For Jim Dandy

The photo says it all.

For anyone needing further convincing that barbequing is more than "charring dead animal flesh over the fire-pit," I offer the following column from the Sonny Drysdale Archives. Of a May, this year vintage. Ah, Springtime of 2008. Courtesy of the good people from 'ARTscape' magazine and reprinted here without their permission or knowledge.

... The first weekend of May marks the opening of trout season. I'll be missing it. I come from a long line of fishermen. Fishing is in my blood. It's encoded in my DNA. But it's not for me. As Steven Wright once noted, "There's a fine line between fishing and standing on a dock looking like an idiot."

I don't golf either.

Therefore, I barbeque.

As one of those warm-weather manly pursuits of dubious merit, outdoor grilling is more in my line. All three of the above-mentioned activities are what get men throught the long Canadian winter. The dream of spring and summer is what keeps us going. Whether it's time spent holding a putter, a rod & reel or a pair of tongs, all involve huge blocks of time and the consumption of alcohol. I suppose I could say the same thing about chasing skirt on a Richmond Row patio as well. But quite frankly, I'm just as happy with a chilled can of Ol' Milwaukee in my hand and a good steak on the old grill.

Not that I take the Art of BBQ to the same fanatical extremes as some men. However, I am a bit of a purist about some things. No propane-fuelled portable kitchen ranges for me. I'm a simple man. Just some charcoal and one of those big orb-shaped Weber grills is all I need.

And music.

Because due to the slow-burning nature of charcoal, my kind of barbeque is an all-afternoon Event. If I'm going to be standing around the backyard for hours on end, it is essential to have just the right music to pass the time while declining the opportunity to help garden because I'm wearing oven-mits. As a wise man once observed, "There's a fine line between barbequing and standing on a deck looking like an idiot."

And that's why I prefer grilling to fishing or golf. There's no need for music when golfing. You have the camaraderie of your friends and jokes memorized from 'Playboys' Ribald Bathroom Companion of Golf Humour.' And of course, no self-respecting angler would even consider bringing along a boom-box to the river. It would scare away the fish.

But it wouldn't be a backyard barbeque without music. No more than it would be without beer or wine. It's just not done.

And it can't be just any music. Shame on the grill-master who lazily tunes in FM-96 or 'The Hawk.' During early autumn, the ball game is permissable but only during the World Series. Same for the fall finale of the Stanely Cup playoffs.

As for the actual music. I only have three rules. Rule # 1 - It must be somewhat outdoorsy and warm and breezy. Hence lots of Jonathan Richman and Antonio Carlos Jobin and 'Pet Sounds.' Rule #2 - no Jimmy Buffet is allowed. Sorry, but this ain't no Margaritaville, this ain't no disco, this ain't no foolin' around.

And Rule #3 - Obey all rules.

Because even though an authentic barbeque is a connection to our most primal condition - it's all about burning a dead animal to ensure our survival after all - all that death & noble spirit business aside, a barbeque is essentially about Life.

So out of respect for those who have barbequed before me and all those who will char meat long after I'm gone, I like to crank the music up to a level that my neighbours too will remember after the coals turn white and then to ash and dust.

It is important to let them know what they are in for from the moment you plug in the portable stereo. At one time, 'Tom Jones Greatest Hits,' kicking things off with 'It's Not Unusual,' was my first choice for the traditional Lighting of the Coals.

But as I get older, I find myself going even further back in my musical memory and settle on something from less than a decade earlier than the first pair of panties tossed Tom-ways.

'Nuggets' is a compilation of original garage and '60s punk put out by Rhino Records in 1986. As I carefully arrange my coals into a pyramid, while liberally soaking them in BBQ-lighter fluid, I drown out the potential sound of fire-trucks with 'Dirty Water,' by The Standells, followed closely by 'Psychotic Reaction' by Count Five, the Easybeats' 'Friday on my Mind,' and 'Let's Talk About Girls,' by the Chocolate Watchband.

All of this was recorded over four decades ago but it'll still get your lawn-chair a'rockin.' For this is the Eternal music of Youth.

By the time the coals get their first layer of ash and a second dousing of combustibles and the flames rise again, is right about the time we get to the ninth song - and the real reason why I play this particular CD in the first place. 'Pleasant Valley Sunday,' by The Monkees.

