This May Be Leading To Trouble

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"Still", I said, pushing on and deciding for the moment to ignore those feminine observations, "those last switchbacks before the lake couldn't have been much fun."

"What?" Robert said.

"The switchbacks. Right before the lake with the road running next to the cliff?"

Robert looked at me first blankly, and then his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

What game was he playing? If he were trying to lull me into further admissions of my riding ability or choice of steed there were going to be problems. Oh big problems. Huge problems. Problems of biblical proportion. Sure, I may never say anything out loud and he may never know there is anything wrong but in my head I wouldn't hesitate to give him a strongly worded tongue-lashing. Possibly a vocalized raspberry for good measure. Oh! And a stern wrinkling of my brow, which, owing to lots of free time and a mirror sitting next to my desk I have perfected into a thing of beauty. Not too harsh, for if you furrow your brow too intensely it looks not so much like you're peeved but that you may be in need of laxatives. Too loose and it simply looks like you're suffering mild indigestion. Somewhere in the middle is just right.

Did I mention I have a lot of free time?

Back to the conversation.

"What?" Robert said.

"Umm . . .” and here I looked to your mom for support, "You know where the road climbs fast and turns back on itself - the switchbacks. Just before the lake at the top where you level off. Right before you have to navigate those vicious washboards on the uphill."

He paused here, studying me. It was his turn to figure out WHAT game I was playing.

"We didn't hit any switchbacks or wash-boarding to the degree you're describing. It was a little sloppy in the muddy gravel, but fairly smooth sailing once we turned off of the tarmac," he said, clearly puzzled. "And I don't recall a lake at all. Do you Jackie?"

"No. Not until we got to the valley. But that was a long time after we quit climbing. Right before we hit the lodge and it was a ways away. Not next to the road really."

It was time for a bit of humble pie. It was obvious that Robert was in fact probably used to these kinds of roads in this kind of weather. I suppose BMW riders have their reputation for a reason.

"Well," I said, "my hat's off to you. I thought it was pretty bad not long after passing the Nordic Center." I spelled it 'center', but I said it 'centre' so as to be insensitive to the indigenous dialect.

Robert shook his head as if he were clearing a bad dream, or shaking free of a giant talon gripping his noggin. Take your pick. Personally, I prefer the latter.

"What Nordic Center?"

I eyed him suspiciously.

"The one on the outskirts of Carnack. After you leave the town proper, and right before you start the serious climb up here."

His face turned ashen. "Carnack?"

I nodded in the affirmative.

"You came up the Carnack side? On that big bike?"

"Well. . . yes. How else would we have gotten up here?"

"From Higway 40 like we did."

GAH! There it was again. I was beginning to think that there were, just possibly, two ways to Hidden Valley. A civilized approach and an insane approach. If so, I was a dead man walking. The minute that Mom and I were alone all Hell was going to break loose. Still, I felt a certain amount of relief in the thought that I might be able to get out of this place without having to retrace our previous route.

"Oh. I'll have to look at the map. Guess I didn't see that."

Robert studied me. "You really came up from Carnack?"

"Well, yeah."

We eyed each other, both calculating, both measuring, searching each other's souls. In the silence we came to an agreement. And just like that the battle was won with nary a shot fired. I had defeated Robert without even trying. We both realized one thing simultaneously - I was a cretin. No, that's not right. We realized that I had done something on a big-ass weird-looking touring motorcycle that he wouldn't have considered on a good day, let alone with the rain. He might have been tempted to test himself if he were riding solo, but not with his wife on the back. Yet your mom and I had done this - and lived. True, for us it wasn't really by choice, more of 'happy accident', but he didn't know that, nor did he need to know. And I did all of this WITH obvious physical limitations. I don't care how educated, liberated, or full of love you are, no one likes to be beat by a cripple. (Yes, I described myself as crippled. Make you wince? Good. That part of you that just died inside was the weak part. You'll be stronger now.) By the 'Man Rules' I was now his superior and nothing could ever change that.

"You mean we didn't have to come up that way? We could have taken an easier route?" Mom said with a voice full of sharp pokey things.


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Bonus Points If They're Real!

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I turned back to Robert. "When did you guys get in? Last night?"

"No. We left early this morning. We live in Calgary. Quite a trip on the bike, but it was beautiful. We didn't really hit any moisture until we turned off the road up into the hills. How about you guys? Where are you from? When did you get in?"

HA! Score another one for me. I had traveled much farther than he had. Pffftttt! A lousy 90 miles. Or, in Albertan, 36,000,000 decigrams. Mileage is the first filter with which riders measure each other. The second is . . . well, it could be a number of things. How much chrome you've bolted to your bike. How many electronic toys you have mounted to the bars. Or, in certain circles, the number of teeth you have in your mouth. Bonus points if they're real.

"We're from the Seattle area."

Chew on that Calgary BMW boy!"

"We came in late Monday night from a town just over the border from eastern Washington. Took us a bit longer than we thought it was going to," I said, and winked at your mom which may have been a mistake.

Roberts eyes began to widen but he caught himself. "That's quite a trip."

Clearly he was impressed. Perhaps this rider was a different breed than the previous BMW owners to which I had been exposed. Or to put it in the vulgar, this guy might not be a jerk after all.

"Say, that was some road up here huh? Did you have any trouble? I doubt that you would, your bike is made for a ride like that."

He smiled and I knew what he was thinking. Perhaps this touring rider from THE STATES wasn't as big of an asshat as other cruiser-folk he'd known.

"No. Not really." Robert sipped his coffee, speaking over the rim of the cup. "I didn't think it was too bad."

