Rob Nov.18/05
Power Pigs has turned into quite a read on the Buffalo Wings QuesT Blog. The only chapter of the blog recorded in classic latest-first format. The chapter appears to be rounding a larcenous curve exploring the embezzlement of oppi funds to sport a Niagara bakanal somewhere south of Dain City at "the Rex".

Mr. Lucky Man survives the Gravenhurst TDL hole in the universe in a new line of true life adventures unfolding along gasoline alley involving an American-fearing Sikh with a big heart. His restaurant behind the station is for sale with a small white sign in the window explaining "turn the key deal available inside inquiry". This part of the blog reflects true stories brought home from an interesting place in Ontario called The Near North. Even the Ministry of Culture is loath to explain what it is in fact "near" to. GTA people laugh and joke about how it obviously means near Toronto. The locals, however, never smile when they hear that and invariably draw their maps, site plans and local direction charts with north to the bottom on the drawings. Some swear, like the common blueberry, that a more enlightening and ripening experience lies beyond the bottom of the maps as they slowly recoil and back away from the wave of lunacy sprawling from the south. The GTA cottagers rarely notice the north point hanging bottomward on the local brochures and place mats at the Galna Diner.

The popularity of the blog is growing internationally. This morning there have already been 5 hits from outside Canada and one marked the 100th visitor from the Asian continent. "Sit down stranger, that ain't shit on the seat" . . . see chapter one. Recent visitors break out as follows-

Canada 66   30.14%

India 43   19.63%

United States 25   11.42%

Pakistan 20   9.13%

Iran, Islamic Republic of 8   3.65%

China 8   3.65%

United Kingdom 5   2.28%

United Arab Emirates 5   2.28%

Saudi Arabia 4   1.83%

VirgilON bloggers and remember don't panic and remember the all important fish that keep our dolphin friends in the loop. <snippet from Power Pigs> When the first snow flies and the caipirinha and feijoada begin the mellow out, QuestT F11 will kick off the new dark months stories. . . .This year will be a new canvas with Mother Teresa sure to surprise us all. And Lil, well, what happens to her is completely up to the writers at the subpenthouse.

Rob [Nov. 17/05]
As Churchill said, if we fail to regard it, we are doomed to repeat it.

As a point of interest, Leah and I attended a heritage summit of sorts in Toronto in 1986 (Lily Munro), another in the NOTL Court House around 1989 (the Alexander lacac) and yet another in the Prince of Wales Hotel around 1991 (Ministry staff). All purporting to hail a new Ontario Heritage Act just around the corner. The last one featured Tommy Salter as MC wearing his brown suede jacket that we all wore in the late 60's. His still fit properly. He swore then that the future of Niagara is heritage conservation and he pledged his career to finding the story behind every building. Wonderful conviction that he somehow dropped later. Every building does indeed have a story which grows with each human that passes through it. Odd how humans cannot outlive a decent building or even most trees. Anyway, it was a wonderful summit as Tommy properly recognized a still very able Harry Dawson. Tommy used his best rock band stage presence to bring a mastery to that ceremony. I will never forget Harry beaming to "let's give a hand, ladies and gentlemen, for Harry Dawson."

Alan
...as that Kilroy dude said at the Summit, the future of Niagara is History....

Rob
What a rad idea. That's $474.16. The invoice arrived in the form of a stapled report booklet requiring the most expensive postage possible. The format the magazine should adopt - glossy isn't justified by the content. Pay by New Years you old bastard or we'll drop you like a bad habit - 27 years full membership means diddley, pay up. I also notice they're encouraging retired members to keep up their liability insurance in case past indiscretions come back for ass bites. Plllllease, stop the images of turnip waggons dancing through my head. The worst thing about the planning profession is the lying to each other.

Alan
...fyi Susan, I'm only in this to pry an amount out of the I's treasury equal to RJ''s annual dues to pay for a whoop-up at the Rex. Start planning!

Rob
Wait a minute. No matter what you might think of my stuff down here, I will have you know that I am considered quite a spiffy dresser in and around Burk's Falls and to points as far west along the Midlothian Road to the Cornball Store. One of the local Reeves was spied two days ago wearing snow machine boots in Desert Storm motif.

And yes, A is our local rep - a position he shares with an ambitious piece of work from Hamilton.

Susan F.
Don't tell me that Alan is really the local rep? I can't grasp this.

Good point about Rob's wardrobe.

Rob
I personally like the name Mr. Shallseek. I can't imagine moving from the Indian subcontinent to gasoline alley. And I would hope to get our local puddin-pie routine down first. There is a movie event at the subpenthouse this weekend you know. Something about the melding of caipirinha and feijoada. Now if that doesn't imply sleeping low, I don't know what would LOL.

Susan F.
ahhhhh---thankyou for enlightening me re: the floor-sleeping thing. That is such straightforward reasoning that I never would have thought of it - ie too far below the radar - story of my life, my motto being "why pay so little when one can pay so much more?" or, "why be simple when complexity will do?"

As to Mr Shellsikh - I am still feeling very badly that he had to work on his birthday. We should have a birthday cake- pie (with side of rice pudding) shipped up to him from The Pie Plate. Actually, it should be Mr. "Sikhshell". It trips a little better, don't you think?

Rob
I have been stopping at both places for some years. The incentive to hit the shell station is my obsession with air miles, which Leah and I have been amassing since 1994 when we built the big addition to the house in Waterdown. The lumber store gave air miles, voila. Mr. Shellsikh is the father of sombre young man who was stuck on the till for years. The family bought the complex which had been extremely popular as a truck stop. As soon as the truckers saw people from India they stayed away in droves and now the restaurant part is closed. I like the Indian folks much better than the head case rednecks that ran it before. The downside of the place is the lack of off/on ramps which makes the in and out a case of heavy braking in and max acceleration out and a determination to avoid tractor trailers in the process.

It blew me away two days ago when Mr. Shellsikh remembered me as Mr. Lucky Man. He had known all too well what he was looking at with the damage to my rental 06 Camry. The infamous Scottish formula 1 driver, Jimmy Clark, was killed when a small piece of exhaust system fell from a car in front of him and bounced down the track into his Lotus, knocking Clark out of control. Hard to imagine that could happen to Jimmy Clark. Mr. Shellsikh had never heard of Jimmy Clark but he has seen his share of weird accidents along the alley since buying the Shell station.

As to sleeping on the floor, for what ever reason, it is a tactical strategic manoevre to negative the prospect of falling from a bed or couch or table on your face and nose and glasses if you forgot to take them off. An instinctive move by a classically trained planner.

Susan F.
am glad you put your finger on the sensitive spot. I too was feeling anxious about the shift from Tim's to the Shell Station. I think that, to be fair, Rob will have to stop at both places from now on, to keep us up to date on life events at both sites. In fact, he might have to start taking weekly, - or maybe bi-weekly - jaunts to the south-facing near north. Its on his ownhead. He introduced the new and attractive character, Mr. Shell-Sikh, and I have become quite fond of him. Imagine naming a customer Mr. Lucky Man and futhermore remembering Rob and his terrifying near-miss-accident. But then - who can forget Robert J Miller?

As to your OPPI-paid trip to Boston; Why were you sleeping on the floor? As usual. What's that story all about? And have a lovely weekend.

Rob
Lucky Man comes from one of my first posts of November following a long and harrowing trip back to the pantry office from Parry Hoot. I guess you must have missed it. Pertinent exerpt below in italics. There is a lot of good stuff on the bench ready for posting to the blog. I guess this could sort of round out Power Pigs.

Alan
...there's a much bigger question here that must be seen to. Where does this "Mr. Lucky Man" stuff come from? And where's it going? It seems to me that if the focus of the northern trips is going to shift from the Ti Hor ons to the Shell-Sikh we should all be properly apprised. Think of it as a merge lane on a hi-speed freeway. If properly signed it's a smooth transition and a beautiful thing...if not, it's a guaranteed collison with no coverage.

Btw, after dining at the Top of the Hub on the 52nd floor of the Prudential Centre in Beantown on Saturday night and spending a small fortune on good grub nicely presented by our Moroccan server we crossed the river to Cambridge and landed on Mass Ave at the Camtab Lounge. Camtab has been there for 50 years and still has the original arborite tables. I don't think it's been swept since it opened. When I say it was rilly rilly gritty I mean it was rilly rilly gritty.

Lois Lane and the Daily Planet were playing. Lois, an enormous black woman with a low-down voice, was down low with a cold and sat out most sets at our table drinking New York Iced Tea. We had the usual combination of Sam Adams and Johnny Walker. The band rocked on, and fabulous they were. Lead guitar was this slim guy about 980 years old, pasty complexion, wicked overbite, slicked back short black hair, white shirt over black slacks. Looked like the Official Keeper of Statistics at the State Mortuary, a job he's probably held since before the Tea Party. But boy could he play! Left the joint tired but happy from so much groove, kudos all round to the band, best wishes to Lois to get over that cold, etc., made our way back to East Boston to sleep it off on the floor as usual. My ears were still ringing when I got back Monday night.

All expenses billed to OPPI of course...

Susan F.
Poor Shell-Sikh. Shall we adopt him? when are you heading back up there? I want to know what happened at the Tim's and Iwant to know if Mr. Shell-Sikh looked up a map to see if you were telling the truth or not.

