Laugh yoga

At last, a reason to celebrate Bastille Day. Hot, holy damn!!!

Don't be a square. Laugh. God commands you.

Please shop where you park

Since school is getting out all over and rugrats are searching for loitering holes, the EPJ figured she'd do her part and grant one lucky local classroom a swimming party at Rancho Relaxo. (I know, and it's not even an election year. What a gal.) The blessed event went off last week without much of a hitch, i.e. no rain fell, no cramps were had and no one drowned. In terms of a kids swim party, that's pretty much my definition of success.

To point out that only 2 of the 35 attendees actually knew how to swim would probably be picking nits. The deep end was therefore roped off meaning there was more danger of cramped conditions and suffocation than actual cramps or drowning . But that's beside the point. I'm sure it was a bang-up time for kids to get to stand in a pool of water at the home of someone they didn't know. For a couple of hours. Memories that will no doubt last a lunchtime. Similarly, I'm sure the parents will remember the EPJ's manganimity come election time. Her slogan next go round? "A kid in every pool."

Really getting into the spirit of all the do-goodness and not wishing to exclude any potential voters, the EPJ has now turned her attention to helping the furthest reaches of humanity. She's decided that being able to reach anyone at anytime via one's cell is rather nice. One never really knows when the need to strike up a thoroughly useless conversation make come. "Ooh, honey did you see what she was wearing? Indeed." The EPJ doesn't actually talk like this but I like to imagine she does. When I'm not working dilligently for the good people of this county, of course.

Like most technological advances, however, these cellular phones have brought about a whole new set of problems for us, oh-so-connected moderners. Specifically, having to fumble for that confounded phone as it blares some ringtone that seemed clever at the time--Kenny Loggins, how do you sleep? So to combat the embarrassment of these unfortunate social situations (silence, vibrate or shutting the damn thing off is not an option for one so esteemed), she's decided it would be gear if one could wear one's phone on one's wrist. The phone rings and with the flick of the wrist and a simple "talk to me" one is able to annoy innocent bystanders with incessant talking even quicker. Gee, thanks.

When I pointed out that Dick Tracy has had such a device for years, (we all know where that's gotten him--a crappy Hollywood bomb with Madonna and Warren Beatty) she accused me of being a smart ass.

Ouch.

I then told her about my idea for an invisible jet.

The laws have changed

It's funny the way life happens. Actually, that's not true. It's usually pretty darn depressing the way things turn out but I suppose that's neither here nor there for my purposes right now. Just last night I was chatting with Seth about all manner of things. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Seth informs me that he thinks his mother (KW, to longtime readers) is possibly a meth addict. As I already presume most of my close acquaintances are using various mind-altering substances at any given time, I did not ask for proof. Nevertheless, he provided proof for this particular pudding: her teeth are falling out.

Not being up on the specific side-effects of tweaking, I had to take him at his word. In an overabundance of caution I have already contacted the folks from the A & E's show, Intervention. We all want to be on TV. Getting there on the back of circumstantial evidence of the drug addiction of one of my closest friends is as good as any, says I.

But in a staggering display of the divine omniscience of God, knowing that I would be writing the above words this afternoon, He saw fit to have me lose a tooth of my own. Or at least part of a tooth. Oh, God. You rascal.

Though I practice good dental hygiene with regular brushing and occasional flossing, I've been blessed with the teeth of the average Britain circa 1908. (Apologies for the lazy, obvious British teeth joke) To the best of my knowledge there is not a single tooth in my head that does not have at least one filling. Some have multiple fillings, which is really quite sexy when you think about it. I'm not really sure why but it just is. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

What all this means to you, dear reader, is probably nothing. Sure, I may get another post out of it if my completely competent dentist accidentally drills my gum, or I hear a particularly annoying song on the office sound system. Hopefully that won't happen.

