The inconvenient truth about Santa

12/12/2006

With U.S presidential failure Al Gore’s much talked-about documentary “An Inconvenient Truth” now on video store shelves, the Confederate had a chance last week to sit down with the filmmaker and delve into the topic of global climate change.
C.C. - Greetings, Mr. Gore, and thank you for the opportunity for us to have this little chat.
A.G. - My pleasure. Does it seem hot in here?
C.C. - You haven’t taken your coat off, sir.
A.G. - Ah, yes of course. We might be laughing today, but global warming is real, man-made, and its effects will be cataclysmic if we do not act now.
C.C. - Are you saying we will all burst into flames soon if we don’t come to terms with this dilemma?
A.G. - Yes.
C.C. - I see. Is there really any hard evidence that we are in the grips of climate change?
A.G. - Oh, certainly there is. The polar ice caps are melting, the oceans are rising, the deserts are hotter, and tropical storms are more severe now.
People are sweating more before noon, toasters are burning toast more often and, in a couple years we won’t even have to boil water for coffee. Forget about cold beer and ice cream. Cool Whip is already making efforts to change its name to Warm Whip.
C.C. - That can’t be welcome news for anyone who likes to eat strawberry shortcake.
A.G. - It’s a disaster, to be sure. Even worse, global warming is having a direct effect on Santa Claus. He may not even be coming this year.
C.C. - What? No Santa Claus? No presents? No Christmas? Please tell me it isn’t that bad.
A.G. - It is. For starters, there is no way Santa’s sleigh is getting off the ground this year. The North Pole is nothing more than wet slush right now.
C.C. - Can’t his eight tiny reindeer pull it out?
A.G. - Not likely. They haven’t flown since Santa traded in his sleigh for a canoe, and taught the reindeer to swim. It’s been a difficult adjustment.
C.C. - Not to mention the threat of polar bears.
A.G. - Actually, they are no longer much of a problem. Most of them just sleep all day in the shade, under the porch on Santa’s workshop.
C.C. - That must be tough on all the elves.
A.G. - Yes, it is. There aren’t quite as many as there used to be, and no one could figure out where they were all disappearing to. The few elves that are left don’t even come outside anymore.
C.C. - Who is going to load Santa’s sleigh? How will all the good girls and boys get any presents?
A.G. - Until everyone goes out and buys all new light bulbs for their homes, electric cars and a solar toothbrush, there are no good little boys and girls.
C.C. - That’s a pretty hefty price tag, Mr. Gore. What if we can’t afford to make so many changes?
A.G. - Then just buy my documentary.

When in doubt, turn the reggae out

11/28/2006

After getting out and enjoying our unseasonably warm weather, there was only one thing left to do during last week’s heat wave—get the reggae out.


Reggae is a music genre born in Jamaica in the late 1960s. The term reggae is often used in a broad sense to refer to many types of Jamaican music; but the feeling, and the groove, is always pretty much the same. It makes you feel good.


The music is based on a rhythm style of regular chops on the back beat, known as the skank. Any music that describes itself using the word skank is okay in my books. The rhythm is cranked out on a guitar, with the bass drum hitting on the third beat of each measure, known as the one drop.


This is important if you want to play reggae, and largely meaningless if all you want to do is listen.

And listening is the best part. Reggae can lift you up when you are down, and lift you higher when you get up. It lacks the angst of hard rock, and all the pathetic simpering found in country music.


This may have something to do with its roots in the Rastafarian movement, which influenced many prominent reggae musicians, such as Toots and the Maytals, and its undisputed king Bob Marley.


One of the cornerstones of the Rasta religion is the sacred use of cannabis, and the promotion of cannabis use through lyrics, images and lifestyle has been a staple of reggae since its inception.

True Rastafarians enjoy their marijuana, some until their eyes are bleeding, but it is by no means a reggae requirement. Jamaica actually has some of the harshest anti-marijuana laws in the world.


Either way, reggae music is good medicine, and I recommend a dose of it for whatever is ailing you.


Anyone lucky enough to be in the Old Roxy on Sunday night got a welcome dose of the music in the form of Staylefish, the opening act for a free concert being held at the Mount Forest theatre. It was a perfect way to cap off the heat wave, before the snow and the Christmas music takes over.


According to their website, the six members of Staylefish come from diverse cultural backgrounds and were drawn together by a love of reggae.


The band infuses the underlying framework of reggae rhythm with a rock sensibility that crosses over into the mainstream, and the lads have created a powerful body of original work that boasts catchy melodies and intoxicating rhythms.


Having already built a devoted following in the Canadian music scene, London-based Staylefish sits poised to widen their audience internationally.


And, I rather hope they do.


I will be keeping my eyes and ears open for future Staylefish music and appearances. Their first two CDs are anything but stale, and I plan on giving them a good listen this winter—and often.

Take me to your Colonel

11/21/2006

When the aliens land, and you have to believe they will now, they will know who the leader of planet Earth truly is—Colonel Harland D. Sanders.


According to company officials, KFC has the honour of being the first brand to be visible from outer space. Out in the Nevada desert, near super secret Area 51, the company recently arranged a collage of colour-coded tiles to create an 87,500 square feet logo of the Colonel’s grinning face.


The stunt consists of 65,000 painted tile pieces, assembled like a giant jigsaw puzzle, and the "Face from Space" took more than 3,000 hours to create from inception to launch. The logo took 24 days of working around the clock to manufacture.


It then took six days on site to construct the logo, during which time the design pieces were kept hidden and under cover from identified, as well as any nosy unidentified, flying objects.


One can only imagine how proud KFC shareholders must be of this fine use of company resources.
Whether any aliens will spot the Colonel and leave our stratosphere in fear is anyone’s guess, but the project has certainly sparked some discussion.


There are those who feel the Face from Space answers the mystery of that ominous face on Mars, which we now know is simply another interstellar corporate logo placed by some alien ad agency.


Those who believe the end times are near, that we are careening at top speed towards doomsday, will now think KFC has doomed the human race; because all the hungry aliens who would otherwise be cruising right past are going to stop for chicken, get nuked by any government insane enough to launch the big one, and send us into atomic winter.
If aliens are looking for a sign of intelligent life down here, the Colonel may have just proven we are not suited to join the galactic community. No alien race is going to want to hang out with a planet full of beings more interested in clogging their arteries than opening their minds.


Then again, this may be our ticket to conquering all the other planets. Presumably, aliens will come to Earth, serve the Colonel, get addicted to the best fast food in the galaxy, feel their own arteries slam shut with a bang, and bring an end to the galactic community in one more triumph for planet Earth.


In keeping with the mystery and lore of Area 51, there are those who think the entire stunt may be a conspiracy, a well-hatched plan if you’ll pardon the pun, to keep an evil race of space chickens from coming to Earth and enslaving our children.


Regardless, you have to hand it to KFC for going big, and having the resources to pull it off. It must be quite a sight, out there in the Nevada desert.


I wonder what it looks like from Uranus though.


Probably the same as any other KFC experience.

Ain’t no rules against fibreglass

11/14/2006

Sometimes you hear a story so fantastic, so unusually incredible, you know it can only be true.
Such is the case with the Pumpkin Regatta.


An old friend, known to many as the Duke, stopped by the other day. Over a few glasses of good cheer, he managed to tell me about his visit last month to Windsor, Nova Scotia, and his experiences competing in the great Pumpkin Regatta.


It was on the Windsor farm of Howard Dill that giant pumpkins evolved. A four-time Guinness Book of World Records holder and developer of the Dill’s Atlantic Giant pumpkin seeds, Mr. Dill is credited with launching the international craze of growing giant pumpkins. It seems only logical that someone would then think of hollowing out the great gourds, sitting inside them, and racing them across a lake.


In 1999, local citizens approached Mr. Dill’s son about boosting tourism, and he became the first to suggest racing pumpkins across Lake Pesaquid.


The event has since taken on a life of its own.


In the first year of the race, with a massive operating budget of $50, the Pumpkin Regatta attracted over 2,000 skeptical spectators who turned out to watch five brave, and no doubt equally skeptical, participants attempt to manoeuvre their hollowed-out giant pumpkins across Lake Pesaquid.


The Duke said there was approximately 6,000 spectators this year, all cheering madly—and roughly 5,999 of them were drinking madly as well.


And how did the Duke and his pumpkin finish?


After a practice run in which he thought he was the fastest of the field, or lake, Duke let youthful exuberance get the better of him, and he capsized before even hearing the starting gun.


Officially, he was listed as DNS. Did not start.


The hands-down champion of the event is Leo Swinimer Sr. of Halifax, who, in the words of the Duke, is “some crazy 70-year-old geezer who wins the thing every year. The guy is unbeatable.”


But not in 2007.


If Duke has anything to say about it, the geezer is going down; and he is already plotting a surefire way to overthrow the cagey veteran pumpkin pilot.


Schooled in architecture, Duke knows about structural dynamics. He is certain that if his team had scooped fewer Alexander Keith’s out of the cooler, and scooped more pumpkin guts out of his 660lb entry, the outcome could have been different.


He plans on returning to Windsor with another giant pumpkin, and shaving the shell down to the thickness of a thumb. Apparently, there is no rule against the use of fibreglass in preparing your pumpkin, and Team Duke plans on glazing the gourd until it is as hard as an Atlantic iceberg.


I wish him luck, and I just may join Team Duke. Someone is going to have to drink all that Keith’s.

I’m having a power interruption

11/8/2006

Sometimes Wellington North Power gets it right.


