A day in the life of...my dog

4:30 am: Wake owner for no apparent reason with a paw to the face. Immediately resume sleeping at the end of the bed.

6:30 am: Again paw owner in the face.

7:45 am: Finally rouse owner from bed. Run to the door for a bathroom break.

7:48 am: Return inside, demanding breakfast.

7:49 am: Scratch head with hind foot.


7:50 am: Finish food. Demand access to the great outdoors once again. Hound owner into hour long walk.

8:40 am: Owner finally ready to leave. Bark and spin in circles.

8:41 am: Sniff everything along the walking path. Chase unwary pedestrians and attack all cyclists. Eat and/or roll in anything particularly revolting. Run away from owner.

9:41 am: Nap in the truck, or in the house. Guard toys against all comers. Awaken at any noise to enforce territory.

10 am-2 pm: Sporadic napping, with the occasional drink break. Slobber water all over the floor.
2 pm: demand another walk. Follow owner around whining until successful.

2:30 pm: Repeat activities from morning walk. Find disgusting bone in the woods. Refuse to return home without it.

3:30 pm-3:35 pm: Chew bone contentedly for several minutes. Abandon, never to be touched again unless another dog shows interest.

3:36 pm- 6 pm: Nap.

6 pm: Demand supper. Accept no alternatives. Demand scraps of the owner's supper as well.

7 pm: Nap.

9 pm: One last adventure into the great outdoors. Bark at odd sounds in the darkness.

9:30 am-4:30 am: Nap.

Repeat.

Mike Holmes for Prime Minister

Is it just me, or are scandals getting a little old?

Was anyone honestly surprised when allegations began to surface about Tory subterfuge? I certainly wasn’t. In fact, I really don’t even consider it news.

Most Canadians don’t, either. We could care less. Federal advertisements funded by regional ridings? They only folks up in arms are Elections Canada employees, and we all know what Mr. Harper does to public servants who dare stand in his way.

We, as a democratic society, voted one set of politicians into power over another. Perhaps the House of Commons should try reversing the seating, because something is obviously wrong with the chairs. Or perhaps it’s the air. Maybe the offices they occupy.

Whatever the cause, politicians in power, or fighting for power, do dirty things. We Canadians are so used to it, it doesn’t even cross our radar. Complicated financial transfers can’t hold a candle to the NHL playoffs.

Until I rule the country with my iron fist, the wheels of government aren’t about to change, and the most common axel grease going is scandal.

So I guess it’s time to curl up on the couch and watch Don Cherry. Hoping against hope he doesn’t run for public office.

If you really want to get my attention, call in Mike Holmes to clean out all the shoddy work that’s been rotting away in our government. Nothing like a man in overalls sporting a sledgehammer to get the real work done.

Montreal Canadiens and Boston Bruins attempt to make Canadian Olympic Diving Team

I know it's an Olympic year and all, but all this diving is getting a little old.

It's rather ironic, really. The crackdown on interference calls has turned crews of tough guys into off-balance imbeciles. Go down, draw the penalty, be the hero, right?

Wrong. At least, wrong in my book.

A period can't go by in the Canadiens-Bruins series without a coincidental minor (or three) where one player commits an infraction, and the opposing team is called for the dive. I don't think it's a matter of whistle-happy officials trying to make a point, either.

Maybe my mind was slipping. Maybe I'd forgotten that these types of calls had been made all season.

Oh wait, they were. And most players learned their lesson. That lesson being that the referees are going to call any and all interference calls (sometimes even the imaginary ones) but if you add a little flair to your fall, you're going to the box as well.

I watched the Wild-Avalanche game immediately following the Bruin's victory in Game Five. Not a dive to be seen.

Sometimes I wonder if Alex Despatie has been secretly coaching hockey.

Now, it could just be all this cold weather out west has the ice feeling extra hard, and the boys don't feel like executing the embellishments the boys back east have been perfecting. I don't buy that.

I'd like to make the suggestion that Montreal and Boston forwards watch the highlights from games around the country right now. Watch the players that are skating hard, working hard, completely focused on their goal: Lord Stanley's Cup.

I'm not saying that other teams are playing harder, or want to win more; I'm merely suggesting that other teams are willing to stand up and play the game the way it's meant to be played. On their feet.

Both Boston and Montreal are slipping on their defensive coverage,and slipping badly. Whomever gets back to basics will come out victorious in game seven.

Enough of the theatrics, boys. Save those for soccer players and touchdown celebrations. Six games in, and you're giving credence to the old definition of insanity: repeating the same action and expecting different results.