This is the second occurrence of a tooth breaking off all of sudden. And though I'm quite certain I'm not currently using meth, all this tooth decay does have me wondering just what's up. I suppose the 5 gallons of Mountain Dew I use to wash down the multiple packs of Oreos each day probably don't help. Oh well.

Nevertheless, it has gotten me to thinking about checking into false teeth or at least some badass grillz. Pretty much since I first started seeing them on my fave ballers, I've always thought that was an avenue I'd eventually be heading down. Not really wanting to get street cred through that whole prison route, I figure dropping a few benjamins on some gold plates would do the trick. I know it's popular to get something really street engraved on one's grillz--high rolla, thug 4 lif or what have you--but I don't really think that's my personality. I'm pretty hard, understand, maybe even occasionally thug. But 4 lif just seems a little much. I don't know that I have that much determination or stamina. So instead I think I'll probably just get "I ♥ friends" across the top and maybe two hands clasping across the bottom.

Or maybe I'll just get the dentist to pull them all and accept a life of gumming oatmeal and weeping silently.

Decisions, decisions.

Hand me the crayons instructions, please

I had presumed that the highlight of last week would be the arrival of Baby Zeigler since it's not too often we get additions to our family. I'd like to think that's more to do with being the perfect size for global domination. Of course, we may be such awful people no can stand to be around us for very long. That's probably a judgement others ultimately will have to make.

Anyway, while the whole Zeigler episode was quite grand, I was pleasantly surprised to get back to work and find that it was time for a little sprucing up around here. Not sure if the powers-that-be found some extra scratch in the sofa cushions or it was just a touch of spring fever, but upon my return, I found approximately 32 painters gathered around the windows, doors and overhangs doing some touching up.

Ordinarily this is not really the type of thing I pay much attention to. I appreciate the building looking nice and take pride in gleaming columns and such. How it gets/stays in such condition is not given much thought. Sort of like hot dogs. I enjoy them and am grateful for the workers who provide that frank goodness but I need not see what's behind the curtain. I think I have sufficiently mixed enough metaphors to move on.

So these painters did their thing and seemed to do it quite well. Trimming, etc. is indeed much brighter than it was this time last year. I've no idea how much we paid them but I suppose we tossed in a little extra to get the deluxe treatment. That additional spending bringing all manner of song and conversation in addition to stellar painting.

Not really expecting a breakdown of the new Lars Von Trier flick, I can't say I was entirely surprised when the topics ranged from women/men and sex to men/women and sex. Unfortunately for me our painters seemed to forget that the window that separated them from me wasn't soundproof so I got some fo the good suff. On a Friday night, such talk is no doubt hot, hot, hot and somewhat important to the hard-working man/woman painter (yes, they were co-ed), but unless you're beautiful/famous I'm fairly certain no one really cares about your particular situation as much as you. Certainly not me on a Thursday afternoon.

Madeline across the hall got it even worse since, unlike me, she actually keeps her window blinds open. In addition to the bawdiness, she also got an eyeful of butt crack and the physique only the old lady of a painter can love. She was smitten.

Riveting though such discussions were, they were lacking something. Some ineffable quality that would push my enjoyment over the Zeigler peak. In short, a song. My unsent prayers were answered when suddenly I hear "She's My Cherry Pie" from outside. And then again, "She's My Cherry Pie". And then once more, "She's My Cherry Pie" Those of a certain age will recognize the lyrics as part of the chorus to Cherry Pie, a song by the thoroughly unnecessary hair metal band Warrant. For those lucky enough never to have heard the song in question, imagine the worst song you've ever heard, move up six notches on that list and pretend you're in a strip club.

20 years ago when this passed for popular, I didn't need to hear the version that was honed to a radio-friendly sheen by allegedly professional and somewhat competent musicians. Today, I certainly do not need to be bombarded with an off key holler of it by a dude, cancer stick dangling from his lip, painting outside my window. I take my work seriously, you know. I'm not one to crush anybody's dream so if my singing painter envisions a world on which he sits atop Mt. Rockulus I wish him godspeed.

