Cash Strapped Voices in my Head

Nothing is coming to me. My creative impulses have fallen down a deep, dark, stinkhole (but really, what time have you actually put towards your creativity in the last few weeks, pal?). There’s always these little voices in my head, complaining, arguing, but never encouraging. Why is that?

Money is my problem. I need money to pay for the time I need to write or do any other worthwhile endevour, like travel or ponder the existence of the universe. Why is that? I have a full time job to pay for my excesses and the financial responsibilities that hang over me like a giant guillotine blade that’s ready to deposit my head in a basket any moment (and what have you done to curb the spending nightmare buddy? bought new workout underwear? and what is your wine budget for the month? … time to think about switching to boxed wine). Why doesn’t money or wine grow on trees? (it does moron, think about where those boxes come from….)

Money, money, money – it’s the vicious gerbil wheel we live on. Lately, I’ve been putting a considerable amount of time in the world of money. Checking the price of this and that. Where is my money going? How can I make more money? And nothing pollutes my brain more than dirty dollar bills running through my creative process. This fixation on financial goals is blocking my creative output (whatever!! sounds like excuse number 3,746 ). Yes, money and art do not live in the same bed. Why is that?

Life is not about money (yeah right, keep telling yourself that, buddy) even though lately I’ve been praying like a man ready to vomit at the porcelain altar of capitalism. I’ve got to pull away from the iron finance fist of cash that can lull you into destruction. As Henry Miller warns, (nice hero there, bub, why not try an honest man like ummmm Conrad Black) “…to walk in money through the night crowd, protected by money, lulled by money, dulled by money, the crowd itself a money.” Money gives us a false sense of security. We think it will protect us, but it does not.

No, life moves outside of the capitalist fist. We need to direct ourselves towards life: family, trips to the mountains, wine, chicken wings, beer and other delectable hobbies. Again my pal Henry, “The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.” Creativity rests in the embrace of life. And getting sucked into the money game destroys our sense of the lush forest around us. There’s a reason it’s called can’t see the forest for the trees – money makes us see trees that produce paper not the forest, “..but what makes money make money?” Yes, Miller is right. Life is Art and the greed money lends itself to has no place in the portrait of our life.

It’s all about perception. We can listen to the negative voices around us (are you talking to me?). Or we can change our destination, “One’s destination is never a place, but rather a new way of looking at things” (Miller, again. Isn’t this a bit redundant?). Oh shut up.

Floating cyber barge, where did my articles go?

Ten years ago I wrote some terribly serious biographies for a web site (they kind of suck). I tried looking for them recently but they are gonzo. Some evil wizard hiding behind a machine erased them from the cyber universe. What evil incarnate is in control of this vicious act and made my articles extinct? What happens if all my musings are removed? Do I, do I … become extinct. Will I become fossil fuel for a new generation in a million years? A dirty a piece of coal or in a few million years more, a shiny new diamond for some future Kardashian creature.

Now that I think about it, where do all these deleted pieces of writing, photos and twitter bleeps go? Do they float around on some cyber junk raft like that giant mass of plastic that roams the Pacific ocean (see picture above) – a human created non-biodegradable mass that is inching towards Vancouver, ready to wipe out the entire west coast of Canada. Is this what happens to lost articles that get expunged when taken over by another cyber company? The new enterprise chucks these precious thoughts into a giant bin and lets them float around in a binary ocean, forgotten by the entire planet. Or is this more like all those single socks that get lost in the dryer. When you die you get them all back – socks, articles, keys and tweets.

Yep, just checked again and they’re gone. I was hoping I may have pressed a wrong button and the articles were still alive, but no. They’re sunk. One of the articles was a biography of Jack Kerouac. I always liked googling my name and Jack because it brought us up together, on the same line. I could do the same with Alice Munro or Somerset Maugham (the other biographies I wrote) – and there we were together, me and Alice, ahhhh.

Legally, does this mean that those articles have come back to me? Do I get the copyright back so I can resell them (for more than the three cents I received) to some unsuspecting Wikipedia start-up who’s looking for slightly used articles that no one has read except my family and only because I threatened them with excommunication. I’m not a lawyer but when you discard them like a used plastic doll, Mr. Evil Wizard, it means I can resell them in a cyber garage sale (along with those three hundred pet rocks I bought in 1983).

