A few years back, a renowned Ottawa heart surgeon, Dr. Wilbur Keon, was picked up for soliciting a prostitute. Unfortunately for him, it was an undercover policewoman. Well, Dr. Keon was a sainted member of the community and his sanctimonious mug was everywhere. No charity event was too small for him up at which to show, no fund-raiser ever turned down. Yessiree, Dr. Wilbur Keon was a godly man 'round the Ottawa Valley. He and his family attended our parish church and the bowing and scraping that went on when he graced the pews was beyond the beyond. Too lofty for the lowly Knights of Columbus, Dr. Keon was a revered officer in the Knights of Malta and he was to be found at every fellow knight's funeral bejewelled and be-costumed as befitted a king.
The reason his follies were uncovered and hit the morning press was because every "john" is required to attend "john school" when they are caught hiring prostitutes. So, an attentive reporter attended and there he was, smack dab in the middle of the class! Being lectured by a host of experts about the evils of hiring prostitutes -- you know, disease, drugs, crime..........that kinda stuff. The thing that killed me was the outpouring of sympathy for poor old Dr. Keon. I mean, the poor guy was over-worked and just needed a little "relaxation" and "stress relief" after a few tough heart transplants. I remember being blasted at a Knights of Columbus dinner by an old Valley boy just because I wondered about the prosititutes he was hiring. Did anyone give a sh-t about them? You would have thought I'd maligned Jesus Christ himself! "Back in my day, the police chief would have had a little chat with him, bought him a coffee and driven him home. I mean the poor guy, there was no need to expose him to the humiliation of john school!," this chap raved.
Me being me, I wrote a letter to the editor after a tearful Dr. Keon held a press conference to express his Jimmy-Swaggart confession about how he had..."sinned just this once" and caused such harm to his wife and family. And there she sat, stony-faced beside him with a murderous look in her eye. Again, I kept thinking about the poor prostitutes he had used over the years (as if this had been his "first time"). No one gave a damn about them. So, I wrote a letter to the editor in which I expressed sympathy for the prositute. "No mother looks at her newborn daughter and says her burning ambition is for her to grow up to be a street prostitute," I wrote. Well do we? Of course not. Naturally, because it was the sainted Dr. Keon, they did not publish my letter.
This all came back to me with the striking down of the prositution laws. I never could figure out how it was legal to be a prositute, but illegal to solicit?? I guess that law was written because so many of us effectively are prostitutes -- we get money for sex, whether we are wives or lovers or friends. I mean, you can't say that a respectable wife and mother who exchanges sex with her husband, boyfriend or partner for money is a prostitute, so it had to be legal. But now soliciting is legal. Not that I think that's a great idea, but at least logic has now prevailed. What has prompted this blog was a column I read recently by a man who said exactly what I had said after the Keon affair......"No mother gives birth to a daughter and prays that her daughter will grow up to be a street hooker." Precisely and absolutely. Prostitution is very sad and very destructive to so many people. It will be interesting to see how this all plays out. Forgive the idiom, but 'A Pig in a Poke' comes to mind.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Booze and birds
Next time you uncork a bottle of wine, think about the cork and how it is responsible for saving the habitat of many important threatened bird species. I don't know why, but in spite of the thousands of corks I've popped, I have never wondered where the cork comes from? TVO provided the answer last evening. From the Portugese Cork Oak tree. There are 100,000 acres of protected cork oak in the Montado in Portugal, farmed by a few land-owners over generations. Every nine years, the entire outer bark of this tree is cut away and hauled off for processing into cork. And removing all the outer bark does not kill the tree. Amazing. Each tree provides 4,ooo corks and annual harvesting jobs for 60,000 workers. Who knew!? But equally facinating were the stories and footage of the 30 species of birds who thrive there, along with 26 species of bats. Then there are the rare wildflowers, the marshes, the frogs, deer and the Iberian Lynx. There is also a rare species of bee-eating birds found only in the Montado -- where thousands of tons of carbon monoxide are absorbed by these oaks every year.
I urge you to stay away from plastic corks because by 2000 1/4 of the cork forest had been lost because wineries were moving to plastic. And I nearly forgot about the cork oak acorns favoured by special pigs who provide sumptuous smoked ham from the region. The whole thing was beyond facinating.
