Sonny Drysdale Presents

Riverside Revisited - Chapter 4, Getting Primed for Yaybars

2012-01-14T03:11:00.001-08:00

At six o'clock that Friday night, after I'd had my nap, supper, a shower and brushed my teeth, I was feeling refreshed. The air outside was still hot and humid but a soft warm breeze made walking on the shadeless streets bearable. I walked around the corner to Coates' street, up to his house and off we went down Belleperche on our way to the liquor store at the K-Mart plaza.

The spring thaw had been over weeks ago and so we cut through Schiller's Bush, what had once been our earlier childhood magic playground, a deep and mysterious forest from pre-pubescent summers spent furrowing deeper into the woods and discovering the furtive pleasures of cigarettes, matches, bonfires, Playboy magazines and tree-forts. On nights like this, the bush would be alive and fresh - still muddy in spots, Polliwog Pond still full of water and the sound of young frogs around it, no mosquitos out yet and only the sound of birds and scared rabbits running as you walked along the wagon trail, stepping around puddles, pushing branches out of your way and listening all the while, never knowing what was behind the bush, feeling a little apprehensive remembering those old stories of bums that lived in Schiller's Bush and lived on lost little kids and then finally reaching the open fields that lay before the railroad tracks and your nerves would begin to settle down as if a great danger had been passed and in the next moment your heart lept into your throat as a pheasant would take off into the air from the knee-high weeds three feet in front of you, startling the whole forest into silence and scaring the shit out of you.

We would walk along the tracks, breaking the monotony of the lack of passing trains by walking balanced on the rails for half a mile, walk over a few planks that made a bridge over the ditch which ran along the tracks, climb K-Mart Hill, cross the back parking lot and go buy two bottles of 'Rat' our favorite sherry - a dollar eighty-five a bottle, 19 per-cent alcohol. Minutes later we would be on the back side of K-mart Hill, hidden from the plaza and parking lot, looking down the tracks at the Detroit skyline, looking straight ahead at the fields and bush we had just crossed and looking down at the screw-on bottle caps that lay dropped at our feet, clink bottles together in a toast and then look into the bottom of those bottles tilted to our mouths and see in the distorted reflections of the scene around us, the promise of things to come.

"So, Howie. Have you figured out what this book of yours is going to be about yet?"

"I don't know. Harlequin Romance seems to sell pretty well." This cheap shot gets a chuckle out of both of us and I continue, "Seriously. My mother reads them all the time. I don't think it would be that hard to write one."

"Well, what if you're just going to write by formula, why don't you imitate Harold Robbins? They sell a lot more than Harlequin Romance and are probably easier to write."

"Can't. Too much sex. First rule about writing? Write about what you know. I'd better stick with the heartache and traumas of wealthy virgins for the time being."

"Speaking of the rich," says Coates. "I was with Terry at this party in Detroit last weekend and there was this chick from France who says she's a model and wants to stay in the States and so she's thinking of getting a marriage of convenience just to be able to stay there."

"Well, that lets you out. Wes, you're Canadian!"

Coates gets a kick out of this. "Yeah, but I didn't tell her that. No, I'm serious. If I'm going to live in California, I have to become an American citizen and marrying one might just be the way to do it."

"I knew you'd give up on that idea about joining the Marines."

"Yeah, this is less painful and has better benefits."

"Sure, and if you play your cards right and find a rich babe willing to marry you, you can file for divorce and get paid alimony."

"That's what I'm banking on, Howie."

Our conversations on The Hill always went like that. For the most part, the talk circled around the future - images of money and less boring places to call home and images and fragments of dreams. With Coates and I, escape was a tangible reality. Something we had in common and seemingly shared with no one else. I was moving north; he to California. Other people always complained of living in Windsor. I think it was an expected civic duty, like taking out your garbage. But for many Windsorites, their talk was as flatulent as the city's nickname, 'The City of Roses' when considered in the context of the expression 'to drop a rose.'

For Coates, escape was forthcoming. With each pay-cheque, two-thirds went into a special bank account. This was his California account. He had already asked for an indefinite leave of absence from his job and had paid for and booked a one-way flight to Los Angeles on September 21st, a day deliberately chosen because it was the last day of summer. Supposedly it's always summer in California. I was escaping to a less exotic locale and the only conceptions of London I had which endeared it to me was that someone had once described it to me as 'quaint.'

Coates that evening looked resplendent. Seemingly having just stepped out of a travel brochure for southern California, he was a beautiful sight to behold after a hungover hot afternoon. He was dressed in light colours. A pair of tan suede brogues worn without socks, white pants and white linen shirt, a soft brown belt. On his head he wore cheap bright yellow plastic sunglasses he had bought on a whim and had set him back fifty cents at Bill's Confectionary. This was topped by a light brown derby, a nice touch and a hat I admired with envy even though I knew it would only get him into trouble at Yaybars. This elegant ensemble was compromised by an old, much loved beige windbreaker whose sleeves had been cut off at the elbows with a pair of dull scissors.

With his deep tan, blond hairs climbing out the top of his open-collared shirt, his lean strong build, sharp facial features - all this crowned by mane of golden curls, he looked like the son of Apollo, appropriately the Greek ideal of male perfection and upon meeting him outside his house set against the grimy drabness of that suburban asphalt driveway, I looked at this young Adonis, blinded and stunned by his radiant beauty and called him 'Sunshine.' It is thus, I always like to remember Coates.

I myself was dressed also in West Coast fashion, only mine was a style found north of San Francisco. Dressed in Levis (it was the mandatory dress code at Riverside High - if you were new to school and showed up in Wranglers, it would only happen once,) black&white P.F. Flyers (far too hot for work-boots,) a Neil Young flannel shirt and long, straggly hair, I was the epitomy of the 'California laid-back' look.

After finishing our wine sometime after sundown, hitching a ride up to the river, we made an unlikely couple entering through the back door of Yaybars.

... Next Installment - Yahoos at Yaybars.

Riverside Revisited - Chapter 3, The Last Day of School

2012-01-14T01:54:00.000-08:00

The last day of school was unusually hot and humid for that time of year. Appropriate weather for those beginning a summer vacation. But for me and the rest of my class, it was the end of school and the beginning of life, and so I was more in the mood for a nice warm spring day with fresh breezes stirring the air with the fragrance of dandelions and budding leaves.

School that last day began as a celebration and ended as many parties do, having dragged on much longer than the fun has lasted, a sense of relief that it is over, tired and quickly said goodbyes, the last guests bored and lingering, unable to leave.

As was the tradition with students who were finished school on a permanent basis, long and lanquid liquid lunches in local lounges were pretty well the norm. But myself and a few others began that much earlier. On that morning, I found myself sitting in my pajamas by my bedroom window an hour earlier than usual having breakfast in my room: it consisting of half a brick of Colby cheese, an orange and a bottle of cheap sherry - Baccarat, reknowned for its high alcohol content and reputation for getting you high or sick very quickly.

Getting high or drunk became almost commonplace that last semester of school. A joint was usually shared on the walk to school in the morning. Fridays became Freak Day. As for mid-day boozing, that precedent had been set in April when Steve Matlock and Del Morris spent the morning in a cornfield with half a case of beer. I ran into them after class that day bombed out of their minds and chatting up Bob Driscoll's mom in her driveway as they waited for Bob to get home.

The sun had already been up a couple of hours and I looked out upon our backyard covered in long shadows and a shimmering jeweled blanket of sun-sparkled dew. The morning was quiet. No cars, no kids on their way to school, but alive as only nature can be before Man makes his first appearance heralding the beginning of a new day with the noise of eight cylinders and a faulty muffler, drowning out the songs of starlings and sparrows and telling crickets it's time for bed. I sat there listening to the early hour sounds, feeling as alive as the morning around me, chilled by the cool morning air working its way into my pajamas, feeling more delight with the quiet beauty I was watching and feeling apart of with each tilt of that wretched tasting liquid to my mouth.

With the arrival of garbage trucks and milkmen, my neighbours began their day, going to their cars and pointing them in the direction of their awaiting pay-cheques. For me, it was time for school.

The morning went by quickly. Classes consisted simply of finding out whether or not you were exempted from having to write the final exam. Unless you wanted to stick around for the review, it was only a matter of putting in a brief appearence and then a trip out to he smoking area which was then giving off an overpowering aura of high spirits.

For the most part, that was the routine. The one bright spot was watching people get sick. I was not the only one who had spent the post-dawn hours imbibing and there were many stomachs which would not stand for this early morning poisoning.

In homeroom, where we sat as heads were counted before nine o'clock, the general air of excited yapping was abruptly interrupted when Mickey Watkins suddenly leapt into the aisle with a speed surprising for one of such girth.

"A little edgy about the exams?" asked Mr. Columbo, our history teacher, in a sarcastic voice that betrayed a sense of being both startled and outraged. Then, in silence, his eyes followed the turned heads of everyone as we watched the kid behind that now empty seat wretching out his early morning digestion of cornflakes and vodka-laced bile, all the while smiling apologetically and then nonchalently making a quick exit as Mr. Columbo then addressed a more sarcasm tinged inquiry about anxiety at his fleeing backside. He ended up spending the morning wiped out behind a fence along he perimeter of the school yard. As I said, that was the highlight of the day. All the more so because being bombed yourself in such similar circumstances you feel a strange mixture of comradeship and contempt.

At noon, the closest dining-room style restaurant was taken over by all the envious students who did not have the foresight to start drinking before the school day had begun. By noon, I was feeling appalingly sober and an hour in Riverside Tavern was just the little pick-me-up I needed, and so in search of refreshment, along with Mugs and the Bunhead, I trundled off to an early happy hour.

The rest of the day was downhill. By two-thirty, many people had left for the day, while the rest of us in our last year wandered the halls with the beginnings of hangovers, an awful thing to experience without the cushion of sleep. I ended up leaving early to go home, take my body's advice to ignore those rumors of an after-school party at Riverside Tavern, but to instead walk the hot streets to home, eat aspirins, then some food and take a nap. I began my life of freedom as an old man does retirement.

There had been a misconception in the air that day that *that* night at Yaybars would be the last of all Big Nights. For some reason, people thought that with a Grade 12 or 13 diploma in their possession,they would no longer be privy to the same desires and sense of youth. No longer high school students, they now had all the freedom they had been dreaming of the past four or five years. But they traded that freedom from one confinement for a another far more strict routine. Instead of the free spirits they had the potential of becoming, they would become insurance agents, work on the line at Cryslers or Fords, or trade in their high school textbooks for university texts. Their freedom would be forfeited and the few alloted hours of their own time would be governed by worries of quotas to be met, essays to be written, exams to be crammed for and the dead thud of a time-clock being punched. I had no similar concerns and listened to my friends' point-by-point life plans or dreams to simply work on the line in an automotive plant making a guaranteed $250 a week ("that's a grand a month, Howie!")- with detached amusement.

I had no such plans. I was escaping Windsor. And so my choices and possibilities lay beyond getting that B.A. in Sociology at the University of Windsor and inevitably end up selling life insurance to my friends and relatives. My family was moving to London, and due to the lack of options in Windsor, I with them. My plans were to get a summer job and then collect unemployment insurace for as long as possible and at the end of that time I would have a best-seller ready to be published. This I told to no one but Coates. To all others, I simply said that I was going to collect pogey and live off the fat of the land - and then watch the wide range of expressions that would cross their faces as they would ultimately ask, "but what about after that?", to which I would simply shrug and give the envy-inducing smile of the chronically irresponsible.

Next installment - Getting Primed for Yaybars.

Riverside Revisited - Chapter 2, A Typical Friday Night

2011-12-22T10:09:00.000-08:00

The social life at school was unusually bearable near the end of that last year. More than anything, this was due to the fact that soon we would be free and had no illusions about ever seeing each other again. There was not much love in that senior year of Riverside High. However, as the year wound down to the point where there was a point to start counting off the days, a spirit of camaraderie came lumbering out of the rank walls of locker rooms - throwing arms around the shoulders of football players you previously couldn't stand and fixing smiles (if only condescending ones,) onto the faces of all those girls who for the past five years would walk past you and give you the same acknowledgement they would to the locker you were leaning against. It was an atmosphere of superficial impermanence where the underlying sentiment was akin to 'Sure, I'll be nice and pleasent. Why not? In a matter of days, I'll never see you again.'

For me, it was a great relief. Despite its jocular tone and blatantly phoney air of geniality, it was very clear to me that this was the same behaviour I had noticed in all the adult situations I was ever privy to witness. The same condecension, the same excessive politeness that covered a repressed 'fuck you.' In awe I watched my classmates pretend to be grownups and in horror realized that this behavior had been going on since the May 24th weekend up in the Pinery where, not only did they play at being grownups - drinking too much and welcoming like long lost friends the same familiar faces they had ignored only two days earlier in Biology. But more absurd yet, they were playing house - the girls cooking and fetching beers and then later, in tents, holding in their arms the men who could hold no more beer, like brides on their wedding nights.

There was no better place to observe this behavior than at Yaybars which quickly became 'the' place to be on a Friday night. It was an era when the word 'partying' became synomonous with Friday night and increased in popularity at a rate which rendererd the word truly moronic.

Friday nights in Yaybars were conducted with all the empty-headed enthusiasm that went into the fall of Rome. The evening shared a sense of abandonment which seemed straight out of the Roaring Twenties - nothing but mindless, impersonal fun. No one was exempt from ridicule and everyone was everyone else's good friend.

It was at this circus that I would later find myself after leaving The Hill. Sometimes Coates would come along and if it was a good night in Yaybars, he would stay. In the spring of that year, Yaybars was packed as early as seven-thirty and it was the first bar I've ever had to stand in a line-up to get into - something which made it a local phenomenon. And stand we did. But never for long, for there were three other bars within a five-minute walk.

But to the pleasant surprise of its owners, Yaybars was everyone's first choice. With the roll-back of the drinking age to eighteen, business was booming and its success rested solely on the fact that of all the local bars, it was easily the largest. If you tired of the company at one table, you simply moved to another. An amazing number of people would wander around, lean against a wall, be asked to sit down or leave and end up sitting at the end of a half-deserted long row of tables. Girls came in with their boyfriends, spot their girlfriends as pre-arranged and the boys would push tables together so that after a while the table would be the length of the room. Conversation at these tables was almost impossible except for for whoever was sitting on either side of you. But with the mobile population of Yaybars, you were never sitting next to the same person for long anyway. People were always moving - flitting from one chair to the next, one table to another, from the ladies & escorts room to the back room. This was Yaybars most redeeming quality, you never had to spend an entire evening in only one person's company. You could have fifty conversations with fifty different people and they were all bombed enough that it made no difference that hours earlier in school you felt that you each thought "asshole" as you passed in the hall.

Although it never held much appeal to me, I went there because everyone else did. If I wanted to find a few people I liked, that was where they would be. Packed with so many people, you were bound to come across a friendly face or two. Not only that, there were a number of people who until then, you never had the chance to get familiar with. There was such a large number of good-looking Grade 11 or 12 girls there that you were astounded at how they even got to stay up that late, let alone get past the front door of a bar. Part of the reason for the Roaring 20s speakeasy atmosphere could be attributed to the fact that at least half the clientele were underage.

Most of the others had recently turned eighteen and there was a small group of graduates a year or two older who had become regulars. To all the impressionable Grade 11 girls, or for that matter all the girls who had once had hallway crushes on them, these were 'men' compared to us schoolboys who still had to carry books, could not talk of sharing classes with older sisters and and were not yet old enough to wear fading football jackets on off-hours from selling insurance or working on the line at Chryslers.

To give you an idea at what an overnight sensation that bar was, you would even get the odd teacher in there who would be greeted by shouts of their first name and even applause by the same people they were flunking. The whole thing was like a high-school reunion gone wild, only for the majority of people, they had only last seen each other a few hours before. And when I think about it now, it must have been that reunion aspect which appealeld to Coates - although he took a night in Yaybars about as seriously as I did.

... next installment - 'The Last Day of School.'

Riverside Revisited - Chapter 1, The Hill

2011-12-02T11:13:00.000-08:00

A lot of you have written in lately asking me to do another serialization of some story I wrote back in my youth. Hence, Sonny Drysdale presents, 'Riverside Revisited' written almost 30 years ago about 'events' which had happened about seven years before.

This is for the kids in the 'PTBFR' group on The Facebook, of which I am proud to be a member. It involves the last day of Grade 13, a typical night in Abars and is a love story about being young and stupid. There are some clunkers in there (apprently dialogue isn't one of my strengths,) some funny reading - both intentional and otherwise and possibly a few recognizeable situations, characters and locations from back then. But keep in mind, this is 'fiction.' Heck, I didn't even go to Grade 13 at Riverside High.

It's either the first or second short story I ever finished and as such it shows the influence of my then two favorite literary influences - Jack Kerouac and Holden Caulfield. It's also about bittersweet nostalgia and with no apologies it owes a lot to my favorite TV show of the era in which when it was written, 'Brideshead Revisited.' As you sit down and read the first few paragraphs, open a window by your favorite reading chair, light a cigarette (even if you don't smoke,) sip a fine vintage wine, have the soundtrack to 'Brideshead' playing softly in the background - and most importantly, imagine the narrator speaking in the voice of Jeremy Irons.

... and away, we go!

... On warm spring evenings, Coates and I would walk down to the hill known as 'K-Mart Hill', sit on the side of it, drink a bottle of wine each, look down the railway tracks to the Detroit skyline, watch the occasional lone solitary figure walk down the tracks against the backdrop of Schillers Bush and then simultaneously launch into an imitation of ol' Neil warbling "see the lonely boy/Out On the Weekend," burst into laughter even though both of us were secretly moved by the sight of it - perhaps by the wine but more likely due to kinship and relating to that lonely soul recreating a cliche before our eyes as he moved down the rails on that backwards edge of suburbia.

We took our time drinking the wine, appeciating the combination of the relaxing effects of it flushing our cheeks as they were brushed by soft pre-summer breezes while the sun began its slow, gradual descent over the Detroit skyline eventually being swallowed up somewhere behind the Penobscot Building sometime after we had left the hill and gone on our own separate ways into the twilight of those oh-so-promising Friday nights which then held the potential that we could feel and believe that anything could happen, wild exciting things and if the situation was boring, the cheap wine carrying our giddy humour on wings of high-flung ecstacy acted as a guard which would stop anything that threatened to slow things down and bring the evening to any kind of banal finish. If any situation became mundane, it was only to all others, not ourselves.

That was the spring I was to leave Windsor. And when I look back on that time, those nights on 'the hill,' are the memories I am most fond of.

I was just finishing high-school then, Coates having graduated Grade 12 the year before, declining the opportunity of the Grade 13 education which I took, more out of a lack of better things to do than with anything else.

While I floated through an undemanding timetable of two English classes, two History's and countless spares, Wesley Coates slept. While I took my first lunch with Mugs and the Bunhead, standing and shuffling around in a courtyard which had been usurped into the 'smoking area,' Coates began to stir. As I took my second lunch the following period down at Matthews Confectionary, sipping a coke, leafing through the soap-opera magazines and bumming a smoke from one of the other student regulars, Coates would be drinking his first coffee. As I wandered through the rest of the afternoon's classes, almost lulled to sleep by the last period, Coates would be eating his main meal of the day and getting ready for work. As I walked home down the sun-baked gravel of Edgar Street, or if it was too hot, along the cool, shaded sidewalks of Saint Rose until I got to Isabelle, *my* street, and walked again in the direct heat of the sun, Coates was on his way to work. After I had eaten supper, I sat by the open window of my bedroom, feeling the spring air blow past as I read the current novel for one of my English classes. During all this time and for a number of hours after I had put away that particular book by Hemingway or Fitzgerald and had gone to sleep, Coates continued to do what he had been doing for most of that evening - taking hubcaps off a conveyor-belt and building them into tall ascending columns until it was time to start a new tower. At one o'clock, as I lay dreaming and silence lay over most of Windsor, Coates would punch a time-clock and count off another day until Friday when he would wake up at his normal time in the afternoon, this time not to get ready for work, but to get ready to go out and do what he had been waiting all week to do.

"See the lonely boy, Out on the Weekend, trying to make it pay ..."

... next installment - 'A Typical Friday Night'

Son of 'Best of Sick Jokes'

2011-10-29T02:24:00.001-07:00

Back by popular demand -

Some of these you may already know if you are a Facebook friend - and friends, the pickings are getting pretty slim, but there is still gold in that book.

And some that just aren't funny at all - as in,
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
"Where?"
"None of your damn business."

... after all these years I'm still scratching my head over that one.

But here's a few keepers -

"Daddy, there was a man here to see you today?"
"With a bill?"
"Nope. Just an ordinary nose like yours."

"Dad, is 'Rotterdam' a bad word?"
"Why no, son."
"Good. My teacher has poison ivy and I hope it'll rotterdam arm off."

"Are you the Widow Miffin?"
"I'm Mrs. Miffin, but I'm not a widow."
"Oh no? Just wait till you see what they're carrying up the stairs."

"Mrs. Jones! Your husband has been killed. Run over by a steam-roller."
"I'm in the tub. Can you slip him under the door?"

He had been bitten by a dog but didn't give it a second thought until he realized the wound was taking a long time to heal.
On visiting the doctor, he found out he had rabies. Since it was too late to give him the serum, the doctor tried to comfort him and prepare him for the worst as the patient sat down and began to write.
"Perhaps it won't be so bad. You needn't make out your will right now."
"I'm not making out my will," replied the man. "I'm making a list of the people I'm going to bite."

The mad scientist looked over the reports of his life-preserving tonic.
"Hmmm," he mused," I see where my elixir had its first failure - a 98-year-old woman. Ahhh, but what's this? They saved the baby."

The firing squad was escorting the prisoner to his place of execution. It was a dismal march in a pouring rain.
"What a terrible morning to die," sighed the condemned man.
"What are you kicking about?" asked the guard. "We gotta march back in it."

"Now, tell the jury the truth - why did you shoot your husband with a bow and arrow?"
"I didn't want to wake the children."

"How do you know your father's dead?"
"He doesn't move when I kick him."

Farmer Thomas' barn had just burned to the ground and the insurance agent was trying to explain that he couldn't collect cash for it.
"Read the policy. All our company can do is replace it with another barn exactly like the one that was destroyed."
Farmer Thomas was enraged - "Well if that's the way you varmints do business, cancel the policy on my wife before it's too late!"

"The editor hanged himself a few minutes ago."
"Have they cut him down?"
"Not yet. He isn't dead."

A man was studying the menu at a roadside diner.
"What's the difference between the blue-plate special and the white-plate special?" he asked the waiter.
"The white-plate special is ten cents extra," explained the waiter.
"Is the food any better?"
"No, but we wash the plates."

"If you fall off that rock and break your leg, don't come running to me."

Sunday school teacher - "Now children, if I saw a man beating a donkey and stopped him, what virtue would I be showing?"
Sheldon - "Brotherly love."

A forest ranger in New Mexico frequently saw an Indian riding his horse up the canyon wall, his squaw trudging along behind him.
"Why is it," the ranger asked one day, "that you always ride and your wife walks?"
"Because," was the solemn reply, "she no gottum horse."

"Sheldon!" called Mama. "Are you spitting in the fish-bowl?"
"No, ma. But I'm getting closer every time!"

"How'd you blow that tire?"
"Ran over a milk bottle."
"Didn't you see it?"
"Damn kid had it under his coat."

Friend at a funeral - "It must be hard to lose a wife."
The bereaved husband - "Almost impossible."

Mangled pedestrian - "What's the matter - are you blind?!"
Motorist - "Blind? I hit ya, didn't I?"

Drunk - "Awww, lemme alone. Nobody cares if I drink myself to death."
Host - "I do. You're using my liquor."

"Aren't you the brave young man who tried to save my son from drowning when he broke through the ice?"
"Yes'm."
"Well, what did you do with his mittens?"

"You get the liscense plate number of the woman who hit you?"
"No, but I'd recognize that laugh anywhere."

"Gosh Dad, was that Ted Williams who just hit the home-run?"
"What do you care, Sheldon? You're blind."

"Mommy, why do I only walk in circles?"
"Shut up, or I'll nail your other foot to the floor."

"Hey kid, what happened to your hand?"
"Sawed the tip of my finger off."
"How'd you do that?"
"Sawing."

The foreman of the lumber camp put a new worker on the circular saw. As he turned away, he heard the man say, "Ouch."
"What happened?"
"Dunno," replied the man. "I just stuck out my hand like this, and - well, I'll be damned. There goes another one!"

... Dear Reader - getting close to the bottom of the barrel here, but fear not - there will be more.

Your Morning Chuckle

2011-10-21T09:24:00.000-07:00

This post is dedicated to my friend Al - who apparently is in need of a good laugh.

I bought this paperback many years ago, around 1970 back in Grade nine and remember how popular it was the day I took it to school. Damn lucky I even got it back or didn't have it confiscated by one of the teachers for all the impromptu bursts of laughter it caused when passed around in class.

The title is a bit misleading. There are some 'sick' jokes in here. Pretty insensitive stuff which would surely be considered 'incorrect' today. Judge for yourself -

"Mrs. Jones, can Johnny come out and play?"
"No, you children know he has leprosy."
"Then can we come in and watch him rot?"

"Mrs. Smith, can Sheldon come out and play ball with us?"
"No. You children know he has no arms or legs."
"That's okay. We want to use him for second base."

... and then there's a few about people who have to use iron lungs.

But the best are the ones that are just totally stupid. So dumb that in the right frame of mind they can reduce a sane man to a giggling fit. Here are some of the best - but the last one is my favorite. Now, don't cheat and scroll down - comedy is best savoured when you save the best for last.

"Doctor, my husband limps because his right leg is shorter than his left. What would you do in his case?"
"Probably limp."

A woman driver ran over a cripple crossing the street. Horrified, she stopped and called: "Oh dear. What can I do to help?"
"Just don't back up."

"Doctor! Doctor! Come quickly! My husband has swallowed a mouse!"
"Wave a piece of cheese in front of his mouth. I'll be right over."
The doctor arrives 15 minutes later.
"Why, you stupid woman! Why are you waving a herring in front of his mouth?"
"Now I've got to get the cat out, first."

"What happened to your hand, kid?"
"I sawed the top of my finger off."
"Dear, dear. How did you do that?"
"Sawing."

Teacher - "George Washington not only chopped down his father's cherry tree, but he also admitted doing it. Now, do you know why his father didn't punish him?"
Sheldon - "Because George still had the axe in his hand."

"Taxidermist, I would like you to do something with these two dead pet rabbits of mine."
"Would you like them mounted, Madam?"
"No. Just holding hands."

School was out and little Julius came bursting into the house crying bitterly.
"The kids beat me up, Mommy. They said I have a big head."
"Now, Julius, don't you listen to them," soothed his mother. "It's not true that you have a big head."
So, partly convinced, Julius returned to school the next day. That afternoon, the scene was repeated, and again his mother repeated her words of reassurance.
"So now calm down," she said, "because I would like you to run down to the market and get me nine pounds of potatoes."
"Okay, Mom. Gimme a bag to put them in," replied Julius.
"A bag! What do you need a bag for?" asked his mother. "Carry them in your hat."

"Ma, I just put a stick of dynamite under my teacher's chair."
"Why that's terrible, Sheldon. You march yourself right back to school immediately."
"What school?"

... and my own personal favorite for the truly dumbest, stupidest one of all -

"Doctor, come quickly. My husband has swallowed a fountain pen!"
"I'll be right over. What are you doing in the meantime?"
"Using a pencil."

Gone to Doggie Heaven

2011-10-08T01:42:00.000-07:00

Is there anything sadder than when a boy has to put his dog to sleep and out of its misery? Yeah - when his wife and kid have to share in that decision.

Jane the Dane had a small stroke during the night two weekends ago. Unbeknownst to us. I should have suspected something when I slept in till about six that morning and she was in no hurry to go for our morning dog-walk. Just lay in her chair and eventually came into the next room and got me a couple hours later.

We really should have thought something was up later when I got home from my usual Saturday morning grocery-shopping trip later. Normally, when Jane hears the car pull into the driveway, she whines at the door, Mavis lets her out and she tears out, literally flies off the front porch and then romps around me for a minute or so, tail wagging like there's no tomorrow. ... this time when I got home, Mavis opened the door, she sauntered out onto the porch, looked at me and just waited.

But it wasn't until the next day when we defintely knew something was seriously wrong. We were sitting down for supper, Jane came out to take her usual favorite spot during meals - laying down under the table - and her back legs gave out and she collapsed. That's when we realized that she must have had a small stroke the day before. We'd been through this before with Paxton, our previous Great Dane.

From that point on, she didn't have much energy and was still able to go on short dog walks but she was having trouble with her right back leg. And about once a day her back legs would give out and she'd have a hard time getting back on her feet. On Wednesday night, she tried to go upstairs to bed when I did and as I called her from the top of the stairs, she stood with her front paws on the second step, her tail slowly wagging back and forth behind her. But when she tried to come up, the back legs gave out and she collapsed on the middle of the stairway. We carried her back down and she never made it up those stairs to her night-time bed again.

We spent last weekend keeping her company in the living room where she liked to lay at the foot of my favourite chair. She could no longer climb into her own chair which was a few feet away. We brought her food and water but she mostly lay there, sleeping or staring off into space, her heart beating erratically at times, her breathing laboured at others and only occassionally sitting up on her front elbows and looking her old self. The few times we could get her to the front yard to pee, she could barely make it and had no interest in being out there any longer than she had to.

Mavis, myself and teenaged Sonny Jim all took turns sleeping on the couch next to her that weekend but when I got home from work Monday morning, this dog who normally would greet me at the door all excited, couldn't even raise her head off the floor to say hello. That's when I knew what we had to do. As much as I prayed that she would rally and get better like Paxton had done so many times before, it was obvious that it wasn't going to happen. So we made that final trip to the vets and held her while she got that final needle and let her go. In your heart and soul you know you are doing the best thing you can for her by this - but it sure don't feel that way at the time - and for the next few days, for that matter.

So now she's up in Doggie Heaven, that place next to the Rainbow Bridge talked about in emails well-meaning friends forward to you when they hear your pet has died. In my sappier moments, I like to think of her up there hanging out with Paxton as they wait for me.

Part of what's so sad and unfair about all this is that she was so healthy and in good shape and not even seven years old. And that we only had her for about three and a half years. Which now that I think of it, is about the same length of time we had Paxton when he came to live us when he retired. When you sign up to have a Great Dane, you have to be prepared to have your heart broken far too soon. But they are worth every one of those too-short years.

When Paxton died, I couldn't bear the thought of life without a dog in it and after a brief grieving period, Jane came to live us courtesy her foster-human Phyllis and the good people at the dog-rescue association Danes in Distress.

You might be interested in her childhood but I won't go into all that David Copperfield kind of crap - even though it should be noted that Jane had spent the first three years of her life in a puppy mill in Quebec cranking out babies. She apprently wasn't abused physically but I'm guessing she spent most of those years in a crate. She certainly wasn't loved or given companionship. When she came to us she didn't even know how to play. You bounce a ball in front of Jane and all she saw was not a toy, just a round thing going up and down. I suspect that a lot of her spirit died in her first years and when she came here to what would be her final home, she was just grateful to be anywhere where people paid attention to her and were kind.

Because most of her time was spent in a crate, for her breed, she was not a big Great Dane. Phyllis once referred to her as "the wee one." I like to think her size was because animals grow in proportion to their environment - and it's hard to grow in a crate. And just like everyone else, animals need love. You can't grow if you're not loved.

Jane was a 'Harlequin' Great Dane - meaning she was mostly black with some white markings. The one on her chest was remarkable. Take a look at the second photo from the top. If you use your imagination, Jane's white marking resembles Snoopy when he's doing his 'happy dance.' I like to think that it appeared on Jane during her years in the puppy mill, when she dreamed of being out of her crate. Her marking is a manifestation of what she wished she could be - out of the hell that must be life in a puppy mill. ... Remember that scene in 'The Exorcist' where the governess calls the priest in the middle of the night to show him something on the possessed Regan's stomach. From inside, Regan had caused the words 'Help me' to appear on her stomach. Jane did the same thing on her chest with Snoopy's happy dance.

On Jane's first visit here, we were all smitten. The lady-like way she would lie down and cross her front paws. When outside, the dainty way she would raise her right front paw when she sniffed a flower or another dog's urine. Lady Jane.

She was also Sweet Jane. Not a mean bone in her body. Just a sweet gentle soul. After her first sleepover weekend here, when we took her back to Phyllis's house, as we sat in the kitchen, I was standing with my back against the kitchen counter and Jane came over and planted herself in front of me, her back against my legs. Phyllis smiled and asked her, "Jane, are you guarding Sonny?" That's what Great Danes do. They pick their alpha male and stand in front to protect them. They consider it their duty. At that moment, I knew that she was MY dog and I was her alpha male.

She was a skittish dog and I made it my mission to let her know she was loved and build up her self-confidence. I did it with a mantra I repeated to her many times every day to the day she died - "Jane's a good dog, Jane's a good girl. Janie is the BEST dog in the world!" ... and as she turned out, not to brag, but I did a pretty damn good job. And the last half of her life was the one she so badly deserved.

... The vet called yesterday to say that Jane's ashes were ready to be picked up so I walked over to the Blue Cross Animal Clinic on Wharncliffe near Robert Q and got them. As we made that last walk home down Wharncliffe, I held that box of her ashes clutched to my heart and comforted her all the way with "Jane's a good dog. Jane's a good girl. Janie is the BEST dog in the world!" It was the middle of late-afternoon rush-hour traffic on Wharncliffe, but I didn't give a damn how I looked.

In her last minutes alive Jane did something which will be with me forever. Mavis and I had managed to get her into the car and into the vet's office. And as we sat in the waiting room, my wonderful dog - who could barely even stand and walk at that point - came over to where I was sitting and planted herself in front of me, between my legs. Scared out of her mind no doubt, but she still wanted to guard me. Even in death, ever the faithful loyal companion. Goodbye my dear sweet girl.

Mary Todd Lincoln's Time Machine

2011-08-14T07:42:00.000-07:00

We had a house-guest here at Chez Drysdale for a few weeks this past July. Mary Todd Lincoln. Apparently her husband Abe was a reknowned time-traveller as documented in various recent graphic novels and Joe Flaherty's 'Abe Lincoln's Time Machine' on Saturday Night Live a couple of decades ago.

Here is sampling of some of my diary entries for that month -

Just had a lovely lunch with Mary Todd Lincoln. Abe's widow.

