Pye in the Face

“I’m just terrified to get up on a stage with them all again… because no one has ever tested me like they did. You always had to be at the top of your game.” - Martin Short in the Toronto Star

First and foremost, I’d have to be a complete and utter jackass to presume I could effectively “review” an event of this magnitude, so please consider it a… loving memoir. A week ago tonight I had the severe pleasure of attending SCTV’s Benefit of Laughter, which was a charity event held to raise money for the Second City alumni fund. To say it was a hot ticket would be the biggest understatement of the 24 years since the beloved station stopped broadcasting in 1984. For two side-splitting performances SCTV was definitely back on the air - onstage in a small theatre in Toronto - and it was a wonderful sight to behold.

I let a week pass before sitting down to write about the night because I wanted to be able to consider, share and link to what other bloggers and the media wrote about the events. Surprisingly there is very little mention of the actual performances online - nothing, actually - and my site is getting the bulk of the related search engine traffic. I’d be writing the show up regardless, but now I feel obligated. So wish me luck, grab your Count Floyd 3D glasses and hang on to your toques.

An SCTV Reunion? Don’t Play With my Emotions Like That.
The Toronto Star interviewed all of the SCTV principals just before the two shows last week in what is probably the best pre-event article you’ll find. Catherine O’Hara (excited), Eugene Levy, Andrea Martin (scared), Joe Flaherty (sorta looking forward to it) and Martin Short were all obviously more than happy to perform together again and to raise money for their Second City peers. The Star did a wonderful job of ramping up to the event, so please read their piece for the full story.

I already mentioned a lot of the background and how my sister and I came to be VIPs for the event in a prior SCTV Reunion post. I’d love to be able to report that I’ve become Catherine O’Hara’s cabana boy, but alas - we paid our way in and sprung for the top tier tickies. I knew it was a great cause and once in a lifetime experience going into it, but after being there - I think I would have paid far more. Perhaps even hocked my Five Neat Guys LP collection. It was good.

Goin’ Down the Road
Although we originally drove from Ottawa for the event, my sister and I spent Sunday night at our cousin’s in Hamilton. We struck out for Toronto at around 5:30pm on Monday figuring 2.5 hours would be more than enough time to get into the city, drop my car off at a friend’s and then get a cab over to Second City. Toronto traffic, a bastard of a GPS system and one insane cab driver on mentholated schnapps later we were 10 minutes late for the show and just closing in on the location. May I suggest to Second City that in the future they print their address on tickets? Schnapps isn’t particularly good for one’s sense of direction. I’ll give them this, though - they actually called my sister’s cell phone to find out where we were and to make sure we knew how to get there. I know there was a long waiting list, so I’d like to thank them for taking that extra step and not giving our seats away.

We finally got there, were asked by the doorman if we were the “last two everyone is waiting for”, and were shown to our great seats just as the first sketch was starting. We were at a small table in the middle with a lovely couple who eventually introduced themselves as the director and his wife. Thank you for the nachos and Brian - well done, sir! He let on that he was a little nervous about how the show would play out and said that the cast had only one evening and one full day to rehearse and prepare. Since the show was over two hours long I can understand his concern. I noticed that the hysterical laughter surrounding him on all sides definitely had a calming effect. After the show, his super-friendly and lovely wife (whose name escapes me) told me that she mentioned to Eugene Levy and Martin Short that the people they were sitting with had come from Ottawa and they were quite impressed. And by “impressed” I of course mean “ready to file restraining orders”.

Let There be Laughter
How on Earth do I do justice to the actual show? I didn’t take notes - I thought some other blogger who was a bigger SCTV nerd than myself (it happens,) would cover all of the painstaking details. But they haven’t and all I hear are internet crickets. I’ll summarize my favorite sketches and anyone looking for more info or explication is free to leave comments or send me an email which I promise I’ll answer. Please limit your inquiries to the SCTV reunion, and not as to whether I’m a complete waste of space with a drinking problem.

• Meeting With the Teacher: Catherine O’Hara played an overwhelmed school teacher in the opening sketch who had called together the parents of her 4 worst students. The reasons behind the children’s struggles soon became very apparent. Edith Prickley, a grumpy Italian (Flaherty) a nerd (Levy) and a creepy dude reminiscent of Nathan Thurm (Short) made up the parents. O’Hara: “Where did your son get such a dirty mouth?” Flaherty: “How the fuck should I know?” Audience: “We are in absolute comedic and nostalgic bliss”. I’m allowed one James Lipton moment, no?
• The Job Interview: This sketch starts out with the big boss (Levy) introducing himself to a job applicant (O’Hara) and then asking if it’s OK if they have a group interview to save time. He then says that the other applicant will be arriving shortly. At this point, I leaned forward and whispered to my sister “I bet Ed Grimley’s gonna come through that door”, and wouldn’t you know it - he did. I lost it and had my first of many laughing fits complete with streaming tears. And guess who got the job? O’Hara’s parting line to Grimley: “You’ll be in my prayers, sir.”
• The Variety Show: Although I’m still miffed Count Floyd was absent from the show, if Bittman and Maudlin hadn’t made an appearance I might have gone on a tri-province shooting spree. The first of two references to John Candy was made when Sammy Maudlin mentioned how much he missed having William B. as his sidekick. Bobby Bittman came out to plug his new book “Born Lying Down” and the segment was topped off by a visit from Jackie Rogers Jr. and Lola Heatherton - fresh from being booted off dancing with the stars. They proceeded to demonstrate their final routine as I proceeded to snort Molson Canadian up my nose and then all over my brand new shirt.