I ask you, on a nice sunny day, with just a hint of a breeze, are there any more welcome lyrics to be heard than those penned by Gerry Goffin and Carole King: "Just another Pleasant Valley Sunday/Charcoal burning everywhere."

From Mike Nesmith's opening Beatlesque guitar riff to Mickey Dolenz' angsty vocals (thank God they didn't give this one to Davey to sing,) it just doesn't get much better than this. I'm even willing to overlook the typically-60s counter-culture put-downs of middle-aged middle-class bourgois home-owners whose major crimes apparently are that they are proud of their roses being in bloom and the fact that they have a TV-set in every room of one of those "Rows of houses that look all the same/And no one seems to care."

Being middle-aged and belonging to the lower rungs of middle-class, I now find such social commentary amusing. And so it's with pride that I crank the song up for the rest of my neighbourhood. I consider it my duty to do so.

So I also like to share with them my favorite cover version of the Standell's 'Dirty Water.' It was recorded in the 1980s by a London punk band called 'The Inmates.' All Londoners - and especially those band-wagon jumpers who have recently discovered we have a river running all through town, should swell with pride at hearing how the Inmates have slightly changed the lyrics so that they are now singing about "the banks of the River Thames," and then proudly proclaim, "LONDON, your my home!"

True, they're really singing about London, Engalund - but who cares?

For Kid Dork

FOR THE FULL EFFECT OF THIS PANARAMA SNAPSHOT, BY ALL MEANS, PUT MOUSE TO CLICKER DEVICE AND THERE IN THE MIDDLE IS MR. JONATHAN FRID, IN ALL HIS SLENDOR.


... and for KD's Mom. And all those kids out there who ran home from School - just to catch the last moments of 'Dark Shadows' - and as every other 'soap,' afterwards - be it called 'One Life to Live' or 'Twin Peaks' or 'Alias' or 'Lost' or 'Who Stole Harvey Korman's Brain' ... it all comes back to 'DS' ... and Jon Frid.

any thots out there about the fact that J. Depp has signed onto a feature film version of DS? .. the good thing is that JD is one of us. He GETS IT.

Memories of Alma College

TRUE STORY -

Back in '73 I was a niner at Riverside High in Windsor, Ont. The next year I was attending the private All-Girl school Alma College in St. Thomas. All it took was a padded bra, shaved legs, my old Beatles wig - and lots of encouragement from my best friends, Janet and Judy Dougherty.

J & J were already going to Alma. And like most girls away from home for the first time, they missed their friends.

"C'mon, Sonny!," they pleaded. "It'll be just like 'The Trouble With Angels'!" And that's about all it took. How could I resist? Ever since it came out in the summer of '66, 'The Trouble With Angels' was our favorite movie. Any film starring Hayley Mills was alright with me. She played Mary Clancey, a teenage rebel sent to the strict Catholic, St. Francis Academy for Girls.

Anyway, Hayley and her best friend, Rachel get into all sorts of trouble whenever Hayley comes up with yet another of her "scathingly brilliant ideas." Much to the chagrin of Reverend Mother (a.k.a. Mother Superior,) played by the always wonderful Rosalind Russell - who caustically refers to Mary and Rachel as "the Devil's Agents." The movie itself, is like one of those live-action Disney films - and surprisingly enough was directed by film-noir sex-bomb Ida Lupino - who knew?

And that's how I ended up in an All Girls school for a year. Now discerning readers might remember that Sonny is an openly hetrosexual male of long good-standing. You may be wondering, just how could he pull this off?

Well, I hate to disappoint anyone but the simple fact is that if you pay all your tuition up front, no one cares. I could have been a go-rilla and as long as I was wearing a school uniform of pleated skirt and matching vest over a white blouse, no one in the administration would have batted an eye.

Besides, I've always had a slender figure with some might say, almost 'girlish' hips and that along with my boyish good looks and impish grin and my newly-acquired skills at applying make-up made everything go swimmingly. Except for once a week in 'Pool' class. I always had to sit out because it was "my time of the month."

That's how I became 'Alma Drysdale' - a forgeign exchange student from Beverly Hills. And just like in the movie, boy did we get into trouble. Smoking in the washroom, late-night dips in the swimming pool, sneaking into St. Thomas for roller-skating, swiping some of the communal wine over Christmas holidays. I tell you, it was nothing but ten months straight of hijinks and shitnanigans.

But that summer, my beard finally came in, my voice changed and that was the end of all that.

