Phoque la culture

I’m breaking my long silence with a video – a protest against the cuts to cultural funding as well as the new ‘standards’ the Conservatives are imposing on artists through such regulations as the ridiculous Bill C-10.

Starring Michel Rivard, Benoit Brière et Stéphane Rousseau. Michel Rivard visits a panel overseeing government cultural funding, and sings them ‘La complainte du Phoque en Alaksa’ (the lament of the Seal in Alaska).

It’s just too bad the whole panel isn’t wearing sweaters and holding immigrant babies in their arms.

Yeah, right

A linguistics professor was lecturing to his class one day. “In English,” he said, “A double negative forms a positive. In some languages, though, such as Russian, a double negative is still a negative. However, there is no language wherein a double positive can form a negative.”

A voice from the back of the room piped up, “Yeah, right.”

I had this same reaction to the pope’s recent announcement concerning his new resolve to root out pedophiles from the priesthood, which he made in between the beverage service and the in-flight movie on his way to Washington and the first papal White House visit in 29 years.

Mark Twain said, “actions speak louder than words but not nearly as often.”

The actions of the church on this matter have spoken loud and clear, and no sanctimonious press release is likely to deafen their roar.

And so now, we face a whole week of nauseatingly hypocritical publicity stunts. According to President Bush, we can count on the pope to teach Americans the difference between “simple right and wrong.”

Simple, of course, being the operative word.

boxing for dummies

I attended my first boxing class today. I’ve been curious about boxing for a while and I’ve walked past this little gym at Yonge and Bloor many times.

When I mentioned to my friends and family I was thinking of trying boxing, every one of them expressed concern over the inevitable damage to my face.

“Your FACE! What about your FACE? You can’t perform on stage with a broken nose!”

I assured them that beginners weren’t allowed at the ‘Get-Punched-In-The- Face-For-An-Hour’ class on Thursday nights.

I opted instead for a ‘Fundamentals and Conditioning’ session.

The gym is small, but well laid out and the people are friendly. Fight posters and photographs of boxing champions line the halls, and the lack of ventilation only seems to add to the gritty ambiance.

I arrived 15 minutes early, and decided to watch as the previous class finished up. They all looked like normal people and all their facial features were basically intact. It also looked like their gloves were getting mighty heavy after an hour of boxing drills.

A generously-tattooed man walked up to me and cordially offered to wrap my hands, which he did with such precision and skill that I wondered if I’d ever be able to untangle myself.

He advised me to warm up by skipping rope until the instructor arrived.

No problem, I thought. At the age of 8, my skills in the rope-skipping department had earned me a spot on Sesame Street, jumping rope to illustrate how much more fun it is to play in twos and threes (a philosophy I carried into adulthood).

I was sure it would be just like riding a bicycle.

8 skips and one major stomach cramp later I realized that maybe this bicycle was a bit rustier than I had anticipated.

Suddenly Guns and Roses began blaring over the sound system. The instructor had arrived!

The class instructor’s name was Rico. Rico only stands about 5’7″, but Rico is a man who commands respect. He has years of experience and boxing wisdom written across his middle aged brow. Rico teaches boxing. It’s what he does. And pardon the inevitable pun, but Rico doesn’t pull any punches.

Rico tells you clearly and simply how to stand, how to punch, how to use your body and maintain proper form. His style is simple and direct. Rico knows what he’s talking about and I, a mere beginner, have much to learn.

Rico, it’s safe to say, is the Mr. Miyagi of Boxing.

Except more Italian.

And bald.

Once the newbies had learned the basics, we were put through a series of punishing drills involving medicine balls, punching bags, push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks. We even got in the ring for a few minutes to dance around an ‘opponent’ (a not-too-menacing red foot stool) and practice our footwork.

The hour and a half went by in the blink of a black-eye.

Favourite moment: when my knees stopped hurting and I could make it through more than two dozen skips without skinning my ankles with the plastic rope.

Least-favourite moment: putting on the club’s gloves and feeling the cold sweat left behind by the previous user against my skin.

Boxers may be tough, but next time I’ll bring my own gloves.

life in cowtown

Calgary is a bit like a doberman puppy who’s almost full grown: parts of it look impressive, but others kind of stick out in funny ways that make you want to laugh a bit.

I took the C-train the other night and was privy to a conversation between several inebriated young Calgarians. One of them announced that her sister had had a baby, and that she had named him Cowboy. No word of a lie. Do they sell steak-flavoured pablum in the stores here?