This post is getting frighteningly long - those were my 3 favorites, but really just the tip of the iceberg. Colin Mocharie appeared in a sketch at a funeral for a man who died with his head in a can of pork and beans and also did an audience-suggestion improv bit with Martin Short and several members of the current Toronto Second City Cast as well as Women Fully Clothed. Robin Duke stole every scene she was in, by the way, and was very nice to me at the after party when I accosted her while she was getting a coffee. Joe Flaherty made sure everyone remembered John Candy when he mentioned him during the standing ovation and let everyone know just how much he was in their thoughts. “He’s here!” someone shouted from the audience, to which Joe smiled and said simply: “That’s right“.

After the Party Comes the After Party
We never touched our wallets during the entire performance and the after party next door at Wayne Gretzky’s was no exception. Tray after tray of hors d’ourves, wine, bottled water and pints made the rounds. Janet and I grabbed a couple of beverages and began to wander.

A backdrop had been set up for official photos to be taken, but none of the cast had appeared yet. The photographers, a pair of cool and bald twin brothers, asked us if we wanted a photo and we agreed, knowing full well they just wanted to test their apertures, f-stops and such. We ended up carving out a nice little spot for ourselves right near the impending action though, and even met a nice couple to chat with. It turns out Jack had been to my blog that very day when looking for info about the show. People tend to remember one-syllable last names that are synonymous with a dessert.

We weren’t allowed to take photos during the show, but my snaps from the party speak a thousand words, with one exception. My sister’s deceptive flash caused me to turn my head a second too early so Martin Short can now count himself as one of the lucky few to be photographed with the elusive sasquatch. All the cast members were happy to pose and chat with their fans, and the highlight of my life evening was managing to make both Mocharie and Flaherty laugh. Although it may have been nervously. Please enjoy the SCTV Reunion Gallery and I hope you enjoyed my affectionate write up. I’ll never forget the experience and count myself lucky to have been there.

More SCTV Reunion Stuff (as I find it):

• Interview on CityTV: Andrea Martin says the audience at the first show was like an extended family. Aw, shucks!
• 680 News Interviews: Audio interviews with several cast members before and after the show.
• Comics Pay tribute: Several well-known comedians explain why SCTV is so special to them.

Last summer belonged to, and was largely defined by, Operation Bunkhouse. With a new year, however, must come a new… operation. I have a nemesis for the summer of 2008, and it is my cluttered garage. Same building, new floor, same lack of solid construction skill. I now announce, introduce and dread - Operation: Garage.

Step one was to clean off the back wall and consolidate everything over to one side, allowing for a large, long set of shelves to be built along the back wall. That was completed today. Step two involves me gathering my father’s once impressive collection of tools and other equipment into an organized semblance of… respect. He was once the handiest man in the world, and to look at his belongings strewn around in messy disrepair is one of the saddest parts of this whole… dementia “thing”.

So I’ll bring these items them out of the basement, out of the attic, out of their boxes, out of the storage bins, out of obscurity - then sort and catalog them using this new set of shelves as the blank template. Power tools go here, lawn tools and equipment go here, welders (and there are several) go here… you get the idea. And then from this new order will hopefully spring the realization of my “becoming reasonably handy” dream. Not having to try 4 different drills in 4 separate closets in 4 different corners of the property before finding one which actually works will likely increase the frequency of me picking up said drill. And maybe even becoming a little more like the father I miss so very much.

Here is the first collection of Operation: Garage photographs from this morning. If DIY / home improvement stuff is your bag you will also definitely enjoy Operation: Bunkhouse. I will now commence a little side operation I like to call Mission: Painful Pressboard Palm Splinter Removal.

The Phoenix played host to one of the best double bills I’ve seen Wednesday night. Okkervil River technically opened for the New Pornographers, but both bands played power-packed sets that left my friends and the entire room more than… pornografied and okkervilled. The venue reminded me of the Paradise in Boston in the way that the main room is wider than longer, and no matter where you’re standing you have a great, close view.