Was talking to Mary Todd Lincoln today. She seemed a little down - until I suggested, "Let's go shopping!"

Dinner out with Mary Todd Lincoln yesterday. As usual, she insisted on ordering in French. "A Royale avec fromage, s'ils vous plate. And one to go - Abe ain't et nuttin' all day. What with the Civil War and all."

Brunch with Mary Todd Lincoln. Still dressing in black after all these years. The crowd at Cora's seemed a bit uncomfortable with it all.

Worst brunch ever! I suspect this might be one of Mary Todd Lincoln's manic days. Julia Grant (General Ulysses S's widow,) walks in wearing the same black jump-suit as Mary and Mare goes ballistic. Never saw the cops called to Cora's before.

In Mary Todd Lincoln's day, slavery was the norm. Tonight, when told that a black man was President of the United States, she did a spit-take and coffee came out her nose. On hearing he was the first one, she thought a moment and declared, "S'about fukkin' time."

Spent the morning teaching Mary Todd Lincoln how to drive. Hit so many pot-holes she jumped out at City Hall and gave Mayor Joe a tongue-lashing he will not soon likely forget.

Won tickets to see 'Camelot' at Stratford on the radio today. Box seats! Invited Mary Todd Lincoln to join us but she declined. I suspect she thought it was about the White House during the Kennedy years.

Mary Todd Lincoln found out tonight about who's been invited to sleepovers in the Lincoln Bedroom at the White House in recent years. Movie stars during the Clinton administration and wealthy Republicans during the George W. Bush era. She was NOT impressed.

Big line-up for the opening of the Home County Folk Festival today. Mary Todd Lincoln decided to jump the cue by going to the front of the line, flash an American five-dollar bill at the security guard, wink and ask, "Does the name 'Abraham Lincoln' mean anything to you?

After spending a small fortune at Home County Folk Festival on elephant ears and over-priced knick-knacks for the White House, Mary Todd Lincoln visibly bristled and bared her teeth when a festival-volunteer asked if she'd like to make a five-dollar donation for entry into the park.

Took Mary Todd Lincoln to the Hyland to see 'The Conspirator' to cheer her up. Probably not the best choice. She shouted at the screen for the entire movie.

Mary Todd Lincoln noticed a CBC-listing for 'My American Cousin' the 1985 Canadian movie. She started yelling at the screen, "OUR American Cousin?!? I hate that play! I hate that play!" ... I fear that today may be another of her dark days.

Mary Todd Lincoln just offered to type up my blog notes. "Where's your Remington, Sonny? And I don't mean your pistol."

Mary Todd Lincoln had a lovely cyber-conversation last night with fellow spiritualist Bess Houdini. Both agreed that seances were an ineffective tool in getting murdered husbands to call home. Or at least check in and say 'Howdy.'

Took Mary Todd Lincoln for Pad Thai at Ben Thanh last night. She'd never had Vietnamese before. Walking home down York Street, she stopped at the corner of Thames Street looked west to where the Negro shanty-town once stood during the Underground Railroad days. "Free at last! Free at last!" she whispered reverentially.
"Because of Abe's Emancipation Proclamation?" I ask.
"No, you idiot. Because they're dead."

A bad day for Mary Todd Lincoln, mourning for son Willie's young death at the age of 11 during the Civil War years. She wanted to deal with grief in her usual manner so we went on a shopping spree at Kingsmills where she cleaned out the entire white glove department. 300 pairs. Even though she only wears black these days. Then she wanted to buy drapes for the Oval Office but we couldn't find any at Blinds R' Us.

Came home to find Mary Todd Lincoln standing at the bookcase, my 1969 edition of 'Best of Sick Jokes' in her hand. She looks me in the eye and reads aloud - "Other than *that* Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?" And with a look of complete disgust for our jaded modern age and civilization, she hopped into Abe's machine and returned to her own time.

Bands Who Would Really ROCK MY PARK

2011-07-20T09:38:00.000-07:00

Living across the river from Harris Park, I always enjoy the free concerts which blow my way on a soft summer wind from Rock The Park, the Classic Rock Fest which runs this weekend. This year I look forward to the return of Cheap Trick.

I've been waiting a long time to hear 'the Trick' (as I imagine they are known to their fan-base,) because I missed them the first time they played the fest three years ago when I had wrongly assumed that they - not Pat Benatar - would be the headliner act for that night and hence spent an hour before I thought they would on inside my air-conditioned house avoiding Pat Benatar and instead listening to Cheap Trick's 'Live in Buddakon' on the rekidd-playa - while at that VERY moment, the REAL thing was playing LIVE two blocks away. At 9:30, I go out expecting to hear Cheap Trick warming up only instead to hear Pat Benatar is still on stage. "Hurry up and end this encore," I thought. But she didn't. She was the last band on. Supposedly, the promoters saved the best for last. Pat Benatar bigger than Cheap Trick? Who'da thought? Geez, I truly am outta the loop.

Anyhoo, Cheap Trick is only one band I haven't really seen there yet. But there are lots of Oldies bands I'd like to see at Rock the Park but never will. Because they only exist in Televisionland.

And just like you can hear the Beatles influence throughout in *any* Cheap Trick song, the bands from retro-TV also had an undeniable effect on *real* pop music. After all, would there be a Devo if not for The Way-Outs (middle photo above)from 'The Flintstones'? That same show also inspired 1960's folk-rockers The Beau Brummels to form a band after seeing The Beau Brummelstones belt out their prehistoric garage-rock hit 'Laugh, Laugh' on an episode where Fred & Barney take Wilma and Betty out for a night on the town.

Other cartoon bands I'd like to see would include The Archies (although Andy Kim in concert is a more than sufficient substitute,) Josie and the Pussycats - or even The Ramones. And we can't forget Homer Simpson's groundbreaking barbershop quartet The B-Sharps - even though today most people wouldn't know the difference between The B-Sharps and the A-Flats.

Then there's television's original garage band, The Partridge Family. They have the street cred to earn that acclamation - they actually practised in a garage for one thing. And even though it all came together when Mom sang along, their cover of The Animals' 'We Gotta Get Out of This Place' rocked just like the original and made Eric Burdon a lifelong fan. The title of their sexually-charged 'I Got Your Love All Over Me' (from their fifth LP,) speaks for itself.

There are a few obscure one-hit wonders worthy of note. The Sacred Cows - a psychedelic band of KAOS agents who were promoted by The Groovy Guru (played by an unrecognizable Larry Storch,) on 'Get Smart.' 'The Electric Shoes' - Kevin Arnold's garage band on 'The Wonder Years' which didn't even last for an entire gig before breaking up even *before* the cops arrived and shut down the party.

And The Frozen Embryos from 'My So-Called Life.' Supposedly, according to Rae-Ann, it was Tino's band, but he had problems with attendence and so Jordan Catalano would have to step up on occassion. Jordan's acoustic cover of 'I Wanna Be Sedated,' always makes Sonny cry.

I'd *like* to recommend "the band" from the gang on 'Happy Days,' but I can't - their lead-singer is Potsie.

But let's not forget one-hit wonder bands who only exist in MovieLand. The Carrie Nations from 'Return to the Valley of the Dolls.' Ming Tea, the Austin Powers All-Star Band from the credits of his first movie - featuring Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs ("Sid & Susie" in the record stores,) as Austin belts out 'BBC 3.' The Folksmen from 'A Mighty Wind' who also opened for Spinal Tap. And speaking of Tap -The Flower People, the first time Nigel Tufnel and David St. Hubbins teamed up. And the chicks in the 90's film adaptation of 'Josie and the Pussycats.' And the Ramones in 'Rock and Roll High School.'

Getting back to TV-Land, my favorite classic television rocker would have to be Herman Munster. His short-lived career (all of one episode,) included his earworm-worthy cover of 'Dem Dry Bones' and a pre-Stooges tune which showed Hermie baby on 'American Bandstand' dressed in sunglasses, black leather garb and a motorcycle visored-cap just like Brando's in 'The Wild Ones' and singing the lyrics "I love ya, love ya baby and all that kinda groovy junk/Be my swingin' baby and I'll be your ever-lovin' punk/Yeah, yeah, ya-ya."

Pop culture experts have long argued whether or not these bands truly affected rock music or were merely reflecting their times? Who knows? But as radio-comedian Fred Allen once noted during the early days of television: "Imitation is the sincerest form of television."

"Elephant Pulling Two Noses."

2011-07-03T03:46:00.001-07:00

A sculpture of found objects constructed by Sonny Drysdale.

Rocks collected during a spontaneous rock-hunting spree of twenty minutes in a dry-gulch patch of the Thames River behind Kipps Lane and assembled that afternoon.

Photo by H.A. Drysdale. (copyrighted. reproduction void where prohibited by law.)

The Heavenly Gates - Series Finale

2011-06-28T10:36:00.000-07:00

Part 3 of three. a.k.a. The Conclusion.

Dedicated to first-born child, Harriet - for reasons she alone will appreciate.

... I found the cult centre on a stretch of highway where the road led out of town. It was surrounded by insignificant business enterprises of the quick-buck variety - second-rate motels, fast-food outlets and lube shops. It was the perfect location for a cult - the people were as transient as the business community.

I didn't like driving in that area. Every moron sitting atop four wheels seemed to be just itching to either get out of town or go out and get drunk. There was a reckless feeling in the air that night, a kind of touchy abandonment where every fight is at least half a second in the planning stages and every accident is a hit and run.

I spotted my destination, cut the headlights and idled into the lot. For a while, I just sat in the car and watched through the windows. It was the cult headquarters all right. All the kids inside were decked out in their official garb. Striped jackets and pants - the legs and lapels of which were in fashion ten years ago and on their heads, small undersized beanies, the kind prep school kids have to wear. I was positive that brainwashing techniques had been used. You wouldn't be able to get any self-respecting teenager into a get-up like that.

I spotted the Thomas kid from a photograph his sister had given me. He looked like all the others. Short, close-cropped hair on the boys and the girls all in pony-tails. From what I could make out, the only prerequisite for becoming a member of this club was to have a big smile and a puss full of acne.

If it hadn't been for the photograph, I don't know how I would have been able to tell the Thomas kid apart from the rest of them. One kid looked almost identical to the other. What bothered me was the image that the leaders wanted them to project. They all seemed obnoxiously clean-cut and cheerful. If I was to wake up with a hangover one morning and one of these jokers was the first thing I saw, I'd feel the need to call him over and punch him in the face. Only then, would I be able to get on with the rest of the day.

I had to hand it to whoever brainwashed these kids though. They'd done a damn thorough job of it. With army-like efficiency they hustled around like ants - each with a job to do. But the movements seemed mechanical - like marionets dancing on strings. But boy, could they go through the motions. I half-imagined they would jump through flaming hoops if they were asked.

I left my car and walked in. I'd have to come up with an idea to get the Thomas kid out somehow and into the deprogramming process. As I walked across the lot, I glanced at the gaudy cheap statues on the front lawn - pagan idols of some sick, perverted idea of religion. Inside were glossy photos of some clown I took to be their leader, their guru. I passed a couple of the uniformed kids talking about ostracizing one of the new recruits for not wanting to take part in the group baseball game that weekend. If I was lucky, it might be the Thomas kid they were talking about and I wouldn't get much of a struggle out of him.

I played my hunch through. I went up to the Thomas kid.

"Your sister sent me. You want to forget this foolishness and get out of here?"

He nodded sheepishly, "They got me on garbage detail for a month just because I didn't want to play left-field, sir."

"Ya darn fool kid, what'd ya expect? This ain't no picnic. These guys play for keeps. Now - the blue DeSoto outside. Take the garbage out and be ready to get into it when I give you the signal. Got it? I'll be out in a minute."

As I stood in a line-up, my eyes began to dry out from the harsh glare of the overhead florescent lights. Obviously used as a sleep-deprivation technique in breaking down new recruits. I couldn't see how anyone could stand more than ten minutes in the place and after a five-minute wait in the line, I was ready to run out, fearing my braincells would either be numbed by the Muzak or fried from the lights.

When I reached the counter, a yapful of perfect teeth asks, "Can I help you?"

I order a coffee and the simpleton forgets to even offer me sugar or cream.

"That's alright, baby. I take my coffee the same way I like my women - hot, strong and black." I always like to give the counter help a hard time with that one.

But she didn't get it. It was over her head. All she could think of in the way of response was to do what she'd been told over and over again - "And would you like fries and a Big Mac with your coffee, sir?"

I grabbed my java and walked out. Flies and wasps circled the garbage cans. It was a good place to bring my swatter. In front of me, a new set of suckers walked under those damned golden arches.

We've fallen a long way, I thought. From the Pearly Gates to this ugly, neon-lit yellow beacon. Oh Lord, gimme a break! And then stepped aside and let them pass.

The Heavenly Gates - Part 2

2011-06-20T10:13:00.000-07:00

Part 2 of 3. The middle section is dedicated to 'Dee-Jay,' our middle child because it's the middle section - and as the poem goes, "The middle child is full of grace."

... One thing about being a private investigator - you don't always know when your next case will come along. If you want to use the word 'employed' to describe how I spend my days, you can also use the prefix 'self' or 'un.' Most days, you could pick the latter.

That's why when a week earlier, a sweet young kid shows up on my doorstep sporting a look like someone'd just told her Santa Claus was dead and her hand clenched around three $50 bills, I knew I'd be in business for at least a few more days.

"Are you Mister Divine, the private eye?"

"That's what it says on the door, sister. What ails ya?"

She collapsed in a chair and buried her face in her hands. "Mr. Divine, you've got to help me! I've no where else to turn!"

"Come on, take it easy now. Just what seems to be the problem, Miss ...?

"Thomas. Mary Ellen Thomas. I want you to find someone. It's Jeff! He's my brother and if - "

She began sniffling. I walked into the bathroom and came back with a roll of toilet paper. It was only one-ply, but she didn't seem to mind.

"And if you can't help me, I just don't know what I'll do! Oh please, Mr. Divine, say you'll help me!"

She was in pretty bad shape, poor kid. Tears staining those rosy red cheeks, shoulders racked with sobbing and a runny nose to boot. I felt sorry for her. She began to pull herself together. Again she pleaded, "Can you help me, Mr. Divine?"

I took a long thoughtful pull on my Lucky. "That depends Miss. Are those three red bills for me?"

Against my better judgement, I asked if she'd thought about going to the police.

"No, I couldn't do that. He's in trouble. I don't know what kind but it might be drugs."

I didn't bother to pursue the merits of telling her to fill out a Missing Persons report with the police. After all, $150 was a hundred and fifty bucks.

It turned out to be a deprogramming job. I'd been getting a lot of that kind of work lately. It was a good thing too. Thanks to the sexual revolution of the sixties and new divorce laws of the mid-seventies, a lot of us private dicks had been going out of business and ending up as security guards.

It looked like a pretty standard deprogramming scam. The same old story. Mixed up kid. Lonely. Probably into drugs. Gets involved with a bunch who promise him love, home, family and eternal paradise. The kid denounces his friends and family and then gets put to work hustling flowers on downtown street-corners. It had all the classic signs. Problem was, his sister didn't know what cult or where he was.

"The last time I saw him, he looked so strange."

"How do you mean, Miss Thomas?"

"Well ... different from before. Now he's polite and always smiling."

"There's nothing wrong with that Miss. I've been known to say 'please' and crack a smile once in a while myself."

"Oh it's not just that. It's like there's nothing behind the smile. He's like a robot. It's not the Jeff I grew up with. ... Oh, I know it all sounds like nonsense Mr. Divine, you've got to believe me. I just know he's in trouble."

She was crying again. I went over and patted her on the back. Something in my gut told me she was a good kid. Something in my wallet told me I could help her out.

"There there now dollface. You just leave it up to me. I get these kind of cases all the time and there's no problem with the deprogramming end of it. It'll cost you, mind you. It's a risky and dangerous business from where I stand. As far as the law's concerned, technically it's not much different from kidnapping. But that's my problem. Don't you worry your pretty little head about anything."

"Oh gosh, Mr. Divine, how can I ever thank you?"

"Well, those three fifties would be a start."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the day Delores Da Lovely showed up I hadn't made any progress in the case other than spend the $150 retainer Mary Ellen Thomas had given me. I had nothing to show for it. I had called in a few IOU's from the boys in blue downtown and filed a Missing Persons report. So far, they hadn't been able to turn up anything.

I was beginning to suspect they never would when Delores Da Lovely sauntered into my office and gave me my first real break in the case.

The boys downtown in Missing Persons couldn't come up with anything on Jeffrey Thomas - but with the name Delores Da Lovely, they hit the jackpot. She hadn't even bothered to use an alias when she had come to see me. After following through on my hunch, I found out that she actually did go by the highly unlikely, but all too appropriate cognomen of 'Da Lovely.'

Finding out who she worked for, I put two and 2 toogether and was pretty sure that the wonderfully-named Miss Da Lovely could lead me right to Jeff Thomas. She had done everything but serve him to me on a tray.

I would be able to wind this case up a lot sooner than I had expected and get started on an early weekend. After Jeff Thomas' deprogramming treatment, I would need it. I grabbed my hat and headed out the door.

... tune in next week for the final installment of The Heavenly Gates - 'Part 3, The Final Installment."

The Heavenly Gates

2011-06-11T05:54:00.000-07:00

... from the Archives - circa early '80s. The second short story I ever wrote after a week in which I quit my job, bought a house and found out that Mavis was 'with child' - to become a writer. Still wondering what a full-time writer-guy job would pay. Looking back, I'd say I made the right decision.

This is Part One of a three-part serial. Stay tuned.

This week's installment is dedicated to my boy - Sonny Jim.

... That made five in a row and a total of thirteen that morning. Flies that is. I had a piece of baloney sitting on my desk and when one would land, I'd swat it. I gave them a sporting chance though - the sun was beating down on my desk top and if they were smart, they'd notice the shadow of my swatter.

In between flies, I was doing my job. I'm a private investigator and that means that at the time I was drinking a cold cuppa joe, re-reading the newspaper and wondering where I'd get the scratch to pay my secretary, keep an eviction notice off my office door and still be able to buy a few boxes of Kraft Dinner to live on.

I had my eye on a fly that was about to land when my intercom buzzed.

"There's a Miss Da Lovely here to see you Mr. Divine."

"I don't know any Da Lovelys, Deb."

The fly had landed and was inspecting the piece of baloney which was sweating like an over-ripe tomato picker.

"She would really like to see you Mr. Divine. Says she didn't have time to make an appointment."

The fly sat up on his front set of legs and washed his other set as if he'd just disgraced himself on my desk and was washing his feet before dinner.

"I don't know Deb, I'm awfully tied up with this newspaper right now."

Debby just laughed and said, "I'll show her in."

A cloud had just passed in front of the sun, taking away the fly's protection. My shadowless swatter cut the air as I threw the ideals of sportsmanship out the window. The fly got away and I turned off the intercom and said, "You do that, Deb."

"Miss Da Lovely, this is Guy Divine. I'm sure he'll be able to help you."

Debby turned around and left the woman standing in the doorway. The sun was in my eyes but I could make out more than just a silhouette.

She sauntered into my office in a way that turned over erotic images in the grey matter between my ears. Sitting down opposite me, she casually arranged her long legs and gave me the once over.

I reciprocated. She was a cool looking number. Long blonde hair, thighs that could squeeze a man to death and a smile that would get him between them.

Glancing up, she gave me a look I could feel in my crotch. I pulled out the office bottle and made hers a double. Then we got down to business.

"Now, what's the problem Miss Da Lovely?"

She looked down into her lap. I could feel the old 'little girl lost' routine coming on but she surprised me by looking up into my eyes and asking, "Can we talk frankly, Mr. Divine? I'd like some kind of reassurance that you can help me before I say too much."

I leaned back in my chair, drawing smoke out of Lucky Strike in an attempt at looking thoughtful. "Well, I can't very well help you at all until you tell me what this is all about."

I sat up and gestured at her with my cigarette. "Now whether you realize this or not Miss Da Lovely, but a private detectives licence entitles you to confidentiality and the best darn service I can give you."

I leaned closer, inadvertently blowing smoke in her face. "If you don't trust me enough to confide in me, we may as well stop wasting our time right now."

She pretended to look hurt, but I wouldn't fall for it. "I didn't mean to offend you, Mr. Divine," she pouted.

Normally, I wouldn't have taken any more. I'd been through the same nonsense with countless housewives wanting me to witness first hand their husband's foolish indiscretions through the curtains of second-rate motel rooms. But she had a different effect on me.

Maybe it was the fact that I never tired of playing this little game. Maybe it was because I liked the pulling teeth part of the routine. Maybe it was because I needed a distraction from looking at the same newspaper for the fourth time that morning. Or perhaps it was that look in her eyes that put the word 'maybe' on my mind.

I smiled apologeticly. "No offence taken. It's just that a lot of people who come through that door waste more of my time than I can afford to lose."

A burst of laughter came from Debbie's desk outside my office and I got up to close the door. I'd have to have a talk with that girl.

It was hard to keep a straight face as I returned to my chair. It was harder still to keep my hand steady as I lit the cigarette she took when I offered one.

"I can assure you that I don't intend to waste your time. I only wanted some sort of assurance that I can trust you." She still hadn't lost the frightened little girl tone in her voice - a quiver meant to make me put my arm around her shoulder, pat her on the back and say, 'Now, now, now. Don't you worry your pretty little head about anything.'

Instead I said, "I think this is where I came in. Now - what can I do for you?"

She turned to ice. The glare from her eyes could have split a diamond. The only thing warm about her now was the tip of the cigarette which lay fuming between her fingers. She was the kind of woman where the pretension of polite friendliness dropped like a loose unbuttoned dress when they didn't get what they wanted. Her warm smile had cooled down to thin tight bloodless lips. The look from those eyes was cold and hard. Like her body, I thought miserably. She was the kinda dame you could crack an egg on her breast.

But remembering the dirty looks my landlord always gave me when the rent was overdue, I made the necessary polite overtures. I let on that she had put me in my place and suggested we get down to business.

Judging from the smirk on her face, it wasn't hard to tell that she thought she had me right in her hip pocket. For the moment I thought I'd stay there. It wasn't comfortable but that could be changed. She'd be more inclined to be careless if she felt confident.

"Okay. Now that we know where we stand, I'll give it to you straight. Drop the Jeffrey Thomas case. That's the bottom line, mister."

She was referring to a missing persons job I'd been investigating off and on for the past few days. So far I hadn't come up with anything - until now.

"I happen to be associated with a very large corporation who want to assure both you and your client that Mister Thomas is perfectly alright."

"What's in this for you, Miss Da Lovely?"

"That's no concern of yours. We understand that you've gone to considerable expense already and so we are willing to compensate you for your trouble." She passed me an envelope. "I'm sure that you will find this satisfactory."

Inside were a number of crisp new bills. I didn't bother to count them, but I knew it was way too much.

"I don't know what your game is, sister - but I can't accept this. Take it back to your boss and tell the dirty pimp he's going to have to use more than a cheap bribe to get me off this case."

I tossed it into her lap, took a good pull on my glass of cheap rye and swished it around my mouth. There was a dirty taste inside. Turning down large amounts of money always had that affect on me.

"Listen gumshoe. You're going to work with us, understand? If you don't buy my bill of goods now, you'll answer to a back-alley beating, but believe you me buster, you'll be whistling another tune soon enough."

"Does this mean we can't still be friends?"

"That depends, wise guy." She stood up and leaned over my desk. She was wearing a low cut dress and I admired the view. The Catskills were nothing in comparison. She wasn't wearing any perfume, but the heavy sweat beaded on her heaving chest registered a considerable rise on my erogenous scale.

"It all depends on whether or not you want to co-operate," she cooed and then gave me a smirk. You could tell she'd been a snotty brat as a kid. "Don't worry then hot shot. We'll be in touch with you again. Real soon."

She breezed out of my office like the silent wind before a storm. I closed the door behind her and opened the window. Then I poured myself another belt from my office bottle into my styrofoam cup, lit another Lucky and settled back to enjoy the calm.

... next week - Part 2 (of 3) - entitled, The Second Act.

As Seen on TV!

2011-05-31T09:58:00.000-07:00

Above - Ezra Levant as 'Glenn Beck' on Sun News TV, available on Cable 59 on your Rogers television dial.

Has this ever happened to you? You're flipping the remote in search of an amusing all-news channel or an informative, but cheesy infomercial - and you can't settle on just one?

So you ask yourself - "Hey, why can't I have both?"

Well friends, now you can! Since April 18th, Sun News TV has been broadcasting some of the unintentionally funniest talk-radio and delivering it with all the subtlety and panache of a late-night infomercial hosted by Ron Popeil, Kevin Trudeau or Tony Robbins.

Yes - it's all here! Ezra Levant Plays His Greatest Hit! Theo Caldwell's 'You Can Have Great Hair Too!' and 'I Can't Believe I Just Said That!' hosted by any number of interchangable long-haired sleeveless TV-personality/newscaster babes.

But wait - there's more! Every night, you also get to see AM-radio talk-show host Charles Adler do the same thing he does every afternoon on the radio - but do it IN FRONT OF A TV-CAMERA!

Here's what Sun News TV celebrity Ezra Levant had to say about his Greatest Hit - as the small-town Alberta weekly-newspaper editor who years ago published the Danish cartoons making fun of Muslims and the subsequent Human Rights Review trial - "I did that because it was a news story." Said with a straight face. For razon-sharp wit, like any crappy Ginsu knife - even though it won't cut through a boot-heel, steel hammer or even a tomato - Ezra can really cut the cheese. You'll say 'Wow' every tiime!

But don't just take my word for it. Here's what happy customers are saying about the Sun News network - "Hi - I'm conservative right-wing radio talk-show host Angry Noodleman and you can count on Sun News TV to say the same things I do." (Small-print disclaimer - *Individual results and satisfaction may vary.*)

Now, how much would you expect to pay for all this? Well, you know you're not going to have to spend $400 for it. Not $375 or $350. Not $325 or even $300 like you may be thinking. No, all you have to pay for this fabulous offer is easy monthly payments on your cable bill. Unless your carrier is Bell Express-Vu - which deemed Sun News TV so embarrassing they won't even carry it.

Don't fear. There are other cable-providers willing to give you the Sun News Network. Operators are standing by. Act now! So don't cry - because if you are a fan of cheesy bad television, with Sun News TV, the only tears you will be shedding will be tears of joy!

On the Road to Grosse Pointe

2011-03-19T03:31:00.000-07:00

I was going through the 'archives' the other day, looking for something old to recycle for my once-a-month writing gig (the truth is, I ran dry long ago,) when I came across an old unpublished piece on Jack Kerouac I had written about 25 or 30 years ago.

On second look, it's not half bad. It's been in the bottom of my desk drawer for about a quarter-century but it's top-drawer stuff. If nothing else, it's good enough for a blog so I offer it now.

But first a bit of an introduction. Shortly before the time this was written, I had become acquainted with the first wife of Jack Kerouac - through (of all people,) my mother-in-law. At the time I was a big Kerouac fan, having discovered him a couple of years earlier when we took 'On the Road' in English Literature. Contemporary American. After that I read all his books, even the poetry collections and his biography by Ann Charters.

Anyhoo, at the time, my mother-in-law made her living as a live-in casual-nurse to wealthy old people and was hired by a woman to take care of her elderly father at the family estate in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. After getting the job, the woman went on and on about how her first husband was this famous writer guy my mother-in-law had never heard of. But Sonny studied books at the university, maybe he knew who he was. Of course I did. I even knew the woman's name - Edie Parker.

My mother-in-law didn't last long at that job. She quit about a month in after seeing a ghost in the mansion the old man lived in. But first she set up a meeting for me and me missus to meet Edie in Windsor, where she graciously bought us lunch at an upscale oyster bar downtown and answered as many questions I could ask in an hour. She apparently liked or trusted me enough to invite me to sometime visit her at the family home across the river, ask more questions and have a look at her Kerouac memorabilia from her brief marriage to Kerouac in the days before he became famous.

So I did. The following article is an account of that visit. Spelling and grammer mistakes and all. In retrospect, it's a bit long. Maybe that's why the London Free Press - my only market at the time, never bought it.

... ON THE ROAD TO GROSSE POINTE ... by Sonny Drysdale

It seems that every time you pick up a weekend paper these days, there is a review on a new book about Jack Kerouac. In the 25 years since the publication of 'On the Road,' the man has achieved legend status and despite the repetitious documentation, it becomes harder to separate man from myth.

For this reason, I decided to visit Kerouac's first wife, Edie in Grosse Pointe, Michigan and ask her about the new biography by Gerald Nicosia and about her own book-in-progress on her marriage to Jack.

You have to do these things right and so I chose to hitch-hike down from London to Windsor. My first ride was with what has become of the Kerouac legacy - a couple of former hippies in their late thirties. He was balding and bearded with thinning, shoulder-length hair. She was long-haired and silent. From Toronto, they were out on a Saturday morning sight-seeing tour of the 401 with no destination in mind - a living example of the phrase 'going nowhere fast.' Indeed, they let me off in the middle of nowhere at the exit to Rodney and then headed back towards Toronto.

The next ride, which took me into Windsor was with a businessman who talked constantly about his liquid-waste disposal company. He was a cesspool of information on the repulsing aspects of his job - forgotten landfill sites where chemicals had been buried years ago and had since been growing in the earth and were now actually oozing out of the ground.

He was particularly excited about a mutant bacteria being developed, which when introduced into the earth, would eat only the waste that you wanted eliminated.

This image appealed to me since I had just finished the new 767-page Kerouac biography by Gerald Nicosia and I was hoping this visit to Edie would be a direct way of cutting through the years of myth and gossip and give me a feel for the man who inspired the legend of 'King of the Beats.'

In his 1967 novel 'Vanity of Dulouz,' Kerouac describes Edie as he knew her in the 1940s as having an eagerness of spirit "That endows the lady with the promise that she will look good all her life." When I reach her home in affluent Grosse Pointe, I see that his prophecy has proven true. Today she is a remarkably-young 60-year-old both in spirit and beauty.

Edie Parker met Kerouac in the early '40s while she was an art student in New York and rooming with a woman named Joan Vollmer. Through the girls, Kerouac met a 17-year-old poet named Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs, the future author of 'Junkie' and 'Naked Lunch' whom Vollmer eventually married. Soon all of them were living in the same Greenwich Village apartment in what Edie now calls one of the first communes. Thus was born the nucleus of the Beat Generation - although at the time, these three only dreamed of becoming writers.

The circumstances of Jack and Edie's wedding were somewhat bizarre. In 1944, arrested and jailed as a material witness to a murder, Kerouac was released a few days later when Edie's parents agreed to pay his $100 bail - but only on the condition that the two get married. They became man and wife with a plainclothes detective serving as best man and Jack spending his wedding night in jail.

Upon release, he returned with Edie to her parents' home in Grosse Pointe, where he worked in a ball-bearing plant until he had paid off the $100 debt and then returned to New York, later remarking "there's no tragedy in Grosse Pointe." Edie followed shortly after.

Back in New York, Burroughs had begun his 'study' of heroin addiction and the apartment was regularly visited by Times Square junkies and small-time hoods. It was the beginning of what Kerouac later described as "a year of low, evil decadence." Edie worked as a cigarette-girl in Fifth Avenue nightclubs and supported the whole group. Finally, tired of coming home from work and finding everyone strung out on drugs, she moved out.

It was clear to her that Kerouac was not the sort of husband who could support a wife and afer seeing her in her natural element of priviledged Grosse Pointe, he realized that Edie was only a weekend bohemian.

When she wrote him in 1949 saying "I love to drink coffee with people in the morning," Kerouac realized that she had become a "sad, straight woman" and later wrote in 'Visions of Cody,' that he and Edie "were no longer on the same team."

While Edie moved back home and later re-married, her former room-mate Joan Vollmer wasn't so lucky. A long-time benzedrine addict, she was accidently killed in 1951 in Mexico City after goading husband Burroughs into performing their usual parlour trick for guests by shooting a champagne glass off her head ala William Tell. This time the famous marksman missed. The bullet went through the middle of the forehead.

Gerald Nicosia is the first biographer Edie has granted an interview. But despite his six days of intensive probing, she is not totally happy with the final result. "I don't like the gossip in it because it's all wrong," she says. She acknowledges the amount of work Nicosia put into the biography, but says there is too much critical analysis of Kerouac's writing "without really coming to the point that what Jack's books are about is not what you read, but what you feel."

Like everyone else who ever knew Kerouac, Edie is writing a book about him. And despite the obvious jumping-on-the-bandwagon, she and the others have every right to - after all, Kerouac himself made his fortune and reputation doing the same thing - writing about his friends. However, she intends to concentrate on the love story and write about the "shy" boy she knew long ago. She and Kerouac kept in touch over the years. She claims that a month before he died, he phoned her to say that he was divorcing his present wife, Stella and wanted Edie to come visit him in Florida.

Her book will focus on the early 1940s period and the times Kerouac and Neal Cassady (the hyperactive sexaholic main character in 'On the Road," came for visits in Grosse Pointe during one of their cross-country road trips. She recalls Cassady as being quiet and out of his element on such visits. On one occassion, after fixing him up with a girlfriend, Cassady only caught the woman's attention when he ended a party by flushing his underwear down the toilet and clogging the pipes.

But referring back to another of her dissatisfactions with Nicosia's mammoth books, she says, "If there's one thing I refuse to do, it's to write about Jack and I as dull. Our life was not dull."

After we've finished talking, Edie gives me a tour of the mansion on the estate where Kerouac stayed on his visits and during their brief marriage. Since the house is up for sale, many of the rooms are empty or the furniture has been piled up in the centre. The drapes are pulled and Edie goes about opening them ujp and letting the light and fresh air inside.

As she takes me tbrough the house, she points out various areas of interest - "There's the library where Jack would spend hours reading; Neal Cassady slept in that bed; this circular bedroom was our room, he did a lot of writing in here - this is the tower he described in 'Doctor Sax ..."

I linger in that round room in the top of the tower where Kerouac lived and wrote. I try to feel whatever it is I'm supposed to, but instead my gaze is drawn out the window. Everything around the house is lush and green. Edie has a masters degree in Horticulture and the estate is a wonder of woods, shrubs and vines. As evergreen as her memory of her first husband. I remember a quote by Jim Christie from a review he did of another recent book on Kerouac - "It is about an entire way of life that has ceased to exist - and further can no longer exist because the rules have changed and the world has changed."