But.

I would advise him to learn the lyrics. For you see although it's pretty hard to top the all-around simplistic genius of "She's My Cherry Pie", there are in fact, more lines to the song. Warrant were a lot of things--shitty, worthless, lame, kitten haters--but wordsmiths they weren't. Nevertheless, they were capable of stringing several words together to form lines, lines to form verses, etc. just to make sure the point got driven home with a suitably rollicking backbeat. The point being, as you've no doubt surmised, beloved all-American dessert as metaphor for 'lady part'; Shakespeare this ain't.

Now one might argue that the was the proper venue, version and performance for such a meisterwerk. That it deserved nothing less than to be mangled some 20 years gone by a fellow passing the time until his smoke break. But Warrant, like me, was proud of their cleverness and repartee. The writer in me found it heartbreaking. I almost wept. To see all that hard work and verbosity reduced to a bare bones hook seemed as criminal as it was annoying. Much like the crimes against music Warrant themselves had committed some 20 years previous. In fairness, I suppose that any still remember them 20 years on is some consolation. I can't imagine any readers hereof remember anything I write even 20 minutes after the fact.

Of course, people still remember Jack the Ripper.

Am I comparing Warrant to Jack the Ripper? Indeed I am.

You could win a cash card

The hubbub surrounding the newly born Baby Zeigler still hubbubs. He made it home Wednesday evening and continues to do pretty much what he did in the hospital: eat, sleep and poop. This is somewhat reassuring to all involved, interested and otherwise aware. I suspect he hasn't noticed his surroundings have changed but sleeping 22 hours a day as he does, I suspect he doesn't notice much of anything. Given some of the things he's been through--you cut what off of where?!?!?--this is just as well.

The blessed event went off without much of a hitch. Or at least on my end. I was able to listen to my ipod, watch Seinfield, and drink Coke and not say much of anything to anyone. The plush chair in the waiting room was fairly comfortable. I even pondered a nap. More or less, it was a typical evening for me with little discomfort or drama. Well, there was the terrible inconvenience of no internet access. The hospital was a Wi-Fi hotspot but they didn't provide a computer so thanks for nothing. I can't be expected to provide my own. This is 2009 and I demand free computers everywhere for everyone. Make it so, Obama. Nevertheless, I'm thinking about going back there in a few weeks just to recharge my batteries and take advantage of the free services. Thanks, hospital maternity ward. You're the best.

Millicent had a different experience but that's what she gets for getting knocked up. I think that's in the Bible or something. I keed. Everything went fine and there were no complications, which was both a blessing and a relief. A blessing for her and a relief for me as before Andy called and gave the all clear, I'd had just about all I could stomach of the David Letterman/Tom Hanks love fest on the boob tube in the waiting room. (Remember when he used to be funny?) So after some time we were allowed in to ooh and aah which we did willingly and accordingly.

Though this weren't my first rodeo, this was the first one where I had a horse in the show. Not to say Millicent, Andy or the babe are in any way equinely, understand; they usually walk upright, generally avoid oats and smell somewhat better. Anyway, the usual feelings were a bit more intense this go round than previous ones. Usually only when one reflects does the actual impact of an event register, however, this was a situation where I knew that a profound change had taken place in my life and for once, it was a positive one. As I like to say, sometimes God smiles.

Every hack never fails to point out how there's something reviving and hopeful about a newborn. What this insight lacks in originality it makes up for in truthfulness. A cliche ringing true, imagine that. A hope that maybe we'll finally get it right this time. That never happens of course, but even for a brief moment it's a nice feeling.

I like to smile

Earth meet Baby Zeigler--8 lbs 1 oz 20.5" of pampoosed awesomeness.
The current leader for coolest uncle evah. Your humble correspondent even more humble than usual.