I’m currently staying in a house full of young apprentice opera singers (I suppose I can technically claim to be a young opera singer, but I sort of feel like a den mother to these opera babies). Actually, it’s not as nightmarish a scenario as it may sound. It’s kind of like Big Brother meets The Sound of Music. Without the cameras or the Nazis (I do live with a vegan, but she’s been very kind despite her constant hunger).

My favourite part about the show I’m doing is the quick changes in the makeup chair. I’m very lucky to be working with a great team of makeup artists. They won an Emmy last year for a film starring Brad Pitt and Casey Affleck.

At least they’re already used to working on incredibly attractive people.

dance, Teddy, dance

Apparently, this little clip’s become very popular among professional animators and students of animation:

It’s the final project of a third year ‘gaming arts’ student, the culmination of a full term of work, using all the tools he learned in class.

It’s also a flip of the finger to his school, I guess, but ironically it’s developing a cult following.

Makes me think maybe this guy was right after all.

Personally I love the little bear. There’s a certain irresistible charisma in his glassy, expressionless eyes.  Oblivious to his unrefined and out-of-synch moves, he dances his way across the earth, and indeed, seems bent on conquering it.

He embodies the fearless spirit that compells many art students to enter the profession in the first place … only to have their dreams dashed against the tidal wave of mediocrity and commercialism that awaits them.

I hope it becomes the next big internet meme.

Actually, now that Leno, O’Brien and Kimmel are going back on the air without their writers, I bet they’d kill to get their hands on this kind of material.

Hey, with any luck the guy could end up making enough to pay back his student loans.

autobalm

Just when you thought the fundamentalists couldn’t get any stupider:

“God has an awesome plan that starts along I-35. A reformation that will literally sweep the face of the earth.”

Really lady, literally? Is there another prophesy in your bible that speaks of the appearance of God’s gi-normous Broom of Purity in a Texas Costco?

Never mind abortion clinics or gay bars, the real test of purity will be if the carbon-spewing vehicles that pollute this highway to heaven are replaced by these.

Just imagine walking through a downtown filled with those little 25 mile-per-hour silent beauties! You could do your Christmas shopping along Yonge Street without the risk of getting Black Lung.

My home town of Winnipeg already has plugs for its cars installed in every outdoor parking lot and garage. If God is an environmentalist, then maybe Winnipeg is His new holy land (Transcona always did seem a bit supernatural to me).

Problem is, it will likely take a miracle to get these cars approved by our back asswards environmentally disturbed government.

sacré cordon bleu

My French from France friend L. runs a website that’s destined to become the who’s who of the pastry and chocolaterie world.

In lieu of stars, he rates establishments using little erect baguettes.

The way L. talks about French baking, it’s at least as important to him as sex.

L. recently returned from a trip to Bangkok. True to form, instead of ancient temples, scenic vistas or local flora, most of his pictures were of pastry shop interiors.

It seems the orient is now a hotbed of haute cuisine. Apparently, the Japanese could even teach Gault and Millau a thing or two.

On another note, I’ve recently discovered The Catherine Tate Show. I know, I’m about three years behind the times, but here in Canada that’s pretty much par for the course.

For the uninitiated, The Catherine Tate Show is a brilliant British sketch comedy series. It stars Catherine Tate and Derren Litten (who also writes). It’s chock full of wonderfully quirky characters, in profoundly surreal situations.

Kind of like my own life.

I think Margaret is my favourite character. She reminds me a wee bit of my own mom, which is odd because apparently Catherine Tate based this character on her mother:

I guess my mom should be grateful I’m an opera singer and not a comedian.

The other night I couldn’t sleep, so as usual I started wwilfing. More often than not this degrades to the point where I find myself reading Bea Arthur’s biography on Wikipedia (oddly engrossing at 3 a.m.). But this time I stumbled across Derren Litten’s website. Turns out he’s a very affable fellow. Well, at least according to his site.

One thing that caught my eye is that he used to be a pitch man for McCain fries. Only over there they call them chips. How quaint!

I noticed his site had a contact feature. Inspired by the McCain Canadian connection, I figured I’d send him an email to say how much I enjoyed his show.

He wrote back!

Yes, an internationally famous comedian actually wrote me an email. In this day and age, an electronic signature is pretty much as good as the real thing, I reckon. Don’t know if it would fetch much on Ebay though…

I guess he’s as nice as his website says he is. Sure, the content of his email was basically a plug for his new show, Benidorm, but it still made me feel special.