It isn’t easy to like the power company, and they are in a tough spot. No one wants to buy a drink for the person who controls all the switches. They make you feel small, and no one likes that feeling.


We have progressed to the point where electric power is a crucial commodity in our society. Computers, microwave ovens, and clock radios are wonderful tools, but they are little more than ugly furniture when the power goes off.


With every one of our great technological advances, we have become increasingly dependent on good old volts and amps. There isn’t much we can do today without electricity, and no one is happy when a power interruption comes their way.


Power interruption. It sounds horrible, actually; sort of like something you might say when you can’t quite reach the top of a flight of stairs.


“I’m sorry,” you might say to the first person that passes you. “I’m having a power interruption.”


That’s what W.N.P.Inc. called a short interruption in the electrical service from approximately 6:30 a.m. to 6:45 a.m., and again at approximately 11 a.m. to 11:30 a.m., on Sunday.


W.N.P.Inc. was upgrading hydro lines on Wellington St. E. and required an interruption for safety reasons. Safety first!, Elmer the Safety Elephant used to say. Or was that Smokey the Bear? Or the Trojan condom company? I can’t remember.


Regardless, if safety doesn’t begin in Wellington then where does it? A little interruption isn’t all that bad now and then. It forces us to fend for ourselves for a little while, and I happen to like that idea.


That is why I have to hand it to W.N.P.Inc.


When you give it some thought, 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday is the best time of the week to shut everything down. Any other day would power down too many of the machines that keep the world working.


Most of us who enjoy living it up on Saturday night are finally in bed, or on the floor, by 6:30 a.m.


Relatively normal people are also usually asleep at 6:30 on a Sunday morning. There is no reason to be awake at that time of day, unless you are milking cows, or landing an airplane full of people.


Relatively normal people are also in church on Sunday morning around 11 a.m., when all you really need to get by is a few strong voices and seats uncomfortable enough that people won’t nod off.


There isn’t even anything good on television on Sunday morning you might be missing. There is no way a decent society could pull the plug on a Sunday afternoon during the fall football season.


It is Grey Cup time, after all.


So, hats off to W.N.P.Inc. for knowing what is important. Good job, and feel free to interrupt the power every Sunday morning. We’ll get through it.

You probably owe your mother

11/1/2006


Today is Nov. 1, and a lot of great people share birthdays today. Born on exactly the same day, 60 plus years ago, were Alberta Premier and drinker Ralph Klein, as well as Hustler magazine and pornographer Larry Flynt—and my Mother.


No one can deny that King Ralph, and the uncrowned King of Smut, have accomplished a lot in life, but my Mom probably has them both beat.


For starters, I was overdue, which was a bold beginning for a baby that wasn’t even planned. That doesn’t mean I was unwanted, just unexpected; which can actually be a blessing, because we mistakes are off the hook for the rest of our lives.


I could drive a burning busload of kittens into a swimming pool and, when the police ask what on earth I was thinking, I can always say “Hey, go easy, man. I’m not even supposed to be here.”


When I was little, I remember Mom singing to me, tunes like “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and “Yankee Doodle” and songs by some fat guy named Elvis.


Later, she would make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and let me watch Sesame Street, back in the days before peanuts were evil and such a grave danger to all the good boys and girls.


Her grilled cheese were packed with so much cheese, back in the days before lactose was such a danger to all the boys and girls, that it would ooze down your hands and arms. That’s when I learned how hard it is to lick your elbows. Try it sometime.


She read me stories about the three bears, the cat in the hat, and how the circus would one day come to town and I could go with them. She even claimed to have written a letter of reference.


Mom also taught me to drive. Our 1976 Toyota Corona wagon was a piece of junk by that time, but it was the best piece of junk a kid could ask for, and that’s when I learned how easy it is to roll a car.


Today, I get to listen to my Mother talk about when she was young, back when it was a much simpler time, and the earth was still cooling and such.


Just recently, I heard about the time she and her crazy friend Wendy caught a bunch of snakes that were sunning themselves on a well, hid them in her basement in a wash tub, and they all got loose.


Mothers are also really good for passing along their favourite recipes, and the one I simply have to get next is the recipe for those chocolate oatmeal coconut cookies you don’t have to bake. Normal people call them macaroons, I think, but my brothers and I knew them simply as poo balls.


You never had to worry about the other kids wanting to trade you lunches, when they asked what you had, and you yelled back “Poo balls!”


So, the next time your mother has a birthday, try and remember all the stories, grilled cheese and driving lessons, and be thankful. You owe her a lot.

Men are dying to know the score

10/24/2006

It’s official. Men are dying to know the score.


A recent study has determined not even a medical emergency will pull some men away from their televisions when the big game is on—which brings a whole new meaning to the term die-hard fan.


Emergency physician David Jerrard tracked nearly 800 regular season college and professional football, baseball and basketball games in the state of Maryland over three years, and found there was always an increase in the number of men who checked into emergency rooms after such events.


Apparently, 50 per cent more men registered in emergency rooms following a football game than during the event itself, and up to 40 per cent more sought care following a baseball game.


Dr. Jerrard says men check in after a game with "similar symptoms to what any emergency department sees on a daily basis" such as chest pains, abdominal pains, headaches and various injuries.


Great, doc, but what are you really measuring?


Jerrard suggests that men are willing to risk their health by putting off going to the emergency room, because they want to see the final results of a game; perhaps the last game they will ever see.


This new study is a follow-up to one he completed two years ago, which found a drop of about 30 per cent in the number of men checking into hospital emergency rooms during sports broadcasts.


It’s only common sense. If there is something you can delay for an hour or two for something you actually want to do, you’ll delay it. Unless a man is coughing a lung into the chip dip, or the sound of an artery rupturing drowns out the play-by-play, he will most likely ride it out until the game is over.


What the good doctor also failed to consider is the various activities men enjoy after the game.
The increase could be due to the number of armchair athletes who decide to mimic the pros in their own backyards, or engage in post-game violence.


My friend Joe offers a prime example.


It was 1993, in game six of the NHL semi-finals, when Wayne Gretzky of the L.A. Kings laid a high stick on MVP and Toronto Maple Leafs star Doug Gilmour, and skated away without a penalty.


The Brantford crybaby went on to score the winner, plus a hat-trick in game seven, and carry the Kings to the NHL finals against the Montreal Canadiens; robbing the Leafs of their rightful place in the final, on pro hockey’s 100th anniversary.


Joe was thrust into such a rage, he launched his living room table across the room, all the while yelling and screaming a very violent, very blue tirade for about 20 minutes. A neighbour nearly stepped in to calm the situation, but thought twice about it once he spotted the carnage—thus saving the doctor two more cases for his study.

Take an extra pair of pants

10/17/2006

If you ever have the good fortune to be in New Brunswick for Thanksgiving, take along an extra pair of pants—with an elastic waistband.


After spending Thanksgiving weekend in that fair province, I learned first hand why our Maritime friends are so well known for their hospitality. They throw the food and drink at you until your blood is basically a mixture of gin and gravy.


New Brunswick knows how to have a good time.


The cost of living is higher there than in most Canadian provinces, and the wages certainly are not, but it still doesn’t prevent anyone from enjoying life. The locals are happy; gravy or no gravy.


Away from the get-rich-or-die-trying pull of the United States, or major urban centres like Toronto, New Brunswick goes about things in its own way, in its own good time, and the good times are drawn to you as if the tide were pulling them right on in.


How much I enjoyed myself was easy to gauge, accurately measured by a simple bathroom scale.


Not accurately, perhaps, but the scale did spike by about three or four more pounds each day I was in New Brunswick. That’s a lot of gin and gravy.


At first, I felt the machine was malfunctioning, that I was heavier due to my proximity to sea level.


This was folly, and I quickly realized my weight gain was due entirely to my proximity to George the chef and Tracy the bartender. Great people. I think I will name my first heart attack after them.


George had two things he wanted to accomplish over the weekend. One was to test a new propane deep fryer, and the other was to check his on-line dating service, to see if anyone had sent him topless photographs. At least, the fryer was a success.


Saturday’s test run of chicken wings were some of the best I’ve ever had, and Sunday’s deep-fried turkey was beyond delicious, cooked to perfection; a real thing of beauty, unlike those on-line dates.


Toss in gobs of mashed potatoes with herb and garlic cream cheese, baby carrots with cinnamon, mustard pickles, stuffing and blackberry wine, and you had a feast fit for the finest of magazines.


Once again, unlike most of those on-line dates.


Tracy had some skills of her own, and served up a zingy, little pink concoction she called the pantini.


From the basic martini, the drink evolved into a cranberry cocktail known as the crantini. When the cranberry ran out, Tracy switched over to passion fruit, and her pantini was born. When the vodka ran out, leaving only that dastardly gin, the drink was quickly renamed the pantini remover.


Another popular New Brunswick treat was the deep fried pickle, and I suggest you give it a try.


It got to the point where I wanted to try a deep fried pine cone. It gets a little bitter, but at least it’s good for scouring out your last unclogged artery.

Forced into a man-to-skunk standoff

10/10/2006

Walking home late last week, with darkness all around, I was suddenly face-to-face with one of the most feared and reviled creatures on our planet.


It wasn’t some drug-addled junkie all jacked up on methamphetamine that I met, nor a bible-toting religious zealot ready to beat me into submission with Psalms and Proverbs—although both can be rather dangerous if they catch you off guard.


No, I met a skunk.