Due to the above and various other things, i.e. the real world, normal posting probably won't resume until next week. But it might be sooner. In the meantime enjoy some linen trousers.

cheap signs = quality revolution

At this point I should probably rename this "No Baby Yet" because it seems like that's about all I say these days. I'm most glad everyone cares and certainly don't mind the questions, but all should rest assured that they will know when Baby Zeigler arrives. Actually, everyone is probably even more ready for the arrival than Millicent just so I'll shut up about it. Which reminds me.

Continuing our unbelievably accelerated rate of technological improvements around here, Andy and I finally got around to hooking up our webcams. We gave our Dad one for his birthday back in February. Since time was not even taken to wrap it, the camera left Andy's hand went to my Dad's who then handed it to me. I, in turn, placed it on top of the telly which is where it remained, staring at me like some Orwellian overlord.

Because I have an awful lot of free time and figured my imaginary overlord was easily bored, I'd occasionally reenact favorite scenes from T.J. Hooker and The Fall Guy to entertain. Sometimes I'd ruminate on various aspects of life. In short, that still-packaged camera became my best friend and we made all sorts of plans for things we knew we'd never do. About how we'd start up a pay service and people even more sad than me could watch me watch tv, read a book or occasionally eat. It would be magical and we'd get so, so rich but I've probably said to much about that and would prefer it never be mentioned again.

So last night, I blew a somewhat thick layer of dust of the packaging and went to work. Because only everybody uses a webcam these days I was expecting a somewhat tedious installation. Tedious it was if by tedious I mean a quick depackaging and installation I mean plugging the cable into the USB port. And just like that, I was on the computer. Leaping lizards. So for the next 10 minutes I sat there staring at myself on the screen like some stoned moron. Ooh, look there's my hand. And it can move. Far out. This would all be sad enough if that was the biggest time wasted last evening. Alas, it was not.

We signed up to use the totally free, totally fab service Skype for our video calls. Like most things interweby these days, a screen name is required. Because Andy and I aren't content to just be "Cool Dude 1" and "Super Guy 2" or something equally simple we have to come up with a name. Not just any name, but one that is a knowing reference that incredibly awesome to us but probably incredibly stupid to most folks with a brain. So for the next 45 minutes (yes, really) we ran up his long-distance bill trying all manner of names. The duration wasn't my fault however. I suggested "Castrated and Domesticated" for him pretty early on but he nixed this for some reason. In the end, he went with the oh so sweet, "We Love Baby" and I decided on "Neville Chamberlain".

So after getting all that tedium out of the way it was finally time to test out with an actual video call. Fingers were crossed as he suddenly appeared on my screen and I, his. At last, we can now experience the electrifying presence of the other via the computer. And make no mistake we are electrifying as we sit and stare at each in silence. I'd like to say the silence stemmed from out awe; sadly, we're really just that boring that my pulse quickened when Andy glanced to look at his television. Andy's did the same when I got up for some pudding. It was very touching and poignant. Pretty much exactly like EPCOT had promised us all those years ago. Minus the cartoon characters wearing jetpacks, of course.

Leave more space

Generally I'm quite the fan of Madison Avenue. I appreciate all they do for me and my fellow Earth denizens with their introductions to products that help make our little planet better. Or get me to buy this floor cleaner instead of that one by using some forgotten song in a desperate appeal to my nostalgia. Full disclosure, I buy Charmin toilet tissue simply because they're able to get away with cartooning an old adage--the one about bears, woods, etc.

It is, as I never say, all good and as a result I pretty much believe everything I see on TV and read on the internet. If advertisers tell me that all beer drinkers are nothing but oversexed, brain dead horn dogs who's only goal in life is to get as much free hooch as possible then who am I to disagree. Were I a beer drinker, I might take offense but, according to the ads, I'd probably be to stupid to realize their condescending tone anyway.

