Rain Dance

Rain, rain, go away,
Come again another day.
Rain, rain, go to Spain,
Never show your face again.

The expression 'raining cats and dogs' is sometimes thought to reflect the dismal times in 17th century England, the streets rich with refuse, including dead cats and dogs, that flowed down hill during a heavy downfall. Clever Brits.

Odin, the father of storms, rode with dogs as attendants, while cats caused storms.

The French claim it comes from their word 'catadoupe' which means waterfall. And of course the Spanish Armada was defeated as much by the bad weather as the English and gave us the rhyme at the top.

Raindrops keep falling on my head.
Who'll stop the rain?
Don't rain on my parade.
Rainy nights in Georgia.

78% water and we don't like rain. Go figure.

Kids like rain, though. Running barefoot in the yard, splashing through the puddles and getting as wet as you could was necessary whenever the skies opened and all those cats and dogs came falling to earth. It's a wonder no one was ever killed. Do it. Strip down to your skivvies and go play in the rain. Walk tall, instead of hunched over and miserable. It's only water. You'll thank me later. Do it.

The Recklessness of Truth

Whose lights are on in your neighborhood tonight? Who's lying back watching t.v. while the restless hum of the city fills in the back ground noise? The crescendo and decrescendo of passing cars on the street, the ebb and flow of light that opens like a fan on the ceiling, the voice of one dog talking just to hear his own voice. Who's waiting for the kettle to boil and take their tea to bed, listening to jazz from far away and breathing out in a rush as they stretch into a pillow with a head already on it?
My lights filter out into the dark presenting a silhouette bent and tired from the drive, the fan whispering to me about a breeze I felt years ago, relentless in its detail and colourful in my mind's eye. The floor is cold and I can't find my slippers, don't want to disturb the calm, chocolate cake dessert still filling me with a peace I will need to sleep.
Whose lights are on?

The Valley Tour con't.

I'm really not happy about it but I may have to turn on the old gas stove. I left the windows open last night for some fresh air circulation and have been typing like mad to warm up. The problem is typing isn't really a very good aerobic activity. The coffee is helping somewhat.

I was born in Carleton Place some years ago, in the middle of an arctic storm that wiped out half the hydro service in Ontario. Candles were the only source of light as I made my entrance into the world. At first I mistook the doctor, parka up to the crown of his head, for God, but the cigarette hanging out of his mouth gave away his mortality (I'm pretty sure God doesn't smoke while delivering babies, or at all, for that matter). The nurses present were a little stunned by the shape of my head and the fact that I wasn't breathing. My mother likes to say that I was too clueless to breathe, but when they forced the issue I started bawling about the injustices of the world and I haven't quit yet.

I was back in Carleton Place this past weekend and apart from someone moving the hospital about seven blocks from where it was, things really haven't changed all that much. The Mississippi Hotel is a little more upscale than I remember but I'm sure you can still get drunk and into a fight if you want to. By the way if you're looking for second hand power tools try Howard's Pawn Shop. Chain saws? Hell yeah! Saw a great band at the Thirsty Moose called Retro Rockers, I think, and a fight at the Queens (don't go until 1:00 a.m. my guide told me), was encouraged to go home by the local police and noticed that the guys who hang out on the street at two in the morning looking for a date are the same guys who do it anywhere else. "Yeah, I'm drunk, but ready for love." As usual the Fabulous Bee couldn't resist tormenting them.

The scenery, however, is beautiful. The sky is wide and the stars bountiful. My guide is pretty cute too. If you get the chance go for the weekend. I think the room where I was born is now a museum, if you can find the friggin' hospital.

hndf c;.,[-p;uhgyvredt5gp;l.p[;-p[-0ptrfdf

Enoch was a witness. He was there. The seventh in the line from Adam, great grandfather of Noah and a very pious man to boot. When the Watchers, the guardians sent to instruct man in the secret arts, began to produce the Nephilim with the daughters of man, God was a little upset. The Nephilim were superior in strength and became a threat to mankind. They also possessed a knowledge that was forbidden to man. They weren't stupid, though, and they asked Enoch to intercede on their behalf. God took Enoch into his ever loving arms, transformed him into Metatron and told him to get busy recording the events that were about to happen.