But the experience had been so much fun that years later I wrote a screenplay about it all and sent it off to Hollywood. After all, this story had 'Scott Baio' written all over it. Well, to make a long story short, Scott was locked into his contract for 'Charles in Charge' and couldn't get out of it. Then the script-doctors got ahold of it and changed things so much that even Willy Ames and Ralph Macchio turned it down.

But it eventually did make it onto the big screen. As a 1998 Disney movie called 'Mr. Headmistress,' - starring the always adequately goofy Harland Williams, then fresh off his comic triumph in 'RocketMan,' possibly the most under-rated family comedy of the '90s.

It was changed completely from my original script. In the new version, it was the school principal who dressed in drag just to spend time with a bunch of teenaged girls.

But, I must say that I got a fair bit of satisfaction from the fact that it was filmed - at Alma College. My ol' alma matter.

... As everyone in the tri-state area now knows, Alma College burned down yesterday. A week after the Ontario Municipal Board gave its approval for the new owners to demolish the entire 131-year-old building so they could put up condominiums.

Fire officials are calling the cause of the blaze "suspicious." Which is a joke. EVERYONE knew the inevitable fate of that building. That fire was a surprise to absolutely no one. Apparently 'someone' didn't want to wait for heritage groups to file an appeal to the OMB ruling. The only suspicious thing about the end of Alma College would be if a fire didn't happen.

That's how we deal with heritage properties in this area. Either that or the always popular demolition-by-neglect - Locust Mount and Talbot Inn being the most recent examples.

Ruminations on Rooms n' Nations

ROOMS -

Again with the hernias.

Just spent the past few days recovering from hernia surgery on Monday. That means not leaving my bedroom the first day home from the hospital, lolling about in the arms of sweet Sister Morphine and lacking the nerve to get out of bed simply because it hurt too damn much just to swing my legs over the side and climb in or out of it.

Thank God I was constipated. However, any hopes of 'leg-over' are currently residing in my 'Wish List' at Amazon. I am happy to report tho, that while in the Recovery Room after the operation, I knew I was going to be alright after experiencing a semi-erection while thinking about an egg-salad sandwich. You know, the kind with not-so-finely-diced onions, a very thin slice of tomato and a sprinking of sprouts of any kind other than Brussels. And of course, liberal doses of salt and pepper and lots of Mayo. Okay, now take a moment to rearrange your parts.

The operation went okay. I'd been through this before (just three years ago with a hernia on the other side of my groin,) so I pretty well knew what to expect. And judging by the size of the bruising and the darkness of the dried blood which accompanies my latest scar, it looks like everything went well.

But I gotta tell ya - I AM just a bit disappointed in our free health-care system up here in Canada. Or specifically, here in London, Ontario where our current Health Minister promised more jobs for nurses while cutting back hospitals' budgets in his next breath.

You know, the first time I had a hernia done shortly after turning 50 (it's one of those 'rites of passage' things which neither Steven King nor John Updike nor the guy who used to direct those Clint Howard movies seem to have glommed onto yet,) well, when I was in the Recovery Room afterwards, the free cans of Ginger Ale just kept coming and coming. Unbeckoned even! And no tips allowed! There was no stopping the flow until I had to make that crucial trip to the washroom to see if I could urinate. And after that, well let's just say that as far as free carbonated beverages go, 'Canada Dry' was just that. Wham, bam,thank you Sam.

But this time, the nurse attending to me went for lunch shortly after I got in there and I had to nurse the same damn half-glass of warm no-name Ginger Ale for over an hour. They didn't even give me the rest of the can to top it up.

But now that Ontario's Liberal government has officially banned praying to our Deity before they open their daily session of yelling at each other (yeah, cuz that's gonna help,) they've cut down so much on hospital budgets that there I sat - an hour after having my gut sliced open with the surgical equivalent of box-cutters and my intestines moved out of my scrotum and tucked back behind my stomach wall where they belong - and I am reduced to drinking ginger ale out of a fukkin' thimble. I ask you, WHERE are our PRIORITIES, people?!

I had been looking forward to that ginger-ale all week. I had even thought of claiming not be able to urinate on demand - just so I could get more. It was such a let-down, that on the way home, when Mavis got my 'scripts filled at the 'Pharm (that's how the junkies talk,) she was good enough to get me a big bottle of Ginger Ale. True, it was that Schweppes stuff. But that's okay. I'm not one to complain. Even though it was warm. Thank God, it wasn't Vernors. That shit tastes like James Reaney's piss. Or so I've been told.