When we got to the front door of the venue one of my peeps had a camera cord hanging out of her back pocket. Although we were all packing cameras, no one was patting people down so she was the only one who got nicked. The indecisive and dodgy doorman held us to one side for almost 10 minutes before he finally agreed she could hide her battery outside and we’d be allowed to go in with the camera. Due to that incident and the many warnings he gave us, none of us took any pictures. Perhaps someone else who was there has posted something online I can use. I’m a bit miffed about this because we were very close to the stage and I could have gotten some doozy video.

Okkervil opened with The President’s Dead and their energy was immediately apparent as the drummer, sitting low and immediately beside lead singer Will Sheff, mouthed along with the words while pointing playfully at audience members with his drumsticks until his cue to start playing. About four songs in they played a fast and rocky version of my personal favorite, A Girl in Port, which I thoroughly dug. Their hour long set wrapped up with the awesome For Real and I was so satisfied I felt like it was time to go home. But things were really just getting started.

The NP’s casually took the stage with the house lights still up and the crowd went wild. The band, based in Vancouver, has an enormous following up here and are one of the biggest internationally-successful Canadian bands ever. When I saw them open for Belle and Sebastian at Avalon in 2006, band member Neko Case was not on the tour with them, so Wednesday night was a new experience for me. Sure enough they played my jam, Bones of an Idol, as well as Slow Descent into Alcoholism (which should be my jam), Bleeding Heart Show and all of the other staples. The highlight for me was actually a cover. They pulled off a thoroughly engrossing version of “Don’t Bring Me Down” by E.L.O and I will never look at that song the same way again. I loved it and it was a perfect encore.

It’s been a long while since I’ve been to a concert, or to the T-Dot, and I couldn’t have asked for a better one. Well worth the drive to Toronto. We hit a gay strange bar after the show and the night ended on a very bizarre note for a variety of reasons, but it was a wonderful break nonetheless. Janet and I worked at Jason and Amy’s dining room table all day yesterday and I walked Marj down to Duff’s on Bayview for a take out lunch from my Mecca, Duff’s. When the veritable Vendittis got home we then we capped the trip off with a delicious dinner at Zucca before driving back East and getting into Portland around 12:30 am.

Now it’s Friday morning, my internet is down and I am writing this post in a notepad file until I hopefully upload it at a later time. I had planned to spend the weekend repairing and staining all the sections of our dock so they’re in tip-top shape to be installed in a couple of weeks when it warms up some more, but at this rate I’ll be inside on the computer catching up. Wicked. I’m rambling. Good concert and I missed my puppies.

As my Cadbury Cream Egg hangover slowly wore off this morning I remembered a little news item I’ve been saving for the right moment. Perhaps I’ve just been hesitant as I thought talking about it might jinx this historic and amazing event in some cosmically unfortunate manner. Because it’s literally amazing in a ‘pull your balls out on the subway and sing Happy Days are Here Again’ sort of way. Here’s the rub: My wonderful sister got wind of an SCTV Reunion a couple of weeks ago, and before even telling me about it she’d procured two tickets to the event May 5th at their 51 Mercer Street location in Toronto.

“I am thrilled to have this wonderful collection of Second City alums come home and support their colleagues and friends who may be experiencing some difficulties in their life.” - Andrew Alexander - Proprietor/Executive Producer

My inside (literally) source, whom I shall refer to as “magic 8 ball”, tells me that the charity event is to help Tony Rosato with his treatment and/or legal bills - it’s no secret that he is currently incarcerated at a mental hospital in Ontario. Although I’m sure he isn’t the only alumnus to fall on hard times, he’s certainly the most well known having been an original member of the SCTV troupe, and he also spent 2 seasons (1980 & 81) on Saturday Night Live as a writer and performer. Here he is performing a skit with Robin Duke in 1979 - who can forget Crazy Crafts with Molly Earl ?

Tony is and was a very funny man and for a while Lorne Michaels had very high, Belushi-esque, hopes for him. He apparently suffers from Capgras Syndrome which is a delusional belief that a friend or loved one’s body has been taken over by an imposter, Invasion of the Bodysnatchers style. It’s no joke, I wish him all the best and although I’m quite certain there are many who’d be happy to take my place now that the event is sold out - I’m very happy to be able to contribute to his cause. Here’s Tony with Eugene Levy doing Abbott and Costello, also from the early series #3.

As if simply being at an SCTV Reunion wasn’t enough, I was further gob smacked to learn that my dear old Sis sprung for the top tier tickets which get us into a private cocktail reception with the cast. So we’ll be having drinks and hobnobbing with the likes of Martin Short, Eugene Levy, Joe Flahrety, Dave Thomas, Catherine O’Hara and Andrea Martin. Colin Mochrie will also be performing and I imagine lots of other Canadian Comedians will be on hand to support the cause. Will I finally get to meet Aykroyd? Will Marty do Jackie Rogers Jr. for me? Will I be escorted out while howling loudly like Count Floyd? All signs point to “yes“.