And with sadness, I know he's absolutely right. Nonetheless, I consider cashing in my bus-ticket and hitch-hiking back to London. It's true, the world Kerouac knew is no longer the same, but the man's spirit lives on and the road will always offer more interesting experiences when you meet strangers head on and share time and space with them in their cars, rather than sitting alone, looking out the grimy window of a Greyhound.

But then I come back to reality, remember how frustrating it is trying to hitch a ride out of Windsor and ask Edie for a lift to the bus terminal.

- 30 -

POST-SCRIPT - Edie died a few years ago. She never did finish her book. But that didn't stop publishers - City Lights Books - from taking the small number of pages she had written and padding them out into bookform years after her death in 1992 - "You'll Be Okay - My Life with Jack Kerouac' by Edie Kerouac Parker, published in 2007.

I haven't read it. I don't need to, I lived it.

PHOTOS - some snapshots from my visit. The top is a poster celebrating the 25th anniversay of 'On the Road.' The middle is a porrait of Jack painted at the time of their marriage by Edie. The bottom is a watercolour painted by Jack himself and featured in the above poster. One of the few paintings he ever did, it's remarkably good and manages to sum up every cliche about the lonely hitch-hiker - the battered suitcase at his feet, stuck in the middle of nowhere on a country road - and passed by yet another car that didn't stop to pick him up.

Rating the Family Day Television Specials

2011-02-14T07:32:00.000-08:00

Paul Reubens stars as both Premier Dalton McGuinty (above) and The Dalton Pixie (below) in 'Miracle at Queens Park.'

One of the joys of Family Day is the anticipation created by the many festive television specials aired in the days leading up to the third Monday of February.

Admittedly, it's no easy task to rate them. The truth is, I love them all. Of course I have a few personal favorites - like the classics 'A Charlie Brown Family Day' and 'Rudolph and the Island of Misfit Teens.' These are 'quest' stories - tales about one's search for the *real* meaning of Family Day in this modern mechanized ethos.

I'm just as big a sucker for the schmaltzy fare such as the Depression-era 'Family Day on Walton's Mountain' in which all Jim-Bob wants for Family Day is a gift certificate to take the whole clan to The Mandarin for the buffet. Essentially it's a remake of 'Family Day on the Ponderosa' but who cares?

I even enjoy the episodic television knock-offs like 'The Year Family Day Almost Didn't Happen' in which the girls from 'Friends' get locked out of their apartment on Family Day Eve. And I still always get a lump in my throat for the animated 'No Family Day for Family Guy' - even though it's "not suitable for children."

However, critics universally agree that the most historically-significant show is 'Miracle at Queens Park' because it is an 'origin' story which melds fable with fact. Paul Reubens stars as Ontario Premier Dalton McGuinty who bribes the electorate by promising a new statutory holiday in February - but ONLY if he is re-elected.

Reubens is also cast in the dual role of the 'Dalton Pixie' - a mythical and magical creature who sneaks into homes all over the province while everyone is asleep and picks the pockets of grown-ups and leaves a present for all the good little boys and girls.

But that Dalton Pixie is a mischievous imp. He only brings hot air and empty promises for those above voting age. And for the kiddies, only useless gifts - such as canned mushrooms (and not even whole or sliced, but the ones with the appetizing label 'Pieces & Stems'), jars of pickled beets and dented cans of Campbells Bean and Bacon soup. All are things no kid would ever eat and so the parents have to order out for pizza.

By the end of the 'Miracle at Queens Park', the Dalton Pixie learns the true meaning of the holiday - that is, if only we could keep the *spirit* of Family Day alive year-round. Just think - a world in which families sat down to eat supper together *every* night, talk about their day and then bask in the glow of Mr. Television, content and happy in each others' company.

I can imagine such a world. In fact, I have a feeling that this is going to be the BEST Family Day ever!

Marilu Henner Syndrome

2011-01-28T03:03:00.001-08:00

I remember everything. EVERYTHING.

People are constantly amazed when I tell them of some insignificant conversation we had decades ago. "How can you remember that?!" they ask.

For years I thought it was just because I had a good memory. Or that so few little things of genuine interest actually happens to me that my brain will hold onto anything.

Of course this isn't of any particular use, much alike being an expert in pop-culture trivia, but it is important personally because it is usually attached to good memories.

Example - One of the places nearest and dearest to my heart is a stretch of riverbank out in the country just outside of downtown London. I've always known it as 'The Spot.' The perfect place for a two-man party, small get-togethers or taking the family with a bucket of KFC - or just a solitary quiet walk with the dog.

I've been going to that spot for about 35 years now with four different people and can remember what each of them said of the place on their first visit.

I was introduced to the place by my friend Al when I was about 20 and new to town. We went there because we had gotten kicked out of the Shitty-View Restaurant for not ordering more than one coffee apiece over a two hour period and it was a nice secluded place to get high. As we stood under the big maple at the Spot, I commented on how it looked like a perfect tree for climbing. Al replied that he had been coming to that specific place for about half his life and that was the first time anyone had ever made that observation. Being a former Junior Forest Ranger, I took that as a compliment.

Second time was with Herman G. We began going down there annually - rain or snow - a few years after that. The first visit was with his aging dog Myrtle. And one of his dogs has always joined us - Ben, Badger and now Gracie. We made our way along the woodline at the end of the soccer field, down the slope next to the big willows, hopped the creek (there was no footbridge then just strategically placed rocks,) turned a left at the giant anthill and then followed the crick up to the river where there were still two rocks for sitting on at the river's edge. "I just want you to know," Herm said with mock solemnity. "I can tell that this place is special to you and if you have been here before with other people - I understand." And then giggled in that Herman way.

When Butch McLarty joined our little group, as I was giving him directions on how to get there and describing the terrain, Butch - a Cavendish kid - recognized it immediately just by description alone - "Oh, you mean the 'Gilligan's Island Lagoon.'" And in the middle of July, that's the best description I ever heard for the spot.

And lastly, Kid Dork joined us one spring evening. When he was asked to come back out for our autumn get-together, his email response was - "Wow! I'm invited back. Must've been the cologne."

See - I remember EVERYTHING. In vivid detail. As if experiencing that moment all over again. Although, the other night after drying the dishes, I forgot where the frying pan belongs and put it in the refrigerator.

Jack Kerouac was the same way. He'd visit his childhood friends and remind them about some football game they had as eight-year-olds. No one else remembered of course. And so they gave him the nickname 'Memory Babe.'

Apparently, this isn't just a form of a selective or sentimental memory. No, it is officially called 'superior autobiographical memory' and was first diagnosed by neurobiologist James McGaugh in 2006. That, according to an article I read recently about former star of 'Taxi' - Marilu Henner, who has a whole book out on the subject. "I can rattle off almost every time I've seen you," Henner said in the article. "It's like putting in a DVD and it queues up to a certain place. I'm there again, so I'm looking out from my eyes and seeing things visually as I would have that day."

Well, heck - I can do that! I remember everything. In vivid detail (I wrote that same description three paragraphs above incidently,) and if you don't believe me, just scroll down to the blog post below and read about my first encounter as a three-year-old with Mr. Peanut. I even remember how the snow was falling that night.

EVERYTHING. Except for where I put my car keys. Or what I originally came into this room looking for.

It's not the sort of memory thing like 'Do you remember where you were when Kennedy was shot? Or Lennon? Or Elvis, depending on your age and how much importance you attach to such events. Anyone can do that. Or make it up.

Although, for what it's worth - the day Kennedy was shot, I was in Grade 3 at Prince Charles Elementary in Windsor, Ont. Shortly before school was dismissed for the day, Mrs. Kraut made the announcement to our class. Being about eight years old, I certainly didn't know what to make of it - but what I remember was walking home and just how overcast the whole sky was - dark, gloomy, ominous. End of the world type of a sky.

I suppose that's why I've never had the urge to keep a journal or diary. That plus the fact that on most days I don't have anything worth recording for posterity. But it is nice to know that - thanks to Marilu Henner, I now understand why I am blessed or cursed with this rare memory disorder - although I do approve of the word 'superior' in the term. It also means that for the rest of my life, I realize that every time I eat a meal, I will be able to tell you years from then just what I had for dinner on any specific date. And whether the mashed potatoes were lumpy or not that night.

So thanks, Marilu - I shall never forget you for this.

Because, I remember EVERYTHING! Except for what I did last Friday night. Man, was I loaded.

Mr. Peanut and Me

2011-01-02T01:59:00.000-08:00

I made the easiest fifty bucks of my life the other day. The Boy and I were watching television and a new commercial came on for Planters Peanuts featuring their long-time spokesperson Mr. Peanut.

I pretended like I hadn't seen it before although indeed I had courtesy of the YouTube. "Listen to that voice!" says I. "Listen closely - do you know who that is - speaking as Mr. Peanut?"

Of course he didn't. So I says, "That sounds like Robert Downey Jr! Yeah, listen - that's him alright. That's Robert Downey Jr!"

"Yeah, right!," The Boy replied - as dismissively as only a 16-year-old could. "Why would an actor of Robert Downey Junior's stature and paycheques be doing voicing a television commercial? And as a dork like Mr. Peanut no less."

Well sir, I knew I had him there. He'd fallen for it. Hook, line and sinker. Now to reel him in. "No listen, it sounds just like he did in 'Iron Man.' Do you wanna bet? I'll bet you 25 bucks right now that's Robert Downey." ... And he was soooo sure of himself he made it double or nothing.

I guess I should feel bad about taking advantage of a kid. But I don't. He should have known better. For one thing, he knows damn well from long experience that I never bet on anything unless it's a sure thing. Number two - when it comes to Mr. Peanut, I know my stuff.

I have a small amount of Mr. Peanut memorabilia cluttering the house. You can't walk into a room here without seeing Mr. Peanut in some incarnation or other. I keep up on all things Mr. Peanut. So The Boy should have known that if I say Robert Downey Jr. is doing the voice of Mr. Peanut in a TV commerical, you can be damn sure it's a fact.

Of course, I'd heard about all this weeks ago. The news made little impact on the rest of the world. Even the showbiz media didn't make much of a deal about it when Planters announced that Downey had been hired to do the voice of a $35-million advertising campaign with a series of TV-commercials filmed in computer-generated animation and stop-motion photography and set to air over the Christmas holidays right up to SuperBowl Sunday.

But it was big news to all of us who are nuts about Mr. Peanut. Because the REAL story was not WHO was going to do the voice of Mr. Peanut. Or how much they would be paid. No, the true groundbreaking news here was the fact that for the FIRST time in his 94-year history - Mr. Peanut TALKS!

Not too sure I like that idea. I've seen the commercials and sure, Downey Junior sounds a bit like a rich former frat-boy - the type of guy you would expect to see wearing a top-hat, spats, white gloves, a monocle and carrying a cane. He's okay, I suppose, but he just doesn't strike me as Mr. Peanut.

Maybe it's a matter of his 'new look' in the animation. For one thing, they have him wearing a jacket, shirt and tie. And no pants. As you know, the iconic Mr. Peanut is not wearing any clothing other than his accessories. Not that he's naked. He's a peanut for Gawd's sake. Why would he be wearing clothes? He selling nuts.

But the thing that I'm most uncomfortable with is that he's not tall. Compared to the other 'people' in the commercials, he's just regular size. The same as everyone else.

This should not be. Mr. Peanut should always be portrayed as a towering figure. I know this first hand. You see, Mr. Peanut is the very first memory I have.

Late 1950s. Windsor, Ontario. Close to Christmas time. I was about three years old and had gone shopping (a rare excursion for us,) with my father after he got home from work. Dusk had descended as we drove to the shopping plaza. I still remember the look of the snow as it fell softly and lazily in the lights as we crossed the parking lot, my hand enclosed in my Dad's.

And then, the most wondrous of sights! In front of the Sentry department store was a giant Mr. Peanut handing out free samples. For a toddler, looking up at a giant eight-foot peanut dressed like a man it was a larger than life experience.

That was the first time we met. Years later, after quitting high-school and hitch-hiking out west with a friend in the mid-1970s, a wild wag of a performance artist named Vincent Trasov was campaigning for Mayor of Vancouver dressed in his own Mr. Peanut costume. He could often be seen on the streets of Gastown where we hung out with the street kids, junkies and artsy-types. His slogan was something like - "You're going to an elect a nut anyway - why not me?"

He was a reassuring sight for a kid far from home. Especially for one whose most vivid image from childhood was of Mr. Peanut. I've always associated that most early of memories with my father who died a couple of Thanksgivings ago. Now that I think of it, it was he who eventually wired the money for me to take the train back to Windsor after a couple of months of playing hippie in Vancouver.

But most importantly, it was he who first introduced me to Mr. Peanut on that winter night outside the department store in Windsor. It was he who encouraged me to shake his hand and get that free small plastic bag of Planters dry-roasted as my reward.

On the TV and in the magazines, there were other more 'manly' advertising characters at the time - Mr. Clean, the Jolly Green Giant, Tony the Tiger. But Mr. Peanut always reminded me of my Dad - the strong and silent type. He didn't have to exploit his size by bragging or doing heroic deeds. He let his character do all his talking for him.

I don't claim to be that good of a father. But I try and every once in a while I somehow manage to get things right.

Would my own father take advantage of his child by making a bet knowing the kid didn't know better? And then keep the money? Probably not. But as a parent I had to ask myself this - If it were me, how would I feel about making a bet knowing that the other person only bets on sure things?

And after about five seconds of deep soul-searching I had to honestly admit that if it were me, I'd like to be taught a good lesson.

Yep, I took his $50. Nuts to you, son!

What Would Paul Van Meerbergen Do?

2010-11-13T00:00:00.000-08:00

Lots of chatter by the local radio talk-show guys yesterday about Mayor-elect Joe Fontana's request to have his Coronation ceremony moved from the traditional site of council chambers at City Hall to the more opulent setting of Centennial Hall.

The usual Fontana apologists and gloaters were pretending that Joe's proposal was a good idea. That it was part of making municipal politics more inclusive to everyone. That it's a refreshing way of making boring old London City Council meetings more show-bizzy.

Never mind the fact that the City just spent millions on renovations to Council chambers and the swearing-in of the new council would be the first time the space would officially be used by this latest incarnation of 'Everyone You Hated in High School.' Never mind that taxpayers would be footing the bill to rent the glitzy Centennial Hall and have it staffed for that few minutes of "I swear to blah,blah,blah."

True, it would give a bit more pomp to the historic occassion when Joe is crowned King, but it won't be showbiz. It won't provide a little "flash and dash" - as one radio pundit suggested. ... Instead, it's more like "a little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants."

Joe's fan-base and consiglieres know damn well that this is just a bad move. It doesn't look good. This is the guy who successfully campaigned on the promise of getting rid of all the waste at City Hall. Putting an end to unnecessary spending. This is the guy who promised no proptery-tax increase for his entire four-year term. All coming from a guy who don't even live in town and pay the same property taxes as the rest of us.

The main reason this guy got himself elected in the first place was because enough sap-heads actually believed his guff about fiscal accountability. And before he even takes office he wants US to throw HIM a party at OUR expense for HIS swearing-in ceremony?!?

On MY dime?! What's this guy's catchphrase? "JUST PICK UP THE DAMN TAB!"

One of his AM-radio apologists suggested yesterday that this big splashy event would be good because it would get Londoners interested and start talking about municipal government. Well, he's right in one sense. It's got Londoners talking alright. But they aren't saying nice things about Fontana. Or else they are keeping their mouths shut and their second-doubts to themselves. They realized they've been had. And it's only taken two-weeks before the first broken promise. And the guy ain't even on the job yet.

Because EVERYONE knows that this request for the venue change has nothing to do with 'transparency' or 'accessibility' for the public to take part in the democratic process. That's just a loada crap.

Rather, it is all about Ego. A big ego. For a guy who already has a big head as it is.

The Mayor-elect would do well to ask himself just one question the next time he pulls a boneheaded stunt like this.

But first, Joe has to remind himself about the real and ONLY reason he got elected. And the truth is it's because he stole a page from the Paul Van Meerbergen book on municipal governence. City Councillor Paul VanTheMan (pictured at the top of this post,) keeps getting re-elected in this town because he talks the talk and walks the walk. He's the tightest guy on council when it comes to parting with a buck and he begrudges every dollar misspent as if it was coming out of his own wallet.

So, Joe - the next time you want to throw taxpayer dollars away on another vanity project, ask yourself this - "If Paul Van Meerbergen were Mayor - what would Paul do?"

The Romantic Misadventures of Dwight T. Middleman - Widower

2010-10-31T04:18:00.000-07:00

INTRODUCTION

Here's the scenario for the ongoing trials and tribulations of Dwight T. Middleman - recent widower.

Dwight T. is just settling into his second marriage when his wife Dorothea has a seizure while they are in the act of love-making and dies.

Both had busy careers and so this was an activity which 'D & D' (as they affectionately referred to themselves,) only indulged in once a week as a prelude to jumping back into the dog-eat-dog world. Every Sunday night, right after 'Desperate Housewives.'

With the exception of Dorothea, no one was more surprised than Dwight when she died in his arms. When she went into convulsions and thrashed around, he just assumed that he had finally discovered that 'G-spot' thing he had read about in Dorothea's back issues of Cosmopolitan.

"YES!" he thought to himself at the time - I be Da Man!

But when she didn't wake up when it was his turn, Dwight got worried and then had to man-handle the woman he loved by performing CPR on her and then calling 911.

Dwight mourned for what seemed like days. In actuality it was months. Then he decided it was time to move on and so he moved on up to an early-retirement community highrise called 'Stayin' Alive' on the outskirts of town. Second-floor balcony apartment right over the shuffleboard court.

It should be pointed out that Dwight just felt that he needed a change. He was still almost five years shy of the official retirement age. And for someone who had spent the major part of his life in the accounting department of Lumley's Automotive Parts, mandatory retirement couldn't happen fast enough. Dwight had sensed a change in the women at work not long after he had stopped wearing black after Dorothea's untimely demise - as he preferred to refer to it.

He had noticed that the sympathetic smiles now came with a barely noticeable accompanying flick of the tongue along the lower lip. He had noticed that when two of them were at the water-cooler, they stopped talking as he passed them on his way to the can.

Occassionally, he would catch snatches of their whispers after he had squeezed past them - "did you hear, she died in the saddle, riding Custer's horse onto Little Big Horn." Or "Word is that he had pleasured her to death."

In all truthiness, if Dorothea was around to comment, she would appraise Dwight as having been a good provider and a good father-figure for their two cockadoodle pups - Paris and Blanket. And that he was a kind ("kinda gentle, then kinda rough") but adequate lover on their weekly romps in the sack.

Like all men of course, Dwight thought he was more than adequate. As Dwight T, was prone to yelling out upon reaching his climax - "The 'T' is for TERRRRRIIIIFFffic." As far as he was concerned, as a stud, Dwight was the greatest thing since the discovery of ejaculation.

And on the sixth month anniversary of Dorothea's death, Dwight unexpectedly found himself back in the dating game again. Unexpected because this time around, he made no effort. In fact, a relationship with a woman was the last thing he wanted. And that seemed to only make them want him more. To Dwight's complete dismay, things just kind of fell in his lap.

Before long, Dwight was getting more tail than you could shake a turkey drumstick at.

No one was more surprised about this than Dwight. At the age of 59, Dwight looked good for his age but even he knew that his days as an Adonis were long behind him. Just the same, although he made no effort at living a healthy lifestyle, he still looked pretty good. In recent years he had detected a slightly receding hairline which was barely noticeable if he tilted his head upwards at a certain angle. He was about twenty pounds overweight, but that disappeared when he sucked in his gut. And the black-frame glasses he had worn since high-school were now back in style and so he looked cool again.

But when it came to women, Dwight didn't understand it at all. Suddenly, he was the man every woman wanted to sleep with. They were all curious about a man who could deliver an orgasm so intense it could possibly kill you. Like snatching Life from the jaws of Death. In his social world, at parties, after he had left the room, Dorothea's old friends would whisper and then giggle about 'Mister Terrific.' At work, their code name for him was 'Don Draper.'

Dwight of course, never said 'no.' Whether it was some well-meaning best friend of his dead wife who told herself she was only doing this out of pity, or that crazy nutbar from the mailroom with the death wish, Dwight didn't turn any of them down. He didn't want to hurt their feelings. Plus there was the fact that after six months of mourning, he was horney. Plus there was the fact that he was lonely. He missed Dorothea.

As for the sex, sometimes it was good, sometimes it was memorable. It was never bad. As for the 'relationship' part, sometimes it was adequate. But usually, after the woman had rolled off him and fell asleep, Dwight would ask himself the same question - sometimes like a prayer of thanks, sometimes not - "What did I do to deserve this?"

Then he would remember the way Dorothea looked when she was buttering toast or when she sat up in bed reading with her glasses on and the strap of her nightgown falling off her right shoulder and then he would turn over on his side, his back to the woman and try not to cry.

Who I WON'T be Voting for Mayor

2010-10-25T08:51:00.000-07:00

It must have been a major disappointment for Jim Chapman's Army when the self-proclaimed Voice of the Silent Majority decided to keep quiet on who he thinks is best qualified for the job of Mayor.

He's had no problems suggesting who of those running for City Council should get your vote in today's election. But in the October 22nd edition of Jim Chapman's The Voice of London, in a column titled, 'A Personal Take on Anne Marie and Joe,' Jim reveals that after much soul-searching, he decided that he just couldn't do that with the Mayor's race because both leading candidates were such close personal friends of his. Have you noticed how in these Facebook days, just how cheapened that word 'friend' has become?

On the basis of their friendships, Jim wouldn't want to offend either incumbent Mayor Anne Marie or challenger Joe Fontana by endorsing the other candidate. Well, let's get this straight - as a media personality, Jim's relationship with any politician is that of a "paid friend." And vice-versa.

After the election, I'm sure that whichever one of the top two mayoral candidates do not win, that person could care less if they ever see/hear from Jim Chapman again. If Jim was such close personal friends with either of these people, how come you never see them out bowling together? How can you say you're good friends with someone when you never go bowling with them? For that matter, when was the last time Jim went fishin' with either Joe or Anne Marie?

As others have pointed out, the real reason why Jim has decided not to publicly endorse one over the other is because he doesn't want to recommend his prefered choice and then possibly lose access to the other when she is re-elected. Simple as that.

When it comes to the biggest, most important race of this entire municipal election -to say that you won't name your top pick for the top job in town on the basis of friendship is delusional at best; lazy, misleading and self-serving at the least; and a totally gutless chicken-shit move at the worse.

If I was one of Jim's Silent Majority, I'd feel a might cheated. But if they know how to read between the lines, in that same column, in assessing each of the two mayoral candidates strengths and weaknesses, Jim makes it pretty apparent who he truly favours and does so without even having the balls to name him.

You can read between the lines yourself at www.thevoiceoflondon.ca - but to spare you the time, Jim likes Joe because he believes a zero-per-cent tax-freeze without reducing services for four years is do-able. His unspoken main problem with Anne Marie seems to be that she isn't Eddie Francis, the Mayor of Windsor.

... Here at the Sonny Drysdale Presents Media Empire, I would never presume to suggest how anyone should vote. However, I have no qualms about telling you who I DID NOT vote for this morning.

We have the safe - but uninspiring - choice of Mayor Anne Marie who is basically running on her record and her on-going theme of onwards and upwards.

And then we have Joe Fontana - long-time former Liberal member of Parliament whose campaign strategy is to promise anything and everything it takes to get elected.

Here are a few of Joe's best - no increase in property taxes during his four-year term - without any cuts in services. Good luck with that one in the real world of unions and city contracts. And that's just one part of how it's not even close to being possible.

Joe will bring 10,000 new jobs to London during his term as Mayor. Well, why stop there Joe? When talking about things you have next to no control over, why not promise 50,000 new jobs? Or maybe a million-kajillion new jobs?

When there was revealed a couple of weeks ago that London was one of the worst offenders for pumping raw sewage into the Thames River because of our ancient sewer system which can't handle heavy rainfall, Joe said he'd do a complete overhaul on our sewers. All without an increase in property taxes of course.

These are all examples of why people are so cynical of politicians these days. These are perfect examples of why you have to be suspicious of anything that comes out of their mouths. These are examples of a seasoned politician who will promise people anything they want to hear because many of them are dumb enough to actually believe it.

While he was promising the moon, his promises became increasingly unrealistic in the last days of the campaign. In fact, I half expected to hear him promise to eliminate both the HST and GST sales tax; to bring home all our troops from Afghanistan before Christmas; no more referendums on Quebec separation - and to reunite the Beatles for a concert at Treasure Island Gardens out past the 401.

But the main reason I didn't vote for Joe? He don't even live here! He lives outside of town in Arva. Why would I think Joe gives a shit about my property taxes when he doesn't pay them to the same municipality himself?

I tell you, if Londoners are actually gullible enough to believe this guy's guff and make him Mayor - I'm leaving the country.

Cheap Shots at Jim Chapman's Voter 'Suggestions.'

2010-10-23T09:32:00.000-07:00

In his column for the October issue of Business London magazine, Jim Chapman did his now very tired rant on how this city council got rid of Board of Control and divvied up the Ward structure in this town so that we no longer had two representatives per ward but just one.

I agree with him about the Board of Control part. But it's done. And was done in democratic fashion, so I figure that since London, Ont. was the last city in Canada to get rid of their Board of Control, it might be time to get over it and join in the new millenium.

One of Jim's complaints in the column was how a group called Imagine London representing "a vision of a small group of social engineers" had succeeded in their scheme and "carved London into small fiefdoms where it would be easier to elect and re-elect their left-wing candidates." Boy, talk about your conspiracy theorists. Is that same group affiliated with The New World Order?

BUT - why can't you say the same thing about the other side - the right-wingers and so-called fiscally responsible bunch? It works both ways. And that's why I dread the thought of another four-years of a flip-flopping half-wit like Bud Polhill. I might say that Bud leans to the right-wing side, but depending the prevailing wind of public opinion on any given issue, he has shown an undeniable knack for leaning to the left as well.

And according to Jim's definition of the perils of the new ward system, it's also why an INCUMBENT councillor like Steve Orser has an advantage over a clearly better choice than challenger Greg Thompson.

Anyway, let's get to Jim's "suggestions" on "who should get your vote" as recorded with no explanation in yesterday's last issue before the election of Jim Chapman's Voice of London. Or is it Jim Chapman IS the Voice of London? I never know how to read that title.

In the same issue, Jim has a column about how he won't come out and endorse either of the only two real contenders for the Mayor's race because both Mayor Anne-Marie and her rival Joe Fontana are close personal friends of his.

Presumably, Jim has no such qualms about offending his friends who are running in the Ward races for City Council because he names his choices in predictable fashion.

NOTE - Jim claims to have based all his recommendations on the basis of each candidates fiscal/financial attitude, their hands-on knowledge as business people on how to spend/waste a dollar and whether or not they are "cash-conscious" when it would come to investing or throwing away your tax-dollars.

Here's Jim's picks -

Ward 1 - Bud Polhill. Quel surprise. Jim's best friend. True, Bud has had his own auto-repair business for decades. But just how fiscally responsible is he? I ask this because in the past few days, Bud has been running radio advertisements asking to be re-elected. At the end, they say something to the effect that this commercial was paid for by Citizens to Re-elect Bud Polhill.

Now, this must be pointed out - Bud has absolutely NO serious challengers in the 'battle' for Ward 1. He's more or less guaranteed the seat because he has no real competition.

So just how "cash-conscious" is it to be wasting his supporters' donations (or even worse, some of his own money,) on expensive radio-spots when everyone knows he's a shoo-in anyway?

Oh, I suppose a cynical person might suggest that by repeating the name "Polhill" over and over again, some voters might get confused and think that it's a commercial for his son Steve Polhill who is running in Ward 2 - but I'm not that jaded.

Ward 2 - Steve Polhill. Cash-conscious? Would a grown man still have to depend on his dad for his weekly allowance? Oops, I meant paycheque. Also running - incumbent Bill Armstrong - who unwillingly has had to feud with the Polhill clan in the hills of East London for years but who also has a long history of being re-elected by the people who live out there.

Ward 3 - Henry Zupanac. I don't know much about him but I know he isn't Joe Swan who is also running. Swan is a one-time NDPer and former Board of Controller who kicked off the whole movement to get rid of Board of Control and yet when elected to it, did nothing to get rid of it. Gina Barber, he ain't. But if I lived there, I'd vote for him. Talk about fiscally-responsible? Since leaving city politics, Joe is the guy who saved Orchestra London from their very likely inevitable death.

Ward 4 - Steve Orser - Now this is the really puzzling one of Jim's endorsements. Because Steve has been VERY LOUD about having City Councillors become FULL-TIME JOBS. Which of course means full-time pay. And presumably, the same full-time benefits most places offer. As for a pension, who knows how far his greed exceeds?

The head-scratching part of Jim's endorsement though is he is totally against this idea. In fact, the other day on his radio program, he went into full-blown rant&rave mode about how city-council members were "OVERPAID" as it was - "Forty grand for a part-time job?! Give me a break!"

Then there's that whole 'back-yard chickens' thing and how Steve thinks London could get in on the ground floor of the business of making diapers for chickens.

Geeeezzzz! This one was a joke, right Jim? You threw that one in to make sure no one was sleeping?

Wards 5 and 6 - no recommendation from Jim on either. Apparently, if you live in those two parts of town, Jim couldn't care less who represents you. Just so you know - in Ward 6, incumbent Nancy Branscombe is running. In Ward 7, incumbent Joni Baechler is running. Both are the top two Killer B's and neither did an interview with The Voice. They are what Jim refers to as 'social engineers' and left-wingers. And they are running against people with such little public profile that Jim won't even talk about that race. In short, both 'B's are on Jim's shit-list.

Ward 7 - Justin Samlal. Don't know him but Jim has been blowing his horn on the radio a lot lately. "I really have a lot of time for this kid. 'Kid,' I say? Well he's nearly 30." Now, that just sounds scary to me. I wish you well Justin.

Who else with more experience in knowing city hall is running in Ward 7? Why, Phil McLeod! Former editor of the London Free Press and The Londoner. Hmmm, did Jim ever have a weekly column in The Londoner? And when Rogers-Television didn't pick up Jim Chapman's talk show, didn't they replace it with a similar local-affairs program hosted by - wait for it - Phil McLeod?

Ward 8 - Paul Hubert. Good for you, Jim. You finally got one right. I'm guessing Herm talked him into this one.

Ward 9 - Dale Henderson. That's Dale who should not be confused with Ward rival Gina Barber, also of the Killer B's. Dale is the fellow who bought the old IMAX Theatre at the Western Fair and turned it into a Musical Theatre Hall. He must know what he's doing because when I first heard of his plans, frankly, I thought the man was nuts. I just assumed he would be out of business in a year. Because London has a long tradition of doing that to people who want to open a new entertainment venue here. So good for him!

But as much as I admire Dale for sinking his life-savings into this venture - to do such a thing in THIS TOWN shows that he's also a gambler. I don't know if I want someone gambling with my tax-dollars.

Ward 10 - Paul VanMeerbergen. I love this guy. I'm only sorry he didn't run for Mayor. I would have voted for him. Say what you will about his chintziness with a dollar, but it's all genuine. Not nuts about the fact that there wouldn't be any city dollars going towards arts, recreation or culture (this is the guy who once suggested closing city pools and reducing snow-removal as ways to cut-back on city-expenses in our budget,) but if Mayor, from what I've heard, Paul would only have one vote. Hopefully, wiser heads would prevail.

Ward 11 - Denise Brown. Works for Aboutown Transportation, one of Jim's clients in his public-relations consulting business. 'Nuff said. She very well might be cash-conscious. She sent flyers out through the bulk-mail route via Canada Post which seems a pretty cost-efficient way of doing things. But I received two of them the very same day. True, it likely was just a mistake on the part of my mailman, but my first thought was, 'Geez, what a spendthrift!'

Denise's main competition is the incumbent and a former member of provincial parliament with the NDP, David Winninger who isn't stingy with his vote when it comes to tax-dollars being spent on friviolities such as public housing, culture and skate-board parks for bored teenagers as a way to keep them out of trouble and off the streets.

Ward 12 - Harold Usher. I don't get this one. Harold was more than happy to get rid of Board of Control. But maybe that's the 'cash-conscious' side of the guy.

Ward 13 - Chris Edgar. Not long ago, Jim spent about half his show talking about the importance and significance of election signs. And that they can be an indication of whether people in the community support you and your ideas and vision to such an extent that they would donate money to your campaign and you could afford to have a few signs made up.

Well, unlike Chris Edgar, I live in Ward 13 and without exception, all the signs (and there are LOTS of them,) on my street are for the incumbent Judy Bryant. In fact I haven't seen even ONE sign on this side of the Thames for either Chris or he other candidate Mary Bray. But I understand the sad reality it is for a newcomer like Chris Edgar to raise funds your first time out. I'll say this for her, she went door to door all by herself this past Sunday and I liked her flyer. Especially the part of hoping to do something about the Springbank Dam fiasco. No one else in this election has even brought that issue up and she might just get my vote for it.

But I don't expect she will get many more. I suspect that Jim's endorsement is because incumbent Bryant is also one of the 'B's he loves to hate.

Ward 14 - Jared Zaifman. Sounds good to me. Given the choice of some of the other candidates, including former underachieving councillor Sandy White who was defeated in the last election - well, why not?

Besides, Jared bought an advertisement in the latest issue of 'The Beat' magazine and it is placed opposite my monthly column 'Drysdale's World.'
... see, I'm just as much a shill and blatant opportunist as Jim, but at least I'm honest about it.

Jared is young, but I tellya, I gotta lotta time for this kid. Kid? What am I saying, he looks to be in his thirties and is also a successful businessman with some good fresh ideas. AND he supports a local Arts magazine. How many candidates are smart enough to do that?

Jim Chapman - Follow the Money

2010-10-23T05:33:00.000-07:00

From the October 22nd edition of 'Jim Chapman's The Voice of London,' in an column called 'Downtown: The Heart of the Matter,' Jim gives a good free plug for Ward 13 City Council candidate Mary Bray and quotes at length from her campaign material about the importance of our historic downtown, preserving heritage buildings etc.

Now, as the councillor who represents downtown, incumbent Judy Bryant has been saying all this stuff in council chambers for the past two terms and is downtown London's biggest booster and most vocal advocate - AND actually gets things done.