But it's when advertisers use their powers for the greater good that I really feel the tug on my heart strings. The "be green" gobbledy-gook that's all the rage now is something I'm really behind. Who doesn't love Mother Earth? Certainly not me. Pretty much all of my thinking is global whilst a decent chunk of my action is local. I toss my old car batteries out back instead of filling the county land fill with such hazards and drink nothing but bottled water so my fellow townies will have more to water their lawns and wash their cars with. I want there to be enough water around in a few years in which for (still unborn, unnamed) Baby Zeigler. See, I'm also thinking of future generations. True, I'd probably do that even if "green" wasn't the new "extreme" to advertisers but still all reminders help.

Perhaps the greatest greater good, however, is getting me to care about the medical problems of aging actresses. I have no problem with Jamie Lee Curtis. I think A Fish Called Wanda is one of the best examples of well-executed comedy, think her husband, Christopher Guest, is a comedic genius and her mom was great in Psycho. All that being said, I'd never given the details of Jamie Lee Curtis' bathroom visits much thought. Surprising, I know.

Being an actress and all, I just assumed she wasn't human and never actually used such facilities. Imagine my surprise to find that not only does she go but apparently quite a bit. So much so that she needs a little yogurt to keep her "regular." Furthermore, she is so regular now that she can't wait to tell me all about it in one 30-second burst. Outstanding. I suppose when the big showbiz rumor surrounding you all these years involves hermaphrodism then trying to shift the conversation to matters scatological is probably not a bad idea.

While I can care about Jamie Lee's regularity or even Sally Field's bone density, one trend that I have come to absolutely despise is the need for the spokesperson to provide their name and age. The commercials where a 'real' person is shown talking about how product X made their life better, worse or had no real effect. Sometimes the testimonials are straight, other times ironic but always unnecessary and annoying. This may be hard for the companies to believe but I take them at their word that the paid actor in their commercial is a proud endorser of their product. If he/she is not, then I'm happy to remain blissfully ignorant. I'm not going to hunt Jeanine Evans, 42, down to make sure she really did buy that Microsoft product or is an actual Tylenol user. It probably makes me a bad human, but I really don't care one way or the other. Aside from interrupting my stories, there will be no impact on me whatsoever.

But like any ad trend, once one commercial has it, they all hop on board, creating the conundrum of what once differentiated now makes the same. Yeah, I know, deep. For such a supposedly creative place, advertising, like the rest of the world, has a lot of trouble with originality. I'm not sure whether it's fear of being left behind by not following, laziness or both. But it's annoying and depressing. Much like life.

Canada Dry Bitter Lemon? Awful

Before wrapping up MB exciting trip to our northern neighbor, I should mention that the arrival of Baby Zeigler (still unnamed) is imminent. Millicent's due date is May 10. Some may recognize this as Mother's Day and find that fitting or sweet or both. The coldhearted may not but does anyone really care about them. Hence their cold hearts. Anyway, if Baby Zeigler stretches it out (so to speak) until then I'll be surprised but rest assured, there will be a birth announcement up here ASAP. It probably won't be for Baby Zeigler, but it will be a birth announcement nonetheless. Oh, and please try not to notice that I shifted a four-day trip into two.

Day 2 was spent doing more sightseeing but managing to avoid pretty much any place the average person has heard of. So that means, again, no CN Tower and um, no CN Tower. They did see a dude who looked like a Gord but turned out to have the rather American name of Brad. Bummer. But MB did manage to find a cool record store, Soundscapes. (This was possibly on Saturday, but since I don't know I can't imagine why anyone would care).

Like me, MB is always on the lookout for record stores because she's never going to catch up with my collection otherwise. Unlike me, she does has somewhat of an interest in architecture and historical sights of which Toronto has them in spades. The CN Tower and, um, you know. Usually however, the pull of plastic, vinyl and snooty hipster clerks wearing glasses and cool shoes wins out. As it would.