And what events there were. The intercession didn't have much of an effect on God and he flooded the world to be rid of the Nephilim and the wickedness (read knowledge) they possessed. This was mankind's world and if they were going to make a go of it they would have to do it by themselves. Noah wasn't particularly bright but he was a good boy, so they let him in on the plan and he built a boat poste-haste. Ta da.

From the Book of Enoch:

And to Gabriel said the Lord: 'Proceed against the bastards and the reprobates, and against the children of fornication: and destroy [the children of fornication and] the children of the Watchers from amongst men [and cause them to go forth]: send them one against the other that they may destroy each other in battle: for length of days shall they not have.

The only problem is the Nephilim are still here. The bible tells me so. Metatron knows. He was there.

Genesis 6:4

"The Nefilim were upon the Earth in those days and thereafter too."

What does this have to do with anything? Just a good story.
What does the title of this blog mean? I spilled honey on the keyboard yesterday.
What time does the 95 leave the Rideau Centre? God knows. And maybe Metatron.

Some Days Are Better Than Others

Alcyone and Ceyx were very fond of each other, in the true sense of the word, which meant that they exhibited a foolish affection for each other. So much so that they gave each other the pet names 'Zeus' and 'Hera' and inspired the wrath of Zeus, once he stopped gagging at their insufferable and cloying excesses. So much for love in the Greek scheme of things. When Ceyx boarded a ship headed for the Oracle, Zeus wrecked it and killed Ceyx.

Today, the wretching heard when you see a couple carrying on in this fashion, is probably the remnant of Zeus roaming around trying his best to suit up his old powers and zap the two of them into dust.

Anyway, back to the story. Alcyone, at home and worried sick about Ceyx, prayed to Hera to protect her already dead husband and Hera felt shitty about what had happened. Alcyone fell asleep and Morpheus appeared to her in a dream as her husband and gave her the bad news. This happened a lot, I guess. Morpheus could take human form and pop into people's dreams to tell them stuff. Maybe that was easier than just walking over and ringing the bell. He appeared to me the other night as Elisha Cuthbert and I woke up very disturbed at the implications.

Alcyone was pretty messed up by the news and ran right down to the water and threw herself in. She wasn't a great swimmer, though, and so she drowned too. Now Aeolus, who was both the father of Alcyone and the God of Winds was pretty pissed at Zeus, understandably. He kicked up a fuss and Zeus, possibly with Hera hounding him too, turned them both into birds, which at that time was supposed to be a form of punishment for suicides. I wouldn't mind being turned into a bird when my time comes. It would keep the grocery bills down and I could get rid of my car.

Alcyone and Ceyx were reunited as kingfishers, birds which nest on the open water on the floating bits of debris they called home. The only problem was that the waves kept breaking up the nest. Aeolus noticed this and he calmed the winds so that seven days before the winter solstice and seven days after things were quiet for the two lovers as they hatched eggs and cared for their offspring. The name by which kingfishers became known was Halcyones and the period of calm while they nested was called Halcyon Days, a period of serenity and happiness and rejoicing. Isn't that a nice story?

The moral is don't make a scene with your girl or you'll end up floating around on the ocean with a bunch of baby birds demanding all your time. Or maybe its get a room and you won't get tossed into the drink and make your girlfriend commit suicide. Or maybe its watch out for grumpy old guys who get pissed when you pretend you're them. I don't know exactly what the Greeks thought they were trying to teach us but it is fun to sit and reminisce about the good old days every now and again.

Drunk Virgins

Today its all about the bathtub. This morning I started a batch of hooch and have already very nearly poisoned myself. I probably should have cleaned the tub but I was in a hurry and have to find some empty bottles to pour it into before the company comes.