We both rounded the corner of a building at exactly the same time, and surprised each other. Neither of us expected to see the other out roaming at that time of night, and we froze in our tracks in some sort of comical man-to-skunk standoff.


It has been said your entire life can flash in front of your eyes during times of mortal peril, that time slows down to a crawl. I think this is the result of that surge of adrenaline you get in such circumstances, and mine was flowing, even as we stared each other in the eye, barely a few feet apart.


Neither of us budged an inch, sizing up our surprise adversary for what seemed like minutes. It was actually only a few seconds, but it was plenty long enough for me to lock into the weasel’s gaze, and realize he wasn’t taking a backward step.


Suddenly, I noticed Mr. Skunk was just as worried about me as I was about him. From an early age, sensible people are taught to avoid skunks. What skunks learn about us is anyone’s guess.


His stance told me he was undecided, not knowing if fight or flight was the proper choice. In one on one combat, I like to think I could get the better of a skunk. They are scrappy and capable little hunters, but I had him beat by close to 300 pounds.


The skunk, as we all know, is equipped with a defence mechanism that can spray an incredibly foul-smelling and effective stench several feet from his back end. I knew he had me beat there, even on my best day, after a marathon session of cooked cabbage, baked beans and draught beer.


Quickly deciding that going toe-to-toe with a skunk was a losing proposition, I backed down and made the first move; one slow step backwards.


Don’t look him in the eye, I remembered, but that’s for a bear confrontation. No sudden movements, I thought, remembering the advice for meeting an angry dog. Keep arms and legs inside the bus at all times. No, that was grade school.


Luckily, the skunk made the next move, and waddled away with that impressive black and white tail puffed up as large as possible, letting me know he probably had the right of way the entire time.


I stopped at a single step of retreat. I had my pride, after all, and wanted to make sure he knew I wasn’t some wimp he could just push around. Next time might even be different—but I doubt it.

Let the bidding war begin

10/3/2006


October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.


Seeing as cancer is a serious issue, it is about time the funding for cancer research was given some serious consideration. After giving it a little serious thought, I have come up with a recommendation.We should organize an art auction.


Mine would be no ordinary auction, however, because the paintings would be original works of art, donated by some of the various extraordinary celebrities and famous folk who enrich our lives.


And, the paintings would be no ordinary works of art either, because they would be painted entirely by the artist’s exposed breasts, which seems like a perfect fit for breast cancer awareness when you give it a little thought. I can already picture it.


How the artists get the paint from their various “brushes” to the canvas is of no concern. It would be done behind closed doors, completely in private. This is not some tawdry peep show. It is a serious fundraiser, and could generate some serious coin.


Pamela Anderson, for example, is always spouting off about animal cruelty and how we should all be eating turkey made of vegetable gum. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt her to lend her ample assets to such a worthwhile cause as breast cancer awareness.


Susan Sarandon is another accomplished actress who isn’t afraid to voice her political leanings. If she truly is a woman who cares, it wouldn’t hurt her one bit to lean forward for the breast cancer cause.
All the artists would have to do is donate a little of their time, get creative, and make sure the paint is dry before the auctioneer’s gavel sounds.


Just think of the money a room full of stuffy old art collectors might shell out for a one-of-a-kind piece, painted entirely hands-free by the lovely and talented actress Scarlett Johansson.


With a little work, we could probably get Dolly Parton on board, followed by Jessica Simpson or Jenna Jameson. There’s no telling what Paris Hilton might do if enough money was on the table.
And that’s just the ones whose names end in “on”. Those perky Olsen twins could paint something together, or the entire cast of Desperate Housewives hook up for an enormous mural.


Because breast cancer affects not only women, but men as well, a number of Hollywood’s hunky leading men could also ease up to the easel. There are ladies out there who would rob a bank for something painted by Tom Cruise, George Clooney, Mel Gibson, Clint Eastwood, or Ernest Borgnine.


With his political clout, there is no limit to what Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger and his massive pecs could accomplish. If we are ever going to get serious about finding a cure for cancer, it can’t be a bad thing to get serious about my new fundraiser.


Let the bidding war begin!

Live well, live long, in the city

9/26/2006

It used to be a big lung full of fresh, country air was good for you. Well, don’t be so sure.


A recent national study has shown that rural Canadians are less healthy than city dwellers. The study’s key finding was that Canadians that live in rural areas, especially the most remote rural areas, have higher death rates than urban Canadians.


The report claims rural Canadians are more likely than city dwellers to die from circulatory diseases such as hypertension and heart disease; respiratory diseases such as influenza, pneumonia, and bronchitis; plus diabetes, injuries and suicide.


Researchers compared urban areas with four types of rural areas: those with the highest flow of employed people commuting to work in an urban environment, and areas with moderate, weak, and no commuting flow at all. They found the closer Canadians live to an urban centre, the lower their mortality rate. So, call your friends in Proton or West Luther. Warn them. The end may be near.


Analysis showed risk factors such as smoking and obesity are reported more frequently among rural than urban residents, and this may contribute to the higher risk of dying prematurely from circulatory disease among rural and remote residents.


The annual mortality rate in the most remote areas was 792 deaths per 100,000, while in urban centres that rate dropped to 695. Meanwhile, motor vehicle accident deaths were two to three times higher in rural areas than in cities.
The study also found that 57 per cent of those living in rural areas were overweight, compared to 47 per cent in urban centres. It found that 32 per cent of those living in rural areas were smokers, compared to only 25 per cent in cities.
Urban Canadians were also more likely to have five or more servings of fruits and vegetables a day than their rural counterparts, researchers said.


The report wasn't all bad news for rural folk, however, so cheer up out there in the swamp.
Rural residents reported having lower levels of stress, a lower incidence of cancer, and a stronger sense of community than their urban counterparts.


My own observations have led me to the conclusion that a rural dweller is less likely to be caught under a bus or subway train, less likely to be bitten by a rat, escaped lunatic, or homeless person; and less likely to be trampled to death underneath a sign offering half price off everything in stock.


A rural dweller is less likely to catch a bullet while ordering french fries, less likely to be taken hostage in a bank robbery, and less likely to be stabbed in the neck while changing a flat tire.


A rural dweller doesn’t worry about these things—or about what the next big study says.


A rural dweller is too busy enjoying life.

You never know what you’ll see

9/19/2006

“I'd like to dream my troubles all away on a bed of California stars; jump up from my starbed, make another day, underneath my California stars.”


— “California Stars” words by Woody Guthrie


You never know what you might see on a good road trip. Travel far enough, and look long enough, and you just might see some things you never imagined—and that is precisely what makes a good road trip so good, and well worth the effort.


In the past month, the road took me across Canada, down through California, and back home across the United States. Three weeks and more than 11,000 kilometres later, I managed to see a whole new batch of interesting things, and meet a whole new batch of interesting people.


On a lake north of Thunder Bay, I watched a float plane touch down in the shallows not far from camp. Having a friend stop by for a beer is nothing new. Having that friend stop over in his airplane, have a drink, and then take off again, certainly is.


Across an all-night stretch of Saskatchewan prairie, I watched the Northern Lights glow an eerie green over the wheat fields. Anyone who has pulled straw bales off a dry field can imagine the prairies at harvest, except the field goes on for 16 hours.


In Calgary, I found a city that shines like a new dime, with buildings springing up in all directions, seemingly overnight. The west is booming, and the locals are proud. Cowtown loves its growth spurt, so long as you don’t notice the high cost of living.


Outside Revelstoke, B.C., I watched a forest fire rage behind a massive statue of Smokey the Bear, as if Ol’ Smokey had turned his back on the very duties he was entrusted to uphold all these years.


In California’s central valley, the crop of the day appears to be plywood. As the Golden State’s population continues to explode, new homes are springing up like weeds. California’s finest farmland is being bought up and fenced up, forever transforming town after town, from Chico to Chowchilla.


After driving all night through the Nevada desert, it wasn’t hard to see why they tested atomic bombs there. There isn’t much filling the Great Basin, and the nuclear fallout didn’t create too many mutations, unless you count all the casinos.


Breakfast in the Rainbow casino in Wendover consisted of four double screwdrivers. It was breakfast after all, and I needed the orange juice. The Rainbow is a full-out assault on the senses at any time, but nothing three 7 a.m. sevens can’t fix.


At a gas station in Salt Lake City, I asked if folks from California are Californians, then what are people from Utah called? “Uh, Mormons,” he said.


The conversation was just as sparkling through Iowa, Wyoming and Nebraska; but you won’t hear me complain. I love the road—and the road home.

Rod Stewart owes me a favour

9/12/2006

The way I see it, Rod Stewart owes me a favour.

It’s not as if Rod and I go way back. Far from it; but he owes me all the same. Our relationship is not a long one at all, dating back only a couple weeks, to when I lived for two days at his house.


While vacationing last month in picturesque Pemberton, British Columbia, just up the winding road from Whistler, I spent a day clearing trails for my new buddy Rod, and repairing his front porch.


Don’t expect the genius behind such pop classics as “Maggie May” and “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?” to even notice my generosity, because Mr. Stewart does not get to Pemberton very often—or at all.


If the story I was told is true, the three friends I was visiting were one day reclining in the heat on Rod’s rickety old porch, when a helicopter touched down in the field across from the house. What came out of it was a vivacious, young blonde woman; reeking of perfume, money, arrogance, and all the other things rich people admire most.


She took one look around, brushed the mountain dust from her high heels, and flew away in the chopper as quickly as she had arrived. When the trio on the porch enquired as to her identity, they were told she was Rod Stewart’s wife, or girlfriend, or both, and that he had purchased the ranch, and was now, in effect, their new landlord.


