Like Dido, I've Still Got Sand In My Shoes

Quite a few years ago a female British singer called Dido released a best selling CD. This is no revelation revealed, because many successful British female singers did the same, as did many Canadian gals (Shania Twain and Alanis Morissette), and the two grand dames of saccharin-laced American balladeering (Aaron Neville, Michael Bolton).

Dido had one song in particular that resonated with my Dumbo lobes...a song called Sand In My Shoes. I don't normally go for such blatantly bubbly pop hits, but I think that I understand what she was singing about, except the part where she was lusting after some guy she met on holiday. I relate to the part about how I feel after a vacation...I think that we all do.

I know when I return from a vacation, I leave a little bit of me wherever I've been. I'm not referring to toe nail clippings, trampled foliage or illegitimate children. I leave footprints in the sand that only I'll ever see and, yes, I often bring home more tangible memories like sand in my shoes, and car.

I currently have sand in my Reef flip-flops. Reef is an industry leading footwear/surf-style clothing company with a unique marketing strategy. Some companies profit off the backs of child labour, not Reef. They profit off the backsides of young models. Their web site offers you the option of clicking on guys or gals. The guys' site features mostly scantily clad young women. The girls' site, in contrast, features mostly scantily clad young women. I believe that they also sell flip flops. If you don't have high speed internet and can't view the site, I can only say 'bummer'.

Speaking of that, I discovered that I have sand in more places than just my shoes.

Next Stop...Iles de la Madeleine

I'm now in the Iles de la Madeleine (IDM) after an unsuccessful attempt to hitch-hike from PEI. No one would stop to pick me up, though a lot of people were thinking about it. Everyone seemed to slow down and look, but no one stopped. Perhaps I wasn't showing enough leg, or maybe my hundred-mile-diet-lessened cleavage wasn't enough for them. I made it to IDM anyway, Wendy picked me up.

It feels great to be back. I arose at 5:30 a.m., grabbed my camera and headed east, in the direction of my local neighbourhood sunrise. I found one on the top of a hill called Butte des Desmoiselle. No, it's not translatable to 'lady's butt', but to this adolescent, it forever shall be. Being ignorant is such a joyful experience...you might consider loosening your tie and giving it a try!

I returned to my motel at 8 a.m. to be greeted by the smell of freshly baked bread and pain chocolat. Our motel is connected to an artisanal bakery which bakes breads and pastries fresh every morning, using no fat, sugar or preservatives. Wendy looked like she had found heaven when she bit into the pain chocolat. She, in fact, was. Don't be surprised if you never see her on the mainland again.

The shower in our motel will one day be removed in its entirety, put in a crate and shipped to the Plumbing Hall of Fame. It's not even a shower, it's a downpour...a torrent. A fire hose. It has enough pressure to blow the tits off a rhino, or wash Howard Stern's mouth clean. Your choice. I can't wait for my next shower. I'm half tempted to go find a muddy pothole and wriggle in it, it's that pleasant.

We currently have our motel door open and sunlight is streaming in. A fresh, though not windsurfable, breeze is blowing the window shades gently. It is warm, sunny and delicious. Life is good. I think I'll try to find a wave that's surfable this morning, followed by an afternoon windsurf if the wind gods allow. Life is tough.

I have an idea for a 'never been done before' photoshoot this morning...stay tuned.

The Jerk Rating System For Classical Music

My eyelids met like two old friends in a brief embrace before my head jerked back up to a position of supposed alertness. This was the third time that my chin hit my chest during a performance of the Canadian Opera Company's Verdi opera, La Forza Del Destino (the force of destiny). This performance gave rise to the 'Jerk Rating System' that I've carried with me to every classical concert or opera.

In the early days of my musical education, and by this I mean just after I married and moved to Toronto, there were a lot of jerk performances. My head hit the deck time after time, opera after opera. Nothing topped La Forza Del Destino, though. My record of three head jerks has stood for twenty years.

The head jerk, alternately known as the head dip, nod, or newborn head syndrome is nothing new to the classical musical world. Apparently my father used to fall asleep during Atlantic Symphony Orchestra performances in Fredericton's Playhouse theatre. Between pending baldness, the ability to get lost in thought, and symphonic snooziness, my dad passed along some genes for which I am thankful.

