Change

Let's just say this is to mollify the agitation of my loyal fans at the lack of activity on this site of late. It's a subject I have been mulling for a bit, but it may be premature to publish these thoughts, since they haven't had time to fully form yet. But the fans are getting restless, so here it is. Caveat emptor.

I have been thinking about change lately. I have noticed that while the grass is always greener on the other side, people usually have problems with the other side when they get there. No one is ever satisfied with what they have. We all want new stuff, a new job, a smaller butt, a new outfit. A new car, a new house. But inevitable when we get it, there is something wrong with it. The new house is too far from the bus stop, or the neighbours are rowdy. At work it's the same thing. People bitch and moan about how awful things are, but as soon as there is some measure to make it better, the same bitchers and moaners are redoubling their efforts to stop the change.

Inertia is a powerful force. I think it is human nature to resist any kind of change. It is an instinctive reaction to say, "No" when someone suggests something, however practical or productive. The kids will resist the most minimal change, for example, the change from day clothes to pajamas. Going from home to school, and, perversely, from school to home (Aimee's face crumples into this petulant puss the second she sees us at the end of the school day, as if to tell us, "Hey, I'm not ready for you yet, go away,"). Automatically, without thinking about it, they will instantly reply negatively to any suggestion that may involve a deviation from the current course of action.

I am conscious of this trait of human nature, and this consciousness affects my behaviour. People want change on one level, they crave difference, excitement, variation. But on another, more obvious level, they seek similarity, the comfort of the known. I think we want a safe combination of the two. When I need a change (this happens seasonally, and often coincides with hormones), I rearrange furniture, or colour my hair, or buy a new outfit. I think about moving to a different country, or finding another job or something, but as a matter of self-preservation, I do the reversible things which satisfy my need for change on the surface, without fundamentally altering the course of my life.

I have a theory on the evolutionary purpose of human resistance to change. Think about this: throughout human history, the people who stayed in a nice safe environment where they were familiar with the plants and animals were less likely to be eaten by ferocious predators or succumb to some sort of poisoning from a never-tried-before food. Those who did not, may not have lived long enough to reproduce offspring who would prefer the known, and the safe-seekers were eventually more heavily weighted in the general population. However, I am still convinced that there is some deep, ingrained need humans have for variation. Look at sensory deprivation experiments, where people hallucinate in the absence of change in sensory input. Pilots see UFOs (that aren't there) when they have been staring at the same horizon and hearing the drone of the same engines for hours at a time. It's because the human brain needs input, and just any old input won't do. It needs something different every once in an while, and if it doesn't get it externally, from the senses, it just makes things up. All sorts of science backs that up. I guess maybe the change-seekers among our human ancestors found good things that made them, and therefore their descendents, stronger, more likely to reproduce change-seekers, more likely to survive.

As a result, twentieth-century North-Americans are a strange and difficult dichotomy of this human condition, with same-seeking behavior on one side, and variation-seeking behaviour on the other. I think it's why every job I've had is appealing before it starts, and horrible for the first two weeks as I internalize the new requirements. Once I have them down pat, I start looking around again, just to make sure there isn't anything better I could be doing. I guess it's why I have had 5 jobs in 2 years. My colleagues are in the same boat... forever longing for the greener grass, but when I offer them a chance to mix it up a little, you'd think I had just asked them to do something obscene.

I think we need to think of change as opportunity. We can always make the best of it, and usually, it works out well, when it gives you a chance to look at things from a different perspective. Getting through the initial discomfort caused by the effort of an adjustment is the worst of it; we project our discomfort onto the situation rather than attributing it, more accurately, to the effort required to learn and internalize the new situation. The kids get mad about having to go to bed, but it's not the going to bed necessarily, it's the need to shift gears from one thing to another. I have grumbled about this new job since I started, but now that I have the hang of it, I am actually quite enjoying it. I have a handle on the day-to-day stuff, and the week-to-week stuff. Now I'm working on the longer-term stuff and it's pretty satisfying. Like every job, there are frustrations I never considered when I applied (and accepted), but the rest of it I like a lot. And I'm learning to deal with the rest.

My new computer mouse is a good example. It didn't work the way my other mouse did. I said I wanted a different one. I never got around to getting one, and now that I know how to make it do what I want, predictably, it's not so bad. It wasn't the mouse I didn't like, it was that learning to use it required effort, and I am, like most humans, fundamentally lazy.

