This Week's Catch-Phrase

As summer winds down and we put away the charcoal, drain the cooler of ice and get back into the old routine of school and the ol' nine-to-five drag, it's time for a new more appropriate catch-phrase to replace the summer catch-phrase of
"Fine! See if I care!"

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you - "FINE! BE that way then!"

Do not disabuse it. Use it in good health.

"In Beautiful Downtown London."

The above is from a card I bought recently at 'Colour by Schubert,' the photo-refinishing place on King Street across the road from the New Market in Beautiful Downtown London. I'm guessing it's from a photo taken by the nice fellow who owns/works in the shop. Possibly named 'Schubert.'

It's a great little place and I go there for most of my photo work that I don't want to trust to the teenagers running the machines at Loblaws. Sure, it's a bit more money, but if you want a good job done - and not have to worry about your photos being lost - believe me, it's worth an extra buck or two.

As you can see above, they also have a great selection of cards of various heritage sites as well as reproductions of original post-cards of London in her glory days.

In the photo, you can see that the owners are in the midst of some renovation work, just completed a year or two ago. Before long, the outside woodwork would be gone (replaced by stucco,) as well as the buildings brightest feature - the sign proudly proclaiming "Located in Beautiful Downtown London." Now, that's just priceless, any comment would just be superfluous.

Only in Hicksville, Ohio would we cover up a pioneer-era - 1855 - building with stucco and take down a sign which was its most endearing outside feature, whilst ignoring the crumbling foundation. Some previous idiot-owner took down a wall-length photo wall-mural of the Toronto airport. Just what the connection was between the Toronto airport and the Hotel Brunswick is a question for minds greater than ours - but that was another of its charms.

I highly recommend a visit to the photographer's shop to pick up a card of your own.


The address again - Colour By Schubert; 121 King St. - in beautiful downtown London.

It's right around the corner from the old Brunswick Tavern - or 'The Bruns.'

Regrettably, it is now referred to as 'The Wick' as it has been for the past three decades, ever since becoming popular with the young people who are fans of what one local architectural expert has recently referred to as "grunge music."

Other than being a nice quiet place to start out a weekend night, I've seldom gone to the Brunswick as a 'destination' place. There have been exceptions - the last time was about a year ago to see local boys, 'Osterberg' doing their tribute to Jimmy O and cowboys everywhere - and being really surprised by a band of middleaged Toronto businessmen in suits and mop-tops called 'Parkdale Hookers' who played tight '60s Mod music, the kind you might hear at the graduation dance in 'To Sir With Love.' Simply smashing. Simply elegant.

But since it's on the way home from Call the Office and within staggering distance of my pad, on my annual Night Out on the Town, I've occassionally popped in - if the band sounds any good. And you can tell if they sound good from about a block away down York Street because on a hot summer night, it gets so hot in there that they keep the doors open - and since the 'stage' backs onto the corner-door which opens onto York Street, it's quite possible to stick your head in from the sidewalk and yell out an appreciative "GO, MAN, GO!"

Musicians really appreciate that kind of direct feedback. Almost as much as the sight of people dancing in front of them.

I recall about two years ago walking a straight line home from The Office one night on one of my annual Nights Out on the Town, after a disappointing evening of a band supposedly worthy of the hefty cover-charge (heck, it was probably at least ten bucks,) and walking by the Brunswick and liking what I heard.

Still having less than $5 left in my wallet, after peering in that front corner door, I went in for a closer look and a chance to groove and it was about the best five bucks I ever spent. Not only was there a trio of guys in lumber-jack shirts, basically just jammin' while playing riffs of Neil Young in his Crazy Horse periods - but there was also pickled eggs for sale!

I ask you - just where on Richmond Row are you going to find pickled eggs for sale? Or Neil Jung or lumber-jack shirts for that matter?

So, I kinda like the place.

And considering the alternative - yet another unpaved parking lot downtown, I'd like to see it still there, stucco and broken third-floor windows and all.

