TubaOrNotTuba

I’m just back from the hunting grounds. That’s where parents go, at the beginning of each new school year, to try to complete the treasure hunt designed by sadistic educators. Around and around the aisles, dodging others with exactly the same mindset, constantly scanning the edges of counters where the article you need may have been carelessly abandoned by another. All this, to assure that Johnny Who Can’t Read will be able to write, on a wide range of paper types with an even wider range of marking tools. Blood from the parent, included.

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Here in North America, we eat our politicians raw, with a bit of sauce on the side. Doesn’t matter what level of government, or what the stripe, we know far too much about them before, during and after the electoral process. Pity it doesn’t stop my neighbours from electing idiots to powerful positions, but that’s for another time.

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I guess I’d not paid enough attention. While in the hardware store last evening, I decided to replace the electrical plug that was mangled in a recent industrial/agricultural/domestic accident. Given that the plugs were in bins right beside me, colour-coded (if black and yellow can be considered as sufficient choices) and priced within my budget, I grabbed a pair of generic plugs (rather than sockets) and headed to the checkout. The scanned price was higher than I’d remembered, but the girl assured me that people often mixed up the contents of the bins. I now owned two 20 Amp connectors, suitable for use by the amateur home repairman.

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I remember one particular toy with great fondness: the punching bag clown. You lashed out, he went down and then came right back up, without hesitation. This year, our vacation has that aspect. We should have been homeward bound early today, but I’m currently in downtown Halifax. The vacation continues!

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Six long months have gone by since the city started lighting the candles on a virtual birthday cake. Back on the end of New Year’s Eve, we stood in a very cold parking lot to watch the shock and awe from the city centre. Tonight, some of the family are enroute for part two, bigger and better, the best ever according to all the media. Thirty minutes of fireworks from a set of barges anchored in the middle of the river. My ride fell through, with only minutes to go, so I’ll listen to the play by play on the radio and pretend that I see all the colours.

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Our camping inventory is complete. This afternoon we treated ourselves to a shopping tour in our favourite tent and poncho shops, and came away with one small treat bag. Inside, the ultimate weapon in our assault of the outdoors: solar-powered mosquito repellers. Imagine, in a world where high-tech can solve anything, we’ve found something completely unforeseen.

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There’s just over a week to go before B-day, where the B stands for bells. On July 3rd, the invitation has gone out to over 400 municipalities in Canada to help celebrate the quadricentennial here in Quebec City by ringing their bells. In particular, those that hide away inside church spires. This city has too many for me to count, but when you’re in party mode, the more the merrier.

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This house is paid for, time to start dreaming of something bigger. Tonight, somewhere in the “Oil Patch”, someone has realized that their house just isn’t fancy enough to reflect all that money coming in. But, seriously, how do you decide that you need this property? From the report on CBC, the mortgage alone might be enough to “make you want to kill yourself”.

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Advertisers (aka the conscience-free) forget that some of those who are in the larger audience are a) older than 25 and/or b) have a memory span that is longer than the proverbial fifteen minutes. When a detergent company started misusing the piano music from Charlie Brown, I was able to grit my teeth and mute the TV. Pig-Pen was only a bit player in that study of life. The ability of the automotive industry to recycle is legendary; they, too are forgiven, for they know not what they do. The cell phone industry doesn’t escape my spleen ventilation quite so easily.

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Yesterday began with an exceptional situation for me, because I was on the road during rush hour (a very precise period of the day locally that lasts about one hour), actually driving a car. Doing the parent-taxi, if you must know. The odd thing is that by travelling to and fro in public transit I haven’t paid much attention to how the other 99% get to somewhere else each day. Frankly, it’s a depressing sight.

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