I shook my head. "I've got to hand it to you. There were a couple of times I wasn't sure we were going to make it."

Robert just smiled. "Different equipment. As you said, my bike is made for this kind of environment."

"Well for us it wasn't that easy either," Jackie said. We slipped quite a bit in the gravel. I don't mind telling you that I was downright scared a couple of times."

She turned to your mom as she said this because as a fellow passenger she was convinced that Mom would understand. Which of course Mom did understand, owing to the fact that I had put her near death countless times in the last thirty years. However, Robert, being a male of the species, winced as she said this. It's one thing to admit vulnerability yourself, quite another to have your wife point it out to strangers. Evidently Robert had not been educating Jackie on the 'Man Rules' as I have your Mother. Your mom knows how the rules work and would never, ever in a million years admit fear, or even concern to a stranger lest it tarnish my Alpha status.

Mom looked at me as she said, "I know exactly what you mean. I've been scared more on this trip than I have in my entire life. It seems as though it's been one hair-raising event after another."

Gah! Robert and I were both dinged with Man penalties. It was hard to tell who had the upper hand. I believe it was, as usual, our wives.


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Like A Goldwing . . . Kinda. Sorta. Mostly.

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Robert nodded his head as if this was exactly what he would have said had he actually known the answer. My eyes narrowed. Perhaps I had found a worthy adversary. A soul from the opposite pole that would challenge me with wit and humor and carefully crafted conversation. Yes, I had high hopes for Robert. Let's just see from what mettle the man is made.

"What’s a Victory Vision?" Jackie asked of Robert.

Robert opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, considered his response, opened his mouth and then closed it again.

I was a tad disappointed in my new found arch rival. However, having no interest in watching his fish impersonation I jumped in and supplied an answer.

"It's a big touring bike. Very different styling. Very futuristic looking." My explanation was greeted with blank stares, so I continued. "It's kind of like a Goldwing, only more Buck Rodger-y. Or Jetson-y. Take your pick. You either love or hate the looks," I said with a shrug. "Personally Suz and I love it. She has an Art Deco ambiance."

"Oh," Jackie said, nonplussed. "Like a Goldwing."

That seemed to be all that Jackie needed. Every thing about her demeanor, from vocal tone to a flick of her hair said that the statement 'like a Goldwing' had quantified our placement in the motorcycle pecking order and it wasn't anywhere near the tier upon which the BMW roosted.



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Ha! Two Points For Me!

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"Pleased to meet you," I said and offered my hand to Robert which he promptly took and pumped out the very definition of a business handshake. Strong and with just the right amount of 'shaking'.

You would be surprised what a vanishing art form the handshake has become. I myself am personally responsible for contributing to its demise by licking my palm before every shake. Nothing says 'business' like a wet, clammy hand. I also make my wrist and arm go limp. It's a joy to see the look of revulsion on a guy’s face.

See sweetie, it's the simple things in life that make it all worthwhile.

"Nice to meet you," Robert said as your mom and his wife exchanged greetings.

We took our seats at the table, and busied ourselves with the ritual of morning. So far so good. They seemed like nice folks. It took me a bit to get seated and settled owing to the fact that I had been cold and wet a few days before, and now my joints were . . . protesting. I'd fire their asses, but it's so hard to get good cartilage these days.

And here again was the issue of the biker with the cane. It's interesting to see people's reactions. Some act embarrassed by their own good health. Some go so far to ignore my condition that it becomes painfully obvious that they are ignoring my condition. Robert and Jackie looked embarrassed and empathetic. Good. I could work with that. See, they could refute our ride but they couldn't refute the fact that whatever was going on with me physically, it obviously took a hell of a lot to crawl into that saddle each day. Something that most take for granted.

Ha! Two points for me!

"So," I said with a calculated and warm smile, "I take it that is your BMW in the parking lot.

"Very nice bike." Which I actually meant. His BMW was beautiful.

“Thanks. You're riding the. . .?"

"Victory Vision," I answered.


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The Stars Were Lining Up

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The wonderful thing is that in a pinch we all stick together. If you see a bike by the side of the road you don't think about the brand before you offer help. We are a large, dysfunctional family full of in-fighting and insult hurling. Much like Austro-Hungarian Empire. And like any other dysfunctional family we can curse and yell and scream at each other all day long but if you pick on one - you pick on all.

Unfortunately not everyone knows that. The ONLY people that I've ever been completely, consistently, and pointedly snubbed by, are BMW riders. And scooter riders but they don't count. And Brazilians. Damn Brazilians. And your mom. I may be spotting a trend here.

"Well," Mom said, taking a deep breath, "to take a quote from you, this should be interesting."

Yes. Yes it should.

We walked into the Lodge and before you could say "Lorne Green" Stacy was at our side, taking your mom by the elbow and directing her to a table where sat another couple. The man was in his early to mid-forties. Average height, with a body that had at one time probably been quite athletic but now was getting used to an easier lifestyle. He had thick black hair trimmed neatly and parted on the side. His face boyish and smooth. His wife, and I was making an assumption at this point, was a few years younger than he. She had long, dark hair that framed an attractive face, her body slight but edging towards that evil mid-life spread.

"David, Suzanne. . . this is Robert and Jackie. They ride motorcycles too!" Stacy squealed.

Evidently this divine conjunction had made Stacy's day. What with there now being a couple with which we had something in common her job had became much, much easier. I wanted to tell her that we probably had more in common with the squirrels in the trees than this couple but I didn't want to break her spirit so early in the day.