Anway, that was a few days ago. I spent the next few days doing a lot of sitting. Sitting and reading. Yes, reading. That's what things have come down to.

Originally I thought that this would be the ideal time to get started on watching that DVD collection I got for Christmas a couple of years ago of the first complete season of 'Friends.' But you know what - after hernia surgery, they caution you against sneezing, coughing and uncontrolled uproarious laughter. So for the sake of a speedy convalescence, 'Friends' is back on the back burner.

I'm one of the few (actually, there may be dozens of us,) who can actually claim to have never seen an entire episode of 'Friends' from opening to closing credits. Sure, I've caught large chunks of it at a time whilst flicking the channels - but it's only 'Phoebe' that keeps me there. There's something very deep and mysterious going on inside that character. I don't know what it is and I'm sure that Lisa Something, the actress who plays her doesn't know either but ...

... But that Joey guy? Cracks me up every time. And THAT'S why I set the DVD aside. It only hurts when I laugh, right? And maybe it was the codeine, but when I watched a few minutes the other day, I swear, that show is soooo funny when you're stoned. Someone ought to blog about that.

And that's been my week.

By the way, the book I'm reading - 'The Pale Blue Eye' by Louis Bayard. It's this murder mystery set in the West Point Military Academy back in 1830 and the comical co-star is a real-life person. 'Edgar Allan Poe.' Apparently he was one of those writer guys in real life back then. But man, what a wit! That Eddie guy cracks me up every time. And if they do a movie, I know just who should play him.

Reading and sittin' and thinkin'. Mostly about how nice the back-yard looks in the spring-time when there's flowers and buds on the trees and stuff. And birds. We got birds too. Ditto the squirrels. The occassional chipmunk. And about how nice it is to have a dog to sit in it with again. It's all new to her. So even though I bring out a book, I spend most the time looking at her.

And thinking about Death. Because when you've had your second hernia operation in three years, it's time to start thinking seriously about things. Like begatting a few more male heirs and wondering if all those unopened 'Mott the Hoople' albums was such a smart investment after all.

But that's Life fer ya. You're always thinking about Death at some point during the day. With me, it's usually while sitting on a toilet after hernia surgery and constipated from medically-prescribed and regularly-ingested Tylenol 3's. And they say childbirth is rough.

It was the same thing when I had the hernia repaired on the other side of my groin three years ago. But like childbirth, I don't remember it being so painful. Or afterwards being so swollen and bruised and feeling like a hot dagger in my gut whenever I have to stand up or sit down. This time round, I got so excited about a few days off work that I guess I forgot that there was a negative side to the whole thing.

The Lesson to be learned here - Never grow old, my friends. Because once you hit 50, it's just a never-ending array of shit.

Until I turned the Big 5-OH, a few years ago, I thought I was immortal. Then, shortly after reaching the half-a-century mark, I realized that my shelf-life was getting shorter and my expiary date was coming sooner rather than later.

I had my first hernia. Then I found out that my gums were receding. The new kids at work didn't get my references to 'Mr. Ed.' That kind of thing.

Even though it is now May, I'm in the September of my years (feel free to sing along,) but I remember what it's like to be in the Springtime of my life. Back then, when I gave any thought to getting old, I wasn't concerned about Retirement Savings Plans or inventing a car that runs on guilt. All I worried about was male-pattern baldness. Well, at least THAT hasn't happened yet.


NATIONS - I was going to write something about the 60th anniversary of Israel becoming an independent state. But even though most of my friends are of the Hebrew faith, I don't feel like it. See you around, huh?

News Digest for the Week that Was

LOCAL POLITICIAN REFERENCES CLASSIC-ROCK SINGER IN ATTEMPT TO UP HIS STREET CRED.

London Board of Control member Bud Polhill mentioned John Fogarty, formerly of the 1970s classic rock group Creedence Clearwater Revival on Monday in a pathetic attempt to raise his 'cool factor' with young voters.

When speaking of his opposition to a proposed feasability study for the long-proposed Performing Arts Centre, the middle-aged balding city-council member said that he is just as happy seeing John Fogarty in the already existing RBC Theatre which is located inside our downtown hockey arena.