Benidorm was filmed on location in Spain, which I think is very clever. If you’re going to create and act in a TV series, better to set it in a resort in Spain, rather than, say, a diner in Saskatchewan.

Smart man, this Litten.

After his email, I feel guilty for watching The Catherine Tate Show on Youtube for free. I think I’m karmically obligated to go out and buy his new series on DVD, though I’ll likely have to wait another three years before it’s available in Canada.

Until then, I’ll just have to make sure I always have a bag of McCain Superfries in the freezer.

my dog Oscar

I’ve promised myself no more 3500-word blog entries for a while. I can’t handle the pressure.

So here’s a short one about my dog (I figure most bloggers write about things like their dog).

Mine is a chihuahua named Oscar. Most people think he looks like a mini Jack Russell. He recently learned how to ‘beg’ by sitting up on his hind legs. He uses that trick a bit too often though.

Well that’s enough about Oscar for now.

Wow, this might actually wind up being under 100 words if I shut up right now.

I feel better already.

whiteknuckle rafting part three: the soggy saga ends

Three hours later, we arrived unscathed. But further scathing lay in store.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Wildnerness Tours resort and campground. It was a picturesque spot: the mildly rolling hills were dotted with clusters of rustic cabins, and a robust looking restaurant/bar offered promises of alcoholic sedation.

There was little time to enjoy the view, however. R. volunteered to check us in while we waited in the car. He hurried back with news that our raft was scheduled to launch in 45 minutes. We drove the car deeper into the campground and parked it next to the food pavilion. We had just enough time to eat lunch before our lovely afternoon paddle down the river…

“Omigod guys, I can’t believe you made it!! I was sooo worried!!” We heard J.F.’s melodious voice before we saw him. He grabbed hold of us one by one and hugged us like lost sailors come back alive from the storm. Not far off the mark, I suppose.

“We didn’t know where you were! I called R.’s cell phone over and over but no one answered!”

R. smiled his signature toothy grin. He has call display.

“Well you guys better hurry up and eat ’cause we’re supposed to get on the bus to the river in half an hour,” J.F. said as he ushered us into the food line.

We each helped ourself to a plate of burger and potato salad and joined the rest of our team. They looked bleary-eyed, though relieved to see us.

About half the rafters were new faces to the four of us. We quickly introduced ourselves, and just as quickly forgot everyone’s names.

“Hi guys, how are you?” Our ‘French from France’ friend, L. is usually ebullient and as energized as a school girl on meth, but his ordinarily saucer-sized eyes were heavy with exhaustion.

“Yeah..,” he said, not waiting for an answer. “We didn’t get much sleep last night…the campground is a bit… noisy…” his voice trailed off, and his unfocused gaze drifted past us as if he were suddenly paralyzed by a horrifying memory of the previous night.

“Umm…what’s that on your shoe?” asked Boney MD.

“Oh!” L. came back to reality. “Apparently, you have to, like, tie these ropes through your shoes and around your foot, so that if they fall off in the rapids, you won’t lose them. Ha ha ha. Heh.” The answer seemed to make perfect sense to L., but I could see the glint of madness in his eyes.

“Ummm, does this mean that the rapids are a bit rough?” Dr. Bone looked concerned.

“Hold on,” I said, turning to J.F. “What kind of rafting trip is this? I mean, this is just the easy, beginner trip, right? ‘Cause, of course, none of us have ever been rafting before…”

J.F. laughed.

“No way guys!! We’re going on the High Adventure Tour!”

“High adventure? HIGH ADVENTURE?” The Bone looked like he was ready to snap. “Umm…did anyone mention that I don’t actually swim?”

“Well, that’s not what it says on the waiver you just signed!” J.F. knew just what to say to calm the doctor. “And we need twelve men in the raft so there’s no turning back now!”

“No…turning…back…” Dr. B. repeated. “Well you’ve really talked me into it.”

“Hi fellas, how’s it going?’ A perky young woman with a Pan-American smile suddenly appeared at the head of our table. “I’m Lara, and I’m gonna be your guide.’

Lara looked as though she had been born on a raft. She couldn’t have been more than 25, but her skin was stretched tightly across her overly-tanned face and she bore several cuts, scrapes and bruises on her exposed limbs. There also seemed to be a layer of of sand permanently lodged in her hair.

