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After a show based upon qualities that deem you a Red Neck, Shelly has taken it upon herself to send the following picture.

While I’m not exactly sure where this photo was snapped, my intuition tells me this cars hails from the land of gohpers and Roughriders. I will say this though, there’s a sweltering mobile home somewhere in the land of living skies.

The only thing I was missing last night was my sandbox because I felt like a kid again when those Snowbirds buzzed the Gas City, a few times.

And I wasn’t alone either in my love for anything fast and shiny as the neighbors had the doors open and their necks craned towards the sky too.

Being a country boy, firetrucks and airplanes mesmerized me, mostly because you don’t see a lot of that action on the gravel roads of home. I won’t blink an eye when Farmer Joe rolls into town with his 5 ton grain truck or the combine with the triple wide header inches it’s way towards you but if I see a ride with sirens on it, it’s like Grade 1 all over. I stop what I’m doing and all focus is on the red truck with the flashing lights.

It’s good to feel like a kid again, even if it was only for a few fleeting moments.

I’ve spent some time thinking about this and concerts just aren’t the way they used to be. Bic lighters have been replaced with the sheen of cell phones and the wafting aroma of those crazy left handed cigarettes is no longer wafting.

I’m not advocating the use of West Coast Smokes but it was all part of the concert experience, you know? You need to see the guy with the mullet, you need to see the cougar dressed like a lady of the evening and you need to have certain aromas when attending a show.

Even more depressing than that is all these people that spend more time looking through their LCD display of the camera, clicking photos instead of experiencing the big show. 200 pictures later, you’ve missed out on the event of a lifetime but you’ve got a million pictures that nobody, even yourself will ever look at.

Simply put; ‘you’ve bought the ticket, now take the ride’.

In fact, I’m feeling so lazy today I could barely use my hand to cut and paste today’s column taken directly from the MH News.

So Long To a Great Friend- Food

I’m still not really sure how this happened but here I am, approximately ten days into the 100 Mile Challenge and it already feels like it’s been one hundred days. For those of you unaware of the 100 Mile Challenge, I hope you never hear about it and for those of you that have but refuse to hop on board, I applaud your stubbornness. For 100 days, the lawdy mama and I have committed ourselves to only ingesting food and drink that has been grown and produced within a 100 mile radius of our home.

An assortment of fine folks have simply asked ‘why’ and the only response that rings true to my heart is that my better half caught me in a moment of weakness because I’d give up all the foxes in Fox Valley if I could pull a Superman II maneuver and back my life up ten days plus one more. You’ll pass me on the street and think to yourself, ‘Now there goes a guy who loves his food’ and you’d be all the way right. I’ve even concocted many a menu item after shoddy service while eating out but I’ll leave that subject for another time, possibly with another edition of the Eleven Dollar List.

Similar to a F1 racing auto that’s finely tuned, so is this weathered and far from chiseled temple, built to run perfectly on a steady flow of beer and salt. I remember once pumping diesel fuel into Boner’s 1984, 4 cylinder, made-for-gas-Tempo and while it ran, it didn’t run well. The same can be said for this neglected form of a body that I carry around; I can get by on rhubarb and blueberries but it’s incredibly tough on the engine, ultimately suffering in a lack of performance.

Being raised on a farm does have its advantages and I have shown a true appreciation for farm fresh eggs, milk from the cow, not to mention all its bi-products like an inch thick rib eye from the moment I knew what my incisors were for. The problem doesn’t lie in what I can eat but rather what I can’t, namely salt and pepper. To think the darlings of the spice world, and not a cold barley sandwich is what I ultimately miss is a serious noggin’ scratcher. I’ve been ingesting a lot of homemade vegetable soup since the inauguration of this self inflicted, do-it-yourself-rehab center but without the mighty ‘S’ & ‘P’ at your beckoned call or at least patiently waiting for you on the kitchen table, my soup has been tasting a lot like water with carrots in it. At least I still have butter, and the winery from Maple Creek.

So the Ti-Cats are accusing the Bombers of a low blow by cheating and taking notes during a Ti-Cats open practice.