Because it's the same as most of us. Working men - and career chicks. Apparently it was originally thrown up because of the railroad coming through and even 150 years later, as the closest place across from the Bus Station, it has maintained a certain appeal for travellors about to depart or just passin' through - last call before hitting the road.

Possibly the best thing you can say about the place is the fact that it is non-judgemental. As far as bands go, they would apparently book ANYONE. If you could guarantee a crowd of your thirsty friends and family and people getting off the 11:13 from Brantford, and if you didn't play any P-Diddy, you could likely get a chance at the Bruns. Know what I sayin'?

Anyone could feel at home there. During the 1980s and early '90s, on a Saturday afternoon after doing your grocery shopping at 'Dominion' or furniture shopping at 'Jensens on King,' or getting a new key made at Home Hardware up on the Main Drag, if you happened to drop in to the Bruns for a quick beer, you would likely find local rock legends Steven R. Stunning or Jamie Baconhead heavily involved in the weekly cribbage match with old ladies with names like 'Edna' and 'Mavis' - or middleaged hustlers with names like 'Ernie' and 'Swifty,' who worked the Brunswick and also the Legion cribbage/Crazy-8's circuit.

Of course, that was the days before this city decided to ban smoking from all indoor places. Edna and her friends didn't come round much anymore. Still smokin' I assume -but sadly, they just weren't 'patio' people.

As for the architectural value, well, let's be honest. There's absolutely nothing remarkable or noteworthy about it.

BUT, as my colleague Butch McClarty has pointed out, even though it was thrown together in a matter of weeks, in a 'Deadwood' saloon kind of way, surprisingly enough, it's still here and hence, is one of our few examples of a Pioneer building.

Shit, just think of it - Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone or Pierre Radisson could have drank at The Brunswick! Even our first Prime Minister John Eh may have hoisted a few at the 'Bruns.' Wild Bill Hickok could have drank and played cards here!

Things don't change toooo much over the years so I'm sure that (until the latest round of renovations,) on a weekend night, they have always had The Absolute WORSE male washroom I've ever come across - did you ever slide on feces before because the one toilet is overflowing? Yeah, just try to act cool while sidling up to the bar after something like that.

... but here is my first memory of Hotel Brunswick, and it explains why I have a soft spot in my heart and my brain for the place and the people who have worked there.

True story - it's 1975, my family has just moved here from Windsor. I'm 19 years old. The first time a friend from the ol' home town visits that summer, I give him a tour of our downtown. Still being teenagers we mocked EVERYTHING - even though in the interim his parents have moved to fukkin' DRESDEN, (Ontario, on the ass-side of Chatham.)

The sign outside The Brunswick - 'Located in Beautiful Downtown London,' was particularly worthy of snickers - and remember, this is before Letterman introduced The Age of Irony.

So - how perfect it was that I soon became grateful for the people that worked there.

It was a little after noon. It was summer, it was hot and it was London and I had just spent an hour smoking cigarettes in my friend's supposedly air-conditioned 1965Mercedes.

Truth be told, these days, I enjoy an occassional cigarette (if alcohol is involved,) but on this occassion, there was no alcohol. Just my excuse for 'peer-group pressure.' At the time, I was unused to tobacco. Or perhaps it was the blend of the leaves.

And if you have ever been in such a situation where the words 'nausea' 'dizzy-spell,' "I gotta go lay down somewhere," or "does anyone have an ice-pack?" mean something, you will know how I was feeling.

The first door open is into The Brunwick. I go in looking for a washroom. Nausea is quickly setting in. And since it's High-Noon, I'm blinded just walking into the place, because they don't seem to have any lights. Luckily, since the place just opened minutes ago, there's not much of a lunch crowd, if fact, I seemed to be the first guest - when a middle-aged waitress approaches - and that's when I pass out and fall to the floor.

When I come to seconds or half a minute later, the only two people in there are hovering over me asking if I'm Okay.

