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.