That such a thing could, and does, happen in Pemberton comes as no surprise to anyone who lives there. With the Olympics coming up and the economy in high gear, there is money in the air in Pemberton and Whistler, and the rich and famous are already clamoring for a piece of the peace, seclusion and beauty of our Canadian Rockies.


The fact that his horse trails had grown in, and front porch had caved in, did not matter to Rod. He and Maggie May no doubt bought the farm as an investment, and probably won’t move in until Mick Jagger buys the place next door and builds a trendy spa to treat their wrinkled old rock and roll skin.


Regardless, I spent an afternoon cutting back the trees and brush that were choking the trails. I even scared off a bear, who was there eating berries.


Who knows what would have happened if Mr. and Mrs. Stewart had been out for a lovers’ stroll and met that bear. An old rocker in leather pants would look like a big stuffed burrito to a bear, but it wanted no part of a barefoot, 300-pound man, pouring sweat and brandishing a large machete.


The porch was an easy fix. After raising the entire deck with the jack from my car, I wedged a massive wooden block under the support beam. Now the entire crowd from Rod Stewart’s last concert, all two dozen of them, could dance the night away on it. Like I said, the guy owes me. Maybe he will get me tickets to a concert—just not one of his.

Thank you for your 30 square inches

9/5/2006

Dear Mr. Louis Reard

You may not know me. My name is Chris, and I am a big fan of your work.

The summer of 2006 is behind us now, and I just wanted to thank you for your greatest achievement, the bikini. Your remarkable little two-piece bathing suit celebrated its 6oth birthday this year, and I am one of the grateful ones. Summer goes by too quickly, and you, Mr. Reard, have helped to make it that much more enjoyable. I would say "keep up the good work", but you have already done so much.

Best described as four little triangles that cover the breasts, groin and buttocks, your original 30 square inches of fabric was a stroke of genius. When you said a bikini isn‚t a bikini unless it can be pulled through a wedding ring, people listened. My, how they listened.

Although one-piece swimsuits surged in popularity in the 1990s, the bikini has made a serious comeback in recent years. Don‚t get me wrong, sir. The one-piece is a very fine and flattering summer garment, but there is still no substitute for your delicate creation. So, once again, thank you.

Naming your new swimsuit after the nuclear testing at the Bikini Atoll, thinking it would create a burst of excitement like the atomic bomb, was also a smooth move. Your real bombshell was the bikini‚s first-ever model, that shapely nude dancer you found in a Paris nightclub, Micheline Bernardini.

Beautiful models have stepped up to showcase your skimpy little number since day one. I don‚t know who to thank for that, but they deserve it too. In 1957, Brigitte Bardot made a definite splash in her bikini in the film "And God Created Woman." In 1962, Ursula Andress parted the ocean in "Dr. No" as one of the first, and finest, of the Bond girls.
Two years later, the bikini graced the cover of Sports Illustrated for the first time. Today, that magazine‚s annual swimsuit edition is one of the most eagerly awaited issues in locker rooms around the world.

By the end of the 1960s, the bikini was a beach blanket staple, inspiring such classic cinematic fare as "How to Stuff a Wild Bikini." In 1987, Carrie Fisher donned a gold bikini as Princess Leia in the silver screen’s epic "Return of the Jedi". Almost immediately, the picture became the highest grossing film of the original Star Wars trilogy. Coincidence, Mr. Reard? I think not.

As good as your invention was in 1946, it did take a number of years to catch on over here in North America. Down south, the Brazilians have taken the bikini to the extreme, with a back portion so thin it disappears, well, down south. The "thong" or "G-string" is a welcome addition to any beach, but it leaves precious little to the imagination, and we all know imagination is something you had in spades 60 years ago. You have my gratitude, Mr. Reard. Cheers to summer, and cheers to your bikini!

Sincerely, your friend;
Ray.

Sorry grandpa, your tomatoes were rotten

8/30/2006

My grandfather grew all kinds of tomatoes.

He grew big, juicy ones as large and heavy as a human head; the kind that would cover a piece of toast, and then some, with a single, dripping slice.

He grew small, teardrop-shaped ones that he mashed, sealed up in jars, and stored in the basement in the event of the next Great Depression.

He grew tiny, bright red ones that exploded in your mouth, and down your chin, and down your shirt, if you made the mistake of biting into one.

He even grew those crazy yellow ones that looked like leftovers from the Chernobyl disaster.
If he only knew that he was cultivating poison.

Recently, it has come to my attention that the tomato, that zesty little vegetable, or fruit, or whatever it really is, is actually a poisonous berry.

The tomato was first domesticated by the Aztecs, and their civilization is in ruins today. Coincidence? I doubt it. Later, around 1600, Spanish conquerors brought the thin-skinned berries to Europe.

Europeans resisted the New World food, thinking it fit only for wild animals. Early botanists named it Lycopersicon, or “wolf peach”, and it took a long time to catch on. The first recipe for tomato ketchup didn’t appear in kitchens until the 1700s.

The tomato plant is a member of the poisonous deadly Nightshade family. Its leaves are hairy and have a strong odour, kind of like my grandfather, and the leaves, stems, and anything else green on the plant is toxic to humans. Even a small amount can kill a cat. If your ex-girlfriend offers you some green tomato tea after a messy break-up, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction.

The plants contain a bitter alkaloid called solanine, which is the same nasty stuff found in green potatoes, so try not to eat too many of them either.

The poison is the plant’s defense mechanism, which helps to explain why the tomato is so easily cultivated throughout the world, like an invading species, from porches to palaces.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, tomatoes can intensify arthritis and other ailments. If you are thinking about kicking cigarettes, clear out all your tomatoes as well. The fruit contains trace elements of nicotine, and can re-trigger cigarette addiction.

I hesitate to even call the tomato a fruit. It has been listed as a vegetable, for taxation purposes, but the debate continues to rage over what it really is. There is no way I will be convinced the tomato is a fruit, because it can not produce alcohol.

Fruits make wine, brandy and many other lovely products to enjoy on a hot day. The tomato does not, and that is why you will never find a bottle of tomato ice wine in your local wine region.

It is an aberration, and should be avoided at all costs. Just ask the Aztecs—if you can find one.

It was Jimi, not music, at its best

8/22/2006

“It was the place to come to. It wasn’t just a rock and roll show. It was not just about the music. It was really about that decade and that culture.”
— Michael Lang, Woodstock Festival promoter

The next time an old hippie strolls up beside you and starts on again about how Woodstock was the greatest concert of all time, be a pal and tell Moonbeam or Skywriter or Peachblossom or what-have-you the truth, and say Woodstock wasn’t nearly as good as you might remember, man.

Historically speaking, the Woodstock Music and Art Fair was a concert for the ages. Billed as three days of peace and music, it brought half a million young people together to rural New York over the weekend of August 15-18, in the summer of ‘69.

Moonbeam would have you believe there were over one million beautiful people enjoying the free concert. Not exactly. The concert at Max Yasgur’s pig farm actually cost the bargain price of $6 per day, for a grand total of $18 for the whole event.
It didn’t actually become a free concert until enough peace-loving hippies burst through, or over, the fences that were put in place to keep the great unwashed, freeloading masses under wraps.

By and large, the performances were not that good. Some stand out, such as Santana, The Who, Canned Heat, Richie Havens, Janis Joplin, and Joe Cocker, but many were flat-out forgettable.

Originally, the promoters wanted Roy Rogers to close the show with his trademark “Happy Trails”, but had to settle for a hot, young, virtuoso guitarist named Hendrix, who just happened to live nearby.

Due to a rainstorm and the problems of organizing so many different bands, by Sunday night the acts were as backlogged as the crowd was waterlogged. Jimi Hendrix was asked to play Sunday at midnight, but refused to bump any other artists. Rather than rip through two or three songs with the crowd at its emotional and narcotic high, Jimi asked to play his full set on the Monday morning.

Taking the stage when most rockers are heading to bed, Hendrix and his band downed a jug of wine and played one of their all-time best sets. It was a tour de force of Hendrix music, with the smash hits mixed in with new songs, all walloping the concert stragglers with Jimi’s unique wall of sound.

Early on, when Tommy James was asked to play the concert, he refused, deciding a free show at a pig farm didn’t really appeal to him. That’s what is was, of course, until the event made it so much more, minus a few lies and lame-duck performers.

Woodstock served to punctuate what one generation could, and wanted to, become; and it planted the seed for the excess that lurked greedily around the corner of the 1970s. In the end, Jimi Hendrix became the perfect poster boy for that generation.

Not just another fishy story

8/15/2006

Go fishing often enough, or long enough, and you are going to hear some stories.

The people who tell stories swear their lies are true, and swear Bob Izumi will strike them down if they are not. It’s too bad the people who tell stories don’t have a good fish for every one of their good fish tales. It might amount to one, even two, each.

For starters, there’s the story about the angler who stopped fishing long enough to eat an orange. While peeling the fruit, he accidentally lost his grip dropped the orange into the lake, and could only watch as it sank into the murky depths.

Seconds later, an enormous northern pike sailed out of the water, and began thrashing madly at the surface, in obvious distress. Moving quickly, the fisherman managed to scoop the trophy fish in his net, only to find it was choking... on an orange.

And then there’s the story about the trapper who stopped trapping long enough to realize he was stranded deep in the north woods for the winter.

With little more than a cabin, a rifle and his wits to see him through, the trapper managed to shoot a bear, large enough, and with enough meat to ensure his survival until the spring thaw.