Before she left for Toronto, she had asked me if I wanted her to pick me up anything. Natch, I forgot until after she left and sent a frantic text requesting such an item. (The new The Who Sell Out Deluxe Edition which isn't available in the U.S.) Unfortunately, my text writing skillz and her reading skillz didn't match up and I didn't even get a lousy t-shirt out of the deal. But she did let me know how cool the store was. Thanks. I then told her how cool it was to hang out with some person she would think is cool but no one else would recognize. Oh, how mad she got.

Now the ultimate purpose of their whole trip was just to get away from Jacksonville. Fair enough. That cold, snow and heavy coats destroys sun, beaches, and scant clothing in a battle of the desirables is a no-brainer. So it was with some disappointment that MB and Alfredo found the weather not all dissimilar to their adopted Jacksonville. Such a crushing disappointment this was, that MB briefly considered calling the whole thing off. But the prospect of eating doughnuts with members of Barenaked Ladies proved to tempting and the trip was back on. Alas, on the whole doughnut thing she was disappointed too. Though can not meeting Barenaked Ladies really be considered much of a disappointment?

The secondary (and really main) purpose was to go to the Great Lake Swimmers show in Toronto. Elephant memoried readers of this space may recall that a couple of weeks ago, the three of us enjoyed an evening with that very band. Such was the life-changing nature of the performance for 1/3 of us that a trip 1600 miles from home was deemed necessary. Bringing the mountain to Mohammad this was not. It's close enough for rock and roll though, I suppose. As GLS are from Toronto, (which is, in fact, the ONLY city in Canada) they were warmly received by the crowd. In kind, they washed their flannel and trimmed their beards for the occasion. Well, not the lady, I'm pretty sure she washes daily which is rather polite of her.

Unlike the previous night's Youth Group show, MB found this one much more to her liking. No douchery to be found and since I'm sure the guys and gal in the band will be reading this, if only to figure out where I live so they can come itch me with their beards, thanks for entertaining MB and Alfredo. They really dug it. As did I the other night in Atlanta.

After the big show, there really wasn't much else of interest to be found in Toronto. Sure there's a cracking transportation system, ever-present dudes named Gord and Stu, and far too many other Canadian cliches I've yet to run into the ground, plus the always unneeded prospect of french fries covered in gravy and various other goop (Poutine). An aside, how do you know your country is so awesome it has too much free time? When there's enough time to come up with something to make the greatest food ever invented, french fries, disgusting and inedible. Well played, my Canadian friends. Maybe that's why there fewer fat Canadians. Aside from Bachman Turner Overdrive, of course.

As a result, our traveling duo headed back to the relative comfort of the good ol' U.S. of A and the beautiful, welcoming sights of Buffalo, New York. Buffalo is a city for those who like the dingy industrial feel of a Pittsburgh or a Cleveland but hate that it only snows 7 months out of the year instead of 10. Probably best known to most as home to that eternal punching bag of sports futility, Buffalo Bills. Buffalo--Where Super Bowl dreams come to die. It's still an okay town in my book, I just can't imagine they put that slogan on the tourist brochures.

And then some time later, MB and Alfredo arrived back home to their cats and the sun and the heat and the comfort of knowing that in a few thousand words I'd managed to offend an entire country at their expense.

I must go now. I'm expecting a callback on my job with the State Department.

MB's so bored with the USA

I took a brief venture to Atlanta last evening to see the ultra fab space rock duo Windy & Carl. It was all very cosmic and something that will probably be expanded upon at a later date. In the meantime, let me get back to detailing MB's trip to Toronto that I didn't go on. When I left off, her and hubby Alfredo had just settled down to nap after testing out the wash basin in their basic Polish bed & breakfast room.

Though it seemed as though they slept for a few hours, MB and Alfredo actually slumbered for less than 15 minutes. Not really enough time to do much of anything save give them the energy to head down the street and find some coffee/beer. That's something one instantly notices in Canada: the beer. Sort of like wine is to France, I suppose. The golden nectar flows freely everywhere up there. McDonald's, libraries, even churches have been known to hold "beer day" at random. Days which are quite popular since everyone, regardless of age, is required to drink instead of doing much of anything.

