My Goal: To Neti Pot You

I don't really care how it's spelled...netty, nettie, neti pot, it's irrelevant. I only know that I want to neti pot you...it's for your own good.

My wife uses a neti pot to flush out her sinuses. She says that it's good for business. You might wonder what business could profit from the insertion of what looks to be a poorly made dollar store teapot; she's an opera singer and the neti pot is a tool of the trade. Apparently a lot of warblers neti pot regularly.

Wendy fills the neti pot with a saline solution, cranks her head to one side while precariously contorting over the sink, then jams the spout up her nose and serves tea. I think that it's a bit gross, not that I'm squeamish or a prude (okay, I'm a prude). Unlike the illustration above, which I stole from the internet because I'm currently in Fredericton and unable to access my library of images, the saline flows in one nostril, through the sinuses, and out the other nostril.

The idea is that it keeps your sinuses clean, and it clears the nasal cavity of would-be pathogens. I'd ask my wife to comment on the effectiveness of the neti pot, but she's just getting over a cold and needs to sleep in. Needless to say, I'm skeptical regarding the neti pots' magical powers. I've lived through echinacea (the miracle preventative healing plant), and Cold-fX (it's clinically proven, to do what, I do not know). Now it's the age of neti. I can't wait for pyramid power to come back.

Have a nice time in Egypt Wendy, I'll just stay at home admiring my copper bracelets, eating raw garlic (and wondering why I have no friends), and washing it down with a steaming bowl of chicken soup.

I'd be paranoid about colds if I were an opera singer. Bill Gates can craft a brilliantly buggy operating system with a runny nose (Vista, in case you've been living on Pluto), but you can't ride with the Valkyries when you're a mouth breather.

So....with all this skepticism regarding the neti pot, why is it my goal to neti pot you? That's simple, because it's fun and easy. You see, I don't travel with a neti pot and you probably don't own one, so I try to do it creatively. I like to work with what I've got. When socializing with friends and family, I'm always hyper-attentive. When I'm telling a story with a kicker of a punchline, I often try to drop the bomb while you're taking a drink. It's an evil thing to do, but love me as I am. I'm not going to change. I savour the sight of liquids flying out of your nose. I'm sick, but you won't be, at least not if you're drinking salt water cocktails.

I've neti potted my son twice. One time I managed to get hot chocolate coming back through his nostrils...that was my crowning moment as a professional neti potter. Last evening I almost neti potted a friend. She's one of those people who loves to laugh. She goes by the name of Kitts. To my knowledge she doesn't have a first name, but if she did, it wouldn't be Colleen. I didn't manage to neti pot her, though she did have to chortle her tea back into the mug. It's not a true neti pot until the Nile runs out your nasal culverts. Next time!

So, my friends, if I ever invite you out for a drink, don't accept my invitation. If you come over for supper and I'm serving stew, just assume that I'm taking my game to a whole new level. Chew carefully and thoroughly, don't make eye contact, wear ear plugs.

And please, don't be foolish enough to think that you can neti pot me. I'll give a crisp hundred dollar bill to the first person who can clean my sinuses.

My Latest Muse Is Flat

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I'm spending two weeks hanging around a piece of photocopied paper...and I'm loving it. It doesn't take much to amuse me (remember the donut machine story?). The photocopied paper isn't full of poetic words, musical notes or delicious imagery. It's full of Stanley. Flat Stanley.
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Flat Stanley is part of a project being carried out in schools all across the globe, it just so happens that I've been invited to help out by an elementary school in New Hampshire. All the kids in one creative teacher's class have been given a photocopied sheet of paper with Stanley's likeness. The kids have been challenged, by their teacher, to send Flat Stanley to a family member or friend. Ideally each child will send Flat Stanley to some remote outpost. My young friend in New Hampshire hit the jackpot by sending Stanley to the third most remote place on earth after Antarctica and Minto....Cambridge-Narrows!
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This isn't my first brush with an inanimate friend. I drove across North America last year with a dollar store doll called Timmy. You can read about it on my web site, and enjoy some 'interesting' images. It's a lot of fun hanging out with someone who just lays around and expects you to do everything for him. Just ask my wife, she seems to relish it!
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Flat Stanley is going to learn all about Cambridge-Narrows, as will all the kids in one New Hampshire school. A brilliant idea! It's also good because it forces me to see my world through someone else's eyes. I know what I like to do in my part of the world, but now I have to look beyond myself to see what someone else would appreciate.
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So far Flat Stanley has been a pleasure. He's mild mannered like Charlie Brown. Come to think of it, he looks like a bald Charlie Brown. If you remember, Charlie Brown had one long hair that he sort of worked into a comb-over. The only little 'incident' we've had so far was when I showed him my paper shredder...he just kind of freaked out. I've put it in a closet for the rest of the visit. .
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I'm off to Fredericton today with Flat Stanley. It's going to be a full day as we'll be going flat out. That's life with Stanley!

