There is a God in heaven, afterall. And he is a merciful God. Tinkerbell Hilton has been found at last! Chihuahua, author, blogger, thespian – this talented young canine was nearly torn from our collective grasp earlier this week. Quicker and more brutally than she probably snaps up her own poop after a wee squat. “Does baby need go poopie? Mommy like chokey dicky“.

I, for one, am breathing a sigh of relief that would register on a Fujita Scale. Tinkerbell’s upcoming literary debut, The Tinkerbell Hilton Diaries : My Life Tailing Paris Hilton, has been likened by critics – who’ve been lucky enough to see the work – to The Bell Jar. Had, of course, Sylvia Plath possessed a penchant for licking her own genetalia, I’d be more apt to believe such hype. But who’s to say? She was a strange broad.

Tinkerbell may very well be about to release a tome worthy of the great American literary canon. And probably a turd twice the size of her head in Paris’ $3,000 handbag. Which is OK – because you can be dammned sure there isn’t a copy of The Bell Jar in there.

During the DNC a couple of weeks ago, I commented on the sloppy and disturbingly blatant display of empty boots that were strewn across the steps of Government Center in an anti-war protest of sorts (empty boots = dead American soldiers, get it?) Now, while I have sworn to keep this blog as bi-partisan as possible, I recently found another article – posted on an admittedly right-leaning site – discussing it in more detail and including a great exchange of dialogue with one of the organizers. If you care, I’d like you to read it.

I am keeping it short and sweet today as my hosting company says my bandwidth is about to run out and they’ll be shutting me down. I have ordered another gigabyte per month but there may be a lapse – so if the site goes down briefly bear with me. I be blogging, biatch.

Another perfect reason to click the Google ads. Click the Google ads folks, I can’t stress this enough. I want you to click the shit out of those Google ads. Help fund your reading pleasure. And help me maintain my creative outlet so I don’t end up in a bell tower with a high-powered bolt-action rifle – anytime soon. Cheers.

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.