The only problem was, the trapper had no teeth and would be unable to chew the tough, old bear. So, he pulled the bear’s teeth, fashioned a crude set of false teeth, and spent the winter happily eating the bear... with its own teeth.
And then there is the story about the father and son team who were fishing in the local derby. Their luck was anything but good, so the young man decided to pop his lure along the bottom, in hopes of waking up a sleeping giant deep in the water.

Suddenly, his lure stopping moving, obviously hooked on something big. With fishing pole bent under the strain, he carefully brought the heavy fish to the side of the boat; only to find he had hooked an old tackle box that had sunk to the bottom of the lake. The name on the box read: Bob Loblaws.

Inside the tackle box was a sealed container of three homemade fishing lures. The boy picked out what appeared to be the best of the lot, tied it to his line, cast it into the water, and hoped for a turnaround in luck. He didn’t have to wait long.

A massive fish took the lure on the first cast, and fought hard and long against the hook. When the weary fishermen finally wrestled it into the boat, their eyes grew wide in amazement at the sight of the biggest, fattest fish they had ever seen.

At the tournament weigh-in, the fish not only won the tournament, but broke the record for the heaviest fish ever caught in that lake. The name of the previous record holder... was Bob Loblaws.

Actually, I’ve never believed that fish tale—but I have no doubt the one about the bear is true.

Another victim of spacial segregation

8/8/2006

Imagine the thrill of freefalling several stories with nothing between you and your future as a human pancake but a simple elastic cord.

Imagine the adrenaline rush as you plummet headfirst to the unforgiving earth below.
Imagine your first experience bungee jumping.

Bungee jumping is an activity in which a person jumps from a high place, with one end of an elastic cord attached to their ankles and the other end attached, hopefully, to the jumping-off point.

When a person jumps, the cord stretches to take up the energy of the fall. The jumper, most often screaming at this point, flies upwards as the cord snaps back, and then bounces up and down until the initial energy of the jump is dissipated.

Some people call this fun. Others shake their heads, roll their eyes, and call it suicide practice.

Bungee is not new, and most likely began as an accident when some poor sap picking coconuts fell out of a tree and was saved by tangled vines.

In the 1950s, a BBC film crew captured footage of the "land divers" of Pentecost Island in Vanuatu; young men who jumped from tall wooden platforms with vines tied to their ankles as a test of courage.

The first modern bungee jump was made in 1979, somewhat fittingly, on April Fool’s Day, when four members of the Dangerous Sports Club leaped from the 250ft Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol.

The jumpers were arrested shortly after, but couldn’t shake the rush, and continued with jumps that spread the concept worldwide. By 1982, they were jumping from cranes and hot air balloons.

Last weekend, while whitewater rafting on the Ottawa River with a crew of beer-fueled maniacs, misfits and monsters, I had the opportunity to try bungee jumping. I wanted to try, you see, but they wouldn’t let me—because I am too big and fat.

The rigging is rated for a maximum of 250lbs, which leaves me out in the cold until I lose a few dozen pounds, or an arm, or a leg, or both.

My first reaction was to write a strongly-worded letter of disgust to the bungee people, and let them know the level of discrimination that is running rampant in the anti-fatite world of extreme sports.

I wanted to stick up for everyone else who has suffered from spacism, felt the cruel sting of spacial segregation, or been excluded due to their girth, but decided against it. A letter like that would only increase the ridicule people of size already face.

Instead, I watched a pair of twins, Marcos and Marcelos, who together don’t weigh as much as yours truly, leap from the bright blue sky. Marcos completed his jump without incident, but Marcelos wound up with bright red eyes due to burst blood vessels, and was a full inch taller than his brother.

And I wound up with the last laugh after all.

You can stretch right up and touch the sky

8/1/2006

A lot of songs have tried to capture summer in a bottle, but none have ever done it better than “In the Summertime” by Mungo Jerry.

The eternally infectious anthem for summer is far and away the biggest hit ever penned by Mungo Jerry singer, songwriter and guitarist Ray Dorset.

Back in the summer of 1970, Mungo Jerry was a little-known British “skiffle” jug band, banging out spontaneous rock and pop songs with such home grown instruments as the upright bass, keyboard, washboard, kazoo, and the jug—which takes somewhat of a starring role in “In the Summertime”.

The song spent 20 weeks in the Top 100, seven of those charted at number one. By the end of the year, it had sold six million copies. It was the fastest selling single of its time, holding that record for 20 years, en route to selling 30 million copies.

But, that’s not important. What matters is the song itself, its casually engaging backbeat and easygoing delivery—and its laid-back lyrics.

The song opens with a simple “In the summertime when the weather is high, you can stretch right up and touch the sky.”

I’ve never heard a staff meteorologist mention that the weather will be high today, but you can bet it’s not a bad thing. You will also never hear a meteorologist say there is a 50 per cent chance of rain, because that means it will either rain, or it won’t, and that kind of indecision drives normal people crazy, and gets weathermen fired.

“When the weather's fine, you got women, you got women on your mind. Have a drink, have a drive. Go out and see what you can find.”

Assuming Mungo is drinking lemonade, a drink and a drive is a great way to spend a sun-shiny day. If his drink happens to be something else, you have to remember he has women, he has women, on his mind, and his judgement is already impaired.

“If her daddy's rich, take her out for a meal. If her daddy's poor, just do what you feel.”
This the best advice on dating I ever got as a kid.

Come to think of it, it is the only dating advice I ever got as a kid, unless you count how the Little Rascals were always fighting for the affections of that sexpot teacher of theirs, Miss McGillicutty.

“When the weather's fine, we go fishing or go swimming in the sea. We're always happy. Life's for living. Yeah, that's our philosophy.”

A good friend of mine keeps a copy of “In the Summertime” in his car at all times. He drives a convertible, and the CD goes in every time the top comes down. We once played the song, plenty loud, in a quiet Florida subdivision, cruising up the street in first gear as the idle pulled the car along at a brisk 5 kph, bringing a smile to everyone we met.

Life’s for living. Yeah, that’s our philosophy.

Remembering the Joy and the perfect 10

7/25/2006

For as far back as I can remember, I have loved the Olympic Games.

There is nothing quite like the Olympics, where the finest athletes on this amazing globe battle it out for the right to be called the world champion.

There is nothing quite like being the world champion. Since I have always known I stand as much chance of being a world champion as being conked on the head by one of Jupiter’s moons, I have watched, and loved, the Olympic Games.

This month marks the 30th anniversary of Canada’s first Summer Games, when Montreal hosted the event back in 1976.

I wasn’t long out of diapers at the time, but I do remember watching Canadian high jumper Greg Joy win the silver medal. I can still see him clearing that bar in the pouring rain, arms raised and pumping in triumph and joy, like it was yesterday.

I also remember watching a 14-year-old gymnast from Transylvania, named Nadia Comeneci.

Nadia was the first gymnast to score a perfect 10 in Olympic competition. She managed six more 10s, and three gold medals, and I fell in love with her. I told everyone I was going to marry her, until one of Jupiter’s moons nearly hit me on the head, and I realized the odds, again, were stacked against me.

Over 6,000 athletes competed that year, in nearly 200 events, and Canada left with only five silver and six bronze medals. It was the first time in Olympic history that the host country of the Summer Games won no gold medals. Maybe, it was all the rain.

In fact, a rainstorm actually doused the Olympic flame a few days after the Games opened, and an official relit the flame using his cigarette lighter. Organizers quickly doused it again and relit it using a backup of the original flame.

Princess Anne, a member of the United Kingdom equestrian team, was the only female competitor not to have to submit to a sex test. Maybe, she was afraid she might fail. I can’t really remember.

Boris Onischenko, of the USSR’s modern pentathlon team, was disqualified for cheating. This so enraged other Soviet team members that, for example, the volleyball players threatened to throw him out the hotel window if they met him. Maybe, they did. I can’t really remember that either.

Japanese gymnast Shun Fujimoto performed on a broken right knee, and still helped his country to the team gold medal. Fujimoto broke his leg on the floor exercise, and was able to complete the event on the rings, where he performed a perfect triple somersault dismount, maintaining perfect posture.

His 9.7 score secured the gold for Japan. Years later, when asked if he would do it again, he stated bluntly "No, I would not." It seems, I’m not the only one who has lasting memories of the 1976 Games.

The moose, the jackass, or the hat

7/18/2006

The town of Wiarton, rodent lovers everywhere, and a whole whack of other people with too much time on their hands, are in a state of mourning.

Yes, poor little Willie is dead.

One of Canada's best-known and least-accurate weather forecasters, Wiarton Willie, died after an illness last week. The eight-year-old albino marmot is now the second Willie to head to that great burrow in the sky since the controversy of 1999.

When Willie was found dead in his burrow just days before that year's Groundhog Day festivities, his handlers held a funeral. Few could have predicted the backlash when it was discovered the rodent in the casket was an impostor who had died, and had been lovingly stuffed, some time earlier.

The story of Wiarton Willie dates back to 1956, when Wiarton resident Mac McKenzie threw a Groundhog Day party. A Toronto Star reporter arrived looking for the story, and found Mac and his pals getting sauced in the local hotel.

Making sure the scribe wouldn’t go home empty handed, Mac grabbed his wife's fur hat, dug a little burrow in the snow, and made a prediction no one remembers. The picture of Mac and the hat ran in the Feb. 3, 1956, edition of the Toronto Star.