Another prime example... gasoline. We screamed bloody murder when the price went to almost a buck a litre, but now that we have our heads around it, we're complacent again and won't start screaming until it goes up again. And we're back to letting our cars idle, even though it is wasting a non-renewable resource which costs a buck a litre (think about that next time you use your command-start, or choose drive-through rather than take-out... it's lazy and irresponsible... but that's another rant).

Anyway, my point is that it's the process of change and not necessarily the fact of change that we find difficult. Inertia, the path of least resistance, takes the least amount of energy. An object at rest tends to remain at rest, an object in motion tends to remain in motion... I think about that every time there is something I don't want to do, even though I know it will be good for me. I kind of feel like I'm defying human nature in my own little way. And it's kind of fun, too.

Farts

There is very little in life more acutely embarassing that an accidental fart in polite company, for example, when one squeaks out at work, when people are in earshot.

Admit it, it's happened to you. It's happened to everyone. It's happened to me in recent memory. At the very moment of impact, the immediate concern is what to do about it. You have but a split second to decide before it becomes just awkward. Do you acknowledge it? "Oh, man, I'm sorry. Gotta remember not to have egg salad for lunch.", or do you minimize it? "Excuse me." Do you simply ignore it and hope no one heard even though you know someone did? Or do you desperately wiggle in your chair, hoping to produce a chair-noise similar enough to the sound of the evil deed to make your colleague think that maybe they heard the chair and not your butt? In any case, there is always an awkward silence until there is something legitimate to talk about.

Or what about the SBDs? The silent-but-deadly? The one that eases out soundlessly but sends nose-hair curling essence of ass to the furthest reaches of the room? Those are a little easier to pass the buck on, you can always blame something, or someone, else. It's the noisy ones that are most disconcerting. Harder to blame a passerby without making it look worse for the culprit.

Our dog has a serious gas problem. One morning, I was getting dressed, and I could hear Jack from the other room, "Oh, gross!! Basil just farted!!". And he is 5, so this is a most delightful occurrence. More often than not, the dog's butt is audible. It's scary, and alarmingly frequent. She sleeps locked out of our room, and not just because she snores.

Aimee is the gas queen in our house. It is amazing to hear what huge, rude noises come out of that sweet little girl. We have a little friend who lets out alarmingly huge burps, but no kid rivals Aimee for pure volume from the back end. For some bizarre reason, fart humour appeals to my family, even the generations that came before me (or should I say especially the generations that came before me?). I have family members who take great pride in their talent, and a disproportionately large amount of time has been spent on exactly what makes a fart funny. Or noisy. Or stinky. Take your pick. My sister's ex-boyfriend once commented, years into their relationship during which he attended Sunday dinner with the family pretty much every week, that he had never been to a meal with my family were bodily functions were not discussed in some way, shape, or form.

But still, work is not the place to fart. Not a good scene. Nurses deal with eau de butt for legitimate reasons often enough, they don't need it from their colleagues. In very few other workplaces would employees experience such intimate contact with bodily functions. Somehow, polite company in our society deems bodily functions to be the realm of the home. Behind closed doors. The way belly buttons and women's knees used to be. Maybe the evolution of "polite" means a move is afoot to bring the fart out into the opn. Where other people can enjoy them, too (as my father would say).

Remember that episode of Roseanne where Becky got up in front of the student council to make a big speech and farted by accident? We all know how she felt. It's why that one was so damn funny. But as much as I enjoy a good ripper, I think I'll keep mine to myself, at least at work. And in church (if I ever went), and in line at the Driver's License office, and while getting a massage. My colleagues will appreciate it, I'm sure. Just like I'd appreciate their cheek-clenching efforts when the cramps hit them. Keep it at home, folks, if you can.

Tired

This conversation happened at the dinner table the other day, when Jack was in one of his combative, miserable moods. Oh, how I dread when he gets hormones.

Jack, screaming: I DON'T CARE. I HATE IT (whatever "it" was at that particular moment).

Me, trying to be calm: Jack, one more like that and you will have a time out. That is unacceptable language. (We have a list of "bad words" that is growing daily. "Hate" is on it, currently)

Jack: I DON'T CARE.

Me: We were talking about watching a movie before bed. Your behaviour right now is making me think you are tired. If you're too tired to remember your manners, you're too tired to watch a movie and you will need to go to bed.

Jack, slightly calmer: Then I guess I'm tired.