“So in a minute we’re gonna load up the bus! Better hurry up and finish eating your lunch. Then again, you might as well save yourself the trouble cause you’ll probably just wind up losing it in about 45 minutes or so anyway, hahahaha!”

Lara sauntered off. Dr. B. looked ready to cry.

“Don’t worry honey, I’ll protect you.” R. put his arm around his Dr.’s trembling shoulders.

“Umm..okay…you’ll protect me from 12 foot waves, sharp rocks, hidden currents, and my inability to breathe under water?”

We didn’t have much time to contemplate our inevitable demise. It was time to board the bus.

For an adult, riding a yellow school bus is a humbling experience. Maybe it’s the skin-gluing, tightly-packed vinyl bench seats, or the tortuously small air supply from the tiny windows high above, or maybe it’s the deafening motor that forces the introspective into silence and encourages the obnoxious to yell as loud as they can. Or maybe it’s the memories it rekindles of a time when we weren’t in control of our lives, when we were forced into small spaces with others who were bigger and scarier than us, heading into unknown territory, fearful of what lay ahead.

My philosophical reverie was interrupted by a voice behind me:

“99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer! Take one down, pass it around…!!”

J.F. was sitting at the back. Right over the motor. But its noise was no competition.

“98 bottles of beer on the wall!”

“Woot!” chimed in S.

S. is the youngest of the group. As such, he says things like ‘woot’ without irony.

The twelve of us had all sat near the back of the bus, and now our group was attracting attention from the college kids up front.

“What’s the matter, folks? Never seen fags go rafting before?”

J.F. is the master of first impressions.

“Oh, the wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round!”

“I could be sipping a rum and coke on a patio right now” whispered R., wiping the sweat off his brow and adjusting his legs so that the skin on his thighs could breathe.

I closed my eyes and focussed on the heavy metal music pumping out of the speakers overhead:

WHAT YOU DON’T KNOW SURE CAN HURT YOU
WHAT YOU CAN’T SEE MAKES YOU SCREAM
WHAT YOU DON’T KNOW SURE CAN HURT YOU
WHAT YOU DON’T HAVE IS WHAT YOU DREAM

I was dreaming of a margarita.

The bus lurched to a halt and the passengers tumbled out. We were instructed to collect paddles, helmets, and life jackets from cages alongside the road.

We suited up. The life jackets seemed solid enough. Like the helmets, they were a ridiculously sunny yellow. The most popular feature were the ‘happy straps’, which went under the legs and locked into place, separating the men from the boys.

We looked like a bunch of playmobil people at a beach party.

Once everyone was equipped, we were herded down a path to the river. About a dozen blue rafts sat on the shore. I hadn’t been able to find a paddle in the cages, so I stopped briefly at a nearby supply shed to pick one up. I was the last one to board the raft. As I climbed into the front, I suddenly remembered the words of advice that a friend back in Toronto had given me:

“No matter what you do, don’t sit at the front of the raft. It’s the most dangerous spot.“

Too late. My misplaced paddle had sealed my fate.

We were given our preliminary instructions from shore by the head guide: there were going to be around a dozen rapids, each with its own unique personality. Before crossing them, we would be told how to paddle through by our raft guide. We had to double check our life jackets, keep our helmets on at all times, and oh, when we fell out, we had to use the paddle to get pulled back to the boat by our raftmates. WHEN we fell out. Not ‘in the unlikely event of an emergency.’

“So basically, we’re doomed?” Dr. B. was looking pale.

“Come on guys, it’s gonna be a lot of fuuuuuunnnn!” Lara was at the back of the boat, and she tried to calm us with some well rehearsed enthusiasm.

We pushed off the shore and began paddling. It was a lovely summer day, and the sun reflected off the sparkling wavelets under our (yellow, of course!) paddles. After about 5 minutes of flat paddling, we found a rhythm. Someone began singing a French Canadian Voyageur folk song. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

“Okay guys, our first rapid is coming up. They each have a name. Are you ready for “The Beaver?”

Smirks and giggles all around.

“Oh honey, you are asking the wrong guys!” J.F. cackled from his safe perch near the rear.

“Woot!” concurred S.

We received our paddling instructions and aimed our raft at the Beaver.

We heard it before we saw it – at first a distant whisper, it grew louder by the second; white noise, like an enormous, delirious circus crowd applauding and cheering us on as we madly hurled ourselves toward our deaths.

All at once, I felt the raft plummet.