Rob
Speaking of travel to meetings, and the like, I should tell you of two odd incidents yesterday. Doing a drive by site investigation at Bear Lake, central Parry Sound, two chipmunks ran across in front of the car. I braked slightly to avoid squishing the second munk when wow out of the left ditch comes a white-tailed deer right in front of the car. I stayed on the brake thinking of the proverbial second deer when boom up it came a second behind the first and leaping across the car directly above the front windshield. I was going slowly on a gravel cottage road. Nobody else around for miles. You would wonder why they would time their crossing exactly to the split second I arrived on the scene. Chip, Dale and two Bambi's out of the blue just like that. Maybe Loopy da Loop was in the line too.

Heading around the southbound big bend of Hwy 11 at Gravenhurst, gurding myself for the infamous Tim Hortons, I was overtaken and passed by two OPP cruisers at high speed with flashers and sirens ablaze. A few minutes later I caught up with them stopped in front of the donut shop, lights still flashing. Many of the lights in the sign were out and it read TI HOR ONS. There was an aluminum ladder up against the building and somebody on the roof. Was that Jerry? I was too nervous to stop and kept on rolling down the highway to my Shell station with the Sikh owner. "Hi how are you doing" I asked as I pulled out my debit card. "Hello Mr. Lucky Man, I am not doing well, how are you?" "Fine, what's wrong?" I asked. "Today is my birthday and here I am again this year. I have worked my birthday for the last three years." "Once is too bad" I said "but three times is probably your own fault." "Oh you are so hard on me Mr. Lucky Man" he said with a big grin. "OK" I said, raising a hand, "on behalf of the many people of the City of St. Catharines I hereby officially wish you a very happy birthday." "Ah thank you so muchy Mr. Lucky Man, where is St. Catharines?" "Across the lake from Toronto" I replied, to which he exclaimed "but that is USA Mr. Lucky Man!!!!" "Not all of it" I said "not all of it -some of Canada is still over there." To this news the Sikh responded with a look of fear on his face as I smiled and said goodbye. He was still looking at me with great concern from inside the store as I started the car and drove towards the traffic screaming by his station.

Rob
Leah and I took a nostalgic swing up to Elora on saturday for lunch at Resa's infamous Desert Rose Cafe. The Village, now jammed into an amagamated mess called Centre Wellington, was crawling with people and decked out for halloween in creative aplomb. The decor in the Desert Rose was a sight for sore eyes and the vegetarian cuisine as good as it was back to the sixties. Resa was working her heart out running the kitchen all by herself, as usual. We both had her traditional black bean chile with dollups of salsa and sour cream served with a creative sprout salad. Washed down with a fine Niagara wine for Leah and for me a classic Guelph ale of course. Resa's decorations included creative gourds, see below.

Along the way, we took old Hwy 6 on purpose and were surprised to fine the Flamborough Antique Show underway on the grounds of the Aberfoyle Flea Market. On such a gorgeous afternoon the alure was irresistable. The Flamborough show is akin to the Christie Classic with marvelous down to earth overtones, almost seedy. Better prices too. It dates to a rough event on the back field of the Braheid Sod Farm just west of Waterdown, from where it migrated to quirky Courtcliffe Trailer Park. Aberfoyle is a good choice for a new home. Hamilton took over Flamborough and evicted every last tenant of Courtcliffe including the antiquarians.

The show lived up to our memory of it and yesterday revealed many authentic pedal cars including a 1939 Hupmobile [green below] in rough condition for $2000 and a rusty but extremely rare 1941 Murray Pursuit Plane by Ford [see below]. As I approached, a lady was hustling away and anxiously calling back "hold that for me, don't sell it, I'll be right back." I asked the vendor what she thought and she replied under her breath "hold it walks, money talks." Asking $900, the vendor informed me it was one of only three in Canada. The design emulates the rear wheel steering of the American Curtis P-51 Mustang and DC3 and others including Spitfire and the Canadian Fairey Firefly and Avro Lancaster. I was informed the Murray Pursuit in mint condition fetches $15,000US. I described the 1949 British pedal car [red below] in the Gummo subpenthouse and her eyes brightened. "One of those is in Canada, where is it?" she asked. "St. Catharines" I replied, as she nodded and brightened, anticipating a deal. I knew then, the old McCauley Street pedal fire engine is in a league of its own. I photographed the Murray Pursuit Plane and the lady got antsy - I hadn't asked permission. "Is that $900 Canadian or American?" I asked. She hesitated and said "I don't know, I'll have to check when he comes back." Ya right. I walked away, content that I had done my bit to boost the pedal car market.

The MEESH/BRAZIL GIG on www.hips.com/quest actually shows Susan Filshie flying a mint 1941 Murray Pursuit Plane pedal car. That chapter of the blog also contains Susan's account of how that pedal car design was legally contested by RKO Studios and Disney and how Ford ended up with it. An amazingly serendipidous episode of the blog, given that nobody knew the Pursuit Plane was worth $15,000US.
VirgilON, don't panic, and a heartfelt thanks for all the fish.

Rob
When the first snow flies and the caipirinha and feijoada begin the mellow out, QuestT F11 will kick off the new dark months stories. Thing is returning as his old self to VurgulON with his pal Union Jack and Jack's three new girldog friends from The Southtowns. New story lines are always welcome on F11 with no prescreening or, actually, no rules at all. Don't be intimidated by wild antics of yesteryear following the travells of Bill and Lil and the Menon Boys. This year will be a new canvas with Mother Teresa sure to surprise us all. And Lil, well, what happens to her is completely up to the writers at the subpenthouse.

Caipirinha and feijoada sound vaguely Brasilian to me - so that means I'm in and in all likelihood Leah is too.

I had to do a wee repair to the main cpu and while the old girl was in the shop I had her spiffed up with a new DVD Burner, precisely below the old DVD Reader. That means I am now in position to supply people with their very own copies of Alvarez Kelly. Once I find Alvarez Kelly, that is. Didn't make it to Bay Bloor Vid last week.

Don't panic and btw thanks for all the fish. Still off to Beantown?

From: Alan Gummo

Subject: Oi!

Hey,

Who'd like to come to the subpenthouse for a marvellous feijoada and video on the 19th?

A

Rob
Well yes, as a matter of fact there were a few incidents during a very long day in Parry Hoot yesterday. Heading north I made a noon pit stop at the Tim Donut on the east side of Hwy 11 opposite The Lazy Farmer Trading Post, just south of the Bedrock Cafe on the turn for the Mossy Stone Crop Trail. Simcoe County names. This Tim shares space with a New York Fries, thereby presenting your standard starch eater with a dilemma - deepfried spuds or deepfried dough? Many freeze in the doorway in a sort of ecstatic seizure of indecision. In the mens room I was greated by a man in a suit choking back tears. Just outside the mens, a small boy in a small suit was desperately trying to open a big glass door to escape from a big glass room which had been built as a smokers' coral back in the transition days. There was a terrifying high pitched scream to my right as a new waitress used the hot choc machine for the first time and sprayed a large into a small thereby scalding herself. A woman at the counter burst into tears with a high pitched piercing wail that made my eardrum warble. Another man in a suit put his arm around her and ushered her to the door. Must be a funeral, I thought. The hot choc woman, with her hand in a towel, called to the people at the door "don't you want your hot chocolate" to which the woman at the door replied by bursting into tears again with that gawd awful wail. Out at the car I noticed the mourners had parked a Navigator beside me and were about to take off when someone said "Where's Rob? to which I brightened for a moment. The woman wailed again and this time shrieked "where's Rob did you idiots forget Rob?" Seems the kid in the glass box was Rob and off they hustled to retrieve him. Ha, people get odd in the donut shop.

The day progress with several meetings and by luck I wound up for dinner on the Maggie with Jenny and Richard Thomas in their eco house. Jackolanterns on the rough wooden steps leading beside a bushel of apples which I was command to sample before dinner to ward of the last ghosties from the night before. Two bottles of red wine were opened, one Jenny's and one store-bought Italian called Masi. Both very good. Pan fried seeds from "the Jacks" and lots of good conversation before a wonderful roast beef dinner was put before us by Jenny. Legget's grass fed beef, Jenny's tomatoes, stovies [potato fried thing], carrots and beans, with a big dollup of savory preserves mostly a sort of beet chutney. Coffee and fruit for desert then out the door into the dark as Richard had yet another meeting. Goodbye to Pal the sheep dog who was busily chewing a piece of beef grissle stolen from my plate. Dogs like that study you while you eat and take a note when you walk away.

It started to rain lightly as I rolled through Gull Lake Narrows and into the Gravenhurst turn. I was too full to stop for coffee at the infamous south Gravenhurst Tim Donut so I just drove on by. Within a few minutes I was back up to speed and running next to the median concrete wall that separates Hwy 11 north and south bound lanes in a rather squeezed fashion with no shoulder. I could see the lights of a tractor trailor coming in the opposite direction towards me churning up a plume of spray over the wall illuminated by my headlights. My wipers were on and yikes flying at me out of the spray I caught a hint of a piece of angular metal flipping through the mist. It was sort of boomerang shaped and might have been a speed handle wrench. In a fraction of a second it struck the hood of my car with a horrendous bang then whack as it immediately hit the windshield, and the roof as bounced high over the car. Instinctively I ducked my head down and sort of to the left side of the steering wheel thinking it must have come through the glass. On popping back up I realized the left wheels of the car, a 2006 rental Camry, were rubbing the concrete wall and then I was sideways completely out of control for about 2 seconds but I got it back. It all happened in a flash but it seemed like an eternity before I had things under control. My heart took over five minutes to come back down to normal. I could not figure out how the windshield could be intact. I drove along thinking about new glass tech possibilities.