Rotten, rotten, rotten.

Suspense

The suspense has been excruciating all day. We recorded the penultimate stage of the Tour de France this morning. We even watched it for a while but the kids got rangy so we did the grocery shopping and picked up coffee and donuts, and by the time we got home, the neighbour kid was awake and the kids were occupied so we could watch recording of the rest of the stage in peace. We watched Lance take off. We watched him pass Michael Rasmussen. We watched him 10 seconds behind at the first checkpoint, and 32 seconds ahead at the second. We saw the finish of two or three of the top five riders finish with impressive times. And then the recording stopped. Yes, stopped recording. All over, no more Tour. No more Lance. Exactly two minutes from when Lance was to cross the finish line. I have no idea how he did. He might have crashed metres from the line. Or he might have cleaned up and finished a minute faster than the next fastest (my preferred scenario, of course).

This was the most exciting stage. I was, literally, on the edge of my seat. It was positively thrilling. I know what I wanted to happen but not what actually happened. This was the day Lance was to consolidate his seventh win. The first stage win for this Tour (still not entirely sure how he managed to win it without winning a stage... good luck, I guess, or bad depending on if you are Lance or someone who crashed). I am dying to know what happened.

Trevor ran for the internet and informed himself quite promply. I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang loudly. It was my plan to watch it tonight without any idea of what happened so I could be excited and surprised. One night this week I made the mistake of looking at a website distantly related to the Tour, while I was watching it, and found out the winner. The punch was just not there at the end. No surprise. Still a great finish, but not as thrilling as if I hadn't known what would happen. So I made a concerted effort all day to avoid any coverage whatsoever.

Trevor kept making comments designed to make me think he'd let something slip but I trust him not a whit in these matters and I still have no idea what did transpire. So here I sit, re-watching coverage I've already seen, so I don't miss anything. I'm recording it too, in case of disaster (or parenting, whichever). I will watch in self-imposed suspense until the bitter end. I consider it a mark of my maturity level that I have been able to stretch my meagre patience this long. Good for me for not caving. I did, however, bite all my fingernails off today. I still have most of my hair, but I shot about 1000 at mini-golf this afternoon. There is nothing now that will stop me from seeing the end of the stage, in one way or another. I'll let you know what happens, although I figure I am the only person on the world with any remote interest in the sport of cycling or the Tour de France, or Lance Armstromg himself, who doesn't know.

So don't bother calling for the next few hours. I won't be answering the phone. Can't risk the state of my innocence in this matter. Someone might let something slip. I'll check in later.

Stanley

Do not read this if you are an animal lover whose heart breaks at tragic animal stories. Although this is one that has a sad but good ending. No animals were harmed in the making of this story.

When I turned 22, my boyfriend (at the time) gave me a puppy. It was a little black thing we called Booker. He was very cute and very smart and mischevious. Not long after, my sister decided she wanted to go to the Humane Society one wintry December night, "just to look". That night, Booker was joined by a tiny black puppy named Stanley, who grew up to be a 130 lb suck. He was absoultely inseparable from his brother. They both would cry pitifully if they ever had to be separated, even for a minute. Stan was terrified of thunder.

They developed wierd little routines. We gave them rawhide bones, which they guarded fiercely, and Booker would honk his down in seconds, while Stan would savour his. After a while, Booker would get jealous and bug someone for cookies. Stan was notorious for his willingness to do anything for cookies. In fact, he usually wouldn't do anything if there weren't cookies involved. He would turn his head sideways and pretend not to hear you if you told him to sit, but as soon as he heard the cookie tin, he was sitting there, attentive as can be. Drooling. Anyway, if Booker ate his bone too quick, he would bug someone for cookies, and as soon as Stan heard the cookie jar, he would drop his bone and come running. Booker would abandon the cookies and head for the bone while Stan was distracted. Booker would then guard his new bone with fangs bared until it was gone.

Eventually, my sister and I moved out and left the dogs with my parents (well, my dad. My mom merely tolerated them gracefully). They were very well taken care of, in fact Gramma would often (daily) come over and keep them company. Or take them out in her car for a run in a field somewhere. In fact, It has been Gramma that baked the dog cookies all this time. So as time went on, the dogs became my dad's dogs, with Gramma as a close second favourite. They could always count on either for cookies if they looked hungry enough. Gramma would stay with them while my parents were away, and she would rush over during the day if there was a thunderstorm and my parents were at work and sit with Stan until the thunder was done. Or rather under Stan, because the huge beast would be so scared he would climb up on her lap as often as not.