But why quote Judy when you have access to Mary Bray's election flyer. To tell you the truth, until 71-year-old Bray announced her candidacy a couple of months ago, I didn't even know she was still alive, let alone living in town. Mary Bray, as everyone knows is the former business partner of Downtown London's Biggest Landlord - who just also happens to be the most important client in Jim's public-relations consulting business.

What Jim is leading up to in all this is the new retail development to be built on the existing parking lot at "Richmond and Clarence" streets. Well actually Jim, it's Richmond and CARLING - but that's okay.

It's to be a giant Shoppers Drug Mart. The big kind which also sells groceries. Everyone keeps saying if you want people to move and live downtown, we need a grocery store there. Well, for the time being, this is as good as we're going to get.

What ruffles Jim's feathers is that overtop the store, there will be office space for rent. There is also talk of residential space for rent, but Jim doesn't mention that.

Downtown office space is a big issue for Jim. According to him, many city councillors "fail to grasp the essential reality of London's downtown: we have too much empty office space, more than 700,000 square feet of it in fact."

Not so uncoincidently, most of that space is owned by Downtown London's Biggest Landlord. Now, I'm no financial genius, but it would seem to me that if there is a glut of unrented office space downtown, it might be a good idea to STOP BUYING HALF EMPTY OFFICE BUILDINGS! Such as the recent purchase of the Market Tower at Richmond and Dundas.

The only other person who complains about this more than Jim is Downtown London's Biggest Landlord, himself. That and about the lack of parking for the few people who do live and work in his buildings.

Which brings us to Jim's last paragraph on the matter is when he admonishes city council for its recent "approval of significant zoning exemptions for a new building at Richmond and Clarence which will eat up existing and badly needed parking spaces, provide a new home for a drug-store chain that will then close its existing outlet a block away on Dundas Street, and create thousands of feet of - wait for it - new office space!"

Can you imagine that? Normally, Jim rants about how developers have to jump through hoops of red-tape and road-blocks at City Hall when they want to initiate a new project. But now he's criticizing city council for actually trying to help this group.

God forbid, we don't want any new retail, office or residential development in our dying downtown. Especially if it means getting rid of a parking lot. Just what world is this guy fuckin' living in?

As with all head-scratching statements from Jim, all you have to do is follow the money. That drug-store chain which will close their existing store on Dundas Street when it moves into the bigger location? They currently are located in Market Tower. They are soon-to-be former tenants of Downtown London's Biggest Landlord.

Jim Chapman to Bill Brady - Watch Yer Ass!

2010-10-08T21:38:00.000-07:00

(photo lifted without permission from Butch McLarty's www.altlondon.org )

Dear Readers - and welcome to all you first time callers and any long-time listeners out there.

In search of a good example of a 'Jim Chapman Boner of the Week', I went to the Radio 980 website. I had heard bits of Jim's lecture this morning and it occured to me that this 'Bill Armstrong' fellow might want to sue him.

I won't bore you with the details but if you want the actual re-broadcast and hear it for yourself, it's not hard to find. ... that's AM-Radio 980 - or the old 'CFPL' you would tune into to when you were a kid and it was a Snow-Day and your mom didn't believe you.

Well, I went to the 980 website looking for the archives of today's broadcast, but didn't make it there.

Got stopped at the 'Bio' for Jim Chapman,

Turns out that he is not only the "Voice of London" - kinda of a stretch, since London voters have told him in no uncertain terms that 'NO, YOU DO NOT SPEAK FOR ME,' in three elections.

Then there's his claim to being the 'Talk of the Town.' If true, Gott helpen London.

But it was his latest self-proclaimed undeserved claim for Greatness, which really says everything you need to know about the man's immense ego.

Check out this from the Radio 980 website's biography - "The Dean of London talk show hosts ..."

"The Dean" ???

"The DEAN" ????!!!???

... the 'Dean' as in 'Walter Cronkite'? The 'Dean' as in 'Edward R. Murrow?

Oh, that's right. Jim likes to use the excuse that he's not a 'journalist' - he's a regular guy who just happens to have his own radio show because he has just the right amount of sponsors in the development business to fund his air-time.

But 'The Dean'?

Well friends, I can't claim to know ALL the people involved in what makes good interesting 'talk' broadcasting in this town - but after listening for decades, I can tell you this -

that list would start with BILL PAUL, the absolute master of knowing how to talk to someone on the air and make them sound interesting.

there are the other obvious names as well - Steve Garrison, Ryan Spence, Pete James, Andy Noodleman, Shauna Rae ... and over at the other station, the now-retired Peter Garland and that McArthur fellow.

I've been listening to Jeff McA doing the talk show bit for about a year and he's the future of Local Talk Radio in this town. Usually knows what he's talking about, not afraid to make an opinion and able to walk that fine line of knowing how talk to callers with differing thoughts without sounding like a rude close-minded jerk about it. And most importantly - he's not a shill for advertisers. He don't suck up to anyone.

But for Jim Chapman to call himself 'the Dean,' shows nothing but disresect for Mister Bill Brady, the guy who pioneered in this town the very same thing of which Jim claims to be the grand-daddy. AT THE VERY SAME STATION!

Personally, I didn't really like Brady's show. But in retrospect, it was a generational thing - my parents were into Elvis and I was more of a Herb
Alpert and the Tijuana Brass kinda kid.

Then, as of now, Bill Brady, as an opinion-editorialist for the London Free Press, where he sends in an column every two weeks or so from Florida about how the young people are starting to wear tatoos and their skirts too short, yes, even I roll my eyes. Rory Leishman, he ain't. BUT, say what you will, Bill Brady IS and deserves to be THE DEAN of talk-radio in this town.

For anyone else to claim that title - while Bill is still alive(!) and at his old station (!) is about as disrespectful of our industry's Veterans as you can get.

Needless to say, it's also the the ultimate in self-delusion. But that goes without saying. I mean, if he's that far deluded in just where how brightly his star will ultimately shine (and for goodness sakes, we're only talking about morning show London Ontario AM-radio here!) just how seriously can you take anything else he says?

But as for the here and now - regardless of how irrelevent Bill Brady is in the Facebook/Twitter age where everyone has a tatoo- DEAN BILL BRADY has left his mark. ... Just the other day, I was listening to the Mister Know-It-All News Hour on Bill's old station and one of the current host's fans called in (after dragging her cat out of a tree and taking her pills for her lumbago,) and asked, "Bill? ... Is that you, Bill? Well-sir, it's almost the Thanksgiving weekend. Are we still going to be doing the Bunny Bundle this year?"

May 'Dean' Chapman be so lovingly remembered.

C'mon Jim. Sure you've been on the radio for a few years, but please have the decency to at least wait until the guy is dead before going around town proclaiming yourself as 'The Dean,' of local talk radio. Because that's just a no-class move.

And even before then, if you really want to be considered good enough for the local talk-radio hall of fame? ... Try taking some phone calls on air! That's why they call it "open-line radio."

Jim Chapman's Boner of the Week. NEW!

2010-10-05T10:55:00.000-07:00

Kinda new anyway, as of last week and heard on the Jim Chapman Lecture Series on Radio, probably on Thursday.

Jim was talking municipal election coverage and the bit of a 'dust-up' in the London Free Press and on the *other* AM-radio station in town about the 'disgraceful' condition of Veterans' Memorial Parkway and how it was full of litter and garbage and overgrown.

If you paid any attention to this you would know that Ward 2 candidate Steve Polhill (son of current Board of Controller Bud Polhill who now hopes to be elected city-councillor in Ward 1,) was mounting a volunteer effort for this past Sunday to get the Parkway cleaned up. Then he complained through 'the social network' and then the 'mainstream media' that his rival for votes in Ward 2 - the incumbent councillor Bill Armstrong had put in an official complaint to City Hall about tax-payers dollars being used for free garbage bags for the clean-up. The implication being that Armstrong had no respect for veterans.

The Free Press did a little digging and found out that Armstrong had in fact complained to City Staff MONTHS AGO about how bad the roadway meant to honour war-veterans looked - and had been the FIRST city politician to do so. As for Steve Polhill's accusation that Armstrong had made the petty complaint about city-owned garbage bags being used for this volunteer clean-up, the Free Press reported that Armstrong had denied this and in fact, told the confidentialty people at City Hall to check their records, make them public - and this would prove that there was no communication from Armstrong for such a request.

Jim Chapman, however, when he talked about this on his current events radio show on Thursday didn't mention any of these facts which would put Armstrong in a good light. He dismissed all talk about the hostility between the candidates with a condescending "I hear they're having a bit of a tussle over there - 'twittering' and 'facebooking' back and forth." Oh, those kids!

He then went on to compliment young Steve Polhill for initiating such a positive community volunteer event. To anyone else, this 'clean-up' would be seen as an obvious blatant electioneering and grandstanding due to being organized and happening only three weekends before the election.

Jim didn't see it that way though - young Steve Polhill was just doing something on his own to show his respect for our war vets and because the City wasn't doing anything about it.

Well, of course, everyone else asked themselves - IF Steve Polhill had been so upset about this for so long, why did he wait until almost the end of campaigning to make a big deal about it?

More importantly, if he had - as he claims - to have had many discussions with Daddy 'Bud' Polhill about how bad the Parkway was, and what an insult its condition was to 'Our Boys,' then WHY didn't he just ask his dad to use his influence as a member of Board of Control and make a few phone calls and get a maintenance crew of city-workers out there? I mean, if you are a member of Board of Control, do you not have at least some kind of pull and power at City Hall? If not, what's the point? If a City Controller can't get a few city-employeed feet on the job over a period of months then he's even more inept than most of us have suspected.

No, everyone KNOWS that this was just a cheap election stunt and a very cynical and dishonest way of casting a rival candidate in a bad light in the theatre of public opinion. For proof of just how blatant the grandstanding was, all you need to know is that media-pig Steve Orser, the incumbant candidate for Ward 4 showed up to lend a hand and hopefully get his picture taken for the paper or on the TV.

Chapman himself had mentioned that *he* was planning on helping out at the clean-up. And we all got a good chuckle out of that - the image of Jim Chapman in a pair of duck-boots, a pair of coveralls borrowed from Orser, a garbage bag in his hand while he picked up litter with the other - I tellya, it's hilarious!

Of course it never happened. The day after Jim first mentioned helping out (and after suggesting that his listeners might want to do the same - for the vets,) the next day on the radio, after another reminder about the volunteer event, he then casually mentioned a flu bug which had been going through the station. As for his no-show - Quel surprise.

But that first day on the radio last week when he brought the subject up, Jim wouldn't wade into any mess that would show his best friend Bud to be the useless, ineffectual member of city-council that he is.

Instead, he did some on-air electoral endorsements.

Which brings us to Jim Chapman's Boner(s) of the Week.

"If you like Bud, you'll like Steve. He's a chip off the ol' block."

Now this ain't necessarily a good thing. Not exactly a flattering comparison during an election for municipal government.

... Does this mean that if elected to city council, Steve will emulate his dad by flip-flopping on various issues once he ascertains how the winds of public-opinion are blowing?

... Will Steve vote one way and then when questioned about it by the Free Press say something he will 'kinda' deny when interviewed about it the next day on the radio? "Well yes, I did vote that way and I did make that comment to Jonathan Sher - BUT that's not what I meant to say." Or use that old standby - 'Well city staff didn't give us all the information. And we had to vote RIGHT that minute!'

... and more importantly - if, or if not elected - will Steve Polhill follow family tradition by alerting the media ten months before the next municipal election that he is considering taking a run for the Mayor's chair?

Since Jim Chapman didn't want to get into the 'personal' politics of this specific election race, after he did all his cheerleading for Team Polhill, this is what he had to say about Steve's rival Bill Armstrong -

- "Well, ... what can you say about Bill Armstrong ..." Jim asked. Then as if grasping for *something* positive to say about him, he comes up with "... I guess the people out there like him."

Yeah, I guess they do, Jim. They like him so much that they've been re-electing him for years. They like him so much that in the last municipal election four years ago, the voters said 'No thanks' when offered a choice between Armstrong and Steve Polhill and picked him again.

But being re-elected or even elected isn't something Jim Chapman would know anything about. He's a three-time loser when it comes to running for public office. This guy couldn't get himself elected if his name was 'Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.'

And yet, despite Londoners having told him on three separate occassions that they don't like him, his politics or opinions, he still has the audacity to call himself 'The Voice of London,' and use that misnomer in his attempt to advise gullible members of 'Chapman's Army' a.k.a. 'The Silent Majority' a phrase he appropriately stole from the disgraced Richard M. Nixon. When it comes to telling people how or who to vote for, the man has as much credibility as Tricky Dick.

Now that I think of it, you don't hear Jim tossing that 'Silent Majority' thing out there much anymore. Maybe someone better versed in History than 'The Perfesser,' suggested that it might not be a good idea.

I Like David Sedaris - Don't Love him tho

2010-10-02T00:46:00.000-07:00

There's something very refreshing about waking up at 3:00 in the morning on your day off and having a cigarette in the backyard while the dog looks for squirrels and chipmunks far too smart to be up at that hour.

I'm not a smoker, but lately I've become accustomed to gratefully finding a half pack of Players Smooth Regular Smalls in my pocket on the weekends. Or hidden in my sock drawer. Next to the long empty vial of poppers I keep around just to remind myself of a long ago time in which I was once interesting.

And that morning smoke is one of the few times I actually enjoy having a cigarette these days. As everyone else is sleeping, I have a few strong leisurely drags and feel at peace with the rest of the world - who I won't even have to deal with for a few more hours.

I got into this habit - and yes, I'm honest enough to admit it's a regular thing - last spring when the weather turned nice and the dog wanted to spend some time in the backyard. 'Fine,' I thought. I'm not one to deny any living creature their right to fresh air. Or myself the chance to see a Great Dane do an instinctive roll in the grass and then chase imaginary rabbits by running in a perfect Figure-8 routine most professional ice-skaters would kill to master.

In the beginning, I'd bring out a book. And spend most of my time watching the dog and waiting for her to do the 'happy' dance that Snoopy used to do. Then, knowing my attention-span was waning, I started bringing out a magazine. Then, realizing that nothing on the printed page could hold my interest for more than five seconds, I'd bring out my collection of the most recent grocery-store flyers. But they only come out once a week so I had to resort to dragging out the London Free Press. 'Dragging out' or 'hauling out' are misleading terms because the paper itself is awfully thin. The Saturday edition can be easily read in five minutes. And that's including the Funnies - both the colour comics and that day' black-and-whites opposite the obituaries.

But it was while perusing that useless rag one morning last spring while the sun was coming up that I came upon an unexpected name in one of the advertisments in the weekend Entertainment section. I was having my first of three morning coffees and my first and last-of-the day cigarette (by this time, I knew I was hooked - but thought 'Well, if I'm gonna be out here waiting for someone to move their bowels, I might as well be doing something productive.' Which is a far more goal-worthy aspiration than what I told my mother, when she questioned me in high-school as to whether I was smoking because I liked it or because I had succumbed to peer group pressure and just wanted to look cool. It's a disconcerting feeling when your mother uses words like 'cool.' Or 'making the scene.' Or "Oh, I suppose you're just trying to be a little Henry Winkler," she would say. Then she would ask - in the worst-ever Samuel Jackson imitation - "and everyone knows what a little Henry Winkler is, don' they?" And I'd play along and say "Cool. All us little Fonzies are cool."

Kinda lame I know - but better than my response to the teachers who chaperoned our smoking pit and asked the same questions about peer-group pressure. I'd always answer "Well YEAH! Why else would I be smoking? For the good of my health?!?" If pressured as to just when I was going to quit, Mister Smarty-Pants would respond with "What do you think I'm waiting for? Christmas?" Kinda lame, I know.

And yet almost four decades later, here I sit, counting down the hours until I will permit myself to have my next one. 23 hours away.

Anyhoo, on one of the first nice days of last spring, there I sat one late April morning, having already enjoyed the first half my cigarette and trying to convince myself that the second half would be just as much fun, when I came across a big ad in the London Free Press about a reading to be given at Centennial Hall that fall by this writer guy named David Sedaris.

I immediately ordered a handful of tickets. I'm not much of a reader. But I'd read one of his books. And I can't even claim to have discovered it myself. First-born child gave it to me. 'Naked,' it was called. Maybe it was because Mavis and I had taken up the nudist life-style now that all the kids had moved out and we'd discovered the joys of cold potato soup. Despite the off-putting title, it was a true readers' delight. Every sentence was golden. Every last sentence in a paragraph was like a punchline. It was so good that I soon began taking it out to the backyard. And actually read it while the dog was doing her thing. But I wouldn't know because my eyes barely left the printed page. And, without realizing it, I would wait until the end of the chapter before I would have a cigarette. Kinda like sex, but without the intercourse part. He's a VERY funny guy.

Tickets in hand, I took First-born child, her guest and Mavis to the show last night. I paid big bucks for ninety minutes of just listening to someone read his own words. That's pretty well unheard of in this town. Jerry Seinfeld is one thing, but Sedaris is one of those guys who writes *books.* "Why doncha just take one of his books out of the library?" was the response from most people when I told them I bougut tickets for this show. We like to pretend here in Hicksville Ohio that London, ONT is this big university town where the 'Ahhts' and Kulture are revered and respected but we ain't.

Anything to do with art or creativity is either taken for granted or spoken about in the most condescending of tones - "Ohhh you're a writer! How interesting! You know, my sister had a letter printed in the London Free Press about this problem she is having with her feet. No, they aren't bunions the doctor told her and since it had to do with these growths coming out of her big toe - and both big toes, mind you - well, I said "Sister, don't you listen to him. You go see a specialist. What you need is a feet specialist. One who specializes in the big toe. And sure enough she saw this proctologist fellow. And do you know what? After that her letter was printed in the newspaper. Well, what do you think about that?!"

But I suppose just the fact that a 'name' writer like David Sedaris would even consider coming to this town (the just-released new book and being paid upfront in cash notwithstanding,) is something. And the fact that about 800 people showed up is promising. Lord knows, they all looked like they drove down from Toronto or Drumbo, but for a change, when a big name comes to town, I didn't feel embarrassed for them.

After the show and he finished signing all those books, Dave came over. We always get together when he's on the continent, and these days, that's very rarely. Only for book tours and family funerals.

Mavis and I had met him and his partner Hughie a few years back when we were on a bus tour of Provahhanschhe over in France with Mike Todd and his wife Delores. So when Dave and the Hughmeister are on this side of the pond, the six of us like to get together for some backyard ping-pong.

And last night was no exception. Of course Michael had his banjo with him. And as he plunked out a new tune that he insisted everyone listen to, Dave and I slipped out and I had a smoke on the porch.

David was telling me about how he quit smoking. It involved moving to France and taking a very long airplane ride. In fact, he'd written an entire book about it.
I thanked him for his concern and then told him to fuck off. We both laughed, we hugged, he kissed me on the cheek and shortly afterwards far too soon he was gone.

Now, here I sit at 4:30 in the morning in the backyard, Dave's new book in my lap, hoping the dog don't wake that skunk under the shed and trying not to cry as I savour the last drags of the well-loved fag in my hand.

Five minutes later, I tossed the rest of the pack in the garbage. Again.

The Return of Jim Chapman's Boner of the Week

2010-09-29T10:02:00.000-07:00

There used to be this stand-up comedian, George Miller. Middleaged guy who was one of Letterman's favorites a couple of decades ago. He did this bit based on a then popular shampoo commercial. "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful," asks the fashion model in the ad. And George says, "No, we don't hate you because you're beautiful. We hate you because you're a self-centred stuck-up bitch."

I thought of that joke this morning listening to the Jim Chapman Lecture Series on Radio 980 in its entirety for the first time in months. I specifically tuned in because I knew Jim would be talking about a story in the Free Press about City Hall looking for a new home and how Downtown London's Biggest Landlord had offered to lease them office space in the Bell Building - but the building itself was NOT for sale. It should be pointed out that Downtown London's Biggest Landlord is also Jim Chapman's most important client in his side-business as a public-relations consultant.

So I just knew Jim would have something to say in defence of his biggest client. Within minutes I realized WHY I hadn't listened to Jim for the past three months. It took that long to get a headache.

Jim kicked off the show building up to his topic du jour by pointing out that lots of people in town "Don't like me." And to paraphrase - it's all because they can't handle 'the truth.'

No, Jim - we don't like you just because you're beautiful and smarter and have more hair than the rest of us who went bald gracefully. And it's not because we can't handle the truth. It's not really so much WHAT you say but HOW you say it.

In short, no one likes you because on radio and in print you come across as AN INSUFFERABLE POMPOUS WINDBAG and due to feeling so full of yourself, you feel 'special' and 'entitled' and don't even properly prepare for your radio show.

I'm not the first person to have complained about listening to dead air for what seems like minutes at a time because Jim is looking something up on the Internet or in one of the many newspapers he brings into the studio.

In short, we no longer listen not because we don't like you - shit, as a middleaged curmudgeon, I agree with at least half of your opinions. No, we've stopped listening because your show is often a RAMBLING INCOHERENT MESS.

So there you have it. I have a bias. I don't like the guy. Why he has his own morning radio program in prime-time for AM-radio is beyond me. Because of the way he defends his developer clients and sponsors, the show is more infomercial than information.

The other two local talk-radio guys in town spent 20 minutes on the City Hall/Bell Building. Jim stretched it into an hour. Even 'real' infomercials know that the audience will only buy this self-serving crap for 30 minutes at the most.

In the interest of transparency, here is my agenda in reviving 'Jim Chapman's Boner of the Week - to discredit the man through his own words. The self-proclaimed 'Voice of London' has absolutely zero credibility in advising or suggesting who Londoners should vote for in the upcoming municipal election.

In fact, he is the very least qualified person to tell his gullible following what to do when it comes to elections. In the past, Londoners have shown in THREE different elections that they DO NOT consider Jim to be their 'Voice.'

The term 'three-time loser' comes to mind. Which reminds me - just how many times has the radio industry in this town given this guy his walking papers? Three? I don't think CHRW-FM counts because his previous illogical gig of a call-in show on a university campus-radio station (of all places! Shame on you CHRW!,) had paid-for infomercial written all over it.

Anyhoo - on to the first new edition of Jim's Boner of the Week.

Taken from last week's edition of www.thevoiceoflondon.ca

Under the new category of 'Cash Conscious Candidates' for the 'Informed Voter' Jim's first recommendations are -

1. Bud Polhill. No surprise. He's one of Jim's best friends and they share a mutual love of cars and telling each other how great the other one is.

3. That's right, number 3. Denise Brown who is running in Ward 11. No big surprise here either. Denise works for Aboutown Transportation. I'm sure she's a whiz at her job and probably is good with money but Aboutown just happens to be one of Jim's corporate clients in his PR-consulting business. ... 'Nuff said.

... as a sidenote to that, Denise is hoping to upseat the incumbent in that ward, David Winninger. I don't know how David is with petty cash, but I'm sure he must be somewhat cash-conscious because he's ran his own law-firm in a trendy downtown location for decades. However, his voting record shows that he occassionally will fritter taxpayer dollars away on friviolities like social services, culture and recreation for bored teenagers.

2. Steve Orser - that's right, Jim chose Steve as number 2. I just switched the order for dramatic effect. Now this is the most puzzling of all. Steve Orser. He's cash-conscious all right. He's the one guy running for re-election who is actually honest enough to say during an election campaign that he deserves and WANTS a raise in pay. But then again, he's also the guy who suggested London could get in on the ground floor of the business of making diapers for backyard chickens.

Like everyone else in the local media, Jim had some fun at Steve's expense over that backyard chicken issue.

So why the about-face?

Would I be wrong in suspecting that maybe Steve Orser is the newest of Jim's public-relations clients? Probably. Orser can't afford him. Maybe Steve is innocent in all this and just happens to be liked by one of Jim's other clients.

Because it just makes no sense. Steve's track record as a 'cash-conscious' councillor is less than stellar if it involves anything outside his ward. And watching the condescending way his peers treat him on council and his recent blatant-electioneering publicity stunts, I don't know how seriously anyone can take this guy.

So WHY would Jim Chapman even consider naming him the Top Second Cash-Consious Contender? Something stinks here. And it ain't any possibly-lingering stench coming from the back of Orser's big red pick-up truck.

When Jim makes recommendations like that, London voters have to ask themselves this question about Jim Chapman - Just how seriously can we take this guy?

Spot the Differences!

2010-09-04T06:47:00.001-07:00

Hey Gang!

There are at least FOUR differences between the two above pictures of the King Street pedestrian bridge at the Forks of the Thames. Can you find all of them?

A prize *may* be awarded for the first correct answer!

Holy Shit, Batman - It's Adam West!

2010-08-30T10:54:00.001-07:00

Took the kids to see 'Batman - The Movie' starring Adam West, Burt Ward from 1966 on Friday night at the Toronto Underground Cinema. As a contender for 'Best Father of the Year Award' this is something a good parent does.

The first time I did it, First-born child was about three years old when I took her to a Saturday matinee at the old New Yorker Repertory Cinema to see the movie about 25 years ago. Just like Friday night, the place was packed. But back then it was packed with mostly young parents bringing their kids and the usual downtown hipster crowd. I should point out that this was BEFORE everyone and their dog owned their own home video-cassette recorder/player.

About a year later, I took her on her first train trip. It was up to Toronto where Adam West and Burt Ward were doing a personal appearance/autograph signing at a car-show at the somewhat new Metro Convention Centre. And they were still young enough to do it IN COSTUME without looking silly. Surprisingly, this being a car show, George Barris was not there with all his Batman vehicles.

Not long after, 'Batman - The Movie' came out on VHS and I remember buying it for about ten bucks in the discount bin at Zellers in Westmount Mall. And ever since, that movie and homemade VHS tapes of the TV series have been a part of my kids' childhoods. Just like 'The Andy Griffith Show,' 'Dark Shadows,' 'Eraserhead,' 'Twin Peaks,' 'Austin Powers' and Edward Scissorhands' and 'Leave it to Beaver.' And so far, they're pretty well-adjusted kids. I grew up on most of that stuff AND the 'Three Stooges' and I'm okay.

A couple of summers ago, second-born female and the boy and I went out to Steve Plunkett's classic-car show to see Adam West and Julie Newmar (easily the best of the Catwomen,) arrive in George Barris' Batcopter and then be driven to the autograph tent via the original Batmobile - and it's true, it can't go faster than 30 miles per hour. I believe that has already been documented on this blog so I won't rehash all that.

... anyhoo, the opportunity to see Adam West at a big-screen screening of the original movie was too much to pass up as a 'family event.' Even though I made sure that all my kids had personal autographs from Adam West, we had never seen the original movie on the Big Screen together.

And I gotta tellya - last Friday night, that theatre just rocked with laughter. It was a verification that regardless of what all the purists - and 'serious' film critics will tell you, the 1966 movie and the TV-series is a far more entertaining film - moment for moment - than the later works by Tim Burton and Christopher Nolan.

Even before the opening credits, this is what you see written on the screen - "This movie is dedicated to lovers of adventure, lovers of pure escapism, lovers of unadulterated entertainment and lovers of the ridiculous and the bizarre."

And *everyone* in the theatre Friday night GOT it. Easily the most fun I've had in a movie theatre since the midnight 'Rocky Horror Picture Show' screenings at the New Yorker a few decades ago.

After the movie, Adam West (in town with former co-stars Burt Ward and Julie Newmar for autograph signings at FAN EXPO,) came out for a Question & Answer session. For someone who is 82, he looks pretty good - and has a sharp wit.

Here are a couple of the highlights -

Question - Do you ever see Burt Ward these days?
Answer - "He's outside right now waiting in the limo."

Question - When was the last time you put on the old costume from the TV-show anymore?
Answer - "Last night in the hotel room."

City Councillor Declares War on Nazi War Criminals

2010-08-18T07:36:00.000-07:00

Ward 14 City Councillor Stefan Orlon is to address London's Community and Protective Services Committee on Monday regarding the problems of Nazi mad-scientist war-criminals living in the community.

Orlon is asking that a task-force be created to address this on-going non-issue. He would like to see a hand-book created so that parents can educate their children about the dangers of associating with known Nazi mad-scientists who may have moved here in large numbers from Argentina in recent years.

"As the father of an impressionable 16-year-old boy who wears Doc Martens and has a skin-head haircut, I worry what would happen if he fell in with the wrong crowd and came under the influence of Dr. Joseph Mengele," says Orlon, referring to the infamous German S.S. officer and physician who was cynically known as the "Angel of Death" because of his cruel and sick experiments on the inmates of the concentration camp Auschwitz during World War 2.

To that end, Orlon says he would also like the task-force to create a "mapping system" which would identify the general location on a city street of any former Nazi mad scientist, so that parents could instruct their children to be aware of the danger by not playing on that side of the road and not be fooled into promises by seemingly kind elderly neighbours to "come here and let me see if I can take that sliver out of your finger."

Orlon is convinced that the mapping system would not promote vigilantism "because most people are still scared shitless of Nazi's today anyway. Let alone the ones who are evil mad scientists bent on restoring the Third Reich after reactivating Hitler's brain. Seriously, do you want your child around people like that?"

When asked about the timing of his latest crusade, Orlon declared that it was mere coincidence that the approaching municipal election of which he is a candidate is only two months away. "This is not a matter of blatant electioneering or a cheap, lazy attempt to get my name in the media," claimed Orlon.

"I am just trying to fulfill a campaign promise that I had made in the last election," he explained. Asked why it took him almost four years to start working on that campaign promise, Orlon confessed that he had been distracted by trying to count his chickens before they hatch.

How I Spent My One-Week Vacation, Part 1

2010-08-15T09:28:00.001-07:00

Ola. Long time since I last rapped at ya. But my lumbago has been acting up and I've got a tetch of the misery and my trick knee keeps going out so I haven't really felt like blogging. What with all the physio I have to do. And on top of all that last week my Ford Fiesta died. No, wait a minute, that was Jim Anchower's car.

My car is running fine actually. Mavis and I gave it a good workout (gas-pedal and back-seat,) during the one-week vacation I'm just finishing up today. I bet we went through every small town in this part of of Ontario and beyond in the past 10 days.

From the Niagara region to Sarnia to North Bay. And you know what? All small towns don't look the same. Oh sure, they all have two churches at the second intersection off Main Street, and they all have an LCBO on the outskirts of town and they all have a Sobeys but other than that they truly are different.

Anyway. Got off work Friday morning at 7:00, had a quick nap and then drove up to Welland for an outdoor Andy Kim concert. They have this night-time music-series called 'Illuminaqua' set along the recreational canal. A floating stage just off the bank, and surrounding that about 100 of these pod (think of the bottom half of a very-big Weber round charcoal barbeque) things sticking out of the water on both sides and behind the stage. Guys in gondola-looking kyacks come along, fill them with firewood and then light them about dusk. It's an outdoor concert so you can hear it from anywhere and people line up on both sides of the canal to hear it for free - not unlike 'Rock the Park' at Harris Park. Or you can pay the giant sum of $10 for reserved seating to sit in the amphitheatre set-up they have in front of the stage. I decided to splurge and spend the 20-bucks. What the hell, it's 'vacation' money.

There was an opening act. This girl from Quebec with an acoustic guitar and someone else accompanying her on guitar. She sang these folk-music type songs with a bit of melodic pop feel. I think there must be some big federal-government grant money given to support Illuminaqua (hence the subsidized price of the tickets - It's 30-bucks a ticket at every other Andy Kim concert I've been to this year,) because the girl sang every song in French. And Welland is known for John Deere, not for having a big French community.

So part of the appeal wasn't just Andy Kim but what a great venue.

And it occured to me that London, Ont. could do the same type of thing at the Forks of the Thames. But that will never happen because for one thing, with Springbank Dam being busted for the past three years or so there's not enough water deep enough at the forks to keep afloat a kyack let alone a canoe, let alone a gondola-type vessle. At the moment, you could probably walk across the river-forks and yes, you would get a 'soaker' but you certainly wouldn't get your knees wet. If you were wearing shorts - even Burmeudas - they'd still be dry.

And of course, this being London, we have a City Council that just wouldn't go for putting on a cheap concert-series with 'name' acts for the people who live here AND tourists. City councillor Paul VanthemanBeergarten would oppose it for the same reason he opposes anything involving the Arts. Because he hates spinich. Even though it would create a few jobs. Summer jobs, but jobs just the same. And the usual grandstanders and wagon-hoppers would go along with him.

So let's face it. Something like Illuminaqua just ain't gonna happen here. To quote Michael Todd when asked about the danger of a Link Wray concert selling out at Call the Office - "That ain't gonna happen. Yer in London, man."

Anyhoo, the Andy Kim concert was as good as the post you can read below of his show in Belleville two months ago. Afterwards he sat down at the merchandise table to sign stuff. Here's a couple of things I like about the guy. When told by the Parks & Recreation people that he would only have 20 minutes because they wanted to go home, he said, "No, I'll be here until all these people in line have been taken care of." ... during the concert, he played one of a few new songs and thanked the audience for their indulence in politely listening to his first album of new material in 20 years - and then talked about how happy he was to be given the opportunity to have this "second kick at the can."

And lastly, when Mavis and I were at the merch. table and got to shake the actual hand which co-penned 'Sugar, Sugar,' being the considerate fan I am, I gave him a gift in return - and he was genuinely pleased. You can see it at the top of this post. One of two sheets of uncut jukebox title-strips. One was for his first single, 'How'd We Ever Get This Way.' The other for his last Number 1 song - the self-financed (making him one of Canada's first truly indie-artists,) 'Rock Me Gently.' I gave them to him 'framed' in a couple of empty CD 'jewel' cases.

And got him to sign the extra strip I had for myself. He was quite taken aback at these objects and said, "I have to ask, Sonny - are you in the jukebox business?"

Nope. Bought them on Ebay. Where else? But I thought it rather astute of the man to think that I might still be making a living at a business which has been dying a slow death for well longer than the past decade. Story of my life.

Reminding Myself Why I Haven't Gone to Home County in like DECADES!

2010-07-18T05:22:00.000-07:00

Went to the Home County Folk Festival last night. That's 'Folk' as in Folk Music for any of you out-of-staters who may be reading this. As for 'Home County'? Your guess is as good as mine. For one thing, correct me if I'm wrong, but London, Ohio is located in Middlesex County. But then again, since this whole Home County Festival was dreamed up by a bunch of hippies in the early 1970s, maybe it has more to do with being in a certain 'county of mind,' if you know what I mean - and been smoking.