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There's No Other Way To Say It --- It's A BMW

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We had walked far enough towards the Lodge that I could see the other end of the parking lot. What I saw there between a vegan-colored VW bus - and by vegan-colored I mean that there was probably an original paint job in there somewhere but it was covered by so many "Visualize Whirled Peas", and "Support Your Local Economy", and "Karma Happens", and "Hemp Is Not A Four Letter Word" bumper stickers that the original color was long lost – anyway, next to the VW and a vehicle spattered with mud sat, and I don't know any other way to say this, a spanking new BMW motorcycle.

"Hey," I said, and pointed out the shiny, blue BMW dual sport to your mom, "well looky there."

"Aw crap."

I agreed with your Mother as this was a fair assessment. Aw crap indeed.

You know that to the outside world all motorcyclists are the same. But we in the community know that there are sportbikers, cruisers, dirters, cafe' racers, tourers, purists, the chopper and bobber crowd, and. . . BMW riders.

BMW riders are a species all to their own. It's not that they are snobby, or elitist, it's just that they. . .I mean. . . when you. . . ah screw it. Most of them are complete ass-hats. But ass hats with hearts of gold so I am told. I wouldn't know. I've never gotten one to talk to me.

I did have a guy tell me one time that the reason BMW owners are so standoffish is very simple: in their heads they are the only SANE, and REAL motorcycle riders on the face of the earth. The rest of us are poorly prepared, poorly dressed, and probably poorly educated. Probably just poor. These are lone wolfs, slipping between sloppy off-road and super-slab with nary a care in the world. It's possible, although I have no proof, that when you buy a BMW motorcycle, you must first attend a class titled "Disdain 101'.

Before you think ill of me for picking on Beemer-boppers, you should know it's an intrinsic part of the nature of every one that rides on two wheels to quantify, categorize, and usually label as 'insane' anyone that rides differently. Hence, sport bikers look at the cruisers and tourers as 'geezer mobiles'. Cruisers look at the sport bikers, especially those under dressed, (and you know they have to be REALLY under dressed to draw derision from the bar-hopper set), as SQUIDS. (Stupidly Quick, Under dressed, Inevitably Dead) Choppers and bobbers insist that they are the REAL roots of motorcycling, and the rest of the biking world looks at them and says, "That's a nice looking bike. Comfortable?" To which they reply "Shut the hell up and help me find the exhaust which seems to have fallen off at some point."

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Why Must She Always Think I'm Up To Something?

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That’s curious, the wallow was empty. Nary a moose or a deer or an elk or transient or unicorn or a gnome in sight. Evidently the day shift hadn't reported for duty as promised. Very unprofessional. But what do you expect from a bunch of animals? Still, I'm sure in some knothole or mossy cave there was a managerial chipmunk promising that 'heads would roll'.

"Hey Suz. Where are all the moose?"

Mom walked out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. "I saw one when I first got up but she wandered away. I haven't seen any since."

"Any other animals out today?"

Mom pulled the toothbrush partially from her mouth and spoke through the toothpaste. "Nah da I cuh see."

“We should turn on the radio. Get a traffic report for the trails. Might be a jack-knifed buck, or with the morning fog a multi-species pile-up. That can really cause a backup you know. Especially if you've got an incident with herbivores and carnivores. On the plus side if you give it enough time, it's self cleaning."

"Come on and get dressed."

I did as requested and before you knew it we were once again trudging through a steady drizzle back towards a date with obesity.

"Let's take a quick detour and check on the bike," I said, turning towards the parking lot.

As we rounded a small stand of trees I saw our baby, alone, cold, and no doubt frightened. She hunkered just where we had parked her on the edge of the lot. She was quite a sight. The constant rain had left her with pools of water on her seat, and drips and beads everywhere else. She was dirty. I mean really dirty. Mud and dirt and bugs and God knows what else. Stuck between the front tire and the belly pan were the remains of something which I didn't want to look at too closely, at least until I found a proper stick to poke it with first. I think it may have been either a bunny or a partial Faerie. Later I would discover that it was nothing more than a huge ball of thistle-down which, and I'm sure you can relate to this, came as a relief. I didn't need a swarm of angry Fairies spoiling my day. (That would come later on an ill-fated trip to San Francisco.) The point being she was a sad, sad, lonely sight.

"Aw, she looks lonely."

"She looks dirty and wet," Mom said.

"And lonely."

Mom considered this for a minute. "Mostly dirty."

"And scared. And lonely."

Mom looked at me. "Don't you think your anthropomorphizing a bit?"

"No, no I don't think so. Look how she's squatting there. Her headlights look all droopy and her saddlebags are limp. No, she's lonely all right. Probably thinking we've abandoned her here in the wilderness, never to glide the smooth blacktop ever again."

"Right." Mom turned back towards the lodge. "Well, it looks like the bike is fine so let's go have breakfast."

"Just a minute," I said. I walked over and patted her handlebars, and swept the pooling water off of her seats. "It's okay baby. We haven't forgotten you."

Mom fidgeted in the gravel. "Can we go now?"

I paused for a moment, patted her seat again and sighed as I turned to walk to your Mother. "You know, we really should take her for a little ride. It wouldn't hurt us and would probably do her some good." I looked back over my shoulder. "She's just so . . . so . . . sad. And you know, we did promise her that we would show her Banff."

"Look," Mom said, "I'm not ruling out a ride. But if I never have to ride in the rain again I won't be disappointed. So let's just see what the day brings, okay?"

"Don't talk to me," I said, grabbing your mom's arm and locking it into mine, "I understand completely. Now you explain that to her."

Curiously enough your mom ignored me. I find that as the years progress that happens more and more. I blame the media and sugary snacks.