In contrast to this wonderful program, I switched (very briefly) to America's Top Model. What a pathetic show. All these young girls under tremendous pressure to stay on the program. The scene where one was eliminated by Tyra Banks (really ugly legs, by the way) was nothing short of torture. The girl who was cut was devastated and began weeping and wailing. Who cares??!!
CBC radio had a facinating interview with a fellow who has written a book on the origins of the census in Canada. Until the flap about the elimination of the long form, no one gave a hoot about this guy. But the interview was illuminating to say the least. Apparently, the British started the census in Upper Canada to get rid of the French and the natives. They just categorized people as they saw fit and wiped out entire family names, replacing them with English-sounding names. Guess that didn't work out too well for them, did it!
I urge you to stay away from plastic corks because by 2000 1/4 of the cork forest had been lost because wineries were moving to plastic. And I nearly forgot about the cork oak acorns favoured by special pigs who provide sumptuous smoked ham from the region. The whole thing was beyond facinating.
In contrast to this wonderful program, I switched (very briefly) to America's Top Model. What a pathetic show. All these young girls under tremendous pressure to stay on the program. The scene where one was eliminated by Tyra Banks (really ugly legs, by the way) was nothing short of torture. The girl who was cut was devastated and began weeping and wailing. Who cares??!!
CBC radio had a facinating interview with a fellow who has written a book on the origins of the census in Canada. Until the flap about the elimination of the long form, no one gave a hoot about this guy. But the interview was illuminating to say the least. Apparently, the British started the census in Upper Canada to get rid of the French and the natives. They just categorized people as they saw fit and wiped out entire family names, replacing them with English-sounding names. Guess that didn't work out too well for them, did it!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Lunch minus 40 years
Was invited to lunch by my niece and her cousin on her mother's side. This was a shock to me because I have only spent time with my niece at family gatherings since she was born and now that she is in her mid-twenties, I was surprised she wanted to actually have a private visit with me. So, there I was, 40 years behind (ahead, but you know what I mean) these two gorgeous young women, sitting in a pub in Little Italy for the afternoon. I learned a lot, man. For the first time I found out what they really thought about this and that. Their parents weren't there to filter the truth. Took be back to my own twenties and all the things I thought I knew, knew I knew and didn't know I knew. These young women are certainly in control of their lives and their relationships and that is the one big change I noted. When I was in my mid twenties, I was worried about getting married (got that wrong the first time) and making sure my "career" was on the right track.
They were decked out in their casual finery and I was proud to have been sitting with them. I was also glad I could tell them what we had to deal with at their age -- you know, date rape and other quaint, old-fashioned leisure activities in the era of "no-means-yes" -- horrors they would never put up with. We are only as sick as our secrets and the older I get the fewer I have. In fact, I have none that I can think of. So, thank you darling girls. You opened my eyes and gave me a glimpse into a world of young women I don't get from my own daughters. I am not their mother and that affords me the leeway I enjoy immensely!
They were decked out in their casual finery and I was proud to have been sitting with them. I was also glad I could tell them what we had to deal with at their age -- you know, date rape and other quaint, old-fashioned leisure activities in the era of "no-means-yes" -- horrors they would never put up with. We are only as sick as our secrets and the older I get the fewer I have. In fact, I have none that I can think of. So, thank you darling girls. You opened my eyes and gave me a glimpse into a world of young women I don't get from my own daughters. I am not their mother and that affords me the leeway I enjoy immensely!
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Big Rideau Salad
Invited by her husband to do so, I am about to tell you about Helen's Big Rideau Salad. As you know, we spent a week at a mansion/cottage on the Big Rideau last week. But since I still have a "cottage" mentality about cottages, I neither buy exotic ingredients nor prepare gourmet meals when I am at one -- even if an expansive and luxurious abode may warrant it. So, our friends arrived for an early spaghetti dinner, prepared by Brian who makes the best spaghetti I have ever tasted (and I am not just saying that). Spaghetti demands salad in some establishments, so I pulled out what I considered cottage salad makings, i.e., a half a tomato, a cuccumber and a few lettuce leaves. "Helen, could you just make a little salad out of this?" Sure! And then she started. She rumaged through the fridge and salvaged bits and pieces of this and that and the salad grew and grew like the loaves and fishes. Trouble was that all the while she was building it, I kept having in interrupt what I was doing to find this and that with which to cut up and prepare this and that. G-d Helen, just stick to the lettuce and tomato! No, being a stubborn Ottawa Valley girl from the village of Eganville, Helen dug in further and searched even farther and wider for more accoutrements. Her husband kept giving me knowing glances and shaking his head, as if to say......"don't object or it will get even more complicated!" And it did.