The history of the bathtub and hooch are inextricably linked. I guess it just took too much time to keep refilling the garbage can. As far as I have been able to tell, the Hoochen Indians (actually Hutsnuwu), who gave their name to the vile drink, didn't even use bathtubs or drink much, preferring the river as a means to clean up after a wild night. It was the American soldiers sent to Alaska in 1867 who, forbidden real booze and looking for someone to blame when they got caught, looked around and pointed the finger the locals. The Hutsnuwu wisely said nothing and walked away, something I learned to do last year in Mexico when confronted with a bunch of drunk Americans, and they have been saddled with a legacy they don't truly deserve.

I can't really poke fun at anyone, however, as Canadians have their own peculiarities when it comes to bathtubs. I can't actually find out where all this started, and maybe some of you can help me, but I was very young when I saw my first Bathtub Mary. Part shrine and part lawn ornament I have since lived in the dark about its exact purpose. Scare away children? Exalt the Goddess? Teach virgins to bathe? Granted I do believe you will see more of them in Quebec than anywhere in Canada, the Quebecois being more pious than the rest of us, but there are a couple I can suggest right here in town. Let's put these curiosities on the map. There maybe some curative properties in Bathtub Mary Hooch.

I've got the yeast, the flour, the molasses and ???? There seems to be something missing from the recipe. Maybe its the soap scum that gives it that peculiar finish but I'll be as clean inside as out, I guess. Just another couple of hours and the party starts. My house at eight, kids. Bring your own cup.

Make it Sweet

Coffee Time.

From the Turkish kahveh, "to have no appetite". Arabica or Robusta? Who cares. Hot and sweet, with a kick that could restart my heart. You would think that I could finally walk through this tiny apartment in the dark without shredding my toes on the damn table. Coffee will make it all better and since as a general rule I don't sit down at the computer until I have it brewed, I'm feeling better all ready.

It took until the 1800s for coffee to become available to the common man. A history of plant theft and bean smuggling sparked my interest when I was a boy and my first cup was sipped in the same vein. Having watched my parents bitch and yell their way to the kitchen every morning for years and then settle into domestic bliss after a cup I decided I had to try this mind numbing and good will generating brew. It tasted like dirt and acid mixed with scheming and desperation. I added some cream and sugar and voila! Now of course I'm so addicted I can't function without it and I start to get headachy until I've had a cup. Damn addictions. Just one more to blame my parents for.

The first cup is now down the gullet and I just looked outside for the first time, hard to believe as my computer is beside the window, but if you've tried to talk to me between bed and the coffee pot you'll know what kind of state I'm generally in, in the morning. The day has dawned beautifully and now that cup two is under way things aren't so bleak anymore. Now I can contemplate breakfast and maybe think about the chores that need doing. What would I do if Kaldi, the goatherd, hadn't been curious after seeing his sheep dancing from bush to bush? What if Baba Budan hadn't smuggled fertile beans out of Mecca strapped to his belly? What if de Clieu hadn't the nerve to steal a clipping from Louis the XIV?

Well, the answer is I wouldn't be addicted to a drink that has my life centered around the coffee pot. Stupid Kaldi.

Dynamite

And I shall drive my chariot
Down your streets
And cry, 'Hey, it's me,
I'm dynamite
And I don't know why'

The fury that held me, crooked and on the verge of tears, has not left me. In fact my anger is growing, something intangible but not without substance. I suspect that a poet like Whitman or even Van Morrison, whose soul tearing cries can raise the hair on my neck, could phrase it so you could understand. This weekend has been good and bad, happy and sad and altogether too mischievous, even if a little too cruel.

I wonder if everyone has a soundtrack that plays endlessly in the background. Music is always playing in my head and rarely do I wish I could turn it off. There was Stars and Broken Social Scene, some Camper Van Beethoven, some Brad, Amos Lee and, as you can tell by the quote above, Van Morrison. Faraquet, which I can't seem to find anywhere, came before the Scissor Sisters and then I listened again to that Fall Out Boy track, which everyone seems to hate. Ben Harper, borrowed and likely never returned (sorry) and that funny little man, Beck.
No Guster. Not now, maybe later. Maybe some day I can listen to it again.