Reflections On Inland

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I'm one of those people who are mesmerized by the open ocean. I know that I belong to a pretty large group of devout gazers, yet I feel that the ocean is mine alone. It has been for a long time.
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Almost every vacation I've ever taken has married me to a brine-lapped island: Scotland, Maui, Mount Desert Island, Prince Edward Island, Les Iles de la Madeleine, the British Virgin Islands, St.Barths, and so on. Even when I lived landlocked in Toronto, I found solace on Toronto Island. I bum-sided the downtown high-rises and peered to the south, across the freshwater expanse of Lake Ontario toward New York State.
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The beaches of Toronto Island were full of potential, despite their insignificant stature (more than a sandbox, less than Daytona). They were fringed with verdant foliage, offering relief from the relentless summer sun. The sand held many secrets, and the occasional syringe. It also held signs warning of E.coli outbreaks during the hot summer months. Sadly, the signs said 'go away, go away', though the green lake water always beckoned in warmer tones. Eventually I did go away, back to New Brunswick.
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For a boy who loves to sit by the ocean, you might wonder why I live inland. Sometimes I ask myself that same question. Why do I live in the middle of a million acre spruce forest? I can't stand a stand of spruce trees, particularly those monoculture tree farms that dare to call themselves forests. The answer, as always, is water. New Brunswick, for me, is like a big piece of gateau. The forests are the cake, the lakes are the creamy icing and the rivers flow like Kirsch. The autumn maples of the hardwood forest are the blazing cherries on top.
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Mmmm...water, trees. I'm drooling like a Jenny Craig spokesbeaver from the prairies. Black (spruce) forest cake, anyone?
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Living in Cambridge-Narrows, I feel like I'm swimming in the icing. I'm never more than a blink away from the water. I would never confuse my lake with the ocean. The ocean feels dangerous, and that's part of its allure. The ocean is gin and vermouth; shaken, stirred and wild. My lake is iced tea and root beer, the perfect picnic complement.
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An angry ocean offers few reflections as the waves steal the sky. Reflection is left to me, and reflect I do...on my life. On my other lives. I've convinced myself that, had I been born two hundred years ago, I would have spent my life on the sea. In all likelihood, I would have been hauling on sheets (lines), hoisting the main. Sailors didn't take well to leisurologists, and had I practiced my craft on a working ship, then I might have found myself on the rocks of Pitcairn, watching my ship sail out. Bon voyage!
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Hmm, I wonder if there's any good surfing on Pitcairn.
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So, I live inland, where calm waters reflect the goodness of a gentle life. I think about the ocean often, but never when I'm admiring a stand of trees back lit by a Popsicle sky. I could watch inland sunsets forever, sharing a quiet glass of rum with my favourite parrot.

Are You A Hooker If You Don't Charge?

Is there anything in your life that you love so much that you're willing to give it away for free?

Some mothers will teach their daughters (or sons) to knit or make rugs. Some fathers will pass on their love of rugby to their sons (or daughters). Or take them fishing at their favourite trout stream. It's great to see people sharing a love. Hookers, all of them!

Years ago I was asked by our local school if I'd be interested in setting up a display as part of an 'active community' open house. Residents of the Greater Cambridge-Narrows ruralpolitan area were gathered in February to showcase their talents, services and wares. When the call came in, I had to seriously ponder what I could offer. I knew that I had a lot of practical advice for today's youth, but what should I share:

"Okay kids, here's how I like to do the dishes. I'm wearing rubber gloves so my hands don't get chapped. Yes, Johnny, the gloves do look a bit fruity on me."

"You're right Johnny, it is Palmolive...I'm soaking in it. And you will be too if you keep bugging me!"

"No, no...that's not how you hold the vacuum. Try it like this...back and forth, back and forth. Don't be afraid to get low to find those dust bunnies."

"There are two ways to scrub a toilet bowl...using the up/down method, or in a circular motion, which I prefer. Give it a try Johnny...get a bit closer. A bit more....a bit more. Perfect!"