“God damn them all! I was told, we’d cruise the seas for American gold
We’d fire no guns! Shed no tears!
But I’m a broken man on a Halifax pier
The last of Barrett’s Privateers”

- Stan Rogers’ Barrett’s Privateers

Jonothan Richman came to Guelph in 1994 and I went to see him at the almighty Albion hotel for what ended up being one of my favorite concerts of all time. The chap who opened up for him, and I wish I could remember his name, did a jaw-dropping acapella version of Stan Roger’s Barrett’s Privateers that will stay with me forever. This incredible song grabbed me by the short and curlies right away, and after hearing it in the car the other day on one of my Dad’s CDs I knew I had to write about it. Every version of this song is acapella, actually, as that is how Rogers intended it, and here is a very grainy video of him singing it around a kitchen table from a documentary entitled One Warm Line which you can watch in its entirety by clicking the link.

Rogers was killed in an airliner fire on June 2, 1983 when he was exactly my age, 34 years young. There are unsubstantiated claims that he made it off of the Air Canada flight on the ground in Cincinnati but succumbed to smoke inhalation after going back in to rescue other passengers. Like that story, Rogers’ music immediately gets under your skin and if you’re Canadian the subject matter - primarily ye olde maritime sailing culture based - is uniquely of this country and stands to provide a wonderful history lesson. I had no idea, for example, that there was such a thing as a Canadian pirate which is a loose way to describe Privateers. But I’m not going to regurgitate everything I’ve just read. You won’t find a better explication of the song and the history behind it than Dan Conlin’s:

“There was no Elcid Barrett. There was no Antelope sloop and there wasn’t even a town of Sherbrooke in the year of 1778. Stan Rogers basically made up an imaginary privateer to carry a 60s anti-war theme in a traditional folk setting. Having said all that, many of the details, ranging from the type of cannons mentioned to the letter of marque reference, are very authentic.”

Back in the golden years of sailing, once you were on a ship you were on a ship, and as part of the crew you were doomed to follow orders and obey regardless of how you felt about missions that were called on the go - lest you walked the plank or spent the rest of the long voyage eating rats in the hold. And many ‘conscripts’ were downright lied to about their intended purpose. Barrett’s Privateers tells the story of a naive young Nova Scotian who boarded a ship under the promise they would fly under a legal English charter (letter of marque) and inconvenience the burgeoning American navy by by stealing cargo. But Barrett had other ideas, and the song goes on to describe the mental anguish felt by the ‘broken’ protagonist when he finally makes it back to his Halifax pier.

The song is available for purchase on Amazon, and I encourage anyone who owns an album by the Decemberists to check out the late, great Stan Rogers in greater detail. There is also a Facebook petition devoted to getting Stan a star on the Canadian walk of fame and it’s good to see I’m not the only “younger” Canuck spreading the word about this great musician and his ongoing influence.

All too frequently, people use their blogs to bitch about things. I try very hard not to do that, exclusively. Although I’m about to do a bit of whingeing, ultimately this post was inspired by WestJet’s amazing customer service. The old adage goes something like… Do something nice for someone and they’ll tell a few close friends. Do something bad and they’ll tell anyone who’ll listen. Well - I’m attempting to do the opposite here.

When I flew down to Boston in early November for my citizenship ceremony, I had a flight booked with Air Canada to fly down on Tuesday and return on Friday. After I booked the flights I found out that two friends of mine were driving 9 hours from D.C. to be in Boston for my swearing in and it was meant to be somewhat of a surprise. Not only that but they had made plans to stay the weekend too. Now, if someone drives 9 hours to sit in a boring 3-hour ceremony on your behalf - that’s a friend. I also discovered that my sister had organized a little party on the Friday night. Long story shorter, I absolutely had to change my return flight to Sunday.

Air Canada raked me over the coals. By the time I got off the phone with them I found myself sitting on the couch in shock - having just spent an additional $600 to change the flight having already spent $600 on a round trip ticket a few weeks before. With taxes and all that good stuff two short flights to and from Boston ended up costing me nearly $1500 dollars. I’ll just let that sit with you for a second…

Looking for alternative airlines, my Mother suggested WestJet. She knew from experience that they had a direct flight from Ottawa to Orlando. To get to Orlando on Air Canada (which I did 2 weeks ago for Christmas) not only do you have to sell a kidney but you have to first fly to Toronto, find your baggage, go through customs, go through airport security for a second time and then by the grace of God make your connecting flight. Same deal on the way back a week ago. So when my Mother recently told me her cancer had returned and she needed me down there again by January 15th to take care of my Father while she had her second surgery for this goddamnned fucking bastard of a disease, I sighed audibly. Then I remembered WestJet.