For now,

And you shall take me strongly
In your arms again
And I will not remember
That I even felt the pain.
We shall walk and talk
In gardens all misty and wet with rain
And I will never, never, never
Grow so old again.

I Am Six Inches Taller

I was doing a little research on the topic of autosuggestion and came across the name of Emile Coue, a French hypnotherapist, pharmacist and later psychotherapist. He's the guy who experimented on his patients by praising some medicines and saying nothing about the effectiveness of others and noticed that the praised medicines were more effective.

I decided to try a little power of suggestion on myself and dreamt that breakfast was ready and being served by a voluptuous and scantily clad woman and it wasn't until I remembered that its a tool for psychic healing and that I had slept through the alarm and missed an appointment that I fully woke up. My dementia has its roots in my need for bacon, eggs and peanut butter.
"In every day and every way, I am getting fatter and lazier." ( Repeating this phrase is not the best way to get the chicks, by the way.)

Despite this understandable misinterpretation I have decided to give this autosuggestion thingy a try and here are a few of the phrases I'm going to use on myself.

1. Turn up the volume on your alarm.
2. Buy some groceries.
3. Shower more often.

I'm starting small since I'm not entirely convinced this method will work at all. The idea is, according to Coue, your imagination (read unconscious mind) is stronger than your will power and that once you absorb the mantra it will become part of your waking routine. I'd be happy to remember socks when I go bowling, but if it will help me become a better person who am I to argue?
And now we come to the interactive part of today's ramble. I want everyone to come up with an autosuggestion for themselves. Don't be shy, none of us are perfect and who knows it might do wonders for you. Remember to stick to organic changes as, to my knowledge, it will have no effect on bowleggedness. Go!

The Love of a Good Woman

"It's the little things. There is nothing bigger."

Could be a spiritual mantra or part of a dissertation by a physics student. The Prophet once said, "Eh, either way." Quanta/God lay in the sink looking up at me and I rinsed him off, dried him and put him away. Ha ha. If God doesn't have a sense of humor I'm screwed.

I have had a running battle with the hornets these past few days. They are ferociously zealous in guarding that little hole in the side of the barn. Nothing tastes like the anticipation of being stung, and if they could, they'd tell you the same about the heartless giant trying swat them with a paint brush. Marauders abound. Jainist monks sweep the ground with straw brooms as they walk along so as not to accidentally kill any bugs that happen to be strolling by but India is a crowded place, so it's bound to happen, now and again. Many cultures revere the animals they capture and kill for food. This one is difficult for me. While I'm spending half my day trying to find a way to not paint spiders into the barn, I know someone who would pay me $5 for each if I did.

It's the little things, eh?

Fit to Print?

fiction
fictionalize
fictitious
fictive

I suppose I asked for it by starting a blog that sometimes seems to be a daily journal, sometimes a dream analysis, sometimes a playground with words and phrases and sometimes a place to jack off, lyrically, that is. Uncensored ( sorry, Mom) and until now unapologetic, I have used it as a scratch pad for ideas that come and go, that I would like to capture and pose as a question to none other but myself. I am stunned and grateful for the attention it sometimes garners. The spammers are funny, too. I'm guessing there is an engine that will produce the profundities seen in some of the comments, like: "Love your blog, reminds me of my brother's at dumbass.blogspot.wasteof time" and sometimes I actually go and check them out. Haven't bought anything yet, however.