In a disgusted huff she rejected my Kraft Thousand Island dressing and proceeded to make her own. But that demanded a special spill-proof vessel in which to mix it and naturally, after a time-consuming search, we failed to find one. Undaunted, she whipped it to death with a spoon. At last we were ready to eat. But wait, we have to have a candle. The search for matches began. No smokers and no matches to be found, a reluctant Doug was dispatched to the garage to see if a BBQ lighter might there lurk. No luck. At this Doug decided to ignite a piece of paper on the gas stove to light the blessed candle. With trepidation, we all huddled around the flame, water at the ready, while Doug tried in vain to light the wick. The paper went burst forth perfectly, but the wick stared dryly back and refused to cooperate. We finally abandoned this folly when I mentioned that if the smoke detector went off, the volunteer Perth Fire Department would be here in a Tay-River minute! To my grateful surprise, Helen (sort of) admitted a (slight) defeat and we sat down. After saying both the Catholic and Protestant graces -- having been raised a Protestant I know each -- in we tucked. Shocked, I watched in horror as Brian reached for the Kraft in an act of bold-faced defiance; ever faithful, Doug enjoyed Helen's homemade. Did he have a choice?
Bottom line here is that we had so much salad left over I insisted Helen take it home as a remembrance of her Big Rideau Salad concocted out of nothing by a well-trained and frugal Valley girl.
Today is International Punctuation Day and next I will have a field day on that subject!
In a disgusted huff she rejected my Kraft Thousand Island dressing and proceeded to make her own. But that demanded a special spill-proof vessel in which to mix it and naturally, after a time-consuming search, we failed to find one. Undaunted, she whipped it to death with a spoon. At last we were ready to eat. But wait, we have to have a candle. The search for matches began. No smokers and no matches to be found, a reluctant Doug was dispatched to the garage to see if a BBQ lighter might there lurk. No luck. At this Doug decided to ignite a piece of paper on the gas stove to light the blessed candle. With trepidation, we all huddled around the flame, water at the ready, while Doug tried in vain to light the wick. The paper went burst forth perfectly, but the wick stared dryly back and refused to cooperate. We finally abandoned this folly when I mentioned that if the smoke detector went off, the volunteer Perth Fire Department would be here in a Tay-River minute! To my grateful surprise, Helen (sort of) admitted a (slight) defeat and we sat down. After saying both the Catholic and Protestant graces -- having been raised a Protestant I know each -- in we tucked. Shocked, I watched in horror as Brian reached for the Kraft in an act of bold-faced defiance; ever faithful, Doug enjoyed Helen's homemade. Did he have a choice?
Bottom line here is that we had so much salad left over I insisted Helen take it home as a remembrance of her Big Rideau Salad concocted out of nothing by a well-trained and frugal Valley girl.
Today is International Punctuation Day and next I will have a field day on that subject!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Croquet tomorrow
It's off to the British High Commission tomorrow for the annual Alumni of British Universities' Croquet Tournament -- which I attend as a lowly hanger-on because B went to a British University to do post-graduate work. As a graduate of Carleton, I might get together with a few other ex-"party animals" at a dingy tavern in Hull now and then to remember our lost youth and missed classes back-in-the-day, but these folks take it up a few steps. Anthony Cary, the High Commissioner, is a lot of fun and always appears magnificently attired in pure wool, green and white striped original Cambridge trousers -- which still fit him perfectly, he brags. I can never quite figure out what to wear because some play croquet, while the rest of us watch. It seems croquet -- or "crow-key", as Anthony pronounces it (he also says "bally" for "ballet") -- is not for the great unwashed, of which I am a charter member. No, one must actually know how to play. As to the outfit, high heels will certainly figure in the mix -- regardless of how much pain I have to endure to stand on my tiptoes and not sink into the grass. Happily, I usually comandeer a bench and settle in to bore its other occupants.
The first time we attended I gamely grabbed a mallet and started lining up, only to be asked by Anthony if I knew how to play. "Well, I played as a child in our neighbour's garden on Sundays now and then." No, no, you must actually know how. I meekly beat a hasty retreat to the refreshment tent, where I really am an expert. Sides are chosen and the game gets underway with the seriousness of a professional match. A word about the guests. They are a motely crew of weirdos and professors and graduate students and old retired people and ladies of various ages and varieties. Any conversation I crash is always a facinating mix of bizarre theories and warm remnicences of the glory days back in England. And the competition among universities is a fierce as it gets. More about this after it happens.