I don't see falling asleep at a concert or opera as being rude. I see it as a compliment to the performers that they were able to put me so at ease that I could simply drift off to my happy place. Of course, this is pure, unadulterated horse shit. The only reason I had three head jerks during Forza was because the seats were so GD uncomfortable. I should have nodded off once and stayed there, but when you're 6'3" with legs that are 6'4", you can't get comfortable in any theatre anywhere, except Reel Cinema in Bar Harbor (Maine).

Reel Cinema is a movie theatre and it, in my opinion, is the greatest theatre in the world. They've got couches and lazyboys, and pizza and beer, so every other theatre in the world can take a back seat to this place. This is the birthplace of theatrical entrepreneurism. I refuse to watch big screen movies in the theatres of North America, because they have no imagination, plus I'm too cheap to pay $12 for a fitful sleep.

Last evening I attended a concert in Indian River, Prince Edward Island. My wife, Wendy, along with tenor Stuart Howe and pianist Robert Kortgaard, gave a rousing concert of Broadway favourites that had the packed church on its feet for a standing ovation. No one fell asleep during this barn burner of a concert, and that says something because the concert ended at 9 p.m., well after the bedtime of the rather aged audience. I, myself, didn't nod off, or have and inkling of a head jerk. It was a great concert for me, light and upbeat....and short, unlike Verdi's dark and agonizingly long Forza.

The force of destiny, for me, is gravity. It is my destiny to fall asleep at classical music performances. It is destiny that my head hits my chest, sometimes like a yoyo. The greatest tribute that I can pay to any performer is to let them see the colour of my ocean blue eyes for the entire length of the concert.

Last night's concert was held in the beautiful St.Mary's church in Indian River. It's a stunning showpiece of French Gothic architecture, built in 1902. Some have called the church Atlantic Canada's most acoustically sound venue. It's true, the sound is superb. It's the location where Wendy and Robert recorded their Juno Award nominated album 'Forgotten Songs, Forgotten Loves'. Last night's concert could only have been better if they'd get rid of the horribly uncomfortable pews and replace them with something leisure-worthy, like lazyboys and couches. Beer and pizza wouldn't hurt either.

Groovy Baby

I wheeled into the gravel parking lot of the Cavendish Boardwalk shopping complex and was delighted to find a parking spot next to a massive Hummer. I love parking next to Hummers, because it's always better to park in the shade on a hot summer's day. The Hummer cut an impressive shadow, blotting out the sky and much of PEI. I still remember seeing my first Hummer years ago...I was in awe of such a Gulf War behemoth. Now I think, who would drive such a beast? Why would anyone other than a SWAT team drive such a leviathan?

I walked away from my car and the neighbouring Hummer, then proceeded to shop for a set of fiery red Anne of Green Gables pigtails. I was thwarted in my pursuit of a hairpiece, but my 'day at the mall' was not for naught. I spotted my dream vehicle in the parking lot, and I took a slew of pictures, one of which I've included above. There was much to love about this vehicle.

The paint job caught my attention. It was almost a perfect reproduction of the stylized wave motif that I painted on the interior of my boathouse walls. Warm yellow sand and Cayman Island blue. Bang on! The pile of fire wood on the roof was endearing, in the manner that an 'I Love My Grandma' bumper sticker makes me feel. What sealed the deal, though, was the 'What Would Scooby Doo' window sticker. I was smitten. I want a personalized VW Camper van with a WWSD window sticker. I want one! I want one! I want one!

Clearly he wants one.

If this Volkswagon Camper isn't the ultimate leisurologistmobile, then I don't know what is. I was ready to swap my 2007 Kiwi Green Ford Focus wagon and two kilos of Scooby snacks for that most groovy of vehicles. I never did see the owners of the van, but I imagine that they were shaggy and unkempt, but unbelievably friendly and affable.

.

Almost everyone on PEI has been ridiculously friendly, and sincere. I can think of a few businesses, one in particular, in my Cambridge-Narrows neighbourhood that could prosper by being friendly to their customers. Everyone knows who I'm talking about in particular. It's a painful exercise in retail letdown every time I darken their doorstep. I don't actually darken the doorstep, because there's already a grey cloud hanging over the business. I just walk through the dreary fog. It's a showcase, the showcase, in how not to build loyal customers, let alone rabid fans.

.