Flush.

It would be a shame if the Johnnys of this world didn't get hooked on house cleaning. As much as house cleaning was practical and it had to be done, it wasn't about about love, at least not for me. I was having doubts about sharing housekeeping 101 with the students, so I asked myself, what do I love?

I love windsurfing!

So I put down my bottle of green apple Lysol disinfectant (is it just me, or does it seem odd to want your toilet bowl to smell like Granny Smith?), and I packed up a windsurfer, tv/vcr and some windsurfing videos. I rigged up a complete windsurfer which was visually impressive against the white-washed, cinder block walls of the gymnasium. The kids were quite interested by my winged surfboard. They wanted to stand on it. They wondered how they'd propel themselves without a paddle or a sputtering outboard. The video made it obvious that windsurfing was both fast and exciting. I showed them the harness that I wore, and how I got hooked to the boom. Would they become hooked?

I offered the students a free windsurfing lesson in the summertime. I made this offer because I routinely made this offer to anyone who ever showed any interest in windsurfing. Over the years I've taught quite a few people to windsurf, including my son and my father. Twenty-eight kids were intrigued enough to put their name on the list. How many do you think actually followed through and took the lesson?

Any guesses?

The answer was one. I was quite shocked by this as, honestly, I didn't expect any of them to follow through. I was delighted.

As much as windsurfing delights me, it saddens me that so few people windsurf. I'm trying to do my part to change that, prostituting my services for free. I want people to experience windsurfing for themselves. I am a hooker, there's no doubt. What I offer (for free) is so good that you'll eventually need footstraps to enjoy it properly. Wow! For all of Hugh Grant's wayward desires, I can't imagine he ever needed footstraps!!

The image at the top of this post was taken last summer during my trip to the Columbia River Gorge (Hood River, Oregon). It's like the red-light district for North American windsurfing. The place is crawling with windsurfers. Even if windsurfing isn't your thing, you'll be amazed to see the tricks being turned on the water.

You can take a windsurfing lesson in the Gorge, but you'll have to pay handsomely for it. Shouldn't there be some sort of law against that? It seems criminal to me.

Note: if you want a free windsurfing lesson this summer, send me an e-mail at narrowsminded@aol.com.

The Leisurologist's Backyard Playground

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It could be the Caribbean, almost. It could be Newfoundland, almost. It could be Cheticamp, almost. It's a wonderfully unique place that most Maritimers are too blind to see...thank goodness. When you spy a Quebec license plate speeding through New Brunswick on a blisteringly hot summer's day, there's a pretty good chance they're going there.

Where is there?

Les Iles de la Madeleine. They're a Quebec archipelago located in the middle of the Gulf of St.Lawrence, a scenic five hour ferry ride from PEI's sandy backside. These islands, for whatever reason, don't seem to register on many Anglophones' radars. For those who know about Les Iles, one trip is rarely enough.

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It's the perfect place for a leisurologist. Unless you're fluent in French, which I'm not, there's almost no chance of ever becoming employed. Your Rogers cell phone won't work. Internet access is limited. Television is pretty much useless, unless you like watching re-runs of La Fureur. Les Iles de la Madeleine are the perfect place to hide out with few distractions. I'm pretty sure I saw Jimmy Hoffa in a thong one day at the beach. The beaches are endless and made of golden white sand. The water is Cavendish tepid. You can build towering sand castles until you're completely trumped by the tides.

These islands are sexy, but not Las Vegas sexy. They're naturally arousing; the shape-shifting ocean, the powdery sand underfoot, the whistling winds, the taste of waves. These islands aren't completely perfect, as poutine is sold in most establishments, but I'm willing to overlook this culinary indiscretion if you are. If you love poutine, then you have no excuses...what are you waiting for?

It occurred (oh, curd!) that you might want to learn more about this place. You can start by checking out the official web site for the islands, conveniently translated into Hinglish for those of us who didn't pay enough attention in Mr.LeBlanc's French class.

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It's a dreamy place, where your troubles disappear like sand through your fingers. I like to start my Iles de la Madeleine day with a latte and a pain chocolat, and end it with a glass of red wine poured through a sunset. What might you do here? A better question....what might you not do here?

Making Dirty Money As A Child

Saint John used to be a grubby port city with a stinking pulp mill. Today, it's a relatively pretty city with a pulp mill that gets scrubbed regularly. You must remember that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and my prescription has changed greatly over the years. As a child of the whitewashed Fredericton suburbs, a trip to Saint John felt like a visit to see poor cousins. You know the ones, they smelled and had tatty clothes. There was dirt under their nails which was probably mined from their nose. They had candles of wax in their ears. For all the manifold shortcomings of Saint John, I was the blind child.