When I was about 18, a girlfriend and I went to Montreal for the day to recklessly spend our fathers' money on a little shopping spree. Montreal, being the fashion capital of Canada at the time, was a mecca for those of us who lived in hope that a little of that French "mode" would touch us as we sauntered along Sherbrooke and Ste. Catherine streets. Outside Windsor Station (we always took the train to add a little sophistication to the excursion) an old man sitting on a bench began to chat with me. He told me his name was "Newsy Lalonde", an ex-Montreal Canadien hockey player. The name meant nothing to me, but he was very proud to tell me about his exploits, his records, how he was captain of the team and other remarkable achievements. I thought he was probably a crazy old fake, but when I came home and asked my father if he had ever heard of Newsy Lalonde he went wild. "Do you mean to tell me you actually met Newsy Lalonde! The guy was fabulous, famous, the best Hab ever. Just as famous as The Rocket.!" My Dad went on and on. I have never forgotten the encounter and my Dad's reaction. I googled him yesterday and his record is truly remarkable. He was also a champion lacrosse player and is in both the Hockey and Lacrosse Halls of Fame. He was captain of the Habs from 1915-21 and had a playing career that stretched from 1904-27. His scoring record held until Wayne Gretsky broke it. Unbelieveable.
I felt badly I hadn't told the old man that of course, I knew who Newsy Lalonde was and of course, you are very famous.........but I hadn't and I didn't. Last night an item came on the news about a statue they have erected in Cornwall 40 years after his death to the memory and honour of one of the greatest NHL players of all time: Newsy Lalonde. Well, I sat up and took notice and there followed a remarkable story about his exploits and fame. Some of the most famous Habs of all time were there to honour and remember Newsy and how great he was. I was floored! His aging grandson also went on about what a wonderful person he was, kind and loving. The memory of meeting him outside the Windsor Train Station came flooding vividly back, as I pictured a kindly gentleman, well-dressed, wearing a fedora and a suit and tie and an overcoat. The next time you meet an old man, remember this tale. Who knows who he was and what he accomplished? I feel lucky to have met him.
The first time we attended I gamely grabbed a mallet and started lining up, only to be asked by Anthony if I knew how to play. "Well, I played as a child in our neighbour's garden on Sundays now and then." No, no, you must actually know how. I meekly beat a hasty retreat to the refreshment tent, where I really am an expert. Sides are chosen and the game gets underway with the seriousness of a professional match. A word about the guests. They are a motely crew of weirdos and professors and graduate students and old retired people and ladies of various ages and varieties. Any conversation I crash is always a facinating mix of bizarre theories and warm remnicences of the glory days back in England. And the competition among universities is a fierce as it gets. More about this after it happens.
When I was about 18, a girlfriend and I went to Montreal for the day to recklessly spend our fathers' money on a little shopping spree. Montreal, being the fashion capital of Canada at the time, was a mecca for those of us who lived in hope that a little of that French "mode" would touch us as we sauntered along Sherbrooke and Ste. Catherine streets. Outside Windsor Station (we always took the train to add a little sophistication to the excursion) an old man sitting on a bench began to chat with me. He told me his name was "Newsy Lalonde", an ex-Montreal Canadien hockey player. The name meant nothing to me, but he was very proud to tell me about his exploits, his records, how he was captain of the team and other remarkable achievements. I thought he was probably a crazy old fake, but when I came home and asked my father if he had ever heard of Newsy Lalonde he went wild. "Do you mean to tell me you actually met Newsy Lalonde! The guy was fabulous, famous, the best Hab ever. Just as famous as The Rocket.!" My Dad went on and on. I have never forgotten the encounter and my Dad's reaction. I googled him yesterday and his record is truly remarkable. He was also a champion lacrosse player and is in both the Hockey and Lacrosse Halls of Fame. He was captain of the Habs from 1915-21 and had a playing career that stretched from 1904-27. His scoring record held until Wayne Gretsky broke it. Unbelieveable.