Greek mythology, armchair sociology, road trip extrapolating, the Prophet (who is a friend of mine) throwing goods my way, Jungian dream analysis, lunch time stomach grumblings, a childhood spent wandering further and further from home and too many books that I never finished reading. Ta da! All is all. If you don't recognize the voice it's because someone else is speaking. It's a good thing they don't actually take up physical space because my apartment is just too damn small, but C.G. comes and goes, Cerberus guards the door, the Lotus Eaters just drink all the milk ('cos I hate the stuff), Ikkyu does funny dances when he thinks I'm not looking, the Fabulous Bee is usually absent, the Driver is out and about picking up supplies and the Killer (that rotten kid) just sulks in the corner. Patience and Faith sit out the dinner parties because the noise disturbs them as much as it does my neighbors, and my Dead play CDs until I fall asleep. I like having roommates but I can't always stop them from messing up the kitchen.

I'm currently painting a barn for a friend and have been stung once, nearly fell off the ladder, got woozy with the heat and forgot to bring any CDs. I really do enjoy it though, because with the hands busy, the mind wanders. Dan is here next week and the Fabulous Bee will descend, twitching with the anticipation of corruption, the Prophet speaks again and You will settle into the new job. Claire's birthday has come and not quite gone, so get her a present, you slackers. The band is arguing about a hiatus and if you know a good trumpet player send him to me. That's about it for now. And Susan, don't worry so much, I'm fine. Lunch?

I gotta go. The dog's eating the Lotus again and I can hear that damn kid breaking stuff in the bedroom. Then I paint.

Good Morning To You

The lotus eaters sat, lulled by the song of the river and none paid me any attention, lost in reverie. I had no cake for the dog and he stood blocking my way, promising pain and sharp teeth. I wished I was in pieces and wondered which I would give up for safe passage. Where did that sybil go? I cannot come, I cannot go on. Stuck here, paddling my feet while the girls keep me company.
"Oh my." she said. "Oh, your what?" I felt testy and cramped. Time to clear the deck and head for home. I am losing my momentum, I guess, and need to sleep. I signaled the first mate and he, in turn, yelled out into the wind.

It's always like this. I stumbled across the street for cream for the coffee while the city buzzed me and tried to take my lunch money. My strength is returning slowly but the lead in my feet is always last to go. The keyboard taunts me and in my head the swirl of unwanted melodies plays hide-and-go-seek with the killer. He's in fine form today but if I can keep him occupied I'll be safe. Sometimes I use the memories of someone else as bait but he's a faithful animal and wants no one but me. Small wonder. I trained him for this and now I regret his education, simply because he's too good at what he does.

Today, I'll be on the ladder again, trying not to think. The lotus eaters will be there and even though their harmless, sometimes I'd like to bash their brains in, if they have any at all. Better them than me.

Oh, Annie, You Little Gem

In my interior travels I have often stopped to wonder what it is that makes feelings of sadness and melancholy attractive. I have been heard telling someone about a 'good bad mood' I was having. Y'know, really enjoying being pissed off and looking forward to someone crossing the line, and spending time imagining the verbal shit-kicking I would serve up to them. Life could be wonderful if I wasn't so intent on making it confrontational and dramatic. Too much T.V., perhaps.
Greta Garbo's misquoted, "I vant to be alone." was snatched up and is now used as the Hallmark equivalent for depression and anti-social behavior, glorifying the desire we all share, at times, to let everyone know how down we are and that we are in a funk. Of course, real depressives and disturbed people are alone, and don't spend any amount of time advertising it, but those unfortunates are another crisis we have no time to deal with.
A good glamour funk is a work of art, but the line is fine when it comes to pulling it off and getting the desired response. That is, of course, attention and empathy from the other actors we share our stage with. Some of your more astute friends will recognize your attempts but if you do it right they will be moved by your plight and offer condolences by the truckload. Mission accomplished.
There is, however, an element of crying wolf here. I will illustrate with Ella Wheeler Wilcox's poem "Solitude", in which she wrote:

Laugh and the world laughs with you
Weep and you weep alone.

However attractive the melancholic ideal is there is a limited shelf life and sooner or later people get tired of the routine. Much better life would be if remembered as an incurable optimist or indefatigable comic. I feel better already. Might be a good day after all.