However this got me to thinking. Is this how we measure ourselves today? How much we ply our thoughts, emotions and ideas on Facebook, Twitter or in the blog world. Will these musings last an eternity? Digital letters do not erode like dinosaurs or human emotion. Unless, of course some nasty power hungry person presses the delete button and relegates you to a floating plastic cyber-barge. Will our cyber personalities last until the next millennium? Will cyber-anthropologists look at our society and profess rash judgments like, “these early cyber geeks were vicious man-eating creatures who nearly destroyed the planet with their overabundant, egotistical silicon use.” But it doesn’t matter what happens because the articles will always exist for me. Right here on my laptop. The device that gets chucked on my funeral pyre.

Photo from here. Thanks

Man Cold for New Year

I am nothing more than a bag of disease ridden phlegm (what a way to bring in the New Year) – snot is flowing, my body aches and my nose feels like it’s going to rub right off my face. I feel like I was dragged ten clicks behind a truck and then the guy decided to run over me for good measure. I’ve gone through enough Kleenex to have wiped out the entire Amazon rain forest. What are they going to do in the future when wood is so scarce they can’t make tissues? – synthetic tissue or maybe we’ll go back to the germ infested hankie, which I’m sure caused the bubonic plague, the same disease I’m suffering from now. Hang on, I have to stuff a few wads of Kleenex up my nose so I won’t drip on the keyboard.

Yes, no Champagne on this New Year’s eve for me – give me jammies and a nice steaming hot cup of neo-citron, some amoxicillin and ibuprofen … wooohoooo!!! Ooops I just sneezed and shot the snot wad that was in my nose across the room. It made quite a slap on the window and then slowly slithered down, leaving the most disgusting snail trail across my window. Oh well I’ll blame it on the bugs. But wait this is January and there aren’t any bugs around. We do have kids that come over, so I’ll blame it on them – same diff, bugs, kids.

Time to ring in the New Year. What to ring in? What I really want is to never get sick again. That’s my resolution – don’t get sick. And this means no contact with any of the disease infested rats that live near me or contact with any kid or person who has been anywhere near a daycare, swimming pool, hot tub or gathering of more than five people (there will be a questionnaire). All of them germ incubating cesspools. I’m going to make myself a hermetically sealed room in the basement and you can only enter after you have taken a shower so hot that it actually peels the skin off you. In fact I think I will seal off the whole basement ….

Man I can really see myself going Hughes with only the slightest push. “Towards the end of his life, he lay naked in bed in darkened hotel rooms in what he considered a germ-free zone. He wore tissue boxes on his feet to protect them. And he burned his clothing if someone near him became ill” (American Psychological Association). I feel for ya, Howie. Hey I could pitch a new reality show. Germ prepers / horders and it’s all about these guys who are afraid of germs. Yes, I’m going to live in my plastic basement, eat plastic food and create plastic friends on the internet through Facebook. I mean what do you really need in this artificial universe?

The only thing I need from the outside world is food. And they deliver. Pizza. Yea, that’s it, a sealed room cut off from society and pizza and Facebook. What else can an aspiring four hundred pound man want?

Well, got to run. My wife wants me to take the garbage out and she doesn’t care what kind of man cold I have. But seriously, my New Year’s resolution is the same every year – be a kinder, gentler, better person. Unfortunately, this mantra lasts as long as my gym membership.

Retirement, the new Freedom or Rock and Roll and Geritol?

Image credit: Zachariah O’Hora

 A few days ago, I snuck out, took the bus to the mall and went and saw the new Bond movie, “Skyfall.”  It was just like being in high school – skipping class and taking the big ‘ol school bus downtown, circa 1979.  The only place you could see a movie back in ’79 was downtown. Suburbia was for sleeping. The city was for living. Of course, I always did these rampant trips by myself.  I’d ponder out the window, thinking about life.  Where do I want to go?  What do I want to do/ be when I grow up? Or should I even grow up? I remember sneaking out to go see “Apocalypse Now.” Dreams of getting out of this town.  Vietnam was so exotic, without the napalm, helicopters and tracer bullets in the background, of course. But it was somewhere, an escape outside the dormant middle class.

Of course back in ’79 the only technology we had were transistor radios the size of a house. On my most recent escape, I had to get all my technology in synch – forward the phone and email to my personal device, and most importantly make a playlist of the ten most rebellious songs I know. I’m a cruising now…skipping work, calling in sick, ready to hit the road. “Oh let the sun beat down upon my face…,”croons Robert Plant.

