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has nothing to do with the following post.  I figured I’d cut and past my column here as I will be contemplating what to name my garage as the possibilities continue to roll in and if you’ve been one of several who have contributed, I sincerely thank you for your help and participation.

Streets and avenues across this vast land of jam busters and beavers have recently been looking like a one horse town while mood lights, incense sticks and lingerie sales are at an all time low which logically can only mean one thing; hockey playoffs are in full slap shot mode.  Unfortunately, a diet of rainbow ice cream and flat feet weighed heavily on my inability to ‘lace up’ in my sometimes misspent youth which would minimize my interest in our national sport and inadvertently play a key role in one of my dumbest deke out maneuvers of all time.

It was a time of plaid pants and temperature changing t-shirts and also a picture perfect day for a winter wedding in Winnipeg. Despite that enormous ball of burning gas that hangs in the sky, it was still -35 C with a 900 km/hr wind chill and I had hung up my favorite navy blue parka, complete with that fuzzy, furry lined hood in favor of a monkey suit so I wouldn’t fall out of favor with the bride and groom and more importantly, so I could take advantage of the open bar without looking like an uninvited street busker.

I can’t tell you why birds fly south and I can’t tell you why I was on the hunt for an ATM machine when money wasn’t a necessity but there I was, making small talk with two sharp dressed dudes in the foyer of a hotel boasting two too many approval stars for yours truly as I was determined to wrangle me a cash spitter. 

Assumptions have often been the cause and bane of many a left webbed foot that I’ve had to retrieve from my pie hole and I was well on my way once again as I continued to chat up these visitors to the River City.  Oblivious to the whereabouts of a 24 hour bank teller, I politely listened to the ball of yarn these two gentlemen were spinning, claiming they were in Winnipeg on business, specifically of the ‘he shoots, he scores’ kind of business.  We exchanged pleasantries, handshakes and names while discussing only the most important of issues, like whether the attractive hotel manager had herself a man and whether it would be faster to take an elevator to the top floor versus the stairwell; all the really pressing matters. Unable to help me locate a bank machine which I desperately wanted to find and yet had no reason to use, it was a few more minutes of back slapping and handshaking before I politely made my exit and not before cursing out these two city slickers in their attempt to fool this poor country boy into believing I was talking with a couple of NHL puck handlers.

As I was recovering on the couch from obvious open bar abuse hours following an evening of celebration, my day only got worse as I found out that my Winnipeg Jets had lost the night before to the Red Wings while I had been partaking in the Chicken Dance on some piece of high gloss dance floor.  And wouldn’t you know it, those two gentlemen I refused to believe just wouldn’t leave me alone but this time, they were staring at me through the other end of my television. Had I known at the time just how important Steve Yzerman and Sergei Fedorov were, the least I could have done was buy them a drink; I mean, it was an open bar after all.

As the names continue to roll in over what I should rename my garage, our topic on the air today wandered off course as we got talking about dudes with long hair.

I’m pleased to report that while I thought I was living in the 70′s, long hair isn’t so much a fashion issue but more-so a choice of whether you’re capable of growing and retaining long hair.  From men and women alike, the consensus believe that as long as you’re not wringing a liter of 10W30 from your hair and keep it healthy, more power to you. 

The other concern is that there are still a handful of dudes who have lost those locks on top and cover it up with a cap, like this classic Kim Mitchell photo.  You know there’s no hair under that hat and he’s not fooling anyone. 

And now if you’ll excuse me, I think I might ‘Go For a Soda’.

No, I will not be firing up the skill-saw but rather this is a sequel to my last entry as I continue to contemplate names for the garage.

 Added to the list;

1.  Iron Haven

2.  Thunder Dome

3. P.I.M.P.  (Poncho’s Indoor Motorcycle Pavillon)

And after having some people over I’m also considering two more options;

 4.  The Neighbor Hater – after my back alley neighbor was concerned about the excessive noise

5.  the No Phone Zone -  I can’t stand taking a back seat to someone having a conversation on the phone.

While I won’t be giving out prizing for the most suitable title, I will be burning the name  of the garage into a 2×4 and on the flip-side, the name of the namer of the garage courtesy of my wood burning kit which will hang above my garage door.   (make sense?)

I’ve been looking to burn a name into a hunk of wood and then hang that wood above my garage because after spending so much in it, I feel it should be called something other than ‘my garage’ and so I looked to you for answers and so far, here’s some of my favorites.

 1.  Crestwood Hall of Big Brains

2.  Ponch Maj Hal

3. Dunrunnin’ Hall

4.  The Biker Bunker

5.  Harley Haven

6.  Road King Hacienda

7.  Chrome Dome

8.  Ponchotopia

Time will tell . . . . . .

While walking through a weekend of Broncs and Honkytonks at the Cypress Centre last weekend, imagine my dissapointment when I saw that their full length telephone booth had been vandalized to the point that it would no longer function.

It’s a genuine shame too because while the phone booth was at one time a staple of small towns and cities alike, it’s almost become extinct.

And then a guy by the name of Glenn sent me this picture, re-instilling faith in the preservation of the phone booth and also giving Clark Kent a place to change into his alter ego.

Almost obscure as television antennas these days and despite how strong your love of music might be, there’s a good chance you didn’t watch the Junos last night.

I knew they were on and actually made plans to clean up all the doggie land mines so I didn’t have to experience the worst TV broadcast since the days of Road to Avonlea and if you don’t remember that show, consider yourself privileged.  There wasn’t even a host for the Junos this year and knowing that Ben Mulroney is out of work and STILL didn’t want to make some cash, that’s a sure sign that Canadian television has taken yet another turn for the worse, if that’s at all possible.