Recently, the dogs both began to get a bit decrepit. Booker developed diabetes and liver failure this past winter and we all figured he would die within a few weeks. They started him on insulin. The rule was that they couldn't give him his insulin until he was eating, and he stopped eating dog food, so they started cooking him soup, with chicken and whatever leftovers they could find. He loved gravy. And although he was wasting away, and costing a fortune in vet bills, he kept on ticking. The little bugger was bald in a bunch of places, on antibiotics for a chronic foot infection, and getting insulin injections twice a day. My mom even had to learn how to inject him, for when my dad was out of town. We figured for sure Booker was not long for the world and that he would die before Stan. About a month ago, he suddenly started bumping into things, and it quickly became quite clear that he was stone blind. He gets lost in his own house. He keeps looking for food, but unless you touch his nose with it, he has no clue it's there. Despite his constant appetite, he is slowly wasting away. He has absolutely no meat on him. You can see every crevice in every bone. But he's like the Energizer Bunny... he just keps on going.


Stan, a couple of weeks ago, suddenly lost the use of his legs. They revived him with steroid injections which gave him some relief. He was able to walk, with difficulty, for a few days. We knew, though, that it was time to start thinking about putting him out of his misery. He didn't seem to be in pain, but he was incontinent, and he had to be kept in the back hall where the floor was cleanable. Stan was pack animal, and he hated being away from his people.

By this past weekend, neither dog was wagging his tail anymore. Stan couldn't, and Booker didn't know there was anything to wag about. He wandered around like a lost, grizzled little old man, bumping into things in his incessant search for food. I mentioned several times that it might be time to consider putting them down. My dad always said he'd never be able to do that, so I told him I would do it if he thought it was the right thing to do. We joked a bit about a two-for-one sale at the vet, but the lightness was to mask the difficult prospect of taking them there for the last time.

Yesterday, my dad and sister called me at work to ask if I'd call the vet. I called, and promptly started to cry. "It's time," I told the poor woman who answered the phone. The vet agreed to come out to the house in the morning, euthanize both, and take them away. I couldn't easily get away from work, so I asked if we could do it later in the day. The vet was not able to go out, but I thought that it really needed to be done, so I told them I would bring them in. I asked for a sedative for Stan so he wouldn't be upset or uncomfortable about the car ride. All afternoon yesterday I fought tears, and when a colleague innocently asked how my day was, I burst into tears and explained everything. All the way home on the bus, I cried. At home, poor Trevor was subjected to tears running down my cheeks the whole evening. Even the kids saw me cry (poor Aimee looked pretty alarmed until I explained why I was sad).

All day today I kept fighting tears, every time I thought about the actual event, the act of bringing them into the vet and holding their heads while they died. I was willing to do it; I thought they should be with their people, and although it was the saddest thing I think I have ever been through, I knew it was the right thing to do. They were hurting, sick, miserable, and it was time to let them go. We weren't giving them medications and treatments for them, it was for us, because we couldn't bear the thought of being without them. It was unbearably sad. It was all I could do to focus on work and get through the day, thinking about him suffering and his people with their anticipatory grief.

So I left work early and headed out to my parents' house, to take both dogs to the vet, for the last time. Just as Trevor and I were on our way, my mom called.

"Stanley died," she said.

"All by himself?" I asked.

"Yep. He just looked up and then put his head down and stopped breathing," she said.

"He did us a favour," I said.

"Yes, he did," she agreed. What a good dog. He did us the ultimate favour.

So she called the vet and told them, and they said they would have his body cremated if we brought it in. They asked if we were still bringing Booker in. "I think this is all we can handle for today," she told them. She was right.

When we got there, I went and looked at Stan. He looked like he was sleeping. He was stretched out on the floor with his eyes closed. His fur was still a bit warm. He was on a blanket. He looked comfortable.

We put him in the car and took him to the vet. I cried again. My dad petted his head and said," See ya, big guy,". We left.

We went out for dinner and talked about him. He was really a good, smart dog. We will miss him. The crappy thing is, we will be doing this again in a few days (if that) when Booker finally wastes away. They are going to cremate them both and bury them in the back yard. With their cookie tin.