These are the playoffs. If you want to win the Cup, it's much easier to do so on your feet and out of the penalty box.

Got Snow?

2008 brought record wintery weather to Canada's eastern provinces. Snow, snow, everywhere.

That's all well and good if you're a snowplow driver, a three year old, or a snowmobile fanatic. For most people, it means increased complaining and more visits to the chiropractor.

I'm not surprised that many people are out in their yards, battling the snow demons, longing desperately for spring to begin. However, some people are more intelligent about it than others.

In my little mountain town, we received over 4 metres of snow this winter. Piled up in snowbanks, snowblown into the street, it's now beginning to melt. Now, spring arrives much more quickly here in the West. Sometimes it seems the green just appears overnight. It's a much faster process than I remember from my East Coast childhood.

Still, residents can't wait to see the snow go. It is not uncommon, therefore, to see many a person out in their front yard come March and April, breaking up the remaining snowbanks and scattering the remains on their driveways and the streets to melt on the sun-warmed pavement.

Actually I thought it was quite ironic the first year I moved here. People spent months shoveling snow onto their lawns, and then another month shoveling it back off.

Perhaps they need to take a glimpse at what Quebec City residents are doing to get rid of their snow. Why shovel when you can spray?

The city has issued a formal warning to residents to stop watering their snowbanks.

Now, normally you water things and they grow, right? Not snowbanks. Apparently some residents were tired of shoveling, and decided that the melting process would be increased more with water.

Somewhere right now, in this world, there is a thirsty, dirty person who would walk many kilometres just to have a taste of the type of water Quebec residents are wasting on their snowpiles. People who have never had a clean glass of water, or clean clothes, or a bath in pristine shininess.

So perhaps it's time the residents of Quebec City, and the rest of us, enjoy the snow while we have it. Not only that, but conserve the rest of the water we so frequently take for granted.

Some places in the world, people would kill to have what we simply spray away.

The illness didn't go away, it got worse.

I have returned to Revelstoke safely. I am still chained to the couch.

More later.

Nashville couch potato

I bet many interesting things happened in Nashville today.

I have no idea what any of them are, mainly because I spent the entire day on the couch. Fever and aching, writing a horrible song and reading most of Cash's autobiography.

Tomorrow morning, we head off to Memphis. I'm not sure how often I'll be in contact then, until we return late Tuesday or early Wednesday. Here's hoping that whatever this is has disappeared overnight.

Music City Insomnia

I’d like to think that I’m so full of creative energy and inspiration that I can’t sleep. That’s why I’m here, typing away on a laptop while everyone else snores away inside the relative safety of their earplugs.

It’s been more than two years since sleep has come easy, though, so the insomnia of this road week is not unexpected, or even unwelcome. I’ve had only one week of restful sleep in the past few months, and it was over entirely too soon.

Today, Stephanie and I wound our way through the Country Music Hall of Fame. Even if you are not a fan of country music, there is a deep and residing respect that grows as you learn about the birth and influence of such a deeply ingrained part of North American culture.

Plus, there are sequins. Lots and lots of sequins.

The rain had reduced itself to a drizzle, the threatening thunder of the afternoon passing us unscathed for the most part. As much as I like to eat delicious healthy food, there are some things that just have to be done while in America.

So we hit Fat Moe’s, the greasiest hole in the wall burger joint in Nashville. I had a half Moe, which was the double burger, with their seasoned fries and the largest cup of Pepsi I had ever seen.

Moe didn’t disappoint. I could feel my arteries clogging with every bite. Only in America.

That was on our way to the one and only Bluebird Café. If you haven’t heard of it, well, it’s a tiny club in a strip mall. Unlike many of the city’s more famous hangouts, the Bluebird is located out in suburbia, and is rather non-descript.

Ask any songwriter to name the most influential establishment they could wish to play in North America, and nine times out of ten this place would be it.

The Café has live music seven nights a week. Open mics are on Mondays, and it’s sheer luck if you get up on the stage. If you do get up there, you might be performing with and in front of some of the biggest names in this city. It is an absolutely electrifying venue.

The motto at the Bluebird is SHHH. Unlike many coffeehouses or bars, this place is completely about the music. There’s hell to pay if you even whisper while a performer is doing their thing. Heaven help you if you forget to turn off your cell phone and you get a call.

Tonight, the late show featured two of this town’s heavy hitters – Skip Ewing and Hugh Prestwood – along with Garrison Starr, a relatively unknown woman with a voice that killed.