 It’s a shame that one of the few great homegrown shows was sold to the U.S.; namely The Trailer Park Boys. 

With that being said, I think it’s time to grab my clearing stick, don my TPB jersey and cruise the trailer park.

April flowers could very well bring May flowers and unless your schoolmaster’s best friend was a yardstick and matching leather strap to help instill such inaccurate adages, signs of spring abound long before the allergic reactions fire up for another season.  Mother Nature obviously can’t be trusted this week to guide us towards the warming rays of sunshine and as diligent as our city street sweepers have been in readying scenic scenes of summertime patios, that too hasn’t attracted an influx of the thermometer. Spring has walked up the driveway and rang that doorbell but I’m not convinced I want to throw open the storm door and answer that knock, not after the latest signs I’ve witnessed firsthand.

I first recognized that the rainy season was approaching while rolling down the blacktop when a multitude of these fuzzy, criss-crossing varmints of wide open spaces appeared out of the frozen dirt.  Never seen during the coldest times of the year, I’m convinced these highway culprits either pull a Yogi and hibernate during Old Man Winter’s reign or take to the skies like a gaggle of geese and turn their chompers south.  I’ve even developed a rough theory that blue hairs from the left coast to the shores of yore are in cahoots with these mini dirt devils and while I won’t delve into detail, swallow this nugget of brain food; the rodents in question always disappear around the same time the seniors flock south for the winter, never re-appearing until the lawn bowling season fires up again.

  I’ve watched in shock and awe as tourists have fallen prey to these pranksters of the prairies time and time again. Sucked in like a brand new, seven horsepower shop vac, foreigners to this land will feed, pet and coax to stroke these hairy mammals, oblivious to their deceptive ploy. If you’ve seen one you’ve seen the entire extended family of these always in motion speed bumps but you and I aren’t fooled by their cutesy little smiles and the unassuming chirps that emanate from one side of the ditch to the other.  Like a herd of wild and untrained chinchillas, they’ll have you looking left even as they’re stealing your bought and paid for sunflower seeds on the right.    That’s right boys and girls, hitchhikers have returned for another season.

The pressure has been on me to start the spring time yard work and like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I have been blessed with some very validated excuses of why I’ve been unable to do so.

 1.  THE CITY OF MEDICINE HAT.  My first feel good excuse was to blame the city.  Having applied for an automated waste bin over a month ago, I didn’t feel it necessary to rake the leaves until this new version of a garbage bin has been delivered.  Unfortunately, the city doesn’t even have them on their hands yet and as much as I want to, no one-including the neighbors-would be thrilled to find out I haven’t started yard work until this August.

2.  MY HEALTH – I recently secured a doctor’s note to omit any physical labour from my current lifestyle after pulling some muscles in my back. (I wasn’t even aware I had back muscles)  This is a good news/bad news excuse as my back has now mended which allows me to function properly but as the lawdy mama pointed out; ‘if you’re healthy enough to ride, you’re healthy enough to rake’.

3.  MOTHER NATURE  And just as I was prepared to pick up all the doggie land mines after running empty of ligitimate reasons of why I can’t clean up the yard, we’re hit with a snowstorm.  And now I won’t be able to touch the yard until everything dries out, I’m thinking which could take at least another two weeks.

 Tsk,tsk.

Whether we realize it or not, we all maintain an invisible albeit cheap suitcase full of hats that are always ready to wear depending who exactly is yappin’ to us. The thought came to my dimly pulsing brain after my ultrasound treatment, before the electric shock management and during the deep therapeutic massage I incurred while spending some of my free time at my local physio department. I find it interesting that I’m a ‘son’ and ‘uncle’ when visiting the family back in the keystone province, ‘hon’ to the gal at my favorite greasy spoon, ‘husband/don’t you dare you touch me’ guy when in the company of the Lawdy Mama and it’s also come to my attention that I don the chapeau of ‘flat footed butt clencher’ after my most recent visit to my physiotherapist which is still a lot more promising than what I’ve been called in the past.

 I prefer the physiotherapist over the chiropractor, once again because of a figurative hat I was given to wear when ‘Johnny the back alley back cracker labeled me as husky. I might have had a love of rainbow ice cream back in the day of beta max machines and aqua size lessons but I was still bright enough to recognize when I had been handed a back handed compliment. If you’ve never been to a physiotherapist, it’s similar to an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord of hospital beds, office desks, a plethora of exercise balls, gym equipment and a plastic of bin of used shorts should you not bring your own, something I experienced the hard way. And for my own personal peace of mind because I don’t wish to be given the hat of ‘that’s just wrong in every possible manner’, I should clarify that I’ve been given the handle of ‘flat foot butt clencher’ because of my feet’s inability to strike an arch, like an incompetent welder. And because my back muscles have an on-going relationship with my feet and decided to strike, my non-union butt muscles have been called in to replace the lower back and that’s why I wear the top hat of ‘flat footed butt clencher’, according to the fine staff who work me over.

 So before you cry out and let your sawbones know that they’re examining your flux capacitor incorrectly or telling the cab driver who drives you home every third Saturday night that they’re not signaling properly, keep in mind you’ve been labeled a long time ago. Now whether you’re sporting the ‘two steps forward, three steps back’ fedora or the ‘I love you man after six beers’ sun hat is up to you. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to find my ‘stop knocking on my door Mr. Solicitor before I sick the dog on you’ bandana.

Can you believe it?  Decades have come and gone and in between I’ve yet to witness/remember ZZ Top in their natural habitat-namely on stage.

 That changes on Sunday, June 13th as these rock and roll inductees play the Arena this summer.

 More tickets to win with Disasterpiece Theatre and the number you’ll need is 403-529-1053.