As we walked to the lodge Mom said, "I know you've got something up your sleeve, but for the life of me I can't figure out what it is."

"Sweetie, must you always jump right to the supposition that I'm up to something?"

"Mostly yes."

Of course she was right but I had to act slightly peeved to throw her off the scent.


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It Usually Ends In Tears

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"Get up sleepy head. Time for breakfast."

Gah. I didn't think I would ever eat again, but then . . . ummmmm . . . maybe there would be bacon!

Mom, who had evidently been up for some time, sat on the edge of the bed folding some clothes that had finally dried. "Did you hear an animal outside last night?"

"Umm. . . no. Did you hear one?"

"Well," Mom said, picking up a pile of shirts, "I could have sworn I heard growling and rumbling. Of course I was pretty out of it, so I might have been dreaming."

My stomach, realizing that the topic of conversation was drifting its way, seized the moment and let out a mighty roar. And when I say mighty, I mean that it rattled the lamps.

Mom looked at me, slightly disgusted. "Yeah. That was it."

"Sorry to disappoint babe. Although, if it makes you feel any better it kind of was an animal growling. Albeit one that had been partially digested."

"Ew. Too early in the day for that image."

Who can argue with that logic?

"So," Mom said, "are you going to be up for breakfast?"

I yawned and stretched. "I could probably manage a little. I don't want to be rude you know."

"Oh heaven's no, you wouldn't want to appear rude," Mom said and threw a pillow at my head.

"Of course not," I said, throwing the pillow back at her and catching her square in the lower back. "We, my dear, are emissaries from a strange land. It's our duty to observe the local culture, to integrate with the natives and present our 'best side' as representatives of THE STATES. If that involves forcing myself to consume delicious meats and copious amounts of protein, well, I'm up for the job. Wouldn't want to offend, you know?"

Mom had made a slight 'gulp' when I hit her, and now she had armed herself with a pillow in each hand. She had one armed cocked over her head in what I was positive would be a vicious arc when released. Before she could let fly, I said, "Be warned. If you hit me with those pillows I will interpret this as an act of war and ---“

WHAP! WHAP!

I shall not recount the next ten minutes in detail, but I will say that as so often happens with pillow fighting someone got a little carried away and tears were shed.

"Oh my God," Mom said. "Are you crying?"

"No," I sniffled.

"I didn't hit you that hard."

"I know. Will you help me look for my tooth?"

"You are such a drama queen," she said and walked into the bathroom.

I wanted to argue the point with her, but I had nothing. It was a statement that I could not refute. I would have preferred the term 'Drama King', but it doesn't have the same lyrical power as 'Drama Queen'. Really, I prefer the term 'positively emotionally engaged' but can I convince your mom to use that? No.

Even though I was bleeding profusely in my imagination, I managed to struggle to my feet and wander over to the window to take a peek at the moose party down below.


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Chapter 10 - Of Bear Auras and BMWs

Chapter 10

Of Bear Auras and BMWs




For some reason I didn't sleep all that well the second night. It may have been for any number of reasons, but the most likely cause was simple gluttony. I've noticed that as I get older the digestion of massive quantities of meat takes. . . longer. Oh the joys of the human body! It's like buying a shoddily built house - you keep patching it here and there and telling yourself that it's okay that the windows won't open and the doors are askew and the floor is buckled in the middle but all the time you're thinking 'I can probably make this work. I can. . . I just. . . I need. . . Aw crap. I got screwed!'

When your mother woke me with a well placed poke to the ribs you'll understand I was a tad groggier than usual. It took me a minute to pry my eyes open and adjust to the early morning light pouring through the French doors from the deck. I was not a bit surprised to see that it was still raining. Bummer. I doubted that I could talk your mom into a ride today because every time I mentioned a short 'tour' of the area your mom would say 'No'. But not in so few words, and certainly not as politely as I thought she should.

Still, there was that nagging thought tickling my brain. Flitting about my consciousness like sugar-dosed Ritalin kids at a Christmas party. The thought was this: I was determined to see another bear. Why, you might be asking yourself, would I want to place myself and your mom in a potentially dangerous situation on purpose?

Because I'm an idiot, and a man, and that's a dangerous combination. (Stop laughing. Not all men are idiots. In fact. . . okay. You're right. Men are idiots.) If it hadn't been for a genetic tendency towards lunacy we would never know what a bad idea it is to poke a badger with a stick. Or, if you prefer, try to control the Middle East. The point being I had convinced myself that my vacation wouldn't be complete unless I was able to witness once again the majesty of the largest North American carnivore in its natural environment.

Well, largest if you don't count Newt Gingrich.


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Done With The Politics . . . For Now.

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Martha listened to the ebb and flow of discussion without so much as a comment. Finally she looked at her sons, then back to me, (your mother had long since went to her 'happy place'), and said, "You know why we Canadians are so interested in what happens in THE STATES?"

See? Here's the problem: Never ask a smart-ass a question. We feel duty bound to offer an answer. How I managed to stifle myself I'll never know.

"It's because our politics are so dreadfully boring," she said, looking to her sons.

"Well, that's true eh? Can't even get worked up over this year's election up here," Carl chuckled.

"And the real reason we criticize THE STATES so much?" She looked around to see if anyone would answer. When no one did she continued, "Because we can. That's why. We all know that the US takes care of us, even if we don't want to admit it. We don't have to pour the money into defense that you do. We don't have to worry about invasion. We don't have to worry about locking up our borders. We don't have to worry about the world looking to us for solutions every time something goes wrong. Gives us a lot of time to bitch."

Mark, Carl, and their wives grinned like a kid caught downloading music. And that effectively ended the political discussion. At least with them.