The bus is big and new and bright. It only takes ten minutes to get to the theatre not the hour and a half in ’79 and the bus actually runs on unleaded fuel. “Dawn is breaking everywhere, light a candle, curse the glare,” Garcia contemplates. I get to the theatre. I’m the new Bond.  Danger my middle name. Ready to escape into foreign lands and make the world a better place. Time to leave this world for a couple of hours. Playlist hits, “We gotta get out of this place.”

To my amazement, it’s seniors’ day at the cinema.  Every grey haired respectable citizen on the planet is at the theatre.  Great, Bond saves a senior citizen home. Not what I had in mind. Is this my rebellion, running into a pack of seniors?  Is this the new escape?  Rock and roll and a rabid pack of seniors.  I’m ready to run, but where?   To the Geritol bar?  “A Touch of Grey,” has a whole new meaning standing here in the line-up, waiting, waiting.  I’m drowning in a sea of grey. I pull the plugs out of my ears. I’m the old man with his hair turning grey in “We gotta get out of this place.” It scares the crap out of me.

In the theatre, the folks behind me are talking, but it’s not my place to say anything. They are seniors. They’ve done their time and deserve my utmost respect.  They can get up and yell if they want.  A faint scent of urine floats by.  Poor bastards. Or maybe that’s me. I bend over and sniff. Too close to call.

My rebellion has hit a road block.  My escape is mired in retirement as I ponder the road ahead, circa 2012.  But maybe that’s the point.  I can’t run off on a bus to see a movie with unlimited possibilities before me as I did in 1979. This is not the seventies. We get older and as we do, the road gets narrower and narrower.  But seeing all these seniors having the freedom to sneak off and see a movie on a Tuesday afternoon, maybe that’s the escape – the freedom.  Maybe the road gets narrow with mortgages and kids but opens up again with retirement. Is retirement the new freedom?    Ok, so freedom has a touch of urine, but  who cares?   Who are we trying to please anyway?

And I’ve also hit another road block. This is all fiction, of course.  I was actually home on Tuesday afternoon working my butt off in front of a computer screen. In case anyone asks. 

The Olympic Blog

So it’s official. I’m an Olympic junkie. I know. I know. Over commercialized. Too much hype. And some have referred to Olympic gold medals as GDP (Gross Domestic Product) golds. Those with a high GDP get gold medals (and unfortunately too true – China, the US, Great Britian, South Korea and France were leading at last count.).

However, I don’t care. My lovely addiction has reared its podium head in so many forms. When I ride my bike to work, I sprint the last hundred meters with my bike rocking back and forth like a canoe on the Olympic white water course at Lee Valley. I stay up past midnight nearly every night watching the fourteen hours of Olympics I have recorded. When I go to the bathroom I get into a sprinters crouch and fly to the loo (and see I’m even using English terms). To say nothing of the synchronized office chairs my work mates and I have been practicing (perhaps a new Olympic sport?). And on my 10 k run a few days ago, I set a new world and Olympic record. Too bad no one saw it. Funny how all my work outs these days are crisp and record breaking.

The sports and the athletes are incredible. I can’t imagine how much dedication and hard work it takes to get to the Olympics, a dream of every kid who ever played table tennis or dove into the pool, doing a cannonball or jack-knife. Yes, the sports – women’s beach volleyball and the clever signals on bikini bottoms (funny how they started with this sport to pique viewer interest, especially of the male gender). I have no reason why indoor volleyball isn’t a professional sport – it’s so quick, powerful and they wear cool shorts too.

But the best aspect is watching sports I only get to see every four years like Judo, which is really Japanese wrestling with fancy names like Yuko, Fusen Gachi and Waza Ari and wasabi (oops), but still great to watch. And water polo. How can these guys stay in the water so long? Can you imagine how “pruned” their entire body gets? And a polo penalty box? How absolutely Canadian!

I did find a few curiosities, however. What’s up with field hockey? Really? A blue field with pink trim and it’s not even a field. The pitch is some kind of spongy giant yoga mat. I thought the sport was played on grass. I also have to say that I’m very impressed with our Canadian women’s gymnastics team. They are so happy to be at the Olympics and exceeded all expectations by finishing fifth. They exemplified the Olympic spirit. Meanwhile, the spoilt Russian gymnastic team cried because they ONLY got silver. Are you serious? I don’t know but on my playground, you’d be sent home.