I stopped at a gas station and surveyed the damage. The owner, a Sikh, looked things over and said "you are Mr. lucky man, you are Mr. lucky man." Two big gouges down to the bare metal with one split right through in the right front of the hood and a wide scuff on the glass where the thing had glanced the top right of the windshield surgically removing a wide area of rubber mounting and steel beading from the roofline at the glass edge. But for a few seconds difference, the thing, whatever it was, would have hit the windshield in the middle and I have no doubt I would have been killed or knocked unconscious. Gravenhurst strikes again. And I guess my number just wasn't up.

Carpe diem. Don't panic and by the way, remember to thank the good Lord for all the great fish. Especially if one day along the road you find yourself riding the great white bird into heaven.

From: Susan Filshie

Does this mean that you are back from the northland? any good Tim stories?

Rob
Hornets, fish, oil and Jerusalem artichokes. We'd best all pull together and learn to get along before that hog lying on the south side of the bed wakes up cold and hungry. Canadians are in for one hell of a struggle when that thing starts thrashing around. Tom put it this way -

If ya can't serve yer country
Before ya serve yerself
Then you'd better serve yer country
By livin' somewheres else.

From: Steven Rivers

Well Rob

Haven't you just stirred up a hornets nest!

Having had the honour to have shared a terry cloth covered table with King Ralph in the days before he became the Count of Calgary, I can tell you he only looks down on eastern bastards when they're not buying. But then he was only a scribe and not a Count or King. As a past card carrying member of the Alberta Liberal Party (we met in a phone booth once to prove it could be done) and a signatory to nomination paper of one of Joe Clark's opponents in the Yellowhead Riding (the guy was buying beer in the bar of the Athabasca in Jasper) I was always amazed when the Conservatives won an election in Alberta. I was always right on the political pulse.

One thing that was interesting to me on my regular pilgrimages from Alberta to Ontario was the tremendous animosity toward Albertans the heartland (some of whom may now imbibe with the King) felt because Alberta was lucky enough to have huge reserves of oil and gas. Everyone (in the heartland) thought Alberta should sell oil and gas to Ontario (not Quebec however) at below market rates so they could drive their muscle cars with impunity. No one thought Ontario should sell Alberta refrigerators (or consulting services) at below market rates, that was free enterprise and the market at work there - a good thing as a US ex-con says.

I'm told that eastern Canada did give lots of money to the prairie provinces during the drought of the 30's, but many of the farmers there (the prairies) were relatives of the farmers here (the heartland). Isn't that what families (and social democratic countries) do - look after each other. In return the prairies gave us medicare - something that I'm told defines Canada as a country - at least in comparison to our neighbours to the south.

While living in Calgary I met people who had never been to Edmonton, further east than Regina or further west than Banff. They had been to Hawaii several times and had no intention of ever visiting Ottawa, Quebec City or Victoria. I met their twins in Edmonton, Halifax and Toronto. Poor fools.

Having vented that spleen, some day I'll blither on about what the Maritimes had to say about Upper Canada.

From: Robert Miller

Sorry, your post arrived with a utoronto.ca email address, and I assumed student. And no hostility, just McGill blog humour.

You are right about Ontario corn producing alcohol but it goes to Kentucky then bottled as bourbon called Canadian Mist.

Ethanol is made from many plants but our current favourite is the Jerusalem artichoke. An indigenous weed from which the sugars are extracted directly, as in sugar cane ethanol plants. Unsubsidized co-ops are into it big time.

And I am certainly not critical of Albertan's war service in any way. The Canadian blood I referred to was spilled in battles over the right to create Alberta as part of our country in the first place. That process lasted125 years to the year of Alberta's creation. During that time, nine US invasions of the Canadas were turned back by force and three revolutions were suppressed by force.

Enjoy your prosperity cheque. The variation on the 40's tune, "you say tomato, I say fuck you" came from a McGill student blog last year. Tomato patch, oil patch. It seemed an appropriate joke that you might find handy yourself when the US interest in Alberta oil boils over.

From: Mark Bennett

Gee I'm sensing such hostility. First its the black and white idealism of a
university student (was I like that??). Then its the Industrial Heartland
chiming in about gas at $1.03 a pint. I just filled up my Hummer today and
it was only $0.815 (just kidding, I drive a Civic, I'm a bit of an
anachronism here in Alberta).

But really, making fun of our beloved King and dear friend Ralph I. This
from the province which unleashed Mike Harris on the world...PPPPPLEEAASSE.
Talk about anachronisms.

Believe it or not, we are truly grateful for the sacrifices Canadians made
that enable us to "mine" fossil fuels. However, I think western Canadians
carried their share of the load. I'm certain the people who live on Valour
Road (in Winnipeg) where ther are 3 Victoria Cross recipients from one
street are grateful for the sacrifice of all those altruistic Ontarians.
Similarly all of us folks in Alberta and Saskatchewan, which had some of the
highest per capita enlistment rates in WW II are indeed grateful.

I know as a former hard-rock miner in central Ontario (Marmora), where
Bethlehem Steel (from down south...but it's OK they don't eat Canadian beef
in Pennsylvania) raped the landscape and then walked away, I'm grateful.

I'm not going to defend to use of petroleum products, there is much that is
evil. However, is ethanol the answer? Maybe. Better look at how heavily
subsidized the production plants are. What is the source? I hope it isn't
corn. Corn is the greatest single contributor to soil erosion in North
America. It also requires obscene amounts of high energy consumptive
nitrogen fertilizers and hazardous pesticides. Sadly using plants to turn
solar energy into a burnable fuel is pretty inefficient (but it is cleaner
and "renewable"). But really the answer in both Alberta and Ontario is to
find a way to curtail demand. Did you know that if you could cover the
entire lower 48 states with corn, you couldn't produce enough ethanol to
meet the demand from cars alone (forget about vans, SUV's and light trucks).

So what am I going to do with my Prosperity bonus? First thing is go and buy
a bottle of Single malt from a non-government liquor store (as I was in
Ontario over Thanksgiving I noted that gas isn't the only thing more
expensive in the Industrial Heartland). Of course I won't have to pay PST on
that. But I will have to pay GST, you know that tax that the former (and
currently disgraced) national emperor promised to get rid of. I'm so glad
the politicians that Ontario elects are paragons of integrity, not like the
scum we elect here. The Liberals have so much more to offer than those
low-life Conservatives. Note that at least when King Ralph gives our money
away, everybody gets some. Not like Emporor Jean who made sure that when he
gave our money away, it only went to his pals. Much better!!

So there is Alberta (or at least part of it) heard from.

Cheers

Rob [Oct.24/05]
Alan hosted another amazing movie screening in the subpenthouse last night, quite spontaneously following high table pizza at DaJoint. There were a stack of choices, as it were, but two were chosen from Leah's contribution - A Mighty Wind and Robin Williams Live on Broadway. Williams came on long after midnight, with the plan to take a short look and watch the rest later. Once the man hit the stage however it was impossible to turn the dvd player off and I am suffering with side stitches even now. I must say, the '49 pedal car is serving very well as carter for current newspapers and the Macey's glass front lawyer case has never looked so good as A has it full of wonderful reads including the letters of HST.

[from a James Sanford review] "A Mighty Wind" is the third of writer-director Christopher Guest's "mockumentaries" and it can comfortably stand alongside the previous two, "Waiting for Guffman" and "Best in Show."

If you've seen Guest's other films, you know his formula: Set up a situation, give the actors an idea of what kind of character they're playing and call "action!" The cast is called upon to fill in the blanks and they do, usually with completely off-the-wall conversations and bizarre observations. At one point in "Wind," a performer wanders off only minutes before he's supposed to be on stage and everyone begins searching frantically for him. His former partner has an idea where to look: "Is there a cockfighting arena in the area?" she wails.

A tune sampler -

One night mama when to fetch herself a sweet potato fell down the cellar stairs,
Stork dropped on it while she was on the floor, so my sister was born down there.
Daddy says this one will be nothing but a misery, never will be worth a damn..
But mama just loved her little sweet potato baby, with a face like a par boiled yam..

Mama and daddy put together quite a little posse countin’ me and Jack and cousin Will,
We all jumped in to the old Chevy pick-up and we caught ‘em at the top of the hill,
Daddy took his Remington and shot away the lock, for to set his little darlin’ free,
But Potato said “Daddy shut the gawd darn door, sheriff wants to marry me”

Let’s go boys, Potato’s in the paddy wagon, guess we better leave her there,
Let’s go boys, Potato’s in the paddy wagon, mama says it’s more than fair,
Let’s go boys, Potato’s in the paddy wagon, guess we better leave her there,
Let’s go boys, Potato’s in the paddy wagon, mama says it’s more than fair,
Mama says it’s more than fair
Mama says it’s more……….than fair!