Two wordsmiths at the top of their game and a woman who has been on the verge of success for years made for an interesting evening. Skip and Hugh obviously knew what they were doing, and loved doing it.

I was most impressed with Garrison. She sounded like Jann Arden, if Jann Arden were ever hung over and REALLY pissed off. With a southern drawl. Her upfront honesty and edginess were a welcome relief from the cookie cutter commercialism of the Nashville hit machine.

Now it’s one in the morning, and I’m typing this. Thinking that I heard too many love songs tonight, that it could be the reason I’m resting this way instead of drooling on my pillow.

I’m going to go pick up a pen and see what comes out.

Don’t be disappointed if it’s only ink.

Tootsie's, music and more

My brain is so stuffed, I'm having trouble pulling out the words to tell you about what is going on.

Yesterday was a lazy, rainy day, and today is shaping up to be the same.

"Music is the ony reason I get up in the afternoon" could well be our motto. Except the coffee drags me out of bed long before noon most days.

We three girls wandered around downtown Nashville yesterday in the rain and the humidity. Joanne was on a mission for stickers, so we visited every tacky tourist shop we could find.

Lunch was ribs at Ribby's (how original). Apparently it's sacreligous to visit the south and not eat ribs. I really liked mine, but it was a little too spicy for Jo, so I helped eat hers too.

We ate some ice cream, wandered around to Hatch Show Printing and Gruhn Guitars. Before we headed out to that evening's venue, we had a beer in Tootsie's Lounge, a little hole in the wall on Broadway.

In the days when the Grand Ol' Opry graced the stage at the Ryman Theatre, Tootsie's was a hangout for members of the show. The walls are covered in browning, peeling signed pictures of stars. It's dark, dingy, and has live music playing as long as the doors are open.

Why did the stars go to Tootsie's? Well, the Opry was, and still is, a dry place. No alcohol allowed. Tootsie and her lounge are directly across the back alley from the back door of the Ryman.

Thirsty stars would leave the show, cross the alley, and drink themselves into oblivion.

Heading in that direction ourselves, we made our way to 12th & Porter, a bar in the grittier side of town. Alan Baker, Victoria Banks, Julie Roberts, and Rachel Proctor graced the stage, and we were once again blown away with powerful songwriting and striking vocals.

We attended the early show, so we were cut loose at 8:30 pm looking for a snack. On our way back to the condo, we pulled into the Music City Bar, whose sign promised live music and late nite menu. (original spelling intact for clarity)

We walked in and immediately realized that this was a local watering hole. This was made obvious by the fact we were the only females in the place. The entire time we were there, we were watched, vulture-like, as if we were a nicely rotted piece of roadkill.

So I drank some whiskey, we ate some greasy food, and planned to go back to the condo and write a song. All the others were supposed to be out at the late show, so we thought we'd have the place to ourselves.

Well, when we arrived, the three of them had worked their way through a large bottle of scotch and were lolling about languidly. It was amusing, so we cracked a bottle of wine and jumped in.

There is not much more satisfying in this world than sitting around with friends, music, and a good glass of wine. I wish y'all could have been here to enjoy it, too.

Opryland and Americana

I sit here in the rain on day three, pondering the events of day two.

Stephanie, Joanne and I hit the outlet mall in Lebanon for some retail therapy. I’ve been told my wardrobe needs updating (hmph, who knew?) so the girls talked me into some new clothes. At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Three hours later, I had new sneakers, a bikini, jeans, cords, a cashmere sweater (only fifteen bucks, and I’m fuzzy!), and a satin strapless top. Sometimes I clean up real good, as it’s said around here.

I’m not a shopper though, and we were done early. Joanne had a writing meeting, so we dropped her off and headed to Opryland.

Now, the Opryland theme park was torn down about ten years ago due to flooding, so we weren’t after the roller coasters and those sorts of thrills. We were after a little relaxation in this whirlwind we’ve created.

I took Stephanie into the Gibson store, and did well to come out without this little ukulele. Actually, the only reason I didn’t buy it was that I thought I might find a nicer one today, downtown. Don’t ask why I want a uke; I can’t explain it. I’ve given up trying to explain my wants to anyone, even myself.

My original plan was to head over to the hotel and conservatory, but we were waylaid by the Grand Ol’ Opry gift shop. Walking in, we landed at the tail end of an Opry tour. Hey, why not? So away we went.

The Opry is an amazing venue. I learned all kinds of history tidbits, which I will of course pull out at random points in the future to impress you with my superior knowledge.