And then there’s the 16-year-old Chinese swimmer Ye Shiwen. Is the press so bored that all they can do is point doping fingers at the kid? Look everyone who wins a medal is tested, so shut up, until you have proof. On my playground, you’s get popped in the nose for crap like that.

Yep bring on, the rowers, the white water canoeists, shot putters. I can’t seem to get enough. Now excuse me while I go practice my synchronized office chair spin-o-rama with a half gainer into the office bathroom, thinking I’m just happy to be here representing my wonderful country. I wonder if there’s any chance to meet Christine Sinclair? Ah, maybe Brazil in 2016

Useless as a Sack of Hammers

Useless, useless, useless. An Arts degree? “Someone who knows everything, but can do nothing,” as a Swiss buddy’s father professed. He was an engineer, of course, but what European isn’t? Yes. I stand in the doorway watching some very competent guys fix my bathroom. What can I do? Offer coffee? Water? A shot of Whisky, a lovely Islay single malt. Nah, they shoot back. We have a job to do.

All right then.  I saunter back into the living room and watch the rest of the England versus Sweden game. Uselessness filling me once again because I’ve never played soccer in my life. Well, I did once. A pick up game, I remember, where I had open net and the ball bounced off my knee out of bounds. The groan from my team mates rising to the gods of ineptitude.  Yea, I thought, freeze the field and use a puck, then we’ll see who groans. Ball kicking bastards.

The contractor guys come back the next day. Coffee? Whisky? Again the polite, but we’ve got real work to do look. I slither back to my computer. Inside the bathroom, they speak some unrecognizable language. I’m not sure if it’s trade talk or Eastern European. They look, observe, take mental notes and decide on a plan of action (if it was me, no thought, I’d just start slapping shit on the walls – I guess that’s why I don’t know their language).

The tape measure zings, metal slaps across the walls. The sound is incredible. There was a tale about D.H. Lawrence who begged some workers to let him go out into the fields and help them pick or chop something. He begged and begged the workers to let him go and after lengthy consideration and considerable reluctance, the workers let him tag along. Lawrence wanted to understand the working class plight (which he was all to familiar with), but a half an hour into the project and Lawrence was no where to be found. That is until they heard the ping of metal on his typewriter roll. They never let him back in the fields.

Now, if I was doing the bathroom renovation, by now the wall would look like Swiss cheese. Frustration would have overtaken me and tools would be protruding from the walls. My thumbs the size of giant purple German sausages from the missed hammer swings. And any children in close proximity would need religious intervention.

The job is now finished  and the contractors are gone (one a very good friend indeed). The bathroom is better than any five star hotel on the planet (except in Europe I imagine).  The inital four hour job, or so I thought, turned into a three week project, but the result is outstanding – professional to the caulking and nails. My uselessness is abandoned for the moment as I write about the experience and consider re-reading “Sons and Lovers.”

Sunshine in your Coffee – top ten morning songs

OK, OK. I usually hate top ten lists, but this collection will make your day better, happier, uplifting even. So what’s wrong with a little sunshine in your coffee? Even if it comes in a top ten list.

Anyway here’s my top ten morning songs… set your radio, phone, whatever you use or need to get your day going. I tried to make the links commercial free because who needs advertising to start your day? It’s about the music, so I also chose sound quality over video

Insert smiley face here. Have a great day. Someone loves you.

10. Good Day Sunshine / The Beatles
Exactly…Good Day Sunshine. Thanks Sir Paul, such an upbeat song and that piano dancing along with your feet as they hit the ground. Yes, it’s hot, “Burns my feet as they touch the ground.” Must be baked by now, eh Paul? And don’t we all love that lass named sunshine. Warms your soul she does.

9. Running down a dream / Tom Petty
What a way to start the day. Road trip? I call a road trip. SHOT GUN! “It was a beautiful day …me and Jer (Dell) were singing a little Run Away.” The road that leads to dreams, “There’s something good waitin’ down the road.” Isn’t there always? It’s never too late or early to hit the road of dreams. Chase it. Start the day by running down a dream.