And part of another -

Well…..there’s a puppy in the parlor,
And skillet on the stove,
And a smelly old blanket,
With a Navajo wove,
There’s popcorn in the pooper,
And a porker in the pot
There’s pie in the pantry,
And the coffee’s always hot
There’s sausage in the morning,
And a party every night,
There’s a nurse on duty,
If you don’t feel right,
There’s a chicken on the table,
But you got to say grace,
There’s always something cooking down at Old Joe’s Place…

Gummo
Warning! Google is not serving you very well. The damn candies are called Power Pigs, I know for sure cause I just bought a skid of them to ship south. Alright, I misspelled Anand, but what the hell, it happens. If google didn't convey the impression that Margo is, well, inspirational, it's just not doing its job. I haven't come across spanking in any of her stuff yet, but I can't claim to have read the compleat works. Glad to hear there's still more to look into.

Speaking of google, Ken Mark tells me he googled Melbourne Principles, and the first listing came up 'Niagara Region'...go figure.

G...not Google

Miller
I was curious about Margo Annand, like todely who is she? Google asked "do you rilly mean 'Anand'?" to which I clicked through and came face to face with "The Compleat Spanker". Figures. Agreed, ramp the seating tactics back down to the confines at hand.

Miller
Yes, a firm for a that and above all that for densification. Densification of VirgilON by Gawd, let's get her done, get her done fer Gawd. So now, in our 30 storey corp tower, we could go up on the windy roofdeck and look North, and with the right kind of eyes we could almost see the high-water mark—that place where the GTA wave finally broke and rolled back. Jesus H. Christ let's getter done and kick da blog up notches unknown to mankind.

Gummo
...I think a profile on da blog would be more in order. Put the new Firm right up there with Jake and Jaak Mennon and the whole madcap crew from Virgil ON! Great exposure for unlimited consulting potential from India to Ihla Grande. Which reminds me there's some other consultants on this list who could benefit from similar exposure. And the good news is...IT'S FREE!!

Gummo
We all support the career move, and will make sure Ace Contracting is built into the next great phase of the blog www.hips.com/quest. Virgil ON! (some might say Virgil ON was already quite dense enough, before densification happened)...

SusanF
Its your new calling. Mid-career shift. Subject of a Globe and Mail profile for sure.

SusanW
It’s all part of my new career move - Ace Contracting - bonded, reliable and, well, you get the picture. Isn’t densification something that happened in Virgil a few years back?

SusanF
Susan Wheeler is an ace contractor - she'll see to all of the arrangements.

Gummo
OK. I took the opportunity to go over to Home Depot on the weekend to look into stacking and cantelivering options, and was not thrilled with any of their solutions. The guys at Home Depot all knew what I meant when I said I wanted my guests properly stacked, so there was no confusion around the Planning Intent. They suggested I wait for a new line of Margo Annand sofa enhancements they're expecting to have available in the Spring of ó6.

So for the Winter 05/06 season I'm going to fall back on Susan''s original densification option which happens WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THE EXISTING SOFA which I think makes much more sense.

Susan...please drop in to help implement this approach. As RJMiller has intimated, us policy guys are long on strategy but short on detailed tactics...and I haven't delivered the truffles to Bambi's Lair yet...(!)

Miller
The flurry of posts last evening elicited a rare and special call from Alan. Seems he was already working on a reseating plan *plus* a strategic analysis of a drum bbq trailer for the pedal car. You have to watch regional policy planners. Heavy on strategy but often weak on tactics. Anyway, the games afoot for the upcoming cacooning movie season. Also, A had never heard of Alvarez Kelly. Not to my surprise. Viewed both Alvarez and The Beast in the fish hut on Bailey Island and plan to acquire both at Bay Bloor Vid asap. Heading for the big ACO soiree at the Arts 'n Letters Club soon and may be able to slide by and fill the obvious void. Alvarez Kelly turns out to be one of the most historically accurate series of sets in a horse opera that I have ever seen. Poster below. Alvarez has many supporting people who went on to fame later. The Beast is another good one. Starring a very youthful future star of CSI Vegas. Don't panic and remember to carry your towels.

SusanW
As planners you might consider higher densities, say stacking perhaps? But no overshadowing please!…lurk

Rob
I left Guelph the summer they broke ground to ruin the south campus. Wandering the bricks between the library and the arts building I came across an old gent trying desperately to get into a cab. People were yelling "get that hack outa here". I leaned over and lo and behold it was Louis Leakie of Olduvai Gorge fame. My mouth fell open as I said something like "wow you're Dr. Leakie!" to which he replied "move these damned legs for me will you please?". He was a total wreck. He didn't say thanks or anything and the cab pulled away through a group of kids protesting something or other. I drove the MGA off the campus and suddenly realized that all of my boyhood heroes had turned out to be shits except my father who I had actually been treating like a shit, for no good reason. I sold the MGA shortly after that and took a nothing job cutting down dutch elm trees. The allure of that was fresh air and the ability to blow off excess steam in the biggest chainsaw massacre in the history of Ontario. While on that project I learned how to drop big trees in any direction and call a chainsaw a Yakadoozie. The foreman was Randy Box and he later taught me how to drive a snow plow, very badly. I will always remember what he said the day I left for Queen's Park - "hey kid, don't take any shit down there" and to this day I follow that advice.

SusanF
well that was before my time, of course.

>Rob
All I remember about Dow in Guelph was Jimmie's purple haze blasting the Coffee Shop and someone yelling "wouldn't a Dow go good now?"

>Leah
Actually Susan, it was Dr. Dow - first name Helen and, if memory serves me, she was constantly apologizing for her slides, which were always inserted into the slide projector upside down. I also remember a purple bat wing dress and a large gold medallion designed by Alex Coleville which clanked when she walked. The scariest thing about her was that she had a twin sister - also Dr. Dow. Both Bryn Mawr girls I do believe.

>Rob
Lurkin' wi limpen pools o lowin'-drouth for Theakson best under limit.

>Filshie
Right on Leah - swill would be good enoungh for the rude thing. The rest of us will drink the scotch while we watch the specatcle. But Leah..on seconf thought, we would miss Robs' great stories, and his daily pictures. I am now dependent on them. What to do? what to do?

>Rob
Oh lucky man, ye best bitter fate is still on the table. Fear not fair maid, the limit shall never be crossed, though chance of daudin' showers of Theakson's best is tempting. Daud is not to be confused with dowd, which is the old Scottish word for a stale piece of bread. Now there's a limit crossed :<)

>Filshie
Leah - I knew you were there. Nothing escapes you. Honestly, that man you are married to is really the limit!

>Leah
I'll think about it but I see no reason for you to enjoy your last moments that much - should you cross the line.
>Rob
D'ya kin yon Rabbie heels-owre-gowdie like a blastie whingin' in daudin' showers o fine wusky.

>Rivers
I'd say that's a gauntlet down eh?
To slightly paraphrase a quote from the Bard - You block, you stone, you
worse than senseless thing, knew you not the brave and bold Robbie? There
he be swinging from yon tree if he does not listen to to the charming Leah.

>Rob
I would never exceed the limit, but if I should do, could you make it a butt of Theakson's Best Bitter?

>Leah
To all of you who have come to my aid - the limit has been reached.
Beware to him who goes beyond that limit - one more time. A sorry end
awaits - one akin to that which befell a certain Duke or Earl or some such
bigwig in Richard III. I think it had something to do with going ass over
teakettle into a butt of Malmsey wine.

>Miller
Bingo, a MacCallan tanker "ay yon tartan mae no wi a tart'n trouble". The
secret is to understand your lady's humour threshold and take it to the
tanker limit. Take it to the limit, one more time.

>Rob
D'ya kin two laddies gone awa hame to wee Skye clouds wi smiles?

>Filshie
Ha. I'll bet you would. You should be drowned too

>Rivers
Not much but I'm willing to explore!

>Filshie
and what would you know about 18 year old Scots?

>Rivers
Maybe I shoulda said an 18 year old Scot?!?!?!?!

>Alan
I agree with that. We'll fill up the tanker unit I've got hitched to
the pedal car and park it in front of the sofa till it's drained. It might
not be his life, but it will be a celebration...

>Rivers
I think a nice 18 year old scotch would be fitting for the
"Celebration of His Life" - dontcha

>Alan
I say he's done. Bad timing really. If I'd known sooner I would
have delayed payment for the pedal car...

>Filshie
Lets' take a vote. Do you think that Rob Miller will survive to
the end of the day after Leah sees this latest tale?

>Miller
Both bulls lay on the ground in front of the chained gate as I arrived back from the valley. The heiffers and calves had divided in two groups and stood to the side eyeing me for another stampede signal. The white bull got up, took a huge dump and collapsed back into position, taking a big lick of his nose ring in the process. He had one misshappen horn that did a curlyque like a narwhale. The brown bull was huge with runny eyes and a nose ring that good use a good cleaning. He heaved himself up and gave me a look that ran a chill down my spine. What would Alvarez Kelly do in a spot like this? Runnnn bubba, I thought, but was interupted by a censure vote from both knees. The bull squinted and pawed the ground with one hoof and snorted at least four feet of steam. I took my handkerchief out to wipe the sweat from my brow and ooops that was the signal for both charge and stampede. The bull hurled himself towards me with an unfriendly sort of body language and I instinctively remembered a similar situation when big Kippy McGuire had charged me on a construction site back in the hood. I picked up a huge cobble stone and whipped it at the bull as hard as I could. It hit him square in the forehead and he went down like a bad habit. But just on his front elbows. He shook himself about the withers and heaved to his feet. "Fuck you" he coughed as he snorted and charged. At that point I woke up in a cold sweat. Leah was snoring. It was so great to be alive.