It certainly ain't my home county. My home county is that of Essex. And I grew up in the county-seat, which was Windsor, Ont. My family moved here in 1975 because of job-promotion reasons. I was 19 or 20, maybe 21 and chose to come with them because I wanted to go to Grade 13 and finish my high-school educayshiown. Like Jethro Bodine, I'm a slow learner. And my prosects for staying in Windsor were to try and land a job in an auto-related factory or die an early death of drug and alcohol abuse which seemed to be becoming a pattern with most of the people I went to high-school with.
Having never been fond of work and having just read 'The Godfather,' 'Animal Farm' and 'Love Story,' the same year in English class, I chose London.

And for the most part, have never regreted it. I can't stand the way this town is run. Our municipal politicians are such a joke that I usually vote for Ivan for Mayor, and with a few exceptions, the local media covering all this stuff is even more of a joke. And don't even get me started on local AM-radio talk show hosts.

That all said, I truly do like it here. I feel comfortable here. The city itself is just as sprawling mess, but at its core, it's the biggest small town in Canada. For better or worse. It's like Mayberry. Or that small town in that 'Twilight Zone' episode where the guy nods off on his commute train ride home every night and dreams of being in a place called 'Willoughby.'

And even though we moved to Bryon, meaning I went to Saunders for Grade 13 (then, easily the snootiest school in town - "Ohhh, we're so cool - our school is only three years old. And we're all Westmount jocks and bitches. And you hillbillies from Byron don't even live in London." ... I came to like it here. I met Mavis here. I met friends who have been with me for over three decades. I feel like a London native. But in this town, if you happen to be transplanted, that means you have to have lived here a minimum of two decades before you have the right to bitch.

Well, I've paid my dues. And then some. So let's get back to the topic at hand. Cockburn.

Mavis wanted to go see Bruce Coburn at the Folk Festival last night. Even though I took here to see him a quarter-century ago because I really wanted to see his opening act, Jane Siberry who was then the Next Big Thing thanks to 'Mimi on the Beach.' So this time I wasn't too keen on going because I'd seen him before But even though Mavis was going with her friend Aleisha (who has actually seen Bruce twenty times already) apparently my presence was expected.

I didn't kick up too much of a fuss. Because after all, there are a lot worse fates than having to go listen to a Canadian icon for FREE on a Saturday night. Heck, it would be worth it for 'If I Had a Rocket Launcher' alone. And even though I was disappointed that the looming thunderstorm never did show up and I had just poppped 'Pulp Fiction' into the VCR, I didn't struggle when Aleisha showed up to drive us down.

And as we walked through Victoria Park, I was immediately reminded as to WHY I haven't been to this particular summer festival in decades.

... a little background info here. When we moved here in the summer of '75, as a new kid in town (meaning 'no friends,') I heard about the folk festival and took the bus downtown for the opening Friday night. I had recently gone through my lumberjack phase (it just so happens that I was a Junior Forest Ranger, you know. Stationed two hours north of Wawa,) and as far as I was concerned, no one spoke to my heart and soul more than Mr. Neil Young.

So I went to Victoria Park that night with the right attitude. At that time, there were maybe a handful of booths selling crafts and shit on the borders of the park. In fact, the first time me and Mavis went there we bought a couch out of a bus that Layman House had parked at the side of Wellington. As for food venders, it was all local stuff and restaurants. I still remember placing my order at the Smales Pace booth, waiting for it to be made and then the chick working there finally yelling out, "Hey, where's the cat that wants the cobs?"

Corn on the cob in hand, I sat down on the grass in a big area between the walkways and had a good view of the stage. It was just far enough away that you could hear the music if you wanted to - or carry on a conversation without being distracted - if you didn't want to. It was right in the middle of that walkway in front of the seating area to the bandshell and the walkway close to Wellington. Far enough in between that when the cops did their hourly walk-thru, they wouldn't be able to smell any mary-jane or see your wine-skin. It was *that* cool. I was too young to make it to Woodstock but I had been to one of the first "Be-In"s on the Easter weekend in Vancouver a couple of years earlier and I gotta tell ya, Home County was the real deal.

Mavis and I got married a coule of years after that and would go down there on the opening Friday night and then Sunday afternoon with her sister and my new brother-in-law to sit in the same spot and dig the scene. That was good for about five years. And then children came. And it just wasn't fun anymore.

And part of the reason it stopped being fun was because even by the early 1980s, it was becoming apparent that the emphasis was now on Craft booths and expensive fast-food stands. Took my own kids there for a walk-through one Saturday afternoon when they were still pre-schoolers. And just hated it.

Mobs of people from the suburbs and as for the music, it just served as background noise. Certainly 98-per-cent of the people there couldn't care less about the music. They were there because they wanted to go to a Craft show. Or because their wives made them.

Well, truth be told, I originally didn't go there for the music either. I don't really like 'folk' music. Mostly because to get anything out of a song, you actually have to listen to the words. And because most of the performers consider themselves to be such precious f_in' poets, they wouldn't know a good hook, riff or melody if 'El Kabong,' himself banged them over head with his guitar.

But I like Bruce Coburn. He *does* know how to pen a tune that will stick in your head. So I didn't mind going last night.

Only to get there and immediately noticed that where Mavis and I used to sit - in the middle of that green space with a clear view of the bandshell - the view was obstucted by a non-ending string of French-Fry sheds and tented craft booths where women with bad teeth and guys with receeding hairlines and pony-tails sell clocks set in wood.

Particularly galling was the fact that the widest of these tents blocking the view of the stage was the one for "Home County Folk Festival INFORMATION." Nearby was a big aluminum shack selling 'Funnel Cakes' - a franchise operation based out of Toronto. Come to think of it, I didn't notice too many locally-based food vendors. And for sure, any cat hankering for a cob would be out of luck.

Anyhoo, our friend Aleisha wanted to be close so she could see Bruce's face and an hour before show-time we grabbed the very last available spots in the seating area in front of the bandshell.

Five minutes before Bruce is scheduled to step on stage for his 9:35 performance (only in London, Ohio would we advertise the time as '9:35' - because people might get pissed and leave it he isn't on the stage at precisely 9:30,) and right on cue, the assholes show up to STAND in front of the people who had staked out their spots two hours earlier. Now, the only view they had was of the expansive backsides of demin-clad lardassness.

At that point I said 'Screw this shit,' made my apologies to Mavis and Aleisha and excused myself and went to spend the rest of the concert hanging out with my pal Al and his wife Merrilee at 'Lighthouse Dogs,' their hot-dog stand on the north-west corner of the park at Richmond and Central across the road from Joe Kools. Incidently, I can highly recommend their sausages.

I've known Al since moving to this town 35 years ago. Never in that time was I able to talk him into going to Home County. But due to work-committments he was there last night. We smoked, we laughed, we had a pop and he indulged me by pretending that my Rodney Dangerfield impressions were actually good.

I had the time of my life. And afterwards when Mavis and Aleisha joined us after the concert, they said the show was great. Like I said, I've seen Bruce before, and you wouldn't expect anything less than the best from the man. He's a professional. But he didn't do 'If I Had a Rocket-Launcher,' so I don't regret missing him.

... In closing, if this review of the concert is insufficient, here are a few choice lines from the review in the London Free Press written by reporter Jennifer O'Brien. I like Jen. She's one of my favorite writers down there. But she normally covers the education/ethnic/occassionally the police beat. I'm guessing the two-person Entertainment Department of the Freeps must have had the night off.

But here's some of what Jen noted - "The audience filled the bandshell area ... and then spilled out beyond it, even onto the grass behind walls of vendors."

... "Even those who weren't luck enough to see Cockburn were happy." 'This is incredible, it's amazing,' said Jeff Scott, a fan who had come with his wife Sandra from Toronto for the free event. Though the couple had been at the park all afternoon, they ended up catching the show from a bench with a Funnel Cakes vendor between them and the stage. 'I caught glimpses of him through the booth,' he laughed."

Geez, talk about deja view. And THAT'S why I probably won't be going back. Unless they book Andy Kim.

I Felt the Earth Move

2010-06-26T04:22:00.000-07:00

According to reliable sources, we had an earthquake here in Southern Ontario this past Wednesday - as documented in the photo above. At the time, I remember lying in bed with Mavis - when all of a sudden the bed started shaking. And apparently, about half an hour later there was an earthquake.

HAH!

I love that joke. I use it every time there's an earthquake up here. Which isn't often. I think this was about the first in over thirty years. But whenever there's one in California, presented with the right opportunity to slip that story into conversation, I don't mind bringing it out. After all, it's the only earthquake joke I know. Some people don't even know that many.

It's the perfect joke because it works on two levels. For the intelligensia, it's very dry and subtle. The sort of thing you might have read in the New Yorker a few decades ago. For the rest of us, it's a cute little sex joke. So inoffensive you can tell in mixed company. And so subtle that you can even say it in front of children because it'll go right over their heads.

The problem is that it's maybe a little *too* subtle. That's why it often also goes right over the heads of dumb people. When that happens, and I don't get any reaction after the carefully built-up punchline, I retell it. "Yeah, there we were in bed and the bed started shaking and the headboard was banging against the wall - and apparently half an hour later an earthquake struck." And then I start braying like a jackass.

I don't really like to be someone who laughs too hard at their own jokes, but with some people there's no choice. It's just too good a joke not to share.

Anatomy of a Dirty Joke

2010-06-20T05:39:00.000-07:00

Question - What did one potato chip say to the other potato chip?
Answer - "Free to lay?"

Free to lay. ... "Frito-Lay!" Get it? The potato-chip company?

Anyway, that's the only potato-chip joke I know. Some people don't even know that many. I still remember the afternoon in Grade 9 math class when Alan Tidey told it to our group and did it with that dry deadpan delivery of his. The man could have been on the Carson show.

And its stuck with me all these years. I like to save it for special occassions. Life doesn't offer too many opportunities to slip a good potato-chip joke into the conversation, so it's fresh every time.

It's one of those jokes that can be appreciated on a number of levels. For the intelligensia, it's a good example of a 'pun' - a clever play-on-words. For the rest of us, its a cute little sex joke. So harmless it could be on a greeting-card. So inoffensive it can even be told in mixed company.

Then there's the appeal it has for those with the potato-chip fetish. I don't really know what goes through the minds of such people. Oh, sure I can imagine how it might be kind of fun to roll around naked on a bed full of potato chips and then lick the crumbled pieces off each others' bodies. Maybe even introduce a French-Onion dip into the proceedings. But as to whether or not they have a sense of humour and would enjoy a good potato-chip joke, well who knows?

ANDY KIM - Making it Happen Again - Part 1

2010-06-08T12:27:00.001-07:00

... Part 2 - The Concert, is the post below this one.

Legend has it that immediately after recording the final take of 'Sugar Sugar,' on the first 'Archies' LP in 1969, everyone in the studio burst into uncontrollable joy and laughter.

Contary to popular belief, these musicians weren't the real comic-book characters but were in fact, seasoned studio-session players and singers. As professional musicians-for-hire, 'Sugar Sugar,' was undoubtably the most FUN they had ever had in a recording studio.

Who can blame them? It's arguably the goofiest AND best pop song ever written. Co-written by Rock and Roll Hall of Famer, Jeff Barry and a very young Canadian named Andy Kim, it was the Number One song of the 1969 and named Song of the Year by Billboard. Kim also sang back-up on that original recording. Ron Dante did the lead vocals. The same year, Dante had another Top 10 hit as lead singer of The Cufflinks with 'Tracey' - and the next year became editor of the high-falutin' and respected literary mag The Paris Review. Not sure if Andy Kim was supposed to be 'Reggie' or 'Jughead' on the Archies recordings.

Kim was scheduled to be in town to kick off his Canadian tour last week. More on that in the post below. As a fan of Bubblegum music, I was looking forward to it just for the opportunity to bask in the presence of Greatness.

But as a fan of Pop music, you couldn't keep me away. During the 1970s, Kim had a number of hits. Two of his most popular were covers of songs originally written by his friend and mentor Jeff Barry and Barry's songwriting partner Ellie Greenwich for Phil Spector's girl groups. Kim's versions of 'Be My Baby' and 'Baby I Love You' stood out from the normal radio-fare because of Kim's smooth-as-butter vocals and the Spector-like wall-of-sound and female back-up singers provided by producer Barry.

As a teenager, Kim left his home of Montreal and tackled the Brill Building in New York armed with a number of his compositions - one of them being his first hit, 'How'd We Ever Get this Way.' His mentor, Barry - had also produced Neil Diamonds's first few hits.

Post 'Sugar Sugar,' Kim had a number of hits written by himself or with Barry. Interestingly, the word 'baby,' turns up in a number of the titles. In addition to the two mentioned above, there's also 'Shoot 'Em Up, Baby,' 'Baby, You're All I Got,' 'Fire, Baby I'm on Fire,' and probably more.

But his biggest hit was his self-penned and self-financed (making him a true 'indie' DIY-artist,) with 'Rock Me Gently' from 1974. It was his second number one hit. Just like 'Sugar Sugar,' all his hits are AM-radio slices of three-minute magic. Timeless. They will be here forever. 'Sugar Sugar' - a song which young people of a certain era might have been embarrassed to admit liking, has been covered by such respected roots R&Bers as Wilson Pickett, Bob Marley, Tom Jones and Homer Simpson. As Andy brags during his stage-patter intro to the song, "How many song-writers can claim to have one of their compositions covered by Homer Simpson?"

And typical of the recording industry, after the alloted five-year run, he was forgotten. He reinvented himself as 'Baron Longfellow' during the 1980s but until recently, that was the last we heard of Andy Kim.

This spring he released his first full-length album in many years - 'Happen Again.'

Just like what happened down in the States with the likes of Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn and Neil Diamond, up here in his native land, he has been embraced by 'the kids' - and his collaborations with people like Barenaked Lady Ed Robertston, Ron Sexsmith and Broken Social Scene - all musicians who are no strangers to the art of penning a good lyric, chorus and catchy melody.

If you are a fan of the old Andy Kim, the new CD, 'Happen Again,' is just what you want. A Pop-tunesmith at the top of his craft. The Brill Building would be proud.

ANDY KIM - the Road Trip

2010-06-08T11:36:00.000-07:00

Be My Baby because Baby, I Love You. Even though you Rock Me Gently and We're So Good Together, well - How'd We Ever Get This Way? 'Cause despite the fact that I Been Moved, I Ain't Takin' No Rainbow Ride - regardless of being On Fire, Baby I'm on Fire. Might as well Shoot 'Em Up Baby.

Saw Andy Kim on the weekend. He was supposed to be at the London Music Club last Wednesday. The opening date of his Canadian tour. I even took the night off work for the chance to see this Canadian AM-radio hitmaster of the 1970s live. Then, six days before the big day came word that his London show had been cancelled - due to "unforeseen production problems," as the on-line ticket-seller said.

This being London, I just assumed that meant poor advance ticket sales. Which wouldn't be a surprise. Sadly, we live in probably the most un-hip city in Canada. And thus, the world. And when our local paper doesn't even mention his upcoming concert when doing their occassional list of upcoming concerts for the next couple of months, I wasn't surprised at the news. How can people buy tickets for a show they don't know about?

Well, shame on me for being so dang cynical. Turns out the cancellation had nothing to do with ticket sales but because when the London Music Club was booked, no one told the club that they were planning on a big show with an eight-piece band. The London Music Club is a great venue - and even though Carole Pope played their Big Room a couple of months ago, maybe it wasn't the most appropriate venue for the kind of show Andy & company wanted to put on.

But when I heard the cat was touring with an eight-piece band, that only multiplied my disappointment. I was intrigued. And pissed off at what I was missing. So I looked into where else he was playing around here. Mind you, I would have been just as happy seeing him at the London Music Club even if it meant he only showed up with an acoustic guitar and maybe someone with a set of bongos.

Well, turns out he was in Hamilton the next night - where he would be joined by Ron Sexsmith on stage. The next night, a Friday, he was booked into the Starlight Social Club in Waterloo - a nightclub which books the same acts as Call the Office, the London Music Club and the Aeolian Hall. It specializes in 'indie' music, the kind the young people like to listen to on their college-radio stations. Andy has played there four times in the last year or so.

But I figured there would be people drinking and smoking there. And you all know my policy on that. Wanting to be able to actually remember my first Andy Kim concert, I settled on the next one - in Belleville, Ontario, up Kingston way. It was at the Empire Theatre, a lovingly restored abandoned motion-picture theatre from the 1920s. It seated 700, and although Andy's show wasn't a sell-out it was close to it. It's also the place where the likes of Blue Rodeo, Tragically Hip and Alice Cooper play when an hour away from Kingston.

And it's easy to understand why - great sound, a big stage and all the bells and whistles that come with putting on a good live show. ... and it made me think - maybe London DOES need a 'Performing Arts Centre' that would have seating for 700 people after all.

So Mavis and I took that four-hour drive up the 401 on Saturday. Which of course meant staying overnight. This is the most money I've ever spent on a concert which, originally I could have been able to walk to and then stop and get a hot sausage at 'Lighthouse Dogs' located near Joe Kools and Richmond near Victoria Park afterwards on the way home. Incidently, I can highly recommend their baked beans.

I won't go on and on about the concert. Let's just say that it was everything I hoped it would be - and more. His band consisted of a very young group of kids - chick rhythm section on bass and drums; two young female back-up singers ('Veronica' and 'Betty'?) and young hot-shot lead guitar player and keyboard guy. And this guy of 'our' vintage, Derek, who was obviously the bandleader/arranger and also the hardest-working man on stage. Andy, himself was all effortless cool and charm and friendly. The perfect host for a love-in of adoring fans.

After the intermission, there was a brief interview section hosted by the local radio DJ. Before the music began again, they opened the microphone for three questions from the audience. The first was a good one. Why the name change from 'Andy Kim' to 'Baron Longfellow' in the '80s. But the next was from a woman of my generation - "This is a serious question - can I get a kiss from Andy Kim?" ... needless to say, she got it. But when the light-bulb immediately went off in my head and I thrust my hand up to get my 'question' addressed, there was suddenly no more time for questions. Probably just as well. He probably wouldn't have kissed me anyway. Plus, Mavis was with me and would have been jealous.

It was a fantastic show - and the good news is - according to Andy's Facebook page as of early last week - "The shows in London and Montreal have been rescheduled for a later date. All other shows are going on!"

Can't wait. And I know I'll see you all there.

Sandy Sleighfoot - How Sonny Learned to Read

2010-05-16T03:19:00.001-07:00

The first-born child got a good gig in the book trade today - albeit a short one. Something to do with something called the Book Summit. It's an industry-type thing in Toronto for people in the publishing game. She's her father's daughter. And I couldn't be more proud. We're all proud of you, Harriet.

Of course, I like to take some of the credit myself. After all, I introduced her to books and took her to her first book-store - The Book Brothers, when they had their downstairs shop downtown on Richmond across the street from that other book store then owned by the guy who sells/sold marijuana seeds.

I've always loved books. I remember finishing a biography of Elliot Ness when I was about 10 and dreaming of becoming a writer and living in a big-roomed white mansion with my girlfriend and my best friend. It was all very Great Gatsby, long before I had even met Jay. Shortly after that I read a biography about Houdini and decided to become an escape artist instead.

But what started everything was the love of a good story. An appreciation for fable. I guess that's how it is for most of us. No one grows up sitting on their parent's lap and being read to straight out of the London Free Press. Not these days anyway, when there's CNN. No, our first memories of being told a good story.

I don't read much fiction anymore. Thanks to the Internet. These days, I seem more interested in the stupidity that governs our City Council and the stupidity of the commentators who comment on it. And that strikes me as very sad. So I try to stop caring about the 'news.'

And get back to reading for 'pleasure' again. Not that it's easy. You could count the number of fiction books I've read on one hand. Let's see - there's 'Middlesex' by this Detroit writer about just what the title says. Before that, my hardcover copy of a 'Peanuts Treasury' - Charlie Brown panels circa 1966. And 'It's a Good Life if you don't weaken' by Seth. I read it twice. Because I bought it twice. I gave my original copy to first-born child after coming across a scene set in Book Brothers in the early 1980s - the same era I was taking her down those stairs to the shop.

But shit, that's not even an entire handful. And two of those three books are cartoons. Well, that figures. Even though I no longer get a newspaper delivered to my door, I still check out the 'funnies' on-line. I limit them to a small number but it's still a daily ritual - Doonsebury, Marmaduke, Retail, Peanuts, Funky Winterbean, Crankshaft, Bizarro and Blondie. I used to read Rex Morgan, but one day something actually happened.

That's how I got started reading regularly reading at the age of eight. Through the 'funnies.' It was a daily strip in the Windsor Star about 1963, called 'Sandy,' written and drawn by Jim Unwin. There are samples up at the top of this post. It was about this kid who has really big feet and feels like a misfit. Story of my fuckin' life. Except for the big feet part. Anyway he's a bit of an outcast and lives in this enchanted forest in a tree with his wizard best friend and this wood-nymph babe. And he regularly leaves the forest and has adventures and stuff. It was one of those on-going narrative type cartoons.

Shortly afterwards I went on to comic books. I don't remember if it was a Batman or Superman I bought first. Doesn't matter because the first comic book I ever bought with my own money was 'Rocky and Bullwinkle and Friends.' And I can even tell you why I chose that one. It was springtime, right after Easter. And one of the eggs the Bunny brought me was plastic and filled with Silly Putty. And I wanted to make reproductions of Dudley Do-Right. Well, that was fun for about five minutes and so the next time I was in the corner store, twirling that metal-rack carousel of fun around, I stopped at Superman.

My weekly allowance was 15 cents. That was enough for a 12-cent comic book and three cents for either three Bazooka bubblegums or nine blackball jawbreakers - three for a penny. I was living the high life, baby - and lovin' every minute of it.

But with age comes responsibility and self-discipline. By the time I was 10 I realized that if I could somehow manage to not spend my allowance but to save it for two weeks - I'd have enough for a 25-cent copy of 'Mad' magazine. And enough change for a pack of bubblegum cards.

Not long after that I wizened up to things, figured out all the angles and got my own library card. Got to take out books for free. And then spent all my allowance on Cokes and smokes. Eventually saved up enough money to go to university and learn how to appreciate the right kind of books. But for the most part, they were damn boring. Not half as much fun as Batman's time travels and visits to other planets. Or Houdini. Or Elliot Ness for that matter.

English Lit certainly ain't as much fun or deep as the nostalgically sentimental Seth. He's a guy after my own heart. The same disposition as me, only it seems to have set in on the poor sod about twenty years earlier.

What I appreciate about the man is his high regard for the history of his craft. In 'It's a Good Life ...' the main character (who is really Seth, of course) becomes obsessed with finding everything he can on an obscure cartoonist from the 1940s who only had a small number of cartoons published.

Not unlike me and 'Sandy.' Ever since discovering this Internet thing, I've been on this off and on quest for copies of 'Sandy.' The black and white strips above are all I could find. And that wasn't until two months ago - from a website in the Netherlands. And the lettering is in French.

No one remembers this strip. I was about eight at the time and so my memory is hazy, but it couldn't have even lasted a year or so. Too bad, because it was truly quite charming. It was based on the book, 'Little Sandy Sleighfoot,' which set in Santa's Village at the North Pole. It was a blatant rip-off of Rudolph. With his big feet, Sandy saves the Village from burning down.

But the book - written by cartoonist Jim Unwin's mom, June - is all you will find on the Internet about 'Sandy.'

My personal dream is to someday go down to the Windsor Public Library and spend a week going through all their old microfiche or reels of the Windsor Star circa 1963 and reliving my childhood by reading all the back issues with 'Sandy.' Maybe even photocopy them, if such a thing is possible. Bring them home, cut them out and paste them in a scrap-book. Just as I collected them at the end of every day back then. Needless to say, my mother threw out that scrap-book not long after the strip was cancelled. Which is why to this day, I can never throw away a book. I might pitch the occassional book at the wall across the room if it's sufficiently awful - but I can never throw one out.

Record Review of the Week

2010-05-09T02:40:00.000-07:00

Ola, long time since I last rapped at ya but I've been laid up for a bit after an accident I had involving the brake pedal on my Toyota. So I've been sitting around waiting for my typing fingers to mend.

With all that time on my hands I had lots of time to just chill and listen to music. I love music. All kinds of music. Except for rap. And hip-hop. And 'New' Country. Or any ballads sung by people who sound like Celine Dion singing songs for dead people. And 'world' music, with the exception of Bollywood soundtracks (but only from the mid 1960s.) Or punk post-1979. Not too nuts about doo-wap either. Or classical, unless it sounds like Danny Elfman. Yes, I love LOVE all styles of music. But when I come across something I really like, I just play the same CD over and over again.

Other than the complete works of Andy Kim (including his phase as 'Baron Longfellow') what I've been listening to the most is Volume 2 of 'Under the Covers' by Sid & Susie. Whom you may know better as Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs. He of California sunshine power-pop fame and she as lead-singer of 'The Bangles.'

Just prior to my convalescence, I had been listening to Volume One by the duo and it occured to me that if that disc had gone over as well as it should have (named by some as the best CD of the last five years,) then maybe they would try it again. So when I checked out Amazon and saw a Vol. 2, well ya coulda knocked me over with a feather. I immediately walked down to Grooves and picked up a copy. Turns out it had actually been out a while.

But what does being 'current' matter when you are talking about people doing cover songs from over a couple of decades ago?

Volume 1 was devoted to the songs Sweet and Hoffs grew up on from the 1960s. Of course The Beatles are represented. And the fact that they chose to cover 'And Your Bird Can Sing,' is typical of their choices. They go for the obscure songs as well as the obvious hits of the era. 'The Kids Are Alright' by the Who is followed by 'Sunday Morning,' by the Velvet Underground. Neil Young is represented twice - once with 'Cinnamon Girl,' a song which radio-play has kinda numbed me to - as well as 'Everybody Knows This is Nowhere' - a song I will never tire of.

Regardless of who is singing lead, it's the boy/girl harmonizing that makes it all work. Without diverting from the original, they aren't so much reinterpretations but unabashed homages. Hoffs singing 'Different Drum,' opens with the same unbridled joy as the Linda Ronstadt original but it's enhanced with Sweet's backing vocals. On something like the Bee Gee's 'Run to Him,' Sweet's voice has a familiar Gibb-like quality without being obvious about it.

These are 'covers' after all, so while they are close to the originals, they all have that boy/girl harmonizing going on which sets them apart. As for being 'homages', what's most important is that they maintain the 'attitude' of the originals.

Which brings us to 'Under the Covers, Volume 2.' You want to hear someone recreate the spirit of an original, all you need is Sweet's dead-on intonation which kicks off Tom Petty's 'Here Comes My Girl' - slightly snarling in a dead-end job in this stupid small-town, Sweet embraces these lyrics as much as any 'young' person living here in Hicksville, Ohio would - "You know, sometimes I don't know why, but this ol' town just seems so hopeless..."

Volume 2 is devoted to covers of '70s songs. Some are hits some are misses. But what's interesting is that while the choices in song-selection on Volume 1 where what you might expect from children of the '60s, themeatically, Volume 2 is more coming-of-age stuff. In short, a lot of the songs are just about sex. Young love and young lust.

Let me put it to you this way - first song is 'Sugar Magnolia' by the Grateful Dead in which Hoffs sings of "rolling in the rushes down by the riverside." Then we have Hoffs imploring her boyfriend in the words of the Raspberries to "Go All the Way." Followed by Fleetwood Mac's 'Second Hand News' in which it's Sweet's turn to implore his date to "lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff."

If you listened to the radio in the 1970s, you would be familiar with most of this stuff. But there are surprises. I could never understand the appeal of the Grateful Dead so it was a pleasant surprise that 'Sweet Magnolia' didn't suck. The Beatles are represented by little known solo works by Lennon - 'Gimme Some Truth,' and George with 'Beware of Darkness.' Things kind of clang with 'All the Young Dudes' and the momentum comes to an abrupt stop with 'I've Seen All Good People' by Yes - if only because prog.rock seems a bit out of place sandwiched between Tom Petty and 'Hello, It's Me' by Todd Rundgren.

But overall, it's a joyous trip. I tell you, when the mandolin starts up in 'Maggie May' and Hoffs has a Rod-the-Mod raspiness to her vocals when SHE sings this love song of lament for an OLDER WOMAN (!), well I almost burst my pants. I fantasize about that kind of stuff every night and was moved deeply on an emotional level with the gender-reversal of lead-singers here.

And right afterwards when she sang lead on that wonderful piece of AM-radio overly-sweetened sentimentality 'Everything I Own' by Bread - why, I'm not too proud to admit that it reduced Sonny to tears. In fact, I went out and bought 'Bread's Greatest Hits' just based on Sid and Susie's cover of it.

So there you have it. Two CD's for songs from the first two decades of music for people of my generation. Rendered with love and affection by two kids who grew up listening to and being influenced by that music. And in two-part harmony, no less. This ain't your kid's CD of 'ironic' cover-tunes by those punkers Gimme Gimme and the Me-Too's.

And unlike the first CD, I no longer have to worry about a follow-up. At the end of the liner notes is the promise "See you next time." That's an intriquing tease. They've covered the '60s and '70s, so logic compells me to believe that the '80s might be next.

But if you remember that old saying - "If you remember the '80s, you really *were* there. And we apologize." With a disc devoted to the eighties, one of the obvious song selection choices would be 'Walk Like an Eygptian' by the Bangles. But I personally prefer 'Goin' Down to Liverpool to do Nuthin'.

And if they make it to the '90s, will we hear a reimagining of Sweet's 'Girlfriend?'

What I'd really like to hear on a 90s cover-comp would be 'BBC' by Ming Tea. Ya, baby!

The LAST Jim Chapman Post (?)

2010-04-18T03:37:00.000-07:00

Well, except for future times when Jim writes something more head-scratching than usual in his electronic educational app. www.thevoiceoflondon.ca , this will be it for a while, my friends.

Because there's nothing that can suck the life and joy out of the soul more than reading Jim's weekly missives and trying to make sense out of Jim's world. The sad reality is that when you do, it all boils down to the same thing. Follow the money. At the end you will usually discover his agenda. And it's not that hard to figure out. Most of Jim's opinions are like advertorials for his client base (as a public relations consultant) of local businessmen and in particular, the development community.

And today's 'Jim Chapman's Boner of the Week' is a prime example and good enough reason to move on to more fun (and far more important) things to blog about - for instance, the upcoming Andy Kim concert at the London Music Club on Wednesday, June 2nd.

Anyway, Jim really pulled a boner in this week's 'Voice' in a column titled 'Downtown Danger Pay?' He tells the story of a friend of his who runs a business downtown with about 50 employees. He wants to expand and hire fifty more - "But he may not be hiring them to work in London."

Why? Because "I would have to pay a premium for them to come here."

The problem isn't London's questionable lack of attractions for young urban hipsters. Or our reputation as "The Town that Fun forgot."

Nope. It seems that this fellow has offices in the Richmond and Dundas area - and once potential job applicants get a whiff and look at all the riff-raff, drug-dealers, panhandlers and neer'do wells who have to catch a bus to East London, well, after that they don't want to work in London AT ALL!

Of course if they took a walk around the entire block they would see the Covent Garden Market right behind there, the upscale restaurant row on the block of King Street. A handful of trendy upscale nightclubs. The John Labatt Hockey and Concert Hall and coming full circle back to Richmond and Dundas - to the north lies the delights of Richmond Row - starting with the Grand Theatre - and to the south of Richmond the other side of King, a collection of independent shops - a music shop, a used bookstore and a comic-book shop and places to buy a bong or get a tattoo.

But because Richmond and Dundas is such a scruffy place and known as Oxycontin Central, these job applicants are too afraid to move and work in London - from presumably Toronto, a city which apparently is free of homeless people, crack-heads, panhandlers and people who use publc transit.

According to Jim's friend, he would have to pay a high premium to these potential employees. They would want danger pay of an extra $10,000 a year. And Jim's friend can't afford to pay them that so he's considering a move to another city.

Now, of course, it hasn't occured to Jim or his friend that there are certainly more desireable places to rent office space in London which would be safer and more attractive to young out-of-town job seekers. Like maybe a couple blocks from there where Jim has his own downtown office. Or the corner of Wellington and Dundas where he does his radio show in a giant office tower. Or to the North, where all the real action is for young urban trendies.

Now, I don't claim to be a businessman, but let's do some math here. You have 50 potential employees. But they won't work in London for less than an extra 10-grand a year. So, naught times naught is naught and five times all those naughts is 500,000. Shit, that's $500,000. That's like half-a-million bucks!

C'mon, fellas - GIVE YOUR COLLECTIVE HEADS A SHAKE!

You mean to tell me that you can't find any good office space in a safe and 'hip' neighbourhood for half a million a year anywhere in this town? Gaze north down Richmond Street boys. Or just relocate to Masonville.

Like I said, I'm not a businessman but that would seem a lot smarter than starting up a separate branch of your business in another town. It all kinda makes me suspect that perhaps Jim's unnamed 'friend' might be an imaginary friend invented for the purposes of telling a story.

... Anyhoo, that was Jim's latest on the Downtown. And in fact it was a sequel to his column from the previous week - 'Fear and Loathing in London' from April 8th. In this one, Jim is talking about how one recent afternoon, he was waiting for a client on the corner of Richmond and Dundas and how "afraid" he felt.

"I wasn't really frightened, a better word might be uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable," writes Jim. "There were eyes on me from people who looked like trouble on the move. There were punk kids (not punkers - I do understand the difference)with angry faces, teenage mothers with tattoos and babies in scruffy strollers, washed out drunks looking for a handout, stoners glassy-eyed and unpredictable, and a nice old lady carrying a handbag half her size. She didn't worry me. But the rest of the cast did."

Jim had his business appointment and then deliberately came back to the same corner. "And stood there for a while. Same people, same feelings. And I noticed something else - the place was filthy and littered with garbage and cigarette butts. Lots of cigarette butts."

Well, NO SHIT, SHERLOCK! That corner has been a human cesspool for at least the past 15 years. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! Geez, this is a guy who fancies himself as an authority on the current state of Downtown - and yet, he expresses SURPRISE at the very long-evident sorry reality of Richmond and Dundas, the very heart of that Downtown?

I won't bother you too much with Jim's solutions. One is having a better police presence. A good idea, even though they obviously monitor the drug dealing and report mass arrests on a regular basis. The other is to have welfare recipients walk around the place on their free time with a broom and shovel. I guess the logic is that since they are at that building picking up their Social Service cheque and Oxy at the same time, they may as well make themselves useful and sweep up some cigarette butts before hopping that bus headed east. ... oh, and ban pan-handling.

