TubaOrNotTuba

As we waited for someone to clear our parking spot, the realization that our trek of over 6600 km in 26 days had ended set in. Home, where the grass grows green and tall, and the warnings about the danger of dogbite mark her territory. Home, where we now have to unpack the van and repack the house. The savoury odour of home. Too late/lazy to unpack things tonight, I’ll just put the last of the food in the kitchen and then try to convince my back that life on a real mattress is good.

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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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I’ve tried to find the proper analogy; farm team, summer camp, amateur night, little brother. None fit the situation for the start of yet another season of Canadian (Eh!) Idol. I mean, we know that there is a ton of talent up here in the wilderness, but any time a team from “the big town that wants to be the next American City”, aka Toronto, takes over…

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First of all, a new personal high today; that barometer of economics that “sets the tongues a waggin'”, the price at the pumps, hit 1.51$/litre. It doesn’t bode well for unlimited travel this summer. I know, in the world view the price isn’t very much, but a 13 cent jump for no apparent reason shows me that my bus pass is a precious commodity.

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An ad on TV this evening caught my eye (that’s what it was supposed to do) and then took me down the “What If?” pathway. The advertiser: our national passenger rail corporation. The idea: that I come and ride the train, on an adventure through beautiful scenery, in comfortable, “worry free” seating, just because I can. I’m easily distracted by the idea; after all, I have something like 32 trips on The Ocean under my belt.

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Somewhere in the Bible, I am exhorted to “suffer fools gladly“. I shall, but only because you’ve asked me nicely. Imagine the chef who is presented with a rich garden, full of succulent plants, all ready for harvest, of an amazing variety. When that same chef manages to prepare a meal of KD, I suffer, and perhaps not so gladly.

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There’s something about the business model of pro sports teams that eludes me. The press goes to great lengths to reveal the absurdities of the contractual rewards reaped by the players, and that same press takes great pleasure in letting us know every time a general manager or a coach is “sacked”. Not the football quarterback sack (hype for the Superbowl) but the kind that says that a rich man who did something or other will now have to find another city to do something or other. Maybe it’s akin to a lunch sack; the wrong one from a countertop, on a busy morning.

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The weather forecast calls for rain, and I’m left with the feeling that I should worry. You see, we’ve been “blessed” with a lot of snow this last while, enough that the view out on the patio is blocked by accumulation. Now, I’m warned of heavy rainfall on the horizon, and it just might be that snow is a natural sponge. The rain falls, sinks in a few centimeters, then freezes. Instant ice pack. Will my world collapse around me sometime tomorrow?

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If you can’t be remembered for what you’ve done (or represented), then be famous for the trophy named in your memory. It certain works for that top of the heap position, the governor-generalship of Canada. I didn’t “know” but I’d long suspected that those sports championships were named for somebody or other. Wikipedia confirmed it, with the section on Sports Trophies Named After Canadian Governors-general which opened my eyes to how some things are more obscure than others. How about that Michener trophy, eh?

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Nelson: Hey, I’m sure it’s just a phase. Like when I use to stand on the overpass and drop computers on the freeway.

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