The rest of the evening was spent the way I hoped it would in the beginning. We talked and compared histories and life stories. We celebrated our similarities; we dispelled misconceptions, and found the common ground of family and children. Your mom actually joined in and was laughing by the end of the night. I know! Miracles do happen.

The rest of the meal was uneventful, except for the food which was glorious. However, I did find one thing fascinating. Martha, during the course of conversation, shared that she lived on the outskirts of a small wheat farming Albertan town of Vulcan. Unusual name, but Martha explained that it was named for the Roman God and that all of the streets in the town held the monikers of lesser Gods and Goddesses of the classical world. How cool is that? Canada has a knack with place names. Why can't we do something like that around here? Granted, the latest tacky-box development on the edge of town did name one of their streets 'Lois Lane', but I think that was by accident. I'm quite sure they, nor the city planners that approved the name, had a clue to the irony until it was pointed out to them.

The other remarkable tidbit regarding Vulcan, in true pioneering prairie spirit, was that the town had managed to take their unusual name and find a niche' tourism market. How, you may ask, would a small agricultural town, with a population just shy of 2000 people, on the plains of Alberta profit from a name like Vulcan? Nary a volcano in sight. A rubber tire museum had been done to death. No, these hearty folks did the only sensible thing and decided to build a huge scale replica of the 'USS Enterprise' from Star Trek fame and declare themselves home-base for all things Spocky. I kid you not. They have treky themed murals, a museum and tourist center, (Oh that's right. . .that's an AMERICAN spelling so deal with it!), and once a year they hold a community wide celebration named VulCON / Spock Days / Galaxyfest. Take your pick.

Upon further inquiry of my dear Martha, she summarized the entire process behind such a dedicated, albeit narrow, community identity - and the origins thereof - in one sentence:
"The winters are long and we tend to drink a lot."

Fair enough. But I don't care what you say, that takes some chutzpah.

As our dinner began to digest the need for sleep overtook the need for socialization. While it had now been 24 hours since nearly becoming an ursal snack, evidently you don't recover from a day like that immediately. Who knew? As the last of the stragglers finished their dessert, we excused ourselves and made our way back to the room, sans moose attack, and fell asleep almost immediately.

Tomorrow was another day. Who knew what that would bring?

End of Chapter 9

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Let's Start With Canada

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"But the gangs," Mark said, "you can't tell me that's not a problem. We watch the news, we see what's going on. You have a problem with the blacks."

Wow. Now I was beginning to clue in. These people's perception of the US was gleaned from TV and movies. If you watched enough television, every young black man was a thug. A drug dealer. A killer. Every white person south of the Mason-Dixon, and more than a few north, were Confederate flag waving lynch-mobs with an average IQ of 67. It's amazing how much people's perceptions are based on hyped news reports and crime dramas. Both north and south of the border. Thank God not me. I'm much too smart for that. However I say that with one caveat - I will never visit Africa. Lions and tigers would eat me the moment I stepped off the plane. Plus, I hate the jungle. And cannibals. And a pith helmet is not flattering to my physique. Don't get me started on the kangaroos.

"The gangs are a function of youth, deteriorating familial structures, and economics. It's not just a black problem. It's Latinos, Asians, Whites, Blacks, exiles from the Dogon system - name a segment of the population and there's a gang associated. Shoot, I seriously considered forming my own gang, but", and I held up my cane, "the name 'Crips' was already taken. You can't have a good gang without a great name. I thought for awhile about calling it 'The Cripples', but that doesn't inspire fear and loathing, does it? I thought of the 'Handi C's", but again it's kind of lame." I turned to Martha, "Handi-capable my heiney."

Martha laughed and shook her head. Carl and Mark looked as if I had just knocked on their door and handed them a pamphlet concerning their immortal souls with a heavy dash of Jehovah thrown in for good measure. Or maybe the 'Book of Mormon'. Or, and this is a possibility, a religion entirely of my own creation. You know, like Catholicism.

I would like to say that the conversation ended here, but I can't. It went on, and on, and on, and a little further than that. The basic jest of the discussion followed the conflict between races. Then the Bush era. The Iraq War. George the father. George the son. Possibly George the Holy Ghost. The Gulf War. American imperialism - where I briefly suggested that the US quit screwing around and embrace Empire openly, take the continents and stop all the damn whining. This didn't go over nearly as well as one would imagine. Possibly because I suggested, in retrospect a bit too forcefully, that we start with Canada.

*** the journey continues ***

The Interwebs Don't Lie

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"Well that may be," Carl said, "but do you think he'll really make it to the White House? Or last long if he does"

I ignored the assassination angle.

"Funny that," I said. "Supposedly, if he's elected they are going to paint the White House on Jan. 19th, just before the inauguration. It will then be known as the 'Black House'." This statement was met with puzzled looks all around. "It's true. I read it on Wikipedia. The interwebs don't lie."

Martha giggled. The only one, but as you know it's more of a response than I usually get.
Mark grinned. "You know what Carl means."

I sighed. "I do. That is certainly a concern but hopefully it won't come to pass."

"I don't know. Just seems like you guys are pretty fast with the guns down there. And with race relations what they are, well. . . " he let his voice trail, as if the rest of what he was thinking didn't need to be said.

"Don't you think if he's elected there's going to be rioting?" Mark asked. "Seems like you guys could tumble into a civil war pretty quickly."

Mom and I exchanged a glance. Rioting? Civil war? Just what kind of an impression did these Canadians have of our homeland? The guns maybe, but civil war? For a fleeting moment I panicked. What if these uber Canucks were right and we, too close to see the forest, were unaware that civil carnage was about to sweep our shining shores?