I stood on the Opry stage, on the Ryman circle, looking out at the rows of pews, in the lights, and felt inspired.

Loretta Lynn was there, filming with Crooke& Chase in the TV studio. She has a big pink bus.

We returned to the condo, with drinking on our minds. Ice cream withdrawal was starting to kick in by then, but without ice cream, scotch and beer were a satisfying option.

I then discovered that being one of the licensed drivers of the rental car means that I end up being the designated driver more often than not. Sigh. Off to the Mercy Lounge we went again, sober as a judge. Well, I was sober, anyway.

After about five seconds, though, I didn’t care. What a night.

The evening was entitled, “Roots, Boots, and Manuel suits.”

Manuel is a fashion designer based here in Nashville. When you picture all those corny cowboys in sparkly jackets, what you are seeing are Manuel’s creations. He’s been sparkling up the music scene for decades.

As a tribute, the musicians that evening were decked out in some of his finest, over the top creations. We ignorant Canadians, however, knew nothing of this. So when this grey-haired gentleman walks up to our table with his next scarf and sleazy smile, we smile politely and make small talk. Stephanie asks, “Do you live here in Nashville?”

“I’ve been trying to for thirty years,” he said with a smile.

Then they called him up on stage. Oops.

Anyway, the suits were only part of it. Jim Lauderdale, Mike Ferris, Thad Cockerell, and Amy Levare were on the card, and they didn’t disappoint.

This wasn’t country music, but folk/blues/Americana. And these were some of the best in the business.

I walked away inspired once again. Amy was an amazing stand up bass player, and a girl after my own heart. While the others were drinking water, she had what she called her “ass pocket whiskey” Jack Daniels mickey, nipping straight from the bottle.

Jim had to leave early, because he had to go help Elvis Costello finish his new album.

I love this town. I wish I was going to be here next week, to hear the New Pornographers and Kathleen Edwards at the Mercy. Mercy me!

Today we’re going to wander around downtown Nashville in the rain. Tonight, the Bluebird Cafe.

Hellbent and Nashville Bound

We are here, and sufficiently recovered to post a little about our traveling adventures.

Stephanie and I eventually reached Nashville at nine in the morning, April Fool’s Day. While Stephanie had a nap, I joined forces with Joanne, Jane and Gord to launch an attack on the Opryland Hotel complex.

I don’t know who thought of building a complex ecosystem/conservatory in the middle of a hotel, but they were pretty smart. The Haagen Daz helped with the sleep hangover as well.

The Opryland complex is large and sprawling. Green grass and flowers everywhere. It was a little surreal to be walking around in a t-shirt, but I recovered quickly.

Especially after we visited the Gibson retail store, where I drooled over many a thing, but came away with only a t shirt and stickers. I’ve learned my lesson there (for the time being…the mandolins were looking pretty cool. I may come home with one if I’m not careful.)

Afternoon was my turn to nap, but I really wasn’t interested when there were so many things to do. I stuck with it for a few hours while the crew was downtown, then we all headed out to the Mercy Lounge.

Standing in line with the chilly breeze blowing through us, Stephanie and I were eyeing the “pass holders” line grow, optimism dying with every minute, when there was a little stirring in the back of our own line. Why?

Vince Gill had arrived. You see, Tin Pan South is a songwriter’s event that draws hundreds of songwriters to Music City. Every night, every live venue is packed with featured songwriters.

Last night, at the Mercy Lounge, Vince Gill, Al Anderson, and Karyn Richelle were playing. For fifteen dollars, we experienced one of Nashville’s biggest stars, one of its most prolific songwriters, and one who soon will be among one or both of those categories. All in a small bar on Cannery Row.

Karyn was absolutely amazing. Her voice, her songwriting, were phenomenal. It was both inspiring and extremely frustrating at the same time. She started singing, and I thought, “Wow.”

By the time her first song finished, I was thinking, “Man, I might as well quit now.”

I’ll get over that quickly, when I get back to working on my own thing.

Vince was awesome, as he always is. Remember Mom, he was part of the first concert I ever saw? He sang songwriter’s songs, of course, but he also sang “I believe in you and me” and “Liza Jane” just for fun.

It was a level of skill and performance to enjoy, to swell the aspirations.

And that was only the first night!

Today the girls have hunted out an outlet mall, so a-shopping we must go. Steph and I will take on the Country Music Hall of Fame later this afternoon, perhaps.

Wish you were here.

NASHVILLE...we're here

Okay, we arrived. 3 am in Memphis, 3 hour drive to here.