One year later, 50 people arrived for the festival, and the rest (much like Willie right now) is history.

The problem with using a groundhog as your town mascot, is the animal’s longevity, or lack of it.

In the wild, the groundhog, also known as the woodchuck, whistle-pig or ball-nibbler, lives an average of six years. That average spikes as high as eight years or more for an animal kept in captivity.

The solution? Find a new animal to make your predictions that will stick around longer than eight years. The moose, a Canadian favourite, will live an average of 12 years in the wild, or 25 in captivity.

The grizzly bear and baboon both check in at 20 years in the wild, and around 50 years in captivity.

A hippo can get as old as 40, even 60, in a zoo.

A chimpanzee lives at least that long, and they don’t seem to mind dressing up either. Perhaps the most fitting choice for the festival would be the jackass, who can get close to 50 with proper care.

When it comes to animal longevity, the tortoise is the undisputed king. Specimens routinely live in excess of 100 years, and one given to the King of Tonga reportedly lasted over 150 years.

Wiarton might even consider using bacteria as the town’s new calling card. Years ago, a bacteria specimen, found alive in mud at the bottom of Windermere Lake in northern England, was dated at around 1,500-years-old, give or take a few.

The simplest solution would be to find that old fur hat Mac stuck in the snow—because, let’s face it, no one really takes it all that seriously anyway.

...and then there’s campfire logic

7/11/2006

“Words are really silly, but they can be used well. It’s the only thing we have to work with while we’re talking.” — a conversation on a plane, in the 1971 film “Joe Cocker: Mad Dogs & Englishmen”

One thing you may notice this summer, while you are out and about, is that there is logic, and then there is campfire logic, and the two don’t particularly mix all that well.

Example #1 - Why are ocean levels rising?

Campfire logic dictates that it can be traced to the Inuit, and the reason you never see any poor Inuit art. Although the far north has its share of great artisans, there are some who just don’t measure up. After carving yet another three-tusked walrus, frustrated artists will cast the failed pieces into the Arctic Ocean before anyone can see them.

This has caused the northern waters to rise, knocking off more and more icebergs, which then melt as they drift their way south, further compounding the problem. Perfect campfire logic.

The real answer has more to do with global warming whittling away the polar ice caps.

It is a problem, and one we are unlikely to repair. We have come too far. The human race is not slowing down. We are not going away, and neither are all our machines. Eventually, we will melt enough ice cubes that the ocean will cool itself.

There is going to be some awfully wet basements in the process, but life will go on. That’s logic.

Example #2 - Why is obesity a growing problem?

Campfire logic dictates that it can be traced to the fact we have such big feet. In recent generations especially, shoe sizes seem to be going up and up. The body compensates for this growth by increasing appetite, thereby encouraging an increase in nourishment. When the rate of caloric intake exceeds the rate of foot growth, the result is obesity. Bigger feet makes bigger people. Perfect campfire logic.

The real answer has more to do with the quality and quantity of food we are eating.

As the world population expands, it is becoming increasingly difficult to feed everyone well. This imbalance encourages a proliferation of cheap, less nutritious foods. The more of that junk we eat, the fatter we are going to get.

The government can put all the nutrition and warning labels it wants on food products, but only a small percentage of experts are capable of understanding what it all means. Efforts to combat obesity will fail until good food becomes cheaper, and easier to find on store shelves, than all the terrible, tasty stuff we love so much.

That’s logic.

Campfire logic does not end with ocean levels and obesity. If you find yourself around a fire, test the waters with the energy crisis, gas prices, and the best oxymoron of the summer: indoor dogs.

Drinking dishwater in your underwear

7/4/2006

While the feeling in the west may be “long live the King of Beers!”, Budweiser in Germany is being met more often with a cry of “off with its head!”

German soccer fans have been treating the self-proclaimed “King” like more of a pauper during this year’s World Cup tournament, and have not been shy in letting everyone know just how little they think of the popular American brew.

The makers of “Bud”, Anheuser-Busch, paid $40 million for "pouring rights" at 12 stadiums across Germany during this summer's World Cup.

The problem is, Germans hate Budweiser.

Weeks before the first games even kicked off the event, Germans were furious at the prospect of having to sit in stadiums and drink what they refer to as "dishwater”. Websites were set up, complete with images of an American Eagle vomiting beer as a tribute to the beer, and one site went so far as to call Budweiser "an insult to all true beer lovers" and an "insult to your tongue."

Soccer's governing body, FIFA, did nothing to improve Budweiser's standing when it forced thousands of Dutch fans to watch the first round Holland vs. Ivory Coast game in their underwear.

Close to a quarter million Dutch fans had purchased new shorts, in the country’s trademark orange, to support their team. The shorts included the logo of the Dutch beer Bavaria and, in a brazen move to protect Budweiser's rights, FIFA officials forced Dutch supporters to remove their shorts.

You see, the World Cup is a marketer's dream.

More than a billion people watched the 2002 final between Brazil and Germany, and it is estimated a total of 32 billion viewers will watch this year's tournament, thanks to an estimated audience of 350 million soccer fans tuning in to each match.

Such titanic audiences are the reason companies will spend $1 billion in advertising before the tournament's end. Budweiser is expected to spend $70 million, more than at the Super Bowl and Olympics.

Simply put, the World Cup is the number one beer consumer event in the world. In an effort to appease insulted drinkers, Budweiser did cut a deal to allow German-made Bitburger beer to be sold in stadiums, albeit in unmarked cups.

Historically speaking, Germans like their beer.

There are more than 1,200 breweries in the country, and Budweiser represents less than one per cent of the market share in Germany. In a country filled with so many options for suds, the King of Beers is rather low on Hans and Franz’ list.

I, on the other hand, am not quite as discerning.With no hope of getting through 1,200 local beers, I would be happy to sit in the sun, and suck down a dishwater or two in my underwear.

Who knows, I might even try it in this country.

Happy birthday Liz, and so long...

6/20/2006

Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor celebrated her 80th birthday on the weekend—and the old gal still looks and acts like a million bucks, or rather 500 million bucks, to be slightly more accurate.

Queen Elizabeth actually turned 80 back in April, but when you are queen you can throw a party anytime you like and no one will complain.

Throughout her more than 50 years on the British throne, Elizabeth has been monarch of 32 nations. Today roughly 128 million people live in the 16 countries of which she is head of state, and she is the world’s second-longest-serving head of state after King Bhumibol of Thailand.

In the United Kingdom, her official title is Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. In the interest of space, I will refer to Her Majesty from here on simply as Liz.

I have nothing personally against Liz. She has done rather well over the years, considering she was born into incredible wealth, married her second cousin at age 21, and became the world’s most powerful Queen at the tender age of 26.

She likes dogs, horses and gin, is rarely ill, and seems to do a fair job of overseeing her kingdom and all its realms. Her fellow Brits love and respect her and she has rarely, if ever, been an embarrassment to herself, her family, and her country.

The most widely traveled head of state in history, she also seems to like Canada, and has visited our shores more than 20 times, more than any other.

Even though I like Liz, her influence over us is little more than ceremonial. She has become an institution unto herself, a glittering white billboard for the antiquated, wasteful and unnecessary notion of divine right, privilege and the monarchy.

For this reason, I would like to see her face removed from our money.

And that even goes for the 1960s portraits when she was young and vivacious and fond of dresses that accentuated her nice rack, of jewels, that is.

I was hoping she might retire sometime soon, and take her smiling face off our coins and bills, but that doesn’t seem likely. From the looks of things, she is going to outlive me. Liz, however, can’t live forever, and it is my hope that when the next monarch is crowned, we issue bank notes and coins with the heads of great Canadians on them.

Canada stands on its own two feet in this world, and there are plenty of Canadians—Frederick Banting, John Candy, Emily Carr, Tommy Douglas, Terry Fox, Wayne Gretzky, John Molson, Laura Secord, or even Pierre Trudeau—more deserving of the back of a loonie than Charles and his big ears.

Those who can’t play, drink

6/13/2006

Every four years the world goes a little crazy.

It has nothing to do with the alignment of the planets, the coming in and going out of the tides, or whether someone threw a dead skunk in the town well. It has to do with soccer, pure and simple.

The World Cup, the most significant competition in world football, began last Friday, and while it may not mean a whole lot on our western shores, it remains the world's most representative team sport event. After three years of qualifying, cheering, and crying, the month-long final tournament has come down to the world’s top 32 soccer superpowers.

There really is nothing like the World Cup.

It inspires fierce national pride like no other event, save the Olympics. Soccer is the world’s number one sport, played and watched by more people in more locations than any other game.It can be enjoyed on sand or in snow, in the rain or indoors. It can be played with equal skill by the tall or the small, and all it requires is a ball.

Over the seventeen tournaments held since 1930, only seven nations have ever won the World Cup. Brazil is the reigning champion, as well as the most successful World Cup team, having won the tournament a total of five times, while Germany and Italy are at Brazil’s heels with three titles each.

So, what if you happen to be from one of those countries who have never won the big one? What if the mystery and allure of soccer escapes you? What if you will never be what is known as an athlete?

Well, here’s a shocker: "Men who are not confident in their sporting abilities may try and make up for this by drinking excessively."So says Richard de Visser, whose new study looked into the masculine behaviours of young men in London, and how it all affects their health. The University of Sussex researcher conducted in-depth interviews with 31 men age 18-21, concluding they commonly use one type of masculine behavior to compensate for their inability to perform another.

With the World Cup tournament now in full swing, and his nation's young men expected to down a few extra pints during the televised action from Germany, de Visser thinks understanding the findings could improve health education.