"I seriously doubt that. I'm sure there would be some unhappy campers, but civil war? No. I don't think so. That sounds like a lot of effort, and the lower 48 isn't that ambitious. Shoot, if we let Bush and Cheney steal the 2000 election without so much as a whimper from the general public, I don't think that electing Obama is going to cause chaos in the streets."

"But all those 'Red' states, eh?", Mark said, spreading his hands over the table as if he were referring to a map, "they aren't going to be happy are they? And with how it goes between blacks and whites, seems to me you guys would be ripe for problems."

"Those 'red' states are kind of a misnomer. A media construct. It's really more of a few hard-core Blue states, a few hard-core Red states, and the rest are varying shades of purple. But you don't hear that because absolutes make much better TV. And as for race relations . . . well, we've come a long, long way in the last twenty years. Even farther in the last 40. Are we there yet? No. But I don't think it's as big of an issue as you think."


*** the journey continues ***

Race, Obama, and Baseball Hooligans

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"Had me goin' there for a minute, eh?" Mark smiled.

"Just trying to add a little humor. But seriously, I'm firmly planted in the Obama camp."

"But really," Mark said, jumping into the conversation, "do you think he has a chance?"

Now that took me aback. Of course he does. He's ahead in the polls, and from all indications the Republican party was scrambling to play the ever popular game ‘Who is going to shoot us in the foot?’ The answer would come in a few short days. That answer was "all of them". No, I kid. The answer was Sarah Palin. I really, really, really wish that McCain had announced her as his running mate before we left Hidden Valley. Now that would have been fun.

I looked at your mom. She looked as confused as I felt.

"Oh, I think he has a very strong chance. I fully expect him to win come November."

Now it was Mark and Carl's turn to look confused. Mark said, "But you really think the US will elect," and here his tone became a bit sheepish, " . . . you know. A black man?"

Ah. There it was. Race seemed to be a very troubling topic for these Albertans. But come to think of it, it wasn't like we'd met anyone with even a suntan since leaving THE STATES. The coastal cities of Canada are quite international but evidently the plains were still the
dominion of the white man. Well, if you didn't count all the First Nation people that had been slaughtered to make room.

"I think we're more than ready for a change, and while his race will certainly be an issue for some, I believe most of the US is ready to move beyond skin color."

I was very cautious of saying "America is ready to move beyond skin color," because that would have been like smearing sausage all over myself and jumping in the lion cage at the Zoo. Oh sure, it would be all fun and tongues for the first minute or so, then things would turn . . . toothy. See, while we in THE STATES (oh dear Lord now I'M doing it!) refer to our republic as 'America', them's fightin' words north and south of the border. You will be reminded lickety-split that be it Canada or Mexico they are Americans as well, dwelling on the North American continent as they do.

Personally, I think it's just an easy way to start a fight. Kind of like telling a bowler that it isn't a 'real' sport. Or, and this is one that is fun sometimes, telling anyone outside of our country that REAL football is what takes place in the good ol' US of A with helmets and padding and the occasional snapped neck. What the rest of the world calls 'football' is just soccer. With the absolutely bitchin' addition of hooligans, but soccer none the less. That's what we teach our kids to play in order to toughen them up for the gridiron. Proclaim that loudly enough at a World Cup and see how long it takes you to regain consciousness. One time at Safeco Field I tried to implement 'baseball hooliganism' at a Mariners game one fine summer afternoon, but it wouldn't seem to take. Stupid passive-aggressive Seattlites. You should have seen the looks I got whenever a member of the team came into home plate and I would jump up, raise my shirt and shout "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!" Then I would throw my beer in your Uncle Bob's face and punch him in the nose as hard as I could.

Ah . . . good times, good times. You know, and this ticks me off to no end, Safeco security has NO sense of humor whatsoever.



*** the journey continues ***

You Can't Apologize For The Kids

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I drew my lips into thin lines, shrugged my shoulders and nodded my head in the negative. "Naw . . . I'm just futzing with ya. I'm voting for Obama."

While none of the family found it as amusing as Martha, I did at least get a grin from the two men.

Martha leaned over and bumped my shoulder with hers. "They have no sense of humor," she said apologetically. "I have no idea what happened to them. So serious all the time." She looked to her boys as if she expected an answer.

Just then our salads and a basket of piping-hot bread arrived, so the grand topic of conversation was put aside while we praised the salad and bread, and dove into our first course.

Mom leaned over and whispered "Really?"

"Babe," I said quietly, "you have to lighten up a bit. Stop being so nervous and relax. They're not going to kill us for making a joke."

"But really," she said, "you had to go straight to Hitler?"

"It's an old comedic artifice. Welcome to what I like to call the 'Dance of Satirical Intellectuals', or as the French say "Danse de la faiblesse d'esprit". That has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"I don't think that's what that phrase means," Mom said.

"What?"

"'Danse de la faiblesse d'esprit' translates roughly as 'Dance of the feeble-minded'."
What kind of an alien had I married?

"Since when do you speak French?"

Mom just shrugged her shoulders. Another one of her hidden stores of knowledge no doubt. Next thing I know, I'll have a miniature nuclear reactor sitting on the kitchen counter. Actually, that would be kind of cool. As long as we didn't go 'critical'. Then it would be a hoot!

*** the journey continues ***

My Vote Goes To Hitler

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Carl began to smile and then checked himself. Evidently a thought had crossed his mind and before he could open up to these travelers he had to make sure he wasn't dealing with something worse than a Republican. For all he knew I might be a member of the John Birch society. (I have been noticing quite a few unmarked helicopters flying in formation lately and it troubles me.) Or something worse. . . . the ultimate horror - a member of the Green Party.