I have to say how relieved I am. It would have been the right thing to do, to euthanize Stan today, but we always would have wondered if we cut him short. He took care of it for us. We won't wonder, now. We know he is no longer hurting, and we can live without guilt. Booker is still with us, but he isn't distressed, not in pain, just kind of lost. I expect fully that he will just not wake up one day soon. I hope that's how it will go, anyway. Peaceful. If he is obviously hurting though, we all agree that it would be easier to take him in, now that we know what it's like to lose a dog. I'm still sad, but it's bearable. My dad says Stan saved Booker. I don't think he was ready for both to go today, but my sister and I didn't want to put one down and then have to do it all over again in a week or so. But for now, Booker keeps on going. Slowly, with much bumping into things and detouring around.

I told Trevor today I didn't want any more pets. "None that aren't flushable, anyway," said my irreverent husband.

I lift a glass to Stan. I'll miss him. We all will. The best dog ever. My sister says he is in the big off-leash dog park in the sky. I hope he has geese to chase and mice to catch and cookies galore. See ya, big guy.

Graveyard

This conversation happened in the car today:

Jack: Mommy guess where Bruce from school used to live?

Me: Where?

J: Right beside a graveyard!

Me: Cool, how spooky!

J: He even had a window so he could see it.

Aimee: Could we go to a graveyard sometime?

Me: Sure. We should try to find one where we know someone in it so we can look for their gravestone.

J: Like Great-Gramma Betty?

Me: Yes, well, she's not buried yet. That's going to happen in August.

J: When is she going to be cooked?

Me (trying not to laugh): Well, she's already cooked. She was cooked before her funeral.

J: Why didn't we get to watch?

Me: Well, it's pretty sad when someone dies and their body is cremated. Usually families don't watch.

J: But on Star Wars the guy with the stripes watched the other one get burned when he died.

Me: Yes, well, that was a movie. Things happen differently in the movies.

The conversation petered out. He has such a fresh perspective on life, doesn't he?

Birthday

Today is my birthday. It has been a reasonably good day. Work was busy but it was my favourite clinic with a doctor for whom I have a lot of respect. There were sad patients and hopeful patients, but it was a satisfying day nonetheless. I left at 5:00 feeling like I got most of what I wanted accomplished. My parents sent me flowers at work, which forced me to tell everyone what the occasion was, but it got me some attention that I thought I deserved today by virtue of the date. We went for dinner to a nice grown-up restaurant where the kids behaved nicely and they served the best pizza ever, and Dave Matthews was playing on the sound system. Afterwards, we went to a candy store and bought $18 worth of candy that I remember fondly from my childhood. The kids had a blast.

I have given a lot of thought to birthdays lately. As an adult, I miss the truly celebratory nature of childhood birthdays. Somehow, they are always a bit of an anticlimax these days. Almost non-events. I miss the days when the world stopped for my birthday. There's no such thing as presents and surprises and attention and adoration any more. Somehow I feel like there should be more excitement about the fact that it is my birthday. I want recognition. I want everyone to know it's my day.

At the same time, it's somehow embarassing... maybe attention I on some level don't think I deserve for whatever reason. I didn't tell anyone voluntarily today, until they started asking why I had flowers. I confessed, although whenever anyone asked, I told them I was 50, because I look damn good for 50 (thanks to my friend Michelle for that brilliant idea). Everyone laughed. For some reason I'm not thrilled about being 34. Screamingly average. Early middle age, middle income, with average stuff and average height and weight and a mini-van full of soccer balls. Somehow I'm just not as distinguished as I think I should be at this age. I should be noticeable.

I miss presents. I remember my sister being positively puking with excitement at her birthday and Christmas. The prospect of presents was so thrilling that she made herself sick. I remember excitement-induced insomnia before Halloween. There's no such thing as presents anymore, not for the average grown-up. Oh, yes, my mom got me new jammies (that I picked out), and Trevor gave me this lovely iBook that I am typing on (but many comments have been thrown about referencing the episode of the Simpsons where Homer gave Marge a bowling ball with Homer engraved on it - honey, I love it, but don't you remember that Marge ended up joining a bowling league and having an affair with the pro?). But I remember when I was about 5 and I really wanted a tea set and I had a birthday party and someone gave me atea set and it was the most wonderful thing anyone had ever given me. It was a feeling that will never be matched... a secret wish that someone figured out and made happen.