I’m no scientist, but I would think any research limited to 31 men aged 18-21 might require a slightly larger study group. Mr. de Visser probably found the men huddled in the same pub, watching the game on the telly, as he stole a quick break from another marathon session of sheep cloning.

If Mr. de Visser thinks young men are going to trade in their lager and ale for cleats and balls, he had better think again. It just isn’t going to happen, not during the World Cup, not during the Stanley Cup, and not while any of us have an empty cup.

You’ll only end up wearing it

6/6/2006

Whoever said you can never go home again was dead right—when it comes to a Cherry Blossom.

When I was a skinny, freckle-faced boy, summer meant the chance to cash in a winter’s worth of pop bottles. It was the next best thing to an allowance, which, I was told, was something good little boys got when they cleared the dinner table or kept their room clean. At least I had pop bottles.

Back then, pop bottles were made of glass, and they were worth money, which kept them out of landfills, leaving more space at the dump for dirty diapers, potato peels, and broken television sets.

Any pop bottle money I collected I was allowed to spend on candy, and one of my favourites was the Cherry Blossom, a massive 45 gram chocolate covered cherry, packed with sulphites, corn syrup and invert sugar; just what every growing boy needs.

As far as chocolate bars go, it was too awkward to eat all in one bite, and you had to find a way to attack it without getting covered in cherry syrup.

Scientists studied the Cherry Blossom for years, and every test result proved it was impossible to eat one without winding up a sticky, grinning mess.

Whenever I arrived home with a Cherry Blossom, my Dad would send up a warning of “you’ll only end up wearing it”, and each time I was determined to finally get the better of the old man, the scientists, and that unholy candy. Each time I failed.

Last week, I bought my first Cherry Blossom after a layoff of about 25 years or more. I was amazed at how nothing had changed; not the packaging, the size, the sugar content, nor the candy itself. It was as if time has stood still in the land of chocolate.

If the product hadn’t changed in 25 years, surely I had, and I was convinced I could finally get the better of that sticky, sweet gob of goo. Wrong again. Look up the word fool in the dictionary, and you’ll find a picture of me holding a Cherry Blossom.

I started in on the thing by nibbling some of the chocolate off the top, then a little more, then more.

The people of Pompeii had more warning when Vesuvius erupted than I had when the top flew off that monstrosity. As if packed under pressure by some grinning, mean-spirited Hershey factory worker, the syrup flooded out like molten lava.

Once the pressure was released, the sides of the chocolate cup crumbled instantly. In a flash, I had the pink syrup, which is strangely like hydraulic fluid and only slightly less toxic, oozing down my hands, chin, and the front of my shirt. The main flow headed straight for my elbows, and any attempts to stop its advance only made it worse.

In the end, I had learned three things: the Cherry Blossom has not changed because it is the perfect creation of an evil genius, you’ll only end up wearing it, and you can never go home again.

The maladies that plague me

5/31/2006

Regardless of what illness gets you down, the key to a speedy recovery lies in accurate diagnosis.

So, ask your doctor about dromomania.

Dromomania is the medical term for the obsessive urge to travel. I only read about it last week, but already fear I may be coming down with a slight case of it. In fact, I suspect it might be in its advanced stages by the time the snow flies again.

Some folk, hooked on collecting new experiences in new places, seem to have it bad.

One of today’s most traveled individuals is California millionaire Charles Veley, who visited more than 500 places in one five-year period, beginning with his honeymoon in Paris, and following up with Munich, Fiji, Bali, India and Australia.

Not content to view only the better-known countries, Veley has visited such out-of-the-way spots as Mizoram, Lampedusa, Tatarstan, and Limpopo. He has logged 1,160,000 miles in six years, and visited 264 of 265 countries in the Guinness records list.

Ultimately, I am not too worried if I come down with a bit of dromomania. It should fit right in with the long list of other ugly maladies that plague me.

Take molsonitis, for example, which is an otherwise normal person’s inability to refuse a cold beer when it is offered. This one is often hereditary.

Going hand in hand with molsonitis is the dreaded rambleonia, in which the sufferer is incapable of shutting up after only a few drinks. When chronic rambleonia is left untreated, everyone suffers.

The best known treatment is to administer a healthy dose of pork rinds or other munchies. In extreme cases, an emergency yappendectomy involving chicken wings may be necessary. On second thought, you should always keep an order of chicken wings handy, just to be on the safe side.

I also suffer from acute accessoritis, which is a deep psychological aversion to accessories of any kind. This is why you never see me sporting an iPod, cell phone, wristwatch, piercings or jewelry.I also avoid hats, neckties, engagement rings, sunglasses and shoes, until they become absolutely necessary. There is no known cure for accessoritis, and longtime sufferers have been known to refuse pets, ketchup, cable television, kitchen appliances and trendy underwear with cute sayings printed on them like “Home of the whopper.”

Many people are also hampered, from time to time, by inflamed lame nodes. This malady leaves a person unable to endure Ben Affleck movies, Celine Dion songs, daytime television, small dogs and diet soft drinks, to name only a few. This illness is easily and often misdiagnosed simply as good taste.

As you can guess, when you are this messed up, any sustained bout of dromomania is just another walk in the park. It’s going to be a good summer.

Grandpa’s surefire yellow jacket trap

5/24/2006

The May Two-Four weekend is widely regarded as the kickoff to the outdoor season in Canada.

Unfortunately, with barbecues and bonfires comes the arrival of biting bugs and stinging pests. Most of us can handle the odd mosquito or black fly, but yellow jackets are another matter entirely.

Yellow jackets are those busy little bees who can’t seem to resist feeding on your hot dog, your ice cream, the lip of your pop can, or your lips in general. This can be a real problem for the timid, the hyperactive, or the severely allergic.

If you are one of these people, fear not. All you need is grandpa’s surefire yellow jacket trap.

Invented who knows how long ago, the trap is non toxic, pet and wildlife friendly, and harmless.

It is also deceptively efficient in removing all the yellow jackets from a campsite in a matter of a single day. By the end of one week, an entire campground can be free of these hostile pests that make camping and other outdoor activities miserable.

To build your trap, begin by adding one or two inches of water to a dish pan or wash basin. Mix in one tablespoon of liquid dish soap, preferably non-scented, and slowly stir it in. Be careful not to leave any soap bubbles floating on top of the water.

In the dish pan, build a tripod out of three sticks, each about one foot long. Bend a short piece of wire into a hook, tie it to a string, and tie the string to the tripod so the hook is dangling above the water.

Attach a piece of raw fish to the wire hook.

Tie the string to the top of the tripod so that the meat is only half an inch above the water level in the pan. Do not get any of the soapy water on any portion of the fish, or your trap will be useless.

It works, because yellow jackets love fish and will begin to cut off small pieces to take back to the nest. In their excitement of buzzing around the bait, a few will occasionally hit the water. The soap in the water breaks the surface tension of the waterproof coating on the yellow jacket, and it sinks instantly.

Even the best swimmers will drown in a few seconds. Some yellow jackets will successfully haul a piece of meat back to the nest, and promptly tell all their friends where this great food source is.

Soon all the wasps from the nest will be working on the fish and, over a period of time, all will eventually make mistakes and either fall off the fish and into the water, or bump other wasps flying around and knock themselves into the drink.

Leave your trap somewhere up and out of the way, and it will only take a day or two to wipe out nearly every yellow jacket in your area.

A thin piece of fish with vertical sides works best for having the insects fall off. The best part is, while everyone else is busy setting up camp, you get to go fishing right away—for yellow jacket bait

The hybrids have begun to emerge

5/17/2006

“If it is possible, it is done. If it is impossible, it will be done.” — a favourite saying of Evel Knievel

The impossible has finally happened.

The hybrids have begun to emerge.

Last week, way up north where the drifts meet the sky, an American hunter paid the ripe sum of $50,000 to shoot a bear—and that isn’t even the remarkable part. For $50,000, I could live inside a bear for a winter, but that isn’t important.

What makes this story important is that Johnny Gun shot what he thought was a polar bear. The authorities thought it was a grizzly bear and, after a round of testing, it was determined the blonde, suddenly unique, bear was both polar and grizzly.

And that isn’t even the remarkable part.

Officials are now saying the bear could be the first hybrid of its kind to be discovered in the wild.

It had been considered nearly impossible for the two species to mate, since polar bears mate on the ice, while grizzlies mate on land.

Confrontations between the two usually end in fighting. Then again, when two top predators are in the mood for love, not a whole lot can stop them.

Hybrids are not new, and breeding in captivity has been attempted for many years. In 1936, a male polar bear accidentally got into an enclosure with a female Kodiak bear at the U.S. national zoo, and the romance resulted in three hybrid offspring.

I doubt the polar bear felt it was an accident, and one of his sons, named Willy, grew into an immense specimen. Yes, strange things have been going on in the night at the zoo for many years, but this new case in the Northwest Territories is a first.

The scientists who know about such things believe the hybrid is the result of global warming.

Other intelligent folk believe this global warming problem is being caused by a rise in greenhouse gases, thanks to all our car parts, cow farts, and a multitude of other human sins, such as people who belch too much after eating garlic bread.

If this is indeed true, then we can expect more and more hybrid animals to show up from here on.

This is certain to rattle a number of people, especially those who resist change of any kind, but I prefer to look on the bright side.

For starters, arctic animals may start mixing and mingling with their southern cousins. This could throw a real wrench into the animal skin traditions of the north; but, from the sounds of things, our Inuit brothers will all be running around in shorts and T-shirts in 10 to 20 years anyway.