The rags-to-riches politico who owns his own auto-body shop continued in raising his street cred by saying that he was perfectly content getting funky at our already existing concert venue Centennial Hall once a month when he attends Orc London's popular 'Jeans & Classics' night.

Polhill ("Please, call me 'Bud',) cemented his commonality with the common man by refering to Motor City mainman, Bob Seger. "No, I will not waffle or flip-flop this time in my opposition to a new Performing Arts Centre. Let me make this very clear - on this issue, I am like Bob Seger in that GM truck commercial, I am Like a Rock."

Polhill ended his press conference by assuming a Yoga position, closing his eyes and repeating his mantra over and over again - "John Cougar Mellencamp,John Cougar Mellencamp."



HELLS ANGELS PISSED OFF AS ALL HELL OVER FORMER BIKER CHICK DATING POLITICIAN.

In a press statement, motorcycle enthusiasts, The Hells Angels* (TM)say that they are "miffed and vexed" at news reports that one of their former ol' ladies is currently dating a Cabinat minister in the Federal Government of Canada.

"Let's just say that we are very, very disappointed in that broad, 'What'sHerName' said One-Eye Joe, spokesman for the group of leather-clad businessmen.

"Doesn't she have any standards? Doesn't she know what scuzzy corrupt criminal slimeballs all politicians are? Geez, where's she been all her life?!?"

"With the exception of Mel Lastman, even we won't have anything to do with them. Good ol' Mel, he's just like us - the last of the Bad Boys. And even HE won't have anything to do with them anymore.

"Think about it, name me one politician other than Mel that you'd like to have a beer or go to a rumble with. Is there even one? Nope. There's NOOOOOOO-BUDDY."


BOY JUMPS OFF AMBASSADOR BRIDGE BECAUSE ALL HIS FRIENDS WERE DOING IT.

Parents are very upset with him and have taken away his allowance for the next two weeks. Boy promises never to do it again.



BRENDA MARTIN RETURNS TO MEXICO

Canadian ex-patriate Brenda Martin, recently released from her hell-hole of a Mexican jail where she was serving time on charges of not bribing the local judicial system has reportedly returned to Mexico on an all-expenses-paid "opportunity" to check out a new time-share condo in Acapulco.

Martin says it was the "no hard-sell/no obligations" promise made by the travel company that cinched the deal for her.




TIM-BIT BUMPS THAMES RIVER OFF FRONT PAGE OF LONDON FREE PRESS.

The firing of a Tim Horton's Donut Shop employee for giving a free piece of a donut to a baby caused unexpected mayhem in the newsroom of the London Free Press when editors were divided over running a picture of the single mother on the front page or go with another pretty colour photograph of the Thames River.

Editor-in-Chief Margaret Atwood Junior won the day by insisting on the rest of "youse guys" letting him make a decision for a change.

In an editorial explaining his decision, Atwood Junior said he did so "Because as a city, and a Creative City too, I might add, 'Tim Hortons' defines us."

London Blogger Turns His Back on the Thames

Mavis and I went for a little car-ride through our old neighbourhood last Saturday morning on our way to buy ridiculously over-priced produce at Sunripe Groceries over on the East Side. We toured the Kipps Lane area where we spent the first three years of our marriage about thirty years or so ago.

Some things remain the same. The fish&chips place in the plaza at the end of our street. Our old apartment building on Arbour Glen Cres. is still standing along with its twin. The space-age era canopy over-top the entrance is gone but the building is still covered in those tiles that looked like the coating on Frosted Pop-Tarts.

And, the view remains the same. That view was the best thing about living in that high-rise building. From our eighth floor balcony we faced the big lawn out front and the communal swimming pool. To the left were a group of townhouses in which every individual unit was outwardly different from the others.

But best of all was that the view to the north beyond the parking lot was nothing but wild field, the woods and trails that lined the banks of the Thames River which meandered along as only the London version of the Thames can meander.

The trails that follow the river was where we'd often go walking. In the summer, once the hot weather arrived we'd actually hook up with friends and cool off in the Thames. Our swimmin' spot was sufficiently far enough away from the Greenway Sewage plant that city officials assured us that we need not worry about getting ill from downsteam pollution.

Well, they may or may not have known what they were talking about. But the truth was, that three decades ago, the most dangerous thing about visiting the river beyond Kipps Lane was the chance of losing your manhood to a snapping turtle while you were swimming. Or drowning in one of the whirlpools.

