Time for some pickin’ and a grinnin’

After years of talking about it, and talking about it, my old man finally got a banjo. It was a Father’s Day present I picked up at a yard sale, from a young man who claimed bluegrass is the only kind of music worth listening to. I happen to like bluegrass, but saying it is the only music out there is like saying blue cheese is the only item worth putting on a pizza. Sure, it may be tasty in small doses, but it doesn’t take long to get sick of it. We talked about bluegrass, how the banjo was invented by slaves stolen from Africa, and how the two most famous banjo pickers anyone can think of are Roy Clark from Hee Haw, and that dirty little inbred hillbilly from the movie Deliverance. We would have talked longer, but the guy said his roadkill barbecue was just about done, and he still had to help his girlfriend find her teeth. I remember watching a lot of Hee Haw when I was a kid, especially Misty Rowe’s “jug” band, but I’m by no means an expert on how to tune a banjo. It needed some work and I needed some help, so I set out to find a music store; which isn’t easy when you don’t know the terrain. I finally found one tucked away in a quiet corner, like so many music stores are, with a big drum kit in the window, guitars hanging on the walls, and words like Gibson, Godin, Gretsch and Green Day splashed everywhere. It was getting late at this point, just about 4:20 in the afternoon by my calculations, because there was a sign on the door that the person inside was on a five minute break. Sure enough, five minutes later, the lock on the door clicked open, and the banjo and I ventured inside. The proprietor was hard to find behind the stacks of amplifiers, sheet music and microphone stands. He would also have been hard to find in a police line-up of homeless drifters. He looked like a rat. If a rat had slits for eyes. With long, stringy hair sticking out from under his ball cap, and two long, stringy arms sticking out of a sleeveless Black Sabbath concert shirt, he looked like the kind of man who stayed up all night playing guitar, woke up hungry, and ate his belt because he thought it was beef jerky. He said he liked the banjo, and held it like it was a baby. And I knew immediately I was in the right place. Ratman said the repair job was simple, that all the banjo needed was a few screws, and he had just the thing. From under the counter he produced a plastic bowl full of screws, and began sifting through them like he had all the time in the world. He certainly had most of the screws. In a miracle of hand-eye co-ordination, he actually found three suitable pieces, but they were too long. Not to worry, he said, and from further under the counter he brought up a clamp, a hacksaw and a grinder. There were a lot of things rushing through my mind at that point, but worry wasn’t one of them, and he cut the screws to fit. In the end, in that little one stop machine shop guitar shop, I ended up with a dandy five-string banjo. When I told him it was a present for my dad, he winked at me by opening one bloodshot eye, and said “No charge”. All that’s left now, is to start the pickin’ and a grinnin’.

No cover charge in the Ralph Klein Room

An old friend flew in from Calgary for the weekend, and we honoured his visit with the opening of the Ralph Klein Room. No cover charge. No dress code. No problem.

Ralph Klein is a former premier of Alberta, and was fairly popular with many of the fine folks of that province. King Ralph was the type of politician who had a knack for getting the job done, and wasn’t afraid to throw a few drinks into the mix to get there. Maybe a few too many.

The Ralph Klein Room, or RKR, as it quickly became known, is an old post-and-beam drive shed, with a rusted tin roof and gravel floor. There is a sign on the side telling pedlars not to bother stopping, splashes of old motor oil in places, and an atmosphere that had you thinking a cow might wander past the door at any moment. Amenities for the weekend included a few comfortable chairs, a table made out of an old door, a television and DVD player, and an AM/FM radio with a short wave setting to pick up southern gospel, a pow wow, or one of those nuts you know is out there, living underground in an old bus, warning everyone about alien invasions. The chill box was filled with ice and tasty beverages, and there was a five gallon pail nailed to the wall, just in case anyone felt the need to impress everyone with a Kobe Bryant or Kevin Garnett inspired jump shot. The fire pit consisted of an old kitchen sink elevated on blocks, a grill, and more than enough sausages to go around. Ralph Klein himself would have been impressed. Talk and suds flowed freely, interrupted only by the odd flash of lightning, crack of thunder, and hammering of rain on the rusted tin roof. There was a crazy mariachi concert coming through the short wave, but the lightning (or was it the aliens?) kept wreaking havoc on the reception.