Nature has a way of looking after itself, and global warming may see animals from the tropics create hybrids as they venture north. If the pig and hippo ever end up hooking up, I look forward to the amount of bacon the hippoporkamus will produce.

The only acceptable use for a parsnip

5/10/2006

The next time you catch someone bragging about how they can barbecue anything and make it work, knock them down a peg with the parsnip.

A root vegetable hiding somewhere between the carrot and the rutabaga, the parsnip has a characteristic strong flavour that appeals to many people.

I am not one of those people.

Whether you boil it, bake it, or dip it in batter and fry it in hot fat, there is little that can be done to salvage the parsnip, and little reason to try. Its only truly acceptable usage is in making likker.

Likker should not be confused with liquor. Liquor is sold in stores for a lot of money. The people who make liquor generally know what they are doing. Likker, on the other hand, is any hooch or rotgut an amateur might try to concoct at home.

An old book I’ve had for years, with pages as yellow and brittle as a moonshiner’s teeth, describes the general process of making likker, and lists the parsnip as a friend of the ordeal.

To make likker, begin by filling a barrel with any vegetable matter that will “work”. This is where the parsnip comes in; or elderberries, or peaches, or apples, or potatoes. People who know what they are doing prefer cracked corn, but I’ve read even marmalade will “work” if you are feeling brave, or a little crazy. Most likker makers are a touch of both.

When your barrel is full, take it out to the barn, and set the barrel in horse manure. If you don’t have a barn, ask for some space with a neighbour. If you do have a barn, ask your neighbour anyway.

Heap the manure all around the barrel, and the heat will augment the working of the grain, or fruit, or parsnips. Watch the contents carefully, because left too long, it will start the chemical process of turning to vinegar. Nobody wants vinegar.

Except my grandfather. Grandpa said whisky was horse liniment and parsnips were health food. His idea of a wild Saturday was to watch Lawrence Welk on television and eat a bowl of granola.

He also drank a spoonful of vinegar twice a day, claiming it chased bugs from his system like a cat chases squirrels. I’m not sure it did anything, other than save the undertaker some work, since Gramps was halfway to being pickled when he died.

Once the “mash” has “worked itself out”, you can decide to make wine, or cook the gunk over a slow fire and run it through a still. In the end, if your parsnips haven’t let you down, your likker should have a kick like a constipated mule. Don’t be surprised if it ends up with a similar smell.

The book says oldtimers added a kick to their hooch by adding tobacco leaves, or a sprinkling of strong lye, to the finished product. Personally, I think no parsnip is worth that kind of trouble, and will be sticking to burgers and steaks this summer.

If only life were like the commercials

4/25/2006

After what seemed like a lifetime of separation, the NHL playoffs are finally underway. That means I, like so many other good Canadians, will be immersed for the time being in the magical world of Hockey Night in Canada.

The Stanley Cup playoffs are a bona fide tradition in this country, and watching them on a Canadian broadcast makes all the difference.

I just wish life were more like the commercials that get played over and over and over again.

If life were more like a car commercial, my car would always be brand spanking new, spotlessly clean, and every road, ramp or parking space on earth would be deserted and free of potholes.If life were more like a doughnut commercial, we could all eat caramel by the bucket load and never gain a pound, or a zit, or new dental work.

If life were more like a fried chicken commercial, my bucket wouldn’t need a lid, because it would be overflowing with so many perfect pieces.

If life were more like a drug commercial, I could eat a big, blue pill or two and my wife, or girlfriend, or both, would break into a happy song and kick up her heels in all sorts of suggestive directions.

If life were more like a beer commercial, it wouldn’t matter where I went drinking, I would be surrounded by beautiful women with long hair, longer legs, and perfect, gravity-defying breasts.

If I only owned a beer brewery, I could make all kinds of commercials starring me, visiting China, rubbing shoulders with some of hockey’s all-time greats, ruining classic rock and roll songs with my own pet band, and further humiliating a great Canadian athlete like Ben Johnson with a new, all natural, performance enhancing sports drink.

If life were more like a bank commercial, I could get a long term mortgage for the lowest rates the world could muster, go into debt for years and years, face thousands of dollars in interest charges, and be completely happy about it.

If life were more like a lawn care commercial, I wouldn’t know what a dandelion looks like, I would think that thick, green grass is important, and that every day in my back yard would be sunny, and warm, and entirely free of skunks and grubs.If life were more like commercials, I would be eating more fibre, drinking the finest tap water ever bottled, and popping pills to ease my guts.

I would constantly be winning the lottery, painting the walls of my home, or sweeping its floors, and I would fill my car with all the comforts of home, and then never stay home.

I would be sweating, shaving, sneezing, wheezing, coughing, laughing, sleeping and leaking.

Looking on the bright side though, at least I would get to play road hockey with Sidney Crosby.

Taking a good trip on Bicycle Day

4/19/2006

"The use of sacramental vegetables has gone back in history. It's an ancient human ritual that has usually been practiced in the context of religion. I didn't pioneer anything.” — Timothy Leary

Give normal people a reason to celebrate, and they probably will. Give party people a reason to celebrate, and they will come up with Bicycle Day.

Today, April 19, is still celebrated by some die hard stoners as Bicycle Day; the day Albert Hofmann took the first intentional trip on LSD.

The Swiss chemist was synthesizing a fungus called ergot in the spring of 1943, when he became ill preparing the sample. He went home to rest, and had bizarre (but not unpleasant) visions for two hours. Three days later he intentionally ingested a minute amount of the substance and, feeling odd again, rode home on his bicycle—watching the world fantastically reconstruct itself along the way.

Hofmann went on to synthesize psilocybin, the active ingredient in “magic” mushrooms, in 1958.

Hofmann called LSD his problem child, originally thinking it would hold great promise for psychiatry, or as the next wonder drug, alongside aspirin. In the 1950s, the C.I.A. “researched” LSD by operating whorehouses in the San Francisco area, and dosing customers with “acid” without their knowledge.

Most research into LSD was banned in 1962, and the drug was soon illegal in 1967, when it became popular in U.S. counterculture. Dr. Timothy Leary rose to fame in the late 1960s as a psychologist and campaigner for psychedelic drug research and use, and the spiritual and therapeutic benefits of LSD.

Leary argued that the drug, used in the right dosage and setting, could alter behaviour in new and beneficial ways. His experiments produced no murders or suicides and, apparently, no “bad trips”.

The acid guru was arrested twice for possession of marijuana and, in 1974, “the most dangerous man in America” was being held on $5 million bail, which today would equate to around $21 million.

Love him or hate him, Timothy Leary had to have been one incredibly charming individual to get away with ingesting, offering and promoting LSD in a world so hostile to psychedelic drugs.

In 1969, he somehow got into bed in Montreal with John Lennon and Yoko Ono to participate in the peace protest. Naked to the waist and waving a two-fingered peace sign, he smiled his way through “Give Peace a Chance” at the hairy foot of the bed.

For my money, it would have been fun to see what a character like that could have accomplished away from the glare and grip of the authorities. He might have been on to something valuable, and probably would’ve got along well with Hofmann.

One can only imagine what their bicycle rides together would have been like. Far out, man.

Enjoy the last of the good stuff

4/11/2006

The next time someone asks you why gasoline is so expensive, tell them the answer is simple.

Gas prices are on the rise, because we are running out of oil. Well, fellow guzzlers, not exactly.

There is plenty of oil left in the ground to last us decades, and longer. Billions upon billions of barrels of black gold lay buried under sand and stone, with even the best oil wells pulling only about half of the available oil out of every decent deposit.

We are, however, running out of the cheap oil known as “light sweet crude” that is easily extracted, refined and transported through pipelines. Our thirst for the good stuff is insatiable, roughly 1,000 barrels a second on the world scale—but gushers are simply not turning up very often anymore.

The oil that is left is getting difficult to find and harder to refine. It’s kind of like going to a dance where, after you’ve had a good long spin, you look around and all the pretty girls are gone. You can keep on dancing, but it’s going to take some work.

Given the difficulties and risks involved in extracting lesser-grade oil from remote and hostile environments, the price will remain high to make it all worth it. There are few places left on the planet where the incentives to drill justify the effort.

Picture an Olympic swimming pool full of oil, and then draining it every 15 seconds, for close to 5,500 pools every day. With over one billion new consumers in China awakening with their own powerful thirst, the world is going to need every extra barrel of oil it can find—and the prices will rise.

The logic is grim. Higher oil prices are required to provide incentive for exploration, leaving our right to abundant, reliable and affordable energy in the tank. Because supply is getting tight at a time when global demand is accelerating, changes loom on the horizon that threaten to tear the very fabric of the comfortable lifestyles, and world, we know.

If you want gas in the future, and I suspect most of us will, we had better get used to paying for it.

Oil at $20 a barrel is history, and prices are almost surely going to become increasingly volatile over the next few years. Seasonal spikes of $100 per barrel, or more, will become the new reality.

Even with a surge in electric cars, solar power, and trans-Atlantic hot air balloon flights, our oil problems are not going to go away for a decade or more. North America’s addiction to cheap energy is too strong, and the technology of the last century too deeply entrenched, for any new approach to be quickly, easily, or painlessly, adopted.

Gas prices are going up because we are unable to live without it. Oil is increasingly harder to find and more expensive to produce—and the few lucky ones who have a bit of the good stuff left now have us, if you’ll pardon the pun, right over a barrel.