Well, of course I was, but more embarrassed than anything.

And that's what has always endeared me to the place - the fact that when it happened, The Young People weren't even a reality for The Brunswick - it was still a 'Gents Only/Lady & Escorts' kinda place.

But these two employees (I'm guessing that one of them might even have been 'Woody' the fabled 'Wick bartender,) came rushing over, and thinking I might be some young kid off the Greyhound from across the street - some Western University-bound grad who looked capable of discovering the Cure to Cancer or if I was just some kinda homeless street-kid passin' thru - for them it didn't matter where me or my bank-account lived.

After checking my vital signs, they offered me a FREE hamburger AND a FREE Ginger Ale - or comparable soda-pop. On the house. Or out of their own pocket.

THEY DIDN'T HAVE TO DO THAT.

They could have just as easily called the cops. Or thrown me out onto the sidewalk out front.

But they didn't.

And in return, they gained someone who appreciates the power and beauty of good manners, common courtesy, showing a concern - and a speculative fascination for how 'Located in Beautiful Downtown London' might look in NEON.

*** that address again - Colour By Schubert' - 121 King Street, London. 519-438-1339

www.colourbyschubert.com

blond on blonde

Got paid this week and went on a CD-buying spree. Picked up two of them. The first - these kids pictured on the top of this post are 'Duke Spirit' an "Indie" band from Engalund that I saw recently on one of the late-night talk shows. The blonde girl lead-singer is Liela Moss. She bangs a mean tamborine and does some very spirited dancing. I can hardly wait to see them when they inevitably play the Rivoli during the next North-by-Northwest music week.

You can find a video of them on the YouTube. I highly recommend the hit, entitled 'The Step and the Walk.' There's both a professionally done video and an acoustic version of the song filmed in someone's living room - which surprisingly builds into something just as powerful as the other one. Like I said, this chick knows her way around a tamborine.

'The Step and the Walk' is easily their best song. Think of The Cult in their 'She Sells Sanctuary' days, but with Debbie Harry instead of Morrison doing the lead vocals. Like all the 'new' music I listen to that's being produced by the young people these days, the main reason I like it is because it's so retro-sounding. Not only to the Cult (who were retro themselves,) but to Blondie circa their first LP, the one with 'Sex Offender' on it - easily their best song, and ironically the one you never heard on the radio. And of course at the time, 1976, Blondie appealed to me because of its retro sound of all those girl bands from a decade earlier.

... now, as for the second blonde up there, that's Jennifer Nettles from 'Sugarland.' At work I am forced to watch Country Music Televison every morning from six a.m. until I leave two hours later. If you happen to watch CMT, or occassionally land on it whilst flipping the channels, you will undoubtably know Sugarland from the continuous airplay of their current hit, the annoying/but not so annoying that I bought it anyway "All I Want to Do." Now that I think of it, I did the same thing a year ago when I bought a Gwen Stephanie CD just for 'The Sweet Escape' - it's a song similarly infectiously annoying as 'All I Want to Do' only with a 'Whoo-hoo' instead of a 'Do-ooo-oou-ooo-oo-oo' chorus. And after playing the shit out of it the first week, it has sat untouched and unplayed for almost a year. We never learn do we?

I'll admit it right now. It was Lust that made me buy 'Sugarland.' And when a DVD collection of the band's hits come out, it will be Lust that makes me buy that too.

C'mon, take a look at her. Seek out the video on the YouTube. And then try to tell me that she's not the cutest thing in the world. And I mean even cuter than Shania.

This isn't the first time I've bought music simply because of music-video induced infatuation. But the last time it happened was when I bought a Joan Jett record all because of 'I Love Rock and Roll.' I was surprised, because I was no stranger to Joan Jett. I owned The Runaways LP the year it came out which was at least a decade or 15 years earlier. Who would have thought anyone from that band would have gone on to better things. Let alone coming to London thirty years later?