The flurry of posts last evening elicited a rare and special call from Alan. Seems he was already working on a reseating plan *plus* a strategic analysis of a drum bbq trailer for the pedal car. You have to watch regional policy planners. Heavy on strategy but often weak on tactics. Anyway, the games afoot for the upcoming cacooning movie season. Also, A had never heard of Alvarez Kelly. Not to my surprise. Viewed both Alvarez and The Beast in the fish hut on Bailey Island and plan to acquire both at Bay Bloor Vid asap. Heading for the big ACO soiree at the Arts 'n Letters Club soon and may be able to slide by and fill the obvious void. Alvarez Kelly turns out to be one of the most historically accurate series of sets in a horse opera that I have ever seen. Poster below. Alvarez has many supporting people who went on to fame later. The Beast is another good one. Starring a very youthful future star of CSI Vegas. Don't panic and remember to carry your towels.

>Gummo
Good one.

>Filshie
you are such a city kid, aren't you?

>Miller
Speaking of dimensions, I should recount my walking site tour of a big open rolling site of over 200 acres rising along the north bank of the Mag River adjacent to the Village of Burk's Falls. Site of a planned resort community. Tremendous relief to the site offering spectacular views down the valley and towards the south. About one hour into the property I realized I had attracted the attention of a herd of heiffers and a few large calves in a distant valley. They had been trekking towards me for some time as the first to arrive were breathing hard. I was the most fun they had seen in some time. As they approached I backed up onto a rocky knob outcrop with a steep drop behind. Surely they wouldn't want to join me on the edge. Up they came, the more the merryier. I took a couple of flash photos and they all came to a halt. I yelled "ha" at the top of my lungs, an echo returned from across the Maggie but nothing. I yelled several things that I'd seen in Alvarez Kelly, a civil war flic with William Holden running cattle for the yankee army. But these heiffers seemed gigantic compared to what William Holden had to deal with and he was on horseback. The standoff continued. I yelled "Yeyahhhh" just like Alvarez Kelly. Nothing. Then I raised my left hand to shield my eyes from the setting sun and wow that was the signal for a wild stampeeeeeeeeeede. The hooves thundered as the heiffers [I counted 38] clammered and jumped and tried to run backwards away from the cliff and me. Two slipped in cowpads and actually fell down. One knocked a couple of calves to the ground. They slammed their hooves and lowed and finally organized and thundered away up the hill towards a forested area. Man was that a close call. That was the first of three stampedes I would cause before making it back to the gate. Waiting at the gate were two huge bulls, complete with horns and nose rings. A story of escape for another time.

>Miller
Back from Parry Hoot and an orderly but hectic visit yesterday evening to the Tim Hortons at South Gravenhurst. The first thing about the place is always how busy the area is in general. A billboard on the northbound side of number 11 says "KFC two minutes ahead, one if you floor it." A sign on the southbound lanes just north of the Tim Hortons says "blueberries" with a ductape crossout then "home grown cranberries" with many ductape crossouts. Not even a "see you next year" as they normally do.

It was heavy congestion in the truck inspection station next to the donut shop as a big convoy of dozens of Canadian Army personell carriers had occupied most of the lot. Very impressive in full battle colours and huge machine guns mounted on the top of each vehicle. Soldiers in camoflage fatigues were in evidence everywhere on their way towards the gulch and Tim Hortons. Many of them incessantly saluting each other. A big container tractor trailer pulled in ahead of me and a tiny Sikh driver with pink tuban jumped out and marched toward the shop. A brightly coloured Tai*Pai*Vacations Greyhound was parked in front. About 50 Korean vacationers were inside and the line from the mens washroom was right out the side door. There were looks of squinty indignation as the Sikh and I squirmed ahead through the line with hand gestures clearly showing that we had no intentions of butting in at the mens. Korean women apparently bypass the Donut shop washroom. They must use the one on the bus. Why the men do not is a mystery.

There was nobody in line for donuts or coffee. Ha, what a break. Vera said hi and out popped a googly eyed kid from the kitchen with a hairnet and no front teeth. "What happened to his teeth?" I asked and Vera said "oh Jerry's back - somebody knocked out his front teeth at camp". So that was Jerry, yikes, in that kitchen again. What a sight. A big woman, very big, working the icecap machine yelled "MY GAWD that camp". I ordered my usual with milk not cream and Vera said "more people are using milk and we're out of milk". The big woman yelled again "MY GAWD milk is popular - here's some". A large group of Koreans in a mob behind me visibly shrank back as she appoached the counter. Under the counter was a beer frig with a sign held in place by filthy ductape "Milk only stack two deep". Big woman opened it and I wondered why Vera would think they had no milk.

The little Sikh was handed a small tea which he paid for with a five and put all of the change in the Camp donation box. "Love ya prince" says Vera as the Sikh leaves. "MY GAWD why don't some of yous order?" big woman screams at the Koreans who visibly shrink back enmasse. Their bus says Casino Rama "we deal big fun" and I wonder what its doing in Gravenhurts, so far north of Orillia. Maybe on a coloured leaf tour, who knows, the driver didn't come in with the passengers who were content to pee and just watch the show going on behind the counter. Jerry standing with his toothless smile, soiled whites and hair net was worth their trouble I guess.

I made my way out to find the soldiers waiting patiently in the line of Koreans for the single urinal inside. Some were watching what had been the empty order kiosk next to the drive in order garbage can. The structure now contains a video terminal showing an image show of products inside. The soldiers loved it and between the line and the guys blocking the drivethru to watch the video, a dangerous situation had developed at the entrance on 11. There is no turning lane and its worth you life at the best of times swinging in off 11 at speed. Some officers had arrived and started barking orders and the incessant saluting started again.

I pushed the car gently thru the crowd and out onto 11. About two kilometres south I spied the Sikh's container truck parked at a Country Style Donut shop and sure enough there he was heading into the shop with his Tim Horton paper cup in hand. ??? Probably gets steeped tea at Tim Hortons and goes down the road to Country Style for something else. Very strange indeed, but not enough to raise suspicions of a hole in the universe.

Good luck all, and remember don't panic and a very heartfelt thanks for all the fish.

>Miller
Ah the chocolate truffle season is fast approaching. The time when I watch the local chocolatier work her magic and I gladly make room in the Saranac frigidaire for those delightful tins which we often lean out as far as hot summer bbq evenings to be shared at Chez Bambi. What a treat following Chez Bambi ribs with secret sauce and gobs of Ziggy's rice pud and shimmering bowls of Aunt Leah's baked rice pud with custard. Those were indeed the days of miracle and wonder as summer geared down into, aha, truffle season again. You know, the Italians have it right - live to eat.

>Gummo
....ah yes...truffles...confection of choice at Bambi's Lair...I trip the light fantastic up the steps and in the door....

>Barb
I could not tell you where to source “Power Pigs”. If it were me, I would insist on a box of wonderful truffles from a local chocolatier. Packaging and shipment would have to withstand the heat so that they would arrive intact and not perish enroute…...However, since it is so dreadfully hot there and the truffles would without a doubt perish, as an alternative you should send a box of truffles to each of us here so that we could enjoy them on Carolyn’s behalf……

>Gummo
Thanks for your concern. I immediately swung into action and obtained direct and credible evidence from Belo Horizonte via SKYPE to the effect that the nation as a whole is in the midst of a heat wave. Which is all relative since they generally do not make use of thermometers to the extent we do. Then last night I phoned Carol and found out that the heat may be a nuisance in many respects but is not disrupting riding lessons. All is well.

In that same conversation I was presented with a no-holds-barred request for a care package containing a candy product called Power Pigs. It's been a long time since I was in the candy market. In fact I have only a very vague and distant memory involving the convenience store at the corner of Bagot and William Streets, myself, Twizzlers, acid, and a uniformed officer from the Kingston Police Department. Additonal details seem to be beyond recovery.

If anyone knows where I can get a supply of this candy product known as Power Pigs please help.

>Hutch
Reminds of an August spent helping a friend build a his loft in NY city. I'd
wake up repeatedly in the night thinking the sweat running across my back
was a god-damn-cockroach. Nah, it was just sweat. It took us a week to get
the shower and tub working. Did we need it.
Bill

>Miller
That doesn't sound quite right Alan. Should tell her to check her temperature and be careful about the tight clothes. There are some bugs that cause swelling and fever and she is not overweight at all and shouldn't feel humidity to that degree unless her body is feverish. Now if I was there, with my body mass, I would expect to be a grease spot in a matter of days. That's why when we go to Manaus we should go in July. Otherwise we need luggage bearers and guys with big fans on us at all times like the Sultan of Oompappamowmow.

Off to Parry Hoot again. Stopping by Gravyhurts on the way back late tonight. I can't stand to just drive by the place. What could possibly happen on a monday evening?

>A. Gummo
...life takes a downturn...

>C.Gummo
>I am so hot and tired right now! I haven´t slept well in days... The
>heat is unberable! Last nght I was sleeping on a plain bed, no
>sheet. I was wearing underwear and a tank top and sweating like
>crazy. I would wake up every few seconds when the sweat dripped into
>my eyes or ears or off of my legs... It was disgusting, but everyone
>still plays soccer, goes shopping, eats cake and drinks coffee...
>Like it´s nothing!!
>I can´t fit into any of my skirts either!! I´ve been wearing jeans
>until the last couple days... Now only my elastic skirt fits so Musa
>has washed it every night for me to wear, haha.
>Anyway... I am too hot to right anymore... I think I´m dying.
>Love and miss you,
>Carolyn

>Rivers
And now a sketch featuring Ronnie Corbett, whose wife thinks he's the salt of the earth. That's why she keeps him in the cellar.
And in a packed programme tonight, I shall be having a word with a man who goes in for meditation because he thinks it's better than sitting around doing nothing.