I booked a round-trip flight on WestJet.com back to Florida 6 days ago as soon as I returned from there. The fare was so low that when I CC’d the neighbor who is looking after my cat on the itinerary she called me to ask how I’d managed to get such a low fare. It was almost half of what Air Canada would have charged for a semi-last minute booking. My Mother called me yesterday to tell me that her surgery had been moved from the 15th to the 9th - so immediately I envisioned a good part of my savings flying out of the window like a flock of seagulls. I mean, that’s what I’m used to, right?

Not only did WestJet get me on a flight this coming Monday when I called them an hour ago, they agreed to put my return ticket into a credit because I don’t know when I’ll be able to return. Did the last minute change to Monday have a fare increase? Unfortunately, yes. $20 fucking dollars. Not only that, but when I briefly mentioned the reason for my schedule change, Chantal unflinchingly said she was going to waive the normal fee for that which would have come in at close to $100. I was speechless.

WestJet’s routes are currently limited, I was sad to discover they don’t fly to Boston, for example, but the agent told me they were adding new destinations all the time. Check out their current routes and do yourself a favor - fly WestJet. I’ll update this post with some details from the actual flight experience when I get to FLA.

In addition to my vertitable busloads of imaginary friends, with their wee purple wingys and tails that leave stingys, I’m sure at least a couple of my American pallies will make the drive. To see my puppies. What luck then that the USA has decided to delay the much maligned Western Hemisphere Travel Initiative!

If you’ve never been outside of the USA, or are otherwise American, (hey now!) the WHTI is a new Yank law, already in place for air travel obviously, which will eventually require all Canadians (and Americans) who are entering the U.S. to have a passport or other secure identity document. Gone are the days of drivers’ licenses and Super Sexe. But gone when, exactly ? How about 18 months? That’s an 18 month delay on a huge pain in the ass that was supposed to go into effect Tuesday. However - violent, un-American, random, invasive, unfair and enormously effective racial profiling is sure to continue.

December 15th, 2007 saw the umpteenth annual Best Buddies’ Christmas Party at Jason and Amy’s house in Toronto. Thank you for the hospitality guys, and I’m glad I was finally in the country for one of these. It was no surprise that I had my video camera on hand for most of the weekend and last night I edited the gargantuan mess into what you’ll see below: Among other things, very cute kiddies, a bad game of fetch, home made Baileys, Sears Portrait Studio, spanking, bad language and my goofy laugh way too close to the microphone. Please for to enjoy…

Merry Christmas again to all my friends and family who read this silly blog, and I love you’se all. Thanks to Amy for the amazing decorating job and I suppose Jason played a role in the party production too. The accompanying photo gallery can be found here.

After 10 years of living in the North End, small town vignettes are not something I’m particularly accustomed with. That is probably why they stick out to me like sore thumbs. I drove in to Portland today for two purposes - to send a package at the post office and pick up some groceries. I decided to hit the post office first and walked into the foyer to discover they were closed. Yesterday was Remembrance Day so I knew it wasn’t a holiday-related closure. And the hours clearly read 8-5 so I was perplexed. There were two old men in the foyer opening their respective mailboxes and one of them finally muttered “something… something… 1:30“. I nodded like I’d actually understood what he’d said and walked back to my car.

After putting the items to be shipped back in the Charga I walked over to the little Grocery store on the main drag. A nice lady greeted me and I quickly asked her if there was any reason the Post Office was closed. Without missing a beat she replied “Mike’s on his lunch break until 1:30“. As I only had 15 minutes to wait I did my shopping and by the time I had put my groceries in the car I could see Mike, whom I’d never met before, puttering around with the post through the front window. I walked in, selected a big padded envelope and wrote out the destination and return addresses. I handed it over to Mike who glanced at it and asked “Did your parents get off to Florida like they’d planned?” I was shocked as I live a good 10 minute drive away… in the woods. But that’s small town life for you, and it’s growing on me.

I can’t help but wonder who I’d be speaking to if I ever had to call 911. The O.P.P. polices towns like mine which are too small to warrant their own forces and the closest station I know about is 15 minutes away in Smiths Falls. Would Gomer Pyle be the responding officer who arrived half an hour after my cat and I had already been hacked into a dozen pieces by an escaped lunatic? What if my imaginary girlfriend’s period attracts bears? I think Pumpkinhead may also be buried in the mound which makes up a good chunk of my mother’s garden. Good heavens, I need me a 12 gauge if I’m ever going to build that still.

I got the results of my boat license test back today, and your boy Dave scored a whopping 94%. That’s 34 out of 36 questions correct. The questions I got wrong were “How do you properly dry a life jacket?” There were 4 photos to choose from a) a life jacket beside a radiator. b) a life jacket on a clothesline. c) a life jacket on a coat hanger and d) a life jacket in a dryer. I chose the clothesline, as that’s the way we do it here in Portland, but the correct answer was apparently the coat hanger. Yes, I am still scratching my head as well. But I think the O.P.P. will look the other way on that slip up.