8. I Wish / Stevie Wonder
Now if Stevie can’t get you moving, you seriously need a prescription (see Carol King). And it’s great to look back on a time in our lives when life was precious and easier, a time when we didn’t have any responsibility, when our only worry, “Was for Christmas what would be my toy,” but more importantly, it wasn’t the toy, “We were happy with the Joy the day would bring.” And if you can’t find joy, “sneak out the back door” and “write something nasty on the wall,” oh yea.

7. Billy Jean / Michael Jackson
No politics. Nothing. Just a good vibe. The song makes you wanna get up and dance. See, I’m moon walking right now. Well, sort of – running shoes on carpet is not the best environment for a little MJ pretending. Ummm maybe not the best guy to emulate, but hey right now it’s 1983 and Michael isn’t pretending he’s Peter Pan.

6. Breakdown / Jack Johnson
Now we are not talking about a mental breakdown, but wouldn’t it be nice if your car broke down on the way to work and you got out and took a leisurely walk outside. Explore your world. There is so much to see and do. Slow down and enjoy… “All the people in the street / Walk as fast as their feet can take them.” Join your own rat race. (And if your car doesn’t breakdown see Tom Petty.)

5. Beautiful / Carol King
“You gotta get up every morning with a smile on your face.” Now we all can’t be total happy freaks every day. I don’t really trust these kind of people. Either they’re on Prozac or they’ve been living in a cave for the last two decades. Anyway, we are all beautiful and we need to believe it and tell ourselves this every morning. Look in the mirror and say, “You’re beautiful…” And if that doesn’t work pop some Prozac and move into a cave.

4. Hey, Hey, Hey / Michael Franti
Because it’s Michael Franti, a man of peace, hope and vision. And if there’s one mantra I love, it’s live for the day , “Don’t let another moment slip away” and “Don’t let nobody tell you it couldn’t be done.” OK, double negative, but that’s not the point. Live your dreams.

3. Beautiful Day / U2
Explore your world and don’t see it in black and white – green and blue, perhaps, or maybe through those freakish glasses Bono wears. Live it, see it, and love it, “See the tuna fleets clearing the sea out/ See the Bedouin fires at night / the world is right in front of you…” Sometimes we take too many things for granted. Every day is a beautiful day. And the very poignant line “What you don’t have you don’t need it now.” How true. Be happy with what you have. And park the Visa card for a month. Do you really need another sack of hammers?

2. Three Little Birds / Bob Marley
Really, chill. Why start the day in a panic (see Prozac, if you can’t do it on your own). “Don’t worry…Everything gonna be all right.” Chill. Look out the window and be happy for what you have. Watch the sunrise, “Smile with the risin’ sun.” And yes, I saw him in 1979, my claim to fame.

1. Long Train Running / The Doobie Brothers
Start the day with love. I mean really,“Without love, where would we be now?” The quintessential question of life. Something we can’t get enough of. Love is the ultimate way to get your morning going. The guitar riff alone is enough to put a jump in your day. What do you need? Maybe a train to catch and get the hell outta here.

Basically make a playlist, pop some Prozac and hit the road…. Enjoy the day, week and month.

Gadget Gone GaGa

Lady Gaga has noting to do with this article, but the shoes are nice.

Flash! Flash! New toy weekend – a Samsung Nexus S. So much fun. I haven’t come up for air in days. I’m like a scuba diver, scouring a sunken TNT filled ship. My wife, however, not so happy. She’s  on the surface  seriously considering abandonment or chucking something to ignite the dynamite.

My poor partner in domestic crime. I think I talked to her twice the whole weekend. Not cool. All I know is that I responded like a doped up jackass to some hazy questions I was incapable of understanding. I have no idea what I agreed to, but I have a funny feeling, I will be watching a lot of Animal Planet and shopping at Fabricland for the next few weeks or months or years.

On refection, I see the need for someone to develop a “Quality Time App,” an application that slaps you upside the head and knocks you back  into reality. It works something like this. Not paying attention? Spouse or any family member sends a text message to a desired device – laptop, desktop or smart phone and because you’ve given loved one permission, two giant fingers pop out of the screen and attempt an eye jab. Ah, but you think you’re so smart because you’ve downloaded the “Three Stooges Block (TSB) App, but the Quality Time App (QT App) is smarter, drops one a finger and pokes you cleanly in the eye because it has seen those movies too. The “Q.T.” App is perfect for parents, students or anyone involved in serious relationships, including feline bonds or prison romances.