And we had hoped to have been bringing you Arthur The Human Chameleon but this afternoon he crawled across a tartan rug and died of exhaustion.

But first, the news: The House of Commons was sealed off today after police chased an escaped lunatic through the front door during Prime Minister's question time. A spokesman at Scotland Yard said it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Many old music hall fans were present at the funeral today of Fred "Chuckles" Jenkins, Britain's oldest, unfunniest comedian. In tribute, the vicar read out one of Fred's jokes and the congregation had two minutes' silence.

At London's Heathrow, senior customs officer Seaforth Mumbly retired today. He shook hands with passengers passing through the customs and confiscated a gold watch for himself.

The search for the man who terrorises nudist camps with a bacon slicer goes on. Inspector Lemuel Jones had a tip-off this morning, but hopes to be back on duty tomorrow.

And now a sketch, featuring Mr Ronnie Corbett, whose wife tries not to bring out the beast in him because she's afraid of mice.

We interrupt this programme for a special bulletin: The Metropolitan police today denied that prisoners in their custody are excessively pampered. This follows yesterday's report that a man was hustled out of New Scotland Yard with an electric blanket over his head.

Following the dispute with the domestic servants' union at Buckingham Palace today, the Queen, a radiant figure in a white silk gown and crimson robe, swept down the main staircase and through the hall. She then dusted the cloakroom and vacuumed the lounge.

Solomon F Potts, America's most persistent practical joker, was buried today. He's not dead, it's just the neighbours getting their own back.

This kitchen appliance completely replaces the milkman – unless you're the woman at 14 Catbury Drive with the green door.

The man who invented the zip fastener was today honoured with a lifetime peerage. He will now be known as the Lord of the Flies.

The toilets at a local police station have been stolen. Police say they have nothing to go on.

In a packed programme tonight we will be talking to an out-of-work contortionist who says he can no longer make ends meet.

Have you heard the one about the retired general who said he had not had sex since 1956? His friend said, 'That's a long time ago.' 'I don't know,' the general replied. 'It's only 20.27 now.'

Next week we'll be investigating rumours that the president of the dairy council has become a Mason, and goes around giving his colleagues the secret milkshake.

We'll continue our investigation into the political beliefs of nudists. We've already noticed a definite swing to the left.

The Prime Minister held a meeting with the cabinet today. He also spoke to the bookcase and argued with the chest of drawers.

The West Drayton man who has kept himself awake every night for 17 years by snoring has at last found the answer. He's going to sleep in another room.

I knew a man who was convicted of stealing a calendar. He got 12 months.

CORBETT: "This next sketch is about two workers caught in an explosion in a ball-bearing factory. In it, I play a man who loses his bearings." BARKER: "And I play a man who loses his . . . temper."
.....................and it's goodnight from him

>Miller
I met the orange tractor lady in person this morning at the VirgilON Valumart. Leah sent me in search of pure pumpkin which is extremely rare this year apparently. Key ingredient in pumpkin brule [broolay] that our cat adores, so naturally Leah favours the cat. Anyway I'm at the store 5 minutes before it opens this morning and a line is forming in the rain - for pure pumpkin. I say "good morning y'all here for pure pumpkin?" and they all nod except WOW its the orange tractor lady with a new black toque for winter. She looks at me and says "No goppa". "Goppa huh, I know a Gummo, are you looking for Gummo by any chance?" "No, goppa, goppa" comes the reply with a menacing twitch of her cane. The manager arrives and in we go. No pure pumpkin. Thousands of tins of prepared pumpkin pie filling but none of the real thing. "There was a severe shortage of pumpkins last year" says the manager "it was a disaster". "You could have fooled me", I thought.

>Miller
My grandad Miller was a Burlington native and when I was a kid he still had his chicken farm on Woodward Avenue, just west of Brant Street. Alan lived east of Brant Street in a neighbourhood we used to call "the plutocrats". West of Brant was fantastic garden farmland and grandad grew huge Spanish onions on the flats of Rambo Creek. I don't know exactly how it happened, but somehow he became a regular guest on Hamilton's CHML Radio with Paul Hanover "Mayor of The Morning Show". Paul called him "the onion man". My grandad told corny off-colour jokes which embarassed my mother to no end because everybody on her side of the family was listening. An extended family of short dour Scots who were all standoffish with my father's family who were twice their size and had no respect for what dad called the Barclay "snooty attitude". Anyway, Paul Hanover thought grandad Miller would make a great Santa Claus and one thing led to another and grandad became Santa Claus at the Right House department store for about fifteen years in a row. Hanover had him on at Christmas too until one year grandad said, on live air, "Jezuz H Christ Paul you look like hell". Paul had severe heart disease and his hair quickly turned pure white. That was it for grandad on CHML.

>Gummo
In my neighbourhood in Burlington they burned down their houses for the insurance money, or declared bankruptcy and then relocated to Florida with a pair of brand-new Cadillacs. My Grandmother’s housekeeper drove a Chrysler. That’s the kind of neighbourhood it was. And we thought it was the 80’s that brought on Hunter Thompson’s ‘generation of swine’!

As a result of these adult shenanigans a lot of the kids’ behavior slipped by under the radar. But some of it was noticed. One kid, who lived across the street from me, ran away from home and hid out in a barn in Ancaster for about a week. There was a huge police search. Overall the kids learned to get away with a lot. When Robert Bateman came to teach geography at our high school he seemed to float just above the classroom floor in a kind of angelic illumination. The kids had never seen anyone so genuine and exotic. One of them immediately inked a graffiti into the back of Bateman’s camel hair jacket.

B., who lived across the street and grew up with me and was therefore sort of my first ‘sweetheart’, went into voluntary exile somewhere in Western Europe (probably Holland) in the late 60’s and never returned. Except for her father’s funeral in ‘73/74. I talked with her in a long-distance telephone conversation, and she told me she couldn’t get back to Europe fast enough. She hasn’t kept in touch.

>Miller
We should explore the possibility of me publishing an E-book for you. Once complete, you could submit it to McLellan & Stewart or Penguin. Hell, I could even contribute some Hamilton Mountain parallel trivia if you wanted. You had the high end car neighbourhood and I had E 15th St with neighbours like big Ed Warwas who always came off shift at the Hilton Works, heading for the Sherman House and then home drunk in his black Desoto with no brakes. Big Ed used the corner of dad's privette hedge to slow his landing as he coasted the big chrome bumper into the corner of his brick house. In time the bricks, the hedge and the Desoto all took on the same profile. Until one day big Ed really smucked the hedge and dad got so pissed he sledge-hammered a six foot length of 4" angle iron into the ground just inside the corner of the hedge. He drove it down into that mountain clay so deep only about 18" was above ground. Man, it was rock solid. I guess none of the neighbours wanted to tell big Ed about it. Anyway, that evening dad sat on the front varendah reading his Spectator and waiting for big Ed to arrive home, which he did right on time, drunk as usual. As dad told the story year after year over thanksgiving dinner, big Ed's Desoto sort of rose up and over the angle iron which immediately began collecting soft metal underbelly parts as the car scraped over it - parts like the rad bottom and the oil pan. Big Ed didn't say a word but the Desoto was towed away and replaced next day with a huge 52 black Olds with good brakes. The angle iron stayed in the hedge and dad slowly groomed it back to a square corner, a process which took several years. The matter came to an ugly head years later when big Ed made plans to pave his driveway. Problem was the property bar was about 6" inside the area that big Ed had been using as his driveway. Dad went out and drove another hunk of angle iron down into big Ed's driveway right beside the property marker. Big Ed didn't say anything and dad commenced to grow the hedge out the additional six inches, which it eventually did over several years.

>Gummo
The memories just keep recovering...the family who lived across the street from us in Burlington had one of those Simon Templar-style Volvo coupes. Their son "Chip" drove it to high school every day fer crissakes. Before that they bought him an MGA, and he drove it to high school. What a neighbourhood...when my family moved to Kingston things finally got real. In fact, now that I think about it I might recover a bunch of memories about Burlington and write a book about them. But not now...

I understand that when "Chip" finished high school his parents set him up in a mens' wear store in downtown Burlington called, guess what, "Mr. Chip's". Probably they bought him a Maserati to drive to work....you didn't date "Chip" by any chance, did you? It is a small world....and by the way, I always thot those Volvo's were kinda neat...

As bad an experience as Rob and Leah had on the way home, the good news is their van now has a Bosch part attached to it. I understand this is like having Braun appliances in the kitchen.

>Filshie
Do I know Gary Long? I saw that name and it had a familiar ring to it. Hmmmmm
The Austin Healy was always my favourite of all. Naturally I love the Jag E type - who wouldn't? _ but never really wanted to own one that way I alwys wanted an Austin
Healy. My other 2 favourites were the Volvo 240 (Simon Templar's cute car in white) and the little Mercedes 2 swater - but I have forgotten its number - a 200 series also.
Glad you had a good prowl on the day before your birthday Alan and happy birthday too.