So I was right on the money with The Runaways. And I predict similar moderate success for The Duke Spirit and Liela Moss. As for Sugarland, my guess is that the next single will be the serious balland 'Joey' followed by the more fun 'It Happens.'

As for the rest of the New Country blondes, what's all the big fuss about newcomer/crossover artist Jessica Simpson going country and being booed off the stage? I'd swear - every third video on CMT is yet another blonde Barbie doing some lame-ass piece of shit that belongs on EZ-106.

Except for Miranda Lambert. I like her. She don't kick butt, she kicks ass.

Gone Fishin'

Called in sick this morning.

Before I was even dressed. I sat there on the side of the bed, and stared dcwn at the black socks I had just pulled on. I sleep in my socks so I make a point of changing them every morning.

And with the kind of sigh a dog makes, I looked over at my boxers, sleeveless baby-blue undershirt, baby-blue collared shirt, pinstriped pants & suitcoat, and while contemplating just what necktie would tie the whole ensemble together, I realized that I just couldn't do it today.

Yesterday, one of our long-time clients came into the agency. Milt Mortman of Mortman's Maintenance. We'd been creating radio spots for him for years. Probably long before I hired on and sold my soul.

And he wants us to come up with a jingle. Not a new jingle. Just a jingle. His ads have never had a jingle before but he wants one now. To go along with the comedy bits we usually do. Seems Milt's big competitor, Crazy Manny's Maintenance and Dry-Wall have started advertising on another radio station in town. And *they* have a jingle.

"C'mon, am I asking too friggin' much here?" Milt asks. And although all of us in the room inwardly nod the affirmative, none of us say so.

"Geez, how hard can it be?" he continues when all he gets is blank looks. "All you have to do is throw in a few 'shoo-bops' if you can't think of anything else. For what I pay you Westervelt geniuses it shouldn't be any trouble.

"The point is ... Uncle Milton WANTS a jingle. And he ain't leaving till he gets one."

... And as I sat there this morning, still undressed except for the socks, I knew that I couldn't go in there and do it all over again today.

So I called in sick. In the nude. And while in the mood, got in the car and headed down to Sunny Glades, the nudist camp outside of Blenheim. And spent the whole day chillin'.

Swimming, volleyball, playing canasta. Not thinking even once about the advertising game.

And wearing nothing but my black socks the entire day. I realize it's not a good look, but I've always felt self-conscious about my feet. Sometimes modesty becomes me.

I Don't Care if Your Name is Brett Favre - Get Your Ass off my Porch

Real-estate agents in the Lenelau Peninsula have recently reported a

There's Hope for Us Yet!

Dog-walk about 7:00 this morning. When approaching the river forks, we heard the unmistakeable sounds of hot-air balloons being filled up.

But this can't be - this is the first Civic Holiday weekend since London cancelled its annual Balloon Fest.

Yet, as we got closer, there it was - three hot-air balloons being inflated and going up within seconds of each other.

I don't mind giving a plug - they were all from ReMax - the real-estate people showing that it is possible to be good Corporate citizens.

I don't know if they didn't get the memo about City Hall cancelling the Balloon Fest this year or if they simply thought - "WhattheFuk? Let's do it anyway!"

Or maybe they were just Rogue Balloons.

Anyway, kudoes to them.

You know, before it turned into just another crappy fast-food/crafts festival, the Balloon Fest was one of the only summer festivals to have an authentic charm to it.

Why it couldn't turn a profit and why City Hall didn't subsidize it better is a question for minds greater than mine. But to let such a thing slip out of our fingers is something that could only happen here in Hicksville, Ohio.

Word on the street has it that the Home County Folk Festival will be the next one to go. I haven't attended in two decades. And will probably wait another two before trying again.

My worst suspicions were confirmed last week when I heard an advance promo interview on the radio for this years' edition in downtown's Victoria Park. They had doubled the number of arts&crap booths from last year.