The Fictional Narwhal

I’ve often heard that writers are supposed to be good observers. Having said that I should probably give up my aspirations of being a writer. I like people but I find myself drawn in too easily to operate as an observer. Their stories are often much more interesting than my own. I lose sight of the story and become a character, wondering about the outcome like a subject in my own physical examination. Am I too fat? Will it hurt? Can you prescribe something for my willingness to suspend disbelief? I suppose that the limitations of my memory are to blame. I often get asked how I can read the same book over and over again. The answer is, of course, that I’ve forgotten how it ends. The failing here is that even if I were a good observer I would forget what I had observed and have to make it up.
Here is where we hit on my strengths. If I’ve ever told you a story you should probably know that I likely invented half of it. There are dozens of people out there right now thinking, “That son of a bitch.” So be it. I hate to see a captive audience disappointed, and so, sometimes a new ending or a dramatic twist is needed. I have to disagree with those writers who claim that real life is as interesting as it gets, but I’d have to do too much research to verify that one.
That brings us to another aspect of writing that I have often wondered about. How much research is needed to lie? Well, I suppose if you were writing a drab piece about that technical aspects of water purification you might need to go to the library, but as far as anyone knows that story about the old lady who lives above me is true. The elements of the stories I like to tell usually involve specifics that would take the C.I.A. months to verify. So I am safe. Or am I? How’s that for a plot device? Introduce a little tension. Well, sit right down and let me tell you a story.
A while back (unspecific time) I met a guy (unavailable for comment) who told me (hearsay) that all the elements of good storytelling can be quantified and verified (according to who) if the writer is doing his job (job! you call this work?). I quailed at the idea and began to imagine a tribunal of my peers leering at me from high above as every string of lies I have told were unveiled for the world to see. I was, of course, weeping and descrying my sorrow and contriteness, vowing to never again tell another fib, only to have them laugh and strip me of my license to write. Which was the trigger I needed to snap out of my reverie and think, “I never applied for my license to write!” I’m working under the radar, as it were. Here in the underworld I sit crafting tales of woe and wonder and there is nothing anyone can do about it. Sure its evil, and it certainly doesn’t pay very well, but at long last I feel vindicated and now I’m free to make up all the outlandish stories that I want.
Am I an good observer? Sure. Just don’t ask me too many questions and I’ll try not to tell you too many lies.

To Rent or Not to Rant

Wake up to your own personal power, people. Parking spaces are gold in this city of green. If you own or rent a parking space your value just rose 25,000 a year! While I shudder to think of the parking tickets accumulating on my dash, I have to consider the earning potential of the space I leave my car in every night. While negotiating your next wage increase or promotion, add free parking to the ticket and see what kind of leverage it gets you. Park in someone else's spot for a night and wait for the nasty notes, whether the owner uses it or not.
Bring in a truckload of asphalt and get rid of that irritating lawn, raze that garage and you've got room for three cars, pull down the front porch and you can fit two more. Parking problem? This city? With all those green spaces? Who needs it. My own haphazard guess means that another fifteen thousand cars could park downtown and still relieve the congestion caused by that guy who leaves his car on the street during rush hour. That house you're looking at in the Golden Triangle can make you all the extra income you need.
Here's the plan. Calculate how much time and effort it will take to park on the street, tickets and all and then look at the money you could be making for that parking space that sits empty every day while you go to work. A trip outside to move the car every hour or even every two hours (to keep yourself out of the city's bad books) could net you a kick ass home theatre system or a modest home renovation or a breast augmentation operation.
Parking problem, my ass. This city simply has an entrepreneurial problem.

Mmmm, too much coffee again. Coffee? Don't get me started on the coffee problem. I was in dire need yesterday and do you know how much....