These smart phones are so addictive because the configuring never ends. I must have read fifty top ten app lists for the android, including a top ten list for top ten lists. But I guess that’s the point of addiction. It’s a continuous barrage of digital endorphins. Really, how many apps do you need? Another stock application? Is there yet another level? Do you really need to know how many calories in a double down? You can never get enough. There’s always a new app or device.

And don’t think games and devices aren’t structured that way. They need to keep you involved or you just might put it down and actually talk to someone or fix a leaky faucet (app for that?). They need to keep you active – always one more whatever. They are like cigarettes – “the first one is free.” The rush you can’t live without. Meanwhile, the tobacco companies just keep jacking up the nicotine or make it twice as potent (remember weed in the 70′s? You could smoke a garbage bag full of that stuff and still remember all the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody). 

Don’t get me wrong. I love gadgets. My Nexus is a dream. The pictures are bright. The sound is clear and it’s great to have one device for all my needs – phone, Internet and storage. But best of all it’s an Android, so I’m not part of the evil Apple empire. However, we need to know when enough is enough. We shouldn’t need a Quality Time App.

And please remember, sometimes it’s nice to go for a walk on a crisp spring day without robo-cop telling me how far I’ve gone or encouraging me every kilometer.

South Florida and the Keys – Camping in Saran Wrap

The plan was to camp down the Keys. We had our tiny “pup tent,” a shelter offering no more protection than Saran Wrap on a “Super Ham and Cheese” in the Everglades. (See previous entry – i.e. Alligators and Burmese Pythons.) We were a bit worried because we didn’t have a campsite reservation and apparently the sites fill up real quick, (I tried booking online two months ago through Reserve America but no go), so we decided to take the first available campsite. We arrived in Key Largo and pulled in to the John Pennekamp State Park. The ranger-looking guy at the booth told us we must of won the lottery, “Sure we’ll take four nights without looking at the site.”

When we pulled into the site we cried – the site was nothing more than a gravel pit beside two RVs – one with a blaring TV, the other blasting air conditioning. And not a single tree offering protection from old guy in underwear walking around his RV. But valuable lesson learnt – look at the campsite first and the guys who work the park booth are salesmen not Ranger Ricks. The 180 dollar gravel strip was not what we had in mind.

Even though this was not our “ideal” camping trip. The campground was immaculately clean, perhaps a bit too manicured for our liking. If I had children with me, it’d be an ideal place to hang out for a few days – in a trailer NOT a tent – because there is tons to do: fishing, the best snorkeling in the Keys, two beaches in the park, glass bottom boat rides, fishing, and showers. But it is not primitive camping unless air conditioning and satellite TV were used by the ancient Seminoles in the area. Two days and we’d had enough. Time to head to Key West.

The drive was wonderful with lots of little parks with beaches to stop and enjoy the scenery like Anne’s Beach (MM 73.5) or the Veteran’s Memorial beach (MM 40 – Little Duck Key). Another great stop is Curry Hammock State Park (it’ll cost you six bucks for the day) – the beach was quiet and the snorkeling great. We stopped to eat at The Fish company in Islamadoa and had the dolphin sandwich. Not the mammal – the fish – they really have to rename the fish. You mean I’m gonna eat Flipper, mommy? The ocean view was stupendous.

We finally hit Key West. I sucked in the warm tropical booze filled air as packs of scooters zipped by. Our hotel location was perfect – at the south end near Duval Street. Drop the bags and let’s get the party started. Duval street is bar after bar. You can stagger from the Atlantic side to the Gulf of Mexico. The first thing I noticed was people walking down the street with drinks. Really? I got a conflicting opinion on this, but from a self-interested bartender – of course he wanted us to stay and drink at his bar and NOT on the street. I think the rule is – don’t act like an idiot and you’re OK (and perhaps don’t bring outside liquor into another bar or restaurant).

The next day we did the Hemingway thing – Hemingway house at 12.50 per person. Expensive, but necessary, just to go into his writing room and breath in the cat urine. In fact the whole house smelled like cat piss. The next time I read ‘ol Papa, I’m going sit in a litter box and see if I garner any extra insight. Then on to Capitan Tony’s “Hemingway spent a life time here.” The place was a shit hole. Sloppy Joe’s was better. And the final Hemingway touch – hangover number, bla, bla.