The second incorrectly answered question was “Which one of these buoys means to watch out for swimmers?” The cartoons included the “Diver Down” flag made famous by the similarly titled Van Halen record, a white stick, a green buoy and a red buoy. Now, everyone knows the red and green ones are channel markers and the pure white one looked really unimpressive and not at all conducive to keeping kids from being turned into chum, so I went with Diver Lee Roth. After all… a diver underwater is a swimmer, right? Wrong. It turns out that the plain white is the one meant to protect human life on a bright sunny summer afternoon. Now I know, and knowing is ha… (bump) … what was that? It’d be easier to see if you painted it blue and chained it a foot under the surface.

Writing may be sporadic over the next week. If you’re a Boston-based friend, call my old number to get the new one from the voicemail message. Godspeed to myself, on land, sea and air.

I’ll be heading into Boston tomorrow at 3pm for the first time in quite a while, and obviously I’m beyond excited to see my friends, attend my buddy’s wedding and finally have a Harpoon IPA. Words cannot begin to describe how much I have missed this particular beverage, and I’ll likely be marinated in it like an over sized steak tip by the time I return to Canada. To say I miss Boston would be true, but not all that much to be totally honest. I’ll be back again in October for business and by the time the snow flies I’ll have likely had enough to last me through the winter. What I will miss is Thanksgiving at the infamous Red House in Concord - but what are you gonna do? It’s been sold and that last bastion of high-school hijinks is now ancient history. I’m sure the boys will come up with another bastion.

Today I am taking my father to the International Plowing Match in Crosby, Ontario. I went once when I was a tadpole and remember it being a big fair laid out like a town with streets of vendors hawking tractor toys and fried dough. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get my work done to ensure that I don’t have to miss the Queen of the Furrow Crowning Banquet later this evening. You can’t win if you don’t attend.

There are many hotels in Amsterdam to choose from when traveling in Europe and getting the best price for your stay online. There is a list of Rome hotels that shows how nice European hotels are like when visiting Barcelona or any other part of the world. You can save the most on hotels in Rome and Amsterdam hotels when you research online.

Vincent: You know what they put on French fries in Holland instead of ketchup?
Jules: What?
Vincent: Mayonnaise.
Jules: Goddamn.
Vincent: I’ve seen ‘em do it, man. They fucking drown ‘em in that shit.

I’ve been in Canada for almost 7 weeks now, and I’ve been keeping a mental checklist of the “little differences” that I’ve noticed to date. Although I’ve spent a lot of time up here over the last 33 years, I haven’t been fully immersed like this in over a decade. Here are some subtle little day-to-day observations I’ve been collecting.

1. Condiments: Vinegar and gravy are available absolutely everywhere. Swiss Chalet sauce is making a bigger impression on me than bathtub meth. You never have to ask for ketchup.

2. Traffic: Is awful. Toronto traffic is at the levels that LA is famous for. An enormous, sprawling city of highways and overpasses. You can traverse the 401 to the North, or the Gardiner Expressway to the South - but either way, unless it’s between 2am and 3:30am, you’re sitting bumper-to-bumper for hours.

3. Traffic Laws: You can turn right on a red light. Some States (Florida, etc.) allow this but it’s a no-no in Massachusetts. I love it. I get back little snippets of time that make up for some of the traffic jams.

4. HBO Surprises: One of the first things I did when I got up here was figure out which of the cable channels was linked to HBO so I could be sure to see the last episodes of the Sopranos. The channel in question is called MMX, and their programming is quite unique. You have all your first run blockbusters during the day, but as soon as the clock strikes 11pm Harry Potter and the Prizoner of Azkaban is replaced promptly by Saving Ryan’s Privates. I’m talking full-on, hardcore pornography on a channel that five minutes before might have been showing Entourage. It’s simply fabulous.

5: Pizza: Canadians don’t know what a cheese pizza is. I think ordering a plain pie must be some sort of taboo which is done in private clubs in North York. Bacon is a big seller. As is BBQ sauce, feta cheese, sun dried tomatoes, hamburger and my new favorite topping - green olives.

6: Tattoos: Everybody has one.

I’ll keep adding to this list as I notice more of them. Feel free to chime in.

Alone in a big four bedroom house is how I spend my days, working in Janet’s old room which has been converted into a makeshift office. I’ll be here at least another month, and the silence, after 7 years of living with roommates, is beautiful. All I have to do is look after the pool and keep the place clean should one of the real estate agents want to drop in suddenly with prospective buyers. It seems easy, and it was - until the most horrible smell infiltrated the top floor. We’re talking corpse-worthy, here. First 48, vaporub under the nostrils type smell.