Now, beer.

More later.

Who exactly is the April Fool?

After a desperate dash through the Denver airport, we joined the last passengers boarding our small commuter flight to Memphis.

We then sat on the tarmac for forty five minutes. So much for the necessary exercise!

It is after eleven Central time, and Stephanie and I should be speeding toward Nashville right now.

Where are we instead?

Texas!

We’ve been diverted to the Dallas/Fort Worth because of massive thunderstorms.

I always wanted to come to Texas. Well, not really. But I really don’t have a timetable, so I don’t really mind at all.

It’s been a long time since lunch, though, and three bags of mini pretzels just aren’t cutting it. Visions of Texas-sized steaks are dancing in my head. Baked potatoes, cream cheese, sour cream, huge piles of steaming broccoli with cheese sauce. Giant chocolate cherry ice cream sundae.

Oh, we made a rule. We’re going to try and eat ice cream at least once a day. Picture evidence will be loaded on Facebook, and possibly here.

At this rate, we will arrive on Joanne’s doorstep at 5 am or so. If anything, it will enhance the whole “April Fool” effect of this random adventure.

Don’t worry Mom, we’re fine.

Update: Midnight

They’ve offloaded the plane into the Dallas airport. All the consessions are closed, and we are starving. To make matters worse, the entire terminal smells of steak sauce. Or so I think. Even the pictures of McDonalds burgers are enough to make me drool right now.

Never fear, though. In Texas, you can get anything out of a vending machine.

That includes DVD players, iPods, food, beverages…you name, you can buy it. All you need is a credit card.

Yep, every vending machine accepts credit cards. They have what they call an “Apple Electronics Store” vending machine, where you can buy cameras, phones, chargers, memory cards, and all those fine iPod products.

Texas would be great, if I had more to eat than Snickers bars and stale donuts.

Still on the ground. Memphis is a distant dream, Nashville merely an illusion.

Illegal Oranges and other escapades

Did you know that it is illegal to carry citrus fruit into the US? Even four lovely, round, fine specimens of Florida’s finest seedless navels weren’t allowed to return to their homeland as part of our road trip snack.

Road trip, you say? Indeed.

Stephanie and I are on our way to Memphis, and eventually Nashville.

First, however, we had to deal with US Customs and Homeland Security.

No wait at the border, we sidled up to the gate in my yellow truck. I flash my most winsome smile, and answer the guard’s questions. Everything went well until he asked if we were harboring any fruit.

No sirens went off, but we were told to pull to the side and speak with the “agricultural specialist” who would assist us with our fruit infestation.

Walking into the office and up to the counter, a fresh-faced lad in uniform greeted us and took our paper. After five hours of driving, I was a little giddy, so I had to stop myself from asking if he was standing on a stool. Tall! He was probably pushing ten inches over six feet, and a strong wind would have blown him over.

He questioned us about our illegal oranges, and asked a series of questions about other food and plants. I thought Stephanie was going to fall over when he asked if we had any meats (I had to bite my tongue myself). As it was, we were making him blush.

I had to keep telling myself that teasing US Homeland Security Guards is really not a good idea. But I was so tempted.

In order to save us the same trouble in the future, our kindly friend gave us two sheets of paper, with Canadian and US food/flora/fauna restrictions on them. Then, he went off with my keys to claim the illegal fruit immigrants from our lunch bag.

While we were waiting, Steph and I started reading through the list of what we could bring back with us into our home and native land.

In the meat section, it had a list that was something like, “raw poultry, lamb, beef, armed bison….”

Armed bison? What the heck is that? We just cracked up, and came up with a few vivid depictions of armed buffalo taking revenge on the white man, or genetically modified animals…”now, so much more helpful around the farm with a few extra arms!”.

By the time our friendly guard came back, we were fit to be tied.

He cleared us to continue on, returned our passports, and was turning to go…

I couldn’t let it go. “So, what exactly is an armed bison?” I asked.

“A what??” he exclaimed. And blushed.

“An armed bison. Here on the Canadian claims form,” I say, pointing out the phrase.

He blushes again, thinks for a minute, and says, “I believe that’s supposed to say FARMED bison.” While trying not to crack up, as Steph and I were.

“Thanks for pointing it out,” he says. “We’ll tell the guys over there (pointing at the Canada customs building) about the typo.”

Oh, to be a fly on the wall that day…

We bailed out of there quickly, before our excessive laughter resulted in a drug search.

Citrus free, we gassed up and hit the American highway.

Stay tuned- more monkeyshines are on the way!