"So," Carl said, and looked to his family for support, "who are you gonna vote for?"

“The same person I always vote for Carl," I purred.

Carl and the family exchanged glances, looking for confirmation that they hadn't missed something in the conversation. "Okay. And that would be. . .?"

"Hitler."

Mom grabbed my thigh under the table and gave me a vicious squeeze.

Evidently my voice had carried a bit in the room for conversation stopped faster than traffic at a trailer-park yard sale. The family, whose preternatural telepathic connection was humming strong at this point, looked at each other with saucer eyes. Carl started to say something, thought better, started to say something else and stopped. He tried to mouth words soundlessly but in the end simply exhaled loudly.

Martha reached over and patted my hand and giggled. She looked at her sons and said, "Now that's funny."

Carl searched my face, looking for some glint of a smile, some twinkle in my eye that perhaps his mother had seen that went unnoticed by him.

Deadpan, I shook my head in the affirmative. "It's true. Hitler."

He leaned back in his chair and the arms immediately folded across his chest. This seemed to be his natural posture.

"Hitler?” he asked incredulously?

"Yes. I always vote for Hitler. I write his name in every election."

I grinned and looked around at my dinner companions. The spectrum of emotion was on display in full force. Delicious. We had Martha giggling, and her son Mark had still not closed his mouth.

I let the grin on my face die, as if I finally understood their horror, and replaced it with a look of great concern.

"Oh. . .not THAT Hitler. Sorry. Abraham Hitler. He lives down the block from us. Never thought about it before, but that's a very unfortunate surname isn't it? Heck of a guy. Has some really good ideas concerning reformation of the current banking structure."

Blank expressions greeted me from all sides of the table, except Martha who was now laughing openly.

*** the journey continues ***

Scorched-Earth Anyone?

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Now as you know I've never been a Bush supporter - father or son. I'm socially liberal, fiscally conservative, and a moderate regarding foreign policy. You can put a check mark next to my name in the 'other' column. It seems that a radical political ideology, either right or left wing, was all the rage in August of 2008. There wasn't much middle ground. You were either red or blue, and that's all anyone needed to know to either think you were the most brilliant person ever born on the earth or full-fledged maniac hell-bent on ruining our country.

I detested Bush. Thought John McCain had traded his soul for political clout, and sat firmly in the Obama camp. Yet there was something about this semi-snotty Canadian espousing his views regarding MY country that prompted a visceral response deep in this American heart. As I believe I've told you before, I've never met a Canadian, be they from the highest social circle or the lowliest hard-scrabble, that wasn't an absolute expert on what was wrong with the USA. Canadians were kind of like that distant Aunt that is nice enough but had definite opinions on why everyone else was a screw-up, and what they should be doing to correct the situation.

So, I was at a junction, a fork in the road if you prefer. (Or a runcible spoon. . .sheesh. . . whatever.) I could take the 'Fox News' perspective and possibly alienate an entire Province, or I could enter into a rational, constructive, and productive conversation wherein this group of heartland Canadians and these motorcycle riding interlopers from THE STATES could find common ground, bridging the ideological divide and promoting peace, harmony and brotherhood amongst all North Americans.

As I sat there, running over conversational options and likely outcomes of differing tactics Mom leaned over and whispered, "Don't do it."

I started to protest, but as our brethren across the pond are so fond of saying, 'it was a fair cop'. Finally I decided to stop all the silly games and answer honestly. "Yes. Thank God."

As a unit the Canadian's jaws dropped. As if someone had snuck behind the curtain and with a pair of scissors cut the strings to their mouths.

Oh that's right, pigeon-hole me will you? Yeah, that just happened. I blew your mind. Deal with it. Lao Tzu would have been proud of my skills at throwing the enemy off balance, of changing the rules of engagement without notice. I now had them wobbling. The question was, should I go for the coup de grace?

*** the journey continues ***

We Charge The United States With . . .

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Carl leaned back in his chair, placing both hands behind his head. He did that a lot. "So. You guys have quite an election coming up."

Aw shit.

Really? Was he going to go and ruin a perfectly good evening with talk of politics? It's not that I mind, you know I love a spirited discussion as much as the next guy, but this was Canada and these were Canadians. In my experience what was about to take place wasn't so much a discussion as a prolonged series of accusations and indictments against all things from THE STATES.

Too late now, we had left the calm water and were heading head-long into the vortex with the Kracken waiting below for the killing blow. I glance at your mom, who, as you know, hates political discussions even when both parties agree. She was trying desperately to self-induce a coma, but so far was having little success. She just looked sleepy.

"Why yes. Yes we do."

If Carl wanted to 'hike' down this particular path I was going to make him work for it.
He looked at me. I looked at him. The conversation amongst his family dwindled to silence, much like the final gasps of a car running out of gas which, owing to your childhood, you should be intimately acquainted with. Or, like any holiday dinner conversation we've ever hosted at the house. Especially those attended by Uncle Bob. Bastard. But I digress. There we sat, eyeball to eyeball, two minds locked in a silent battle.

Finally Carl said, "So. I guess the good thing is they can't re-elect Bush, eh?"

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I Should Have Smelled A Trap

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Back to our story.

Leeza and Stacey, and a few staff members that I hadn't met yet, walked amongst the tables taking drink orders and making small talk with the guests. Leeza came to our table and said, "So, I hear you two play a wicked game of Cribbage."

"It's true," I replied. "We are the Cribbage Masters."

"So who won?", she asked as she filled our water glasses from an ice-filled pitcher.