The main realtor, Linda, is in constant contact with my mother who is 4 hours away at the lakehouse. Linda and my mother are convinced I’m going to leave a granola bar wrapper out, thus blowing a sale. So I am doing everything in my power to prove them wrong. So far so good. Needless to say, a gag-worthy, phantom stench is definitely a left turn away from the goal. I checked everywhere - the garbage, the cat litter, under the beds, the toilet tank, all of the cupboards, the attic. I settled on “dead animal” and started combing the vents and any other small place not in my pants that something small could get lodged in and then pass away.

I can obviously only drag this tale out for so long. I discovered the source of the stench while changing Boss’ food and water dish. I thought it was strange that he hadn’t been eating, but would never have assumed that some water from one half of his double dish got over onto the food side and created a nasty chemical reaction that would have make Louis Pasteur retch. It was retched, black and dark green and took only 3 days to manifest.

As soon as the offending goop was flushed - voila. The stank was gone, just like that, and I was able to leave for the weekend, secure in the knowledge that my house-sitting rep was safe. That is until I got home and found the pool had stopped filtering in my absence. You haven’t lived until you’ve stuck your hand in to a skimmer full of dead baby mice up to the wrist. But that is another story. That I may masturbate to later.

In the middle of all this “I’m so busy… Waaah - I’m moving internationally, change my drawers” bullshit, I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself. I get daily IMs and emails asking me why I have the fucking audacity to stop writing regularly. So, in spite of the imminent re-imagining of PITF, which is truthfully well underway and even paid for - I will continue to write. I am honored that any frigger still cares.

I am truly in the belly of the beast this eve. Less than 100 miles away lies the Capital city of Canada, my place of birth in 1973, whose Senators hockey team is in the running for the first Canadian Stanley Cup since 1993 - That’s 14 frigging years for anyone keeping score. For comparative purposes, that’s like the USA not being the champion of inventing chewing tobacco for almost 15 years straight. Brutal, I know.

The end of my Grandmother’s street (I am living alone at her house with Boss until it is sold) has “Bring it home to Canada, Sens!” written in children’s street chalk at the intersection. At least 5 out of every cars I pass have a little Sens flag waving out the window. Every time my beloved Uncle John and I meet for a beer, there are pubs full of Senator shirt clad fans everywhere. It’s a typically quiet and reserved Canadian event of incredible importance.

Anaheim is now ahead in the series 3-1 as of 5 minutes ago, and the series is returning Wednesday to California - which isn’t great for the odds. Home ice and one more win and it’s over. But I’ll be watching, and I pray for continued serendipity relating to my move home. Go Sens, and go my bid on a Charger tomorrow in the auction.

I’ve arrived safe and sound in Canada, and am splitting my time between Burlington and Portland as time and duty allows. I can’t begin to summarize the last 3 weeks properly in the amount of time I have to devote to the blog today, so I’ll instead point you to a couple of FaceBook galleries where I have been uploading and writing captions for all the post-move photos to date. You may choose between a general gallery covering moving, cleaning, garage sales and revelry - or a photo essay documenting phase one of last weekend’s Operation Bunkhouse. Click a photo and scroll through like a sideshow to see the captions. The thumbnails alone aren’t nearly as interesting.

I made a down payment today to my new favorite web designer to thoroughly revamp and re-envision this silly website to which I have grown so attached over the last three years. Reese recently redid my dog sweater site, andf I have the utmost faith in her abilities. So fear not, dear reader (if there any of you left). I shall return with a lukewarm vengeance.

Electronica ‘musician’ Moby keeps blathering away in a journal on his website, and in typical Streisand style does little else but lament the election and bash George W. Bush. He’d like to secede to Canada, and bring most of the Northeastern USA with him. I think I’d like to address his wishes on Canada’s behalf, if I may.

“Dear Canada,

Now, more than ever, your neighbor to the south (aka-the blue states) needs you. most of us living in the Northern and Western parts of the United States don’t feel very connected to the rest of the U.S, so can we bring our states and become part of Canada?”

In a word, “no”. I can’t speak for every frostback on snowshoes, but your desire to flee to the Great White North reminds me of that little kid in my neighborhood who owned the baseball all us other runts used to play with. If you didn’t get to play first base - which was each and every time you asked due to the fact that you were a spineless, scrawny weakling with the athletecism of a bowl of warm potato salad - you’d take the ball and go home. This would leave the rest of the kids stuck searching the field for a suitably sized rock to take the ball’s place. Or to knock over a sports store with an Entertech.

“The benefits to you: …in one fell swoop you can have Southern California and New York City! surfing in Canada! suddenly the U.N. is on Canadian soil! Broadway is suddenly in Canada! you could then say that Canada is the birthplace of jazz and hip-hop!”