Drowned

'Enoch Arden' has come to mean a person, rare today who loves someone better than he loves himself. Tennyson's poem, based on the true story of a sailor, betrothed and lost at sea only to be rescued and spend years trying to reach home, illustrates our need to believe we can all act selflessly now and again. The young man's fiance marries his best friend after being convinced she will never see her true love again, and when the sailor witnesses their happiness he vows to keep from them the truth so they can live in happiness.
The desire to be selfless and the will to do so are two very different things and rarely do we find both in one individual. I'd much rather daub a tear at someone else sacrifice, my own being too hard to bear and the expectation of reward too strong.
To be submerged in the black ocean, to see coming at you an eighteen foot Narwhal, the 'ghost whale', ringed in lights woven through with myrtle is to feel the gratitude of the damned. My rescue is enough for now, as I grip the ridged edge and hold on, speeding through the darkness on my way home. This creature, armed with an eight foot spiraled tusk, has defended me and witnessed my re-birth as I stepped from the water and disappeared before I could express my gratitude.
I know I've seen him before, but my mind is clouded with the words of a poem, written over my own, obscuring his face, and even now his memory is fading into the depths of my mind.

A Small Price to Pay

I was trying to hide in the darkness but the wails of all those souls found me and followed me, almost running, almost falling, across the field. I tried to stay in the shadows but that was worse. I didn't know where I was going and there were too many of them. In a dream I remembered the faces of my friends being swallowed, and they went willingly where I could not follow. The sky, the stars were no help, blotted out by enormous things that rose up around me and blinded me. I was being goaded and I was angrily taking the bait. My anxiety was slowly being replaced with a rage and I clenched my fist and promised myself I would not drown in my fear, would not let their leering faces and twisted grins take me without a fight. They were pulling at me and pushing into me, grabbing and tearing and the sound in my ears was being drowned out by the rushing blood and my own rising panic, and I knew then that I couldn't win.

Two days earlier I pulled into the gas station and stretched myself out of the car. The weather was beautiful and holding, for the most part. The road had been wet, here and there, but it hadn't rained on us and I knew it wouldn't. This is, to my mind, some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen and I always feel released from the pressures of the city when I come up here. When we reached the house on the hill, an hour later or so, I was relaxed and at peace.

The first night was quiet. Dinner was delicious and we had some wine and just enjoyed the view of the lake but I noticed that the ringing in my ears was back, perhaps is never gone, only drowned by the noise of the city instead. It's a small price to pay for the years of abuse, I guess, but it unnerves me sometimes and here, it's the only black mark on the outing.

The Fabulous Bee was gunning towards us, but I had warned you about her infectious and destructive tendencies. You're more than a match for her, though, and all of us, Ty included, taught those people at Shooters that you don't have a good time by sitting on your ass and letting life drag you along with it. We all piled into one car and pointed it towards the valley and crept up on the fair. I can't help but think of Bradbury's 'Something Wicked This Way Comes' whenever I see a country fair, and here was no different. Well, there wasn't a freak show, being that in these modern and enlightened times, it's frowned upon to gather 'round and poke sticks at people who look funny. I would have spent my afternoon chasing around the field with no lack of things to poke, if that were the case. They came from all over, and I wasn't surprised to find Jensen in the middle of it, his hat putting him at the top of the poking list. The mood was pretty light all afternoon, the only exception being the inevitable excitement caused by that man passing out and the crowd who gathered to find out why. We ate too much crappy food and had a beer or two, only to look for some soft grass to lie on for a quick nap before things got crazy. And crazy they got before long.

The darkness came quickly and with it 40,000 people and finally the man himself hit the stage. I felt bad for you when we were in line for the bathroom and he played the only song you knew. That was one better than the Fabulous Bee, though, who was wondering when he was going on a half hour into the show. The point, I guess, wasn't the music but the event and that was when I began to feel rising in me a vague anxiety. In the beer tent, twenty feet from the bar with about five thousand people crushing in on us I began to feel a little cramped. Skip back up to the top for what happened next.

