Last week Kate and Safety Carrot and I went up north to Haliburton.

Haliburton is a place in Ontario where there are many, many lakes. Some of these lakes are big and some are small, and all of them are full of fat men in their late 40s riding Sea-Doos.

A Sea-Doo is a summertime snowmobile you can drive across water. It is like a cross between a motorboat and a motorcycle, except that it is painted bright neon green or pink and is therefore wicked uncool. It is a water moped.

This is all just background, and is frankly a little unfair. The cottage we were renting was on a very nice little lake, and most of the time it was totally unsullied by Sea-Doos. But.

On our first morning there we went out to the beach. It was all shady on account of the birch trees lining the shore. So we moved a little bit to the left, to the sandy patch in front of the neighbouring cottage. It was sunny, which was very nice indeed, and its sand was raked into gorgeous straight lines. Seriously, this patch of beach could have been a bunker at Augusta National. It was wicked brilliant luxurious.

The old fart who owned the cottage attached to the wicked nice beach came out to talk to us. He seemed happy to have the company. He told us he and his wife lived there from April to November. He said it was quiet and, er, nice.

He was a very boring man, frankly, and he Would Not Stop Talking, but he was letting us make sandcastles on his sunny patch of beach so we figured it was an OK tradeoff. His name was Hank.

Then.

His son-in-law, who was thirty-ish but had the body of a beer-drinking overeater born in the 1930s, came out onto the beach with a dog. We said hi and how are you and nice weather, eh?

He said this:

"..."

This made us nervous and uncomfortable, so we said hi again and how was your drive up and do you spend all summer up here?

He said this:

"..."

So then Kate asked him point-blank.

"You don't mind that we're here on your beach, do you?"

(Remember this: We already had the blessing of the actual landlord. At this point we are dealing only with the fragile sensibilities of an over-entitled son-in-law.)

"Uh," son-in-law replied, "not reeeeeeaaallly."

Chastened, we packed up our pails and shovels and went back over to the shady beach in front of our own rental cottage. Hank shuffled embarrasedly and went back up his walkway out of sight. Meanwhile, Buttface Son-In-Law waddled out onto his dock, where he set to tinkering with a two-seater Sea-Doo.

"Golly," we said to each other when we were back on safe terrain. "How unfriendly." We all agreed that Buttface Son In Law was not very nice at all.

Then Buttface Son In Law's dog came over to our shady patch of beach. He did not acknowledge us or even sniff us. Instead, he headed directly for the mossy ground beneath our own personal picnic table. There, he crouched down and dropped a large steaming filthy dogpoo.

"Gee whiz," we said, "Buttface Son In Law really holds a grudge, eh?"

Posted by Bret at 11:23 PM | Comments (2)

If you do not live at or near the Black Hole At The Centre Of The Universe, your lights are still on and you have uninterrupted internet service.

You also have air conditioned grocery stores and gas stations where the pumps still work and elevators that go quickly to your floor when you push the button.

Bully for you.

Here in the BHATCOTU our lights are all flickery and our computers keep switching off and there's nobody in the shops to sell us batteries or blankets or vitamin C or whatever it is you are supposed to buy when the power goes off.

Our elevators mostly stay still, even if you are stuck inside and you really, really have to go to the bathroom and not just a little wee either but totally number Two and even if you are about to cross the point of no return.

So we are a grumpy lot and we are looking for somebody to take some lumps.

Here are two candidates:

New York Governor George "bitter tears" Pataki		Ontario Premier Ernie "Dar Heatherington" Eves

Messers Pataki and Eves have spent much of the past 24 hours blaming each other for the BHATCOTU.

"You started it," says Mr. Pataki.

"Did not! You did!" says Mr. Eves.

"Did not! You did!" says Mr. Pataki.

"Did not! You did!" says Mr. Eves.

Etc. We all know that the moment the cameras are switched off the two of them will fall hungrily into each other's arms, but for now the charade continues.

Right. So who gets the lumps? Let us consider the facts:

1. Mr. Eves and his Ontario government thought privatizing the electric system was a great idea even though similar experiments completely faceplanted when they tried them in California and Alberta. Today, Ontario doesn't have enough juice and its nuclear plants are still not up and running and a bunch of upgradey stuff that was supposed to happen never happened because the private sector was going to take care of it but it's never a smart idea to use the phrases "take care" and "private sector" together in the same sentence.

2. Mr. Pataki is a crybaby.

3. Mr. Eves has dumb hair.

4. Mr. Pataki won some prizes for being all cheery about wind and biomass energy and for being all sour about leaving the refrigerator open to chill the kitchen.

Advantage: Pataki.

That is not the end of the discussion. For the real culprit has already taken his lumps. His name is Michael Gent. He is the CEO of the North American Electric Reliability Council, or NERC. Here is what he said this morning:

"My job is to make sure this doesn't happen and you could say I failed in my job, so that's why I'm upset."