But what's far more interesting about all this is the sudden concern on Jim's part. Two consecutive columns devoted to that particular corner - even though Jim also admits in the same 'Fear and Loathing' that "I know the downtown crime numbers are low and my chances of getting mugged are likely higher in some other areas of the city ..."

Well, then WHY are you even writing about it, Jim?

For the answer, all you have to do is go back a few Voice issues to March 18th and 'There are Dreams and there are Dreams,' Jim's profile on Downtown London's biggest landlord and property owner, Shmuel Farhi - who just bought the Market Tower Building which sits on that very corner of Dundas and Richmond. He also owns the office tower - the Royal Bank Building right next to it on Richmond. And between them, that corner of downtown is basically Oxy Central for all your one-stop drug-shopping needs.

As Jim points out at the end of him puff-piece on Mr. Farhi, the guy who owns most of downtown also happens to be a friend and the biggest client of Jim's PR firm. 'Nuff said.

And all that's fine and harmless enough. But about a week after buying the Market Tower, Mr. Farhi was on the A-Channel News strongly suggesting that the City of London get rid of having bus-traffic on Dundas street and re-route the buses. Well, that makes sense. The corner of Richmond and Dundas is the major transfer point of all city buses. So if you get rid of them and the bus-stops right outside your building, then there's no reason for people standing around outside it. People who might not be able to be charged with selling or waiting to buy drugs, can be scared off with charges of 'loitering.' And all of that would be a good thing, even though it would only move all the drug action farther down the street. And since he owns most of downtown, it would probably to in front of one of Mr. Farhi's other downtown office properties.

I happen to be a fan of Mr. Farhi. Our downtown would look a lot bleaker if he hadn't bought so many old buildings and restored them or saved from demolition. The Scotts Building on Dundas between Clarence and Wellington; the old Art Deco post-office on Richmond; the old Public Library on Queens; the Wright Lithography Building. Shit, I'd give the guy a medal just for the Wright Litho Building alone.

And then there's the just restored Capitol Movie Theatre and Bowles Lunch right next to it on Dundas. If you remember right, after buying the long-empty Capitol Theatre, Mr. Farhi demolished the actual auditorium (W.C. Fields once performed there as a juggler in his vaudeville days,) to create parking for his downtown office workers. And when city hall was dragging its feet about renting him more parking spots for the people who worked in the office buildings he owned, Mr. Farhi threatened to demolish the remaining facade and lobby of the historic theatre. And suggested he might do the same with all his heritage properties unless he got what he wanted. See the London Free Press, 2005-07-27, 'City to Study Parking Ills' by Joe Belanger for details.

So I get a bit concerned when I see Mr. Farhi talking about the City changing the same downtown central bus corridor we've had for decades before he was even born. I get more concerned when I read two columns in a row about that very block of real estate from his PR flack. How long till Jim pens his newest epiphany about how we ought to get rid of buses on Dundas?

And that, my friends is why this is hopefully the last of these posts. To quote Holden Caulfield, if there's one thing I hate, it's a goddamn phoney. But what's the point of telling people what a goddamned phoney someone is if they willingly do it themselves in such a blatant obvious manner? Evidence of Jim's phoniness can be found in Sonny's Archives for February 19, 2010 'Jim Chapman: Yesterday's Man' in which Jim is exposed for taking credit on his own website (www.jimchapman.ca) for someone else's writing. Now, as far as I'm concerned, that's reprehensible. That's stealing. And anyone who does it has ZERO credibility in my books.

According to what Jim promised on his radio show, The Voice would be a voice for "silent majority." You know, for the regular folks and working stiffs who listen to his radio show. The same kind of low-income workers who daily catch a bus on the corner of Richmond and Dundas.

But for a weekly newsletter only seven weeks old, THREE of the past FIVE issues have a column devoted to the interests of Jim's "major client."

It turns out that, in Jim's columns anyway, The Voice is really only the Voice of the Development Community and Millionaire Downtown Landlords.

Stayed tuned to future advertorials on some of Jim's other clients in his "communications consulting company" - Aboutown Transportation and Drew-lo Holdings.

TV Ads from the Grave We'd Like to See

2010-04-10T02:53:00.002-07:00

Imagine this - a static close-up of the person above. Off-camera you hear a voice-over from Beyond-Neverland. It's a soft fey voice and speaks in a non-judgemental tone, hoping only for a straight answer.

"Did you learn anything?

"I just want to know father, what your feelings were when you bullied me as a child and beat me? I wanna know what your thinking was when you called me lazy and made fun of my nose so often that I had so much plastic surgery done to it that it no longer resembled anything human?

"I wanna know your thoughts when you found out you were left out of my will and that I specified that you would never have custody of my children? After you inflicted a lifetime of abuse and exploitation on me to the point I was a psychological fuck-up and my early death was really a suicide-in-progress a long time coming, what did you think I was trying to tell you after cutting off all contact?

"You made me hate you. You are not deserving of a son's love. I just want to know - did your learn anything?"

... after those last words, the camera keeps running for a few seconds. The face of the man on the screen remains impassive and doesn't change. But that leer of a grin bespeaks of times then and now of laughing all the way to the bank. The eyes are as dead as the soul behind them. The only reflection in them are of dollar signs.

Jim Chapman's Quotes and Philosophies

2010-04-07T08:16:00.001-07:00

I was going through some opinion columns on 'Jim Chapman's Voice of London' website (wwww.thevoiceoflondon.ca) recently. This is something I do as a free public service. Here at the Sonny Drysdale Media Empire, in order to keep the electorate informed for the next municipal election, I (Sonny,) do the homework that you don't have time to do yourself. And then I tell you who - and more importantly, who NOT - to vote for this fall.

Anyway, I was digging through a piece by Jim titled 'Public $ervice' in his Publisher's Perogitive section and dated March 25th. I was trying to figure out if Jim was actually serious in his suggestion that all city politicians serve their term for no pay - or, as he claimed the next week that he was just joking. Apparently all you have to do these days when you say something incredibly stupid is to just toss it off as a joke.

He was talking about the proposal that had just been voted on at Board of Control that the wage cutback of five per-cent which council members had willingly taken a year ago as a goodwill gesture to a community hit by the recession, be rescinded and returned to its former pay. They weren't talking about a raise, just restoring their pay to its previous level.

And this is what Jim had to say about their vote - "Board of Control voted on Wednesday in favour of rescinding the cut, with only Bud Polhill protesting (the only real working stiff in the bunch by the way, what does that tell you?)"

Well, it tells me that Bud must have an inferiority complex. Geez man, unless a person is a total screw-up/waste of space, EVERYONE deserves a bump up in pay once is a while. And if not truly deserved, if only for reasons of keeping up with the cost of living. ... All of this is surprising to hear about from The Voice, because I always thought Jim was Bud's friend.

It also tells me that Jim apparently doesn't have a high regard for working class 'stiffs.'

For any out-of-staters reading this, I should point out that City Council's 'Board of Control,' consists of four city-wide elected members. Bud Polhill is a mechanic who runs his own auto shop. He got to where he is today by working with his hands and not being afraid to get them dirty. Good for him, I say.

The other three members of Board wear different-coloured collars than Bud. Gina Barber is a former college perfessor and high-level NDPer. Tom Gosnell is a consultant with strong ties to the development community. Gord Hume has a background as an executive with strong ties to the local business scene. All three have gotten where they are by using their brains.

Jim Chapman, it should be noted, also works as a consultant for the development and business communities and runs his own PR firm. He is also a local radio morning-show host. Silver-tongued Jim has always gotten where he is by using his mouth.

That's why I was surprised to read Jim's back-handed "working stiff - what's that tell you?" compliment about Bud. Because most of Jim's army of listeners are people who make Bud seem like a genius.

Think about it. This is an election year. It doesn't look good when politicians give themselves what the public incorrectly considers to be a raise. The optics aren't good. But two of his fellow controllers voted to do it even though they aren't running in the next election. They voted to restore the pay-rate to the old level because they feel the next council members will be underpaid and deserve it. The other controller, Gina Barber voted the same way knowing that her personal conviction on the subject will not sit well with voters when she starts knocking on doors.

Gina could have done the same as Bud and did a little 'grandstanding' by protesting the move to restore pay-levels.

But she didn't. And this is why Bud is such a genius, and not deserving of the slight of 'working stiff' made by Chapman.

Bud knows darn well that even though the economy is on the mend, that the recession is pretty well over, that it doesn't hurt to do a little grandstanding and show a little humility to the sheep who keep voting you in election after election. It's a page right out of the Paul Van Meerbergen campaign manual - although Paul hasn't yet mastered the 'humble' part.

What makes Bud so smart is that all this pre-election talk about rescinding or raising councillors wages is moot. The election is half a year away. Voters will have forgotten by then. He knows this from personal experience from far too many years in municipal government.

After any municipal election, the FIRST thing City Council does is give themselves a pay raise. There is always a predictable fuss from the public for a week or two. And then three or four years later, they get re-elected again.

Good for you, Bud. Hands of steel - and brains too.

UPDATE - all of that said, it should be noted that Bud still hasn't declared what Ward he will be running in when he runs for Council and until that is done, he still isn't ruling out the possiblity of running for Mayor. But he doubts it. ... Way to make a decision, Genius.

Jim Chapman's Boner of the Week

2010-03-26T03:39:00.000-07:00

NEW FEATURE!!!

Jim Chapman pulled a real boner in this week's opinion piece in his electronic newsletter 'Jim Chapman, The Voice of London.'

In 'Coulter Causes Consternation,' Jim says this of the very unfunny unsubtle hate-mongering Ann Coulter - "She is an American satirist from that rich iconoclastic tradition, although many people confuse her with a serious political commentator. Oh she is serious enough about the issues she cares about, but her method of addressing them owes more to Mark Twain than Thomas Jefferson."

And he says this with a straight face. Yep, I'm sure Samuel Clemens would be really flattered at such a comparison.

If you can swallow that one, you may want to size up more of Jim's boners at www.thevoiceoflondon.ca

Do These Smarty-Pants Make Me Seem Obtuse?

2010-03-22T02:26:00.000-07:00

Unlike some websites, (Jim Chapman's latest mouthpiece ironically titled 'The Voice of London' is one prime example,) here at Sonny Drysdale Presents, the 'Comments' section is never closed.

Here is an email received by Beat Magazine (or www.beatmagazine.ca) for a column on the stage adaptation of 'Pride and Prejudice' which I did for the current March issue. You can read the original two posts down under 'The Annual Theatre Column.' If you haven't read it yet, I recommend that you do so before reading the rest of this here post.

Anyway - this is what one Stephanie O, has to say -

"Hi - I picked up 'The Beat' for the first time recently and was flipping through when I saw Sonny Drysdale's article on 'Pride and Prejudice.' The first time I read it I was shocked; I couldn't believe that someone would write an article that was so explicitly wrong in its facts (saying Jane Austen was a playwright, that 'Pride and Prejudice' was based on 'Bridget Jones'; that 'Emma' was based on 'Clueless' ...) When I searched Drysdale's blog online I saw that he had posted a very similary article, and that a few of the comments on it suggested that the piece may have actually meant to be tongue-in-cheek.

"I did not get the sense that it was some kind of joke when I was reading it (if that was in fact the case.) If Drysdale was joking, I'm not sure what his point was in doing so; my closest guess is that he was critiquing the fact that a plethora of Jane Austen remakes now exist and as a result people have forgotten that she was actually a renowned 18th c writer. But if there was a point in his suggestion that Austen is a contemporary playwright remaking 'Bridget Jones' and 'Clueless' into late 18th c set pieces it was lost on me and the other people I've shown the article to to get their opinions on it. It seems to me this article actually reproduces the very problem Drysdale might be poking fun at rather than critique it.

"As a PhD student of English literature, a former News Editor and Culture Editor for a small newspaper, and a writer and reader myself, I find this article somewhat troubling in that it doesn't accomplish much other than confusing readers more about Jane Austen's relationship to contemporary versions of her work.

"Otherwise, I think it's awesome that you've put together 'The Beat' and you've done great work in putting it together. Viva independent arts (print) publications :)"

... well, of course I can't comment on any of this. You don't explain a joke. It's just not done. It's unprofessional.

Instead, I will take the wise advice of my good friend Al who says that when dealing with such people, the best course of action is to simply say, "I'm sorry. You're absolutely right. It will never happen again." And then get out of the room as fast as you can before they see the smirk on your face.

Smug, Glib and Impertinent

2010-03-22T01:53:00.000-07:00

As much as I enjoyed Stephanie O's letter to the editor about my 'Pride and Prejudice' column in 'The Beat,' (see the post above this one,) my personal all-time fave has to go to a letter published in 'Artscape' (an earlier incarnation of 'The Beat') in response to a column I wrote for their first issue back in February of 2006.

It was the time of year they announce the Academy Award nominations and I had complained about the fact that the best film I had seen the previous year was a thirty-second commercial for Kellogg's All-Bran Strawberry Bites. The Leo Burnett advertising agency titled it 'The Muse.' But for me it will always be 'Love Story Between Strawberry Girl and Research Guy."

I hope you remember it because it truly was beautiful. If not, you can always find it on the YouTube under 'All-Bran Strawberry Bites Ad.' or 'All Bran Strawberry Girl.'

But that's not really important here. Here is the passage I wrote which invoked the ire of one reader -

"I seldom get out to the motion-picture theatres these days. The reason? Hollywood just doesn't make any good romances anymore. Over the holidays, I had been thinking of seeing 'King Kong.' It's about a giant monkey who fights dinosaurs and has adventures and stuff and (get this) *falls in love* with a leggy blonde showgirl, the eternal male fantasy. But I'd already seen the original from 1976 starring Jeff Bridges and Jessica Lange so I didn't bother.

"The other much-hyped love story of 2005 was the cowboy movie 'Brokeback Mountain.' I passed on seeing this one for the same reason. I figured I'd already seen it before. Every western I've ever sat through ends the same way - the cowboy says good-bye to the school-marm and rides off into the sunset. There's never been a western made that wasn't really a love story about a man and his horse.

"The only other romance from last year that sounded half-interesting was 'Capote.' Apparently it's about this writer guy and his unrequited love for a jailed homicidal mass-murderer. Well, at least it's an original idea, I'll give 'em that much. But I really don't know anything about the movie so I can't comment on it."

... anyhoo, all of that prompted this printed response from a Ruth J. -

"Dear Mr. Drysdale, I am compelled to comment on your utter dismissal of 'Brokeback Mountain,' a movie which I found to be one of the finest love stories ever committed to film. I've seen the movie twice, to appreciate better its stunning Canadian landscapes, and most especially, its achingly, heart wrenching story of homosexual love. You, on the other hand, never having seen it at all, have the temerity, the abject audacity, to pan it outright. I have three words for you, Mr. Drysdale: they are "smug, glib, and impertinent."

Well, I guess she told me.

The Annual Theatre Column

2010-03-20T02:16:00.000-07:00

I LUUUVVVV live theatre. I simply adore it. That's why I always make an effort to get out and see some at least once a year. This time it's 'Pride and Prejudice' which currently is playing at the Grand Theatre until April 3rd.

Apparently it's an adaptation of the movie 'Bridget Jones Diary,' which starred Renee Zellwger in 2001. Renee plays this prim and proper English spinster babe who has to choose a rich husband because she has no dowry and that was the lot of poor single women back in the 1990s.

Will she choose Hugh Grant or Colin Firth? One is a rich cad. The other is the dark brooding Mr. Darcy - who she really likes but is always getting mad at because they keep having misunderstandings and he's a bit of a twit. Anyway, by the end, like all good romantic comedies, one of them proposes to her in the rain.

I haven't seen the sequel, 'Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason,' but I hope playwright Jane Austen puts some of its plot elements into her stage adaptation at the Grand. I've checked out some of the Pride and Prejudice-related literature and it could make for a really great night of theatre.

Some of the books take their cue from things that were only hinted at in the original Bridget Jones source material.

One such work is 'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,' published last year by Quirk Books. Another, entitled 'Dawn of the Dreadfuls,' comes out this month from the same publisher. It is actually a 'prequel' and explains how Elizabeth Bennet (the Bridget Jones character) becomes a zombie hunter and explores her martial arts training and previous romantic misfortunes.

Two other 'P&P' books which also came out last year explore Mr. Darcy's mysterious and secretive nature. Amanda Grange's 'Mister Darcy, Vampyr' and Regina Jeffers' 'Vampire Darcy's Desire' deal with the Bridget Jones character slowly coming to the realization that her new husband is a vampire, one of the undead. Now, you might think that she would have noticed such a thing on her wedding night. That's why foreplay was invented. Just the same, both books contain all the bodice-ripper/heaving bosom elements that can only enhance any theatrical production.

So, I have high hopes for seeing 'Pride and Prejudice' at the Grand. I just hope Austen hasn't left out any of my favorite scenes from the movie. Mind you, I don't expect an exact remake in her 're-imagining.' But if she remains faithful to the *spirit* of Bridget Jones, then I will be happy and wish her well with her next project.

Rumour has it that she is adapting Alicia Silverstone's 1995 movie 'Clueless' for the stage. Its working title is 'Emma.'

Bud Polhill - the Joe Fontana of Indecisive Political Aspirations

2010-03-16T10:04:00.000-07:00

A slow news day at the London Free Press today.

Their website, www.lfpress.com contains this bulletin of BREAKING NEWS!!! Headline reads - Bud Polhill 'leaning toward' Ward Race. ... Still, he isn't ruling out the possiblilty that he may take a run at the Mayor's Chair in this fall's municipal election.

However, Bud will make his decision as to whether he is running for a city council 'ward' seat or the Mayor's big chair "within days."

"With a business to run and several grandchildren to chase, Polhill has indicated that the mayor's chair may not be a good fit for him," reports the London Free Press.

Well, that plus the fact that Bud doesn't have a hope in hell of being elected and defeating incumbant mayor Princess Anne-Marie.

And then there's the fact that the long-time councillor and Board of Controler obviously has big problems making a decision.

When the Free Press reported on December 30th of 2009 that Bud was considering a run for the Mayor's job, he told them that he hoped to make his decision after he had some polling done in January.

That was a minimum of six weeks ago. And this guy really thinks he has the decision-making capacity to be Mayor? Of even a small burg like Hicksville, Ohio?

Take your time with all that soul-searching, Bud. No one is expecting any real big *surprise* announcements "within days" - or within weeks for that matter.

Whatever Happened To ...

2010-03-09T10:17:00.000-08:00

A lot of you have written in lately asking of the whereabouts of Canadian 1976 Olympic medal-winning figure skater Toller Cranston.

According to the current March issue of 'Yoo-hoo! Canada,' the former figure-skating icon has spent the past twenty years in self-imposed exile, living quietly and discreetly in the artistic community of historic San Miguel de Allende, Mexico under the assumed name of 'Jimmy Osterberg.'

His days are spent painting on huge canvases and decorating his home - both in a bold but restrained form of minimalism. Nights are spent fronting a Stooges tribute-band named 'Forgotten Boy.' Due to the lack of ice-rinks in this cental Mexican village, the sixty-year-old legend of 'Dance on Ice,' no longer skates.

But whatever artistic medium he is working in, you can be sure that Mr. Cranston continues to look fabulous.

I Like to Watch My Skating ... BUT ...

2010-03-06T01:32:00.000-08:00

Figure skating. It's the most exciting thing on ice, right? Like curling only poetry.

Like the rest of Canada, this week I've really missed watching the Olympics. And most of all, I miss my skating. Particularly men's figure skating. Don't get me wrong. I watched all the hockey and cheered when Sidney Crosby sunk that last putt into the net. And I watched all the curling and tried to figure what the hell was going on when we won gold. My regional heart swelled with pride when those two local kids Tessa and Scott performed their magic on ice. And I had to sneak into the bathroom at work to cry when that Joannie girl from Quebec skated after her mom had died a few days earlier.

But the most bittersweet highlight for me was the first round of the men's figure skating and Johnny Weir had just done a pretty hot-shot - and apparently 'unorthodox' flounce around the ice. Now, I haven't watched a lot of skating in my lifetime, but enough to know that after their skate, someone always presents the lady skaters with a bouquet of roses to hold onto while they sit in the penalty box and wait for the judges to tally up and announce their score.

And when the camera cut to Johnny, he's sitting there with a tiara of roses atop his head. And the guy didn't even win! Didn't even come close. And looked like he couldn't care less. He accepted it as if he was used to it. Like it had happened before.

So I called up my friend Elvis who was at the games and he explained that Johnny didn't do any quads. Just triple axels and those squatting spinny things. Well, I was pretty pissed off to hear that. So what, I said. That Evan guy who won gold for the States didn't do any quads either!

And then Elvis explained that the judges don't like Johnny because he's too "flamboyant." And that the other men figure skaters make fun of him in the locker room by singing that Josie Cotton song, "Johnny are you Weir?"

I was pretty saddened to hear all this. I had naively thought that surely, as a civilization we have gotten past all that kind of narrow-minded thinking years ago after the industry bullied Toller Cranston into leaving skating and becoming a painter.

Well, if the skating community can't accept even one skater because of the colour of his skates, then I don't know if I want to even support it anymore.

You know, I had planned on going to see the Canadian Stars on Ice show at the downtown hockey arena on May 2nd. Everyone is going to be there. Tessa and Scotty. Kurt Browning. Joannie Rochette - that French girl whose mom died. Salle and Pelltier, the ones who got screwed in the last winter Olympics.

Yep. Everyone is going to be there. Well, almost everyone. Noticeably absent from that list is Johnny Weir. And is it because he's from the States and not Canadian? Well, I'm sure that's what the organizers would like you to believe. But the real reason is because he doesn't dress in the traditional puffy shirts, but in white silks and black leather. Because he has not only Paul Reuben's knack for make-up but the same twinkle in his eye. In short, he's just too 'flamboyant.'

Well, the boy can't help it. He was born that way. And if he chooses to hang out with Lady Gaga, that's his business. And if the Canadian figure skating community can't accept that, then, as a society we obviously still have a long way to go. Until the Canadian Stars on Ice Tour stops excluding Johnny Weir, I'll be staying home.

Will we never learn? My mother never really got over how the Americans did the same thing to Toller Cranston by not including him in the U.S. Stars on Ice Tours. This is like history repeating itself. That's what finally turned her off skating. I guess I'm turning into my mother.

Jim Chapman - Yesterday's Man

2010-02-19T10:45:00.001-08:00

"Yesterday is history
Tomorrow is a mystery
Today is a gift, that's why
they call it the present."
- Jim Chapman

The above quote is taken from the 'Home' page of www.jimchapman.ca, the website of local broadcaster Jim Chapman. Considering the attribution beneath this little homily, one might assume that Jim himself actually penned this little pome.

Nope. Type it into the Google 'search.'... It seems that no one knows who first came up with this pithy little gem, but I recognized it because it had "Hallmark greeting card" written all over it. In fact, it's the sort of email crap that well-meaning friends send you along with a slide show of grandparents and little brats or else puppies and aged declawed cats.

The reason I was even on Jim's website in the first place was because for the past month or so, on his weekday morning AM-radio lecture series broadcast by AM980,he's been talking about this new Internet 'Newsletter' he's going to be doing once he hires a full-time editor/reporter. After sorting through all the resumes.

That was a few weeks ago. But on his show last Monday, February 8, Jim promised to have the new editor/reporter on the air the next day to talk about the 'Newsletter.' Then didn't show up 'live' until Friday with nary a mention of 'The Jim Chapman Newsletter.'

Just so you know, 'The Jim Chapman Newsletter' would be a means for everyone who doesn't have the time to do the research themselves, to find out how Jim would vote in this fall's municipal elections. This way, Jim's Army of lazy uninformed boobs will know who to vote for (example) - middle-of-the-roader Bill Armstrong or one of dinosaur car-guy Bud Polhill's offspring?

This week, I've tuned in daily for an update. Today was the last time I will. Yesterday, he said that he would have the successful applicant for the editor/reporter job on with him on Friday's show. But this morning was more or less a typically rambling (and sans 'Editor/Reporter) infomercial for the 'Newsletter' which we are now promised will be available on-line March 5th. Given Jim's track record, don't hold your breath.

This is a guy who once had - and possibly still has aspirations of holding elected office but can't seem to get elected. This is a guy who once legitimately held the well-deserved title of 'King of All Media' here in Hicksville, Ohio. This is a guy who had a great radio talk show on CJBK because it was 'open-line' - he actually took callers. And it was good because unlike today's show on a different station, he had a producer who actually forced him to FOCUS. And then, like now, I actually agreed with some of what he had to say.

Maybe it's a good thing that he's hiring an editor for his latest vanity project. Because he surely needs one. Check out this quote I've heard at least twice in the past month, the most recent being this very morning - "Don't get me wrong about what I'm about to say. I mean no disrespect to anyone on City Council - although most of them have no business being there."

Don't believe me, check the AM980 website. Each show is 'archived.'

And *THIS* is the guy I want 'advising' me on how to vote in the next election?

Just how controversial will this Newsletter be? Well, consider this. Last week, he offered Mayor Anne-Marie Shortchanged his entire hour of air-time to host his radio show. So last Thursday she brought along Chamber of Commerce guy Gerry McCartney and London Economic Development Something or Other Department head Peter White, and they spent the hour telling Jimmy's Army what a great job they have been doing in bringing in new jobs and that the most important thing was that there was great 'communication' with Londoners. What with the City's presence on Facebook and all. But during that hour, despite having the technology at their fingertips, they weren't taking any phone calls. Just in case people didn't agree with their self-assessment.

It's peculiar that Jim even gave Her Worship this public campaign contribution because he's always going on and on about how he *likes* the Mayor as a person. Even considers her a friend - "Even though we don't agree on everything." Meanwhile, every other day he's making cracks about the "lack of leadership" which is adversely affecting our City Council and City Hall.

But I have to wonder - *IF* I had my own local radio program where I could have an elected official on and the capability to take calls from an angry public, would I give the incumbent Mayor a free hour-long infomercial - OR would I attempt to be a 'real' journalist or at least use the opportunity to make some good radio?

When you hand the microphone over to mayor for an hour, the very least that your listeners should expect from you is that you hold her feet to the fire. But Jim wasn't even there. Wasn't even in the studio. Instead, he got her campaign team to sub for him.

And *THIS* is the guy I want advising me on WHO to vote for next fall?

Check out his website, www.jimchapman.ca . As a self-stlyed 'rogue' journalist, Jim doesn't have a lot of credibility. Not when he makes a Hallmark Greeting Card homily look to be his own by sticking his name underneath it. Geez, if you're going to take credit for someone else's words at least pick something good. At least steal something edgy or controversial.

But relevancy is the major problem here. Not even a brand new 'Newsletter' can help. The current website is proof enough that he is truly yesterday's man.

Are you there yet? All you have to do is go to the tab on the home-page titled "Civic Election 2010."

... are you there yet? No? Well, let me share - the most 'current' entry for our upcoming municipal election is from late December, 2006 - 'Crystal Ball Shows Expensive Future.' No guff. Can't argue with that one. But it's the fact that it's the most recent post in a website section devoted to an election to be held in the year 2010 which is what's troubling.

There are even more dated entries to the 'Civic Election 2010' section of the website. How about this one - 'Council Reform a Recipe for Trouble.' From the summer of 2005.

I'm assuming that a new Newletter/website will mean Jim scraps all of that old stuff. Because stale-dated columns from almost five years ago under the heading of 'Civic Elecion 2010' is just plain embarrassing. Especially with "Copyright 2009" at the bottom of the home-page.

Is a new Newsletter going to be any more up to date? Jim's way of thinking is on its way out. He can hire all the writer/reporters in the world to try to make his buddies on Council such as Bud Polhill sound exciting and credible but for them it's over. And it was over last election when the new ward system was first introduced.

And now that this new council has gotten rid of the out-dated Board of Control, it's over for them for good. Good thing Bud has a good day-job. After this fall's election, he and his broadcaster friend should just retire gracefully. Because I can't bear another four years of Jim railing against how the Lefties on council stole our votes by eliminating Board of Control. It's a done deal, Jim. And it was done legally and democratically by the people WE elected. Time to embrace the future and stop living in the past. That little piece of advice is my 'present' to you.

Should anyone out there want to subscribe to Jim's newsletter - whenever it actually gets started - can get on the mailing list by emailing jimchapman@rogers.com and putting 'Newsletter' in the header.

And you will officially be considered part of Chapman's Army. Not that Jim is actually calling it that these days. Recently he's been toying a lot with the phrase "the Silent Majority." Good way to motivate the electorate, Jim. By borrowing a term from four decades ago made famous by Richard Nixon.

The Dalton Pixie Strikes Again!

2010-02-15T08:47:00.000-08:00

Today is 'Family Day' here in Ontario, Canada. All over the province this morning, kids were up at the crack of dawn, rushing out to the kitchen table to see if the Dalton Pixie had visited during the night and left them a present.

This is the third Family Day. The first one was in 2008 courtesy of an election promise from Premier Dalton McGuinty the previous fall to give us all an additional free day off work if we re-elected his government to power. If you called it a blatant bribe you wouldn't be wrong. Still, a day off is a day off and no one is complaining.

For any out-of-staters out there, the Dalton Pixie is a magical creature who only comes to life during the pre-dawn hours of Family Day. He sneaks into homes all over Ontario while everyone is fast asleep and then picks the pockets of grownups and leaves a present for all the good little boys and girls who have not yet reached voting age.

But the Dalton Pixie is a mischievious little imp. He only brings hot air, empty promises and useless gifts. On the first Family Day, when Gnut opened the gift he found on the kitchen table, inside the gift bag was a can of mushrooms. Gnut doesn't like mushrooms. Refuses to eat them. And to add insult to injury, they weren't even whole mushrooms or even sliced. Nope. These were the ones with the appetizing label of 'Pieces and Stems.'

On the Dalton Pixie's return visit last year, Gnut unwrapped a jar of sliced pickled beets. Needless to say, Gnut doesn't like pickled beets. Refuses to eat them.

Not too surprisingly, this morning he was in no hurry to rush up to see what the Dalton Pixie had brought, given his past track record. However, when he did finally make it upstairs at noon, he was happy to see TWO presents on the table. One was a big box, the other much smaller. Of course he opened the biggest one first. Inside was a can of Campbell's Bean and Bacon Soup. The only type of soup Gnut will eat is Chicken Noodle or Clam Chowder. I'm not sure if it was a sigh or a cuss-word I heard under his breath.

Then he opened the smaller gift. Inside was a can of Campbell's Bean and Bacon Soup.
This time I did hear a swear word.

But I'm proud to say that he took it like a man. "Oh, that Dalton Pixie," he chuckled good-naturedly. "He's done it again!"

Then he heated up a piece of leftover Family Eve pizza and Mother and I sat down to two very big bowls of Bean and Bacon soup.

Road Trip to Visit Seth!

2010-02-06T11:55:00.000-08:00

I met the Canadian treasure best known as 'Seth' last weekend. He's one of those cartoonist guys. Graphic novels and such. And unlike most popular regional Ontario artists, he has an exhibit at Museum London, hopefully long before his death.

Seth (not his real name,) looks to be in his forties. His show at the London Regional Art Gallery at the Forks of the Thames is called 'Dominion' and is his imagined very Canadian city called 'Dominion.' For those youngsters out there who may be reading this, Canada used to be called 'The Dominion of Canada.' In fact, what we now call 'Canada Day,' was known as 'Dominion Day' up till about Centennial Year in 1967 when all hell broke loose and we changed our flag from that thing with the Union Jack up in the corner to the current one with the bands of white flanking a big red maple leaf. Well, I suppose that's what you get when you ask an American - in this case Andy Warhol - to design your flag.

The exhibit itself is an installation of Seth's 60 or so cardboard reproductions of the buildings in his idea of a typical Canadian town as it would look in the post-war years. In his notes, he mentions that it was originally conceived of as a Northern Ontario town. But architecturally-speaking, it could just as easily be any mid-sized town anywhere in Ontario or all of Canada or mid-west United States for that matter.

The installation and imagination that went into it is quite impressive. And highly recommended. I'll spare you all of that high-falutin' artspeak and David Copperfield crap because you can go see it for yourselves. It's at Museum London till the middle of March. I almost wish the London Art Gallery was still located overtop the old London Public Library on Queens Ave. It would be more at home there. And a perfect reflection of the city that lay a block to the south.

When I met Seth last Sunday, it was because he was giving a little talk and artist tour of the 'Dominion' exhibit. I had accidently wandered into the show about a month earlier and realized that I had a copy of his latest graphic novel - or self-described "picture novella" which I had received as a gift last spring.

... And hadn't cracked open until last Sunday morning, the day of Seth's talk. I figured that since the guy was only two blocks away, I might as well go hear him and at least get my book signed.

I forgot the book at home but I was tickled pink at the man's writing. Lots of stuff about life and death and the fading of memory and the world around as it we get older. Put it this way, I could relate - simply as the author of a book of memoirs entitled 'Look Back in Anguish' and an autobiography called 'Living in the Past.'

I knew I was onto something good about the third page when Seth is talking about the birth of the title character George Sprott (the kind of star from the time when there was few television stations around - George is a bit like Elwy Yost and George Pierrot, the travelogue guy from Detroit television in the 1960s.) Seth writes that George was "born in Chatham, Ontario, although other sources suggest that it may have been Galt, Ontario."

It's that kind of subtle dry comic touch that I appreciate. In the town George lives, there are two television stations. The one he works for is the less successful of the two. Not hard to understand given the vision and lack of imagination of their management. The station is named CKCK. Back then every local television station's call letters started with 'CK.'

So I was about twenty pages into the book last Sunday when it was time for the artist talk. We arrive just about five minutes before it was to start. And as we're rushing to the front door, I see this tall elegantly dressed fellow in a long overcoat with a suit and silk tie underneath and he's having a smoke outside the front door. I immediately knew it was Seth. Never seen the fellow before in person, but I'd read an article in the Globe and Mail last May which described him as a dapper fellow prone to wearing fedoras and vintage clothing. Kinda looked like John Waters or Steve Buscemi, that funny-looking guy from the motion-pictures. And I mean that as a compliment.

Well, this day he wasn't wearing his trademark fedora but I knew it was him. For one thing, if it wasn't Seth, it had to be an out-of-towner. Because no one dresses that well for London on the weekend. No one in this town looks that dapper. Not even city-counciller Roger Caranci. But the real dead-giveaway was, who else would be outside a lecture hall a few minutes before showtime furiously puffing away? He's an *artist* - of course he's a smoker!