I felt badly I hadn't told the old man that of course, I knew who Newsy Lalonde was and of course, you are very famous.........but I hadn't and I didn't. Last night an item came on the news about a statue they have erected in Cornwall 40 years after his death to the memory and honour of one of the greatest NHL players of all time: Newsy Lalonde. Well, I sat up and took notice and there followed a remarkable story about his exploits and fame. Some of the most famous Habs of all time were there to honour and remember Newsy and how great he was. I was floored! His aging grandson also went on about what a wonderful person he was, kind and loving. The memory of meeting him outside the Windsor Train Station came flooding vividly back, as I pictured a kindly gentleman, well-dressed, wearing a fedora and a suit and tie and an overcoat. The next time you meet an old man, remember this tale. Who knows who he was and what he accomplished? I feel lucky to have met him.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Off to a not-really cottage
Monday, we head out to the Big Rideau to stay at a friend's "cottage". Now, these people are extremely wealthy (think high-tech bubble before it burst) and she admits that we may be a bit disappointed because..."it's not really a cottage cottage." I think I can handle it, girl. For this week I will not have to bring any real clothes -- or high heels -- because it will just be B and me. For many years we went to another friend's cottage, but there were always two or three other couples with us, so that meant clothes, makeup and jewellry. I simply cannot submit people I don't trust to a face without makeup. Not that these women were bitches, but one still had to watch it. They were all American and appeared at breakfast with full-on makeup, sprayed hairdo's and "outfits". I should add they were all Texans and women in that state tend to pour it on. Being an avid swimmer, I did not apply makeup until after my morning laps around the island and too bad for them that they had to face my rosacae face and non-existant lips. No, this week it will just be my hubby and he doesn't give a damn. The only other couple who will visit for an afternoon is made up of a great gal who never wears makeup, so no worries.
Just watching one of my favourite shows, 'Sell This House'. How Roger transforms a dump into a gorgeous home for $1.98 is unfathomable. And I love Tanya, she is so genuine and cute. A complete contrast to the show that comes on next with that male chauvinistic pig Ricardo Montelongo and his door-mat wife. He bullys everyone and spoils his brat son mercilessly. Guess who's going to turn into another male chauvinist?! No matter if the project is $10,000 over budget; it's never Ricardo's fault. It's the foreman's, his wife's, the carpenter's........you name it.
Now it's off to decide which sweat pants to pack.
Just watching one of my favourite shows, 'Sell This House'. How Roger transforms a dump into a gorgeous home for $1.98 is unfathomable. And I love Tanya, she is so genuine and cute. A complete contrast to the show that comes on next with that male chauvinistic pig Ricardo Montelongo and his door-mat wife. He bullys everyone and spoils his brat son mercilessly. Guess who's going to turn into another male chauvinist?! No matter if the project is $10,000 over budget; it's never Ricardo's fault. It's the foreman's, his wife's, the carpenter's........you name it.
Now it's off to decide which sweat pants to pack.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Sensible shoes everywhere
Went to a lecture last evening by Margaret MacMillan, the famous historian who wrote 'Paris 1918', Canadian-born, now lives in England. Ottawa's intelligencium were there en-masse. You get the picture. I thought I was at the Art's Centre -- all sensible shoes and hideous hair. You know, if you are going to let your haircut get untidy and straggly, at least keep it clean. The number of backs of heads I had to face sporting stringy, greasy bobs was too much. And if the shoes are "comfy", let's not worry if they are better suited to camping. Let's not worry they don't match your sequined jacket. Let's not worry if your mountain-equipment-coop-vest and cargo pants clash a little with your hiking shoes. In fact, let's not worry about how we look at all, as long as everyone knows we are so brilliant we can't be bothered to take time to have a weensy peek in the mirror before heading out to display our brilliance.
Her talk was very good, but being such a shallow person, I kept thinking about how much she looked like Martha Stewart. Really, right down to the hair that kept flopping into her face. Her accent was very mid-Atlantic -- you know, clipped from lips that barely moved -- kind'a like Margaret Atwood's, although Margaret takes the cake and frosting for hers. How a girl from Toronto speaks as does Margaret is quite a trick. And to think she can actually keep it up without falling into the occasional TO-ism, or dropping a "g" here or there.
I am impressed with Tony Blair's tell-all autobiography. Not that I have read it, but I have read several reviews and he admits to bearing the human weaknesses we all have -- like failing his family now and then and boozing too much. Although, how a couple of drinks before dinner and two glasses of wine now and then qualify as "too much" beats me? Then again, my family doctor of 30 years tells me that all doctors are instructed in medical school to double the amount their patients admit to drinking, so maybe that's what Blair's doing. (Remember that the next time you are lying to your physician about how much you imbibe.)