You could walk those trails without worry. And this past Saturday, Mavis and I both thought it might be nice to go back some time and do it again.

Then we heard about how the very next day, a father, fishing with his young daughter and one of her friends were threatened by a gang of young punks carrying sticks and golf-clubs. And that one of them pulled a gun on them. The father was later beaten up in the parking lot of one of the slums as they left.

So much for our plans of a nice romantic walk along the banks of our old swimmin' spot.

I had heard reports for years about how the walking trails were not safe due to the marauding local gangs. But there used to be a code - even amoung young punks - you don't harrass someone who is with their kids. You don't pull a gun on children. Oh, sure, it may happen in the comic books and that's why little Bruce Wayne became The Batman, but it didn't happen in real life. Not in London, Ontario anyway.

... there are other scary stretches of the river that you won't read about in the current 'Glorifying La Trench' series in the London Free Press.

Last summer, every day I rode the bike paths along the river from my street at the forks of the Thames to Adelaide street. On the stretch between Ridout and Richmond and then between Richmond and Wellington was where you felt the most vulnerable, populated as it was by the ne'er-do-wells and motley crue of crackheads who were just released for the day from the Salvation Army's Centre of Dope. They roamed that stretch of the river in packs - bombed and shouting out at anyone around and all you could do was keep your head down and peddle fast when you came near them. Pretty scary.

Once you hit Wellington you felt safer. Between there and Adelaide the bike path ran through open field (such as where I saw a deer one morning,) and the river paths seem pretty well ignored by the rest of our population, both riff-raff and well-to-do.

But on the other side - the north side of the river, just to the west and in back of the old Victoria Hospital is a stretch of riverbank that is pure hillbilly country. We're talking 'Deliverance' territory here. As soon as you venture down those trails, the radar kicks in and the hair on the back of your neck goes up immediately. Do not go there. I repeat, DO NOT GO THERE!

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not blaming the actual Thames for this increase in crime. I'm not of the opinion that a river should be judged by the company it keeps. But, put it this way - there are now certain parts of the Thames that I will not venture near without a gun.

Thankfully, the above-mentioned places are just a couple of the rotten apples who ruin it for the rest of the bunch. I walk over the Thames every day. I walk along its banks every morning. In the winter-time when the temps are sub-sub-zero and I am feeling immortal, I will even walk on it. And that's just in my own neighbourhood.

So far no gangs have infiltrated the fields and woods along the Thames beyond Wharncliffe which is my favorite part of London. Despite it's closeness to downtown London and the railway which runs along the top of the river-bank across the way, even the tramps and hobos have not made it there own.

It's a big patch of country in the city. And all within a 15-minute walk from downtown. When you are in the heart of it, you can't even see downtown and the only sign of civilization are the occassional train that runs by across the river. Once in a while on those same tracks you will see the kind of sight that inspired Neil Young to write, "See the lonely boy/Out on the weekend/ Trying to make it pay./Can't relate to joy/He tries to speak and/Can't begin to say."

Even the locals seem to ignore it. You go for a walk in the realm beyond Cavendish and all you will find are the occassional father and child out playing 'Davy Crockett' and neighbourhood people walking their dogs. Unleashed, of course. Curse them for making the area unsafe for me to walk my own dog there.

It was 'Pops' who introduced me to The Spot some thirty-five years or so ago. The Spot (referred to in some circles as 'The Gilligans Island Lagoon,) is a post-card looking crest of riverbank just across the crick and round the corner from the giant Ant-hill. Underneath a stately Oak (or Poplar or Maple or something,) there is a giant slab of rock on the riverbank where the Indian squaws (part of the Neutal tribe, of course,) who lived in that area used to do their laundry, slapping it onto the rock so hard and for so many centuries that it has been worn down into a nice lawn chair. A little hard perhaps but along with a sister rock (which some teenage punks had pushed into the river about 20 years ago,) made The Spot, the perfect location for a two-man party. The ideal place for a bottle of wine, half a deck of smokes and a KFC snack-pack.

We were fishin' the first time we went there. Actually, it was Pops who was fishing and I was watching and doing the play-by-play commentary. Afterwards we left and joined up with friends at the nearby Shitty-View Restaurant, and when asked about the fishing, Pops pipes up, "Well, I caught a carp. And Sonny caught a buzz."

Oh, that Pops! What a card!