The sun disappeared and a spray of water chilled my skin. I looked up, and right away wished I hadn’t: the wave in front of us was enormous, a giant gaping maw beckoning our tiny boat into its watery gullet. We lurched forward, paddles flailing helplessly, and in an instant it was upon us.

“Woooot! Wooo….”

Our screams were swallowed by the churning water. My sense of direction vanished and I closed my eyes against the onslaught. I felt my internal organs rearrange themselves as I was tossed about like capers in a Jamie Oliver salad. I heard A.’s voice yelling out to me, and I opened my eyes. To my left (was it my left?) I saw A.’s panicked face, which all of a sudden was moving away from me…he was going overboard!

Him and half the raft.

And then, it was over. And we were laughing, at least those of us still on board. It had lasted about 15 seconds, but it had been one of the most terrifying and exhilarating things we had ever experienced.

I turned my attention to the poor sops in the water, who with their helmets, looked like yellow tennis balls in a spin cycle. They were still a bit disoriented. Us intrepid on-board survivors heroically extended our paddles and pulled them to the boat. Grabbing their life jacket straps, we hoisted them into the raft.

This is harder than is sounds when you’re dealing with panicked, overweight gay men.

Actually, it’s about as hard as it sounds when you’re dealing with panicked, overweight gay men.

And then we were all back on board, wet from head to toe, trying to put together what the hell had just happened.

“Hey guys, that was a lot of fuuuuunnnnnnn!” Lara reminded us. “Now we’re gonna do something really cool. It’s called rapids surfing. We’re going to paddle back upstream into the rapids and ride the wave of water as it flows towards us.”

“Umm…can we take a vote on this?” Dr. Bone, thrilled that he had stayed on board through the Beaver, was about to discover that the rules of democracy do not apply in a raft headed by Lara Croft, Raft Raider.

Energized by the adrenaline coursing through our veins, we turned the raft around and started paddling like our lives depended on it. Which they probably did.

As we strained against the current, the front of the raft began ascending the wave. Then we hit the crest, and I could feel the enormous power of the entire river surging under our inflated plastic dingy. The front of the boat rose to a dizzying height, but we valiantly stroked our paddles in perfect sync, riding the fury of the Ottawa river like veteran bull riders at a rodeo.

And then it happened.

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be in a raft as it capsizes in the middle of white water, this photo, which amazingly, the camera accidentally snapped as we turned over, might give you an idea:

One moment we were on top of the world, masters of the river, kings of the rapids, and the next we were under water, and it was very black, very cold, and it was all happening very very fast.

I had gone into this adventure thinking that I was a pretty good swimmer, that I had pretty fast reaction times, that I could keep calm under pressure and remain aware of my surroundings. But now, I felt completely and utterly helpless. Mother Nature was having a really good laugh at my expense.

Then a thought crossed my mind: I needed to breathe.

I forced my eyes open under the water and concentrated on figuring out which way was up. The dim light above me beckoned and I struggled my way to the surface.

I broke through the waves to the sound of gasps and cheers, and I added my own to the chorus. Luckily I was only a few feet from the overturned boat, and I reached out my hand to grab hold of the rope that circled the raft’s side. I was safe.

“Where’s Dr. B?” a voice asked.

We all suddenly remembered that poor N. couldn’t swim.

“He’s…here.” said R. “He’ll be fine, won’t you, N?”

Dr. B. wasn’t responding. But we were focussed on getting the raft upright.

Some of us swam alongside the capsized raft, towing it to shore, while others hunted for our far-flung paddles.

Once we reached the river bank, it became clear that something wasn’t right with our Dr.

“What happened to N?” whispered A.

“Umm…he’s okay…he just got pinned under the raft for while.”

The only guy who couldn’t swim, N. had surfaced by himself under the raft, trapped in a small pocket of air formed by the capsized dingy. Apparently he had spent several moments in the dark in the water, completely disoriented, until R. had found him and dragged him from under the dingy.

Silent and wide-eyed, Dr. Bone was in shock.

“Wasn’t that fuunnnn?” Lara was trying her best to revive the party atmosphere. “Now can you guys get under this thing so we can flip it over and continue down the river?”

That’s when the tears started flowing.

N. collapsed into R.’s arms, sobbing. The thought of continuing this adventure, after the first rapid had turned into N.’s worst nightmare, was more than he could bear.

We decided to give the doctor a moment. As the rest of us worked on getting the raft upright, Lara went over to him and stroked his arms with her rough hands. She promised him that the rest of the rapids weren’t as perilous as the Beaver. N. could sit right in the middle of the raft and there wouldn’t be any more surfing.