>A.Gummo
Amazing!...the world is suddenly a much smaller place than I ever imagined...Gary never told me about receiving any offers to purchase, but I expect by then he'd moved on. Or he simply didn't receive it cause he had no fixed address in spite of what the OPP thought. As he once said, "Never put more than ten dollars gas in your car, never leave your toothbrush at your girlfriend's."

Fantastic coincidence Steve!! Now let's hear some stories about that Biscayne!

> Rivers
Life is full of small coincidences isn't it. I was working for the summer pumping gas at the services station at the corner of Hwy's 7 and 37 that they left Gary's powder blue TR3 at after the T-bone incident. I went so far as to get his name and address from the local OPP and wrote to him asking if he wanted to sell it. He didn't reply. I then had the choice of either a red MGA or a '64, 4-door Chevy Bisc ayne. I went for the Chevy because it had a heater and and a big back seat. Sigh!

RECOVERED MEMORY AT BRONTE CREEK
>Alan Gummo

Alright. On September 18th, the day before my birthday, I went to the British Car Day at Bronte Creek Provincial Park. This post is going to really aggravate Leah because it does go on and on, but we won’t go into any technical stuff like interpretations of Kamm’s aerodynamic theories, so give it a read. It’s full of good lore, and the pictures are worth thousands of words.

Incidentally, the light meter in my old-fashioned pre-electronic Nikon did a real dance depending on the amount of chrome and the sheen on the various cars.

I was always more into the aesthetics of cars…the artistry of design and satisfying performance…than tinkering with the damn things. In fact the necessity of tinkering with the Mini Cooper just to make it run drove me nuts. And the Alfa Romeo was too complicated and too expensive to even think about tinkering with. When it needed tinkering it went into the shop, where it usually stayed for six months at a time. One time the m echanic had a nervous breakdown.

Therefore, this should be read with Isabel Bayrakdarian playing in the background. I can’t think of a more serene accompaniment for lots of recovered memory.

Most of these cars date from an era when cars were the result of an individual builder’s inspiration rather than corporate decisions and focus groups. From left to right…

The 1949 MG. Built the same year as the pedal car. John Kribs, who bought our house on South Drive when we moved from Burlington to Kingston in the early sixties, had three of these charming cars, all pale yellow with green leather interiors. Two of them fit in the garage; he kept the third outside under a tarp. He considered driving them late at night on winding roads his ‘the rapy’. That was before ‘t herapy’ was considered an acceptable practice.

The 1950 Jaguar roadster. The curves flow from here to eternity. William Lyons’ early post war masterpiece. Similar to a car some of us know that’s sitting in a restoration shop in Prince Edward County. Bill Loosley and I could have bought one of these cars for $50 in the early 60’s from Monza Motors on Lakeshore Road in Bronte. The engine was seized; we weren’t brave enough to take it on.

The MGA. Built from the mid 50’s to early 60’s. The sports car that defined the genre. Similar to the model that’s sitting in the display case on Bayview in Port Dalhousie. Sure to elicit more fond memories.

The Austin-Healey. Built from the mid 50’s to early 60’s. Donald Healey’s most purposeful design. “If it looks right, it is right.” When I was a kid I thought it was cool the way the windshields folded down. My friend Gary Long bought one in the mid 60’s. The crude power terrified him, so he traded for a Camaro. Go figure.

The Triumph TR3. Built from the early 50’s to the early 60’s. Classic British functionalism. Gary Symons had one of these when we were cabdrivers in the early 70’s. You could actually drag your knuckles on the pavement, if you wanted to. Gary’s was totaled when tee-boned by the township reeve on Highway 7 just outside Madoc. It reminded him of the fate of James Dean. After that he started driving a 1961 Buick sedan his father had kept for him. He went off the road three times in the Buick in one summer when bees came in the vent windows and stung him in the chest. By the end of the summer the Buick needed extensive bodywork.

The Sunbeam Tiger. Simple and unassuming, but a real sleeper: a light British car with a Ford V8 engine. More performance than you could ever imagine. In 1967 Bill Loosley and I drove his Tiger from Vancouver to Los Angeles along the Coast Highway, then across the continent on Route 66 from Los Angeles to Chicago. Most of Route 66 was still two-lanes at that time, like in the tv show. The Tiger would blow the doors off most American muscle cars (see previous post regarding a sojourn in Niles, Michigan). When Bill started racing motorcycles shortly afterward, he used the Tiger to trailer his bike, tools, and spare parts. One weekend on the way to Mosport we saw 115 miles per hour (about 185 km/h) fully loaded on the 401 at Oshawa.

The Lotus Elite. Colin Chapman at his most sublime. Exquisite proportions, subtle curves, not a line out of place. Sophisticated, beautiful, and efficient.

The Lotus Seven. Colin Chapman at his most playful. These tiny, lightweight cars would outrun a Corvette. Strangely, the Elite and the Seven were produced concurrently from 1957 into the sixties. Sort of like a Picasso and a Calder coming out of the same studio.

The Shelby Cobra. Carroll Shelby’s idea of a car for living large. After all, Shelby was from Texas; when he raced in the fifties he wore bib overalls. The chassis and bodies of the Cobras were made in England. This one with unpainted aluminum body looking, as D. would say, ‘rather industrial’. I recall seeing one of these on the road in Lake Placid in the mid-six ties; its owner used it t o pick up his New York Times at a corner store on the main street. It disappeared out of town in the blink of an eye.

Inside the trunk of the Shelby. This one has been personally inspected after restoration and autographed by Shelby himself. Dan Gurney is a true American racing hero, and was a member of the Shelby team that won the World Sports Car Championship in the mid-sixties, beating Ferrari. Note clever use of duct-tape.

The Jensen Interceptor. Built in the 70’s before Jensen finally went under. Sheer opulence. Body designed in Italy. Similar to the one David Baird drove when he was on EI in Halifax in the 80’s. David loved the sumptuous leather interior; he said it took his mind off being unemployed.

The Jaguar E-Type. William Lyons’ second masterpiece; my personal favorite. Stunning form and amazing function. Perfect balance. A zen state at rest and at speed. I had a chance to ride with the late Ken Andre in his identical gunmetal grey roadster in the early-sixties. On the stretch of Palace Road, now Sir John A. MacDonald Blvd., between Union and Johnson Streets, a distance of about three bl ocks and slightly uphill on rough pavement, Ken hit 105 miles per hour (about 170 km/hr) before having to shut down for the stop sign at Johnson Street. The first time I drove one of these cars I ran the first stop sign I came to at 70 mph (about 112 km/hr) IN FIRST GEAR. Our family doctor at the time, a Dr. Workman, considered buying an E-Type, but found the interior ‘chintzy’. He bought an Alfa Romeo instead. Those were the days of real cars, and choosing one over another was done for genuine reasons. I doubt Dr. Workman ever tinkered with his Alfa, but he made house calls in it.

ZON ZON at Tim Hortons Gravenhurst
>Miller

Nothing extra-terrestrial happened at the proverbial Gravenhurts Tim Donut, but something did happen out of the ordinary and quite comical, to me at least.

I backed into a spot beside a high-end Nissan with license plate ZON ZON. The Nissan was parked nose-in and as I backed in I noticed one rear door slightly ajar with a young blonde teenage girl sitting in the back seat. Hair discheveled giving her a look something like the blond cop in the Cold Case tv show. But they teen wore glasses with thick dark frames and she was obviously in a truculent pouty mood. Her father stood a short distance away from the car tugging hard on a cigarette. I had the impression he would far rather have been in the car with a coffee and the windows all up. Mom came skipping across the parking lot, from where I don't know. She was a sight. Dressed in a fake deerskin vest and pants and mocs and her thin red hair was pulled tight around her skull in skinny pig tails stretching the skin taught around her bony face and pointy nose. Put a feather in her hair and call her Little White Dove. "Oh isn't the north something?" she squeeled as she wrapped her arms around Mel's neck as he exhaled with a raspy cough. Mel looked like the old LA cop in those Eddie Murphy 24/48 Hour movies. Mel stood his ground and continued smoking. Little White Dove skipped over to the car, opened the trunk, and put both hands in the air about shoulder height and began to wiggle her fingers in the air while trying to make a decision about something in the luggage. I found all of this fascinating just sat and watched. The teen looked my way with a look as if to say "please help me." I looked at her momentarily and with my aviation shades felt a tad like the chain gang cop in Cool Hand Luke.

Little White Dove leaned into their car and convinced the teen to come into Donut Shop as I was about to head there too. I followed Mel, in jeans, the teen and Little White Dove but half way to the door the teen leaned over and heaved puke onto the parking lot. "Good Lord I wish you would stop doing that" exclaimed Little White Dove. The smell hit me immediately and I altered course because the smell of puke has given me dry heaves since the days of my youth when my sister would puke with car sickness, often in dad's old Austin AF.