While the Bombers say the dude in question maybe got a little overzealous, I don’t see what the big deal is; Hamilton just beat the Lions last week. The team that hasn’t beaten anyone ever pulled off a victory against the always strong Lions and I mean it’s not like they’re the 0-2 Grey Cup Champs or anything.

Besides, has anyone ever seen a Ti-Cats fan? Really though, finding a Sasquatch would come easier than finding a Hamilton fan.

Go Bombers.

Sure Edmonton beat my Bombers last week. . . . . . .by 2 points.

Last night Edmonton lost to Montreal . . . . . . . by 34 points

The final was 50-16 actually with 31 of those points coming in the 4th quarter.

I have no idea where Edmonton was but I’ve found their new QB.

Let me introduce you to Quarterback Extraordinaire- Rock 105.3 Jock Ian Sharek

Yes Ladies, he’s single.

While I’m not sure how you spent your Canada Day, here’s how I spent mine. Read on, if you dare.

Those enduring adolescence or for anyone that can still recall living life as a teenager may appreciate or at the very least, sympathize with what I’m about to unfold. I recently found myself in Regina where I enjoyed the missed company of Mom and Dad and their new to them, 1981 Goldwing. Dad and I were fulfilling an often talked about road trip on our bikes and picked Canada Day as a starting point. While the trip revealed permanent memoirs and expended memory space known as my noggin’, I’d like to share with you an experience that is unprejudiced and relatable to all; no matter how deep yours crows feet or how large the cul-de-sacs grow above your forehead, parents have the uncanny ability to embarrass you at a summer’s whim.

It was one of those very lazy and comfortable nights where the minutes went by without the interruption of conversation and those few moments where everything just feels right. After spending some time at the communal hotel patio table and inspecting the passing traffic on a Canada Day evening, Mom, Dad and I walked through the sole front entrance of our hotel lobby. In that split second, the people that raised me my entire life disappeared and were replaced with a two person circus act and I had the best seat in the house.

My mother made a beeline for the soda pop machine which was adjacently parked next to the hotel manager’s office, a very key factor to this soon to be awkward scene. At the other corner of the foyer was Dad, examining the complimentary fruit bowl with the thoroughness of your five year physical examination. Some circumstances are what they are; the sun rises in the East, Lex Luthor will always remain the arch-nemesis of Superman, Mom is driven to cola like a gopher to a highway and Dad dreams of endless bowls of fruit cup.

Mother loads up the drinking apparatus with all sorts of nickels and dimes, unaware that she is now preventing our hotel manager from exiting the office, who watches through the little window in the door like a puppy who can’t leave its home. Dad has yet to venture into the spotlight but it will unfortunately find him soon enough and his tiny albeit every so important role to play which follows as best to my recollection.
Mom has another go with the beverage dispensing monster, oblivious that the gal in charge of looking after the lodge is unable to leave her hotel headquarters. With impeccable timing and before this young woman can speak out, from the fruit and breakfast portion of our hotel porch, Dad emits two little words while grasping an apple. The vocal reverberations of his ‘oh oh’ were recognizable only second to that of either someone ripping their Levis from bell bottom to butt or the implications of too much chili sauce on his burger.

Regrettably, especially for Papa and any nearby guests, it was the latter as the Queen City was instantly transformed into the Windy City. And in a barrage of words that could have only been understood with the use of a French-English dictionary I have no doubts that people within earshot comprehended the message. Dad didn’t stand a chance as Mother lectured Father on the complexities of when it’s proper to release any leftovers from dinner and apparently the hotel lobby is not the place to do. All the while our hotel director helplessly watched from the confines of her office, probably sharing her version of what made for an interesting Canada Day Evening.

With the exception of being bookended with rain at the start and finish of my latest road trip, my Prairie experience aboard the Road King lived up to its expectations and then some, especially since Dad was with me on his ride, yes, the ’81 GoldWing.

Just over 2000 km’s later, here’s the tan that my right arm is boasting, courtesy of my bike trip with Dad. Upon closer inspection, you can note the the four different shades of brown, 2 shades of white and 1 shade of red, deemed the sunburn.

It’s good to have goals though and mine is to get the arm (and the left one) all the same colour before the snow flies.