Boy did you ever fail in your job, buttface.

On the plus side, there was no TV last night so presumably a lot of people totally got laid.

Posted by Bret at 02:40 PM

The other night I found myself in a big sprawling bungalow at the top of a ravine. It was a very nice bungalow with big windows and the sort of open-concept interior real estate agents like to call "California style." It had shag carpeting all over the place, nice proper wool shag carpeting that has nothing at all to do with retro kitsch and everything to do with wicked brilliant luxury.

At the back those big windows looked down on the ravine. A path of short-cropped grass wandered from the patio doors, kind of drifting left and right as it headed for the ravine floor through a dense forest of spruce and birch and a bunch of other trees whose names I don't know. This was the path to the bungalow hot tub.

Here is something you should remember in case you ever build a luxury bungalow on a large ravine lot:

Putting the hot tub in a forest way far away from the back door of the bungalow sounds romantic and sexy but in reality is mostly inconvenient.

Here is why:

That night I thought it would be wicked fun to go have a quick soak in the hot tub before retiring. I also thought -- recklessly, as it turns out -- that what's the point of having a private bungalow with a private forest hot tub on a private patch of secluded land if you can't go commando on your way out for a dip?

So.

I dropped trou and headed out the patio doors.

Jeepers what a steep hill. Way steeper than it looked. It was tough to keep my balance in bare feet. There were these sharp little twiggy bits of tree branch all over the path too, and they were all like "Hey! Barefoot guy! Wear some effin' shoes!"

But I figured I would tuff it out because the restorative effervescence of the waters would surely make up for a few little nicks and scrapes.

Then.

I heard voices. The distinctive voices of hikers. People were headed up the hill on my private path, all chatty about wasn't that ever wicked birdwatching and weren't we ever wicked lucky to see a loggerhead shrike and did you know there are only like 30 nesting pairs left in the wild in all of Ontario.

Crap, I thought. Crap crap crap. Running into the trees was out of the question. Spruces have sharp pointy needles all over and I was, as you will recall, unprotected.

"Loggerhead shrike ... Myrtle warbler ... Bicknell's Thrush"

They were getting close. I really had to do something or the birdwatchers were totally going to see me without any pants.

So.

I lay face down on the path and put my hand around back so nobody could look at my rear end. And when the birders passed by they either were so pleased about the Loggerhead shrike they didn't even notice me and all my skin, or they were just doing the civilized thing and averting their eyes.

Whew.

Once they had passed, I stood up with renewed confidence, bold and vigorous and in touch with nature. Ah, the night air!

I paused to collect my thoughts. Should I continue down the hill or should I go back up to the bungalow for shoes? Hmmm.

Then all of a sudden another crowd of hikers marched around the corner. Crap crap crap.

I returned one hand to its previous strategic location guarding my rear end, and quickly moved another so nobody would see any of my other features. Then I sort of fell forward to resume my face-down position. I think I gave myself a bruise on my head because I couldn't extend my hands to break my fall, obviously, or else Hikers 2.0 would see my unmentionables and who would want that?

Lying there as they passed, happy that they were taking no more notice than the first crew, I thought the following to myself:

Gee whiz, won't this ever be a funny story for this hot sandwich?

As I thought that, the light kind of shimmered and brightened and I found myself at home in bed. I had dreamed the bungalow and the hot tub and all its adventures.

Rats, I thought. Now I won't be able to put it up on this hot sandwich after all.

Then.

Today arrived and it was time to publish this hot sandwich and I realized the only proper thing to do was give all the facts to you, the internet public, and ask your opinion.

So.

1. Is it appropriate to tell this story here on this hot sandwich even though it didn't really happen?
2. Sometimes I think the bolder thing would have been to stride purposefully past all the hikers without making eye contact or maybe just saying a cheery "Good evening!" Would that have been a better idea than the bruise on the forehead?
3. Letting birdwatchers onto your land is fine and everything, but would a little more attention to logistics hurt?
4. No it would not.
5. Again with the questions that aren't really questions, hmmm?
6. Up yours, assface.

Posted by Bret at 02:50 PM | Comments (1)

We all know what capers are. They are those teeny little pickled flower-bud things that come in small jars. Add just a few of them to your smoked-salmon-and-cream-cheese bagel, and suddenly you've got a fistful of flavour. Capers are great.

But.

Alongside the capers at the foodmart live other, scarier preserves. Most notably, other preserves called "caperberries." These look and sound much like the aforementioned yumnuggets, only they are larger. Terrifyingly so.

So here are my questions.

1. Caperberries: foodstuffs or condiments?
2. Aerosol cheese! Whee!
3. That was not a question.
4. So?
5. Up yours, assface.

Posted by Bret at 03:37 PM | Comments (4)