I visited the men's, which had reverted to a disaster zone with the auto-flushers replaced with old style manual ones - strange place. Came out and got in the mid-store line. Finally at the head of the line, the waitress said "there's no line here anymore, there's nobody here", to which I replied "but I could have sworn, that's OK" and I moved away from the most worn spot in the floor to a new position at the end of another line right behind Mel, the teen and Little White Dove. The pong of puke was more prevalent than ever and it was apparent that more puke had come up in the women's washroom. "Why do you keep doing that why do you keep doing that?" said Little White Dove in a jarring tone of voice. "I'm pregnant" said the teen, in a voice loud enough for the entire donut shop to hear. "What?" screamed Little White Dove in a pitch that ended in glass-breaking frequencies. "Say that isn't true say that isn't true what are we going to do? What are we going to do? What are we going to do?" Screamed Little White Dove poking Mel in the arm. All Mel could say was "wall I, wall I" and before he could spit it out Little White Dove says "the house just isn't big enough." "Oh I would never live with you" says the teen. "I didn't mean that I didn't mean that I meant for the wedding." "There won't by *any* wedding" yelled the teen, as the donut shop started to take on a feeling of universal tension. "What do you mean? Who's the father, that Jim?" "There is no father, and I'm not pregnant, I just said that to bug you." Little White Dove turns and rushes out the donut shop and I notice a smile turn up on one side of Mel's face. People relax and look at the floor and things move along again the counter and some regular noises come back into the shop. "What would you like dawlin'?" asks Mel. "An IceCap daddy" says the teen.

>Rivers
Where's all the white hair come from?

Well I've been cleaning up the house in anticipation of Alan and Silvania from Brazil and after watching the Gophers steal the little Brown Jug from the Wolverines I hit the shower and afterwards discovered something amazing. I am convinced we shoud re-do our backroom shower in black. Right now its all in white, including the fake tle vinyl lino that mimics white tiles. Why black? Well, I thought I had cleaned that bathroom but I stepped out of the shower and something moved across the flooor. I lunged at it lo and behold it was a big ball of white hair blowing around the room like an Alberta ball of sage brush - totally invisible against the white floor. I started to hum the Son's of the Pioneers

See them tumbling down
Pledging their love to the ground
Lonely but free I'll be found
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.

Oh no, the bathroom floor is rolling with invisible tumbling tumbleweeds of white hair. Bummber. Time to redo in black tile. Keep a movin' Dan she's a devil not a man and she spreads the burning sand with water, pure, clear water. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaater.

> Miller
Rivers calls it 'channeling'. Whatever, I'm just away to the bigtime MNR conference on mapping their precious class one wetlands. This is my kind of conference - 100% subsidized by MNR & MMAH with a free lunch put on by Ducks Unlimited. I'm expecting wood duck l'orange and wild rice pud. But deli sandwiches from Orr's Lunch next door would be good. Lunch at Orr's itself would be good too. Talk about a hole in the universe, well let me tell you, Orr's is a big one - later.

This free conference is on the wild west side of the District in the Town of Parry Hoot itself. No chance to visit the Gravyhurts Tim Donut this trip, but there is a possibility of swinging by the remote West Shawanaga Indian Reserve which is reputed to have a donut shop with rather unorthodox methods of service. Stay tuned. Literally. I just discovered that the Nikon also records sounds bites. Aha, another reason to get some of those great Walmart headphones for the office. You can listen for sound bites in the images flying in via email or listen to your favourite Mantovani albums while you churn out letters of concern in the sweat shop.

The attached view is an evening sailing lesson in Portland harbour - home of the US Atlantic fleet in WW2 and the shipyard that produced 300 Liberty Ships to help save Great Britain from the evil Nazi bastards. So long for now from Lowell Thomas on the great adventure dubbed "Into The Western Side" and, thanks for all the fish.

> Filshie
How is it that these extrodinary vignettes happen to you all the time? Are you magentized?

>Miller
Thinking about sound bites, I just remembered something I thought was another hole in the universe. A week or so ago I pulled in for gas at the Cumberland Farms station, my usual at Cook's Corners near Brunswick Maine. The hurricane gas shortage was raging. I asked a young Bowdoin co-ed if she could pull ahead to the next pump. She said "no sir its empty". I hate being called sir. Anyway, I backed the van in opposite and started the mastercard routine in the pump. Most US stations work this way or you have to pay in advance - too many runaways. I noticed on a previous fillup that once my card was approved there was a loud woman's voice over the intercom "good to go pump on 5 credit". Amazingly quick. I wondered if it was automated or live from the lady in the store, who sometimes used the intercom. So I decided to experiment. In went the card and "good to go pump on 7 credit" immediately. I didn't pump gas but ran the card again and lo and behold "good to go pump on 7 credit". Aha it *was* automated, amazing tech. The co-ed looked across at me and yelled "fuck you!!" I said "sorry I was just testing the . . ." then a young guy behind me at another pump yelled "fuck you!!" to which I turned around saying "sorry I was listening to the . . ." " how ya been bitch?" he yells at the co-ed. "Great, you big stud" yells back the co-ed. Wow, a preppy Connecticut kid with a Lexus hooked up with a lanky lobster boy wearing a ragged Gulf War cap and driving a junker pickup. The auto-receipt mechanism didn't work on her gas pump. "I think I fucked this thing up". "Bummer, see ya bitch" yells lobster boy with a big grin as the pickup misfires and rolls away. "Fuck you" hollers the co-ed. I just stood there. Then the loud intercom boomed "finished pumping move on finished pumping move on". I drove to the library to read my email and shake the ringing in my ears.

>Gummo, Alan
…as I was watching the show one of my colleagues came along and shouted, “Turn that down!” Not a Natalie Cole fan, I guess….

GOODBYE CREATIVITY (apologies to Don MacLean)
>Miller

A not so long time ago...
I can still remember
How the meetings used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make the money dance
And, maybe, they’d be wealthy for a while.

But february made me shiver
With every deal that I'd deliver.
Good news from the Park men;
Would seldom work their parts then.

I can’t remember where I spied
The news about her damaged pride,
But something touched me deep inside
The day she went back home to her side.

I started thinking,
"bye-bye, creativity bye."
Drove my chevy to the bevy,
But they all came up dry.
And some of the boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that she flies.
"this’ll be the day that she flies"

For too long we remember the groans
Echo along the trail of her rollin’ stone,
But that’s not how it should have been.
When she wrote for the king and queen,
In a style she borrowed from make believe
And a voice that came from them and Dr. Greed,

Oh, and while the king picked at her works,
The writer shared some creative quirks.
The Hearing was adjourned;
No decision was confirmed.
And while head boy read his book on darts,
And the first string practiced choral farts,
We all sat in silence in the dark
The day she went back home to her side.

We were thinking,
"bye-bye, creativity bye."
Drove my chevy to the bevy,
But they all came up dry.
And some of the boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that she flies.
"this’ll be the day that she flies"

Helter skelter in a winery smelter.
Her team flew off to their fallout cellar,
Eight miles high she just couldn't last..
Her friends they called for a forward pass,
But the king and queen played her for an ass.

Now the half-time air was blossom blooms
While the king and queen played a marching tune.
The writer got up to dance,
Oh, but she never got the chance!
`cause the players tried to take the field;
The friends of the king refused to yield.
Do you recall what was revealed
The day she went back home to her side.

I kept on thinking,
"bye-bye, creativity bye."
Drove my chevy to the bevy,
But they all came up dry.
And some of the boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that she dies.
"this’ll be the day that she dies"

Oh, and there we were all in one place,
So many creators all lost in space
With no way back to help again.
So the king decided to be a prick!
As the writer sat on a candlestick
Why is fire the creative writer's only friend?

Oh, and as I watched him take the stage
My mind hoped he wouldn't turn the page.
But no angel born in hell
Could break the monarch's spell.
And as the flames climbed high into my sight
To light the sacrificial rite,
I saw the king laughing with delight
The day she went back home to her side.

He was singing,
"bye-bye, creativity bye."
Drove my chevy to the bevy,
But they all came up dry.
And some of the boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that she dies.
"this’ll be the day that she dies"

I met a girl with odd creative shoes
And I asked her when that lady flew,
But she just smiled and turned away.
So I went down to the sacred shore
Where I’d seen the lady walk before,
But the man there said creative couldn't stay.

And in the streets: the traders schemed,
The lovers sighed, and the poets screamed.
But not a word was written;
The church bells all were hidden.
And the three things I dislike most:
Liar, pretence and the phoney boast,
They raised their glasses in a toast
The day she went back home to her side.

And they were singing,
"bye-bye, creativity bye."
Drove my chevy to the bevy,
But they all came up dry.
And some of the boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that she died.
"this’ll be the day that she died"

A REDNECK POEM
>A.Gummo

SUSIE LEE DONE FELL IN LOVE;
SHE PLANNED TO MARRY JOE.
SHE WAS SO HAPPY 'BOUT IT ALL
SHE TOLD HER PAPPY SO.

PAPPY TOLD HER, SUSIE GAL,
YOU'LL HAVE TO FIND ANOTHER.
I'D JUST AS SOON YO' MA DON'T KNOW,
BUT JOE IS YO' HALF BROTHER.

SO SUSIE PUT ASIDE HER JOE
AND PLANNED TO MARRY WILL;
BUT AFTER TELLING PAPPY THIS,
HE SAID, "THERE'S TROUBLE STILL.

YOU CAN'T MARRY WILL, MY GAL,
AND PLEASE DON'T TELL YO' MOTHER,
BUT WILL AND JOE, AND SEVERAL MO'
I KNOW IS YO' HALF BROTHER.

BUT MAMA KNEW AND SAID, MY CHILD,
JUST DO WHAT MAKES YO' HAPPY.
MARRY WILL OR MARRY JOE,
YOU AIN'T NO KIN TO PAPPY.