And the person responsible for the bookings (who also happens to own a Richmond Row Arts and Crap store right across the street from the park,) actually said, "Oh, it's not so much a folk festival anymore as it is an Arts Festival."

Now, that's been true for years - but this was the first time I ever heard anyone in authority not only publicly admit it, but BRAG about it!

Of course for me, any summer festival is all about the music. Even the limited bit that you might happen to hear of it at Home County.

And maybe after it does get cancelled, some rougue folkies will show up the following year at Victoria Park and put on a show anyway.

In the meantime, to quote David Whatsizname from Cracker - "What the world needs now - is a new folk-singer/Like I need a hole in my head."

Finally, Caucasian Fest is Here!

London is a festive place to be in the summer. Every weekend we have a different festval featuring the music and cuisine of different parts of the world. It all kicks off in July with Sun Fest in Victoria Park, featuring the world beat of music from around the equator. The next week it's Afro-Fest outside the Downtown Market, followed by Greek Fest, India Fest, Portuguese Fest, Festival Dubai and later this month, Fiesta Tierra del Fuego.

I enjoy the dancers and the colourful costumes and especially sampling the yummy delicacies of that weekend's ethnic cuisine.

But for me, with any festival, it's all about the music.

And that's what I hate about these ethnic festivals. They always play the music of their homeland. Well, it seems to me that if you are going to come to a country like Canada, shouldn't you at least have the courtesy to sing and perform OUR native songs? Hey, you're in CANADA. How about playing Canadian music? I mean, would it really kill them to perform Classic Rock and do covers of Stompin' Tom Connors?

That's why I am kinda happy that this weekend, just like every Civic Holiday weekend for the past two decades, Victoria Park is devoted to Caucasian Fest.

Some people call it Rib Fest. Others don't like the fact that only barbeque is served but for them, there's a McDonalds two blocks away at the corner of Richmond and Dundas.

I know that historically, ribs are thought of being a favoured meal of Afro-Americans, a hold-over from the slave days. Indeed, in her Civil War era novel, 'Gone With the Wind,' Margaret Mitchell writes of Scarlett O'Hara attending a Barbeque along with the rest of the Southern aristocracy at the home of Ashley Wilkes. In true high-society fashion, they have a Pig Roast. The rich whites dine on the dried out portions of the hog and this being a party after all, send the remainders out back to the black slaves who actually did all the cooking, carving and serving of the meal. What they gave the slaves were the parts of the pig they themselves would not eat. Interestingly enough, it was the most tender. moist and tastiest of the entire pig - the ribs and ham hocks. Ain't that just like a whitey, to give away the best part?

But these days, as prices at grocery stores can attest, demand for baby-back ribs in the summertime by Caucasian males with propane-fuelled outdoor kitchen ranges, demonstrates how white society has again appropriated another aspect of Black African culture. First we stole their sons and daughters, then their music and now their favorite foods.

We should be ashamed of ourselves. And often I feel that way. But I do like ribs - although I refuse to pay twenty bucks for a couple of bones at Rib-Fest. There ain't enough meat on those things to fill a rat. I can buy two boxes of those boneless Ribette things from M&M for that much.

No, like I said earlier, for me a festival is all about the music and I attend Caucasian Fest simply for the aural delights. This part of the festival is held at the other side of the park where they hold the 'Easy Listening Festival.' In recent years, in a bid to update their image to get more young people down, they've hipped the name to the 'EeeZee Lis'nn Fest.'

So far the anticipated hordes of young people haven't arrived. That's fine with me. The Fest still remains true to its roots. It's still a place where you can BYOB and a lawn chair and spend an afternoon listening to performers like James Taylor and Belinda Carlyle. It's just like being at Martha's Vineyard.

And that's how it should be. The last thing this Festival needs is a re-inventing. Mind you, I'm not some caveman afraid of change. If they were to book in Sugarland or Michael Buble, I could get down with that. As long as the music is good and relaxing and you can read a book to it, it's all E-Zee to me.