With hangover number, bla, bla in check (Gatorade and Advil – our Key West breakfast of champions) we decided (needed?) to rent scooters rather than numbing our way around town. The scooters are dirt cheap, about 25 bucks for a full day. What a great way to bomb around the island, especially since we needed more Tequila and Margarita mix. Buy booze from one of the vendors in the Old Town and you need your children as a down payment. Albertson’s in the New Town, mucho better. A final trip to the Southernmost Hotel for happy hour – cheap, cheap appies and drinks, another trip down Duval and we were ready to head back to Fort Lauderdale and then home.

Awesome trip. I can hardly wait for next year… after I take canoe lessons (or learn to swim faster than a gator or water moccasin), learn all the words to “Frère Jacques,” leave the tent and backpack at home and make reservations in Key Largo and Key West, but most of all when my liver finally recovers from the beer, tequila, cigars and great experience.

South Florida and the Keys - Part One

Minus fifteen and we are heading to south Florida – the land of alligators, sunshine, oranges and conch, home to Dexter, Horatio Cane, the Dolphins and Jimmy Buffet. With our backpacks loaded, we are ready to feast at my brother’s joint and then camp the Keys, the centre piece of our vacation or so we thought.

First stop, Fort Lauderdale where the humidity hits me like a damp towel, springing my hair into bozo the clown contortions. My brother and me, our first Floridian embrace (a long time coming). Then cigars, beer, Irish Whiskey and finally dumping Simon, my nephew, in the drink.

But we run out of beer, so it’s time to hit the musty streets on bicycles in December, unheard of in the blistering cold climate of Western Canada. We scream into the warm night all the way to the local gas station. Crappy beer but what do you expect at midnight. I don’t know what it is, but when I go to the US I have to have at least one can of Budweiser (Super Bowl hangover?), but I’m glad I got it done on the first night because there are so many great beers in the US. The “wuzzzup” jokes continue until the beer runs out, again.

The next day we are off to Whole Foods with my Sister-in-law (or whole pay cheque as me bro calls it). Are you serious? Fresh Blue Point Oysters, crab and shrimp? Blueberries that aren’t previously frozen? Wow. We take the oysters home (a little pricey, but sooo worth it) and eat a few raw – with Tabasco and Worcester sauce and the rest we “Rockefeller” up with spinach, Hollandaise, red onion, garlic and Stilton. Heaven. Stone crab was in season and looked delectable but too expensive so I bought Florida shrimp instead and these puppies were incredible, plump and sweet – sautéed with a bit of lime and red onion. We ate them like popcorn. I was also amazed by the Florida avocados – massive and a bright neon green (just like gator eyes). Can you say guacamole every day? Tossed in with left over shrimp the next day on some scrumptious fresh bread – an awesome lunch. We also picked up a schwack of Yuengling Traditional Lager, a huge step up from the tall boys (we also parked the bikes for sober riding). The food and drink sends me reeling for the real estate pages.

Next was a full moon canoe trip on the Everglades in Loxahatachee National Wildlife Refuge – home to alligators, water moccasins, coral snakes and Burmese pythons (luckily you can kill these foreigners because they are invasive in the Everglades… but still, these massive constrictors eat alligators, small children and pasty white Canadians). Oh joy, canoeing through a swap with scary reptiles that can either paralyze or death roll ya. But hang on, I’m Canadian and canoeing is in my blood. Yea right, that tradition left my family right after the Plains of Abraham.

The first part of this harrowing boat trip was frightful. We spin in frantic circles, screaming at each other while neon eyes glare at us, just waiting (Go ahead, Simon, stick your foot in the water…dare ya! Says Mr. Alligator). The panic subsided about half way through the trip as we finally got control of the boat and moved pleasantly down the middle of the saw grass canal (right means left in a canoe). After regaining our confidence (with a couple of “Full Sail,” IPAs), we sang French Canadian songs as the gators darted out of our way.

An awesome trip, one to be remembered for a lifetime and all possible because Tanya, my sis, actually cares about our world, reptilian as it may be. But as a suggestion, go with someone with more experience than a relative called Jacques who died in 1759. It’ll make the experience less stressful. With our fears settled, time to move south to the Keys.