I had to get out. And the hour in the car afterwards didn't help, but you whispered me into a happy place and before long the black road was stretched out in front of us and The Fabulous Bee and Ty were sleeping in the back. My adopted family safe and warm.

The past and the future don't seem important when the life in front of you is so full of wonder and surprise, but the shock of coming home is lessened by the familiar and the comfort, and you and I understand something about pain and loss anyway. Now with the sun coming up, a new day to look forward to, it's so easy to understand why we laugh so much, so easy to find joy in a moment and so easy to just let go and enjoy ourselves. I still don't know your name, though. I'm working on it.

Summertime Blues

Well, the weekend is off to a roaring start, and will likely finish up in Shawville in front of Stompin' Tom. Yes, this months' roadtrip will take in a good chunk of the Ottawa valley then take a sharp turn across the border. Now is the time for long drives and short sleeps. Just a warning to all of you thinking about staying home; this could be it for the season.

As one season winds down into another the mind wanders across landscapes littered with the bodies of hot weekends past. This summer has been a good one for bodies. All of us have been particularly hard on ourselves this year but then again this year's been hard on us. I salute all of you who have made the trek with me from The Fabulous Bee to El Jefe, Rob , Sarah and Jod,Bradrienne, that mad Scot Tully to the Prophet, and the beautiful Claire. Without you all I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be here.

Don't anyone get sad or upset, however, because the new season is just beginning and with it comes England Dan, the nuptials of the Rev M.C. to the ice princess and a few more gigs with the whitest soul band on the planet. All is good, all is fine, in fact, all is all.

Next week I'll have the blow by blow, but for now let's get moving.

John Hiatt Isn't Always Right

The idea of letting loose the imagination, while sounding like a bit of a challenge, perfectly blends the composite parts of the mind at work. One half struggling to shake and rattle the chains which hold it fast in the face of comprehension and logic, the other wondering ,"What if? Sounds like a good time to me." So here goes. No forethought, no planning and certainly no time to stop and correct the spelling.

I went looking for an explanation of the word Jackanape after writing yesterday's quote from my friend C.G. and the answer was a disappointment for me. Such a wonderful word has its origins (Sorry, I have to step in here and cut this a little shorter-ed.) had a pet monkey on it and anonymous animals, man included, often get saddled with the name Jack. Add that most apes being imported to England through Naples and (Shorter!-ed.) I guess it seems likely that if you throw all three references into a pot, the coat of arms, the word Jack for anybody, and Naples Apes you might get Jack Napes or Jackanape. See what I mean? Not very satisfying.

(Two paragraphs deleted by the sure hand of my internal censor-ed.), which fell into the toilet and couldn't be retrieved. Socrates would have laughed his ass off.

That being said, the evolution of the dipstick has been thwarted by car manufacturers for reasons not entirely clear to the general public. If I spend thirty thousand dollars on a car I'm not going to put up with the dipstick breaking off in it's chamber. Check out the website, it's true. I never would have thought of using a magnet. (No one cares-ed.)

In the world of microbiotics, a recent study has shown that cells respond to external stimulus not the other way around. For example if you are experiencing anxiety, your body responds by flooding your system with norepinephrine. Similar to a state of arousal, this conditions is reflected in the actions taken by the cell afterwards. (More boring crap edited out-ed.) means is that your state of mind can influence your cellular behavior. In other words if you are not an anxiety ridden person your cells behave in a way that reflects no anxiety.

(La, la, la-ed.) which inevitably leads us into the cult of personality and hero-worship. Who is your hero and why? From a cultural point of view we have a couple of brands to choose from. The hero who represents our greatest achievements and then there are those who represent our great failures. (God I can on for hours about nothing eh?-ed.) heroes in the sense that we remember them, if not always in a good light. I've talked about Icarus before, the idiot child who tried to escape his bonds (This one again?-ed.) but forgot about the wax holding his wings together when he decided to fly to the sun. The moral is that you'd better not be coveting God's chair. Covet is what we do, though.

(Is it over? Thank the gods.-ed.)