We redistributed the paddles while N. stood on a lonely little rock near shore, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, staring at his feet, refusing to move.

After a few minutes of cajoling (and when it finally sank in that there was no other way to get downriver but in the raft) N. relinquished and R. helped him into the dingy. He sat in the middle of the raft, staring straight ahead, somewhat comatose.

Not surprisingly, we were missing a paddle. But N. was still hugging himself in a vice grip, so that wasn’t really an issue.

We continued on our journey.

Just as Lara had promised, the Beaver in fact proved to be the most perilous of all the rapids. Not even ‘Phil’s Hole’ offered the same degree of difficulty.

This surprised J.F., who claimed to know Phil pretty well.

It was at last time for our mid-afternoon break. Even N. perked up when Lara announced that we were going to stop on a small island and enjoy a snack of soup, hot drinks, fruit and trail mix.

We were amazed that over two hours had passed on the river, and it suddenly occurred to us that we were famished.

We warmed ourselves with our gourmet meal of chicken broth and instant hot chocolate, and we were relieved to see N.’s colour return. He now seemed proud to have survived his ordeal. He was ready to do battle with the river again, and he even found a paddle on the way back to the raft.

The rest of the rapids were just as ‘fuunnn,’ though definitely not as overwhelming. After the last rapid, we had about a 20 minute paddle to our landing spot. I had fallen overboard a few times by now, so my fear of the water had all but disappeared, and the afternoon sun had warmed the river nicely.

I leaped into the water and swam ahead. Stopping a few meters in front of the raft, I turned around and looked back. The sight took my breath away.

The sun was just beginning to set, and my friends were silhouetted by the light, which danced across the waves in front of me like electric currents. The water felt warm and the scene was beautifully hushed. It was a perfect photo op.

I turned around and saw even more yellow heads bobbing ahead of me. I wasn’t the only one enjoying the water.

When we got back to the camp, we were treated to a video montage of us and our fellow rafters going through the Beaver. It didn’t seem nearly as terrifying watching it over a plate of roasted chicken and potatoes.

After dinner we drove the car to our campsite and set up the tent. This proved to be more difficult to do in the dark (and somewhat more undignified) than I had anticipated.

Happily one of our new friends, J.B., was a camping expert. Though I still think that for the first time setting up a tent as an adult, I did alright.

It was time for a drink.

The bar was only a 10 minute walk from our campsite. When we arrived the party was in full swing. Lara was there, already on her third Smirnoff Ice and planting congratulatory kisses all over N. who was enjoying the attention despite himself.

S. (‘woot’) was determined to get me to dance, and when he discovered it was my birthday at midnight, he insisted on making a request to the DJ.

I thought my club days were behind me, but the idea of dancing to Madonna’s Holiday with 10 other gay guys in a bar full of straight drunk college kids after a day of white water rafting was surreal enough to tempt me. I figured it was a pretty good way to enter my thirties. We attracted a bit of attention I suppose (‘there seems to be a lot of queer in here tonight’ we heard one confused voice observe) but it was, in fact, a lot of fuunnnn.

The night was about as restful and refreshing as you’d expect in a campground full of drunk students on their last bender of the summer. The campsite next to us was populated by a particularly gifted bunch, who kept tripping over our tent wires on their way to and from the bar, and who started panicking loudly at 3:00 a.m. over a missing bag of m & m’s.

The theft was eventually pinned on a ‘gnarly squirrel’ which had been spotted eying their food earlier in the evening.

Morning came quickly, and we awoke (did we actually fall asleep?) to the thumping bass of someone’s car stereo. A. and I decided it was probably best to leave right after breakfast. We didn’t have to work hard to convince R. and Dr. Bone.

We ran into our French from France friend L. at breakfast, sitting in a corner. He was keeping a low profile, scared to run into the 18 year old girl who had made him promise the night before that he’d go with her to the Spice Girls’ reunion concert.

We persuaded him that she was probably still sleeping off her 9 cosmos.

After breakfast we informed our fellow rafters that we were leaving to make it back in time for dinner. Expressions of dismay and half-hearted attempts to keep us longer were voiced, but we made it clear we wanted to get home before we were totally worn out.

Still, we had time for one last photo to capture the moment.