The rest of the world call this Monday.

Inevitably, once the beers get in then talk of revolution and finally breaking free from all that British tyranny is begun. It lasts long enough until everyone sobers up, goes home and remembers that the Queen means even less to them in Canada than she does in England. And then the anger turns to the Australians. Who, in turn, direct their anger right back. A couple of times, the war of words has escalated to the point of impending battle. Then the other realizes that their opponent is on the other side of the bloody world and all that travel time could be better spent boozing. So it goes.

That is all neither here nor there, since MB was perfectly content to nurse a single Moosehead and Alfredo stuck with some St. Pauli Girl, which is not Canadian. That Alfredo can be such a contrarian. Since beer is such a large part of the culture, they were able to carry on with the sightseeing, brews in hand. First free health care and not open drinking. The Canadians really do think of everything.

As there wasn't a whole lot to see in Little Poland, they ventured somewhere towards the center of town. The sight where most tourists would head to see all the big sights of this fine city (CN Tower and um, the CN Tower). But figuring once you've seen one Space Needle, you'd kinda seen them all, MB suggested they bypass the view and revolving restaurant atop the CN Tower. In other words, the went downtown to see the sights and ended up seeing FA.

I once saw a news clip about the guy who has to change the bulb on the light at the top of the CN Tower. One would figure such a fellow would have an interesting story to tell or at least have a story that could be made interesting. In his case, this was not true. Super dude that he probably is, our bulb changer must also be the most boring bloke on the face of the earth. How hard is it to make the story of working 800 stories in the air, with only a cable keeping you from landing face first into the recurring nightmares of bystanders, interesting? Apparently, quite when there's really nothing much to work with. Why they couldn't have embellished that he is also an ace ornthologist or helps spot the odd missing child/dog is beyond me. See, media folk, it's not that hard.

Nevertheless, figuring that if the most exciting job available at the CN Tower is filled by such a snoozer, the Tower itself probably wasn't worth seeing. They skipped out. Alfredo flipped the Tower off as they went by just because it sucked.

The evening's entertainment was to be provided by an Australian group known for some reason as Youth Group. They are vaguely a group and at one point were youth so there you go. I guess. Being a band that MB has seen several times in Australia, her expectations for greatness were perhaps a little high for the Toronto show. They were not met and her comment that the lead singer acted "a douche" was taken by me to not be much of compliment. This could be one of those "bad meaning good" phrases, I don't know. I'm not up on hipster speak. I will say, however, that being in Toronto and playing at a place named Lee's Palace and not performing any Rush tunes is a pretty douche-y move.

I forgot to mention, in addition to the moose at the border, they also give all comers a Rush cd so Youth Group can't use that as an excuse. I'd imagine that Youth Group regretted the omission when the powers that be, i.e. Rush, made sure there were only about 25 people in attendance. Coming all the way from Melbourne, methinks they lost money on that gig.

Hell hath no fury like Geddy Lee scorned.

To be continued...

Canader? I hardly know her

As few probably realized but pretty much all would have cared, my dearest pal MB and her hubby, Geraldo, decided now (last weekend, actually) was as good of time as any to take a little vacation. World travelers they, this was a short jaunt north of the border to the place every Bush-hater threatened to move but of course never did, Canada. So as the world was just coming to grips with the latest media scaremongering PANDEMIC!!!!! (capital letters, exclamation points, OMG, etc.), Swine Flu, MB and Geraldo decided to take in the HQ sights of the media's last scaremongering pandemic (small letters, no exclamation point because the U.S. was never threatened), SARS. I suppose this is somehow fitting. Or at least nice of them.