There is a stock-taking that happens at birthdays and new years and similar times, an introspection natural to these occasions. I know, and acknowledge, that I have a pretty charmed life. I have a wonderful husband who wants me, I have health and a reasonable figure for my demographic, I have two healthy normal children (a boy and a girl who almost look like twins), a comfy house with a spectacular kitchen, a great job that I love, and at which I am offered positive feedback often. I have both parents (and some inlaws) and a grandmother. On paper, there is nothing to complain about. My life is good.

I had a patient today, a breast cancer survivor, who is probably one of the most spectacular women I have met. I actually used to work with her. She was worried about her cancer spreading to her bones, and she told the doc that if it had spread, then she would continue to work so she could access her benefits as long as possible. Otherwise, if she was healthy, she was retiring and going on a world cruise. She's going on the cruise. This si a woman who, last check-up, rushed the doc through his exam because she had to catch a plane. She was on her way to a skiing holiday because she needed to get away from the sttress. She uses to ride to work on this rickety old bike. She did the MS bike tour and hit people up for donations all the time. Now, she's planning a three-month trip to England, Australia and Africa. I want to be that (ideally, without the cancer, but still... she's an inspiration, like all survivors).

I think what is kind of bugging me about this birthday is nostalgia for the childhood birthday, the stuff I miss. It's my day... I should be able to do what I want. What I want for my birthday is justification for my feeling of entitlement... to be lazy, to do the things I want, to be irresponsible for 5 minutes, to not be a fundamental influence on anyone small for a while. But, adulthood rudely intrudes and there is laundry to put away, children to discipline, doctors to mollify, patients to advocate for. I want a true holiday... a massage and pedicure, a couple of hours where someone is required by contract to attend to me and all I need to do is be suitably appreciative and not feel guilty. Hmmm.... sounds like I have an idea brewing.

Happy birthday to me.

Cycling

The Tour de France started today. It hasn't been convenient to watch it, unencumbered by children, so I recorded the OLN coverage of it and have studiously avoided reading any live updates or results so I can be surprised at the outcome when I settle down to watch later on, after the kids are asleep.

I am not, particularly, a sports fan, but I caught a bit of the Tour last year, about half way through it when I was flipping channels during a treadmill run, and I was instantly hooked. It's a fantastic spectator sport, with a sprint to the finish at every stage. The athleticism of the competitors, though, is beyond compare. What their bodies go through is incredible. 3000 miles, 18 stages in 22 days (two rest days or something like that), the risk of crashing or being accosted by a crazed fan is constant. I can't even begin to imagine the condition they need to be in to qualify, let alone finish. Obviously, I am now a cycling fan, and am therefore disproportionately excited about this day. I have been waiting since last July for it.

And then, of course, there's Lance. The man is a machine. He's amazing. I read somewhere his resting heart rate is 32 or something silly like that. He's won what is considered to be the toughest sporting event in the world more times than anyone else. The whole cancer thing just makes it all the more impressive. To win the Tour in such a decisive way after coming back from the dead puts him beyond the inhuman category (into which all Tour participants fit, in my opinion). And he's not bad to look at, to boot. I have to admit I have avoided learning too much about the man because I would be so disappointed if he turned out to be a jerk. I want to believe he is a hard worker with more guts than any other human being in the world. I don't want to think he dopes or abandons his family or whatever... I want to think of him as a spectacular athlete, and there is no one who can argue that he is. I have to admit I did start reading his "autobiography" today... the cancer story is interesting to me from a professional point of view. But I'm still impressed by the athleticism. I would be impressed even if he hadn't survived metastatic cancer.

I think, though, that even when Lance Armstrong retires (after another win, I hope... I may be the only non-American rooting for him), I'll keep watching cycling. I love the strategy, the team mentality in a sport where there is one winner. I love the speed and the spectacular crashes. I enjoy watching the exciting finishes, the sprints that you never know who will win until the last second. The logistics of riding up a mountain, and a mountain lined with 100,000 drunken, obsessed fans is entertainment far more worthy of spending time on than anything else on tv these days. So I have something to watch for almost a month. My only dilemma will be when it conflicts with Canadian Idol, the only other thing worth watching. Heck, even the commentators have a fan club, and are sheer entertainment in and of themselves.

I have been writing this from the comfort of my couch, on my new laptop (another blog) after keeping the kids company while they were watching a cutesy kids movie. I think that I will pack them off to bed, pour myself another gin and tonic, and start up the Tour. I may get a blog or two in during the next three weeks, thanks only to the iMac, but don't count on it.