No one else out there with him so I walk up to him, repress the urge to ask if he might have an extra smoke and ask if he's Mr. Seth. Well, dang it all if I'm not right.

I tell him how much I've enjoyed the first 20 pages of 'George Sprott' and then ask him a - for me, rather intelligent question. "Now tell me, 'Dominion City' inside there, is it based on Chatham or Galt?"

Well, of course we both had a little chuckle over that. And then, as one who has had to answer similar questions too many times, he tells me that Dominion City is based on a number of Ontario cities.

And then, as no surprise to me, he adds London into the mix. He gestures to the left towards our main drag of Dundas Street and says that Dominion City is from the era of the fifites which was very much London, Ontario.

Ironically, in the direction he's gesturing, the ENTIRE immediate block before us has been razed to the ground on BOTH sides of the street to make way for a modern monument in ugliness known as The Court House, a mediocre piece of some kind of Post-Modernism called 'Bell Telephone Regional Headquarters' and on the other side of the road, a junior-hockey arena with a Disneyesque reproduction of the 150-year-old Talbot Hotel which was knocked down in its place.

The actual exhibit of 'Dominion' is far more representative of how that block used to look. The Talbot Hotel was previously a dump called 'The Belvedere Hotel' where you could get pickled eggs, 25-cent glasses of draft, a cheap room upstairs the size of a closet - and venereal disease. All in one night.

Down the block closer to where the Museum now stands and across from the Courthouse was a small three-floor block of building with 'Bill's Food Bar' as its anchor. The kind of diner which until its demolition in the early 1980s had remained unchanged since opening in the '50s. The kind of place that closes about four in the afternoon because it did a brisk lunch trade in milkshakes with the old stainless-steel cups and a cream-coloured gravy for the french fries which my favorite London artist once compared to looking like cum.

That, is the London which has a lot in common with Dominion City. The closest we have to that is the stretch of architecture on Richmond Street in the block between King and York. In fact, if you were to walk down that block on a winter's night you would swear you were in Dominion City back in the 1950s or the '70s.

I know Seth has felt that way. I happened to be sneaking a look at the first few pages of his graphic novel 'It's a Good Life If You Don't Weaken' on Amazon and lo and behold, the narrator is visiting London Ont. in the early '80s and wanders downstairs into the old 'Book Brothers' used bookstore on Richmond looking for a collection of 'Peanuts.' Shit, deja vu. I'd done the same thing many a time looking for old 'Dark Shadows' paperbacks and vintage '16 Magazine's.

Anyway, back to the Dominion installation and George Sprott. It was heartening to see some of the buildings central to George' life that I had been reading about just that morning - the Melody Grill, the Coronet Hall, CKCK Radio, Narwal Books and the Radio Hotel where George spent his final years living in a shabby suite of rooms on the top floor. The building which housed Clyde Fans makes me feel I must broaden my reading of Seth's other books.

But the building I got the biggest kick out of was the sole residential house in the entire installation of Dominion City. The name-tag called it 'Inkwell's End.' It's really a reproduction of Seth's own house in a small town not too far north of here.

Soooo, how about it, gang? What say we make a trip up there and drop in on Seth? It shouldn't be hard to find his house. 'Inkwell's End' is etched into the glass of the front door. And if the reproduction is accurate, it's a red-brick three-floor single-family dwelling from about 1920 or so. That should narrow it down a bit. And I also happen to know that it's near the railway tracks. Thank you, Globe & Mail reporter.

Seth may not appreciate us knocking on his door unannounced and probably won't answer the door if he gets a good look at us from behind the curtains. But he appears to be a nice guy. The best way to describe him is that he seems like the kind of guy that you wouldn't expect to run into at the beach. I think you'll like him.

Ever Feel Like ...?

2010-01-23T09:43:00.000-08:00

Ever feel like you need a bath because you've been up to your neck in shit all day at the office?

For me that day was yesterday. Have a look above. It took only 806 rolls of toilet paper to remove the stench and filth of office politics from my well-being. If the corporate workplace is one big toilet, what I would give for a bazooka full of Scrubin' Bubbles.

It all started because of a big management shake-up. As a result, I was promoted to a newly-created position - "The Go-To Guy" for all inter-office paper products. No raise in pay, just in my self-esteem. It was more of a 'lateral' promotion, if you know what I mean. Still, it beats what I was doing last week - restocking creamer and condiment supplies in the coffee-break room and making sure the damned cappachino-maker was making with the well-proportioned fluffs of foam on demand.

But I wasn't the only one to move up the corporate ladder. That bastard Kensington from the warehouse in now in charge of Office Supplies. And sure enough, it didn't take long for it to go to his head. This morning, my *first* day on the job no less, and I get a memo from him sayng that "as the manager in charge of distribution of all office workplace materials, I am hereby requesting that you cease and desist in your current handling of Post-It notes and all similar wares which are under the adequate supervision of the Office Supplies Department."

There's only one way to stop a pissing match. Nip it in the bud. So first thing I did was go out to the parking lot and slash the front left tire on the fucker's Honda. Then I barged in and made a formal complaint with ol' man Jenkins, the founding father of this place.

Next, I got out one of those accordion-style Post-It note pads and wrote Kensington a memo of my own. "Stick to your staplers, paper-clips and changing the ink-cartridges in the printer," I told him. "But leave the REAL work - the handling of file-folders, envelopes, legal pads, printer-paper, paper-towels, bathroom personal-hygiene cleaning aids AND Post-It notes to a REAL man. Because I am the Inter-Office Paper Products distribution *masta*. Signed, the NEW Vice-President of ALL Paper Products. And if you don't believe me, go ask Mr. Jenkins."

Then I helped myself to 20 bulk-size boxes of toilet paper from the Paper Supplies storage room, went home, cracked open a beer, lit some candles, lay down in the bath and me and Freddy Mercury did back-to-back duets on 'We Are the Champions' for a solid hour. As I wiped the shit of the day from my weary bones.

I'm Damn Pretty Angry, and it's no good to shout

2010-01-14T12:13:00.000-08:00

Nothing new in town worth blogging about. Until Barney Rubble has a challenger for Ward 3, I'm not even going to touch that dinosaur egg.

So here's the latest offering of 'Drysdale's Ditherings' from Beat magazine.

In his role as Master of Ceremonies for 'The London Songbook - Volume 2,' a concert at Museum London, January 20th, James Reaney Jr. has offered to use his influence to see that "London's coolest song" hopefully makes it onto that evening's set-list as chosen by representatives of the London-Middlesex Historical Society.

Through his blog on the London Free Press web-site, young James is requesting suggestions on the coolest tune to ever come out of the Forest City - or song related to anyone who has ever come out of this town. Any Guy at all.

There are the obvious choices. 'Africa' by Thundermug was a bona-fide chart-topper across North America in 1972. There are international successes - any 'alternative' local band played on CHRW in the past thirty years has at least one demo that was "big in Holland." There are London-area specific songs like 'I Spotted Elvis at the Western Fair,' by Jim Chapman; U.I.C's 'Crop Dustin' about the gravel runs around Exeter. Or the radio jingle for Tiger Jacks Sports Bar. And tunes which have their origins here but speak to a larger universe in scope and theme - like 'Horizontal Hold' by 63 Monroe or Condo Christ's 'Weekend Alcoholic.'

There's no shortage of songs to choose from - but I'd like to put in a plug for 'Shoot'em Up, Baby' by Canadian bubblegum icon Andy Kim. It's a little-known fact that Kim spent a month here one night while touring in the early 1970s and penned his anti-drug anthem in response to London's reputation at the time as 'Speed City.'

Unfortunately, in some social circles, if you and your parents weren't born here, your existence won't even be acknowledged until you've served at least a decade - which pretty well disqualifies Andy Kim from consideration.

With that in mind, I can only hope the selection committee makes the only other logical choice - 'New York City,' by the Demics, London's first punk band. It's a no-brainer.

At the tail end of the 1970s, London was the sleepy little village that it still is today. The radio airwaves were all classic rock - before there even was Classic Rock. After school or on Saturdays you went downtown. Flip through the records at Sams and Records on Wheels, check out the new threads at Le Chateau. Shoot some pool upstairs at Arcade Billiards. Maybe get a malt and a cheese-burger at the counter of Woolworths.

Such was the London in which the Demics came of age. Two of the blokes in the band had their origins in England. The others were Londoners from birth. And by their early twenties, they were all pretty well tired of a life where the only thing to do was catch the bus downtown and hang out.

As lead-singer/songwriter Keith Whittaker so aptly put it in 'New York City,' - "I'm damned pretty bored/And I wanna get out/I'm damn pretty angry, man/And it's no good to shout/I'm getting fuckin' pissed off, ya know/I'm tired of goin' downtown/The same trip everyday,man/It's kind of bringing me down."

That's why he concludes, "So I wanna go to New York City/I know that it's the place to be/Ya, I wanna go to New York City/I know that it's the place for me." Ohhh yaaaa.

Remember that feeling? You're in your late teens and any thoughts about your future can be summed up in one word - ESCAPE.

Of course, the same sentiment has been applied to any kid in Anytown, Anywhere. Any teen growing up in the Free World this past century can relate to that.

But as anyone who spent their adolescence in London, Ont., the Demics' 'New York City' speaks directly to *you.* It's not the most original sentiment every expressed in lyrical form but it's sung with such passion and conviction that London kids embrace it and claim it as our own.

The thing is though, by song's end, the narrator hasn't moved to New York. He's just talking about it. Sound familiar? Reportedly, years later, Keith Whittaker would point this out to people who told them how much the song meant to them.

Whittaker grew up in the industrial town of Manchester, England. If he had stayed there, he would have written about escaping to that other London. Apparently, after writing the song, he's been to New York but wasn't knocked out by it. Instead, he did what many young artists do - he and the band moved to Toronto where they broke up a couple of years later and where Whittaker died of cancer in 1996 at the age of 43.

If the Historical Society is hesitant about using 'New York City' because of a few cuss words, it should be noted that a follow-up album 'The Demics,' to the 1978 EP 'Talks Cheap, has a re-recorded sanitized version of the song - which accounts for its nationwide airplay when released in 1980. The second version was recorded in Toronto by a well-known metal producer at the time. But the original was done by a couple of Music Industry Arts students from Fanshawe - and the homegrown original is easily the superior version.

The year Whittaker died, 'New York City' was named Best Canadian Song in a poll of music critics for the trade magazine 'Chart.' A readers' poll for the Globe and Mail in 2002 placed it at number four.

It's long overdue for the Demics' hometown to bestow on them similar recognition. But I don't really expect it - because the *best* song about London, is all about getting the hell outta here.

------ POSTSCRIPT ------ according to this year's selection committee for the Historical Society, 'New York City,' will indeed be on the playlist of songs to be performed next Wednesday night at Museum London. And had been on the list right from Day 1.

Well good for them.

Still, this is the *second* time the Historical Society has staged such an event. The fact that 'New York City' is making it onto the set-list for Volume TWO of the London Songbook, pretty well says everything you need to know.

The Jim Chapman/Bud Polhill Conundrum

2010-01-06T08:42:00.001-08:00

Ola. Long time since posts but just got back from the Island of Misfit Toys. Once again, no wants wants to play with a Sonny-in-the-Box. Would you? Well, I tried. I do my bit at Christmas and that's what counts.

Just the same, I'm relieved that whole 'festive' season is over. So many expectations go along with it that it's always kind of a let-down. That's always been the case for me anyway. I think it goes back to when Santa didn't bring me the pony I asked for. After a whole year of being good. Or maybe it's because my parents didn't get me the Mustang I asked for the year I got my drivers licence. After I spent the whole year being bad.

But it was a good Christmas. Santa brought a lot more than the orange and sugar-candy I always felt grateful as a child. If the crops did well that harvest we sometimes even got a homemade pair of seer-sucker socks.

This year's loot included everything I ever wanted - the joy of my chick and children around me; being presented with a photo album of 'Sonny Drysdale: The Early Years' and the fact that Mavis didn't hit me with her purse when I mentioned in front of her minister on Christmas Day that she could give me my 'real' present later that night. Just the same, still no pony or vintage Mustang convertible (preferably a red one.)

It wasn't till the slow news days of between Christmas and New Years thought that I received the BEST Christmas present which a cynical and sarcastic Londoner could possibly hope for.

One day last week I treated myself to picking up a copy of the London Free Press - and there it was on the front page in big headlines - the news that Board of Controller Bud Polhill was considering running for Mayor in next fall's municipal election.

Bud likes to pull this little joke on the local press every civic elecion. And then, of course he never does run for Mayor. What a card! Bud ain't the brightest bulb on city council but he ain't no dummy either.

Well, maybe a ventriloquist dummy because he and local right-wing radio talk-show guy Jim Chapman seem to say the same things whenever they are together. Bud is one of the few politicians Jim will talk to on-air. That's why one of them is able to talk at the same time the other is drinking a glass of water - and no one can tell the difference.

So I got a good chuckle out of the newspaper that morning. But that wasn't anything compared to the big belly laugh I had this past Monday morning. Steve Garrison and Andy (the Moral Centre of London) Ooudman were talking on the 'Steve in the Morning Show' on CJBK-AM about the upcoming Mayor's race and was it possible for anyone to defeat long-time incumbent Mayor Anne Marie.

Bud's name never even came up but Steve mentioned that there was talk about Jim Chapman running. And Andy piped up with, "Yeah, but I notice most of the talk is coming from Jim."

Well, I tell ya, I did a spit-take right there. Lucky Charms and milk all over the kitchen. I even had milk coming out my nose. A rainbow of coloured-milk, no less.

Good one, Andy!

That morning I heard Jim on his own show on a different station. It's the only morning local talk-radio show I know of where they won't take open-line calls. Instead, listeners are treated to a lecture by The Perfessor.

Anyway, Jim was talking about the Mayor's race and trying his humble best to shrug off any suggestions that he was considering a run. But - Jim being Jim - he was also playing it coy - "No, I have no interest in running," he insisted - before adding, "Of course, in politics, never say 'never'," - which he said over and over again.

The thing is, on his show two days later, Wednesday morning, Jim got quite 'emotional' when pontificating on how city-council should give the Police Chief all the money he's asking for in his new budget.

Jim got quite worked up and upset about how the 'lefties' (that means YOU, David Winninger - and bless your heart,) on council thought the Chief should be held to the same budget restraints as every other municipally-funded organization.

It may have been the lozenge Jim was loudly sucking on the entire time he was talking, but I had the distinct impression the guy was so riled up that he was on the verge of another heart attack.

And as long-time listeners to his show already know, Jim Chapman is a first-rate drama queen (his on-air take-no-prisoners-knock-down-punch-out-no-winners a few years ago with then city-councillor Ed Corrigan was some of the BEST radio ever,) so when Jim starts getting overly emotional on the air, something's up.

And then it hit me! Smacked me right upside ma haid - hokey smokes, he's gonna do it! JIM CHAPMAN IS GONNA RUN FOR MAYOR!

And so the drama begins.

So let me say this before Andy Ooudman (or any of those mean editors at the London Free Press who no longer carry Jim's opinion column,) point this out - Jim, you have run for office twice in the past. Once for City Council - and were defeated by Megan Walker (and yet you insisted on a recount,) and again recently when you were defeated by Liberal Khalil Ramil when you ran for provincial government with Ontario's Conservative party.

On the basis of those failed popularity contests, it seems pretty obvious - despite what your radio promos may say - Londoners have said in no uncertain terms that NO, they do NOT consider you to be 'The Voice of London.' They've said it twice. And may do so again soon via the radio industry's BBM ratings.

As for being the 'Talk of the Town,' as someone has already noted, that can usually be traced to one same source.

If you are any kind of 'real' friend to Bud Polhill, please put your collective heads together and give them a shake.

And that's no bushwah.

No, that's pure bullshit. Because there's nothing that would give me bigger laughs than you two running for the office of Mayor at the same time. Against an apparently unbeatable opponent.

C'mon - please don't let us suffer through another boring Mayoral election again. After all these years, you owe us. Put the $125,000 it takes to mount a good campaign where your mouth is.

Sometimes It's Better to Plug in a Light-Wheel than to Curse the Darkeness

2009-12-24T10:42:00.000-08:00

A light-wheel in all the primary Christmas colours, a rotating artificial-tree stand, an artificial tree (silver, couldn't find one painted pink,) and you start to wonder what all the fuss about a 'real' tree is about.

Now, what to do with all those cherished family Christmas-tree ornaments?

Save them for next year of course. This year's model of tree-in-the-house was only a temporary measure born of necessity, due to having to squeeze two-score of in-laws into my living room and having little space.

Next year, the real thing, Bruce the Spruce will be back - with visions of sugar-plums and branch-jobs in his head.

Best Lyric I Never Heard

2009-12-18T13:03:00.001-08:00

Saw Alicia Keyes last night on 'The Colbert Report' - apparently she's a new happenin' Soul singer.

She and Steve did a rap song about their mutual love for New York City. My fave city in the world. Did you know you can leave your hotel room and go out and get a pizza there at 3:00 in the morning - and the streets are packed?! And on a weeknight, no less?

Was so impressed that I picked up her CD today, only for the song 'Empire State Building of Mind.'

Was a little disappointed that it didn't include Colbert's mid-song rap about the 'burbs.

But even more so after reading the lyrics and finding out that the words I bought it for were different than what I thought I had heard on the TV.

Apparently, "These streets will make you feel Brando," are really - "will make you feel brand new."

Oh well. Even without a reference to Marlon Brando (the actor,) it's a good song anyway. And even without the Colbert rap. Makes me feel like getting a passport.

Ain't heard the rest of the music yet. Any rhyming couplets that end with 'Dorothy Parker' tho, will be carefully scrutinized.

'Family Ties' Star Stirs Things Up

2009-12-09T16:38:00.000-08:00

Brian Bonsall, who played little brother 'Andy Keaton' on 'Family Ties' during the 1980s, was arrested this past weekend in Boulder, Colorado for assaulting a friend with a broken bar stool.

According to unidentified family sources, the 28-year-old former child-actor was upset after his TV-mom, Meredith Baxter revealed on the 'Today Show' a few days earlier that she was a lesbian. Baxter, 56, says she discovered this new aspect of her sexuality five years ago.

Other former cast mates from the show - Michael 'Steven Keaton' Gross and Justine 'Mallory' Bateman were supportive of Baxter - and Michael J. Fox who played older brother 'Alex,' said he was 'cool' with it.

Still, Baxter's admission has had an impact on more than just Bonsall.

Reportedly, both Marc 'Skippy' Price and Scott 'Nick' Valentine - as well as 95 per-cent of the North American male population have spent the past week fantasizing about Baxter having girl-on-girl action with Betty Buckley who played super-hot step-mom 'Abby' on 'Eight is Enough.'

At press time, Tina 'Jennifer' Yothers could not be found for comment.

Make Me Wanna Holler

2009-12-02T10:32:00.001-08:00

... nothing new worth blogging about - a bus strike, Tiger Woods, those goofball party-crashers in Washington - I've nothing new to add to any of that crapola.

So, in lieu of nothing else, here's something for the kids out there who haven't yet seen 'Drysdale's Ditherings' in the year-end ish' of 'The Beat.'

Like it or not, the cultural event and on-going news story of the year has been the the death of Michael Jackson, the self-proclaimed King of Pop.

I was never a big fan, but I'm willing to admit to owning one Michael Jackson album - 1979's 'Off the Wall,' the predecessor of the mega-hit 'Thriller.' At the time, I justified its purchase because it was produced by Quincy Jones. But actually, I bought it for just one song - the dance-floor hit, 'Don't Stop Till You Get Enough.'

Over the course of the first weekend after MJ died last June, I played that song over and over; back to back with Marvin Gaye's 'Got to Give It Up.' Some of you may be familiar with from it from that scene in the first 'Charlie's Angels' movie set in a space-age bachelor pad in the Hollywood Hills in which Drew Barrymore discovers she's been set up by the supposed shy computer-geek and his kick-ass Emma Peel-gone-bad partner.

There are similarities between the two songs which make them a DJ's dream segue. There's the high-falsetto lead, the party atmosphere, the occassional yelps and squeals of joy; the swirling room-spinning wall of bass-heavy funk. Even the choruses are alike - "Don't stop till you get enough," mirrors Gaye's admonition to "Keep on dancin'."

Gaye's single was released two years before 'Don't Stop,' and Michael and Quincy were either paying homage to the Motown pioneer, or trying to best him. Or just plain ripping him off.

In retrospect, I like Gaye's song better because it shows his continuing evolution as an artist. From Motown to 'Inner City Blues,' to 'Sexual Healing,' the word 'comeback' wasn't something you would associate with Marvin Gaye. He continued to grow until his early death at the age of 44. The brutha was always moving ahead, never backwards-walking into his catalogue to pay the bills with a Greatest Hits tour.

So I won't be buying the new 'This Is It' DVD. Last summer I sat through Jackson's memorial concert, held 12 days after his death and that was enough for me. I can only take so much of 'Reverend' Al Sharpton.

But the tearful on-stage 'goodbye' given by MJ's 12-year-old daughter, Paris provided the most startling revelation of the day - that MJ - the freak, the contrived eccentric curiosity, was also an obviously much-loved Dad. Deep down, underneath all the make-up, costumes and masks, turns out that he was a real human being. Imagine that.

Never saw that one coming. Because by any standards, he WAS a freak. Despite what all the Al Sharptons and revisionist apologists tell you, Michael Jackson was first and foremost, a freak. And it was Michael who deliberately cast himself in that role - and that's partly what killed him.

When talking about the child-molestation trials and accusations, people often bring up the theory that Michael must be guilty after he paid off most of his accusers to go away - "Because, who in their right mind would agree to pay millions to anyone who made such awful accusations? If you were really innocent, why wouldn't you defend yourself against such vile charges?"

Well, the first thing you have to understand is that we aren't talking about a "normal" person here. In fact, dying a cliche Hollywood drug-related death was about the only *normal* thing Michael Jackson ever did.

At some point, he severed all connection with Reality. What caused it? Growing up in show-business? Being a superstar and the family's chief bread-winner from an early age? Well, to name just one of many, Sammy Davis Jr. turned out okay.

Even in Jackson's own family, the rest of the kids seem relatively normal. With the exception of LaToya of course. But she's merely a spoiled untalented brat and so her outbursts are predictable.

After Michael's death, one of the biggest pieces of clap-trap I ever read was an opinion piece on the front page of the 'Globe and Mail' which insisted that "the world" killed Michael Jackson - and by implication, "we" were the murderers. Well, if 'we' are the 'world,' then let me off, because I won't accept any responsibility for the death of a guy whose final years are looking more and more like suicide as a work-in-progress.

If we're going to point fingers at people other than Michael himself, you don't have to look much further than his father/manager Joe Jackson. As a parent, he beat his youngest son and verbally abused him for being lazy. He made fun of the kid's "big nose" to the point that so much plastic surgery was done that it no longer resembled anything human.

All of that has to have a big effect on a child and explains a lot. As a father and a manager, the Jackson patriarch was a bully and it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to suggest that Joe Jackson killed Michael just as surely as Marvin Gaye's father killed his own son.

If you remember, Marvin Gaye Senior blew his own boy's brains out with a shotgun in 1984 over a business disagreement.

The Annual C&W Record Review

2009-11-15T03:03:00.001-08:00

Taylor Swift (top photo,) and Rosanne Cash in the lower photo, both put out popular country CDs in the past year. Which is better, you may be asking. Which would make the prefered Christmas gift?

I'd say go buy yourself Rosanne Cash's 'The List.' For one thing, it's pretty well a given that you're gonna get Taylor Swift's 'Fearless' for Christmas from your grandmother or a 'cool' aunt or someone older than you. It's like this year's 'Tapestry' by Carole King. Everyone and their dog has a copy.

I know I got mine. Bought it myself. Months ago. And proud of it too. It's one of my favorite CDs. Pop music doesn't get much better than 'Love Story' or 'You Belong With Me' ("I wear T-shirts/She wears short skirts") or even the grandly stupidly titled 'Hey Stephen' (that's right - not 'Hey Steven' but 'Stephen.')

If I was a 14-year-old girl, I would love this CD. Hell, I AM a 14-year-old girl, and I can assure you it is da bombe. I put it right up there with the soundtrack to the 'Josie and the Pussycats' movie.

Because 'Fearless' is pure bubblegum. Unbridled adolescent joy and angst. Beautifully produced and heartfelt delivered 'gum. And I can't give a better compliment than that.

But it ain't Country. Then again, nothing is country on Country Music Television or New Country Radio these days. A few days ago when Taylor won CMT's 'Entertainer of the Year Award,' it wasn't just for the mega-millions of CD's the eighteen-year-old sold last year, but because country-rapper Kayne West made her cry at the Grammies by coming on stage, grabbing her 'Best Video' Award and saying that his video from the Broadway production of 'Oklahomo' was better.

I tell ya, when he did that, it made ME cry too. I'd like to give that guy a good swift kick in the ass. Tell me Kayne, how many millions of CD's have you sold? He's had two medium-sized hits. And both from Oklahomo - the ballad, 'Cowboys in Love,' and the undeniable foot-tapping/thigh-slapper 'If I Were a Cowboy (A Rootin' Tootin' Tootin' Tootin' Tootin Tootin' Cowboy Too)'. Just jealous, I guess. Because Taylor is prettier and smarter than he is. And definitely has a lot more class.

I don't know if Rosanne Cash's CD 'The List' was even nominated for an award. Seeing as New Country Radio and Country Music Television totally ignored her daddy until after the guy died, I don't reckon Rosanne would have even been considered for recognition for a CD compilation of covers of her pa's favorite country and western songs.

But I like it. Because for one thing, they come from a list by Johnny Cash of the one hundred essential country and western songs and given to his then-eighteen year old daughter as a form of education. So, you know you can't get much more Country than this. And for another thing, if there's one voice I appreciate more than that of John R. Cash, it's his daughter's.

Some of these songs are new to me - 'The Long Black Veil,' 'Miss the Mississippi and You.' Some are obvious selections - 'Sea of Heartbreak,' 'Take These Chains from My Heart,' "Heartaches By the Number,' and Patsy Cline's 'She's Got You.' Hell, Rosanne Cash could put out a whole CD just devoted to Patsy Cline.

Some, like the hauntingly beautiful '500 Miles' are old friends who keep me company in the wee hours of the morning at work. And this is what makes this CD the better record. All of these songs are timeless. In the obvious sense that they'll be sung and listened to for more than the next hundred years. Taylor Swift's songs won't be.

But they're also timeless in the way that you can listen to them any time of the day or night. That's what makes a GREAT song. I can dig Taylor's she-bop classic 'You Belong With Me' at any time - but not before noon and not after one-o'clock in the a.m. It's bright sun-shiney pop and doesn't stand up to scrutiny too well much after dusk.

Not so with the songs on 'The List.' They all meet the Test of Time. They sound just as good on a Saturday morning as they do while you're making supper or later at night when you're trying to get laid - or at three o'clock in the morning when you're alone and in the mood for feeling sorry for yourself.

Local Man Sticks It to Fast-Food Franchise

2009-11-04T07:47:00.000-08:00

City resident Jim Swabos pulled a fast one yesterday on his neighbourhood Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise.

While waiting for his order to be filled, he asked the counter-help if plates and utensils were free. Informed that indeed they were, Swabos replied that he could use about 20 paper plates and about 30 plastic knives and forks.

When his meal was bagged, Swabos then instructed the clerk to throw in an additional 13 plates and a handful of those ketchup thingies - "I have some people dropping by for supper," he said. "Say, is there any limit on the number of napkins? My family are real messy eaters."

At home, while Swabos, his wife and six-month-old son sat down to the still-warm '15-Piece Bucket' and small container of potato salad, he explained to the press, "Don't kid yourselves - it's a BIG company, they can spare a few extra paper plates. The Colonel is a frickin' millionaire. Believe me, he ain't gonna miss them. ... Besides, the last time I was in there and ordered a Family Meal, they claimed to be all out of those free toy Simpson figurines. The bastards."

When contacted, KFC duty-manager Shayne Westcott immediately recalled serving Swabos that night. "Oh, yeah. I remember him. He's in here pulling that shit every other Thursday. I was going to call Corporate about it but I had a big math exam the next day and was pretty swamped that night.

"One time he talked the part-time help into giving him 57 packets of pepper."

Attaboy, Vic!

2009-10-31T06:52:00.000-07:00

When soundtrack composer Vic Mizzy caught a cab last week at the age of 91, all of the obituaries focused on his work as the creator of the theme songs for 'The Addams Family' and 'Green Acres.'

Wonderful achievements that they are, as every Vic Mizzy fan out there knows, it's Vic's movie work which best encapsulates the man's artistry. Even if it's a movie you've never seen before, the man's style is instantly recognizable. That was the case for me when I saw the William Castle production, 'The Busy Body' a while ago under the misunderstanding that it was a Wally Cox movie. The opening credits begin and it's a soft-shoe tap dance thing punctuated by machine-gun blasts - and I'm thinking, I've heard this kind of stuff before. Sure enough, it was Vic.

Think of his work as Henry Mancini all hepped up on laughing gas. Whimsey and joyful goofiness. The kind of tune that will having you tapping your feet or bobbing your head and stay locked inside your brain for days to come. The closest we have to it these days is Danny Elfman - but only from his 'Pee Wee's Big Adventure' and 'Beetlejuice' period.

All Mizzy scholars agree that the work which showcases his talent the best is his soundtrack to Don Knotts' 'The Ghost and Mr. Chicken.' The was the first of many projects between Mizzy, Knotts and writers Ev Greenbaum and Jim Fritzell. They also collaborated on 'The Reluctant Astronaut,' 'The Shakiest Gun in the West,' 'The Love God.' In some Knotts films, such as the dreadful 'How to Frame a Figg,' Vic's music is often the best thing in the entire movie.

But what's that you say? You haven't seen 'The Ghost and Mr. Chicken' in years? Well, let me hum the theme for you - 'Duh-do.Ta-do/Da doodle-da-do. Ta-do.' Ring a bell? Well, perhaps the stains from the haunted organ which plays by itself. The one old man Simpson was playing the night he murdered his young bride with a pair of garden sheers. Her bloodstains are still on the keys. They could never get them out. And they used Bon Ami.

It's such a classic that it's been covered by surf-guitar punks The Tiki-Tones. Their version even includes an "Attaboy, Luther!" thrown in for good measure.

Photos above - Don Knotss as 'Luther Heggs' in 'The Ghost and Mr. Chicken.' Below, Vic Mizzy at the organ in his Beverly Hills home.

The Saddest Word

2009-10-12T02:06:00.001-07:00

ter'mi-nal - (adjective); definition - Final; also known as 'the saddest word in the English language' - as in, "I'm sorry but your father's pulminary-fibrosis heart disease has entered the 'terminal' stage."

My dad, Doug Pegg died last night at home and at the age of 81, from pulminary fiborsis. Apparently, it's a heart condition that gradually weakens the lungs so you can't breathe anymore. He found out about it five years ago - but didn't bother to tell anyone. I can't blame him. I would have played it the same way myself.

But he WAS old and even though you could tell during the past year or so that he got easily winded, I just assumed it was just one of those getting old type things. When we went to the family picnic a two-hour drive out of town, the first weekend of August, he was the one who drove us there and back. He was fine behind the wheel. But just try asking the guy to carry the cooler into the house. Even then, relatives and people who know him better than I were taking me aside and asking - "Is he okay to drive home?" Lots of huffing and puffing and being winded just from walking from the driveway into the house.

Two weeks later my parents came over for my birthday the last week of August. He could barely make it from the driveway (and yes, he drove,) then up the three steps to the porch before gratefully collapsing onto the couch in the front room where he decided to settle for the afernoon. Couldn't even make it to the kitchen, where my family does most of our hanging-out when they come over.

He said he was going for respirology tests the next day. When the tests came back a couple of days later, they put him on oxegen. And it seemed to help for a bit. But then he needed more and more.

I saw him about a week later, and he looked good. Well, about as good as you can while walking around with a tube up your nose attached to an oxegen tank.

But about a week ago, he wasn't doing too well. My sister came down and found out about all the pulminary fibrosis stuff and that his repirologist gave her the news that he had entered the 'terminal' stage of the disease.

I went over last Thursday morning. He was able to sit up on the edge of the bed to talk, get a bit weepy and then get onto his commode to get rid of the cornflakes and bran-buds he insists on having for breakfast. That said, he had been basically in his bedroom for the past two days. Even making it to the bathroom, five feet away would have wiped him out.

Yesterday - was our Family Thanksgiving dinner. All his kids and their wives and his grandchildren would be there. And we get there and he was still in somewhat good humour for a bed-ridden guy, but didn't have the energy to even be able to sit up in bed.

He lay there while a procession of family came in and told him how much they loved him - or like me, talked about everything else under the sun. The last I saw him, he was tuckered out and just wanted to roll over into his favorite sleeping positon and go to sleep. Me and the boy helped him do that.

Then we ate and went home and a few hours later, he was gone.

It's like he was just holding on long enough to say 'goodbye' to EVERYONE and once that was done, it was okay to go.

When my brother called shortly after midnight to say that he was gone, I wasn't surprised. And I wasn't the only one who thought he was hanging on just to say goodbye one last time.

For five years, the guy knew his time was coming sooner rather than later and that he could never be sure when he saw any of us, whether or not that would be the last time. But being the true parent he was, he didn't want anyone to know.

Obviously, he's the kind of guy that didn't want a lot of fuss made about his passing. And according to his wishes, there won't be any funeral, etc. But he shan't go unmourned. So I'll say it here - he was the ultimate nice guy. If you walked into the room, he'd look over and there'd be smile on his face just from seeing you. He was that kind of guy.

Not to cheapen his passing with a reference from a pop song, but for past few days, I had been listening to 'Coney Island Baby' by Lou Reed. Know the one? It's a soft, gentle then angry ballad-type thing circa 1976 that starts off with Lou monologing,

"You know, when I was a young man in high school/Believe it or not but I always wanted to play football for the Coach ... Because, man, you know, someday you're gonna have to stand up straight - or you're gonna fall - then you're gonna die/And turns out, the straightest dude I ever knew was standing right by me all the time./So I had to play football for the Coach/And I want to play football for the Coach."

After my brother called with the news tonight, we went over and I only went in to see him the one time. But it was right after we got there. Body still warm. I know for a fact that he had moved around and had lifted his head enough to take his pills in the hours in between. But I can't tell you how nice it was to see that when the time came, he went away in his favorite sleeping position. Just like when I had last seen him.