Whatever the reason, they went and MB took a 428 photos, some with Geraldo and a few actually interesting (I keed) but felt she couldn't adequately capture the experience and turn it into a post worthy of her blog. She jokingly suggested I write it for her. She will probably never crack wise with me again as I'm taking her up on that offer. This is a task that I feel I am uniquely and thoroughly qualified for. To wit:

1. Rush hails from there and I've been listening to them religiously for over 22 years during which time I've seen 18 shows.
2. I love the Kids in the Hall, know a lot of their skits and have seen them live.
3. Growing up my favorite baseball team was the Toronto Blue Jays.
4. I spent about 4 hours in Toronto about 20 years ago on a youth choir trip and have a t-shirt from the University of Toronto bookstore. I know, I'm awesome.

I'm fairly certain that these four reasons (and I could go on) more than make up for the fact that I wasn't along for their trip. I can't imagine why they didn't ask me. Enjoy.

Thursday morning started out pretty hectic as they hurried on to the Jacksonville airport. (I've no idea if they were running late, but I'm required by law to assume that any/all trips to any/all airports are behind schedule. This is a cheap device writers use to avoid describing the mundane. What's more exciting? They tore into the parking lot on two wheels, not even taking time to shut off the car and dashed to the gate just as the skyway was about to pull away from the plane. Or. They left home at the suggested 3 hours beforehand, encountered little traffic, parked near the terminal and waited for the next 2 hours until boarding began.)

So finally on the place, MB commented she couldn't believe that she was finally going to land of free health care and beer. Geraldo agreed. The plane smiled at them. Aside from the screaming child and the overweight fellow with the nasty cough (again, law requires) the flight was uneventful. Except for when MB demanded the flight attendant provide something other than Everybody Hates Chris for the in-flight entertainment. A mini-revolt was quelled and they eventually arrived in Toronto.

As most probably know from watching Don Ho or that Brady Bunch episode, when one arrives in Hawaii, one gets a lei (an unfortunate side-effect being that every comedian thinks he/she is the first to come up with a "I got lei'd in Hawaii joke. Ho, ho.). In Canada, they give all visitors a moose. I'm not really sure why or what they expect folks to do with them, but they do. Since most folk have forgotten to pack a trailer and hate moose and all that they stand for, the roadside from the airport has become a sort of haven for abandoned moose. It was at this point, that MB shed her first tear. The abandonment was disheartening, but she recovered in time to kick their own gift, Maurice, to the curb. Nature is a cruel bitch.

Figuring that some posh hotel in downtown Toronto would be what everyone was expecting, MB and Geraldo opted for a bed & breakfast in the Polish district of the city. I suppose one knows one is in a truly international city when there are nationality districts. We just have the white section and the black section around here, but we'd gladly welcome any Polish too. Aside from a lot of peeps with -ski on the end of their name and Lech Walesa monuments I don't really know what makes up Toronto's Little Poland but I'm sure it's nice.

As are the people, including the owners of the B & B, Mr. & Mrs. Jires. Geraldo had scarcely put his bags down before Mr. Jires welcomed them with some gibberish that Geraldo assumed was Polish. MB responded in French and suddenly a little Tower of Babel moment occurred. Mrs. Jires looked on with distress. "Not more French," she thought. MB won her back by telling Mrs. Jires that her pal's, Jeremy, all-time favorite film is Rosemary Baby's directed by Poland's Roman Polanski. For the next 6 hours they discussed Jeremy and why he would be so enamored with such things. A rather remarkable discussion considering that until MB and Geraldo entered their lives the Jires had no idea I existed. Luckily, MB had brought pictures and was able to bore all to death with my mundane life.

Having wasted the day's sight-seeing time discussing me, MB and Geraldo retired to their rooms wherein they found a bed, a bedpan and a wash basin as one always finds in such places. Geraldo drew some water from the sink and the two of them collapsed on the bed for a well deserved nap. It had already been a long day. More to follow...