Courtesy of The Spectator

I want Robert Redford, Moby and the thousands of other Americans who’ve thrown their hats into the ring for Canadian citizenship since the election to know that you’ll be getting in the cue with everyone else. And you can’t bring any of your states with you either - because real citizens have fought for hundreds of years to keep every last inch of them free. It’s completely illegal and utterly impossible for Bush to run again. If you revile him so very much, buckle down and do something positive to get your party back in power. Stay where you are, in the amazing country in which you were lucky enough to be born, and stop acting like a 2-year-old with a heat-stick in his diaper. So you know - Canada is the most nationalistic country on the planet, and we’re most certainly not accepting phony, fairweather pseudo-patriots at this point in time. I’m sure you’ll be more than welcome in North Korea.

“Accepting this offer will give you more good karma than you’d know what to do with (because you would instantly make 120 million people VERY happy). So you get warm beaches, tons of cash, and good karma.”

Please don’t talk to me about karma, Moby. You’re probably the only visiting performer in history to get your ass kicked in front of the Paradise. People CAME TO YOUR SHOW just to kick your ass. Now - if I needed advice on how to get my head to resemble that of a Gashlycrumb Tiny or how to score a commercial for Audi, Reebok, American Express, Motorola or the Gap - Moby would be near the top of my list of people to call. Keep rebelling against all things corporate, my bald anti-establishment brother.

“Please let us know if you accept the offer. Given our enthusiasm to join Canada it’s safe to say that the details of the offer could probably be worked out in an afternoon.”

Canada? Are you listening? Do you mind if I jump in real quick and handle this one? I’m already down in Boston, and I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than talk to this snivelly Powder lookalike. Great! Thanks.

Moby, I’ll eternally savor being the one who gets to tell you to “fuck off“. Eh?

My parents are attempting to build a house on 2 acres of land near Portland Ontario. It’s been a long, arduous process which has taken four summers now. Thursday, they finally broke ground with an approved blueprint and the blessings of Parks Canada (or the Lake Nazis as my father calls them) and we were there!

Here are the first shots of our new as-of-yet-unamed house (I’m leaning towards “Graceland North”):

Note the awesome view of the Big Rideau Lake in the left photo, and the trailer in the background on the right. That trailer has been their home since we sold our house in Marlboro in 2000, and I for one am extremely excited to have a house - or even a muddy pit as the case may be. OK. As the case is - back in the family once again.

And let’s talk about my father’s new glasses for a moment. We spent the weekend calling him a mix of Corrado Soprano (left) and Bubbles (right) and he gleefully posed (in character, mind you) for both photos.

Speaking of Bubbles, I now have my little British cousin, Josh - thoroughly addicted to Trailer Park Boys. We watched every episode of seasons 1 & 2. And the outtakes. And the deleted scenes. Then we just stared at the DVD case for a while. I may have an obsession. But there are worse things to be obsessed with. Like clown porn, for example.

A more healthy obsession of mine has got to be garlic. I’ve loved it since I was old enough to say the word, and when our neighbors and longtime friends Steve and Judy (who own a beautiful house just down the road from our bomb crater) suggested we take a trip to the Perth Garlic Festival on Saturday, I was in the car faster than you can say “Sweet mother of God, what is that awful garlicky stink?”

When we paid our $5 and got inside, I noticed an abundance of chip wagons - and knew there must be poutine in the vicinity. Chalk up another new vice for Josh. But it’s hardly surprising since he’s used to English food and I’ve seen him go nuts for boullion cubes. After we “shared” an order (notice him murdering a few forkfulls on the left while Janet makes a strange face in the background) I got my own and kept him at bay with threats of grevious bodily harm. Then, the fever spread and Janet got herself a batch which Josh then proceeded to pilfer. The two of them were lucky enough to get their picture taken with “Clovey”, the festival mascot. It’s good to see Clovey back on the garlic circuit after his well publicized battle with heroin, which I’m not going to retread here.

It was also my parent’s 38th wedding anniversary this past weekend, and Steve and Judy hosted a wonderful Retsina/Port/Merlot/Champagne fueled dinner which was more fun than I’ve had in a while.

After dessert was cleared away, my parents shared conflicting accounts of the night they met. My mother’s version involves a city called “Fruitland“, a sock hop and another man. My father’s spin features cutting someone off in his Plymouth, student nurses and guarding a case of beer with his life. The line that went on to win my mothers’ heart?: “If I give you a beer, will you shut up?” My sister and I agreed - our conceptions were the holiest of miracles.

We wrapped up the trip with a good old-fashioned camp fire for which Janet and Josh went out in search of S’More fixings. Unable to find the traditional graham crackers and Hershey bars, they improvised with chocolate chip cookies and Aeros. I got a cavity just watching them try to slap them together once their marshmallows were roasted. And insanely jealous as well as fatter.

The swimming, the boating, the holiday hijinks - it’s all over for another summer. But I dare not shed a tear, as I know that next summer Graceland North will be in full effect. And I won’t have to worry about sleeping on an outhouse floor to get away from mosquitos. That’s artistic license, of course, as I stayed in a comfy bed at Steve and Judy’s and the closest I came to roughing it was watching 48 Hours in French.