'Clio' award for excellence in advertising.

He once appeared on television naked.

His life had no real meaning, however, until he began to play with Bowser and Blue. Rick plays guitar, mandolin, and harmonica, and sings in a rather pleasant baritone when George will let him.

His columns are archived here

Posted 10.22.04


No shoe-in, this party

We knew we were in trouble when we saw the sign that read: "Kindly remove your shoes!"

Whatever happened to: "Welcome to our home?"

I could see the sudden look of horror on my wife's face. "Did you put on new socks?" she asked. "Do they match? Do they have holes?"

All the guests arrived at once and were required to remove shoes before entering. Without enough room to accommodate everyone, there was a pile up of humans at the door. One man rolled across the floor desperately trying to reach his feet, a task he obviously had not been able to do for years.

"Can't we just come in?"

"My shoes are clean and dry."

"Are we in Japan?"

"This is like going through airport security."

We left behind a mountain of shoes. The host tried to politely sort them out by organizing them in pairs, but they spread across the entire hallway. Eventually he put them all in a garbage bag.

"This is my wife's idea," he explained as he noticed the amusement on the faces of his buddies.

A female voice was heard from the kitchen: "You want to clean the carpets?"

He pointed to them: "Look, they are all beige!"

"And apparently more important than we are," my wife whispered in my ear.

One guest refused to remove her shoes. She had paid far too much for them. Besides, did she really want all her friends to know she had a bunion the size of a Hummer?

The host did not know what to do. So he did what all real men do in such a situation. He called his wife. A catfight ensued. Finally the guest relented.

"OK," she said. "It IS your house. But don't expect me to ever visit again!"

"Don't worry. This was your last invitation!" the hostess hissed.

Tension filled the air. But it was soon overcome by a noticeable odour. "Is someone making popcorn?" I asked.

"It's him," my wife said, gesturing to the living room where a slovenly guest sat on the couch with a crossed leg waggling a woolly, crusty Canadian Tire sock in everyone's face.


It wasn't long before a couple was back at the door, looking for their shoes.

"We have to go outside to smoke!" They picked up the garbage bag.

A guest suddenly cried out in pain as he stubbed his toe on a protruding chair leg. He glared at the host accusingly.

"If I had my shoes, I wouldn't have just broken my toe! Shoes are for protecting feet!"

"Look what you've done!" The host cried in return. We all looked at the beige carpet. A big red stain spread across the middle. "You spilt your wine!"

"It's your fault," the guest exclaimed.

"Ah, the irony," I couldn't help saying aloud.

The smokers turned the garbage bag upside down. Shoes spilled out onto the floor. Instinctively, we all knew it was over. The shoes scattered. The guests dove to the floor to grab them.

"I give up. Put your damn shoes on," the hostess cried out, trying to coax the red stain out of the carpet with a wet rag and a salt shaker.

We all began beating the host with our shoes.

"Hey, I'm not Saddam Hussein!" he protested.

"This is fun," I said. "The fall of another dictatorship!"