If this picture looks like a champion team photo, well, we did feel as though we had come out victors in a kind of Survivor-meets-Fear-Factor-meets-Gilligan’s-Island adventure challenge. Too bad we only had a souvenir shop T-shirt to display, and not the head of a beaver, or a gnarly squirrel.

We hit the road and turned on the 80′s satellite radio station. Glenn Frey’s synthesized angst filled the car.

You were born in the city
Concrete under your feet
It’s in your moves, it’s in your blood
You’re a man of the streets

I was not about to argue.

From start to finish, it had proved to be more of an adventure than any of us had bargained for. We had conquered fears, overcome obstacles, made new friends, and learned much more than we needed to know to about old friends.

Next year, we plan to return with a bigger posse and m & m’s of our own.

Yes, believe it or not, we didn’t get enough Beaver the first time around.

 

 

 

whiteknuckle rafting part two: a new hope

Luckily, the house we had chosen proved to be home to a very un-psychotic elderly couple, who, along with their helpful friend Ken, provided us with a phone book and some friendly nerve-calming small talk.

Ken, the owner of the tow truck in the driveway, unfortunately did not make long distance tows, but he was able coach Bone Doctor through a grueling phone conversation with a geographically challenged Kia service operator. After forty five minutes on the line with Roadside Assistance, N. eventually managed to arrange a tow to Belleville for his car (and himself) as well as a cab ride for the rest of us. We were going to have to leave the car at the Kia dealership in Belleville, and since it would not open until Monday, we had booked a rental car to continue our trip the next morning.

We very gratefully thanked our saviours, declined an invitation to join them and their daughter’s family for dinner, and settled down to wait for our rides by the side of the highway.

The tow truck arrived first. The driver was a small, potbellied man. His weathered face was covered by a layer of thick stubble, which looked like it would require an electric sander to remove. His flannel shirt and jeans seemed to hold the dust and oil of three generations of tow truck drivers.

He was accompanied by his wife, a garrulous, leathery bottle-blond whose faded and over-washed cotton tank top had likely been a size larger when it was first bought, and which now struggled to corral her breasts.

“Gee this must be kinda freaky for you city folks, being stranded out here like this,” she squeaked, eying the Bone Doctor with a slightly maniacal look.

“Umm, I guess so…” N. muttered as he watched his blue Kia get winched up onto the truck bed.

“Kind of like that movie…you know…The Hills Have Eyes.”

 

N., for once, was speechless.

“You know, the one where the city folk get lost somewhere in the country, and wind up bein’ terrorized and tortured by a group of mutant hillbillies?”

“That’s one of my fav’rites!” The driver smiled toothily as he secured the car in place.

“Well N., I guess we’ll see you in Belleville! Or at least I hope so.” I smiled as Bonedoc reluctantly clambered into the truck cab.

The tow truck pulled off the shoulder onto the highway. As it sped away, we could see N. looking forlornly out the window at us with wide eyes, the whiteness of his face reflected in the ascending full moon above.

About a half hour later, our cab arrived. The driver was a wizened old man with a nine-word vocabulary, and the taxi, an enormous Buick from the middle of the last century, smelled of cigarette smoke and decomposing vinyl.

A. took the front seat, and buried his face in a book. The cab driver tried to engage him in small talk, but, armed with his French accent, A. successfully pled ignorance of the English language.

R. and I were in the back seat and also kept quiet, our silence inspired by the long day behind us, and what we anticipated would be a long night ahead. We were still an hour and a half from Belleville, and had no idea where we were going to spend the night.

When we arrived at the deserted Belleville Kia dealership, the sun had completely set. The industrial park was lit by harsh fluorescent streetlights, and the moon had turned a forbidding shade of orange.

After an argument over the cost of the trip, we threw the remainder of our cash at the cab driver and dumped our camping gear onto the deserted parking lot. Boney MD had also been forced to re-negotiate the tow fee, which left us all with limited funds.

Our original cab driver refused to deliver us to a hotel, but luckily we had taken down the number of a couple of Belleville’s other taxi companies. R.’s cellphone was now working, and after a 20 minute wait, we were once again packing our camping gear into the trunk of yet another car.

“So you’re the fellas with the breakdown I hear,” our new driver said. Word spreads fast on the hillbilly grapevine. “Well I don’t know if you’ll be able to find a hotel tonight,” he clucked. “There’s a big rock festival in town and the town is booked up tight.”

He seemed amused. We, needless to say, were not.