Saint John, in fact, held many riches that the residents of Pleasantville, I mean Fredericton, could only imagine. Like what? Well, Saint John had a K-Mart before Fredericton, so mom would load the kids in the car and off we'd go to do some shopping. I can't think of anything else that Saint John had, that Fredericton didn't. Reversing Falls, I suppose, but we didn't often go there. It was too close to the stinky mill.

As a small child sitting in the back seat of my parents' massive Chevrolet Impala, I remember the drive to Saint John as being endless. The scenery was pretty boring, of course it didn't help that I was barely big enough to see out the windows. There were two highlights from the drive:

1) seeing Mount Douglas, a ski hill near Welsford,

2) spotting the Irving pulp mill at Reversing Falls.

Spotting the pulp mill was the bigger of the two thrills, because my parents offered twenty-five cents to the first child to catch a glimpse of the bellowing smoke stacks. It would come into view long before we reached the city limits. One of the rolling hills in the approach to Saint John would reveal old faithful; the key was to remember which hill was the money maker. I was motivated by the money, there's no doubt. Going to Saint John was strictly business for me. I was a child entrepreneur.

Things certainly have changed. When I drive my son to Fredericton, or when he drives me (now that he has his license), we aren't motivated by a trip to Wal-Mart (K-Mart being a faded memory, except for the donut-making machine which is indelibly inked into my brain canvas). I don't entice him with cash prizes for smelling the Fredericton dump. The dump is every bit our pulp mill. It's got bad breath so catastrophically chewy that you could hang off it and do chin-ups.

I'm driving my wife to Saint John today. She's one of the adjudicators at the New Brunswick Competitive Festival of Music. She's following in my footsteps, traveling to Saint John to earn a living. Unlike me, it won't be off the backs of the industrious Irvings. As I drive her over the Reversing Falls bridge to the city's west side, I'll no longer have to plug my nose as I did as a sulfur sensitive child.

The Saint John of today is quite different from that of my youth. It's quite lovely. It even plays host to dozens of cruise ships each summer and fall. I can easily imagine how the scene would have played out in the late 1960s, had cruise ships ventured into the port of Saint John. Passengers would have been bewildered, wondering from where the awful smell was emanating. They'd wander the docks, plugging their noses. A crowd would gather around a little six- year-old as he'd be making dirty money.

Nose plugs for sale. Get your official Saint John nose plugs here. Only $4.99.

Seriously, Stop Shawn

I think that we, the people, should tell the Premier of New Brunswick that we're not interested in running the ferries at a municipal level, or having them privatized. Let's allow the Liberal government to take all the ferries out of service.

All of them!

Let's cut service to every last one of them: Gagetown, Hampstead, Evandale, Belleisle, Westfield, Summerville-Millidgeville, Kennebecasis Island, Gondola Point and Deer Island. It's a ridiculous suggestion, but we'd be making a point. Let's take them out of service tomorrow (isn't two weeks notice a bit generous?).

We'll get by, somehow. The people of Deer island won't starve as they'll be able to subside on farmed salmon. Sure, they'll get scurvy, but with no access to government funded health care, the Liberals will save even more money, and free up some hospital beds. We'll sell the beds on Kijiji to raise some cash.

Let's kill the Village of Gagetown or, at least, crush its spirit...and its future. Let's allow the residents of the Kingston Peninsula to enjoy a scenic drive through Hampton every day on their way to Quispamsis. The increased gas consumption will lead to more tax revenue for the provincial government. That money can be used to grow our own private label peanuts, which will be washed down with our new, and delightfully priced, provincial government home brew. Don't you just love frat house politics?

Let's just destroy what makes sense.

It won't be fun. We'll all have to make some sacrifices in the short term, like giving up access to the lower St. John River valley. It will mean a lot more driving for a lot more people. No longer able to enjoy the beauty of the lower St.John River valley, we'll all congregate on the beaches of Prince Edward Island, and commiserate. We'll go there this summer! We may as well gather in a province that understands its natural resources. Sitting on the Cavendish beaches, we'll regale the Ontario and Quebec tourists with ferry tales from the good old days (pre-Shawn Graham).

Life without the ferries will be inefficient and annoying, but don't worry, things will be back to normal in 2010...

After the election.