While dusting the CDs the other day -- a task I turn to every hundred years -- I came across a Led Zeplin box set. Didn't even know we had one? So, I cranked a few tunes and was immediately transported back via such greats as 'Your time is gonna come', 'Stairway to Heaven' and 'Ramble on'. G-d they are great still. I actually saw Zeplin live at the old Masonic Temple on Yonge street -- right across from Canadian Tire -- before they were famous, back in the late '60s. Robert Plant was beautiful then. Remind me to blog about also seeing The Doors, Sly and the Family Stone, Alice Cooper, John Lennon........to name-drop a few..........back in the day at Varsity Stadium. And all in one day. Or did I already blog this? If not, I will.
Decided to also play a little Gordon Lightfoot -- another guy so talented it stuns. A few years ago we were at an alumni dinner in Montreal and I was seated next to this still-gorgeous guy I chose to chat with aggressively (as opposed to the fat bore on my right, who reminded me of me, fat and boring). I mean, why not bask in someone else's glory!? Turns out he was one of Lightfoot's guitar players in the late sixties. Lightfoot was famous even then and the tales Henry told of their "adventures" were riveting. "Lurid" came to mind, although that fantasy was definitely made up in my imagination as I thought, "I wonder what happened after that show!" The 'Railroad Trilogy' and 'The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald' are classics you still never tire of. Henry (can't recall his last name) said Lightfoot was always writing songs, even on the golf course the odd time they hacked one. "He always had a little pad and pencil and we had to stop playing all the time while he wrote something down." Can't really imagine Gordon Lightfoot playing golf, can you?
Her talk was very good, but being such a shallow person, I kept thinking about how much she looked like Martha Stewart. Really, right down to the hair that kept flopping into her face. Her accent was very mid-Atlantic -- you know, clipped from lips that barely moved -- kind'a like Margaret Atwood's, although Margaret takes the cake and frosting for hers. How a girl from Toronto speaks as does Margaret is quite a trick. And to think she can actually keep it up without falling into the occasional TO-ism, or dropping a "g" here or there.
I am impressed with Tony Blair's tell-all autobiography. Not that I have read it, but I have read several reviews and he admits to bearing the human weaknesses we all have -- like failing his family now and then and boozing too much. Although, how a couple of drinks before dinner and two glasses of wine now and then qualify as "too much" beats me? Then again, my family doctor of 30 years tells me that all doctors are instructed in medical school to double the amount their patients admit to drinking, so maybe that's what Blair's doing. (Remember that the next time you are lying to your physician about how much you imbibe.)
While dusting the CDs the other day -- a task I turn to every hundred years -- I came across a Led Zeplin box set. Didn't even know we had one? So, I cranked a few tunes and was immediately transported back via such greats as 'Your time is gonna come', 'Stairway to Heaven' and 'Ramble on'. G-d they are great still. I actually saw Zeplin live at the old Masonic Temple on Yonge street -- right across from Canadian Tire -- before they were famous, back in the late '60s. Robert Plant was beautiful then. Remind me to blog about also seeing The Doors, Sly and the Family Stone, Alice Cooper, John Lennon........to name-drop a few..........back in the day at Varsity Stadium. And all in one day. Or did I already blog this? If not, I will.
Decided to also play a little Gordon Lightfoot -- another guy so talented it stuns. A few years ago we were at an alumni dinner in Montreal and I was seated next to this still-gorgeous guy I chose to chat with aggressively (as opposed to the fat bore on my right, who reminded me of me, fat and boring). I mean, why not bask in someone else's glory!? Turns out he was one of Lightfoot's guitar players in the late sixties. Lightfoot was famous even then and the tales Henry told of their "adventures" were riveting. "Lurid" came to mind, although that fantasy was definitely made up in my imagination as I thought, "I wonder what happened after that show!" The 'Railroad Trilogy' and 'The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald' are classics you still never tire of. Henry (can't recall his last name) said Lightfoot was always writing songs, even on the golf course the odd time they hacked one. "He always had a little pad and pencil and we had to stop playing all the time while he wrote something down." Can't really imagine Gordon Lightfoot playing golf, can you?
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