Yesterday I pulled up to a gas station and had a pleasant chat with the sixty year old female gas attendant. We spoke of surfing, the Magdalen Islands, windsurfing and much more, all during the course of a fill-up. She was smiling the entire time, and genuinely interested in me. I'll gas up at her Shell station again, because she made me feel welcome.

.

I was listening to conversations all over PEI yesterday. People here are happy...it's been a real treat to share some red soil, or golden sand, with them. They really know the importance of customer service in Anne's land. Perhaps some New Brunswick business owners should come here and look around, take notes, pay attention.

.

I don't know what Scooby would do, but I'd be happy to load up my happy van and drive them here.

Prince Edward Island...Look Out Anne!

It's only a matter of time until I don a set of red pig tails and have my picture taken, I just know it. I'm on Anne's island, but not on her case, at least not yet. I just arrived last night and I haven't had any opportunity to absorb the local culture, or do any meaningful photography.

I'm staying at the Stanley Bridge Resort and Spa. It's a spa because they have a hot tub, though I haven't found it yet. I like public hot tubs because, when I'm in them, I feel like I'm a tanned carrot in a boiling pot of vegetable stranger soup. Most people in the pot are potatoes or parsnips, though once in a while a turnip will turn up. Most people look like beets when they leave. I'm always nervous when parents bring their kids into the tub, in case they have a leek or two.

I once came up with an idea for a book that would turn Prince Edward Island on its ear. Its title... Annie of Groin Fables. It would be about an aged cherry-headed prostitute living and working along the desperate docks of Wood Islands. Wood Islands is the last remaining port where a mainland ferry docks on Prince Edward Island. There are daily passages between spruce-coved Caribou, Nova Scotia and spud-laden PEI. I'd highly recommend the trip, just be on the lookout for a one woman welcome wagon called Annie.

Of course I'd never write a book about the seedy underbelly of PEI tourism...I like PEI too much and I respect the legend of Anne and Loosely Bawd Montgomery. But, my god, I could make a fortune in t-shirt sales and ice cream. Two scoops anyone?

I'm going to make it my mission to explore the oyland. They don't say island here, they say 'oy-land', not a Jewish reference because everyone knows the Japanese own this place. It's strictly a phoneticism.

I'm going to do my best to stay on the hundred mile diet while on vacation.

Vacation...from what? Since when does a leisurologist need a vacation?

I'll be eating potatoes, fish and rotation crops (barley, rye, wheat and alfalfa if I'm lucky). Last night I had fish cakes and baked beans, a reasonable hundred mile compromise given my options. I washed it down with some of PEI's Rossignol wine. I had the wine in my hotel room, after supper, since I'm too Scottish to pay $35 for a bottle in a restaurant. I drank it from a tumbler, since my spa didn't provide wine glasses in the room. Wine tastes differently when it's enjoyed from a glass...I think that I might do that more often. Wendy says that I shouldn't drink wine straight from the bottle, though it's hard to break old habits established twenty seven years ago at Agricultural College. At least it's wine now, and not rum.

Now I'm off to explore PEI! Look out Anne!!

I'm Turning Into Oprah...For One Day

Yesterday I briefly brushed up against issues of misplaced ego. Today I've posted four images of myself on my blog, to emphasize the point. I can do this because, like Oprah, Martha and (the) Donald, I'm a billionaire who calls the shots.

.

Have you noticed that Oprah is on the cover of her magazine every month? Of course you have. Even if you're someone like me who has never bought or read Oprah's magazine, you can't have escaped it while waiting to pay for your groceries. It was a pleasant shock to see Michelle Obama on the cover while buying my April groceries. She was the first person, other than the big O herself, to grace the cover in the magazine's nine year history. Even Martha Stewart gives us a break from her smiling mug once in a while. I suppose arranging photoshoots in a corrections institution made life difficult for the editors at Martha Stewart Living, as you might imagine...

.

Shucks, pinstripes again! Martha, have you got anything else you can wear? What about that pumpkin jumpsuit with the platinum cuffs?

.

It seems odd to think that Martha spent time in jail. I mean, she was hardly a threat to the public. It's not that she was likely to go after the judge or jury with anything more menacing than a double-barreled glue gun.

.

Donald Trump has made three unsuccessful attempts to have his own magazine. His last foray into self-aggrandized publishing was a magazine called, not surprisingly, Trump. It lasted two years, if that. Sales were not brisk.

.

Donald, you're fired.