“We don’t need anything too fancy,” reassured Dr. B. His roadside service insurance covered the cost of a hotel, but only up to a certain amount. I wasn’t sure what qualified as ‘fancy’ in Belleville, but I was at least hoping for running water.

The driver obediently took us to a decidedly un-fancy motel on the main drag. I hadn’t expected the lap of luxury, but this place would have barely qualified for a spot above the heel.

We asked the driver to wait while R. checked it out. He quickly returned and affirmed in a quiet yet determined voice that this was not really what we were looking for. Apparently, two hard-edged ladies of the evening in the lobby were complaining to the clerk that the rooms were not clean enough for their clients, suggesting that this might not be the right place for four exhausted and slightly panicked gay men.

Happily, the Comfort Inn next door had a vacancy. Again we unloaded the trunk, and lugged our belongings up the stairs to our room. One by one we took showers, and the frustration of the day was washed away as the ridiculous nature of our predicament sank in. Thankfully, Dr. B. and R. had packed plenty of alcohol. That evening, the legendary drink, the Belleville Special was born, and Bone Doctor’s reputation as the world’s quickest drunk was solidified.

The following morning snuck up on us with greater stealth, and pounced on our hungover heads more fiercely than the most savagely demented Appalachian mutant.

We dragged ourselves out of bed, quickly dressed, and shuffled our way down to the lobby for the not-to-be-missed complimentary continental breakfast.

Being in a somewhat cranky mood, I felt a twinge of rebellious thrill as I willfully ignored the stern ‘one egg each only’ warning sign, and plopped two of the cold hard-boiled orbs onto my styrofoam plate. The breakfast room was incredibly tiny and boasted unusually low-ceilings, no doubt to reduce the appeal of a long, leisurely and profit-reducing breakfast. Bleary-eyed hotel guests huddled around their round tables like small mammals, occasionally looking up from their prepackaged food with bashful glances, as if embarrassed to have been caught subjecting themselves to the experience.

Forcing a cup of so-called coffee down my throat, I suggested to N. that it was time to pick up the rental car. We had booked it for 8:30 a.m., and I for one was eager to put the Belleville in the rear view mirror. Besides, we had to be at the rafting lodge by noon, and we had about a three hour drive in front of us.

The rental agency was a 10 minute walk from the hotel, through a wasteland of big-box stores and family chain-restaurants. The agency turned out to be little more than a hut in the middle of a Canadian Tire parking lot.

As we approached the front door, we saw a man and a woman standing outside, their faces pinched with frowns.

“The sign says ‘back in 10 minutes’ ” said the man. “We’ve been waiting for over 20.”

“Umm…that sounds promising,” chimed in Dr. Bone.

By now it was nearly nine o’clock. I sat down on a concrete parking divider and closed my eyes. If karma were air miles, I mused, by now I would have collected enough points to fly to Mars and back. As if to prove a point, the hotel coffee began to wage a battle with the hard boiled eggs in my stomach. Perhaps the sign at breakfast had not been so much an admonishment to thrift as a warning against potential side-effects.

A few minutes later, the attendant pulled up in a convertible. He clenched a cigar between his teeth as he chatted brashly into his silver Bluetooth headset. The harsh morning sun glinted off his large sunglasses, and dance music pumped out of the car radio at a volume far too loud for the early hour and for his middle-aged years.

“Sorry folks, I had to make a delivery,” he waved at us as he carefully extinguished his cigar on the window ledge and fished for his keys with his multi-ringed fingers.

The office was a mess, furnished with a decaying corduroy sofa and a crumbling rattan coffee table, on which was scattered back issues of Marie Claire and Reader’s Digest. Filing cabinets overflowed with paper and the place was littered with dirty coffee mugs. The wall behind the counter displayed several faded photocopies which clung heroically to the peeling paint, featuring such hilarious catch-phrases as “I’d rather be golfing” and “Don’t rush me – I get paid by the hour.”

No point complaining, I thought. Just get the car and get the hell outta Dodge.

A short while later we were back at the hotel in a 2004 Pontiac Grand Prix. After our fourth trunk-loading in less than 24 hours, we piled into the car and were on our way. Yet again.

R. quickly discovered the satellite radio. He tuned to the All-80′s station, and Tears for Fears blared from the surround-sound speakers. We drove towards the rising sun, our mood lifting as we sang along to the song’s mantra-like refrain:

“Shout, shout, let it all out! These are the things we can do without!“

Oh Roland, if you only knew.

Next: the rapids’ revenge!