*** Photo at the top *** - my dad, and his shortlived Shirley Temple-locks sitting in his own father's lap, my Aunt Betty and my own namesake, Uncle Bob (who died in World War Two,) beside them.

Together again - with the exception of Betty, who will hopefully outlive us all.

And This is My Tale of Woe

2009-10-08T09:16:00.000-07:00

Long-time friends may already be familiar with this story but on a nice warm autumn day like this, I can't help but think of her and feel like retelling it all over again.

Idaho Ilsa was her name. And I was her man. And this is my tale of woe.

When I was growing up in Poplar Hill a few decades ago, the little village north of London was the heppest place in this corner of southwestern Ontario. It was home to the annual Nihilist Picnic where spasmatic nihilist rockers and their friends and family would come to town for a day of orchestrated madcapery and bedlam. Rumour has it that the sleepy village was also the site of the first Burning Man Festival.

But the most interesting yearly celebration was what we locals referred to as 'Malcolm Merriweather Day.' It was an old custom which pre-dated the First World War. No one remembers where the name came from - none of my friends or parents knew who Malcolm Merriweather even was. There certainly were no 'Merriweather's listed in the Poplar Hill phone book. Was he a founding father? One of those old pioneer guys? A travelling salesman? We didn't know.

Doesn't really matter what it was called though - it could just as easily and accurately been named 'Do Whatever You Want That You Would Never Get a Chance to Do Otherwise Day.' The unwritten rule was - do whatever you want, as long as no one gets hurt.

Because of its spontaneous and impromptu nature, Malcolm Merriweather Day wasn't much of a tourist attraction. It was just for us townsfolk. Every fall on the first day that the temperature reached sufficiently high to make it hot enough for an authentic Indian Summer, everyone took the day off. Supposedly in celebration of Malcolm Merriweather. In his honour, even the fireflies returned and put in an unseasonal appearance.

What would happen was - for that one day of the year, if there was something you had always dreamed of trying, your fellow townspeople would help make it happen. One year, as a minimum-wage earning teen, my best friend, Dan Brown had always fantasized about rolling around in piles of dollar bills and throwing them up in the air. Well, sir, just for Dan, the Poplar Hill Savings and Loan unlocked the doors to the vault and for 15 minutes, Dan did just that.

Another year, my girl at the time, Idaho Ilsa - a red-headed Kim Novak-lookalike, had always dreamed of being Mayor. So Mayor Pike gladly handed over the official Mayor's Hat and the Keys to the City, and Ilsa spent the day making proclamations and hanging up flags outside Town Hall. As you can see, the day was very Brigadoon. Very Never-Neverland.

The whole village got involved in the spirit of Malcolm Merriweather Day. For those lacking in imagination or personal dreams, there were plenty of spontaneous activities. Pie-eating contests, parades, girl-carrying races, soft-ball games, hot-dogs, corn-on-the-cob, watermelon, ice-cream, egg-salad sandwiches, free Kentucky-Fried chicken supplied by the local franchise owner and at the very end - fireworks! It was like an all-day community picnic. Only without any opportunistic speeches by politicians. Those were banned.

For me, the most memorable Malcolm Merriweather Day happened in the fall of '63, not too far into October. It had been a cold wet September so no one argued when Mayor Pike declared Merriweather Day during the first hot spell to happen in weeks.

Idaho Ilsa and I had been seeing each other for about three years and were at that point in our relationship where it just seemed about *time*, if you know what I mean. All day long during the festivities, we two kids couldn't keep our eyes off each other. So at dusk, while the rest of the town gathered at the ballpark to watch the fireworks, we snuck off to consumate our own personal wishes. Which, according to legend are only granted through the graces of the omnipotent Malcolm Merriweather. Whomever that may be.

There was a pasture in the countyside just outside of town to which we were both partial. And that night, in a field of wildflowers and daisies, we lay down on a flannel blanket, took off all our clothes, and there under the stars, with only the cows and fireflies as witnesses, Idaho Ilsa and I made Hot German Potato Salad.

It was such a profound and earth-moving experience that we both instictively knew that even with another Malcolm Merriweather Day, chances are, we would never be able to duplicate it again. We decided to remain very close friends.

Three years later, Ilsa was killed in a car accident. Hit by a drunk driver while picking up mayonnaise and bacon in the condiments aisle of the Poplar Hill Valu-Mart. I never really got over it and moved to London.

But to this day, whenever I'm in a grocery store and pick up a 10-pound bag of Idaho Reds, I smile wistfully and think of Ilsa. And Malcolm Merriweather.

Trade Fair about Sex comes again.

2009-09-29T11:51:00.000-07:00

*** NOTE *** the painting above is from the 'Housewife' series by artist J.T. Winik. Her work can be easily found on the web. I include this image, not because it has anything to do with this week's topic. But just because it's my idea of erotic.

SEX.

Now that we have your attention (ha-ha,) let's talk about sex.

That's one topic you just can't talk enough about - especially if you live in London, Ontario and a trade fair entitled 'The Everything to Do With Sex Show' is surprisingly returning to the Western Fair Grounds this weekend - October 2 - 4.

Last fall, the show had tongues wagging on the open-line radio programs and in the Letters to the Editor section of the London Free Press. Naturally, the usual self-appointed Guardians of Morality were up in arms about it. The most vocal critic was Me-agin Walker, executive director of the London Abused Womens' Centre. Of course, Walker didn't attend the show herself and the majority of other complainers were equally uninformed.

Well, it just so happens that *I* did attend. Not because of any real interest or curiosity about sex. After about 33 or 35 years of marriage, there probably isn't anything about the missionary position that I don't already know.

No, me and me missus attended because it was a trade show at Western Fair. When you are middle-aged, that's what you do on the weekend. There's barely one goes by that me and Mavis aren't down to the fairgrounds for a Home & Gardens Show, Mature 50-Plus Lifestyles fair, recreational vehicles, Travel or hot-tub exhibition. This year's sex fair is located right next door to the London Anti-Aging Show. And the first home game of the season by the London Roller Derby Girls. BONUS!

So last year, we headed down there if only to check out the newest trade show to come to town. Can't say I was personally offended by anything I saw. I'm no prude and pretty open-minded and sophisticated when it comes to what two consenting adults want to do 'down there.'

And overall, the whole event was kind of fun. Like any trade show, it's like one big infomercial. Think of it as a visit to an adult-entertainment and novelty shop - only a lot bigger. And like any other trade show, there's a lot of the same. I don't khow about you, but I can only look at so many dildos before I fade out and start longing for a walk through a new motor-home or hear a seminar on RRSPs for Seniors.

But there was lots of variety. Mavis checked out a lingerie fashion show. I sat in on a seminar on Tantric sex, but got bored after four minutes and was left. I almost wandered into the 'Dungeon Room,' but realized I had already seem most of that stuff on the late-night 'Kink' TV-show on Showcase. Different strokes for different folks, I guess. Even if it means the woman on top.

We watched a bit of a nude body-painting demonstration. This being London, Ontario - even though thanks to the efforts of Gwen Jacobs a decade ago, it's perfectly legal for women to walk down the street topless, here the female models had to have their nipples covered with those pasty things that the dancers wore in burlesque half a century ago. I don't think that would happen if the show was in Toronto. Or Boston, for that matter.

There were some educational seminars on using sensitivity and fantasy-play as a way of putting the spark back in your romance. I don't need any help in that department. My fantasies are always the same - long walks on the beach in the rain, champagne in front of a fireplace afterwards, at least two twenty-year-old blonde big-breasted nymphomaniacs, a midget and the New York Times cross-word puzzle.

We didn't buy anything. We're not really into 'toys' and as for the selection of soft-core adult videos aimed at couples, those things have always struck me as a form of foreplay for lazy people lacking in imagination and don't want to make an effort.

Just the same, turns out the show was well worth the price of admission. When we got home, we wasted no time 'reaffirming our vows.' If you know what I mean.

The Annual Theatre Review

2009-09-22T11:02:00.001-07:00

On Sunday we made our annual pilgrimage to Stratford to see some 'thay-tuh.' It was Mavis' birthday present. Seems to be becoming a regular event. Last year we took the young 'uns and saw 'The Music Man,' which was darn good. "There's trouble in River City" and all that. Lots of parallels to life here in Hicksville, Ohio on the banks of the River Thames.

But this time it was just the two of us. The play I chose was one of those 'romantic comedies,' and I was hoping to set a certain 'mood.' As I reminded Mave all afternoon, "I'll give you your 'real' birthday present later tonight." Deja vu.

Anyway, we took in a matinee of this play called 'Cyrano!' Apparently it was written by one of those Shakespeare guys because everyone was wearing old-fashioned clothes like from the 'Three Musketeers' time. Lots of sword-fighting and battle scenes too. Action packed!

It's all about this Cyrano de Bergerac guy who has this big nose and has all these adventures and stuff. Sort of like 'Pinocchio' but without the big whale and the six-legged sidekick. Ol' Cyrano didn't need any wise-beyond-his-days insect anyway. The guy was pretty smart all on his own.

Not too smart though, because he didn't get the girl until it was too late. In the end, he did get her and seemed alright with that. But that's kind of sad. Weren't a dry eye in the house at that point. Turns out that Cyrano was a lot like Pinocchio all along. His whole life was a lie.

But Cyrano was pretty funny too. He made jokes about his nose all the time. Even though he was supposedly sensitive about it. Maybe it was one of those self-defence things. You know, you beat others from making fun of you by making jest of yourself first.

Such as, when Cyrano's rival, a young pretty-boy jock named 'Christian' first spies Cyrano as he's coming around the corner because his nose preceded him by a foot, Christian lets loose with a number of zingers. Like, "Hey, is that a banana you're eating - or is that your nose?"

But one-liners were in short supply whenever Cyrano opened his mouth. One of those guys in love with the sound of his own voice if you know what I mean. Why use five words to describe something if you can say it with a hundred?

And when he was finally dying (*** Oops, SPOILER ALERT !!! *** one (or two) of the main characters die during the course of the movie,) I swear it was the looooonnngest death scene I've ever seen.

Let's just say that he didn't go quietly into that good night. The guy just wouldn't shut up. I don't know if he was trying to postpone his appointment with the Grim Reaper or just bore him to death. Which would be ironic, if you really think about it. ... Whoa!

Anyway, it was a great production. Colm Feore played Cyrano. And he's always good. I think it plays till the end of the first week of November. I highly recommend it.

More Jim Carroll - Because You Demanded it

2009-09-16T12:10:00.000-07:00

Due to popular demand - and because in the past few days I've dug out my old rekidds and old books of his pomes - here's some more stuff about the late Jim Carroll.

I'm sure anyone who drops by this blog is hep to Jim Carroll and 'The Basketball Diaries' - so I won't be doing any glamourizing of being a teen heroin addict while bouncing B-ball and being a C-minus student as b-ball scholarship stud at at fancy-dancy Manhattan private high-school. ... Well there will be one brief excerpt from That Book about the first day of school for Grade 10.

Otherwise, keep all that in mind when checking out the photos at the top of this post.

At the top - Jim at 15. Number 2 - Jim's final yearbook picture from that same private school. #3 - Jim and Patti Smith, circa 1969, a couple of years after high-school.; and lastly, my favorite rekidd cover photo of the man. Talk about looking angelic. ... Somehow, the irony is lost on me.

Like I said, no dwelling on the heroin stuff. What I like about the guy is his sense of humour. Especially when his parents are involved. I only wish Ol' Bull Burroughs might have added a bit more of that to his famously 'dry' wit when he penned his own memoir on semi-youthful junk addiction in 'Junkie.'

That all said, we can't get started without this - from the Basketball Diaries.

Summer, 1965 - "i"m gonna be fifteen soon and the summer's 'Pepsi-Cola' heroin habit is tightening more and more around me. I'm getting that feeling for the first time since I lost my virgin veins at thirteen that I gotta start getting my ass together 'cause school's coming at me mighty quick and no way of doing that scene with a habit."

... Now, for something more cheerful - from the Winter of '65 in the Diaries -

"My Marxist pal, Bunty from my new school, finally talked me into going to one of his Communist Party meetings today. It was at this sleazy place on 11th Street called Webster Hall. All the girls looked like reformed Mary Magdalenes. Everyone moans alot and plays folk songs. One of the requirements seems to be that you have to be ugly. I was wearing my seediest clothes and I still came off looking like Arnold Palmer or something. I dig these motherfuckers, but the speeches bored the shit out of me.

I went home and told my old man how the government suppresses the proletariat from his due. "I AM the proleteriat, you dumb bastard," he said, "and I think those motherfuckers are off their rockers. Now, get the hell inside and do your homework."

... and for the final not-so-forced entry on this subject, it's from a prose piece by the most recent book I bought from the man, 'The Book of Nods,' shamefully - about 15 years ago.

It's called 'A Poet Dies.' ... I recommend you seek out the entire work on your own, but the last sentences seem fitting ...

... "I tighten the notebooks beneath my arms for my return, and look down. I will have no more from them ... I am the future, and my power is great."

......................... Sonny Drysdale Presents now returns you to your regularly broadcasted program.

Person Who Died

2009-09-14T05:37:00.000-07:00

Jim Carroll - September 11, 2009; heart attack at the age of 60. Reportedly died while at his desk writing in his Manhattan apartment.

From 'The Basketball Diaries' -

Spring 1965; Age 15

"I'm lying on the sofa digging SUPERMAN on t.v. after dinner and my moms is sorting through the mail of the day: Life magazine, a letter from the Bartender's Union, The Catholic News, (why they insist on sending that rag here I have no idea. We never pay the little frog that comes around to collect for it. I think anyone with an Irish name they send it to on a hunch), a bill from Macy's and, as my old lady makes me quick to know, a letter from my principal, Mr. Bluster. She opens it like a savage ... a short note: "Jim has become a constant enigma around here as you might well detect from the report you received last week. Please attend parent's day next week (date ... blah, blah, cocktails served) as Jim's teachers and I are anxious to see you about this."

She beams in on me in a manner rather mean, "What happened to this report card crap last week?"

"Well, dig, I heard a lot didn't get out, some mail hassles ... Eggie called me last night and mentioned he didn't get one either."

Of course that's jive, I simply knew what day it was coming and skipped practice, intercepted it, dug what an atrocity it was and now it's a bed of shreds at the bottom of the dumbwaiter shaft. "What the hell does 'enigma' mean?" she asks my brother. He shrugs, a bagful of potato chips in his mouth. I grab the big book and blurt out in dictionary language, "Enigma: a model of perfection, an example used to have others strive toward. E.g., He was a constant enigma among his math classmates." I calmly fold the big volume and bury it back into the shelves, my brother rolling around the floor choking on potato chips. My old lady heads over to the bookcase ... this diary fades out to bad ending."

... He looked like 65 when he died. He was a friend of mine.

... And Jim, I miss you more than all the others. This post is for you, my brutha.

They Say the Darnedest Things

2009-09-13T06:53:00.000-07:00

Teenagers. The things they come up with. Their excuses for missing school. And not cleaning their room. Why Colbert is funnier than John Daily. Why 'American Idol' sucks. I tell ya, sometimes it's like living with someone from another planet. I can't tell what they're even talking about half the time.

They have their own language. And then there's their slang. Seems like every day they come up with a new term for 'cool.' And just like the original, they use the opposite. If something is really 'hot,' now it's described as 'dirty.' As of last week, that was the most current adjective for describing something 'straight from the fridge.'

Over the last few years I've heard a lot of variations on this expression for something awesome - from 'Keen-a-roo' to 'Keen-a-rooni' to 'phat' to 'toasted' to 'steeped.'

But such things have a short life-span. In the brief period of time from the first day of school last week to this weekend, 'dirty' has been replaced by a new term for cool - 'gay.'

Tis true. As the late-night manager for our local McDonalds, I pick up things from the high-school part-time help. Just last week, I heard a couple of the girls talking about the latest hair-style of one of their co-workers. "Have you seen it?!? It is sooooo gay!" Then the other day as I exited the staff room, I couldn't help but overhear a couple of the boys admiring my new seersucker socks - "Are those gay, or what?!"

But like anything involving the young people, there's always the potential for trouble. It's just a matter of time before someone gets their eye poked out. Sure, it's all fine and dandy to call everything you like 'gay,' but not everyone is as hep as I am when dealing with the adolescent vocabulary.

Example - the other day, a dear friend of mine confided to me how the Facebook application for his IPod informed him that he was 'gay.'

Well, I can assure you that I reassured him right away that it was okay. And as the married father of children himself, it meant a lot. He just wasn't hip to the fact that with kids these days, being 'gay' is a compliment. It means you're cool.

For proof I related this 'Overheard in the Grocery Store' anecdote that I experienced first hand just the day before while looking for string-beans in the Produce Department at Valu-Mart.

Teen #1 (snickering) - "Look at these big red balls. Tomatoes have to be the most gay of all vegetables.!"

Teen #2 - "You idiot! The tomato is a fruit! Geez, what a fag."

... geez, what a couple of dicks.

Just the same, I remember what it was like to be young and stupid. In fact, I remember it like it was just yesterday.

I am Shocked! I AM outraged!

2009-09-11T13:26:00.000-07:00

"I am shocked! I am outraged to discover that there is gambling going on here. On the 'Innernet'!

... "Here are your winnings Mr. Rains. Would you like them in cash? Or the currency of Relative Obscurity?"

Highlight of my day - learning that character actor Claude Rains has been chosen by TCM (that's Turner Classic Movies, for those of you who don't get Channel 52,) to be September's Featured 'Star of the Month.'

As anyone out there who has ever seen a B&W movie (a.k.a. 'motion picture' or 'photo-play') made prior to 'The Ghost and Mr. Chicken' already knows, Claude has been in EVERYTHING and has often been the best part in EVERYTHING he has been in.

To paraphrase Stella McCartney when her Dad was finally granted an unforgiveably belated (and snub-nosed reception) into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame -

well, I'll let Stella spell out her feelings about loooonnng overdue recognition in her own words - which the Fashion File regular had bedazzled onto a plain black T-shirt ...

... "ABOUT FUCKIN' TIME!"

Surely a sentiment shared by Claude's own daughter.

Record Review of the Week - Pet Shop Boys

2009-09-05T08:04:00.001-07:00

Ola! Long time since I last rapped at ya. But I picked up the Pet Shop Boys' latest offering, 'Yes' last week and its been always on my mind ever since.

I bought it on a whim, intriqued by the band's curious sounding name - 'Pet Shop Boys.' But half way through the first spin, I had the unsettling feeling that I had heard this stuff before.

Check it out for yourself - Download this - 'Did You See Me Coming?' and ''The Way It Used to Be.'

Sound familiar? I thought so too. Then I remembered. My 'Lost' decade. It's all a bit of a fog now, but turns out I spent the majority of the '90s tripping the light fantastic (and getting high,) in all the chi-chi danceclubs in Berlin, Ibizia, Rio and Frankenmuth with a clique of like-minded quasi-decadent jet-setting fellow-minded Euro-trash.

On a hunch, I dug out my old rekidd collection. The one they took away from me years ago - just in case it might trigger a 'relapse.'

And sure enough, there they were. PSB - also known as The Pet Shop Boys. So I've spent the last few days listening to the latest one and the two other PSB CDs I own. Afterwards it all seemed clear. No wonder I liked 'Yes' so much - it was solid all the way through. EVERY song was great. It was all hits, no misses.

Comparatively speaking, when compared to my older PSB records, one could say that 'Yes' is somewhat reminiscent of their earlier 1990s CD 'Discography: The Complete Singles Collection' and the subsequent follow-up recording, 'Pop Art: The Hits.'

Just like back then, the Pet Shop Boys make all the right moves to get you to push all the living room furniture to the side and roll up the carpet. And they do so with such a Brit-sounding romantic world-weary ennui that they just may be the heirs-apparent of Bryan Ferry.

And speaking of danceably sardonic, next week's review will be a comparative critique of New Order's latest - 'Singles' and how it stacks up when compared to their other recording, 'Substance.'

The Annual Family Reunion Picnic

2009-08-13T03:35:00.001-07:00

It was the annual Drysdale Family Picnic this past weekend. Which explains why I haven't been able to post a report - or do much of anything else other than lay on the couch with my belt undone ever since.

Too much potato salad. And baked beans. And the biggest corn on the cob I've ever seen. Meatballs, sausage in saurkraut, devilled eggs (I've always said, you just can't have a picnic or a party without devilled eggs,) coleslaw, ham, chicken wings and about five different variations on potato salad. And if that wasn't enough, someone also brought a couple of buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Afterwards there was a dessert selection which included about 10 different pies. As usual, I was too stuffed by then. It was like a Dagwood Bumstead wet dream.

This year, my contribution was my own version of a Greek Salad. What I do is, I get one of those boxes of 'Cold Pasta Salad' put out by the same people who make Kraft Dinner. I make it up, add hard-boiled eggs and then combine it with two different kinds of Greek salad from the deli-department of Loblaws. And pass it off as my own.

What I also brought this year was the photo at the top of the this post. Everyone was asked to bring a baby-picture of themselves and when they were all up on a bulletin board, whoever correctly guessed the most true identities would win a prize.

I didn't bother with the game part. All babies look the same. Except me of course. Take a close look at that photo. C'est moi. No baby had such beautiful naturally curly hair as I did.

I've looked the same since I was about 11 months old. Family legend has it that I was born with a full set of teeth. My parents didn't bother with breast-feeding or a bottle. Just handed me a cob of corn and I've been knawing on them ever since.

So the food was good. And even though it piss-poured rain the entire day and we had to stay inside, that was fine. My kin can be a bit goofy when they become a mob, but they have the sense to know that potato-sack races and the three-legged race aren't good ideas in the rain. No matter how many times the jug gets passed around.

Despite the rain, the turnout was good. But I've noticed a trend in the past two or three years. It's mostly the older generation who shows up.

Back when these family reunions started, oh, nigh on 10 year ago, I was able to bribe my girls into going. Once. They were teenagers though, and that was the end of that. The Gnut always came because he was a kid and didn't know any better. Plus my cousin who hosts it every year has a pool. But now the boy is older and has missed the last two reunions. Interestingly enough, ever since officially becoming a teenager.

I try to talk them into coming but they won't. They use the same arguement I did at their age. "I don't want to go. It's boring."

When they get to the part about "I don't know any of those people - why should I go?" I tell them about my youngest sister. She died about twenty years ago at the age of 24 from the cancer. It was one of the first funerals I had ever been to. Certainly the first for anyone in my immediate family. And that day, I was just amazed at all the relatives who showed up. They were ALL there. And of course, until that day, I hadn't seen any of them in years. Not since the last family reunion I had gone to - not long after I had become a teenager.

So every year, just as a formality, I ask my kids if they want to come. When they use the I-don't-know-any-of-those-people excuse, I remember the turn-out for my little sister and remind them -

"It's because they are your FAMILY. They have the same DNA in them as you do. They are your BLOOD. If you were to die tomorrow, everyone at that family reunion would show up for your funeral.

To which they say, "What do I care? I'll be dead."

Hard to argue with that kind of logic. Kids today. What can you do? Shit, every year, I go. If only for the hope of some free KFC.

Sonny Goes to the Art Gallery

2009-07-25T02:38:00.000-07:00

Even though I live right around the corner from it - literally, I'm ashamed to say that I only actually visit the London Regional Art Gallery once or twice a year. Unless they have something going on that I really want to see. But they seldom do.

I didn't really want to see this newly-discovered Paul Peel painting of a big dog, but I did want to see what one can find at a yard-sale in Ohio when you have a couple thousand in cash on you and hope to find something that's really worth a few hundred thou. Apparently, they do garage sales differently down there.

Anyway, the oil painting of the dog was pretty good. An authentic Paul Peel? I don't know - as the rest of the Peel exhibit demonstrates, Paul is better known for his paintings of nude children than dogs.

But as a painting of a Saint Bernard it was remarkably well done. All that was missing was a cigar and a pawful of a winning flush. Apparently, Paul did this painting as a 17-year-old and it won a blue-ribbon at the Western Fair. It's certainly better than what I could do. And it does have that warm fire-place lit feel characteristic of all his work. And it is a darn good painting of a Saint Bernard - and who doesn't love a big Saint Bernard? But then again. It IS the work of a 17-year-old and looking at the painting up close you realize that although Paul's heart is in the right place, that's not always the case with his brush-strokes.

That show is in the basement of the gallery. I thought it might have been up on the third floor so when I came in from the street, I raced through the lobby ("Hey, no running or horse-play in the gallery, young man!" yells out the guard at the lobby desk. I shot back with "You're not the boss of me!") and caught the elevator one floor up.

Lots of good stuff up there. Portaits from the gallery's Permanent Collection of local old guys and some gals who haven't lived here in over a century or so. Photos from Beta Photos on Richmond of long-gone London street scapes and graduation photos of now-famous Londoners who haven't lived her since graduation.

And contrasting all this is an exhibition from the graduating class of the Fine Art Department of Fanshawe College. A lot of it is what you might expect - young kids striving not to do something that would be picked up in a yard sale in Ohio in one hundred years. Small chance of that happening. But there a show by one student who came up with the goods in a way that mananaged to be representational and shocking at the same time. I won't spoil the surprise. I will tell you that it involves her obsession with crows. Big black crows.

But it was when I decided to leave that I came upon the highlight of my visit. In fact, it's probably been the biggest single cultural mind-fuck that I've had in years. Probably since the first time I watched 'The Matrix.'

I was coming down the stairs from the top floor and there it was right in front of me. I had managed to miss it when I came in because I had been in such a hurry to get to the dog painting that I went right by it. Or maybe I didn't even notice it because of it's subject matter. It was wall-paper. An entire wall of wall-paper. And I'm talking about a wall which would be about the length and height of my entire house.

There's a shot of it at the top of this post.

This is what the gallery says about it - "Responding to an invitation to create a site-specific installation for our centre gallery, artist Eric Snell has devised a wall-paper project. The entire wall, 7 metres high X 14 metres wide, is covered by a commercially-available revival French toile pattern, which originated in the late 18th century.

"Snell views the project "both as cultural social anthropological comment about 'us' and the world we live in, a visual metaphor of our day-to-day life, repetitive, ordinary and endless."

"A contemporary jolt is the anachronism of a large flat-screen television playing a continuous video of the wall-paper itself. It is a sign of ubiquity; flat-screens in homes and public places, and being 'on' all the time regardless of the content."

... you know, this show is one of the reasons most people don't go to publicly-funded art galleries. They believe the people running the place are making fun of them - and with their own tax-dollars no less. They think these 'artists' guys are pulling one over on them. Being paid thousands of dollars for something their five-year-old could do better.

I won't comment about how much the guy was paid for this, or if he actually put the wall-paper up himself or if he was able to buy the stuff on sale or at least get a good deal for buying in bulk. I don't care about that. Small potatoes. The government wastes millions on much more dubious stuff than this exhibit. And if Snell's installation inspires just one kid to become an artist, or if it brings joy into the heart of another Sonny Drysdale, then it's worth the expense.

I don't feel the way most people might about this kind of thing. I walked out of the place with a big smile on my face. That wall-paper really made my day. At the moment, Eric Snell is my favorite artist.

The best part is the flat-screen television. Eric didn't content himself with making his 'comment' by sticking up a painting of the very same wall-paper or even a framed photo of the same thing. Nor by using a television with the pattern of the wall-paper on the screen as you would a photo on your computer's desk-top.

Oooohhhh, nooooo! That would be too easy. So Eric filmed a LIVE video of the wall-paper and that's what we see. Playing endlessly. Now, that my friends, is pure GENIUS.

Mowing the Grass

2009-07-11T02:46:00.001-07:00

Almost cut my lawn. It happened just the other day. It was getting kinda long.

But I didn't. And I wonder why. Guess I felt like letting my freak flag fly.

Yesterday I finally got myself together. And got down to it. I couldn't put it off any longer. My new lawn-mower sat there in the corner of the back-yard mocking me. Sat where it had been since being parked there over two weeks ago after we bringing it home and not even trying it out.

It just sat there taunting me, making fun of my laissez-faire attitude towards yard maintenance. "Toro," it teased. "Toro, toro." My freak flag had been replaced by the image of a big red cape, egging me on. Just like in the 'Bugs Bunny' cartoons. So I got up, yanked three times on the rope and fired that baby up. Time to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Now, please understand - I try to be a 'fair' man and a pride myself on knowing good character when I see it. I don't judge a lawn by the length of its blades of grass. Or by the unkempt fringe along its perimeters. Or by the weeds it may attract.

But I'll tell you this - when I do get out of that vinyl-strap fold-up chair and push a big hunka set of rotating blades on wheels around my yard, well, that grass had better damn well look like it has been cut when I'm finished. I'm not one of these modern 'progressive' yard men. When I cut a lawn, it's gotta look cut.

Not like when my teenage son does it. The other week I gave the boy five bucks and told him to go do a lawn cut. An hour later he comes in and says he's done. I look out the window and ask, "Done what?" And he says, "I cut the grass." I look out again, rub my eyes, give my head a shake and I says to him, "Oh yeah - and which ONE did you cut?!"

Kids today. Some day they'll realize that there's no better feeling than looking upon a vast panorama and the scent of a freshly shorn lawn. One that you have mowed yourself.

I KNOW that feeling. But I don't know it often. Once a lawn is cut, I don't really feel like doing it again for another month or so. I like to be able to gaze upon my handywork and savour the view as long as possible. After about three weeks of appreciation, it will rain for a week straight and then the grass will shoot up five inches overnight and I have no choice but to cut the damn thing anyway. Time marches on.

Until yesterday, for the past 30 years, my instrument of choice was a rotary-blade push mower. It was powered not by gasoline or electricity - but by good old-fashioned human propulsion. Putting one foot in front of the other and then repeating that process, you got behind it and pushed. It was a 'Yardman.' Top of the line some 50 years ago when rotary-blade push-mowers were all the rage.

But through a bizarre series of circumstance, I have recently come into possession of a gas-powered machine. I'm not one to look a gift goat in the mouth. It's a 'Toro' - top of the line. The self-propelled 'Personal Pace' model. Meaning that you barely have to touch it to get it moving. You could cut the whole lawn pushing that mower using just that one muscle in your baby finger.

It's also a lot more complicated than my old 'Yardman.' Turns out there is a device on the wheels so you can adjust the cutting height of the grass. And it turns out the previous owner apparently liked a bit of length to his lawn. He had it on the 'high' setting.

The result being that when I had finished, unless you had actually seen me at it, you wouldn't even know that I had just cut the grass.

So I had a little look-see, realized my oversight in not making the proper adjustments for a lower cut, and then sat down with a bottle of pop. I'll be damned if I was going to mow the damn lawn again. It had its chance. It can wait another two or three weeks.

But the more I looked at it, the more I came to like it. All the tall spindly crab-grass had been cut down. All the weeds had been levelled to the same length of the rest of the grass. In short, it looked pretty damn good. It looked like a lawn that wasn't yelling out - "Hey, look at me! Look at me! Like my new haircut?!"

And that reminded me of an old episode of 'The Andy Griffith Show.' Floyd the barber is telling Andy about one of his 'sharp' customers, a wealthy out-of-towner who once came in and when asked if he wanted the 'works' or just a trim, the fellow replied that he wanted "a haircut that doesn't look like a haircut."

Well, of course, being a proud practicioner of the art of tonsorial care, Floyd is astonished at such a notion - "Can you imagine that?" he incredulously asks Andy. "Getting a haircut - and not caring if everybody didn't know that you just got a haircut?! ... Say, that's class."

And that's what my backyard now looks like. A lawn that doesn't look like it was just cut. Mind you, it's neat and trim. The blades of grass are a uniform two inches tall. And you would never know that I had just cut it the day before. Now, that's class.

A Boy and His Car

2009-06-09T10:30:00.001-07:00

Photo above - The Author and his first car.

Come springtime, a young man's mind turns to love. That's why every June, around the time of Steve Plunkett's Classic Car Show held at stately Plunkett Manor, I get a bit misty-eyed thinking about my first car.

She was an older girl who showed an inexperienced young lad of 16 what life was all about. Ahh, I remember it like it was just yesterday. The sun beat down on that hot August day back in 1973 when I was introduced to her at Used Cars R' Us out on Oxford Street.

A vintage 1958 Pontiac Sunfire GT. A silver coupe. For those of you out there in blog-land who do not know what that means - it was a silver two-door. Very 'James Bond.' Kinda like 007's car in 'Goldfinger,' except for not being an Aston-Martin.

Officially, the marketing boys at General Motors may have called her a Sunfire - and it's true that she bore a huge resemblance to the Pontiac Sunbird - but the day we drove off the lot together, I christened her 'Sunshine.'

A.k.a. 'The Sonnymobile.'

Every Sunday back then, it was just me and Sunshine, cruising the back roads until we eventually ended up at Mackies in Port Stanley before I would gently turn her around, shift into Thrust and head back. I had just broken up with my girl that summer but on those lazy Sunday afternoons I was amazed at just how easy it was to fall in love again. As a lover, Sunshine could and *would* do whatever I asked of her. She was a vehicle of easy virtue. And I was smitten.

Some weekends we would get together with friends and take road trips to cottage country or just go on gravel-runs through the concession roads of Huron County. On those occassions, I would insist that all passengers only refer to me as "Wheels." But those trips weren't about me. It was all about The Journey. Because everyone loved Sunshine.

Those halycon days inevitably ended. I settled down with a younger woman, had kids and turned into a four-door man. Sunshine was put up on blocks in the garage and although I would occassionally visit and rub her down, we both knew that until the sedan years were over, our love affair would be merely idling in the driveway of our memories.

You may be thinking - Well, that's just fascinating, Sonny - but wouldn't all this be better suited for your column in 'The Auto Trader?' Perhaps you've seen my weekly car-advice column, 'From Under the Hood' - "Well yes, it *could* be the carburetor, but remember, always first check the differential."

The thing is though - everything here at Sonny Drysdale Presents (TM) is all about Beauty. And everything about my Sunshine was inspired by beauty and ART - from its aerodynamic design to the fuzzy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror, right down to the decal of 'Rat Fink' on her the left side of her cute rear end, drawn by Ed 'Big Daddy' Roth.

And being the car-buff that I am, I can tell you there are few experiences more beautiful and meaningful to me than the first time I lifted her top and stared down into that huge V-8 engine. I get pumped just thinking about it.