.

When I start 'L', the leisurologist's magazine, I expect to be on the cover every month. Who better than me? Like Tigger, I'm think that I'm the only one. Surely there must be other leisurologists out there, but I've not met any in my sorry Maytag repairman life. Can you think of any other leisurologists? If you can, then please let me know. Remember, a leisurologist is someone who survives, prospers and frolicks without employment. Don't bother submitting the names of retirees or Ken Apppleby, they've been disqualified for sins in a former life.

.

Sins, eh? I'll apologize upfront for the sinful windsurfing butt cleavage image. I've been eating a lot of eggs on the hundred mile diet, so the egg marketing board's 'get cracking' message seems to have taken hold. I'm not the only adherent...I saw the San Andreas Fault spilling out of the backside of someone's monstrous shorts at the motocross races on Sunday. I think that guy was on his own version of the hundred mile diet...eating everything within a hundred miles.

.

I love public displays of crack, they can turn a boring trip to the mall into a joyous occasion. The coveted butt crack, with thong soaring high above, is the holy grail for cracktologists. I saw one at the Regent Mall a few years ago. I thought it was a bra strap with a rat tail, at first, because it was so high up, but it was a thong/crack combo that still, to this day, is indelibly burned into my mind.

.

I'm not the lone cracktologist...there's even a web site devoted to butt cracks. (note: I found it while doing research for this blog and, I assure you, it was not something bookmarked on my computer from my adolescent phase...which I'm still enjoying very much). This web site, along with a leisurologist's blog and a failed Trump enterprise, are all sure signs of the pending apocalypse. Or at least the collapse of western society.

.

Oprah, Martha and Donald get a lot of media coverage to fuel their western society egos. I don't crave that kind of coverage as I'm more into uncoverage. The can be no buts about it.

The Counterclockwise Lifestyle

You can't hire me most of the time, though I'm happy to give me services away for free, some of the time. Ah yes, the enigmatic, non-committal leisurologist. I like to do things on my time, not yours...that's why my watch spins counterclockwise.

My watch is a $20 Timex. Yours might be a $4000 Rolex. What time is it right now? We'd both say 7:26 a.m. My watch tells you that I'm sporty, thrifty and I like to know what time it is. Your Rolex tells me that you have too much money, or you don't know how to manage what you've got. It also tells me that you don't really care what time it is, because if you did, you'd own a watch like mine.

So what is a Rolex? It's a status symbol which tells the world that you've made it (in your own mind). What exactly have you made? A bad decision? A frivolous purchase? It's all relative...I know where I stand. If you stand before me and tell me that your Rolex is jewelry, then I'll drop to the ground and kiss your feet, but if you tell me it's a watch then I'll call you a liar. A Rolex has never been a watch.

The same goes for $250 jeans. They're no longer pants at that price...they're status symbols, or art. Levis are jeans.

I like quality and aesthetics, don't get me wrong, but we do tend to be easily lead down the garden path by material consumerism. A Rolex is a spectacular showcase of craftsmanship and design, but at the end of the day, the Timex keeps on ticking too.

The image that I chose today was of a door on a large truck, the type that tows a fifty-three foot trailer. I loved the fact that this truck clearly told the world that both the truck and the owner were 'not for hire'. That truck was 'an island'. It said that it couldn't be bought, or influenced in any way.

I wish that more of our politicians were like that truck, because I feel that our political system is deeply flawed, in that politicians are bought and sold every day. Why do individuals and corporations give money to political parties? Predominantly, though not exclusively, because they want something in return. What they want is not always in society's best interest, and that's why we have politicians in the first place, to bring the greatest good to the greatest number.

Why wear a Rolex? Because you want something in return. Why drive a chrome-rimmed Hummer? It makes no sense...you must want something in return. Why drive an 80mph offshore speedboat on a narrow little freshwater lake? Why put stickers on your car (I plead guilty, your Honour). Because you are in need of something. You need attention. You want to get noticed. Why do you need to get noticed?

That's a question worth pondering.

Why is Donald Trump like Donald Trump? Why the ego? Why the bravado? It's true that the world would be a boring place if we all drove stickerless Ford Focus station wagons and wore non gem-encrusted $20 Timex watches, so it's a bit of a novelty to watch someone unlike ourselves. So what makes people like Donald Trump tick? Is it a heart, or simply a Rolex?