Conversation drifted from playoff hockey, to the value of Van Halen bootlegs, to how there must be a reason why so many people are afraid of clowns. Is Dr. Phil really a doctor? Red meat isn’t nearly as bad for you as green meat is. Eagles soar, but rats don’t get sucked into jet engines. If you spill beer on the lawn, will your grass come up half cut? What was the best thing before sliced bread? A shark will only attack you when you’re wet. And so on. Then someone said they had just seen the best beer commercial of all time, about a man who doesn’t always drink beer, but when he does, he prefers Dos Equis. The police often question him, just because they find him interesting. His beard alone has experienced more than a lesser man’s entire body. His blood smells like cologne. He is the most interesting man in the world. And Ralph Klein himself would have been impressed.

The nonsense continued all night, until the blue light of dawn started to poke through the trees. It felt good to be back in such good company, enjoying the warmth of a summer night, and the warmth of friends and family. As friends age, and the complications of their lives and schedules compound and limit them, it gets increasingly difficult to make time for such nonsense. It also gets more important to make that time—so stay thirsty, my friends.

Taking time for a little sit down

If you think that someone you love is spending too much time in the bathroom, think again. Making headlines in western Kansas, a 35-year-old woman sat down in her boyfriend’s bathroom, and didn’t get up again for two whole years. You might think she was stranded in there, but she wasn’t. Not at first anyway.

The dedicated boyfriend checked on her every day, asking if she was ready to come out. Her answer, for two whole years, was ‘maybe tomorrow’. When the man finally reported that something was wrong with his girlfriend, police arrived to find the woman almost fully clothed, sitting on the toilet, otherwise none the worse for wear. Except the woman’s skin had grown around the seat. The muscles in her legs had so severely atrophied she will likely need a wheelchair to get around for a while. She initially refused emergency medical services, but was finally convinced by everyone that she needed to be checked out at a hospital, toilet seat and all. Police initially thought she had been glued or tied to the throne, but soon determined she was physically stuck there by her body alone. The boyfriend reported bringing in food and water, but the woman did not want to leave the bathroom. He never explained why it took him two years to call police, and no one has been able to explain the couple’s bizarre behaviour. Authorities said she wasn’t cooperative, kept saying she was okay, but seemed “somewhat disoriented.”

The entire twisted tale has left everyone scratching their heads. Police feel someone should be charged for something, but they can’t seem to find anything illegal about a person who decides to sit on a toilet for two whole years. It turns out it’s not against the law. It’s just wrong.

In other news, a New York man is suing the commercial airline jetBlue for $2 million, saying he suffered “extreme humiliation” after he spent his trip in the bathroom. The man claims he was denied a seat on a five-hour flight, because the plane was full. He was allowed on board when an attendant offered to give up her seat, but 90 minutes into the voyage the pilot said the flight attendant was uncomfortable, and he was now welcome to “hang out” in the plane's bathroom for the remainder of the flight.

After reading this, I was haunted by the feeling I had heard the story before. And then it dawned on me. It is the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. In that cautionary tale, a little girl busts into a cabin in the woods and eats porridge that is too hot, too cold, and then just right. She sits in a chair that is too big, too small, and then just right; and sleeps in a bed too hard, too soft, and then just right. I can’t remember the ending, except the one my babysitter told me that the bears dipped the girl in honey and spent the rest of the winter eating her.

The point is, the girl from Kansas and the boy from New York need to meet in the middle, just like Goldilocks did. Whether you want to stay seated for two years, or get out before your five hours is up, the key is moderation and being able to make the choice for yourself—and if you have any sense at all, it shouldn’t take two years to make it.