"Well, Suzanne may tell you different, but I believe were it not for her cheating I would have taken every game."

"Oh," Leeza grinned, "so how did she cheat?"

I looked at your Mother. "I have no idea. Possibly mirrors, or a second deck cleverly concealed behind her back. Some of the staff may have been in cahoots with her. But it was obvious there was something amiss, something not quite kosher about the whole affair."

Mom patted my arm. "He's saying that because I beat him seven out of eight games. He won the eighth because I took pity and let him."

While this was true it also stung.

"Wait until tomorrow. I was simply lulling you into a false sense of security. Tomorrow. . . no quarter!"

Leeza giggled. "Well I'm glad you folks found a way to occupy yourselves." She put the pitcher on the table and rubbed her hands together. "Now, as for tonight's menu. . ." Whereupon she launched into a glorious description of the gustatory delights awaiting our palettes. Salads and breads. Duck. Crusted Salmon. Both of which had received extensive counseling before their demise from old age. My eyes glazed over during the description. I was in paradise and Leeza was the heavenly chorus. She went on and on until, and I'm not proud of this, I may have drooled. "And for dessert we have white-chocolate brownies drizzled with a wild Raspberry-chocolate sauce and a dab of fresh whipped cream with a bare hint of mint."

"Oh, that sounds good," Mom said.

Leeza picked up her pitcher. "You have no idea. It's like the best of all possible worlds on your tongue”. Addressing the group she said, "If you folks are set I'll be back in a minute with fresh bread and salad." Then she swayed ever so gently back to the kitchen.

So far this was shaping into a very pleasant evening. We talked amongst ourselves for a bit enjoying the gentle pulse of words and laughter that filled the room. I recognized a few faces here and there from breakfast or Tea, but owing to the nature of the Lodge the clientele was in constant rotation. Mom, for maybe the first time since we had left home, was relaxing minute by minute. Life was good.

I should have smelled a trap.

*** the journey continues ***

Male Interaction Deciphered, Or 'Hello Bitch'!

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Anyway, now that the two alpha males of this particular table had established a somewhat tentative detente we turned our attentions away from the posturing, chest-thumping and possibly, although I admit to nothing, making Orangutan noises, back to our respective families.

Mom leaned close and whispered "That was some stupid male-dominance thing, wasn't it?"

If by 'stupid male-dominance' you mean the establishment of boundaries and physical superiority through verbal greetings and gestures then yes. That's what that was."

Your Mother, clearly impressed, shook her head and rubbed her temples in slow circular motions. "I will never understand you."

Now this seemed like a rather grand generalization, but I knew from whence it arose. See, your mom hadn't a clue as to the true nature of male interaction. I had been trying to explain this relatively easily deciphered subtext for many, many years but your Mother was simply incapable of grasping the importance, the grace, the nuance of manly interaction. Although, to her credit she had tried. I blame an abundance of estrogen or that cursed extra chromosome. Poor thing, it's a foreign language with nary a Rosetta Stone in sight. I can't count the times that we will be walking somewhere, and I'll pass a guy and say "How's it going?" To which, if he's a man at all, will replay with the carefully crafted "Not bad. How about you?" Which demands the proper, "Not bad at all." We then smile and go about our way.

Mom will usually say, "Did you know him?"

”Who?" I will reply, genuinely befuddled.

"That guy you just talked to."

"Him? No. No clue."

"Well then why did you talk to him like that?"

"Oh," I'll say, "completely necessary. That was a fight for superiority."

"What are you talking about?" She'll say, acting all confused.

"Honey, honey, honey. How many times must we go over this? Let me break it down for you. As we walked down the sidewalk I noticed this guy walking towards us. I didn't like the looks of him for a number of reasons."

"You knew you didn't like him when you saw him walking down the sidewalk? Why would you think that?"

"Well for one he was walking way to close to our side. Did you see how his shoulders were pulled back? That guy was looking for trouble. His head was held at a cocky angle and I didn't much care for the color of his shirt. I won't even get into his choice of footwear. So, as he approached I had to take the initiative and establish my dominance, showing him that his stance was neither frightening nor threatening in any way, and letting him know that I was not one to be trifled with.

So, the 'how's it going' was really ‘Hey chump. I see you. I see your posing and far from feeling threatened, I'm going to become the aggressor and call you out. This will, in no uncertain terms, show you that while you may be able to play this game with others it's not working on me. I am potentially more trouble than you need at the moment, so just keep walking.'

He then responds with any number of replies, each carrying their own meaning yet he chose 'Not bad'. Now this tells me that he has carefully considered the consequences and decided that perhaps he will back away slowly, never exposing a weak spot, while still maintaining the illusion of his alpha status but we both know that I’m allowing him that position for the time being. He then defers further with the 'How about you?’ showing that he's concerned that he put me at ease and suggesting that he is no threat. I recognize his backing down and acknowledge it with my 'Not bad at all', letting him know that I have no further business with him, at which point our interaction is complete, both of us secure of our place in the pecking order."

"And what would have happened had he replied differently?"

"Well," I say, "there are a million permutations of this little ritual, but most of them end with drawn weapons."

To which your mom says, "Men are insane."

"That's a distinct possibility. But let me ask you this; when we went to the clothing store the other day, and at the check-out you smiled at the girl behind the register and said 'hello' and she did the same, there was a slight edge to both of your voices. Are you telling me there was no subtext to that?"

"Oh sure there was. But that's different."

"So, indulge me. What does "Hello" and the reply "Hello" translate to in regular speech?"

Mom will pause for a moment. "Hello Bitch."

I rest my case.


*** the journey continues ***